girl, one who was good at geometry or something. And she'd finally land Hunter, once and for
all. They could double-date, Amelie decided, the fantasy growing in her head. It would
probably be good for Hunter to be around more down-to-earth, normal guys like Jake. Jake
commanded himself to hold it together, the words repeating on a loop in his head. Party.
Hollywood Hills. Pick me up at nine. Pick me up at nine. He adjusted his focus so that he was
staring at the fourteenth brick from the top in the section of wall directly behind Amelie's
shoulder.
He'd thought Miles was an idiot, leading him around Kitson as the salesgirls gave them dirty
looks. But the fashion denim had worked! One second, he was feeling like the biggest loser in
the world, trying to remember whatever his little brother had said about the Dodgers catcher
Russell Martin at dinner last night. The next, she was asking him to a party. The words Kitson
and Great China Wall were practically magic.
Yes, he'd be brown-bagging lunch to afford gas for the Corolla for a while, but it was worth it.
It was like those commercials:
Tight skull T-shirt your friend Miles says is so now: $90.
Hoodie that makes you look like a trendy version of Bert from Sesame Street: $250.
Jeans with some third-world country's flag sewn on the back pocket: $220.
A date with Amelie Adams: Priceless.
"That sounds great," he said, popping a French fry in his mouth. It was the first one he'd been
able to taste since he arrived. "I'll pick you up then."
FLOCK OF SEGALS
"Gwyneth would like two of every piece in the new Wyeth line, one in a size two and one in a
size four."
Jojo glanced up from pretending to examine a bracelet that promised instant Zen for $175. The
speaker was a tiny brunette in a smock dress that would have been conservative, save for its
mid-thigh hem and off-the-shoulder neckline. The woman poked the keys of her BlackBerry,
probably to let Gwyneth know she'd secured her quarry. Or to e-mail a tabloid and inform them
that Gwynnie was shopping for both her bloated and her skinny days.
Jojo was shopping at Fred Segal on Melrose. It had taken the better part of her trigonometry
class to decide if she should go to the famous store's West Hollywood or Santa Monica
location. Santa Monica's was way bigger--it was built on the site of a former ice rink--but
rumor had it that stars preferred the older, smaller location on Melrose, even though it was no
longer even owned by the Segal family. It had also taken her an hour to decide on what to wear
shopping at such an exclusive store, this time without Lailah at her side. She'd chosen a gray
Miu Miu bow-belted cardigan over a navy C&C California scoop-neck tank, paired with a gray
and blue pin-striped Nanette Lepore pleated miniskirt and navy Prada kidskin Mary Janes.
Every other customer, she noticed, seemed to be wearing jeans.
"Oh, and add a few Ella Moss tops, whatever's newest, for Kate, but no pink," the stylist said,
never looking up from her PDA. The salesgirl didn't scurry off at the mention of top-tier
clientele. Instead, she nodded coolly, adjusting the strap of her Lotta Stensson peacock-print
minidress. She strode out of view, presumably to assemble the purchases.
Jojo was shopping for tomorrow night's party in the Hollywood Hills. Despite the closet full of
new clothes she'd purchased with Lailah this week, she felt like she needed to select something
even more special for her first real BHH party. It was at Lewis Buford's house, which had been
the backdrop for a New Year's Eve edition of The Hills last year, and Jojo remembered it as
utterly fabulous. Myla had actually invited her to the big shindig, after some not-so-subtle
prompting from Lailah.
Jojo wasn't going to let Myla's presence stop her from going. Even if Myla planned to get to
the party and immediately abandon her, Jojo knew it wouldn't be another Beverly Hills Hotel
pool party fiasco. On the car ride over to Fred Segal, she'd texted Ash to see if he was going
and he had responded, u know it. ;-). Jojo had stared at his winky-faced emoticon the whole
rest of the ride, her heart beating fast.
