Sunset Boulevard Part 1

Sunset Boulevard.

Zoey Dean.

To my parents, Debra and William, for never making my epic dreams feel too big for me and for helping me feel like the star of my own life. Oh, and for genetically gifting me with good looks and a quick wit.

All right, Mr. DeMille, I'm ready for my close-up.

-Gloria Swanson as Norma Desmond, Sunset Boulevard.

I'LL GRANT YOU THAT.

Myla Everhart's black SUV pulled up in front of Beverly Hills High, and immediately, her driver, Charlie, came around to open the door. Myla sighed and stepped out onto the school's front walkway. At least she'd gotten to come in late. After a terrible, sleepless weekend, she'd gotten her mom, megastar Lailah Barton, to call the attendance office and tell them Myla would be missing her first few cla.s.ses, citing "female troubles." Worked every time.

Myla walked toward the front doors, faking a bounce in her step. She could almost hear the whispers of the students gathered on the front lawn between their second- and third-period cla.s.ses. Normally, Myla loved when people talked about her. Relished it, in fact.

As long as what they were discussing fell along the lines of: How she'd snagged a limited edition pair of Louis Vuitton peep-toe pumps.

How her long ebony hair maintained its s.h.i.+mmer.

How she'd rocked Gucci on the red carpet for one of her parents' new movies.

What an impossibly beautiful and perfect couple she and Ash Gilmour made.

But she and Ash were officially broken up. She strode down the path at the center of the front lawn, staring down the curious eyes of the student body. She knew exactly what today's Myla Fun Fact was.

Myla Everhart, caught making out with Lewis Buford, the biggest slimeball a.s.shole at BHH. Caught by Ash, that is. Ash, who was mortal enemies with Lewis.

Myla held her head high, gliding across the BHH grounds in her new Miss Dior silver stilettos. Yesterday she and Ash had called a truce, vowing to be civil to one another. True, it was better than him hating her forever. But it wasn't exactly the outcome she'd been looking for.

But at least she had her girlfriends. She was on her way to meet them now. Billie Bollman, Talia Montgomery, and Fortune Weathers could be counted on to take her mind off things. Myla usually chose retail therapy over "Why doesn't he like me?" wailfests, but today, she needed to unload some baggage, and knew her besties would be there to carry it for her.

Her friends were waiting for her in their usual spot, a sunny corner just outside the main entrance to BHH. A light breeze drifted by, and the white Moonstone rosebushes lining the paver-stone pathway swayed, their dancing, curvaceous shadows flickering over the girls. They were huddled in a circle, like a football team with great taste in couture, but looked up and gave gleeful shrieks as Myla approached.

"OmiG.o.d, omiG.o.d, omiG.o.d," Talia cried, bouncing on her strappy mulberry Fendi platforms. Myla couldn't wait for her glossy brown hair to reach shoulder length again after an ill-fated bob. "Did you hear?" She tightly wrapped her thin, tan arms around her buxom chest, as if her pet.i.te frame couldn't contain her excitement.

Myla shook her head. She wondered briefly if some new rumor about her and Lewis had surfaced, but decided to play it cool. "No, what's going on?"

"Two words..." Fortune Weathers chimed in purposefully. She stepped between Talia and Myla, adjusting her black satin Chanel headband so that it rested over her canopy of blond hair. "Grant. Isaacson." She arched one slightly overwaxed brow to punctuate the news, looking like the star of a 1950s commercial for dish soap.

Billie Bollman tapped her bubble-gum pink ballet flat against the brick wall, her smile two sizes too big for her long, horsey face. "He's here," she squealed, twirling a strand of her fine, white blond hair. "Somewhere. This is so much better than the time JT performed at your birthday party."

Myla suppressed the urge to roll her eyes. Grant Isaacson was all the current hotness if you were a girl between ages twelve and eighteen who couldn't find a real boyfriend. He'd only acted in two movies. Lucky for him, a beyond-hot love scene with Kristen Bell in Martin Scorsese's c.o.c.ked, a crime drama about a suburban pizza delivery boy who outwits the mob, had made the film a categorical success with the unlikely teen girl demographic. Grant-a pale, high-cheekboned hipster with permanently mussed dark brown hair-was master of the glower, a sleepy-eyed, purse-lipped glare that most teen girls believed could only be improved if he took off his s.h.i.+rt. Personally, Myla thought his famous look was just a lame attempt at Derek Zoolander's Blue Steel-without the comedic timing.

