Sunset Boulevard (3 page)

floor. The foyer was filled with trophy cases, photos of star students, and professional-looking

posters advertising bake sales, fund-raisers, and football games. It must have been just before

lunch, as some students carried doggie bags from Mr. Chow and neat plastic boxes bearing the

Zone Diet logo. Amelie was glad she'd spent some time on her outfit, wearing her intellectuallooking L.A.M.B. houndstooth sweater instead of her usual set gear of jeans and a tee. Every

girl in the hall looked like her school wardrobe had been carefully curated by a personal stylist.

Watching students fall into their cliques and laugh with their friends just a few feet from her

face, Amelie paused to take it all in, feeling like a wildlife documentarian observing teenagers in

their natural habitat.

"So then he said, 'I can't date someone who wears fur,' and I said, 'Well, I can't be with

someone who thinks minks are real animals.'" A glamorous girl with a Rihanna haircut tapped

her five-inch black patent stilettos against the marble floor, surrounded by a cluster of lesser

beauties. She turned and saw Amelie staring; her ruby lips pursed as she scanned Amelie from

head to toe. With a sneer, she turned back to her friends. "You know, I heard Fairy Princess is

actually, like, twenty-eight, but her mom is making her pretend to be a teenager until she can get

real parts."

Amelie rolled her eyes. Any other day, the remark might have stung, but today Amelie took it

in stride. If she'd learned anything from teen movies, it was that bitchy girls were par for the

course. Ignoring the girls, she followed the school map, part of yesterday's messenger packet,

to the library. She purposefully stepped inside, swept past the circulation desk, and entered the

main reading room. Gary, her director, paced back and forth along shelves of new young adult

books. When she entered, his eyes fell on her like she was the Holy Grail.

"Oh, thank God," he breathed. "We thought something had happened to you."

Amelie shook her head, as the crew went back to their work. Kady Parker lounged on a love

seat next to Grant Isaacson--who Amelie guessed was playing the newly written part she'd read

in the revised script.

"Holy crap, I actually beat you," Kady said. "You're never late for anything. What were you up

to?" Her eyes glimmered mischievously, as if she were expecting Amelie to say she'd been out

all night with Hunter.

Amelie squinted doubtfully. "It's noon. Call time is twelve thirty, right?"

Gary pulled off his trademark ball cap, rubbing his head in frustration. "Did you not get the

second memo? Call time moved to eleven for a cast and crew meeting. I guess you haven't

heard the other news, either."

Something about the way he said it, and the doleful look in his basset-hound eyes, made

Amelie shiver. She was almost grateful to Kady, who rattled off the unpleasant news before

Gary could even finish his heaved sigh:

"Hunter's out. Fired," Kady said. Her sapphire eyes were like two asterisks footnoted by her

tiny frown. "Not authentic enough. He looks too old for me, comes off too metrosexual,

shouldn't have done those trippy Dolce & Gabbana ads for Times Square, et cetera and so on.

The producers wanted real. Because nothing says down-to-earth Midwestern high school like

BHH, where even the mascot wears Prada."

Amelie wanted to laugh at the joke, but felt choked by the quickening beat of her heart.
So this

is a heart attack,
she thought, her brain detached from her body. She almost willed herself to

faint, if only to avoid hearing one more wretched, life-ruining fact.

"I'm sorry you're finding out this way, Amelie," Gary said gently, placing a fatherly hand on

her shoulder. "It happened over the weekend. The studio saw dailies and just didn't think

Hunter was authentic enough." The studio had sat for a dailies session on Saturday morning

and hadn't liked everything they saw. Thus, new writers--hired because they'd once served

Diablo Cody at Starbucks--a reshoot of about half the scenes, and now a new
cast
?Amelie

narrowed her eyes to fight the pressure of the tears mounting. She realized she hadn't spoken at

all and, trying to collect herself into Amelie Adams, Child Star (Trademark), she managed to

utter, "So what now?"

Gary gripped her in a half-hug, as though relieved Amelie hadn't started wailing and rampaging

through the library, knocking books from their shelves. "We're casting a new Tommy Archer

from the BHH student body," he said softly. "We've gotta find someone real, and a no-name. If

you ask me, it's a stunt so we don't get fallout from ditching Hunter. A casting session and a

huge reshoot in two weeks. I swear they're trying to kill me."

And me,
Amelie thought, folding her arms over her chest. What was wrong with her life that

she could have everything and nothing at the same time? She'd last worked with Hunter when

she was eleven. Would she have to wait five more years to see him again?

So much for high school being the best time of your life.

Two hours later, auditions for Hunter's replacement were in full swing. Amelie's body felt

drained as she dragged herself to a black couch, where Grant Isaacson lounged, his bronze hair

forming a chaotic halo over his copy of
Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance
. He pulled

the book away from his face, sympathetically smiling at Amelie. "Bad, eh?"

"Way worse than bad," she monotoned, flopping back in exhaustion over the arm of the couch.

She'd theorized that the real reason Hunter was let go was to afford Grant, who was currently

box-office gold and was probably viewed as bringing edge to the allegedly indie-fied script.

Now she was trying hard not to resent him.

