by Zoey Dean
low over his messy brown hair. The AD was sort of the director's right hand, dealing with all
the business needs of the film so the director could do the creative part. On Class Angel, Gary
was doing almost everything. He had to: The actual director, Dirk Wink--who'd only scored the
job because he'd gotten the right combination of execs beyond wasted at one of his
debaucherous pool parties--could only be bothered to yell at the cast or mumble his coffee
order to the production assistants.
"Yes?"
"We're going to move some things around," Gary said, his eyes droopy and red. He reminded
Amelie of the basset hound she'd had as a kid. "We're skipping the cheerleader fight for now.
We want to do the scene where Hunter sees Kady doing her community service at the dance.
Think you can handle switching gears? In about fifteen minutes?"
She nodded, her stomach fluttering like the wings of Fairy Princess's favorite flying pony,
Bubblelemon. "Sure, it's not a problem."
"I knew you'd say that." The AD jogged over to the director and camerapeople, giving a nod to
go.
Hunter Sparks stood in the mock gymnasium, wearing a loose pair of vintage Levi's and a plain
white tee. The cotton was thin enough that Amelie could almost see the abdominals Shape had
devoted an entire feature to. She felt warm all over, and not just from the stifling heat. His dark
hair was cropped close to his head, accentuating his strong, perfectly placed cheekbones. His
eyes were the same rich brown as a dark chocolate cupcake from Sprinkles.
Unfortunately, Amelie wasn't supposed to be staring at Hunter in this scene--or any of her
scenes. As Class Angel, she was invisible to him, and if they accidentally made eye contact, it
would ruin the take. But Amelie didn't care how many takes it took. She kept sneaking glances
at him, unable to believe he was really standing here, five feet from her.
"Okay, those last few lines once more," Gary hollered. They'd done seven takes of the school
dance scene so far. It took place midway throughout the movie, when Lizzie Barnett, Kady's
rebellious character, was still spurning the friendly advances of Tommy Archer, Hunter's jock.
Kady sighed, jumping around to loosen up behind the dance's refreshment table. Hunter,
wearing a cheesy Homecoming King sash over his casual ensemble, cracked his neck and
bounced on his toes. Amelie assumed the Class Angel position, standing behind Kady so she
could rattle off heavenly lines of advice.
Extras milled around, most of them chatting with their dance partners. The Creases held their
instruments on stage, preparing to play--or rather, to pretend to play. Noise would have
overpowered the actors' dialogue.
"Action," the AD called.
Extras started bobbing up and down to whatever tune they had playing in their heads. They'd
do another take where the Creases actually played, so they could get their rhythm right. For
now, it was only important that dancers were in the background.
"Look, I don't know why you have such a bug in your jockstrap," Lizzie snapped at Tommy,
slapping a ladle of punch into a cup and handing it to a dancer. "I didn't steal the trophy, and I
don't need your help. I'll get suspended or get out of it."
"He only wants to help," Class Angel cooed behind her. "Try not to be so crass." Amelie
peered over Kady's shoulder, trying to exchange a look with Hunter, but he was so focused on
the scene, they hadn't so much as made eye contact yet.
"Crass my ass. He's messing with me," Lizzie mumbled to Class Angel.
"What was that?" Tommy asked Lizzie curiously, his eyes dancing with interest. As per the
script, Hunter stared in Amelie's direction but seemed to look right through her. Amelie felt a
twinge of disappointment, but reminded herself that he was just acting.
"Nothing," Lizzie snarled, shoving another overflowing punch cup at a dancer.
"I think you don't want my help because you're scared. What if you find out I'm not such a bad
guy?" Tommy smiled challengingly, looking like an all-American stud.
"I thought you said he was a dumb jock, Lizzie," Class Angel chirped. "That was quite
insightful." It was ridiculously hot under the set lights, and Amelie felt like her thick layer of
body glitter--a teen movie must if you were playing a diva or a supernatural being--was melting
into her pores.
