Sunset Boulevard Part 4

Amelie pictured trying on clothes with girls her own age, instead of under the watchful, conservative eye of her momager, Helen. She was about to say yes, until she remembered she'd be shooting Cla.s.s Angel both Sat.u.r.day and Sunday. "I have to shoot this weekend, or I would love to," she said dismally.

"There'll be other shopping trips," Fortune said, her friendly smile a promise.

"Until then, come with me to my locker," Talia said in Amelie's ear. "I have this Benefit lipstick that's sort of a peach, and it's not right for me. But it would be really pretty with your complexion."

Talia pulled her into the retreating crowd of students, couples and BFFs in pairs, as they headed through the double doors. Amelie was unable to control the wide smile that took over her face as she stepped into the center of the crowd. So what if Talia, Billie, and Fortune weren't exactly her friends? And this wasn't exactly her school?

She'd only needed a taste of the normal life to know she wanted more.

KLATCH PERFORMANCE.

"Do you think it's funny to give nonconformists like me and Knox..." Kady-as-Lizzie trailed off, staring heavenward. She huffed a frustrated breath and flopped backward onto a wooden bench that lined the BHH field house equipment room's wall. Grant, Amelie, and the production crew all straightened out of their filming positions. "What's wrong with me today?" she muttered to no one in particular, even though she was looking at Jake apologetically.

Jake shrugged. After just a few takes, he had figured out Kady's tell when she was about to mess up a line: Her gaze would flit skyward, like she half-expected her lines to be written on the ceiling. "No worries. It happens to everyone, right?" he said easily, feeling like he was in a dream. They'd done three takes of the scene already, but Jake didn't mind the starts and stops. Every pause gave him time to remember that this-him, as the lead in a movie and not completely s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g it up-was actually happening to him.

Kady was apologizing to Jake because so far, he was the only one in the cast to nail every take. Even Amelie had stumbled over one of her lines. They were shooting the scene where Lizzie and Knox discovered that Tommy-in addition to being an awesome basketball player-also penned poignant essays under a pseudonym for the Reavis paper. Amelie was in it, too, helping Lizzie discover the storeroom where Tommy was writing one of his pieces in private.

The equipment room was tiny and cramped, every shelf stuffed with team uniforms, football shoulder pads, and random sports paraphernalia. Reavis High's blue-and-white gear replaced BHH's red-and-black uniforms. Jake leaned against a basket of volleyb.a.l.l.s, his feet resting on a duffel bag of softball equipment. A notebook lay open on his lap.

"Now, guys," Gary said. "Jake's perfect in this scene. Tommy is a little surprised, but he trusts Kady and Grant with his secret, and wants Kady to know he's more than a jock, so he's also a little pleased. Amelie, you need to look proud for bringing them here. Grant, you're seeing this guy in a new light-he's a lot like Knox. And Kady, you're impressed-you always believed you were in love with this essay writer-but you don't want Tommy to know that, so you're pretending you're angry with him. Please, guys, let's nail this. Follow Jake's lead. He's got it."

Jake stared down at the pages of scribbles, trying not to grin like an idiot. He honestly had no idea what he was doing to warrant all this praise. He'd just been trying to carry out Jojo's advice-treating Kady like she was the only one in the room. As for his lines, he didn't feel like he was doing anything special. He had a geek's gift for memorizing, and several years of Torah recitations at Hebrew School aiding his enunciation. That was all. But as long as he had "it," for now he was, as in the words of many an L.A. b.u.mper sticker, driving it like he stole it.

Gary clapped his hands twice. "This is it, I can feel it. We'll take it from Kady's line, 'Why do you do this?' Let's roll."

Kady, Grant, and Amelie cl.u.s.tered in the doorway. Jake took one deep breath and posed with his pen hovering over the pages of his composition notebook. He furrowed his brow. Like Jake, Justin Klatch would treat his essays with the importance of a state basketball t.i.tle.

"And, action!" Gary stage-whispered.

"Why do you do this?" Kady said, taking a few steps into the room so that she was hovering above Jake. Kady crossed her arms over her chest defiantly, staring down at Jake with a mixture of surprise and anger. "For s.h.i.+ts and giggles? Do you think it's funny to give nonconformists like me and Knox hope that there's someone at this school who doesn't think cheerleaders and ballers deserve special treatment?"