From her upside-down position, Amelie tried to smile at a flock of girls who hovered over the

new fiction shelf, staring at Grant. The school had allowed the crew use of the library for an

audition space, as long as one half stayed open for BHH students and the film didn't cause any

disruptions. Apparently, BHH administration had forgotten its female population's inability to

function in Grant's presence. Three pretty girls, two blondes and a brunette, were front and

center, waving excitedly at Amelie. She waved back, halfheartedly.

She nodded at Grant, scratching her head beneath her new costume accoutrement: an actual

halo, worn atop her red curls. Designed by Christian Siriano, the headgear was fashioned from

golden lace starched into jagged points. Wearing it, Amelie looked like she'd escaped from an

asylum in Colonial Williamsburg.
Insult, let me introduce you to injury,
Amelie thought.

Glancing over at his fan club, Grant smiled his
I'm probably up to no good but you're gonna

love it
smile, and said, "So, where's the acting talent at this school?" The power of the Stalker

Club's collective giggle could have fueled a smart car for a week.

Kady, flipping through a copy of
Spin
at one of the study carrels, hauled herself up, trudged

over, and flopped on the couch across from Amelie. "We're never going to find a Tommy," she

said, her slim shoulder peeking out of her wide-neck yellow tunic. "This sucks."

Amelie nodded. "Sucks" was an understatement. All the BHH guys thought they were stars in

the own right. They didn't want to go by the script and play Tommy as an earnest, down-toearth jock. Or they showed up with full makeup. Or, before auditioning, they wanted to talk to

Gary about getting Tommy a few more lines.

Tucker Swanson, a surfer with a surplus of confidence, told Gary, "So you know, I surf, like,

a lot, and won't need a personal trainer or anything." An Amazonian girl from the volleyball

team had tried out, insisting she audition in the name of gender equality, and had even gone in

for a kiss with Kady. Rod Stegerson, a truly unhandsome, beefy jock, had
succeeded
in kissing

Kady, but without her consent. When Kady had left to detoxify, Amelie'd had to pick up her

slack. She'd almost vomited at Geoff Schaffer's strong essence of pot and Funyuns, and had

actually dry-heaved when the school's driver's ed teacher, who had to be in his thirties and had

brought along headshots from his younger, better-looking years, tried out and grossly asked if

she had her license yet.

Near the reference shelves, Gary paced nervously, staring down at his clipboard like it held a

death threat. He sank down into one of the oversize armchairs set in a circle near the

periodicals. The cast, crew, and the movie itself seemed to be dying a slow death. More than

once, Gary had lamented the loss of Hunter. But Amelie knew it was no use. Gary might have

wanted Hunter back, but being a director only sounded powerful. In Hollywood, unless you

controlled the purse strings, your opinion didn't count.

Amelie checked the clock, hoping it was almost time for tutoring--anything to get out of here.

After not returning her calls all weekend, her math tutor, Jake, had finally set a time for them to

meet.

"Amelie, Kady, we need you," Gary stage-whispered from across the room. The two girls

unenthusiastically pried themselves from the couches.

"See you," Amelie said to Grant, who smirked sympathetically.

Gary was pacing near the information desk, an almost amused expression on his face. "We've

got Lewis Buford over there. You know, 'MTV and
Us Weekly
follow me around because

people in Middle America love two things equally: Oprah and raging assholes.' And get this:

He wants to go off-book. But I have to give him a tryout or he'll cry foul and we'll be doomed.

He's connected." Amelie knew Lewis Buford--well, knew of him, anyway. It was at his party

where she'd seen Hunter with another girl.

"Let's just get this over with," Gary said with a sigh. "Last guy of the day, and we'll try again

tomorrow. Jesus, why couldn't we be doing this somewhere where kids are actually normal?"

"Like Ohio?" Kady offered.

"Santa Clarita. Burbank. Valencia. Anywhere but Beverly Hills." He walked back to the

audition area, where Lewis Buford was doing a set of breathing exercises. He rolled his head

from side to side, eyes traveling back and forth between Amelie and Kady. Checking his wavy

dark hair in a Clinique compact he pulled from his pocket, Lewis grinned at himself, flashing

his dimples.

"Ladies, this will be the second-best threesome I've ever had." Lewis sat on the couch, close

enough that Amelie could feel the smooth skin of his waxed forearm at her wrist. Ew. Lewis

waved Gary, the casting director, and several assistants over. "I just want to give credit for this

performance to Jeremy Piven and
Entourage
, the best show ever. Imagine, you're in a

therapist's office. Red here is my wife." He pointed at Amelie. "And that little minx is our

marriage counselor." He winked at Kady.

"Okay," Gary said, with forced patience. "Go ahead."

Lewis cleared his throat, posing on the couch with his arm across the back cushion. He

launched into an Ari Gold-style monologue, accusing his wife, Amelie, of being less than

human, and his therapist of being an idiot. As he paced between them, he took the opportunity

to look down both girls' shirts. His said everything too loudly, and finally huffed past them

toward Gary, looking back for his final line. "Good day!"

Finished, Lewis took a bow, returning to the chairs. He kissed Amelie's and then Kady's hand.

Amelie wasn't sure, but she thought he was wearing lip gloss. "And that, you sexy bitches, is