by Zoey Dean
scratchy comforter in Sacramento, a trail of drool on Fozzie Bear's black plastic nose. Slowly,
she lifted her lids: The SUV was still there. She stared at the tinted windows, unable to see
anything through the glass.
This was it. Her parents--her birth parents--were in there, waiting to see her for the first time.
She breathed in the dry air. Tugging her black cotton tee to straighten the seam, Jojo edged
toward the waiting SUV. "Stay calm," she muttered to herself, praying she wouldn't trip.
The driver reached the car first, swiftly tossing Jojo's bag into the trunk. He moved to the back
passenger door and nodded at her, his hand on the door handle. Jojo took a deep breath and
hurled herself into the backseat, a set of two long benches that faced each other.
As the car pulled away from the curb, she looked up to see two very familiar faces.
Ho. Ly. Shit.
Lailah Barton and Barkley Everhart sat less than an inch apart on the leather seat across from
her, hands clasped as they stared at Jojo. Lailah's dark tumble of hair fell loosely against the
neckline of a white boatneck sweater, her famous eyes hidden behind a pair of gold Hermès
aviator sunglasses. Her long, toned legs were crossed neatly at the ankle, though she nervously
jiggled a Manolo-clad foot. Next to her, Barkley, in a pair of jeans and a white button-down,
was all shoulders and chiseled jaw, his boyishly rumpled dirty blond hair looking like it needed
a trim.
In sixteen years of living in Sacramento, Jojo had racked up three celebrity sightings: (1) Gwen
Stefani, but it didn't count since she and Willa had paid to see her in concert; (2) some skinny
dude from an ancient season of the Real World, who'd come to their school to talk about drugs;
and (3) the back of Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger, during a field trip to the state capitol
building.
Now she was sitting across from the king and queen of Hollywood. Also known as Mom and
Dad.
"Barbar," Jojo said to herself, except she accidentally said it aloud. She winced. All those pep
talks in the mirror, and she'd seriously just said her parents' tabloid nickname to their faces?
She wondered how fast the car was moving, and if it was safe to jump out.
Lailah pulled off her sunglasses, probably to stare Jojo down as she politely asked her to leave.
But then Barkley smiled, displaying his famous dimple. Lailah's stunning violet blue eyes--just
like hers, Jojo realized--misted over.
"Mom and Dad is fine . . . Josephine." Barkley chuckled as Lailah tightened her grip on his
hand.
"If you're comfortable with that, of course," Lailah added, her eyes hopeful beneath a dark
fringe of lashes.
And then it hit her: They were nervous, too. Lailah's foot was still jiggling, and Barkley looked
like he had a metal rod for a spine. Jojo was surprised she couldn't hear their hearts beating
across the backseat.
She grinned, suddenly at ease. "Mom and Dad is great. And you can call me Jojo."
At that, her parents' tentative expressions faded. Before Jojo knew what was happening,
Barkley and Lailah were on her side of the aisle, folding themselves into seats on either side of
her.
"We're so glad you're here," Lailah breathed, her graceful hand touching Jojo's hair.
"I still can't believe it," Barkley said, tenderly grabbing Jojo's hand.
And then, without asking permission--because it hardly seemed necessary--her parents
wrapped her up in a tight, breathless hug.
Even though Sacramento was hundreds of miles away, this felt oddly familiar. It felt like
coming home.
CAN'T GET NO SATISFACTION
Ash rolled over on his maroon sheets, thin rays of sunlight poking through his blinds. He
didn't want it to be Sunday. From Friday afternoon on, his life had been perfect. Why spoil it?
He inched closer to Myla's lithe frame, careful not to wake her. She'd been napping on and off
since she got back, and he loved watching her sleep. Even better was when she woke up in a
haze and they kissed and cuddled and ate takeout from the Ivy off Lucite trays in Ash's bed. He
loved having her all to himself, too: Myla had set her phone to go straight to voice mail so her
gossipy friends couldn't reach her.
Her back was to him, her shiny, long hair splayed across the pillow. Ash gently ran his
fingertips over it. It had never felt as soft as it did today. Though he knew it was probably just
her Bumble and Bumble Creme de Coco masque, Ash felt like her hair had softened from
being within his reach again.
Myla was the person he talked to, hung out with, his best friend. Not having her around all
summer had meant he was bored, especially since everyone else had been traveling or working
as interns in the "development" departments of their parents' studios, agencies, and production
companies. Ash had tried to swing an internship at his dad's label, More Records, but his father
hadn't wanted him on board. "An internship? You mean free labor? I'd be getting what I paid
for, wouldn't I?" Gordon Gilmour prided himself on such choice nuggets of wisdom,
dispensed in short bursts during the infrequent cell phone conversations he had with his son.
For his part, Ash hadn't tried all that hard to convince his dad to give him a job. He was
seventeen. He had music to listen to, rock bands to dream up, and the occasional waves to surf.
Who needed a job?
