by Zoey Dean
Bone pleated minidress with the silver Hollywould wedges she seemed to wear everywhere.
Talia was looking at her matter-of-factly, her blunt-cut hair sleeker than ever thanks to Myla's
suggestion of a trim and color-deepening wash at Maxime. "Maybe they have a class together
and got assigned to some project together. Or maybe he just noticed her in the hallway. Maybe
you should have let her hang out with us, just to keep an eye on her, you know? That whole
enemies-closer thing?"
Myla scowled at Talia, knowing she was right but irritated that she had the guts to say such
things. "An enemy should be worthy of me. Jojo's a nobody from Sacramento."
On the other side of Myla, Billie played dumb. It wasn't difficult. "I don't know, My. Maybe
you should be nicer to her. Like fake nicer. She could hang out with us and then she won't have
time to hang out with Ash. At least she's dressing better now. I liked what she had on today."
Billie shrugged, wriggling her red Bombshell-clad fingers. For a girl acing precalc, Billie was
easily distracted by shiny things.
Yeah, because my mom picked it out, Myla thought, her hands tensing.
"Relax your hand," Tracy commanded. Myla tried to loosen up.
"That's not a bad idea, Myla," Talia piped up, leaning back as Sandra, her preferred manicurist,
started painting on a topcoat. "The fake-nice thing."
"Out. Of. The. Question." Myla balled up the fist that Tracy wasn't working on, smearing the
still-wet topcoat.
Tracy shook her head, picking up Myla's ruined hand and dabbing off the topcoat with nail
polish remover. "This is Ash?" Tracy piped in. "Your boyfriend who used to wait here while
you got manicures?"
Myla nodded, remembering how nice it was to have Ash around to find her credit card, carry
her purse, and open doors for her when her nails were still drying. She didn't exactly enjoy
playing damsel in distress, but Ash made feeling helpless fun.
"Then you can't get so upset over every little thing," Tracy said, kneading Myla's hand once
more. She looked sagely at Talia and Billie, who were nodding vigorously. "You're going to
see the guy everywhere."
An image of Ash and Jojo together came unbidden into Myla's head. They were standing on
stage at BHH's junior prom. Ash looked dashing in a tux, and Jojo wore the beautiful white
Oscar de la Renta Lailah had worn to the Oscars last year. They were being crowned king and
queen as the whole school burst into applause. Lailah and Barkley were in the crowd, beaming
at Jojo. Myla had imagined the moment before--but it had always starred her and Ash. Now,
she saw herself alone and dejected in the corner.
She shook off the nightmarish vision. "At school, fine, I have to see him. Maybe I have to
bump into him at the Beverly Center or the Grove. But certain things are off-limits. He
shouldn't be in my house. He shouldn't be at parties with my friends."
Talia looked down at her golden nails, which looked better than Myla's. "Thank God he's not
invited to Lewis's tomorrow," she mumbled.
Myla paused mid-rant. She'd almost forgotten about Lewis Buford's annual school year kickoff
bash. It was true: Ash would never show up at Lewis's house. Unless . . .
"Tracy, take out my iPhone," she commanded.
The manicurist pulled the iPhone from Myla's rhinestone scorpion-emblazoned oversize
Thomas Wylde lambskin bag, which she'd purchased at Barneys after school that day as a pickme-up.
"Okay," Myla chirped excitedly. "At the top of my inbox, there's a party invite."
Tracy tapped on the screen a few times. "From Lewis Buford?"
"That's the one." Myla nodded, spinning around once in her chair like a kid at Disneyland. "Go
into contacts." "Okay . . ." Tracy did as she was told. In Beverly Hills, dialing cell phones and
sending texts was pretty much part of a manicurist's job.
"Now find Ash Gilmour and forward the invite. Add this message: ' Think we should talk. I'm
going to be here tomorrow night. See you there? '"
Talia, Billie, and Tracy exchanged puzzled looks, probably wondering if the smell of nail polish
remover was getting to Myla.
