by Zoey Dean
famed birthmark, a dark pink spot shaped like a near-perfect heart, at the base of her creamy
neck. Her lips--naturally a dark, pomegranate red that L'Oreal had mimicked in its fall Lailah's
Look line of cosmetics--formed a gentle smile.
"Or maybe you just want a steak?" Barkley Everhart grinned, his pool blue eyes alert. His
famously muscular arms were lost beneath a too-big polo shirt and a Kiss the Cook apron,
while a smear of steak sauce accentuated his dimpled cheek.
"Some hash browns and a steak sounds great," Jojo said, smiling. She wondered if Sunday
brunch was always like this in the Everhart household, or if they'd gone all out for her.
She was sitting at the head--yes, the head--of a dining room table that she'd read about in Us
Weekly. It was custom-made, and Barbar had had all of the family's names hand-carved into its
baseboard. Right now, Jojo was running her finger along the L in Lailah. She'd seen photos of
this room in OK! before: Three chandeliers, each ten feet across, hung from the fifteen-foot
ceilings. Barbar had commissioned them from a sect of glassblowing Tibetan monks. Along
the wall across from Jojo was an heirloom china cabinet that Barkley had restored himself. The
couple used it to display the kids' artwork. Front and center was a pretty decent crayon drawing
of a brontosaurus with "Mahalo" scrawled in an eight-year-old's messy printing.
They'd spent the last twenty-four hours at home, since Lailah and Barkley had explained that
fending off the paparazzi would cut into their time together. Jojo couldn't say she minded lying
low at their Bel Air compound. When the driver had first pulled the hybrid SUV through the
wrought-iron gates of the Everhart estate, Jojo had been awestruck, and nervous all over again.
The house was, literally, a castle. Fashioned from custard-colored brick, it resembled a threestory dessert. Cylindrical towers, a circular window at the top of each, framed each side of the
mansion. Spread out front was a magnificent French-style garden, replete with crimson tree
roses and a duck pond. But now, Jojo felt more comfortable. She could definitely get used to
this. If she weren't leaving tomorrow, she reminded herself sadly.
She glanced around at her huge collection of siblings. Eight-year-old Mahalo's jet-black hair
touched the collar of his vintage Muppets T-shirt, while six-year-old Bobby's tightly cropped
curls hid beneath a knit cap. Ajani, Indigo, and Nelson--adopted from Cambodia, Ethopia, and
India, respectively, all in the last two years--lined one side of the table in modern Swedish
booster seats. Nelson, who had to be about three, proudly chomped on the cut-up chicken
fingers his mom had set before him as Ajani and Indigo, each two years old, smushed
couscous between their chubby fingers.
Mahalo gave Jojo a thumbs-up, grinning widely, while Barkley unloaded a giant filet mignon
before her. Jojo smiled back. The kids had welcomed her warmly. Several times today, Mahalo
had even led them in an improvised song--really just a chant of "Hello, Jojo"--that reached a
fever pitch before they all erupted in giggles.
Lailah spooned some couscous onto the sliver of space left on Jojo's plate. "I'm sorry you
haven't met Myla yet. She's with her boyfriend. They haven't seen each other all summer--"
"Hi guys, I'm home." Myla yawned sleepily as she made her way into the dining room. It was
only one o'clock, but she fully planned to crawl under her Frette duvet as soon as possible. She
smiled weakly at her siblings, trying to keep her eyelids at half-mast and look jet-lagged so she
could go straight to her room.
After leaving Ash's this morning, she'd gotten a manipedi at Elle, then hit Barneys for some
retail therapy. But the pampering and purchases hadn't elevated her mood. She'd been expecting
Ash to call, apologizing for what happened and begging to make it up to her.
But he hadn't. Not yet, anyway. She told herself not to worry too much. Myla knew he'd come
back, hot pink peonies in hand, eventually.