Amelie piped up, as Cla.s.s Angel, but Jake kept staring at Kady's concerned face, partially because of Jojo's advice but also because he still felt like Amelie could see the remains of his utter infatuation all over his face. "Remains" was the right word, he thought. His crush on Amelie no longer hurt in the raw-wound way it had since the party. It was healing fast, but he had a feeling it would leave a scar. "I told you he was different. I may just be an apprentice angel, but I can read people."

"Shut up," Kady said through gritted teeth in Amelie's direction. She leaned down so close to Jake, he breathed in the sugary aroma of her frosting-scented body lotion. "Are you going to answer me?"

Jake searched her blue eyes, noticing that diamonds of gray circled her pupils. "Isn't it possible that I just believe in sticking up for the little guy?" He puffed out his chest a little, liking Tommy Archer more and more. The guy was like a high school superhero. Jake could see why girls would go for him. He himself was a little in love with him too. "A jock like me wouldn't have much credibility, so I made up a student. I don't need credit. But I'm guessing you like the essays?"

Lizzie backed away, throwing up her hands.

Knox piped up. "Like them? Lizzie cuts them all out and saves them! She said, and I quote, 'If I ever meet X. L. Thursday, I'm going to kiss him on the mouth.'"

Lizzie spun on her heel, embarra.s.sed. Looking at Cla.s.s Angel, she muttered, "I hate you."

Angel gamely shrugged. "They told me that would be part of the job."

Lizzie dashed out, her Angel at her heels. Knox hung back.

"This is like meeting Captain America and Jack Kerouac rolled into one muscular dude," he said, holding out a fist toward Jake.

Jake panicked. The fist thing wasn't in the script. He extended a hand and awkwardly clasped Grant's fist, pumping it up and down in a handshake. Then he realized he was supposed to be fist-b.u.mping. What kind of idiot didn't know that?

Jake's face was turning a dark shade of red when Gary yelled cut. "That was hilarious, Jake, the handshake instead of the fist-b.u.mp. Good ad-libbing," he added, coming over to pat Jake on the back. "We're actually going to finish in time."

"Nice work, bro," Grant said, looking into a mirror on the door. He ran his hands over his hair to muss it more than it already was. "Can I give you a tip?"

Here it came. Grant Isaacson telling Jake not to be so transparently uncool. Tearing into him because he didn't know what a fist-b.u.mp was.

"Uh, sure," Jake croaked out, s.h.i.+fting uncomfortably under Grant's penetrating stare.

"You've had, what, four Diet c.o.kes today?" Grant's gold-colored eyes seemed to signal this was a bad thing.

Jake shrugged. "I'm not sure," he replied. "I don't actually keep count."

"Just be careful," Grant said, the gravity of his tone making clear he wasn't joking around. "Soda'll make you bloated and pasty. Keep it out of your system, and you'll be fine." Grant cracked a rare smile, displaying slightly crooked top teeth. "I'm really glad we found you, man."

"Me too," Jake said, meaning it. How else would he have known the power of the Klatch without this movie? Or be trading actor tricks with Grant Isaacson, who could get any girl he wanted? He stood up, handing the composition book to the prop master before heading into the gymnasium. He couldn't believe that three professional actors had gotten notes to follow his lead. He pictured himself as a guest on Inside the Actors Studio, telling James Lipton about his first role. "And, then, James, I thought, 'What Would Justin Klatch Do?'"

He headed toward the craft services table, where Kady was already a.s.sembling a plate of salad and cookies. Amelie was sitting in her chair about ten feet away, as a makeup artist removed glitter from her cheeks.

Kady grinned as he approached, her lips like a perfect red bow across her heart-shaped face. She set down her plate and hugged him. "That was spectacular, Jake," she said, her voice m.u.f.fled as she spoke into his chest. She was shorter than Amelie, and Jake felt strong and manly against her tiny frame.

"Thanks," he said, looking down into her eyes. "You were amazing too."

