Sunset Boulevard (8 page)

whoever is messing with you." She slung an arm over Jojo's shoulders, sort of nudging her up.

"Remember, it's never you, it's them."

Jojo thought the mantra sounded a little absolute. But now wasn't the time for asking questions.

If a magician was revealing how she did her tricks, you just enjoyed the show.

Two hours later, Jojo was ready for a nap. But Myla wasn't finished. "Let's review what you've

learned, okay?" Myla sat on her bed, holding up a hand so Jojo would remain standing.

"You're at a social function and you've been dancing. It's time for a touch-up. Show me what

you do in the bathroom." She held up her iPhone's video camera and turned it on Jojo.

"Um, pee?" Jojo said, waving off Myla's frown. "I'm kidding!" She went to Myla's vanity,

sitting in the swiveling plum leather chair in front of the round golden mirror. She fluffed her

hair, which Myla had expertly straightened and then tamed into loose curls. She applied a fresh

coat of Myla's favorite lip gloss, Philosophy Red Licorice, blotted her nose and cheeks with a

piece of rice paper, and pressed the side of her index finger to each of her eyelashes, curling

them up slightly. She cocked her head over her shoulder to check her backside in the mirror.

Myla nodded enthusiastically. "Good, exactly what I would have done. You don't want to

come out with a completely remade face. Now, demonstrate your walk to, say, history class."

Jojo picked up the red Balenciaga hobo they'd been practicing with. It was much lighter than

the backpack that made her lean to one side like a hunchback. The trick was to only take what

she needed for each class, instead of carrying everything around all day. She slung the bag

easily over her left shoulder, then grabbed Myla's textbook from the desk, carrying it neatly in

the crook of her right arm.

Jojo usually walked without thinking about it. Now she put one foot in front of the other, heel

to toe, her head up high and her eyes straight ahead. It was a
nothing to see here
walk, which

Myla said showed people they should be more interested in her than she was in them. She

didn't even look to Myla for approval as she passed at a clip, the bag gracefully swinging at her

elbow. For good measure, she strode across the room twice more, only making direct eye

contact with the iPhone's video lens at the very end of her strut. She wanted a memento of the

cool look on her face.

"Very nice," Myla said. "Now you see why we stop at our lockers before each period.

Carrying all your books may be efficient, but efficiency can be the enemy of grace and beauty."

Jojo shook her head, astonished. "How do you know all this stuff?" She wondered if Myla

locked herself in the room to practice her walk and her blasé expressions. There was no way

she'd keep track of all these rules and maneuvers.

Myla made a
who, me?
face. "Years of practice. But you're a very fast learner. Of course,

you're the first one I ever gave lessons to."

Jojo felt herself beam goofily, and then quickly corrected her smile into a Myla-patented

satisfied half-smirk. She dropped the bag onto the bed and neatly sat down in one of the chairs.

She smoothed down the fluffy full skirt of the red Alexander McQueen cashmere flannel dress

Myla had lent her, admiring her Chanel Lotus Rouge-polished toenails as they peeked out the

top of Myla's Miu Miu open-toe black bow pumps--at least her pedicure had lasted.

Jojo looked at their reflection, sitting in their matching chairs, both with their legs neatly

crossed at the ankle. Myla looked exotic, with her tanned gold skin, her gleaming pinup-girl

hair, and her candy-heart lips. But it was her own reflection that made Jojo stare. She caught

Myla's eye in the mirror. "Can I tell you something? I didn't think this would work." Myla's

face remained open, so Jojo pressed on. "But I can't believe it. I didn't think I could look like

this... be like this."

Myla shook her head as if to say, "Silly Jojo!" She shrugged. "I knew you could. We're

sisters."

Jojo let herself grin in full, looking once more at her polished and perfect self in the mirror. At

the modelesque way she posed, hand on hip, one tan leg slightly bent at the knee. At her

shoulders, thrown back as if to say,
I'm wearing this dress. It is not wearing me.
Even her

shoulder-length hair had a
look at me
sheen. The violet eyes staring back at her belonged to a

different person. A person just as fabulous, just as L.A., as Myla. Who knew some smoky eye

makeup, a quarter-sized dollop of Fekkai glosssing cream, and a little attitude could make her

into a whole new person? A person who--though she shared no DNA with her--clearly
was

Myla Everhart's sister.

DUDE, YOU'RE MY ONLY HOPE

Jake stared furtively around Meltdown Comics on Sunset, at the wall of Japanese capsule toys,

new graphic novels shimmering under the lights, and the posters of buxom superheroines with

faces that were simultaneously sneering and seductive. It was an hour before closing on

Wednesday night, and even though Jake had vowed to shed all traces of geekdom, Miles had

insisted. Besides, he wouldn't exactly run into any other BHH people here.

Eyeing his reflection in a collectibles case, Jake took a deep breath and rattled off one of

Tommy Archer's speeches, the one in act two where Kady started to see him as more than a

jock. "I know you're not as tough as you look, Lizzie. I've seen you at your softest, when you

think no one's around. At the café, when you give a little kid extra whipped cream on his cocoa

or you share half your sandwich with a homeless woman. I know you, Lizzie Barnett. I know

you hide how kind you are under sarcastic comments." He narrowed his eyes in what he hoped

was a penetrating stare, picturing Kady-as-Lizzie's face. But in the case's mirrored back wall,

his own bug-eyed reflection stared back at him, like Wall-E with a Jewfro.