Still, Ash had gotten lonely. Really lonely. Gordon lived in Malibu with his new supermodel
wife and their two young kids, leaving Ash practically alone in the Italian Renaissance-style
home Gordon still kept in Beverly Hills. After divorcing his dad, Ash's mom had moved to
Austin, Texas, capitalizing on her ex-husband's music scene credibility to start the Gilmour, a
music venue for hot underground rock bands. His older sister, Tessa, had chosen to stay in
Berkeley for the summer--she'd be a junior there this fall. For three whole months, Ash had felt
like an island, actually looking forward to the days the maids came to clean. A guy could only
get baked and play "Stairway to Heaven" on Rock Band so many times.
Ash lay back down on his pillow, wishing he and Myla had more time before school started
tomorrow. They hadn't gotten to do any of their usual summer stuff, like throwing huge theme
parties at Ash's house, going to concerts at the Roxy and the Troubadour, floating on rafts in
Myla's pool, and drinking cocktails they'd invented themselves. Plus, he'd finally gotten his
license. They could have road-tripped to Coachella this summer instead of having one of their
drivers take them.
Myla stirred, rolling onto her back, her chest barely covered by her Hanky Panky lace cami.
Even though Myla was self-conscious about her small chest, Ash loved it. She reminded him
of one of those 1960s mod girls, with the little dresses and the go-go boots. Ash had a thing
for girls in boots. Maybe from all the superhero comics he'd read back when he still hung out
with his next-door neighbor Jacob.
"Morning," Myla said, half-opening her green eyes.
"Morning, you." Ash reached for the strand of green hair right at the nape of her neck. He'd
been relieved at the airport to see it was still there, and that she still wore her Green Lantern
ring on the chain around her neck. After a summer of barely hearing from her, part o
f him had
worried she'd moved on. "Still jet-lagged?"
Myla shook her head. "I finally feel like a human again."
"You still haven't told me about your trip, what you saw, what you did." Ash laughed
suggestively--they had been too busy getting reacquainted in other ways. Well, not that way-he and Myla hadn't done it yet. But soon. He was sure of it. They would be ready.
"Do good this, do good that." Myla yawned. "Blah, blah, blah. Then seven actually fun days in
Paris. Isabelle says hi, by the way."
"Oh." Ash lazily rubbed the soft skin in the bend of Myla's elbow. His eyes fell on the webcam
he'd bought her for her Mac Air laptop. He'd asked for an address where he could mail it this
summer--he'd wanted to talk to her, face-to-pixelated-face, on their anniversary--but she'd never
responded. He'd also bought a promise ring, a platinum and emerald version of Myla's bubble
gum ring, that he'd planned to give to her over the webcam.
"Oh yeah, happy anniversary," he said, hating how whiny his voice sounded. "July twentyfirst. Three years." He felt like a baby, but saying the words out loud made him feel as alone
and frustrated as he had on the actual day of their anniversary. He'd sat waiting at his computer
for some acknowledgment of his e-mail, but Myla had been MIA. Like she'd been all summer
long.
Myla sat up, the covers rumpled around her waist, instantly defensive. She'd actually sat
around at a crappy Internet café all day on the twenty-first, feeling neglected and sad. What she
hadn't realized--until her mom laughingly pointed it out--was that because of the time difference
it was still the twentieth for Ash. She would have written him, but he was supposed to come to
her. She was the one suffering thousands of miles away, not him. Then, on the right day, she'd
been traveling by Jeep to Bobby's mud-hut village, and she hadn't been able to get back online
for a week. Plus, her family kept going from one place to the next, so she never had even a
semipermanent address for the camera Ash wanted to send. "I didn't forget. That was the same
day Bobby met his parents in some crazy village in Madagascar. Outside Betatao or something
like that. Even dial-up was impossible, or I would have e-mailed you back sooner. I'm sorry."
Ash, still in just his hunter green boxer briefs, rose from the bed and walked over to his desk,
wishing he hadn't mentioned their anniversary at all. He flopped down in his Aeron chair in
front of his MacBook Pro, slouching dramatically with his back to her. "Whatever. Let's not
fight."
Myla reached for her bag, grabbing her James Perse tee and throwing it on over her underwear.
She wanted to pull Ash's stupid floppy hair right now, he was being such a baby. She was the
one who'd spent her summer sleeping under mosquito nets and craving iced blendeds. Like
she'd wanted to spend her summer vacation a million miles away from her boyfriend. "What do
you want from me?" She stood up, pulling her shirt down so it covered her boy shorts. "I
tried."
Ash just stared at his Facebook page. "Yeah, you tried," he finally said, not looking at her as he
clicked through his friend Tucker's photos from Rome.
Myla flopped down on the bed, twirling her ring around on its gold chain. She was back for
thirty-six hours, and he was trying to drag her into an argument? No way. Today all she
wanted was to watch movies in Ash's dad's super-air-conditioned screening room, cuddling
and feeding Ash popcorn.
"You know, up until now I thought I was the girl in this relationship," Myla teased, walking up
behind Ash and putting her hands on his bare shoulders. "But you're acting kinda needy."
Ash shook her off, his eyes still centered on his screen. He started checking his Gmail.
Myla felt irritation prickle her caffeine-deprived skin and pulled her hands away. What was his
problem? A good boyfriend would have planned some amazing welcome-home day for her,
but Ash wanted to sulk? "Just because you had nothing to do all summer, don't take it out on
me."