Kady shrugged cutely as she pulled out of the hug, her hoodie falling down to expose one shoulder. "So, are you ready for tonight?"

Tonight was the big football game scene. Jake, as Tommy, was playing quarterback, and Lizzie, there to pull a prank on the cheerleaders, was supposed to get caught up in admiring Tommy on the field, against her better judgment. All of BHH was going to be in the bleachers, watching him make a perfect pa.s.s to win the game. After Sat.u.r.day, with his ridiculous attempts to even hold a football, he'd spent several hours at ESPN Zone playing Quarterback Challenge with Miles as his coach. "Dude, what did you work out for all summer if you're not going to put it to good use now?" Miles had said. "Throwing a football is all physics and geometry. Inertia, arch, stuff geeks know way better than jocks." After a physics-driven football lesson, Jake had emerged from the restaurant with a perfect spiral.

"Sure," Jake said, grinning in a confident but not c.o.c.ky way. Even though the cameras were off, he was still using his WWJKD training. "I think it will be fun."

Kady play-shoved him. "Yeah, fun. Even Hunter Sparks was nervous about filming that scene, and he'd only be in front of a bunch of losers from Central Casting, not his whole high school." Her eyes danced over Jake's body. "Do you play football? I bet you do."

Jake looked away for one quick moment and saw Amelie looking his way too. She knew he was no athlete. She also knew he was not a ladies' man. And, yeah, Justin Klatch probably didn't lie, but he probably wouldn't have to say he'd never played football. Quarterback Challenge counted, right?

"I did," Jake said, swigging some water to wash down the lie. "When I was younger."

"Oh, really?" Kady slid along the table, coming closer again. She reached for his bicep and squeezed. Jake flexed at exactly the right moment. "Wow, yeah, you did. So, why not now?"

Jake flinched, he hoped not in a perceivable way. What now? He imagined the face of Justin Klatch, who looked like Matt Damon crossed with Thor. Justin was saying, "ACL."

"I had this game and sort of got c.o.c.ky. I didn't run the play like Coach said, and I was tearing down the field when all these guys tackled me. I tore my ACL pretty bad and called it quits. I learned my lesson, though." He nodded solemnly, hoping that sounded convincing.

"Wow." Kady raised an eyebrow, sliding an inch closer. He could feel her warm breath on his neck. She looked up at him, her lips parted. "You wanna show me your scar?"

Holy. Justin. Klatch. Kady Parker was flirting with him. Big-time. Jake jogged-no, sprinted-his memory, trying to remember where an ACL even was. In his head, Justin rolled his eyes: "Leg, dude."

"Are you trying to get me to take off my pants?" Jake asked, before he even knew what he was saying. Where did that come from? His imaginary Justin nodded encouragingly.

"Maybe," Kady said, her night-colored eyes teasing. "And so what if I am?"

As Jake felt every muscle, bone, and ACL in his body tense up pleasurably, he congratulated himself. Totally Klatched it, he thought to himself.

BLEACHER b.u.mMERS.

"Okay, we need to fill in these empty seats near Grant. Can we please have Talia Montgomery, Billie Bollman, and Fortune Weathers?" The casting director, a plump blond woman wearing oversize chunky blue beads, scanned the sidelines along BHH's bleachers. She looked like Meryl Streep's younger sister.

Myla covered her ears as her friends let out a piercing squeal. She hadn't heard them get that excited since she'd chartered a jet to take them all shopping in New York for her fifteenth birthday.

"OmiG.o.d, it's happening. I get his right side, next to his dimple," Fortune said bossily, adjusting the V-neck of her blue J.Crew sweater.

"Fine, I'll take his left. His hair looks better from that angle, anyway," Talia sniped back, her hair tamed into two low pigtails wrapped in navy ribbons.

"What about me?" Billie said sadly, unzipping her hoodie and straightening her shoulders, displaying the cleavage afforded by her navy tank top. It was clear to Myla that her friends had dressed down in an effort to appear "authentic." But they could have gone suburbia casual in C&C pieces from Fred Segal, instead of mall brands. Movie parts or not, nothing was worth defiling one's skin with cheapo clothes.

