Sunset Boulevard (26 page)

SHOCKER ROOM

Jake stared at himself in the mirror above the locker room sinks. Of course the first break in

filming he'd had in a while came just in time for him to go to gym class. It was a cliché for a

geek to hate gym, but technically he didn't hate gym--he hated the
people
in gym. Rod

Stegerson in particular.

But, in Justin Klatch fashion, Jake had decided to change right out in the open. Justin wouldn't

be worried about noogies or swirlies or whatever torture method Rod had picked up in the

latest edition of
Psychopath Weekly
.

Jake headed toward the lockers, sitting on a bench that stretched across the dank locker room.

He pried his feet out of the vintage Sambas Kady had talked him into buying and was shoving

on his cross-training Nikes when a shadow fell over the bench. Jake looked up to see Rod

Stegerson, surrounded by his football goons, arms folded over their BHH gym shirts. Why

had he come to gym? It was totally unnecessary. Miles had cleared all Jake's absences with his

teachers. And yet, Jake, who'd won the Perfect Attendance award for two years running, still

harbored enough vestiges of geekdom that he insisted on making whatever classes he could.

He'd really have to work on breaking this habit when he got his next movie.

"Hey, Rod," Jake said as casually as he could. Maybe he could convince Rod to not give him a

black eye or anything else that would mess up what was left to shoot of
Class Angel
.

"Jake, my man." Rod slapped Jake's shoulder with his heavy palm.

"What's up?" Jake said skeptically. Had Rod learned some new tactic? Act friendly but carry a

big stick of pain?

"So, we've always been bros, right?"

Yeah, sure,
Jake thought,
if by
bros
you mean I felt a real bond every time every time you sent

my head into my locker door
. "Yeah, we're cool," he said, standing up to grab his shirt out of

his locker. If he moved quickly enough, he could keep Rod's abuse to the verbal variety, at least

until they got out on the gym floor. "We're"--he paused as he contemplated the word--"bros."

"Cool. Bros," Rod said monosyllabically, his jock army nodding emphatically behind him.

"And I thought it was time to show you some respect. You landed Kady Parker, bro. It's only

fair I congratulate you."

Jake looked over Rod's shoulder, catching his own surprised face in the mirror.

"So, how'd you do it, dude?" Rod's main sidekick, Dave Brandt, asked, cocking his square

head. His neck was the width of Miles's torso.

"Kady?" Jake said, willing his voice not to squeak. Should he tell them that he had no idea, that

he'd seemingly become Kady Parker's boyfriend through sheer dumb luck? That he'd spent

nights pondering that same question?

What would Justin Klatch do?

He was a nice guy, but this was a locker room. And even Jake knew locker rooms were where

guys made themselves sound like bigger studs than they were, even if he'd never had the

opportunity. Imaginary Justin smiled cockily in Jake's head.

"She was all over me from day one," Jake began, liking the way it sounded. "Like,
bam
! I tried

to keep it professional, but she kept getting me alone."

Rod bobbed his head knowingly, like this sort of thing to him happened all the time. "And then

you just had to go with it, right?"

Jake grinned. If anyone had told him he'd be talking girls with Rod Stegerson a month ago,

he'd have asked what alternate universe they were living in. But alternate universes were for

dorks.

Jake pictured Kady's pixielike face in his mind. Okay, so she hadn't exactly backed him in a

corner and had her way with him, but she'd come close. "Well, I
am
a guy."

Rod clapped him again on the back. "No way, dude, you're the
man
!"

Rod's friends erupted in a chorus of "hell, yeahs," just as Jake's phone beeped, signaling an

incoming message.

Miles. He'd taken the day off school to hunt down the perfect Escalade. Wait till these jocks

saw Jake pull up to school in a gleaming black badass-mobile. Jake clicked to the photo

messages and pulled up four different pictures of fully loaded trucks in black, gunmetal, white,

and navy.
There's gotta be a winner here,
read Miles's message.

Rod peered down at the phone. "Is that your ride?"

"One of them," Jake said, surveying the vehicles. "Which do you think?"

Rod shook his head solemnly. "If you're gonna go Caddy, do it right. Get the ESV. It's bigger,

and the way you pull chicks, you'll want something that can fit all of them."

This sounded about right. He quickly pounded out a message to Miles. "Dude, show me the

ESV."

"Sweet," hollered Dave, high-fiving Jake. Jake high-fived back, then collected similar hand

slaps from Rod and the rest of the guys. It occurred to him that this was the first time Rod had

laid a hand on him in a nonviolent way.

It paid to be the man.

FIERY REDHEADS

Myla wove around the cafeteria's blond wood tables, past the organic-dessert vending machine.

Class Angel
was starting to wrap its work at the school, and the cafeteria was finally reopened.

Myla was relieved to have it back. She loved the maintenance of the social order here: nerds in

the corners, Myla in the middle, everyone else fanned out around her. Besides, cafeteria time

meant catching up on gossip, something she and her girlfriends hadn't done in weeks. While

they'd been busy picnicking outside Grant's trailer with Amelie, or whatever the hell they'd

been doing, Myla had made off-campus lunch plans, but now it was time to reclaim her

territory.

