Sunset Boulevard (7 page)

actually broken up, and her friends' best effort had been an offer to join them when they invited

Amelie Adams and Kady Parker to lunch.

"Yeah, completely lame," Myla said, gesturing Jojo to follow. "The car's waiting. Let's go."

Myla and Jojo sat on the outdoor terrace of the Bel-Air Hotel's restaurant, which overlooked

Swan Lake. Jojo couldn't believe it contained actual, majestic-looking swans and not the dingy

gray ones she'd seen at the Sacramento community golf course. The hotel's famed bird-ofparadise plant loomed overhead, casting jagged shadows on their white linen tablecloth.

Around her, the clink of silverware chimed daintily as well-dressed ladies nibbled on finger

sandwiches.

Jojo breathed in, loving the smell of fresh apricots that wafted from a nearby tree. The hotel's

glam pink stucco buildings, set deep off Sunset Boulevard, had made Jojo feel underdressed.

Now she felt just right, wearing Myla's cadet jacket over her soft cotton T-shirt. At the table

next to them, a set of blue-haired ladies who looked like identical twins in their pink Chanel

suits squawked to one another about how "adorable" Myla and Jojo were.

Bel-Air tea was Myla's bad-day destination, a fact she hadn't wanted to share with Jojo. Her

new sister had gone through enough today. Just the fact that Jojo had no interest in Grant had

been a monumental lift to Myla's spirits. Myla laughed to herself. A week ago, the last person

she'd have imagined bringing to tea was this intruder, who arrived and seemingly claimed all

their parents' attention instantly. But then again, a week ago, Myla had still thought her breakup

with Ash was just an extended bout of his stubbornness to give up in a fight. And a week ago,

she'd have been here with her friends. Myla knew they'd be back... eventually. In the meantime,

a little sisterly bonding couldn't hurt.

"Thanks again for your help in class. I could never do that," Jojo said. "I just clam up. It's like

you studied for that moment."

"No," Myla said, brushing off the compliment. "I was raised by Barkley Everhart and Lailah

Barton is all."

Jojo rolled her eyes. "I wish that was it. Come on. I'm genetically tied to Barkley and Lailah. If

you get that from them, shouldn't I too? Maybe they made a mistake."

The reminder that Jojo was her parents' flesh-and-blood true kid stung Myla, but the prickle

passed quickly. There was no doubt in Myla's mind that Jojo was Barbar's real kid. Jojo's eyes

were the same one-in-a-million violet as her mom's, and her grin was 100 percent pure Barkley.

Jojo's problem was that she didn't know
how
to be their daughter.

"Nurture versus nature. You were raised by two men who, no offense, think hip is just a bone

in your pelvis. Our parents taught me plenty about charity, but I grew up in Hollywood. I

learned how to do cutthroat when the time is right. You didn't have that advantage." Myla

looked into Jojo's eager violet eyes as they twinkled in the sun. With her easy smile, open face,

and trusting gaze, Jojo seemed the perfect candidate for a Myla makeover. And if she was

going to be part of the family, shouldn't she live up to the Everhart name? Myla leaned across

the table, an idea forming. "I can change all that."

Jojo shrugged. "Thanks, but it's not like you can swoop in every time some jerkbag lays into

me."

"Stop being dense. I'm not going to be your pit bull. I can do way better. Teach you everything

you need to know to be part of America's most famous family."

Jojo laughed, several scone crumbs flying from her lips. She reddened, covering her mouth

with her hand. From under her palm, she said, "It's not like I'm a simple twelve-step program

away from ruling the school."

Myla let go of Jojo's wrist, sinking back into her chair like a queen evaluating a gift of jewels

from one of her subjects. "Maybe not overnight, but I'm Myla Everhart. My program doesn't

need twelve steps. Just follow my lead, and you won't feel a thing."

Myla folded her arms neatly over her chest, cocking her head in that powerful half-grin. The

mere tilt of her chin seemed to pull the waiter back, almost magnetically, and he asked, "Can I

get you anything else?" His eyes spoke differently. They said,
Please let me get you something

else, Miss Everhart. I live to serve a girl like you.

As Myla sent him away with a sweet "No, thank you," she turned back to Jojo, eyebrows

raised. "So, you in?"

"In." Jojo nodded.

As if she had a choice.

AMERICA'S NEXT TOP MYLA

"Okay, so, you're getting ready for school the day after someone bitchy--let's say the female

Rod Stegerson--trashes your Prada shoes for being last season. What do you wear?" Myla

swung open both sets of double doors to her massive closet. "Show me."

Jojo felt her jaw drop in awe. She pushed a strand of her thick, almond-hued hair out of her

violet eyes to get the full view. Myla's closet qualified as the Eighth Wonder of the World. Each

type of clothing had about twelve feet of rack space in the double-decker closet, which

stretched all the way up to the twelve-foot-high ceiling and across the longest wall of Myla's

sprawling room. Fabrics of every texture, organized by color, loomed overhead like a rainbow.

Myla even had one of those library ladders that slid across the top so she could reach things on

the highest racks. At the center of all this was a twelve-foot-tall shrine to Myla's shoes, lit from

above and below with small recessed bulbs. The lights cast each pair of shoes in a glow, giving

every designer stiletto, sandal, wedge, and boot an aura of divine magnificence.