Suddenly her eyes fell on an unfamiliar face. There was a girl sitting in her chair. Her very
special, oldest-sibling, head-of-the-table chair. The girl was pretty, with dark blue violet eyes,
high cheekbones, and olive-colored skin. Myla narrowed her eyes, immediately shaken out of
her jet-lagged act. Who was this person? The kids' nannies never ate with them.
"Myla, you're finally home," Lailah said, smiling. Her father, who'd been wiping egg yolk from
Nelson's face, slung an arm around her mom's waist and pulled her to him. Lailah's free hand
was on the girl's shoulder. Why was she touching the nanny?
"Myla, this is your sister Josephine," Barkley said. He chuckled nervously, shooting Jojo a
sheepish smile. "Sorry. Jojo, she prefers Jojo."
Um, sister? Myla pulled tightly on her ring, the gold chain digging into the back of her neck.
What. The. Fuck? Yes she had grown accustomed to sharing her parents with regular new
family additions, but seriously? Her parents had only been home a week and they'd somehow
managed to procure a new child?
Besides, this girl didn't look like some third-world refugee. Normally, there was the sympathy
factor. But her V-neck shirt screamed "suburban mall," not "wartorn village."
"Hi." Jojo stood, crossing the expanse of dining room. She extended a hand. "It's great to meet
you."
Myla shook Jojo's hand limply, putting on her fakest smile.
"Myla, why don't you sit down?" Lailah said, gesturing to a chair. "I'll get you something to
eat."
Usually, her parents had a three-person kitchen staff to serve meals, but then, it wasn't every
day they brought home a new kid. It just felt that way sometimes, Myla thought, looking
around the table at Mahalo, Bobby, and the rest of the toddler U.N.
Myla sat in an empty chair next to the little girls. Indigo and Ajani, their ringlets in pigtails,
wore matching poufy Fairy Princess party dresses--you couldn't get them to take those things
off. Myla suppressed a grin, seeing her sisters and their tiny sparkle-polished fingernails. But
no way would she let warm fuzzies interrupt her pissed-off mood.
She ignored the food on her plate, looking from Lailah to Barkley expectantly. They sat near
Jojo, on the opposite side of the antiqued farmhouse table. Every so often they'd study Jojo,
like she was some creature from another planet. Well, it won't be long before they start
adopting those, too, Myla thought.
Barkley looked nervously around the table at his children. He cleared his throat and then
cleared it again.
"It's awkward for me, talking about this, because I love your mother so much," Barkley said,
his face focused on Myla's. "But you know I was married before. Well, when I met your
mother."
Myla nodded. She really didn't need her dad's romantic history right now. Anyone who'd so
much as heard of Us Weekly knew about Barkley's first wife, Heather Merryton, America's
sweetheart--whom Barkley had allegedly left for Lailah.
Her mom chimed in. "We couldn't help it. Your dad and I fell in love. And I got pregnant," she
said, her eyes misty, like she was delivering an Oscar-worthy monologue. All she needed was
a Dario Marianelli score behind her.
"Pregnant, pregnant," Nelson chimed in. "What pregnant?"
Lailah looked beatifically across the table at he
r three-year-old son, his dark curls in wisps
around his face. "Shhh, honey, this is serious."
Myla almost burst out laughing. Yeah, right. Like the tabloids wouldn't have been all over her
rising-star mom for having a baby on board. As it was, they were always hounding Barbar
about whether they would have biological kids of their own. She could feel the words prove it
on her tongue, but held back.
Lailah turned back to Myla, clutching Barkley's hand tightly. "I was twenty-two, and my career
was just taking off," Lailah went on. "I couldn't be a homewrecker and pregnant to boot. We
finished the movie, and I took a hiatus after I started to show. I went to live with some friends
upstate, had the baby, and gave her up for adoption." Lailah looked at Jojo here, then quickly
snapped her gaze back to Barkley. He squeezed her hand still tighter.