Lizzie slammed the ladle into the punch bowl, sending orange liquid flying at an extra in a
white strapless dress. "Would you leave me alone?"
"Fine." Tommy stomped off, thinking Lizzie was talking to him, not her invisible angel.
"And cut," the AD hollered.
"Perfect," Dirk, the director, mumbled, barely looking up from his clipboard.
Kady high-fived Hunter and Amelie. "It's freaky trying to play off of both of you without a
group dynamic." She wriggled out of her hoodie, sticking her tongue out in feigned fatigue.
"I'm overheating--be right back." Kady hustled off toward the craft services table, her
character's Chuck Taylors almost silent on the wood floor.
Amelie spun on her heel, happy to see Hunter still standing there.
"Hey," he said, his dark eyes twinkling beneath the hot overhead lights. "It's so good to see
you."
He enveloped her in a hug. He smelled fresh, like Downy fabric softener and soap. Despite the
wings on her back, some very unangelic thoughts popped into Amelie's brain.
Hunter let her go and held her at arm's length. "It's weird not to be able to look at you while
we're filming," he commented, and Amelie's heart beat heart-attack fast. "You look so
different."
Was he noticing that she'd grown? Um, everywhere? She was taller, with long, athletic legs.
Her chubby little-kid cheeks had thinned out, making her lips look fuller. She'd had her teeth
straightened with Invisalign braces, and her slight overbite had vanished. Most importantly, she
wore a B-cup.
"I know," Amelie said, wishing her voice sounded a little more Scarlett Johansson and less
Minnie Mouse. She shrugged, the strap of her white Juicy Couture tank falling off her
shoulder. Even though she was playing an angel, at least she got to dress like a teenager. Well,
a teenager with wings. She was enjoying her modern costume, free of frills and princessy
poufs. She looked up at him with what she hoped was a seductive gaze.
"It's just so cool, you know, finally getting to work together again," Hunter said, his hand still
folded warmly around hers. "You're half the reason I took the movie at the last minute."
If the nylon wings strapped to Amelie's back had been real, she would have been hovering six
feet off the ground right now. She tucked a stray strand of red hair behind her ear. "Aww,
thanks. That's sweet."
"Come on, you taught me everything I know. At age eleven," Hunter teased, with a flirty wink.
Amelie's skin prickled in excitement. She could almost hear the collective disappointed sigh of
the eight million girls who'd prayed for Hunter Sparks to look at them the way he was looking
at Amelie right now.
You're the reason I took the movie. So all these years, Hunter had been waiting for his chance
to see her again, too?
"So what are you up to tonight?" Amelie asked boldly. "Is it Baskin-Robbins time yet?" She
raised an eyebrow. Back when they'd first worked together, they'd go
ne for sundaes together at
least once a week.
"Actually, I--" Hunter began, but he was interrupted by the reappearance of Kady, a cold bottle
of Fiji water in hand and the front of her tank top tied into a knot above her belly button.
Several young male production assistants, arms laden with Starbucks trays, slowed to stare at
Kady's tanned midriff, accentuated by a Swarovskicrystal star-shaped navel ring.
Hunter high-fived her. "Parker. Friday night killed. The Standard's so much better than when it
first opened."
Kady shrugged nonchalantly. "Told you."
Amelie felt like she'd been clocked over the head with a giant sign that read, LOSER! The
Standard. The invitation Amelie had declined after the A-List party ... to go home with her
mom. Hunter had been there? Of course he'd been there. Did she think everyone was like her,
constantly worried about doing the wrong thing?
"You headed to Hyde again tonight?" Hunter now fixed his dark eyes on Kady.
She nodded. "Me. The twins. A few others. Just call me the social committee."
"Sweet." Hunter grinned. "I wanted to drop in at Social really quick, see if Lindsay and Danny
and those guys are there. That cool?"
Kady rolled her eyes at Amelie, as though Hunter wouldn't know Hollywood from Vine if it
weren't for her expertise. "Yeah, that's cool."