Wondering why she hadn't thought of this sooner, Myla let out a contented sigh and stretched
in her chair, feeling more relaxed than she had all day. Who needed a foot massage when you
could have revenge?
DAYS OF WHINE AND POSERS
"Gilmour, check this out." Ash's friend Tucker pulled a record from Amoeba Music's
expansive vinyl selection.
Ash had been dazedly staring at the cover of a crappy used Billy Ocean album. He squinted at
the album Tucker was holding, a copy of "Eucalyptus," the Deadly Syndrome's hard-to-find
seven-inch single. "Thanks, man." He took the single from Tucker and kept moving down the
aisle.
Ash couldn't have lived without his weekly trips to Amoeba, possibly the best music store on
earth. Sure, iTunes was easier. But true music junkies needed the physicality of collecting, and
no MP3 store ever had the obscure, small record runs that Ash craved.
Located next to the ArcLight Cinema in Hollywood, the cavernous two-story store overflowed
with good music. He could find his favorite bands' stuff alongside new albums from groups
unknown even to the son of a legendary music producer. Going there always pumped Ash up
about re-forming a band. On the way home from every trip, he and Tucker inevitably talked
about their future group's vibe.
He'd barely made it from the O's to the D's when a lanky man-giant who looked like Moby on
stilts approached. His Amoeba name badge read TREV.
"Sweet find." He nodded at the Deadly Syndrome record under Ash's arm.
Inwardly, Ash rolled his eyes. Trev stared down at him hopefully. "So, um, have you heard of
this new band, Skybuster?"
Ash suppressed the urge to tell the guy to fuck off. Normally, he would have played along.
Skybuster was almost certainly the name of Trev's lame band, and Trev, like dozens of
Amoeba clerks before him, had recognized Ash as Gordon Gilmour's son. Since pretty much
every Amoeba worker was either in a band, managing a band, or wanting to start a band,
Gordon's history with Zeppelin and the Who--not to mention his more recent work with
everyone from Jack White to the Kings of Leon--was enough to get their vintage hipster
panties in a bunch. The register lines were typically long, and Ash always waited with a mega-stack of CDs and vinyl. It amused him to watch the four or five cashiers working the registers
speed up their "too cool to rush" record store clerk act in hopes of waiting on Ash. In the rare
case that the clerk was new or didn't recognize him, Ash needed only to slide over his black
AmEx for said cashier to suddenly drop his snooty, "my music is better than yours" disdain to
ask if Ash needed anything else that day. It was like they all hoped he'd say, Yeah, my dad's
looking for the next big thing, and I think you're it. Come with me.
Though he hated to admit it, shopping at Amoeba was one of the few times Ash appreciated his
father, or at least being his father's son. He wasn't a jerk or anything, but who wouldn't enjoy
getting fawned over by guys who made acting blasé their life's mission?
Ash craned his neck to look at Trev eye-to-bloodshot-eye. "Skybuster? That's sort of a lame
name."
Trev seemed to shrink
at the insult. "Oh, yeah, totally," he sycophantically agreed. "Um, let me
know if I can help you find anything else, Mr. Gilmour."
Ash felt a little bad, but he needed some amusement out of this trip. Usually after buying new
albums at Amoeba, he'd go home and make Myla a fresh iMix of all the best songs. It was fun
to play DJ for her. But today, he'd just go home and listen to music alone, feeling sorry for
himself. Even kiss-assy clerks couldn't change that sad fact.
He languidly added the Deadly Syndrome record to his stack--today comprising nothing but
the self-pitying kinds of music Ash loved to hate. He would definitely be playing "Eucalyptus,"
with its "Goodbye, goodbye" chorus, over and over again.
Ash shuffled from the vinyl section into the main CD area, which was at least the size of the
BHH gymnasium. He walked right into a super-thin girl in skintight Levis and beat-up royal
blue Chuck Taylors. She wore thick black glasses that tried to say, "I don't care if men find me
attractive," even if her tight American Apparel V-neck said otherwise. She had a blue streak
painted on the underside of her hair, just like the green one Myla had clipped out yesterday.