"Holy shit," Jojo croaked. She'd already been impressed with Myla's four-poster bed with its

pristine black-and-white duvet of vintage fashion magazine covers, the white dresser painted

with brightly hued Pop Art-style daisies, the hulking wide-screen TV and velvety purple

couch, identical to Jojo's burgundy one. But the closet was intimidating, like some significant

artwork that you'd go see on a field trip and not know how to describe in your essay afterward.

"Do you have an answer? Or are you just going to stare?" Myla was sitting across from the

closet in one of three low fuchsia armchairs clustered around a black cube table. She tapped the

toe of her Christian Louboutin T-strap sandal against the wood floor, the shoe's fiery orange

butterfly design appearing to flutter as she did. Her eyes were a jade mystery as she coolly

regarded Jojo, with her familiar half-smile.

Jojo frowned. "So you're giving me word problems? If Jojo wears last season's Prada shoes,

and female Rod makes fun of her, what does Jojo wear tomorrow to show that bitch who's

boss?" Jojo still wasn't sold on the whole makeover project--mega-makeovers were for the

movies, or at least reality show contestants. Jojo was just... Jojo. And no quantity of designer

clothes or Myla maxims could change that. But if going along with the scheme was a means to

hanging out with Myla, Jojo would take it. She stared down at her feet, thinking. Her favorite

new shoes, a pair of silver Hollywould wedges that her mom had given her last week, seemed

to wink back up at her.

"It's a trick question," Jojo finally said, feeling triumphant. "I wouldn't wear last season's

shoes!"

Myla pursed her lips dispassionately. "It
is
a trick question. But you're wrong." She popped up

from her chair with a swish of silk, pacing in front of her wardrobe like a general checking the

barracks. She began to toss items of clothing onto her bed.

"You could wear this." She threw out a low-cut red Vivienne Westwood sweater. "You could

wear this." A pair of black sequined leggings flew past Jojo's nose. "You could wear this, this,

or this." She plucked out a green Juicy Couture minidress, a brown Burberry safari dress, and

a black Fendi cashmere sweaterdress and tossed them on the bed like she was dealing cards.

"I don't get it," Jojo said, her violet eyes scanning the items. "You picked that stuff at random."

Myla shook her head. "Random is exactly right. The outfits are immaterial. The key is, those

shoes are the
only
thing you absolutely
must
wear the next day. Show girl-Rod that--last

season or not--if they look good, and you rock them like a pair of Pradas should be rocked, no

one gives you shit about where they came from, or
when
they came from."

Jojo processed this information with greater concentration than she'd paid to the Pythagorean

theorem in geometry class at JFK. "So I can do whatever I want? Then why do I need these

lessons?" She flopped into one of the chairs, already exhausted. As far as she might have come

from her Aéropostale sweatshirts and Forever21 jeans, she sincerely doubted she could ever

achieve Myla's poise and flawless style.

Myla pulled Jojo up by the arms. "Because you don't get what it means to do whatever you

want. In the back of your head, you're always wondering what people think of you and you get

so caught up wondering that you paralyze yourself. Take your whole Barnsley incident. Let's

role-play. I'm you, you're Barnsley."

Jojo rolled her eyes, even though she was intrigued. She didn't exactly care what people

thought but she did overanalyze every little thing. It had taken Jojo sixteen years to figure that

out about herself, and Myla had done in it a few weeks. "Do we have to?"

Myla ignored the question. She tottered on her heels until she was an inch away from Jojo.

Pretending to be drunk, she cuddled up to Jojo. "Sure, Barnsley, I'll kiss you." She lolled her

head onto Jojo's neck, and Jojo cracked up at the impersonation. Myla shot her a
don't laugh

look. Jojo squashed her lips.

Myla leaned into Jojo, moved her head back and forth like a deranged puppet, and then fakehurled with a dramatic heaving noise.

Jojo jumped back, just like Barnsley had. The words she couldn't forget came easily. "That

fucking bitch puked in my mouth!"

Myla-as-Jojo cocked her head to one side, fake-scanning her outfit for wayward puke. Then,

she looked into Jojo-Barnsley's eyes, and said, loudly and slowly, like each word was a wellaimed arrow, "Barnsley Toole, you disgusting pig. Your mouth tastes like"--she pondered the

bouquet, like she was at a wine tasting--"dead fish. Old blue cheese. And... is that Zima? Thank

God I did everyone the service of putting you out of commission."

Jojo cracked up, falling onto the bed, as Myla prissily dabbed the corners of her mouth with a

Kleenex. Then Myla was giggling, flopping down beside Jojo.

"'And... is that Zima?'" Jojo repeated as they caught their breath. Jojo had heard Myla's

infectious laugh before. But she'd never expected to see someone as poised as Myla roll around

in a fit of giggles with her. It was just like hanging with Willa, her best friend in Sacramento,

but Myla was more than that--they were
sisters
. Jojo suddenly didn't care that the video of her

and Barnsley was featured on YouTube. So she'd hurled on a guy. At least she wasn't Barnsley

Toole, who would wake up one day and realize how pathetic he actually was.

Jojo sat up on the bed, staring in awe and wonder at Myla, who was dabbing the corners of her

eyes. "That was amazing. But do you really think
I
could pull that off?"

Myla refluffed her hair in the mirror, catching Jojo's eye in the reflection. "You wouldn't be

here if I didn't. When you embarrass yourself, think of a way to make it more embarrassing for