The A-List: Hollywood Royalty #2: Sunset Boulevard Read online

  no idea how cute he was. The key to popularity, if Myla was any indication, was confidence-even cockiness. "Maybe, but it seems like the gossip wheel keeps landing on me." In her first

  weeks here, Myla had made Jojo's life a living hell with one nasty rumor after another. The

  focus had shifted briefly when Myla turned her fury on her ex, Ash Gilmour, telling people

  that he was a chronic bed-wetter. Now the wheel of misfortune was back on Jojo, but it wasn't

  Myla's doing. After Saturday's terrible party, Jojo and Myla had a bond, if a tenuous one. "This

  is so not like JFK--my old high school, in Sacramento. I swear, you can't even graduate from

  here without mastering the art of gossip."

  "I'm flunking out, then," Jake said, his hazel eyes dancing. "Was JFK some kind of clique-free

  utopia?"

  "I don't know. Kids could be mean, I guess. But they weren't so organized about it. Let's put it

  this way, Justin Klatch, who is basically the coolest, hottest guy ever to walk the halls of JFK,

  would be crucified at this place." Jojo flashed to an image of Justin's all-American boy face.

  He'd be eaten alive here. In fact, at BHH, Jojo would probably have a shot with him.

  Jacob patted Jojo's arm awkwardly. "I doubt my classmates would ever elect me their

  spokesperson, but for what it's worth, I'm sorry people are such assholes around here. Miles,

  too."

  Miles, hearing his name, gave a mock salute. "Aye, aye, sir." He pushed his glasses back up

  the bridge of his long nose. The kids at BHH called him McNothin' because he resembled

  McLovin' from Superbad. Jojo thought he looked more like a stretched-out, preteen Paul Rudd.

  Jojo let loose a chuckle, for what felt like the first time in days. She felt her mood lighten from

  pitch-black to foggy gray. "Thanks, Jake. You too, Miles."

  Miles nodded dutifully. "I'm working on an asshole cure," he said, rubbing his hands together

  like a mad scientist. "I'll let you know when it's ready."

  Jake rolled his eyes at Miles's joke, nodding his head toward Jojo's locker. "I see people are

  leaving you notes."

  Jojo blushed. "It's nothing."

  "Everything's spelled correctly," he said. "So at least we know Rod's not a suspect." He

  paused. "Hold on a sec." He jogged to the cart and opened a plastic Tupperware container,

  grabbing some kind of cloth and a spray bottle.

  "It won't come off, I tried." Jojo sighed. "It's permanent."

  Jake shook his head. "You're talking to an expert here," he said. "Ma'am, please step aside," he

  commanded in a fake cop voice.

  He sprayed the substance liberally over the red paint, then rubbed it vigorously with the cloth.

  The letters instantly faded, leaving just a faint ghost behind. "I had 'I Want My Mommy'

  written on mine for a whole day before I realized it was just pep club wax pencil," Jake

  explained, admiring his work. "Kids here don't want to risk a real vandalism charge. Some

  warm soapy water on a paper towel will get the residue off."

  "Thanks. That's gotta go right in your high school karma bank." Jojo hugged Jake excitedly

  before she realized what she was doing.

  Jake blushed. "Like my mom says, I'm saving for college." He shrugged, his dorky orange

  polo stretching across his athletic shoulders.

  "For real, you're my hero," Jojo said, smiling up at him. "You should try out for the Class

  Angel guy." Jojo could totally picture Jake in the movie as a good-natured, all-American guy,

  which was what the casting memo distributed in first period had said they were looking for.

  Tryouts were today in the library.

  "I'm waiting on a call from Spielberg," he joked, backing away in Miles's direction. With a final

  salute, he and Miles set off down the hall.

  Jojo hung back, touching the almost-invisible letters on her locker and watching Jake retreat

  down the hall. Before he and Miles turned the corner, Jake looked back, and--with a sweet

  grin--waved at Jojo.

  Who knew an unlikely hero could be so likable?

  CASTAWAYS AND CALCULUS

  As Amelie Adams' town car pulled to a stop on the circular drive in front of Beverly Hills

  High, she would have sworn the sweet scent of teenage freedom was wafting up from its

  perfectly manicured front lawn. A courier had arrived yesterday with new script pages for her

  movie, Class Angel, and instructions to report to BHH today for a partial reshoot. They were

  only reshooting about half the scenes, which meant they'd only spend a week or two at BHH.

  But for Amelie, it meant getting to feel like a real teenager, at a real high school. After years of

  tutors instead of teachers, agents instead of friends, and scripts instead of homework, Amelie

  was ready for a little dose of high school reality.

  She hopped out of the town car before the driver had even unhooked his seat belt. She was Tminus ten seconds from seeing Hunter Sparks again, and nothing was going to slow her down.

  What seemed like mere hours before, Hunter had dropped her off from a party in the

  Hollywood Hills, uttering words that had circled Amelie's mind all weekend: "You need

  someone like me to look out for you. Because, honestly, there are a lot of guys out there--guys

  like me, who can't resist you. And you're too good for us." After weeks of crushing on him-okay, months and years--but thinking he saw her as nothing but a little sister, the words had

  given her all the hope she needed. Hope that right now pushed her toward the school library,

  where they were shooting their first scene.

  She swung open the front doors of BHH, her heels clicking against the immaculate ivory tile

  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 you
ng 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 informa
tion 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

  what I call acting. Call me later for private lessons."

  Shaking Gary's hand, Lewis said, "I'll leave my agent's name at the door."