Nausea suddenly hit Myla, and it wasn't from the three iced blendeds she'd drunk at the
Beverly Center. This was starting to feel real, and she had an idea where it was headed. Myla
gripped the edge of the table.
"Once my divorce was final, your mom and I got married. But we've always regretted giving
that baby--you--up." Barkley was clutching Jojo's forearm tightly, as though he was afraid
she'd get away.
Myla put her head against the back of her chair, feeling like she'd topple out of it if she didn't.
Biological child. So it was true? Her parents, with their Multicultural Offspring Variety Pack,
actually had a flesh-and-blood kid of their own?
And what did that mean for the rest of them?
Jojo, Barkley, and Lailah now formed a chain at one end of the table. "After dinner, I should
dig up your birth certificate," Lailah finished, chuckling through the few tears that cascaded
prettily down her cheek.
Barkley grinned. "It's the only one we've got that's in English."
Myla faked a laugh, wanting to pretend this was all okay with her. But her parents barely
noticed. A kidnapper could have walked in, thrown a bag over her head, and carried her-kicking and screaming--out of the room and they wouldn't have glanced up from their new
sixteen-year-old baby. Their real baby.
It wasn't fair. Myla was their first child--she had the People magazine spread on her adoption to
prove it. They'd adopted her when she was four from a crappy orphanage in Mai Hong,
Thailand. Barbar had been shooting their first international action thriller, The Bangkok Project,
and had gone in search of jade jewelry for Lailah. A fisherman had given them lousy directions
to the marketplace, and Barbar had gotten lost in the bustling village. They'd wound up on the
doorstep of an orphanage, when their eyes had landed on Myla, small for her age, with a mass
of dark hair and bright green eyes. It was adoption at first sight. On her birthdays, Barkley
liked to hold his hands about a foot apart and joke with her, "I remember when you were only
this big." Lailah once told Myla they'd almost named her Jade, because they'd never found the
jewelry but had found a much better treasure. And she was their treasure. She was their first
and--she always thought--their favorite. But now she knew the truth: She was just their
rebound kid. The one they'd gotten impulsively, to help ease the pain of missing the one they
really wanted. The one that was their own, not a third-world castoff.
Finally, when Barkley and Lailah were finished talking, Lailah sat down on one side of Jojo,
looking across the table at her husband. "We hope you've had a good time this weekend, Jojo.
And Myla would be happy to show you around next time," she added, smiling at her oldest
daughter like they were all in this together.
"It's been amazing," Jojo gushed, meaning it. She couldn't finish her heaping plate of food, in
part because she was so nervous about meeting Myla and in part because she was so sad at the
prospect of leaving the next morning. "I only wish I didn't have to go to Nuuk tomorrow. I feel
like I just got here. And Myla just got back." She smiled shyly at her new sister, but Myla was
just staring at their parents, her face inscrutable.
At that, Barkley and Lailah exchanged a look.
"Well, we'd love to have you stay for a few more weeks," Barkley said, beaming at her. "It's no
problem for us, if your dads could spare you."
Lailah gazed at Barkley like she wanted to throw her arms around him in appreciation. She
turned back to Jojo, her eyes hopeful. "If you like it here, you could even stay . . . longer?"
Her voice trailed off, but Jojo got the message. They were saying she could live here, in
Beverly Hills, with the world's most beautiful couple--her parents--instead of in icy, barren
Nuuk.
Myla's fingers curled around the cold steel of her fork. She got the message too.
100 PERCENT HEAVENLY
"Reader, I married him." Amelie had read the same line of Jane Eyre about a million times
now, but she couldn't bring herself to concentrate on what was technically her favorite book.
She'd never had this problem on the set of Fairy Princess, where she could polish off full
chapters of classics between takes. But today was no day on the set of Fairy Princess. Today
she was on the Class Angel set, which meant that Hunter Sparks was somewhere on the
premises.