"Oh-kay," Myla said finally. She was so not in the mood to feign giddiness over a random celebrity sighting. She could eat breakfast with the world's hottest on- and off-screen couple, Lailah Barton and Barkley Everhart, every day if she wanted to. Nicknamed Barbar by the press, her adoptive parents reigned supreme in Hollywood. There were no celebrity sightings to outrank them-except maybe their unspoken rivals, Brangelina-and no news more coveted than that of whatever they did next: charity in the third-world, adopting another malnourished child as a souvenir from an impoverished country, or even something as minor as sitting next to one of their old flames at the Oscars. Of course, nothing beat the news that they were bringing home their sole biological child after sixteen years of separation. They'd done just that two weeks ago, when Myla returned home from Paris to find Jojo Milford sitting at her dinner table. Jojo was Barbar's real kid, and Myla, who'd been adopted from Thailand years ago, had instantly detested her. Probably because their parents just couldn't get enough of their bio-kid. After a few weeks of putting Jojo through the wringer, Myla was finally coming to terms with Jojo being here, even liking her a little. Maybe because, for all the attention Jojo was getting, at BHH Myla was still the queen. And that was what counted. "So what about him? He goes here now?"

Talia's eyes widened. "I can't believe you haven't heard," she whispered, as though ashamed Myla would be so out of the loop. "He just got cast as the best friend in Cla.s.s Angel. They're reshooting a lot of it here this week. I guess they want it all to feel like a real high school." Myla, Billie, and Fortune all turned to Talia, surprised. Her attention span was often so short she didn't finish reading text messages. Talia shrugged. "I read Variety."

Myla shook her head, her golden Alex Monroe dragonfly earrings swinging. Cla.s.s Angel was a lame teen movie that she wouldn't have been caught dead seeing even when she was eight years old. And if it was being reshot, it was probably a solid bomb. "Why would I bother reading up on a movie with Fairy Princess in it? Do I look like I spend free time arranging my Bratz doll collection?" The only reason anyone her age knew about Cla.s.s Angel was its A-list collection of stars: Kady Parker was the industry's newest wild child, even if she had never gone full Lohan. Hunter Sparks was the tabloids' latest favorite player, and cover reports of his conquests sold almost as many mags as new baby rumors about her parents. And Amelie Adams was the ultimate good girl. She had a loyal little-kid following from her long-running TV show Fairy Princess, and the entire world seemed to be awaiting her eventual fall with sick, rapt attention. Myla had been lying when she pretended to be ignorant of the movie. Her little sisters, Ajani and Indigo, were Fairy Princessobsessed and Myla had promised to take them to Cla.s.s Angel when it came out. Though she'd definitely wear a disguise.

"You would know because Grant Isaacson is the hottest guy on earth," Fortune said, a little b.i.t.c.hily. "You don't look like you live in a cave."

"Yeah, I get it. He's filming a movie here," Myla said hastily, making a mental note to reprimand Fortune later for her impudent tone. But right now, she was impatient to move on. They needed to address a more important topic: how Myla could wish Ash a happy birthday next week, in a heartfelt but not desperate way. "So what?"

"We have the perfect plan is what," Billie chirped.

"You're looking at Amelie Adams's and Kady Parker's new BFFs," said Fortune, drawing out pauses between the letters. "We get close, and we get Grant."

Myla gave Fortune her most sympathetic half-smile. The plan was so lightweight, it would barely qualify for an item on Myla's to-do list. "But why go to all that trouble just to land an actor? Just have one of our parents phone in a favor."

Talia's jaw set in a hard line. She and Myla had been friends long before Fortune and Billie because Talia's mother, Peg Montgomery, owned Montague's, a high-concept bra.s.serie that was a Barbar favorite. In fact, it had been the famed locale of Barbar's hush-hush wedding ceremony and reception. "Who would phone in the favor? You? Just like all those times you've helped when your parents are shooting?"