Talia, Fortune, and Billie had texted her during history to say they had a surprise for her. She

was hoping that one of them had heard gossip about Ash kissing another girl. As bad as it

sounded, even in her head, Myla couldn't help but hope that Ash was taking her suggestion

seriously. She just needed some proof that he was willing to do anything to move forward. She

certainly was.

Myla grabbed a fro-yo parfait and a chicken avocado wrap from the Healthy Options window,

then carried her tray to the center table, a five-seater that was the most exclusive in the whole

room. For most of high school, she Talia, Billie, and Fortune had sat there every day, with one

empty chair reserved for Ash's drop-bys. Today Jojo had gone off campus for lunch with

Tucker, so it would be just the four of them, just like old times.

She moved past a table overflowing with band kids and saw Billie, Talia, and Fortune at their

table, with a redhead who had to be Amelie Adams. Maybe she hadn't been here in a few

weeks, but who would have the audacity to sit there without her express permission? BHH's

administration might have gone lax on some policies with the movie's arrival, but Myla hadn't.

As she got closer, Myla gaped in surprise. Her friends were all wearing filmy white dresses of

indeterminate designer origin. And Amelie Adams was sitting in
her
seat.

She counted to ten, staring at the swirl of pomegranate curving up her parfait cup.
This is not

real. This is not real. This is not real.
When she looked again, Amelie would be gone. And her

friends would not be dressed like members of a whorish cult.

But when she looked, the whore-or was still there.

Myla swished to the table, her baby blue Fendi stiletto sandals pounding out a dangerous

rhythm. She ignored Amelie, looking from friend to friend. "What's up with the outfits?" she

asked point-blank, mustering her best sour face.

"It's for Amelie," Talia said, tugging a fallen strap back up her tanned shoulder. "Like a tribute

thing. It was this or angel wings." She giggled, and so did Fortune and Billie. Amelie laughed

nervously, as if humbled--maybe even a little embarrassed--by the gesture.

Myla rolled her eyes. "Oh, how sweet of you," she said sarcastically. She was still standing

above the table, not really wanting to sit down until Amelie was gone, and noticed that people

were starting to stare. A gaggle of cheerleaders whispered to each other, and a table packed

with jocks looked over, their curiosity piqued by the strange scene: Myla Everhart giving up

her lunch chair to Amelie Adams, interloper. Even the band nerds collectively shifted their gaze

in her direction, not wanting to miss history being made. One of them was probably composing

an original orchestral piece inspired by the event.

Myla wasn't about to get in a catfight with her former besties. That kind of low-rent behavior

was fine for the Lohans and Hiltons of the world, but she was real Hollywood royalty.

Subterfuge and mind games worked so much better. She slid into the empty seat. Even out of

the corner of her eye, she could see that Amelie had one of those preternaturally perfect faces

that looked gorgeous from any angle. Her Caribbean blue eyes were clear and innocent, like

she hadn't just taken over another girl's lunch table, not to mention her social status and her

friends.

Myla smiled sweetly at Amelie. "So, Amelie, which of the girls do you think has the best shot

with Grant?" she asked. Really, she was asking,
You know why they're hanging with you,

right?
From Amelie's taken aback expression, Myla knew she'd understood her meaning

perfectly.

Talia shot an apologetic smile at Amelie, as if to say,
Sorry Myla's being such a bitch.

Billie glared at Myla. "Why would you ask something like that?" she snapped. "Don't listen to

her, Am. She's just PMS-y."

Amelie said nothing. She simply returned Myla's sweet smile, as calm and unflappable as an

angel.

Myla tucked into her parfait, barely tasting the fresh-cut strawberries. She begrudgingly

awarded a point to the princess.

Jojo was trying her best to see what other girls saw in Tucker. They were sitting shoulder to

shoulder in one of Jacopo's red booths, sharing a pizza called the Don. The pie was cut into

squares, the crust thin and crispy, the sauce an ideal blend of tangy and sweet, and the cheese

warm and bubbly, just like at Sadie's, back home. It was perfect.

Tucker, on the other hand, was not. At least not for Jojo. Every time Jojo managed to turn the

conversation to something new, Tucker brought it right back to his favorite subject: surfing. He

knew more about Kelly Slater and Laird Hamilton than their own mothers did.

"So, who do you have for English?" she asked, watching as Tucker served himself another

four squares of pizza. The second their order had arrived, he'd claimed all four triangle-shaped

corner pieces for himself. Jojo and Willa had a pact to always share those pieces, two and two.

Her best friend would be horrified to hear a guy had hogged them all. On a date.

"Uh," Tucker said through a mouthful of cheese. "Hot chick? Youngish? Miss Butterworth?"

"You mean Mrs. Ballman?" Jojo looked at Tucker skeptically. Could he really be so oblivious

that he didn't even learn teachers' names? Or worse, did he confuse all of their names with

mass-produced food brands? Mrs. Ballman, a thirtyish Megan Fox look-alike, was a favorite

among the male students. Tucker tossed his arm lazily across the back of the booth, his