"Nice," Hunter said, running a hand over his short hair before turning back to Amelie. "See ya,
li'l sis." He gave her another hug. It couldn't have been more brotherly if they were Baldwins.
Slinging an arm casually over Kady's shoulder, Hunter strolled off.
Amelie watched them walk away, Kady's head casually nestled in the crook of Hunter's arm.
She felt like her white outfit was turning green with envy, and turned around to stop torturing
herself.
Li'l sis. So that was it. Hunter did love her ... like a little sister.
Someone tapped her on the shoulder. Amelie turned, hoping it was Hunter, having changed his
mind. Instead, Gary slouched in front of her, his ball cap in his hands.
"Amelie, you can get going now," he said. "We're going to wrap up the dance shots now, and
we don't need you."
Amelie nodded glumly, turning on her white Lanvin flats to walk--alone--back to her trailer.
He was right. Who needed a little sister getting in the way of the big kids' fun?
PLEASED TO MEET YOU
Monday morning, Jojo stared out the tinted window of Barbar's bodyguards' Escalade, her
whole body alive with nervous excitement. Outside, rows of palm trees and sixteen-foot
hedges shielded stars' homes from view. It was hard to believe she was living in one now. The
best one, no less.
After a lengthy long-distance call with her dads last night, they'd all agreed it was best for Jojo
to stay in Beverly Hills. It turned out that Barkley and Lailah had proposed the idea to her dads
before Jojo had even come to L.A. Fred and Bradley admitted that when they left her at the
Sacramento airport, they'd had a feeling it was a real goodbye. "Our place here isn't exactly a
teenage girl's dream," Fred had said, trying to laugh but sounding a little rueful. "Don't worry
about us," Bradley had chimed in, hearing the concern in Jojo's voice. "Think of this as our
extended honeymoon." As she hung up the phone, Jojo had felt sad. But this morning, as the
sun rose higher over Beverly Hills, excitement had overtaken her.
Just twelve hours ago, she'd thought she was headed to icy Greenland; now, she was headed to
Beverly Hills High. The Beverly Hills High, where Tori Spelling, Alicia Silverstone, and
Angelina Jolie had spent their teenage years. She was sitting in the back of a sleek black
Escalade with Myla, who was listening to Kanye and scribbling in a black Moleskine
notebook. Myla wore cream Maison Martin Margiela knee-high boots with a supershort
L.A.M.B. plaid mini and a white Zac Posen blouse that tied at the neck. All her school gear
was tucked into an oversize red Dior hobo.
Jojo told herself not to stare, even though her new sister was even more gorgeous in person
than in photographs. Myla had felt sick yesterday and spent the better part of the day in her
room. She looked pretty great now, though, and Jojo couldn't wait till she was 100 percent. In
last month's Seventeen poll, "What celeb would you like to go shopping with?" Myla had won
79 percent of the vote--including Jojo's. Jojo couldn't believe that soon enough she'd actually
get to do it.
The driver turned from Beverly Glen onto Santa Monica Boulevard. Jojo watched men and
women in suits head into Century City's chrome-and-glass office buildings. They passed a
Coffee Bean, and when the driver turned again, Jojo almost gasped. Set back from Moreno
Drive, Beverly Hills High's pristine white buildings practically gleamed in the sun. A vast
expanse of lush green lawn spread out before the school.
Graceful girls in Vogue-caliber outfits stepped out of dark town cars, checking BlackBerries
and iPhones as they went. Tanned guys with artfully messy surfer hair high-fived their friends.
Preppy, wannabe-agent types sat on the stair railings, sizing up the female student body like
they were scouting talent. It was so different from JFK High in Sacramento, a '70s-looking
building surrounded by strips of patchy lawn and a cracked gray parking lot. Jojo clenched
every muscle in her body to stop herself from hurtling out the door and spinning Sound of
Music style on BHH's front lawn.