"I've called in favors," Myla fired back, instantly feeling defensive. It was the truth: Freshman year, her girlfriends had requested bit roles in Barbar's remake of It's a Wonderful Life. Hunter Sparks had had a supporting role, and at the time, they'd been into him. So maybe it hadn't really worked-Myla had forgotten to ask until the last minute, and they'd only gotten to visit the set, on a day that Hunter wasn't even there. But the fact that she'd gone out of her way for them was what mattered. Where was the loyalty?

"Anyway, Grant will see right through that, Myla," Billie scolded. "It has to be real. And the Lacey twins are off filming their stupid show, so they're out." Moira and Deven Lacey were the school's acting double-threat, and had just announced a junior-year hiatus as they left to film their hit CW show, School for Scandal, on location at a Connecticut boarding school. After bragging nonstop about their minor roles in Cla.s.s Angel, they apparently didn't think the parts were worth sticking around for.

"Okay," Myla said, feeling like she might shrink into the pleats of her Marc Jacobs dress. She was used to the occasional snippiness from Fortune and Talia, but Billie was unfalteringly loyal. She'd trade couture for Walmart separates if Myla insisted. What the h.e.l.l was going on today? Myla lifted her chin proudly, trying to pretend this mini revolution didn't bother her.

The bell chimed, signaling that cla.s.s was about to start.

"It's okay, Billie," Talia whispered, leaning her pet.i.te frame into Billie's athletic one. "She'll see."

Myla's friends fell into step together, forming a previously unheard-of line ahead of her. Two paces behind, Myla felt like the left-behind caboose on the runaway train of her life.

THE PUKE HEARD ROUND THE WORLD.

"That f.u.c.king b.i.t.c.h just puked in my mouth!"

"Can you say BarfBarf?"

Barnsley Toole's nasal voice rang in Jojo Milford's ears-and not because she was imagining things. BHH's halls were alive with the sound of retching. Her retching. The video of her yakking on that tool Barnsley was on all her cla.s.smates' cell phones, and the interest hadn't waned. She'd hidden in the nurse's office during homeroom, and even kindly old Nurse Jannings had asked, "You're not going to get sick again, are you, dear?" Jojo couldn't believe Nurse Jannings even knew what YouTube was.

Pulling the hood of her Roxy sweats.h.i.+rt over her shoulder-length walnut-colored hair, Jojo zipped through the crowded halls to her locker, avoiding eye contact with everyone she pa.s.sed and praying she wouldn't walk into a wall or something. Not that she could really make her situation much worse.

Which wasn't to say that her situation couldn't get any worse on its own. Her gray metal locker was painted with bright red letters: BarfBarf Spew Zone-Beware!

For what felt like the billionth time that week, Jojo found herself thinking, If only I'd gone to Greenland. Her adoptive fathers, Fred and Bradley-the only parents she'd ever known-were spending the year there on sabbatical. She'd almost gone with them, until her dads received a call from her biological parents, Barkley Everhart and Lailah Barton-aka Barbar, the world's most famous and adored couple. They'd finally found Jojo and invited her to stay with them. Within a few days, she'd said goodbye to Sacramento and her two professor dads and h.e.l.lo to Hollywood. So far it had been with disastrous results.

Jojo licked her finger and attempted to wipe away the cruel words on her locker. But her spit had no impact, and the nasty scrawled letters swam before her eyes. She spun the dial on her combination lock, trying to focus on the click of the numbers instead of the murmurs surrounding her in the hallway. Even the tabloids had been nicer to her in her "time of heave" than her fellow BHH students. Us Weekly had mentioned the video, but chalked up Jojo's retching to food poisoning. People said her inability to hold a drink was proof she was too sweet and innocent for the Hollywood life. Even the usually scandal-hungry Star said that Jojo's drink had been drugged. But at BHH, everyone knew and relished the facts: Here she was, a Sacramento imposter in their beautiful world, who'd drunk wayyy past her limit and fallen victim to Barnsley Toole's lame come-ons, all of which had been captured on tape at Lewis's party and would later air on Barnsley's MTV show, Barnsley's Babes. If she were her sister Myla Everhart, her fellow students wouldn't dare be so overt in mocking her. She knew rumors about Myla kissing the equally douchey Lewis Buford were circling, but only in hushed, deferential tones. Apparently, it took more than being the child of the world's most famous couple to earn your wings at this place.

