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

by Zoey Dean

  checking on her, but decided the longer she stayed in Tessa's room, the better. While he waited

  he called the new deli and ordered several sandwiches and mac and cheese.

  Ash sank into one of the burgundy chaise lounges in the front room. He hadn't even walked

  into the room--dubbed "Fancy Land" by him and Tessa when they were kids--in months. As

  he glanced at the row of their class photos on the mantel of the double-size gas fireplace, he

  missed his sister. He reclined on the chaise, his eyes running over the keys of the baby grand

  piano where he used to take lessons. He'd never been that great at keyed instruments, and his

  dad had let him drop piano and double up on guitar when he was ten. He heard soft footfalls

  upstairs, and then a padding of feet down the steps.

  Daisy softly entered with a barely audible "Hi." But she wasn't Daisy anymore. Or at least not

  Crazy Daisy. Her hair, still slightly wet, curled at her neck, but all the red and purple streaks

  were gone, leaving shiny walnut-colored locks behind. Her face was free of makeup, and her

  skin was like porcelain, a healthy glow visible now that she wasn't wearing caked-on powder.

  She was still thin, but wrapped in one of Tessa's old cream cardigans, she just looked petite,

  not painfully malnourished. Her light gray eyes caught the light, dancing happily over the

  piano.

  Ash couldn't stop staring, unsure what to say. She didn't just look normal. She looked...

  beautiful.

  The doorbell rang, startling Ash almost as much as Daisy's complete 180. "I ordered food," he

  said almost to himself.

  "I can get it," Daisy offered.

  "No," Ash said, leaping up and crossing in front of her. "I have to sign." The delivery guy, a

  pudgy kid in a torn UCLA sweatshirt, handed over several bags, and accepted Ash's signature

  and tip with an appreciative grunt, his eyes never leaving Daisy.

  Ash brought the bags to the kitchen, splitting the sandwiches onto two plates. He put them

  down on the kitchen table. The first occasion he'd had in months to use more than one table

  setting, and it involved Daisy Morton? That would go first on the list of things he'd never

  thought could happen but had.

  He gestured for Daisy to sit and she thanked him, sitting down. Ash tentatively bit into a roast

  beef sandwich, trying not to stare. But he couldn't help it. Fortunately, she broke the silence

  first.

  "So, thanks for coming to get me, and for, you know, everything." She gestured to the food

  and then to herself, as if Ash was responsible for her makeover.

  Ash smirked. "Well, I'm not going to leave a girl at the Beverly Hills jail," he said, finding

  himself unable to look away from her. "Even if it is fancier than the W."

  Daisy cocked her head to one side, her shiny hair tumbling in front of her silvery eyes. "Just

  admit it, Ash Gilmour. You're a nice guy."

  Ash took a bite of his sandwich and chewed, sort of teasing her as he mulled it over. "Not to

  everyone, I'm not," he finally said. It was true. He'd had no intention of being nice to Daisy

  until that night at the Powerhouse. Watching all those guys act like they had the right to ogle

  her had really upset him.

  "Well, since you've been so nice to me, don't you think you deserve to know why I look so

  different?" Daisy took a healthy gulp of milk, eyeing him over the glass.

  "A little, yeah," Ash said, scanning her silky hair. "Where are the red and purple streaks?"

  "My mum would kill me if I dyed my hair with permanent stuff," she said. "I either use the

  wash-out stuff for all-over color or pin in dyed extensions."

  "Okay..." Ash said slowly. "But, why do you care what your mom thinks? I mean, would you

  be going around destroying cheap wine bottles if you were her little angel?"

  Daisy laughed. "I really thought you could see right through me. Guess I'm better than I

  thought. You can't say anything, not even to your dad...."

  "Not much chance of him listening to me, so don't worry."

  "It's an act," she continued, watching as the knowledge spread over Ash's face. "I'm not crazy.

  Okay, no more crazy than any other girl."

  Ash spun a piece of macaroni around on his plate. Could it really be possible? Did Daisy have

  a split personality or something? Her crazy side had seemed so real. "But why?"

