Sunset Boulevard (12 page)

and was now glumly texting in the back row of the bleachers, wearing a shapeless Reavis High

sweatshirt and ill-fitting Gap jeans. Higher up, poor Jojo had been given a Reavis High band

uniform, and sat between two freshman boys, holding a trumpet. She was guaranteed to be oncamera in her foot-high plumed band cap. But Jojo held her shoulders back like she was daring

someone to tease her. She looked like a Zen master crossed with British royalty. Myla felt a

surge of pride. Jojo was definitely getting the hang of Everhart Life 101.

A few feet away, Ash and his buddies stood in a circle, playing Hacky Sack as they waited for

instructions. Ash knocked the little ball out of the game, and it landed with a dull plop by

Myla's feet. She bent to pick it up just as Ash arrived in front of her.

"Hey," she said, her voice catching in her throat. She hadn't spoken to him since they'd met at

their spot in Griffith Park to declare a truce. His sandy hair shone under the stadium's lights.

Instinctively, Myla reached to lift his hair from his face, then pulled her hand away.

"Hey," Ash said. His voice filtered through her every pore. They reached for the ball at the

same time, their hands brushing over its bumpy surface. Myla pulled hers away, laughing

nervously despite herself.

"You two." The casting director suddenly loomed over them, exhaling a plume of smoke from

her American Spirit. "You look adorable together. Sit behind Grant and the blondes."

Ash blinked, a shy smile crossing his face. He helped Myla up from her crouched position. As

their fingers touched again, a surge both familiar and fresh shot through Myla.

"Sure," Ash said to the casting director. He dropped Myla's hand and she followed him to a

seat behind Fortune and Billie, who both looked shell-shocked by their proximity to Grant.

Myla shot the girls a significant look, trying to convey the excitement she was keeping reined

in. But her friends were too starstruck by Grant to even notice. Irked, Myla vowed to ignore

them for the rest of the scene. Let them have Grant. Ash, in Myla's eyes, was much hotter. His

hair, though shaggy as always, was obviously clean, contrasting with Grant's "the more

buildup the better" style. Ash had classic features--slightly sun-tinged skin, a strong chin, a

perfect aquiline nose, sculpted red lips, and deep, soulful eyes that even when sleepy or stoned

could reduce a girl to butter. Grant had the dimple and high cheekbones, but was what Myla

would call sugly--surly and ugly--with his nocturnal pallor, perma-pout, glinty amber eyes, and

a nose that looked like it had been broken on more than one occasion. In profile, he looked like

a bad Picasso knockoff, the features all slightly off but not arranged in a way that qualified

them as art. But she could guess at his allure. He had that whole
I'll ravage your body right

after I finish this bottle of whiskey
look to him.

Myla settled next to Ash on the bleachers, feeling warmth coming off him even though he wore

just a light black windbreaker over a vintage Led Zeppelin tee. There was a foot of space

between them.

"Honey," the casting director called to Myla, gesturing with a freshly lit cigarette. "Scoot

closer, like you like him." Myla nodded and slid six inches over, not closing the gap entirely.

She couldn't just lean into him like she would have a month ago. The casting director gave her

the eye. "When we start rolling, a little closer. Not like two kids who take their purity rings

seriously." Myla glared at her. The woman had no clue something far more important than her

stupid movie was going on here.

"How have you been?" Ash asked, not looking at Myla. Instead, he stared at the field, where

Jacob Porter-Goldsmith was throwing passes with surprising skill. Like the rest of BHH, Ash

had been semi-shocked at the news Jake made the lead in the movie. Jake was probably the last

person most of their classmates would expect to play a star athlete.
More power to him,
Ash

thought.

"Good," Myla said, even though the last week had been far from one of her best. She felt

awkward and not like herself. Their truce gave her no sense of purpose. "So, this is weird,

right?" she said, testing the water.

"What's weird?" Now Ash made eye contact, his eyes grazing over her face.

Myla gestured to the field, blushing as she realized how else her words could have been

interpreted. "Jacob Porter-Goldsmith, movie star." As if on cue, Jake tossed the ball to a

receiver at the twenty-yard line. Myla stopped herself from saying,
Do you think he invented

some geeky robot arm so he could throw like that?
Ash hated when she ripped on his

neighbor. Even though they weren't friends anymore, Ash annoyingly stood up for Jacob PG.

He even hated when Myla called him PG, a nickname that had gotten started when a bunch of

BHHers saw Jake getting turned away from a PG-13 movie--when he was fourteen. Boys had

an odd sense of loyalty.

Ash shrugged. "People change, I guess."

Myla's head spun. Was he talking about Jacob, or about them? Did he mean he'd changed, and

he'd never love her again? Or did it mean she had to change to win him back?

The director paced in front of them, megaphone pressed to his mouth. "We're going to start

now, people," he boomed. "Everyone, look like you're enjoying yourself and in awe of your

quarterback." He gestured to Jake, who was swigging from a bottle of Gatorade on the

sidelines. The crowd giggled, but only slightly. Jake's success was getting to them, Myla

thought. "Couples, cuddle. No one's asking you to get married."

Ash did as he was told, his arm circling Myla's shoulder stiffly. The crowd was dead silent

now, waiting for further orders. The deafening quiet, and Ash's tenseness, made Myla feel like

she was trapped under plastic.