Kady Parker's loud, tinkling laugh rang out from across the soundstage. Amelie glanced at her,
across the wide expanse of the Reavis High auditorium set. It took up most of the available
space, and crepe streamers in navy and white hung from the basketball hoops. The woodpaneled floor shone under the overhead lights, a dark blue silhouette of a Reavis Knight painted
in the center. On the auditorium's stage, a drum set and two guitars waited for the Creases, a
new band that would play its hit single, "Drop It," in the movie.
Amelie sat with her back to the soundstage wall on one end of a set of bleachers. On the
opposite end, Kady sat with DeAndra, Lina Colletti, Dani Mills, and the Lacey twins, who'd
signed on for two days of shooting as backup bitchy cheerleaders. Kady wore her character's
signature black hoodie.
Amelie was playing an angel sent to help Kady's mixed-up character buckle down and stay out
of trouble, do well on the SATs, and get into art school. The script was eye-rollingly formulaic:
Kady's punky loner got framed for stealing the school's treasured basketball trophy by a bitchy
popular girl; then, with the assistance of a guardian angel and a sympathetic jock, she cleared
her name and got the real villain in trouble. The producers had cast Amelie in the angel role to
capitalize on her maturing Fairy Princess fans. Even though she'd secretly wanted Kady's part,
Amelie contented herself that at least she was doing a movie set in a high school, rather than an
enchanted forest.
Kady and the other girls had come late to the set after doing a sexy photo shoot for EW that
morning, for a story titled "They're No Angels." It was about how Kady and Co. managed to
live it up while still getting the job done, unlike past teen stars (who of course would not be
named). Amelie thought it was a little premature for the magazine to go out on a limb like that,
but maybe she was just jealous--she'd only done a five-question interview for an inset box,
"100 Percent Heavenly." The reporter had asked things like, "Do you even know what's in a
gin and tonic?"
stayed put, glancing down at her weathered paperback. Kady and the other girls had been
perfectly nice during lunch, sitting by Amelie as they nibbled on turkey-avocado wraps from
Café Surfas and rehashed their latest nightclub adventures. Of course, their escapades sounded
kind of fun, but Amelie wasn't about to take any chances. You didn't have a choice when your
entire career was Fairy Princess. Little girls looked up to her. Her mom was proud of her. She
knew better than to screw around, or she'd wind up on the Board.
The Board was a six-by-twelve-foot piece of corkboard in their upstairs den. On it, her mother
had tirelessly pinned photos of child stars whose careers had gone awry. Along the top of the
board were age markers: A star who at ten had been playing plucky twins in a Disney flick
could be graphed to age sixteen as dating an older nightclub owner, to age eighteen as entering
rehab for the first time, and to age twenty-two as being caught passed out and drooling on a
chairlift in Aspen. Another Hollywood sweetheart, who'd gotten a start in sitcoms at age six,
had gone platinum with innuendo-laden lyrics (and stripperlike dance moves) while professing
her virginity at seventeen, married an ex-con (age eighteen), divorced (age nineteen), shoplifted
at Target (age twenty), crashed her car into a 7-Eleven (twenty-one), and joined a cult (twentytwo). Amelie's timeline dated back to her debut, at two months old, as a Pampers model, and
her trajectory was so far unmarred.
With the Class Angel part, the diapers were finally starting to come off. But that didn't mean
Amelie wanted to jump from training pants to being photographed without underwear.
She buried her face in her book again, waiting while the crew hung more banners for the
school dance scene. With every page she turned, her stomach twitched nervously. Where was
Hunter? She'd checked the call sheet and discovered they had very few scenes together. Still,
she'd hoped he'd stop by the set today. Amelie glanced at the digital clock near the camera
setup. Five thirty. Day one was approaching the nine-hour mark, without so much as a trace of
him.
"Amelie?"
She looked up to see the assistant director, Gary, standing in front of her, his ball cap pulled