"I was busy," Ash countered, picking up a shirt off the floor and pulling it on. "Busy thinking
about you, since you didn't keep in touch."
Myla turned to face him. With her hand on her hip, she was framed perfectly in Ash's closet
mirror, so he could get an eyeful of her front and back. It would have made a cool album cover,
Ash thought, if she wasn't so obviously pissed off.
"I'm so sorry your social life sucks so bad that because I couldn't get a fucking Internet
connection in New Delhi you were like ... bored." Take that, you codependent baby, she
thought. Her eyes landed on Ash's guitar stand. Hanging from it was a beat-up Rolling Stones
shirt that was a memento from their first date, a concert they'd gone to in eighth grade. They'd
gone to the Avalon to see the Rolling Stones play a secret set for a very small crowd. It was
Myla's first concert. She and Ash had gone backstage and met the whole band, who were
totally old and a little gross but had been really nice and signed the shirt for them. An aspiring
rocker, Ash had been in heaven, but he'd said they should share the shirt from then on. It
wasn't the most flattering thing, but she loved to wear it. The scent of Ash's room clung to its
soft cotton, making it beyond comforting.
Ash brushed her off. He sat back down at the computer, turning away from her again. "Don't
worry about my social life. I had plenty of opportunities."
"What opportunities? Tucker and Geoff were in Rome, so I know they didn't invite you to
some radical bong-smoking fest with those Circle K burnouts in Culver City." She shook out
her jeans with a snap to punctuate the statement. Tucker Swanson and Geoff Schaffer were
Ash's closest friends, and the ones Myla disliked most.
"No, not Geoff and Tucker. Cassie Eastman." Ash half-spun in his chair, sounding pleased
with himself.
Myla thought of the big-chested blonde in their class at BHH. "Easy Eastman?" she asked,
hoping that she sounded derisive rather than scared. Ash couldn't have been hanging out with
that skank, could he? She started to pull on her jeans, quickly realizing they were backwards.
"Call her whatever bitchy nickname you want," Ash said coolly. If he just kept his voice
mellow, Myla would get really worked up and jealous. Then he would confess that nothing had
happened with Cassie. He had bumped into her at the Barnes & Noble at the Grove, and she'd
practically undressed while hitting on him. If that weren't gross enough, he'd been instantly
turned off when he saw her carrying Clay Aiken's new CD. Besides, she was no Myla.
Myla righted her pants. Had Ash really hooked up with Cassie Eastman? Myla knew that Ash
had been waiting a long time to have sex . But would he just throw away their history for a
good time with the least challenging girl at BHH? "At least my boobs are real," she spat. It was
the best she could think of.
"Really nonexistent, maybe," Ash said, immediately regretting it.
Myla felt like she'd been slapped. He knew that would hurt. He could joke around about her
family, her personality, even--on rare occasions--her taste in shoes. But rule number one was
you did not dwell on her membership in the Itty-Bitty Titty Committee. Myla bit her lip,
fighting back tears. At least he was showing what he really thought about her body. She'd
spent all summer wishing she wasn't thousands of miles from Ash, and he'd spent the summer
hitting on other girls? "Why don't you call Cassie, then? She sounds like the skank of your
dreams," she muttered, trying to keep her voice from cracking.
"You know what? Maybe I will." Ash inched to the corner of his room where his guitar stand
stood. On it hung their shared Rolling Stones shirt. He always put it on when he was having a
bad day. It smelled flowery and sweet, like Myla.
"Are we done, Ash?" Myla took her phone from the nightstand and tossed it angrily into her
bag, not looking at him.
Ash slumped onto his overstuffed hunter green couch, running his fingertips along the sagetinted piping. He reached between the cushions, feeling the box that held the promise ring. He
choked down the bile welling up in his throat, angrily squeezing the ring box. No way was he
going to give Myla some huge, meaningful gift when she was ruining what was supposed to
be an amazing reunion. And he was done with this stupid argument.
He nodded, slowly. "Yeah, just go."
Myla's knees trembled, and she fought to remain standing. Ash was supposed to rush to her.
Embrace her. Say, "I'm an idiot, Myla. I know you would have called if you could have. I'll
make it up to you." Not dump her.
She coolly plucked the Rolling Stones shirt from the guitar stand, her face inscrutable.
Ash watched Myla, his stomach lurching. He thought he'd said yes to ending the argument, to
Myla leaving until they both cooled off. But had he instead said yes to them breaking up?
"I guess that's that, then," she said, dropping the shirt into her vast bag. She vanished from
Ash's room without turning back to look at him once.
LIMITED TIME OFFER
"More couscous hash browns, Jojo? Or eggs Benedict?"
In all her screen roles, Lailah Barton had never served a soul. With a laser-beam stare that
communicated sex, wealth, power, and steely determination, she was always believable as the
woman who got what she wanted--top-secret information, the upper hand, the unattainable guy.
And yet here she was, her dark hair pulled into a librarian's bun, holding a platter of eggs under
Jojo's nose.
But Lailah Barton was no average suburban mom. With her hair up, Jojo could see Lailah's