In part, Jojo's outfit hunt was about finding something Ash-friendly. Or maybe Ash boyfriend ly. After they'd hung out the other day, Jojo couldn't deny it: She had a crush. But,
terms with Ash, and he was giving her lots of positive reinforcement. He'd texted her this
morning to say he'd had fun hanging out. Then she'd bumped into him while walking past his
locker and he'd introduced her to his friend Tucker, who'd been really friendly. Jojo had been
on a high all day, imagining Ash telling his friends about her.
She felt a little lost in Fred Segal, having spent an hour cycling through its various boutiques.
The store was a labyrinth of fashion, and the three-to four-digit price tags still made her heart
skip a beat--but Barbar had insisted their money was her money. And so was their black
AmEx. Every clothing line had its own area, and the store was divided into separate boutiques
for couture, more casual separates, denim, accessories, and beauty products. Fabrics of every
texture and hue called out to Jojo. She was carrying several items, including a pair of J Brand
jeans, a gorgeous, asymmetrically hemmed blue Jovovich-Hawk silk minidress with a
peekaboo slip, Tucker camisoles in aqua and white, and a red cinch-waist tank from a new line
by Blake Lively. She felt a little neglected, having been acknowledged by the shopgirls and
guys with cool nods but no offers to try anything on.
Jojo eyed a long gold necklace with a crystal owl charm. It would look perfect with either the
minidress or jeans and one of the sexy tanks, she decided, as her cell phone trilled with the
Mario Kart music. Jojo had changed it after her and Ash's Wii session.
"Hello," she near-whispered, walking into an unpopulated nook of the store. She didn't want to
disturb a heated conversation near the sunglasses display. A skinny guy in yellow pants, a
purple cashmere sweater-vest, and a matching fedora and a buff guy wearing beat-up jeans and
a tight, thin cotton tee with the words Hate Me printed on it, were debating whether it had been
a bad career move for Matthew McConaughey to take a role in a legal thriller that would
require him to wear a shirt at all times.
"Hey, J, what's up?" Willa's familiar voice poured through Jojo's new iPhone. Jojo could hear
the theme song from Chowder, Willa's little brother's favorite cartoon, in the background.
"Thank God," Jojo squealed, balancing the pile of clothes in her left arm while she held the
phone with her right. "You're just the person I wanted to talk to."
"Oh yeah?" Willa sounded surprised. "What's going on? I got your e-mail about Ash, but you
didn't answer my question about whether you'd be here for the soccer invitational next
weekend."
"I know," Jojo said, wandering past a tiny woman who looked a lot like Nicole Richie with her
daughter. "I'll figure it out. But right now, help me decide what to wear to this party. I could go
with the sexy jeans and a sort of skimpy but not slutty tank top, or I found this awesome dress
that's, like, short but with a slip that kind of hangs out from under the skirt. But I can't decide
what Ash might like better." Jojo stopped near a handbag display, biting her lip.
"Couldn't you just buy them all and decide tomorrow?" Willa suggested. "You can always
return stuff. That's my policy."
"You're brilliant," Jojo said, bouncing on her heels and almost toppling a row of Kooba purses.
"I know," Willa bragged. "But anyway, did you see my text about the Butt-Nerd? She's on this
health kick and we have to keep a three-week food and feeling journal. WTF does that have to
do with chemistry?"
The Butt-Nerd, or Ms. Budner, was the most eccentric teacher at their Sacramento high school.
She taught chemistry, but every school year became obsessed with something new and worked
it into the curriculum. Last year, when the Butt-Nerd had been trying to be a screenwriter, her
junior chem classes had had to star in her film Pierre and Marie, about the Curies. It had aired
on Sacramento's cable access station. Now, she'd apparently moved on to nutrition.
Jojo was half listening and half idly walking down the rows of handbags. Her eyes fell on a
row of the most gorgeous purses she'd ever seen. Clutches leaned against mini-hobos, which
leaned against larger hobo bags, which leaned against oversize totes. At the very center, on a
platform by itself, stood a gleaming white deconstructed leather bag with a top flap adorned by
golden Swarovski crystals in the shape of a star.