"You can sit next to me," Fortune said, generously patting Billie on the shoulder. "I'll lean back so you can see the dimple."

Myla rolled her eyes. She couldn't believe the whole school was being forced into servitude for a dumb teen movie, or that her friends were so excited about it. She knew they'd gone to Amelie Adams for "fas.h.i.+on" advice, and it annoyed her. Myla would have given them better wardrobe counseling, but her three besties were all extra grateful because Amelie had supposedly spoken to the casting director. Like that was such a big deal.

As her friends shoved their way past other students to get close to Grant, Myla scanned the bleachers, pulling her hands into her cashmere sweater as a chilly breeze swept across the field. The casting director had directed all the BHH B-listers to fill in the visitors' section across the field. Olivia Abdabo had been sent to change out of her self-designed blue sequined jumpsuit and was now glumly texting in the back row of the bleachers, wearing a shapeless Reavis High sweats.h.i.+rt and ill-fitting Gap jeans. Higher up, poor Jojo had been given a Reavis High band uniform, and sat between two freshman boys, holding a trumpet. She was guaranteed to be on-camera in her foot-high plumed band cap. But Jojo held her shoulders back like she was daring someone to tease her. She looked like a Zen master crossed with British royalty. Myla felt a surge of pride. Jojo was definitely getting the hang of Everhart Life 101.

A few feet away, Ash and his buddies stood in a circle, playing Hacky Sack as they waited for instructions. Ash knocked the little ball out of the game, and it landed with a dull plop by Myla's feet. She bent to pick it up just as Ash arrived in front of her.

"Hey," she said, her voice catching in her throat. She hadn't spoken to him since they'd met at their spot in Griffith Park to declare a truce. His sandy hair shone under the stadium's lights. Instinctively, Myla reached to lift his hair from his face, then pulled her hand away.

"Hey," Ash said. His voice filtered through her every pore. They reached for the ball at the same time, their hands brus.h.i.+ng over its b.u.mpy surface. Myla pulled hers away, laughing nervously despite herself.

"You two." The casting director suddenly loomed over them, exhaling a plume of smoke from her American Spirit. "You look adorable together. Sit behind Grant and the blondes."

Ash blinked, a shy smile crossing his face. He helped Myla up from her crouched position. As their fingers touched again, a surge both familiar and fresh shot through Myla.

"Sure," Ash said to the casting director. He dropped Myla's hand and she followed him to a seat behind Fortune and Billie, who both looked sh.e.l.l-shocked by their proximity to Grant. Myla shot the girls a significant look, trying to convey the excitement she was keeping reined in. But her friends were too starstruck by Grant to even notice. Irked, Myla vowed to ignore them for the rest of the scene. Let them have Grant. Ash, in Myla's eyes, was much hotter. His hair, though s.h.a.ggy as always, was obviously clean, contrasting with Grant's "the more buildup the better" style. Ash had cla.s.sic features-slightly sun-tinged skin, a strong chin, a perfect aquiline nose, sculpted red lips, and deep, soulful eyes that even when sleepy or stoned could reduce a girl to b.u.t.ter. Grant had the dimple and high cheekbones, but was what Myla would call sugly-surly and ugly-with his nocturnal pallor, perma-pout, glinty amber eyes, and a nose that looked like it had been broken on more than one occasion. In profile, he looked like a bad Pica.s.so knockoff, the features all slightly off but not arranged in a way that qualified them as art. But she could guess at his allure. He had that whole I'll ravage your body right after I finish this bottle of whiskey look to him.

Myla settled next to Ash on the bleachers, feeling warmth coming off him even though he wore just a light black windbreaker over a vintage Led Zeppelin tee. There was a foot of s.p.a.ce between them.

"Honey," the casting director called to Myla, gesturing with a freshly lit cigarette. "Scoot closer, like you like him." Myla nodded and slid six inches over, not closing the gap entirely. She couldn't just lean into him like she would have a month ago. The casting director gave her the eye. "When we start rolling, a little closer. Not like two kids who take their purity rings seriously." Myla glared at her. The woman had no clue something far more important than her stupid movie was going on here.