"Um, we're not laying Tommy Archer to rest," the director shouted. "Talk, chatter, chant, 'Go,

Tommy!'"

Myla figured that was as good a command as any for her to talk to Ash. "So, my parents have

really missed you coming by for dinner." It was true. Lailah had sadly cleared the place setting

next to Myla's yesterday for the third time that week. Myla missed him too.

"Oh," Ash said, a slightly pained expression on his face. "It would be weird for me to keep

mooching off you guys, with, you know, everything."

"It's not mooching," Myla giggled, loosening up a little at Ash's odd, constipated look. "I bet

you've been living on Pop-Tarts and takeout. You're always welcome. Lucy will make your

favorite."

"Beef Wellington?" Ash's mouth curved up in a small grin. Myla felt hopeful. Maybe the way

to a man's heart
was
through his stomach. She'd always believed that your hair, clothing, and

attitude meant much more than a home-cooked meal. But at this point, she wouldn't have been

surprised to find she'd had it wrong all along.

A few hours later, they'd watched the cheerleaders pyramid up and stunt-fall down a billion

times. Now they were acting as the backdrop as the production crew worked to get several

takes of Jake's big Hail Mary pass. Myla was still nestled in Ash's grip, like they were here on

a date. Neither of them had brought up the Lewis fiasco. It was too awkward a topic for the

situation. And Ash had seemed proud of her when Myla told him about her truce with Jojo.

She made a point not to bore him with details of Jojo's makeover.

In front of them, Billie, Talia, and Fortune were discussing Amelie Adams, who was standing

in the shadows of the bleachers in a white asymmetrical minidress with a ridiculous frilly halo

perched on her red curls. Amelie was scolding Kady Parker, who--for the scene--was

supposed to have greased the grass where the cheerleaders formed their ill-fated pyramid.

Billie surveyed the white-blond ends of her long tresses, her cornflower blue eyes crossing

atop her nose--a perfect copy of Ashley Tisdale's new one. By the same doctor. "Amelie looks

so good with red hair. Maybe I should go red too." She exaggeratedly leaned across Fortune's

lap. Fortune squirmed, folding her arms over her narrow rib cage. She was sensitive about

having the widest hips of the group and tried to bring attention to her ample chest. Billie batted

her thickly mascaraed eyelashes at Grant.

"I was going to do that when my hair grows out," Talia said, adjusting a strand of her awkward

bob. "My hair's so much nicer when it's long," she added, her mouth just inches from Grant's

ear.

"Yeah, I can't believe I've been a boring blond for so long," Fortune muttered, pouting up at

Grant, who looked as uncomfortable as a window shopper being swarmed by a team of

salesmen. "What color hair do you think looks best on a girl, Grant?" Myla rolled her eyes,

whispering to Ash, "Red hair, right. Maybe I should dye mine."

Ash leaned toward her, seeming to look at each individual strand of her hair protectively, his

eyes falling on the inch-long chunk of hair at the back of her neck. In a furor, Myla had

violently snipped out a long strand of her hair that years earlier she'd dyed a punk-rock emerald

green at Ash's suggestion. Myla felt a tiny, not unpleasant, chill weave its way from her neck

down her spine.

"Don't go red," Ash said, his voice thick and mournful. "I love your hair." He knew he'd said

the wrong thing the second the words were out of his mouth. Saying he loved anything about

Myla
to
Myla right now was too fraught with significance, and he knew he needed to keep

things casual. But he couldn't help it. The idea of Myla changing anything about her beauty was

sacrilege.

Myla bit her lip to stop herself from saying something bitchy about how she wasn't at all

serious. Instead, her lips tilted into their half-smile and--locking her jade eyes on Ash's--she

said breathlessly, "I won't."

Her heart thumped in time with the BHH marching band's percussion section. She felt closer to

Ash in this stupid fake-couple setup than she had in months. She wanted to wriggle her hands

under his jacket and cling to his warm chest, lay her head down in the gap between his

shoulder and his head. But this was still too confusing. How long would they have to pretend?

"Eyes on the field, everyone!" the director shouted through his megaphone. "This is Tommy's

big moment. Reavis has won the big game! The cheerleaders are out, so it's all on you guys to

celebrate the big victory. Remember, after this, you can go home!"

The crowd began to chant, "Tommy! Tommy!" Myla and Ash chanted too. Every so often,

Ash looked at Myla with a goofy "I can't believe we're doing this" grin.

On the field, Jake cocked his arm back like a statue of an Olympian god as three members of

the opposing team--who looked more like freshly released inmates than high school students-hurtled toward him. He released the ball into a perfect Hail Mary pass and the spinning mass of

pigskin soared down the field like it was missile-guided.

"Holy crap, Jake," Ash said approvingly. Without thinking, he squeezed Myla closer to him,

watching in suspense as the ball sailed downfield. As Myla nestled against him, Ash could feel

how easy it would be to slip back into their old ways. The Golden Couple. Their being together

was like predestination, which he'd learned about in world religions class. Were they only

capable of two extremes? Either being a full-blown couple, or out-and-out enemies? He must

have been nuts to think they could find middle ground.

The ball landed easily in the receiver's hands, and the crowd went wild. Billie, Talia, and