On the platform stood a sign in the same crystals: THE CHAMPAGNE BAG BY MARTIN
RITTENHOUSE. Even though she could practically smell the outrageous price tag from where
she stood, Jojo had to have it. The bag was the ideal emblem of her new Hollywood life.
Willa was still talking about the Butt-Nerd. ". . . and Aiden Witner walked into class the other
day and said the Butt-Nerd was doing downward dog and totally farted in his face."
Jojo was hypnotized by the bag. "Sorry. I have to go. Love you, 'bye."
She pressed end and spun on her new Mary Janes. The salesgirl in the peacock dress had just
finished bagging the stylist's orders for Gwynnie and Kate as Jojo approached her.
"Hi, um, miss," Jojo said, not seeing a name tag. "I'm interested in that bag, the Rittenhouse."
She pointed toward the exquisite purse.
The peacock girl tilted her head, her blunt-cut bangs hanging in her eyes. She studied the bag as
though looking at a bird that might fly away. "You want that bag," she said, in the "I'm so over
it" voice of Angeleno fashionistas. "Sorry. There's a two-year waiting list for that bag, and
we're holding that one for Reese."
Jojo felt like the girl had just cut off her arm. She looked at the surrounding handbags, none of
which called to her the way this gorgeous one did. Her nose twitched in disappointment. It's
just a bag, she told herself. And Reese wants it. Who am I to think I can have it?
But then Jojo had an epiphany.
She was someone.
Pouting, she made laserlike eye contact with the shopgirl, whose eyelashes were painted with
electric blue mascara. "Oh, that's too bad," Jojo said, dropping her shoulders. "I wanted to get it
for my mom. She'd look so great with it at Sundance. She has a little indie premiering there.
Left of Nowhere?"
Sure, Left of Nowhere, about a single mom struggling to raise her brilliant but autistic child,
wasn't a blockbuster. But Variety was already talking Oscar number two for Lailah. As the title
left Jojo's lips, Peacock went from bored to all ears.
"You mean that drama starring Lailah Barton? With the retarded kid?" Blunt Bangs asked,
trying to hide her excitement but not doing a great job of it. "Your mom is Lailah Barton?"
Jojo nodded, smiling. Another blond salesgirl in Lohan leggings stopped folding Lauren
Moshi tees and walked over, as if Lailah's name had magnetic pull. Two fabulously tall
salesgirls who'd been unpacking a box of True Religion jeans followed suit, orbiting Jojo like
trendy zombies.
They all eyed the peacock-dress girl with envy. Lailah was known for repaying kindnesses
done to her children.
"You're the new kid," Peacock said, a flash of recognition lighting her eyes. "Well, the real
kid."
"Yes, that's true," Jojo said, savoring each word like it was the last bite of a delicious, charmedlife cookie.
"Oh, wow, those pictures of you in In Touch don't do you justice. I'm Melina by the way." She
shook Jojo's hand. "Follow me."
Melina headed in the direction of the Rittenhouse bag and Jojo followed. The legginged
shopgirl unloaded the clothes from Jojo's arms and assured her she'd bag them. Then she made
a dash for the denim bar, grabbing jeans from the shelves and promising Jojo to pick some
other key pieces that would be perfect for her. If Jojo didn't like something or needed a
different size, she could just call and they'd messenger over something else. Jojo smiled to
herself. This was too easy.
Staring up at the white bag reverently, Melina turned and smiled at Jojo. The guys debating
Matthew McConaughey's career fell silent, studying Jojo from behind the racks of designer
sunglasses.
"You know, Reese is late picking it up," Peacock said. "It's only fair you get it. From what I
know, Martin Rittenhouse idolizes Lailah. Who wouldn't, right?"
"Right," Jojo said, as Melina reached for the bag, her short dress riding up to expose even
more thigh. Melina put the bag gently on Jojo's shoulder. She walked Jojo over to a mirror,
decorated with twinkle lights and surrounded on each side by fluttery, gem-colored dresses.