"How have you been?" Ash asked, not looking at Myla. Instead, he stared at the field, where Jacob Porter-Goldsmith was throwing pa.s.ses with surprising skill. Like the rest of BHH, Ash had been semi-shocked at the news Jake made the lead in the movie. Jake was probably the last person most of their cla.s.smates would expect to play a star athlete. More power to him, Ash thought.

"Good," Myla said, even though the last week had been far from one of her best. She felt awkward and not like herself. Their truce gave her no sense of purpose. "So, this is weird, right?" she said, testing the water.

"What's weird?" Now Ash made eye contact, his eyes grazing over her face.

Myla gestured to the field, blus.h.i.+ng as she realized how else her words could have been interpreted. "Jacob Porter-Goldsmith, movie star." As if on cue, Jake tossed the ball to a receiver at the twenty-yard line. Myla stopped herself from saying, Do you think he invented some geeky robot arm so he could throw like that? Ash hated when she ripped on his neighbor. Even though they weren't friends anymore, Ash annoyingly stood up for Jacob PG. He even hated when Myla called him PG, a nickname that had gotten started when a bunch of BHHers saw Jake getting turned away from a PG-13 movie-when he was fourteen. Boys had an odd sense of loyalty.

Ash shrugged. "People change, I guess."

Myla's head spun. Was he talking about Jacob, or about them? Did he mean he'd changed, and he'd never love her again? Or did it mean she had to change to win him back?

The director paced in front of them, megaphone pressed to his mouth. "We're going to start now, people," he boomed. "Everyone, look like you're enjoying yourself and in awe of your quarterback." He gestured to Jake, who was swigging from a bottle of Gatorade on the sidelines. The crowd giggled, but only slightly. Jake's success was getting to them, Myla thought. "Couples, cuddle. No one's asking you to get married."

Ash did as he was told, his arm circling Myla's shoulder stiffly. The crowd was dead silent now, waiting for further orders. The deafening quiet, and Ash's tenseness, made Myla feel like she was trapped under plastic.

"Um, we're not laying Tommy Archer to rest," the director shouted. "Talk, chatter, chant, 'Go, Tommy!'"

Myla figured that was as good a command as any for her to talk to Ash. "So, my parents have really missed you coming by for dinner." It was true. Lailah had sadly cleared the place setting next to Myla's yesterday for the third time that week. Myla missed him too.

"Oh," Ash said, a slightly pained expression on his face. "It would be weird for me to keep mooching off you guys, with, you know, everything."

"It's not mooching," Myla giggled, loosening up a little at Ash's odd, constipated look. "I bet you've been living on Pop-Tarts and takeout. You're always welcome. Lucy will make your favorite."

"Beef Wellington?" Ash's mouth curved up in a small grin. Myla felt hopeful. Maybe the way to a man's heart was through his stomach. She'd always believed that your hair, clothing, and att.i.tude meant much more than a home-cooked meal. But at this point, she wouldn't have been surprised to find she'd had it wrong all along.

A few hours later, they'd watched the cheerleaders pyramid up and stunt-fall down a billion times. Now they were acting as the backdrop as the production crew worked to get several takes of Jake's big Hail Mary pa.s.s. Myla was still nestled in Ash's grip, like they were here on a date. Neither of them had brought up the Lewis fiasco. It was too awkward a topic for the situation. And Ash had seemed proud of her when Myla told him about her truce with Jojo. She made a point not to bore him with details of Jojo's makeover.

In front of them, Billie, Talia, and Fortune were discussing Amelie Adams, who was standing in the shadows of the bleachers in a white asymmetrical minidress with a ridiculous frilly halo perched on her red curls. Amelie was scolding Kady Parker, who-for the scene-was supposed to have greased the gra.s.s where the cheerleaders formed their ill-fated pyramid.

Billie surveyed the white-blond ends of her long tresses, her cornflower blue eyes crossing atop her nose-a perfect copy of Ashley Tisdale's new one. By the same doctor. "Amelie looks so good with red hair. Maybe I should go red too." She exaggeratedly leaned across Fortune's lap. Fortune squirmed, folding her arms over her narrow rib cage. She was sensitive about having the widest hips of the group and tried to bring attention to her ample chest. Billie batted her thickly mascaraed eyelashes at Grant.