"Aw, poor BarfBarf got a wittle note on her locker." Rod Stegerson, surrounded by some of his BHH football teammates, sauntered past. His meaty red face, close-cropped bra.s.s-colored hair, and short, thick neck made him look like a less handsome version of the orange brick guy from Fantastic Four. Jojo glared toward him.

"Why the dirty look?" Rod paused. "'Cause you'll never get a piece of the Rod? Sorry, BarfBarf, I like to kiss with tongue, not chunks."

"So it's true that steroids shrink your brain," Jojo mumbled, annoyed that a jock's lame dis could prompt an instant stress knot to form beneath her shoulder blades. Rod waved her off. "I'm not even going to dignify that with a response." He turned his hulking shoulders away from her, and he and his crew strutted down the hall. Jojo shrank toward her locker, making one more attempt to wipe away the offending words with her sleeve, to no avail.

Feeling powerless, she hefted her backpack onto her shoulder, almost glad the cla.s.s would be kept busy with a pig dissection in biology, and spotted Jacob Porter-Goldsmith and his friend Miles Abelson rolling an AV cart down the hall. She'd met Jacob, who, she remembered, preferred to be called Jake, in the computer lab on her second day here, and so far he was the only person who'd been nice to her. Jojo moved in front of her locker, wis.h.i.+ng she'd worn heels so her head would hide the writing at the very top of her locker.

Jake smiled and gestured to Miles to wait as he moved toward Jojo through the emptying hallway. A few students in distressed denim shot Jake derisive looks with each swoosh-swoosh of his brown cords. Third period was about to start.

"Hey, how are you doing?" he asked shyly, self-consciously running a hand through his messy curls.

Jojo gestured to her locker, smiling a little at his sweet concern. "Oh, I'm awesome. Who knew you could be instantly well-known around here just by losing your lunch on a D-list wannabe?" Jojo grimaced at the idea of just how "famous" she was. Her best friend from Sacramento, Willa Barnes, had texted her shortly after Barnsley's video was leaked online, to say that she and the soccer team had seen the whole awful event and were pulling for her. Jake grinned. "Like I said before, this will pa.s.s. Give it a few days." It was the same advice he'd given Jojo a few weeks ago, when Myla had been spreading lies about her. Unfortunately, this time what everyone was saying was true. "Trust me, BHH will move on to something else. Maybe even me."

Jojo smirked a little at this. Even though he was adorable, with his ruffled curls and lean, muscular body, Jake was mostly invisible to the BHH student body. Probably because he had no idea how cute he was. The key to popularity, if Myla was any indication, was confidence-even c.o.c.kiness. "Maybe, but it seems like the gossip wheel keeps landing on me." In her first weeks here, Myla had made Jojo's life a living h.e.l.l with one nasty rumor after another. The focus had s.h.i.+fted briefly when Myla turned her fury on her ex, Ash Gilmour, telling people that he was a chronic bed-wetter. Now the wheel of misfortune was back on Jojo, but it wasn't Myla's doing. After Sat.u.r.day's terrible party, Jojo and Myla had a bond, if a tenuous one. "This is so not like JFK-my old high school, in Sacramento. I swear, you can't even graduate from here without mastering the art of gossip."

"I'm flunking out, then," Jake said, his hazel eyes dancing. "Was JFK some kind of clique-free utopia?"

"I don't know. Kids could be mean, I guess. But they weren't so organized about it. Let's put it this way, Justin Klatch, who is basically the coolest, hottest guy ever to walk the halls of JFK, would be crucified at this place." Jojo flashed to an image of Justin's all-American boy face. He'd be eaten alive here. In fact, at BHH, Jojo would probably have a shot with him.

Jacob patted Jojo's arm awkwardly. "I doubt my cla.s.smates would ever elect me their spokesperson, but for what it's worth, I'm sorry people are such a.s.sholes around here. Miles, too."

Miles, hearing his name, gave a mock salute. "Aye, aye, sir." He pushed his gla.s.ses back up the bridge of his long nose. The kids at BHH called him McNothin' because he resembled McLovin' from Superbad. Jojo thought he looked more like a stretched-out, preteen Paul Rudd.

Jojo let loose a chuckle, for what felt like the first time in days. She felt her mood lighten from pitch-black to foggy gray. "Thanks, Jake. You too, Miles."