"Hey, bro! Look what I found! A variant cover of
Secret Invasion
number one! Sue Storm

looks hot!" Miles waved the floppy comic in the air for Jake to see, breaking Jake's

concentration.

Jake sighed and picked up a stuffed animal from a half-off bin. He tried to hold the yellow doll

like a football. Tommy Archer was a quarterback, and Jake needed the practice.

Miles shuffled over, adjusting one of the Spock ears he wore to get the store's Trekkie

discount. "Dude, I hate to be the one to say this, but you look like you're breast-feeding

Pikachu."

Of course he did. In his mirror at home, practicing with a real football, Jake's little brother,

Brendan, had caught on to what he was doing and wasted no time mocking him.

Jake tossed the yellow plush toy back into its bin. He missed and shook his head dejectedly.

He'd taken the part the other day before realizing that Tommy Archer was this awesome,

popular jock. Jake's only experience with popular, awesome jocks was being on the receiving

end of their popular and awesome torture tactics. Not that anyone on
Class Angel
could ever

find that out. Jake had spent a summer bulking up, in a bid to go from dud to stud. In some

small part of his brain that wasn't anxiety-wracked, he was glad that his newly gained muscles,

braceless teeth, and improved posture were fooling
someone
. Amelie, at tutoring, had given

him constant reassurance that he would do just fine. It didn't really help, though. A guy like

Tommy Archer wouldn't be so naive as to fall for a megastar like Amelie and think he had a

chance. Tommy Archer wouldn't have spent half his savings account on trendy, overpriced

Kitson clothes. And he wouldn't have believed Amelie's invitation to Lewis Buford's

Hollywood party was a date. At least Jake's new acting worries had helped him put Amelie out

of his head. Still, she was going to be disappointed when shooting started in two days.

"Why so serious?" Miles cackled in a vocal hybrid of the Joker and Peter Brady. "You're not

yourself, dude.
Secret Invasion
, first issue, variant!" Miles, who had the treasure gingerly

pinched between his thumb and forefinger, practically shouted. The guys at the counter shot

him dirty looks. "I'll let you have it, if it'll make you feel better."

"No, it's okay, dude." Jake sighed. He felt totally weak. Even though he had declared them

verboten in his effort to be a whole new guy, Jake had amassed a foot-tall stack of fresh comic

books in just a half hour at the store, and now he ran his fingers back and forth over the stapled

spines, feeling a mixture of relief and disgust, like a dieter who'd just scarfed a plate of Pink's

chili cheese fries.

Miles dropped the comic atop Jake's stack. Miles had been searching for the variant cover all

summer, even sending Jake updates while he was away at camp. "I'm freaking out. Me, playing

a jock?" Jake confessed. "My motor skills are pretty much confined to turning comic book

pages with tweezers, not tossing a football." Jake continued for several more minutes, a streamof-consciousness parade of worries.

Miles listened intently and, when Jake was done, scratched behind his Spock ears thoughtfully.

"This isn't so bad. You just need to do a character study. Remember last year, when I was

chosen for the part of Giles in that reenactment of the
Buffy
musical?" Jake winced at the

memory. Last year, it hadn't even occurred to him how dorky it was for his friend to appear in a

bad fanboy reproduction of the show. "I just went to the Beverly Hills library and studied that

old English dude who works in the rare-books section. Totally worked."

Jake chuckled. Mr. Dornan, who was ancient and nothing like Giles, had caught Miles sitting

in his wingback chair, wearing the tweed blazer he'd left behind when he got up to help a

library patron, sticking his nose into a box of Mr. Dornan's Earl Grey tea. Miles had been

banned from the library for six months. Miles nodded proudly, probably reminiscing about his

big role. That was the thing with Miles: As stereotypically nerdy as he might be, he was okay

with it. And frankly, that made Jake a little jealous.

"So, what's your point? I have to stalk someone?"

Miles removed his glasses and cleaned them with the hem of his shirt, and Jake could tell a

plan was forming.

"No, no, no. Jake, it's simple. You find someone to model your character off of. At BHH.

Hmm, who could you use? Ash Gilmour! He's your neighbor, right?"

Jake shook his head. Ash would probably be totally patient and obliging if Jake dropped by

and asked to study him. But in the company of his former best friend, who'd gone from Jake's

equally geeky best bud to the crown prince of BHH, Jake would feel like a ragged beggar.

"Tommy's an all-American heartthrob guy. Ash could get any girl he wants, but he's more like

a rock star. He doesn't even play any sports, just surfs and stuff."

Miles nodded, making his way to a set of chairs upholstered in a tapestry of classic Superman

comics. Jake followed, sitting down next to him. Having serious discussions in these very

chairs was sort of a tradition for him and Miles, but their debates usually sounded more like the

one going on at the counter, where the cashier and a customer were arguing over whether

Hermione could take Sarah Connor in a fight.

"Okay, I got it," Miles said, snapping his fingers. "Lewis Buford. His dad was an athlete, and

doesn't he play polo or something? Plus, he acts like he owns the school. And he's really