"I was going to do that when my hair grows out," Talia said, adjusting a strand of her awkward bob. "My hair's so much nicer when it's long," she added, her mouth just inches from Grant's ear.

"Yeah, I can't believe I've been a boring blond for so long," Fortune muttered, pouting up at Grant, who looked as uncomfortable as a window shopper being swarmed by a team of salesmen. "What color hair do you think looks best on a girl, Grant?" Myla rolled her eyes, whispering to Ash, "Red hair, right. Maybe I should dye mine."

Ash leaned toward her, seeming to look at each individual strand of her hair protectively, his eyes falling on the inch-long chunk of hair at the back of her neck. In a furor, Myla had violently snipped out a long strand of her hair that years earlier she'd dyed a punk-rock emerald green at Ash's suggestion. Myla felt a tiny, not unpleasant, chill weave its way from her neck down her spine.

"Don't go red," Ash said, his voice thick and mournful. "I love your hair." He knew he'd said the wrong thing the second the words were out of his mouth. Saying he loved anything about Myla to Myla right now was too fraught with significance, and he knew he needed to keep things casual. But he couldn't help it. The idea of Myla changing anything about her beauty was sacrilege.

Myla bit her lip to stop herself from saying something b.i.t.c.hy about how she wasn't at all serious. Instead, her lips tilted into their half-smile and-locking her jade eyes on Ash's-she said breathlessly, "I won't."

Her heart thumped in time with the BHH marching band's percussion section. She felt closer to Ash in this stupid fake-couple setup than she had in months. She wanted to wriggle her hands under his jacket and cling to his warm chest, lay her head down in the gap between his shoulder and his head. But this was still too confusing. How long would they have to pretend?

"Eyes on the field, everyone!" the director shouted through his megaphone. "This is Tommy's big moment. Reavis has won the big game! The cheerleaders are out, so it's all on you guys to celebrate the big victory. Remember, after this, you can go home!"

The crowd began to chant, "Tommy! Tommy!" Myla and Ash chanted too. Every so often, Ash looked at Myla with a goofy "I can't believe we're doing this" grin.

On the field, Jake c.o.c.ked his arm back like a statue of an Olympian G.o.d as three members of the opposing team-who looked more like freshly released inmates than high school students-hurtled toward him. He released the ball into a perfect Hail Mary pa.s.s and the spinning ma.s.s of pigskin soared down the field like it was missile-guided.

"Holy c.r.a.p, Jake," Ash said approvingly. Without thinking, he squeezed Myla closer to him, watching in suspense as the ball sailed downfield. As Myla nestled against him, Ash could feel how easy it would be to slip back into their old ways. The Golden Couple. Their being together was like predestination, which he'd learned about in world religions cla.s.s. Were they only capable of two extremes? Either being a full-blown couple, or out-and-out enemies? He must have been nuts to think they could find middle ground.

The ball landed easily in the receiver's hands, and the crowd went wild. Billie, Talia, and Fortune group-hugged a puzzled-looking Grant. Jojo and the band crowd stood up, waving their bra.s.s wildly. Even Lewis Buford, several rows back, stood and yelled, "Yeah, motherf.u.c.ker!"

Ash and Myla were on their feet, cheering and hugging like the rest of the crowd. Ash looked down at Myla, his eyes gleaming. Their faces were less than a foot apart, and Myla felt the tingling sensation she got whenever Ash was about to kiss her. Civility truce be d.a.m.ned. She loved Ash. She gave him her most meaningful stare and her most telling half-smile. Kiss me, she willed her eyes to say.

Then he leaned back, held up his palm awkwardly, and said, "High five!"

What. The. f.u.c.k. High five? Was he twelve? Myla forced her jaw back into its locked and upright position and limply slapped his palm.

Ash smiled as he stood, and as he pulled away from her, Myla felt like he took all the oxygen in the air with him. "Well, I gotta go. See you around?"

Her voice catching in her throat, Myla nodded. They'd known each other better than anyone else for three years. She'd taken care of Ash when he was sick. They'd slept in the same bed. And now they were high-fiving?