Sunset Boulevard (6 page)

surprised, is all," Ash said, pushing back a lock of hair that had somehow escaped the gel's

death grip. "But honestly, so much is going on in my life, with school and this whole Myla

thing--we broke up, Dad--that I think Daisy would just be awfully hard to swallow right now.

I bet Lee would love to do it," Ash suggested, naming his dad's number one lackey.

The bartender set a martini glass with a curvy blue stem in front of Gordon, her maroon lips

curved in a smile. "Grey Goose martini with lemon peel. Hope you like it," she said, swishing

away to take another order. Gordon took a long, slow sip and turned to look at Ash.

"You're right. Lee would love to do it. Guy would sell his left nut for the chance to move

higher on the totem pole. But look at Lee. He's thirty-two. Totally out of touch. Still thinks

American Idol
is hip. Daisy is a special case. She's... fragile. I need someone who she can see

as a friend, as a peer. So of course I thought of you."

Ash knew his dad's salesman mode. Smooth patter,
you're my guy
pep talks. He'd heard it all

before. But he'd never been on the receiving end. He couldn't remember the last time his dad

had complimented him, and even if it was with an ulterior motive, it felt... good. A hell of a lot

better than criticism and derision. As his dad's hand closed tightly around his shoulder, Ash

knew he'd say yes.

He nodded. "I'll do it."

Gordon's eyes went from serious to alight, like a slot machine hitting diamond sevens. "I knew

I could count on you," he said, patting Ash's shoulder once more before turning to head back

into the dining room.

Ash closed his eyes, hating that his father's tiny gesture made him feel like a grateful, freshly

trained puppy. Inhaling, he concentrated on sound: silverware chiming against plates. Wine

being poured into glasses. Voices mingling in the air.

Just as he was convincing himself this was a good thing, that Gordon would appreciate him for

a change, he heard it: Daisy's loud voice, somehow traveling from Spago's back room to the

main floor. "Where's that dishy son of yours, Mr. Gilmour? We're gonna have a right time."

Ash sincerely doubted that.

RODS AND MONSTERS

Jojo slunk into her American history class and found her seat, three desks back in the center of

Mr. Castorman's classroom. She nodded a hello to Myla, who sat two rows away. Myla halfsmiled, examining her freshly painted deep red nails. Jojo looked down at her own hands, her

short, squared nails done in a similar color but chipping already. On Sunday Myla had taken

her to Elle, one of the poshest manicure salons in the city, as a sort of peace offering after their

rocky start. Ever since the Barnsley incident Myla had been really sweet, and seemed to have

accepted the fact that Jojo was in her life for the fore-seeable future. But Jojo wasn't counting

her chickens yet. As grateful as she was for a friend in her sister, Jojo still didn't trust Myla.

Who knew when she would change her mind?

Rod Stegerson was holding court with a few of his buddies, talking about the San Diego

Chargers' poor performance on
Monday Night Football
. Jojo flipped open her massive

textbook and pretended to read about the Lincoln-Douglas debates.

"Hey, dudes, look who's here." Rod leered in Jojo's direction, his ruddy face orange under the

fluorescent bulbs. She shrank in her chair, dread colliding in her stomach with the roast-turkeyand-Brie wrap she'd downed for lunch in a little-trafficked corner of the BHH library, which

had quieted down since the
Class Angel
film crew had moved on to a different location on the

grounds.

"She looks so sweet and innocent, right? But check this out." Rod pulled his iPhone from the

pocket of his Abercrombie sweatshirt, flourishing it like he had something new to show them.

Jojo felt queasy at the tinny sound of her digital hurling.

Just then, Lewis Buford strode in, his handsome face smiling widely to show off his deeply

dimpled cheeks. His rugby shirt, emblazoned with his initials, L.B., in huge Old English type,

was unbuttoned, revealing a tanned, waxed chest. He immediately found Myla's desk, girlishly

perching on the corner. "Myla, where've you been, baby?" he purred, seemingly oblivious to

Myla's hateful expression.

"Everywhere you're not, Lewis," Myla said coolly, looking directly at him with her catlike

green eyes. Since the party, Lewis had been calling her nonstop. After his billionth call, Myla

had changed her outgoing message to, "This is Myla Everhart. Leave a message and I'll call

you back. Unless this is Lewis Buford. Two and a half words for you: Not. F-in. Interested."

Lewis clucked lewdly, sliding off the desk. "I'll catch you after class, babe. Trust me, you want

me." He squeezed Myla's shoulder as he passed.

Myla shrugged him off, rolling her eyes. Jojo watched as Lewis stopped next by Rod,

watching the video play yet again. "Didn't that fucking kick ass?" Lewis said. "Barnsley got,

like, two hundred e-mails on the MTV website and the episode hasn't even aired yet."

Their teacher, Mr. Castorman, walked in, and Jojo felt relief wash over her. Once class started

she could at least listen and try to forget their teasing.

"Class, give me ten minutes," he said instead. "I have to go finish an important phone call in the

teachers' lounge." It was common knowledge that ancient Mr. Castorman, who had exactly

seventeen hairs left on his liver-spotted head, did the
New York Times
crossword during lunch.

Everyone in his sixth-period class got lucky about once a week when Mr. Castorman couldn't

finish the puzzle before the bell and left his students unattended as he got the last few words.