  "It's a long story, and of course it involves a boy," she said.

  "Really?" Ash had heard she'd met her boyfriend through a prison pen-pal program. "That guy

  in jail?"

  Daisy shook her head. "No, that's another stunt. This guy, you've probably heard of him,

  Robbie Tartan, he's a rock star in London."

  Ash nodded. Robbie Tartan and the Screeches were a punk band with a few okay songs, but

  they'd never made it stateside.

  Daisy shrugged. "We used to date, when I was sixteen. But I wasn't a pop star then. I did

  mostly singer-songwriter stuff, on the piano. I had classical training as a kid, so my music was

  kind of... mature. Not Billboard chart stuff, not stuff that gets you in the gossip columns. In

  England, the tabloids are even worse than they are here. There's no 'Stars... They're Just Like

  Us!' column. They want you to talk to pigeons and shoplift at Boots to take your picture. And

  Robbie, he liked attention, and he didn't get it with me. We would go to events and they'd pass

  right over us. So he dumped me."

  Ash could see where this was going. "So Crazy Daisy was born out of a need for revenge?"

  "More like out of insecurity." Daisy grimaced. "I wanted to show him that I could be bigger

  and better than anyone he'd ever date. And I wanted to show myself that I wasn't just some

  loser nobody. So far, so good. When I got the call from your dad, to record an American album

  with More, Robbie called me wanting to hang out again. I told him to bugger off."

  She smiled wanly, her dark red lips shining.

  "That's good at least," Ash said. "But I'm sorry that a guy would treat you that way."

  "It's okay. I mean, I'd be lying if I said there's not a side of me that sort of enjoys letting my

  crazies out. And getting rewarded for it," she said. "I tell myself that as long as I know I'm

  pulling a Crazy Daisy move, that I'm still okay. I'm not too far gone. The only bad part is, the

  music I play now, it's not how I'd do it if I were just regular old Daisy. There wouldn't be a

  dance club remix of 'Feather in Your Cap.' It's a ballad, actually sort of the way that redhead

  was playing it at Powerhouse. It's about Robbie."

  Ash was intrigued. He'd always liked "Feather in Your Cap," out of all Daisy's songs. The

  lyrics were beautiful, and he knew she'd written them herself. "Can I hear it?" he asked,

  gesturing to the piano.

  Daisy nodded. "Sure." She took a seat at the baby grand, and began to play a slow, angelic

  melody. Her voice seemed to come from somewhere outside herself as she sang.

  "... I was just a notch upon your bedpost,

  Some guys' night talk, a drunken boast.

  Just a scribble in your datebook,

  Someone you let off the hook.

  You think I'm just a feather in your cap

  Just a pin upon your map

  That I'm just a number, in this urban jungle.

  But when... will... you... realize...

  I... will... cut... you... down... to... size..."

  She ended the song with a flourish, the sigh of each key caressing Ash's eardrums.
Lyrically,

  the song bore no resemblance to his and Myla's epic romance, but the sad weight of the music

  reminded him of how lonely he was without her.

  Daisy drew out the last few notes on the piano, the last key like a cool breeze floating through

  the room. She looked at him hopefully over the top of the dark wood instrument. "Did you like

  it?"

  Ash finally exhaled, and it felt like the first time he'd breathed in months. "I loved it. I was just

  thinking... I can relate."

  "Tell me," Daisy said, rising from the piano bench and crossing the room to take a seat next to

  him on the couch.

  He didn't know what came over him, but he started to tell Daisy the whole story. About Myla

  being gone this summer, their fight, the Lewis thing, all of it. She listened intently, her eyes

  filled with the sympathy of someone who had had their heart broken into a million pieces too.

  "You never know," Daisy said, when he was done. "It might work out for the best."

  "Yeah," Ash said, feeling slightly embarrassed. Daisy was a great listener, just when he'd

  needed a great listener. Tucker and Geoff had never been in serious relationships, so he never

  thought they'd understand his Myla stuff. But it wasn't like Ash really knew Daisy, or like they

  were even friends. For all he knew, she was just being nice because he was Gordon's son. He

  wanted to change the subject. "So, if you're not really nuts, does that mean Amy Winehouse is

  an act too?"