Miles nodded dutifully. "I'm working on an a.s.shole cure," he said, rubbing his hands together like a mad scientist. "I'll let you know when it's ready."

Jake rolled his eyes at Miles's joke, nodding his head toward Jojo's locker. "I see people are leaving you notes."

Jojo blushed. "It's nothing."

"Everything's spelled correctly," he said. "So at least we know Rod's not a suspect." He paused. "Hold on a sec." He jogged to the cart and opened a plastic Tupperware container, grabbing some kind of cloth and a spray bottle.

"It won't come off, I tried." Jojo sighed. "It's permanent."

Jake shook his head. "You're talking to an expert here," he said. "Ma'am, please step aside," he commanded in a fake cop voice.

He sprayed the substance liberally over the red paint, then rubbed it vigorously with the cloth. The letters instantly faded, leaving just a faint ghost behind. "I had 'I Want My Mommy' written on mine for a whole day before I realized it was just pep club wax pencil," Jake explained, admiring his work. "Kids here don't want to risk a real vandalism charge. Some warm soapy water on a paper towel will get the residue off."

"Thanks. That's gotta go right in your high school karma bank." Jojo hugged Jake excitedly before she realized what she was doing.

Jake blushed. "Like my mom says, I'm saving for college." He shrugged, his dorky orange polo stretching across his athletic shoulders.

"For real, you're my hero," Jojo said, smiling up at him. "You should try out for the Cla.s.s Angel guy." Jojo could totally picture Jake in the movie as a good-natured, all-American guy, which was what the casting memo distributed in first period had said they were looking for. Tryouts were today in the library.

"I'm waiting on a call from Spielberg," he joked, backing away in Miles's direction. With a final salute, he and Miles set off down the hall.

Jojo hung back, touching the almost-invisible letters on her locker and watching Jake retreat down the hall. Before he and Miles turned the corner, Jake looked back, and-with a sweet grin-waved at Jojo.

Who knew an unlikely hero could be so likable?

CASTAWAYS AND CALCULUS.

As Amelie Adams' town car pulled to a stop on the circular drive in front of Beverly Hills High, she would have sworn the sweet scent of teenage freedom was wafting up from its perfectly manicured front lawn. A courier had arrived yesterday with new script pages for her movie, Cla.s.s Angel, and instructions to report to BHH today for a partial reshoot. They were only reshooting about half the scenes, which meant they'd only spend a week or two at BHH. But for Amelie, it meant getting to feel like a real teenager, at a real high school. After years of tutors instead of teachers, agents instead of friends, and scripts instead of homework, Amelie was ready for a little dose of high school reality.

She hopped out of the town car before the driver had even unhooked his seat belt. She was T-minus ten seconds from seeing Hunter Sparks again, and nothing was going to slow her down. What seemed like mere hours before, Hunter had dropped her off from a party in the Hollywood Hills, uttering words that had circled Amelie's mind all weekend: "You need someone like me to look out for you. Because, honestly, there are a lot of guys out there-guys like me, who can't resist you. And you're too good for us." After weeks of crus.h.i.+ng on him-okay, months and years-but thinking he saw her as nothing but a little sister, the words had given her all the hope she needed. Hope that right now pushed her toward the school library, where they were shooting their first scene.

She swung open the front doors of BHH, her heels clicking against the immaculate ivory tile floor. The foyer was filled with trophy cases, photos of star students, and professional-looking posters advertising bake sales, fund-raisers, and football games. It must have been just before lunch, as some students carried doggie bags from Mr. Chow and neat plastic boxes bearing the Zone Diet logo. Amelie was glad she'd spent some time on her outfit, wearing her intellectual-looking L.A.M.B. houndstooth sweater instead of her usual set gear of jeans and a tee. Every girl in the hall looked like her school wardrobe had been carefully curated by a personal stylist.

Watching students fall into their cliques and laugh with their friends just a few feet from her face, Amelie paused to take it all in, feeling like a wildlife doc.u.mentarian observing teenagers in their natural habitat.