"Excuse you," she murmured, more teasing than angry. Her breath smelled strongly of clove
cigarettes, and she clutched a French import of the Stones' Exile on Main Street--Ash's favorite
album of all time--to her chest.
She was undeniably sexy, and yet . . . Ash couldn't be bothered.
He stepped off to the side, muttering a quick apology and barely looking up from his John
Varvatos black Converse.
The thing was, all the girl did was remind him of Myla. He thought back to a day two summers
ago, when she'd forgotten her iPod on a trip to Venice Beach. Lying in the sand next to her,
Ash had given up one of his earbuds and they'd listened to all of Exile together. Myla had made
him play the tenth track, "Happy," over and over again and then had sung the refrain the whole
way home: "I need a love to keep me happy / Baby, baby, keep me happy."
He'd never thought that he'd go from keeping her happy to using her new sister to piss her off.
Not that he hadn't had a good time with Jojo. She was awesome. But the motives behind their
Wii session were less than pure, on both sides.
He'd spent so much time and energy being angry at Myla, but after seeing the hurt look on her
face in Jojo's room, all his anger had left him like a balloon losing helium. With the anger gone,
he could face his real feelings. He missed her, pure and simple.
Ash glanced around the store, watching clusters of music fans flip through the stacks. The
place drew everyone, from twelve-and thirteen-year-olds whose parents had dropped them off
at the ArcLight, searching for the kind of music that would be most offensive to their elders, to
older music fans who'd never heard of iTunes. They wandered through the big-band and
Motown sections, picking up Charlie Parker and Temptations records. And then, of course, no
independent music store was complete without the hipster contingent: The humongous store
was dotted with dirty-haired guys and carefully bedheaded girls who descended on the place
every day like some moody field trip out of Silver Lake.
Ash was ready to get home and start his lonesome listening party. Tucker was no longer in the
vinyl section, so Ash scanned the store. It was impossible to pick Tucker's distressed jeans and
ironic T-shirt out from those of the seemingly dozens of guys with similar styles hunched over
CDs in the bowling alley-length aisles.
He leaned back against the wall, deciding to wait for Tucker to find him. The Italian version of
a Ghostbusters poster wrinkled beneath the weight of his back. Whatever, he'd pay for it.
Just then his iPhone vibrated in his pocket. Digging past a crumpled homework assignment,
Ash saw he had an e-mail. Probably some lame photo Geoff had taken with a chick he just met
at the Santa Monica Promenade. Geoff kept inviting Ash on tail-hunting missions, but Ash had
zero energy for that kind of thing.
Ash's heart beat faster. The e-mail was from Myla.
"Think we should talk. I'm going to be here tomorrow night. See you there?"
An invite to a huge party. At . . . Lewis Buford's house. Okay, fine, he hated that guy more
than Beatles fans hated Yoko Ono. But Myla wanted him there. She wanted to see him, wanted
to talk. She wanted to--he knew what she wanted. She wanted to get back together.
Nothing would stop him from being at that party.
A goofy grin broke out on Ash's face. Feeling more alive than he had all week, Ash wove his
way to the P section, looking for the '70s band Peaches & Herb.
He dumped his pile of self-pity music on the end of a counter. He didn't need it anymore. Right
now, he couldn't get the Peaches & Herb song out of his head and sang it to himself.
"Reunited--and it feels so good!"
FASHION DENIM
"Is your steak okay?" Amelie glanced nervously at Jake. He had barely taken two bites of his
New York strip.
He'd sounded a little distant on the phone when she'd called him to apologize this morning, but
at least he'd agreed to meet her for a makeup tutoring session at eat.on sunset. The restaurant
was actually not on Sunset Boulevard, but on Gower Street, and Amelie had felt odd trying to
explain the idiosyncratic location to Jake.
Jake nodded. "Yeah, absolutely," he said, cutting into the medium-rare meat and chewing on a
big bite.