  Daisy giggled, shaking her head so that waves of her light hair spun around her face like

  sunbeams. "No way. Girl needs some major repairs. She's absolutely mental. And that's

  coming from someone who just attacked a case of frozen shrimp with cheap merlot."

  Ash threw his head back and laughed like a madman. Daisy was right. It did feel good to let his

  crazies out.

  TUCKER IN

  Jojo sat in the back of the Everharts' hybrid SUV on Saturday, flipping through old photos on

  her new iPhone. There was one of her and Willa, each with an arm inside a triple-extra-large

  JFK soccer hoodie that had arrived by accident from the uniform company. One of Willa,

  Samantha, and Debs, all huddled under a canopy during a game they'd played in the rain last

  year. Willa's beaming face seemed to say, "Wish you were here."

  "What are you doing?" Myla asked, craning her neck from the row of leather seats opposite

  Jojo.

  "Nothing," Jojo said, flipping the screen back to its wallpaper, a shot of her and Myla taken a

  few days ago in Myla's room. They both wore sheer Dolce & Gabbana bow blouses, Myla's in

  royal blue, Jojo's a deep green. Both girls' hair had the same sleek sheen, and their identical

  matte-red half-smiles were straight out of Teen Vogue.

  "Your swimsuit is coming untied," Myla said, sliding along the seat and yanking the halter

  straps of Jojo's Trina Turk orange leaf-print bikini tight against her neck. Jojo winced as a

  strand of her hair got caught in the knot. Myla freed it, not as delicately as Jojo would've liked.

  Satisfied, Myla smoothed her own Milly daisy-print cover-up over her Betsey Johnson Black

  Magic bikini, which was basically waterproof lingerie.

  Charlie, their driver, turned off the PCH onto Malibu Road, high up above the Pacific Ocean.

  The water was an inky blue dappled in sunlight, and all along the bluffs on the opposite side

  were homes teetering on precipices above the sea. Some were enormous, castlelike estates that

  reminded Jojo of the Everhart mansion in Beverly Hills. Others were modern, three-story

  squares, whole sides made of windows that overlooked the ocean. Behind them stood

  mountains. To live here would mean walking out your front door to the Pacific, with your back

  door leading you right into the hills.

  As they drove further, the SUV came closer to land, until they were driving down a small road

  lined with beachfront homes, each one gated. Some had tiered buildings like Chinese pagodas

  painted in reds and oranges. Others looked like Spanish missions unfolding along the rocks.

  Finally, they pulled into a narrow wraparound drive, on the back end of what Jojo could only

  describe as an impossible house. It swooped and curved, with rounded walls made entirely of

  glass that reflected yellow and blue, with the rays of the sun and the rippling of the water.

  Orange blossom bushes and star jasmine encircled a rooftop balcony. Jojo could already see

  most of her BHH classmates gathered there, on a patio with a pool and a mile-long thatched

  roof bar.

  She felt her nerves activate, and her stomach began to whine from anxiety. She widened her

  eyes at perfectly poised Myla, as if to say, Should I really be here?

  By way of answer, Myla said plainly, "It's Tucker's dad's place."

  Hitching her Dior beach bag on one shoulder, Myla hopped out and impatiently gestured for

  Jojo to follow. Jojo stepped out tentatively, wishing she'd worn her beat-up Havaianas instead

  of Myla's four-inch Gucci heels.

  Myla led the way, slipping in through the open glass doors. Every face at the party turned and

  waved. Jojo took in Tucker, Ash, their friends Geoff, Mark, and Julius, Billie, Talia, Fortune,

  Mai, Tosha, and a whole array of BHH's best and most beautiful.

  Her body tensed. It was the first time she was seeing these people in a social setting since

  Lewis's party, and she was wearing a bikini and a skimpy cover-up. Maybe this is how those

  dreams where you're naked in front of your whole class feel, Jojo thought. Finally, Tucker

  cried, "Jojo and Myla are here!"