"It's actually perfect with your coloring," she complimented Jojo, staring at her in the mirror.
Behind them, Jojo could see the other salesgirls folding and refolding the shop's signature tees
as they watched the exchange. "Your mom's probably cool enough to let you borrow it."
"She really is," Jojo nodded, pointing at her shoes, which sparkled beneath the store's sunlightmimicking overhead lights. "She and I are almost the same shoe size, too."
"You're so lucky." Melina sighed. "My mom's still walking around in a 2003 Juicy Couture
sweatsuit and Uggs she bought five years ago." She rolled her eyes conspiratorially.
Two hours later, Jojo exited the ivy-covered store onto Melrose Boulevard. Her arms were
weighted down with shopping bags brimming with the kind of clothes she'd previously only
seen in the pages of glossy magazines.
A group of girls carrying bags from a Melrose store that sold quality knockoffs strolled by,
chatting. A brunette at the group's center spotted Jojo and didn't try to hide her stare. She
recognized her.
Charlie, the Everharts' driver, pulled up and opened the SUV's freshly waxed door. As Jojo
handed him her shopping bags and stepped into the waiting car, she heard the brunette say to
her friends, "Do you know who that was? Barbar's daughter Jojo. Their real kid. She's, like,
Hollywood royalty."
At that moment, Jojo wouldn't have argued.
QUICK-CHANGE ARTIST
Jacob's palms were sweaty against the stems of the bouquet he held at his side. It was his third
bouquet purchase of the day from Bristol Farms. His mom had loved his hand-me-down gifts
of roses, which he'd decided were a little too much, and an assortment of red carnations that
he'd found pretty but which Miles had voted down. "Dude, have you never watched Sex and
the City? Girls hate carnations, un
less they tell you they like them." This was one of the most
confusing things Miles had ever said, but then again, he'd been right about the fashion jeans.
So now Jacob stood on Amelie Adams's front porch holding what he hoped was the perfect
bouquet: a dozen gerbera daisies in a rainbow of colors. The wooden slats of the porch creaked
beneath his new Kenneth Cole dress shoes and he took a breath, working up the nerve to ring
the bell. He hoped no member of a Toluca Lake neighborhood watch group thought he was a
stalker, skulking in the shadows on Amelie's front steps.
Amelie lived next to the actual Toluca Lake, which few people realized existed. A
neighborhood of Los Angeles safely nestled between Burbank and North Hollywood, Toluca
Lake was home to lots of stars who wanted to raise their kids away from Beverly Hills and its
excesses while still enjoying an aura of exclusivity and luxury. The lake was next to a golf
course, but you had to wind down lots of narrow side streets to find it. The hidden-enclave
feeling of the location meant homes here were worth millions, even if the surrounding towns
were strictly middle class.
He glanced at his Corolla once more, parked on Navajo Street. He'd just washed it, but it still
looked scrawny and unworthy to carry around any cute girl, much less Fairy Princess.
Between his grandma's old car and the now-sweaty flowers, he wasn't exactly pimping. But
Amelie had asked him out, after all.
"Here goes," Jake mumbled to himself, pressing the bell and taking a step back.
The door opened and an older version of Amelie, her eyes a dark hazel, stood in the doorway.
She smiled warmly and stepped backwards into the house. "You must be Jacob," she said. "I'm
Helen, Amelie's mother."
He extended his hand for her to shake. "It's Jake, actually." Jake grinned excitedly. Amelie
must have told her mom all about him.
"Well, come in," Helen said, gesturing inside. "She should be down soon."
Jake stepped into the entryway, which felt pretty homey. In the center was an oak staircase up
to the second floor. On one side of the stairs was a living room with a stone fireplace and two
matching couches in a light brown material. They framed a coffee table shaped like an old
shipping trunk, on which lay a few random magazines. Jake could picture Amelie stretched out