openings on Sunset Boulevard but also because his dad used to take him for drives up the PCH
in it. But ever since Ash started driving the Camaro, Gordon had taken a newfound interest in
its health and well-being, as if expecting Ash to total it within months.
"Good, drove it here today," Ash said, taking a gulp of the dry wine, letting its warmth course
through his chest.
Waiters came to the table, adding seared tuna, pan-roasted chicken, and braised veal to each
plate, alongside baby artichokes, fresh cavatelli pasta with pine nuts, and oversize mushrooms
bursting with goat cheese. Once everyone had food, Gordon clinked his glass with his fork.
"You all know why we're here," he boomed, as his staff clung to every word. Not me, Ash
thought. Gordon rarely mixed family and business. "We have an auspicious new addition to the
talent roster at More Records, even if she has been in the bathroom an awfully long time."
Light giggles burst out around the table.
"Honestly, I hate the work that goes into scouting England for the States' next pop stars, but
More Records has built a legacy of finding the best of those and bringing them across the
pond." He chuckled before his staff caught on that he expected them to laugh. "She's, as you
know, a bit of a handful. We haven't had someone like this on our hands since our little role in
Keith Richards's solo career. But I'm daring to say that..."
Gordon's voice trailed off as all eyes turned toward the far corner of the room. Daisy Morton,
Britain's latest sensation and Gordon's newest client, stumbled in, toting a half-drunk bottle of
wine in one fist.
Applause broke out around the table, and Gordon's flock stood with wineglasses raised. Ash
gulped down his stuffed mushroom in surprise. Daisy Morton? Crazy Daisy Morton? With the
boyfriend she'd met through a prison pen pal program? Who'd drunkenly pushed down one of
the stoic guards at Buckingham Palace? What was his dad thinking?
The words hot mess weren't quite strong enough to describe her. Daisy's hair, dyed violet with
roots the color of wet sand, was clasped to the sides of her head in two sagging buns. Her
pretty face had been attacked by her makeup bag with a faint line of fuchsia lipstick running
across her cheek, Joker style. Her eyes, twinkling mischievously under the dim lights,
resembled two full silvery moons, but her ravaged black and blue eye makeup bruised the
effect. She was all chaos and drama with--Ash had to admit--a few really catchy woe-is-me
songs. But even the occasional good song wasn't enough to convince Ash that fans followed
Daisy for her great music, and not for her train wreck of a life.
"Oi, Mr. Gilmour," Daisy shouted, in a nasal voice too loud for the room. "What're you
banging on about?"
"Just toasting you, Daisy," Gordon said, beaming at his new find like she didn't resemble
someone who'd just survived nuclear Armageddon. A thick layer of powder made Daisy's face
look pasty, but healthy-looking olive skin peeked out from the straps of her long black
American Apparel tank top, which she wore over a fluffy purple tutu, a trademark of hers, and
a pair of red Converse high-tops.
"Love a toast, love," she said, in her Cockney slur. She raised the wine bottle victoriously as
she ambled to the table. She caught Ash staring and smiled, displaying a set of surprisingly
white and nearly straight English teeth. Her left incisor overlapped her front teeth by a
centimeter, which Ash might have found cute if not for the rest of her. She tipped the wine
bottle back, swigging greedily, as she fumbled her way toward the table. Slamming the nearly
empty bottle down at the seat next to Ash, she asked, "And who's this bloke?"
"Ah, someone finally asks," Gordon said, gesturing for everyone to sit again. Daisy plopped
down in her chair, her hand flopping lazily onto Ash's leg. "This is my son, Ash. He's about
your age and, since I'm in Malibu most of the time, we thought he could be your right-hand
man while you're in Beverly Hills," Gordon said, winking at Daisy.
"I'd prefer if he used both hands on me, if you don't mind," Daisy teased, her hand sliding
dangerously close to Ash's zipper.
Ash felt his jaw turn to stone, his teeth fighting each other in their involuntary grinding. What.
The. Fuck. His dad wanted him to play assistant to some crazy-train English broad who
thought he was man meat? His eyes cut to the emergency exit, and he imagined darting for the
door, jumping into the car, and driving to Mexico. He'd change his identity, start fresh. His
new name could be Quentin McQueen. Or Jack Plant Page.
Gordon laughed, his mouth still full of veal. The rest of the table followed suit, except for Ash,
who was still in shock. Shouldn't they be horrified? His dad had basically sold him off to some
wrecked, horny freak.
"Don't worry, birdie. We're going to have some fun," Daisy whispered wetly in his ear, her
breath warm and winey against his neck.
Gordon rose, nodding to Ash. "Come with me to the bar for a second? I need something
stronger."
Ash followed his dad to the bar in the main restaurant area. The other patrons stole glances at
them, knowing the back room of Spago was sure to conceal boldface-name types. The
bartender, an Amazonian girl with mahogany hair that swished like it was animated by Disney,
purred, "What would you like?" Her velvety brown eyes never left Ash's dad.
Gordon squared his shoulders, leaning against the bar. "Surprise me."
Watching as she poured several shots of Grey Goose into a silver cocktail shaker, Gordon
muttered to Ash, "So, I noticed you looked upset back there."
Relief washed over Ash. So his dad wasn't so dense, after all. "Yeah, I was just a little
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
&nb
sp; 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. H
ey, 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,