The car came to a stop and Myla gracefully extracted herself from the vehicle. Jojo hopped out
next. No sooner had her Steve Madden flats hit the asphalt than a crowd of photographers
appeared, surrounding the two girls like hyenas around their prey. Jojo gasped, wondering
how she'd failed to notice so many telephoto lenses. Just seconds before, all of the paps had
looked like slightly shabby pedestrians or parents taking their kids to school.
Cameras fired in a symphony of clicks, whirs, and dings, as questions came at them rapid-fire.
"Jojo, what's it like finding out you're Barbar's daughter? And Myla's sister?"
"Jojo, is it true you were raised by two men? And how do they feel about this?"
"Myla, how are you handling your parents having a real, biological child? Are you jealous?"
"Come on, guys. Stop causing trouble," Myla scoffed, almost flirtatiously. She coolly fluffed
her hair, her perfect berry-stained pout growing into a wide smile. "What girl wouldn't want a
sister her age? It's going to be like one big sleepover."
Myla reached to clutch Jojo's arm. She pulled her in close, and Jojo was engulfed in Myla's
Chanel Chance perfume.
Jojo relaxed into Myla's grip as the paparazzi eagerly snapped shots of the sisters side by side.
She was glad Myla was here, because she would have been completely paralyzed facing the
photogs on her own.
"Jojo, is that true?" A pudgy guy in a stained and faded Team Aniston tee pushed a handheld
video camera near Jojo's face, his fishlike eyes probing her.
Jojo laughed nervously. "I'm still getting used to everything. But I feel so lucky to be here, and
to finally have met my parents." She smiled at Myla, who grinned right back. "And my sister,
too."
Suddenly she pictured kids at JFK High, passing around the Us Weekly with her and Myla on
the cover. It would fall into Justin Klatch's h
ands, and he'd stare at Jojo's glossy face, regretting
that he'd missed his chance with her and wondering if he'd ever see her again. The thought
made Jojo smile.
The cameras fired away. The pudgy guy squinted his eyes at Jojo again. "Are you nervous
about starting Beverly Hills High?"
Jojo frowned. Why should she be nervous? It looked like a country club. But before she could
answer, Myla pulled her protectively through an opening between two of the photographers.
"That's enough, guys, we're on school grounds," Myla cooed. "You know the rules. And you
got enough for one day. Show's over." She smiled demurely, giving them a wave that was part
friendly, part "do what I say now." Amazingly, the photographers instantly departed. Jojo
stared at Myla with awe.
Myla let go of Jojo and rehitched her hobo bag on her shoulder. She strode toward the doors of
the school, and Jojo followed.
"That was insane," Jojo said, her North Face backpack slapping against her shoulder blade.
Willa had overnighted some of Jojo's things from Sacramento, and along with her usual school
bag, she wore a pair of gray pin-striped trousers from H&M, her silver Steve Madden flats,
and a red Gap V-neck. "I guess I need to practice my 'no pictures, please!' pose. And I have to
get some giant sunglasses. How did they even know we were coming? Lailah--I mean Mom-just enrolled me this morning!"
Without answering, Myla headed purposefully toward a set of trees lining the front of the
school. The other students seemed to clear a path for Myla as she walked by, like Moses
parting the Red Sea. Jojo felt proud to be walking beside her. That's right, we're Barbar's kids,
Jojo thought. Me and my sister.
Finally Myla slowed, reaching three girls who stood in the shade of the library building. The
bobbed brunette in the center dropped her BlackBerry into her royal blue tote and shrieked
gleefully at Myla's approach. She wore olive-colored Lanvin platform gladiator sandals with a
sleeveless Marc Jacobs peony-print dress.
The girls on either side, one with impossibly long legs and long blond waves, the other with
buttery hair pulled in a high ponytail, gave excited two-handed waves, their handbags--a yellow
Kooba tote and a black patent Miu Miu shopper, respectively--swinging rapidly. They each