Jojo glared at him angrily as he left. How dare he leave her here with these vultures?

"Sweet," she heard Rod say, feeling her insides shrivel. "Let's go talk to our little BarfBarf."

He swaggered over, his jock buddies and Lewis close behind. Every face in the class turned to

look as Rod pulled up a chair, leaning against Jojo's desk. She could smell the garlic from his

carb-loading lunch.

"So, what do you have against Barnsley Toole?" he started. "Is it him in particular? Or maybe

all guys make you sick. Jojo's sort of a lezzie name, isn't it?"

Lewis guffawed, "Dude, she's a lezzie."

"It's short for Josephine," Jojo corrected him. Her heart thumped nervously at the class's eyes

turning toward her.

"So, Josephine, would you puke on me too? 'Cause I bet you couldn't handle this either." Rod

stood to his full gargantuan height, displaying his bulk.

"You wish," Jojo muttered, her whole body shaking with anger. With one quick move, she

could corner kick Rod's shin. Then again, all she needed was to be the barfing girl who also

had an anger management problem.

"Yeah, right," Rod said. "Like I'd wish for that. Who do you think you are? You might be

Barbar's kid but that don't mean shit if you're a puke-filled lesbian."

Jojo dug her nails into the underside of her cherrywood desk. How long had this ignorant

homophobe gone unchecked?

Before she could reply, Jojo's phone vibrated in her pocket. She slid it out, looking down at the

screen under her desk. She silently prayed it wasn't a goofy message from Willa that Rod

would see, or a picture of her dads on their sabbatical, arms around each other. If Rod knew the

girl he was wrongly calling a lesbian had a set of adoptive gay fathers, he'd have ammunition to

last the school year.

To Jojo's surprise, it was from Myla.
Don't let that asshole talk to you like that,
it read.

"Hey, Rod," Myla cooed sweetly. "I was wondering something."

Rod turned, looking Myla up and down as he bit his lip. She was a picture of cool composure,

looking model-perfect in her red and gray Phillip Lim cadet jacket over a short violet Marc

Jacobs pleat dress. "Don't worry, I still think you're hot even if your sis is nasty."

Myla sighed heavily, every eye in the classroom turning to her with interest. "No, I thought

you should tell Jojo about last year's game with Malibu. You know, the one where you got so

nervous, you wet yourself at halftime."

Rod's red face grew almost purple as he turned to his buddies in shock. "Dudes, you promised

you'd never tell anyone," he yelped, his voice almost a whimper. He tore from the class as it

broke out in peals of laughter.

Jojo beamed. Someone had ammunition, and it wasn't Rod.

After class, Jojo waited for Myla in the hall, leaning casually against the cool cinder-block wall.

Her hood was down and she felt free, and a little less like she had to hide.

Myla was the last student to file out, thanks to the crowd that gathered around her desk,

wanting to know all about Rod's nervous bladder.

Jojo hugged Myla hard, hoping the gesture wouldn't annoy her. "That was amazing. Thank

you, thank you, thank you."

Hitching her silver Balenciaga tote over her shoulder, Myla shrugged. "No big deal. He

deserves it. Hey, want to go to tea?"

Jojo squinted at her, puzzled. "What about seventh and eighth?"

"You have to stop hiding in the library already. Those classes are canceled today--they

announced it at lunch. They're doing a montage of Kady Parker's character thinking she's going

nuts seeing her angel everywhere. They need a bunch of classrooms and the hall. Too much

disruption, I guess."

Jojo raised her eyebrows. So far,
Class Angel
didn't seem like
enough
of a disruption. She'd

been hoping the movie's arrival would take some of the interest off her, but so far kids at BHH

seemed more annoyed than awed that the movie was being filmed at their school. Grant

Isaacson was the only real distraction. His trailer was next to the tennis courts, and girls who'd

been excused from PE all year had actually shown up today, preening as they waited for turns

with the auto-serve machine. But they'd never be so déclassé as to actually ask for his

autograph. Willa, Jojo's best friend back home, had texted her asking for it, but even if she was

locked in a room with Grant--with a stack of his headshots, and a million working pens--she

would never risk additional scorn by doing something so
not
BHH.

Jojo grinned. "Sounds good. But is this, like, going to be okay with Billie and Talia and

everyone?" It wasn't that she was scared of them, but she was just getting comfortable with

Myla and didn't know how the whole pack-leader thing worked.

Myla scoffed. "They're going to stay here, and hang around to see if Grant Isaacson will, who

knows, make them his official groupies or something."

"Really?" Jojo said, rolling her eyes. "How lame."

Lame was right. Myla was beyond annoyed with her girlfriends. They'd practically shrieked

when Grant strolled by their table in the cafeteria today. The very last thing she wanted to do,

besides ever see Lewis Buford's face again, was watch her friends burst into preteen giggles at

some one-hit wonder who just got his Screen Actors Guild card.

If she hadn't been on the outs with Ash, Myla might have put up with it, maybe even played

along. But as it was, her friends seemed to care a lot more about how Grant's copper hair hung

over his topaz eyes than about how Myla needed them. Sure, she'd never been one to talk about

her feelings ad nauseam, but her best girlfriends had always been there to plan shopping trips,

spa visits, and evenings out whenever she and Ash had fought in the past. Now they were