It was six o'clock, still early on Friday evening, and the restaurant's patio was practically empty.
Jake and Amelie sat in slatted-back chairs on opposite sides of a wide cherrywood outdoor
table. Behind each of them stood a tall propane heater--an L.A. restaurant must-have if you
wanted to fill your patio with thin (and thin-skinned) starlets on the city's chilly evenings. The
night was cool, and Amelie rubbed her arms beneath her Splendid rugby cardigan, wishing
she'd worn another layer.
"So, thanks for meeting me," Amelie said, as she thoughtfully prodded an asparagus spear and
a ricotta gnocchi onto her fork. "I'm really, really sorry about yesterday."
Jake dipped a fry into his béarnaise sauce. "It's no big deal," he said. "I know you're busy."
Jake chewed carefully, trying not to say more than he needed to. He knew Amelie had been out
last night with some girls from her movie and Hunter Sparks. The buzz was all over school.
Supposedly, BHH's newspaper editor, a senior who thought he was the next Perez Hilton, had
snapped the photo that wound up on TMZ. Jake felt protective of Amelie, even though he was
only her tutor. He'd wanted to punch that meathead Rod Stegerson, who he'd heard trashing
Amelie in the halls: "Dude, Fairy Princess is a skank! But I'd tap that anyway."
Now he just felt awkward. He stared at the curl of Amelie's red hair as it fell against her creamy
skin, not knowing what to talk about. She'd asked him about the Dodgers--who he knew
sucked this year--and L.A.'s two basketball teams, who hadn't even started their season. If she
was looking for a guy who knew all the preseason buzz, he wasn't it. He also felt selfconscious in his new clothes: A striped bamboo cotton hoodie and these crazy organic Rogan
jeans--fashion denim, as Miles kept saying. The jeans were cool and all, but the scratchy
organic denim felt like he was wearing a bunch o
f paper towels stitched together into pants.
Amelie pushed a stalk of asparagus around her plate, trying to think of something to say. She
had offered to treat Jake for dinner, and now she wanted to make sure he had a good time. She
was trying her best to get Jake talking, running through every L.A. sports team she could
name. He'd barely answered and seemed distracted as he fiddled with the zipper on his navy
blue and orange hoodie. It must have been brand-new, as it still bore the perfect crease marks
of a store's display.
This outing had to go well. Amelie's mom was in full-on Protective Momager mode. When
Amelie said she was planning to meet Jake for a makeup tutoring session, Helen had insisted
on driving her to the restaurant, and even walked in with her. Now her mom was at the Beverly
Center, shopping as she waited to pick up Amelie. Amelie was worried she'd never have any
freedom again. It was like her mom had volunteered to chaperone the prom.
She leaned across the table, spearing one of Jake's truffle fries with her fork and biting off its
crispy end playfully. "New sweatshirt?" She gestured with her fork at Jake's pristine hoodie.
"It looks good on you."
Jake, who'd been sitting as straight as a wooden puppet, seemed to loosen with relief. He
grinned widely. "Thanks," he said, proudly smoothing the shirt's front. "I found it at Kitson
today. It's Great China Wall or something."
She cocked her head to one side, blowing back the strand of red hair that fell across her
cheekbone. "So I was wondering what you're doing tomorrow night."
Jake suddenly straightened in his chair again. "Um, nothing great has come to mind, you know,
yet."
"Would you want to go with me to this party, in the Hollywood Hills? Pick me up at maybe
nine?" She flashed her best "please do this for me" grin.
It was simple: The only way out of her house was if she told her mom she had a tutoring
session. All other options were impossible--her mom was watching her like a hawk, and as
Amelie's manager, she knew Amelie didn't have to report to the set tomorrow. Jake was
Amelie's only hope, a realization she'd had during her pity party late last night. Amelie looked
across the table at him, feeling impatient to hear his answer.
She felt bad, knowing she'd kind of be using him to go to the party. But maybe he'd meet a cute