  The guys, already feeling the effects of whatever was in the hollowed-out coconuts they sipped

  from, let out a "woo-hoo!"

  Jojo smiled, relieved. Okay, so maybe a bikini and heels made that entire gender forget past

  party blunders. The girls weren't so easily impressed, though, offering Jojo a mostly bland

  chorus of hellos with a few stronger welcomes from hangers-on who'd never quite gotten in

  Myla's elite circle. Billie waved spastically at Myla, giving Jojo only a tight-lipped smile. Talia

  none-too-subtly scanned Jojo's outfit, comparing it to her own white halter one-piece and dark

  shades. Fortune Weathers hid her distaste for Jojo about as well as her two-tone green string

  bikini disguised her hips. She sighed audibly, allowing herself an irritated split-second smirk

  before sucking in her stomach again.

  For a few seconds, Jojo imagined the soccer invitational, where her teammates would have

  wrapped her in a tight group hug. But, hey, a week ago she'd been losing her lunch on these

  people, and they were still saying hello to her. Besides, she realized, maybe Myla's friends

  were a little jealous. The idea that Myla would prefer Jojo's company to theirs thrilled Jojo as

  much as it probably scared them.

  Tucker came up beside her, and Myla not-so-subtly shoved Jojo in his direction. He put a hand

  gently on her back and said, "I'll get you a drink." Book learning might not have been Tucker's

  thing, but apparently he was well versed in the art of smooth, flirty hosting.

  He led her outside, where the pool was crammed with bodies bobbing along to a new Creases

  song featured in Class Angel. In the distance, the Malibu waves crashed along a vast expanse

  of uninterrupted, and privately owned, white sand. Tucker steered Jojo past Olivia Abdabo,

  holding court with a trio of girls on
Myla's A-minus list. Olivia smiled at Jojo, and when Jojo

  realized that Olivia was looking at her, she responded with a friendly wave.

  Tucker's guitar-callused fingers fluttered over her lower back as they stopped before the

  endless bar. Girls in tropical-print bikinis were mixing fresh fruit and rum, pouring the contents

  into carved-out coconuts.

  "Daiquiri? Colada? Margarita?" Tucker asked. His pale blue eyes picked up the turquoise of the

  water, and he ran a hand almost nervously over his half-inch of naturally platinum hair. Ash

  had told Jojo that his buddy got just one haircut a year: a buzz cut in September that would

  grow to shoulder-length by the time school started again. At least he's low-maintenance, Jojo

  thought.

  "Whatever has the least alcohol," she said, feeling a little dorky. She wished she'd asked Myla

  for tips on the best way to handle the situation. After her experience at Lewis's house, she

  wanted to stay far away from anything remotely close to the Long Island iced teas that had

  brought on BarfBarf. Still, she didn't want to seem lame.

  "That's cool." Tucker grinned, sweetly pushing a strand of hair away from Jojo's face. "She'll

  have a frozen margarita, go easy on the tequila. And make mine the same," he told the

  bartender, a curvy brunette. He didn't look twice at her toned bare stomach, his eyes on Jojo the

  whole time.

  Jojo felt a warm sensation flow through her body. So what if Tucker wasn't an A student? He

  was sweet. And he wanted to be with her.

  Tucker handed her a coconut adorned with pineapple, mango, and papaya slices, and took her

  other hand. "Come on, I'll make sure you have a good time."

  As he steered her through a crowd of her dancing, laughing peers--each of whom gave friendly

  nods and greetings--she felt pretty sure he would.

  Jojo smoothed more SPF 32 into her chest. She ran her bare toes over the warm sand as she

  took a deep breath of fresh, salty air. The crack of every wave sounded like a burst of applause:

  Jojo felt wrapped in a blanket of social triumph. Okay, so maybe it was just the way warm

  ribbons of sunshine fell across her body that made her feel so good. She was returning from

  social pariah-dom with surprising speed. Not that she'd suddenly become co-ruler of the school

  with Myla. But she was definitely holding her own.