"So then he said, 'I can't date someone who wears fur,' and I said, 'Well, I can't be with someone who thinks minks are real animals.'" A glamorous girl with a Rihanna haircut tapped her five-inch black patent stilettos against the marble floor, surrounded by a cl.u.s.ter of lesser beauties. She turned and saw Amelie staring; her ruby lips pursed as she scanned Amelie from head to toe. With a sneer, she turned back to her friends. "You know, I heard Fairy Princess is actually, like, twenty-eight, but her mom is making her pretend to be a teenager until she can get real parts."

Amelie rolled her eyes. Any other day, the remark might have stung, but today Amelie took it in stride. If she'd learned anything from teen movies, it was that b.i.t.c.hy girls were par for the course. Ignoring the girls, she followed the school map, part of yesterday's messenger packet, to the library. She purposefully stepped inside, swept past the circulation desk, and entered the main reading room. Gary, her director, paced back and forth along shelves of new young adult books. When she entered, his eyes fell on her like she was the Holy Grail.

"Oh, thank G.o.d," he breathed. "We thought something had happened to you."

Amelie shook her head, as the crew went back to their work. Kady Parker lounged on a love seat next to Grant Isaacson-who Amelie guessed was playing the newly written part she'd read in the revised script.

"Holy c.r.a.p, I actually beat you," Kady said. "You're never late for anything. What were you up to?" Her eyes glimmered mischievously, as if she were expecting Amelie to say she'd been out all night with Hunter.

Amelie squinted doubtfully. "It's noon. Call time is twelve thirty, right?"

Gary pulled off his trademark ball cap, rubbing his head in frustration. "Did you not get the second memo? Call time moved to eleven for a cast and crew meeting. I guess you haven't heard the other news, either."

Something about the way he said it, and the doleful look in his ba.s.set-hound eyes, made Amelie s.h.i.+ver. She was almost grateful to Kady, who rattled off the unpleasant news before Gary could even finish his heaved sigh: "Hunter's out. Fired," Kady said. Her sapphire eyes were like two asterisks footnoted by her tiny frown. "Not authentic enough. He looks too old for me, comes off too metros.e.xual, shouldn't have done those trippy Dolce & Gabbana ads for Times Square, et cetera and so on. The producers wanted real. Because nothing says down-to-earth Midwestern high school like BHH, where even the mascot wears Prada."

Amelie wanted to laugh at the joke, but felt choked by the quickening beat of her heart. So this is a heart attack, she thought, her brain detached from her body. She almost willed herself to faint, if only to avoid hearing one more wretched, life-ruining fact.

"I'm sorry you're finding out this way, Amelie," Gary said gently, placing a fatherly hand on her shoulder. "It happened over the weekend. The studio saw dailies and just didn't think Hunter was authentic enough." The studio had sat for a dailies session on Sat.u.r.day morning and hadn't liked everything they saw. Thus, new writers-hired because they'd once served Diablo Cody at Starbucks-a reshoot of about half the scenes, and now a new cast?Amelie narrowed her eyes to fight the pressure of the tears mounting. She realized she hadn't spoken at all and, trying to collect herself into Amelie Adams, Child Star (Trademark), she managed to utter, "So what now?"

Gary gripped her in a half-hug, as though relieved Amelie hadn't started wailing and rampaging through the library, knocking books from their shelves. "We're casting a new Tommy Archer from the BHH student body," he said softly. "We've gotta find someone real, and a no-name. If you ask me, it's a stunt so we don't get fallout from ditching Hunter. A casting session and a huge reshoot in two weeks. I swear they're trying to kill me."

And me, Amelie thought, folding her arms over her chest. What was wrong with her life that she could have everything and nothing at the same time? She'd last worked with Hunter when she was eleven. Would she have to wait five more years to see him again?

So much for high school being the best time of your life.

Two hours later, auditions for Hunter's replacement were in full swing. Amelie's body felt drained as she dragged herself to a black couch, where Grant Isaacson lounged, his bronze hair forming a chaotic halo over his copy of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. He pulled the book away from his face, sympathetically smiling at Amelie. "Bad, eh?"

"Way worse than bad," she monotoned, flopping back in exhaustion over the arm of the couch. She'd theorized that the real reason Hunter was let go was to afford Grant, who was currently box-office gold and was probably viewed as bringing edge to the allegedly indie-fied script. Now she was trying hard not to resent him.

From her upside-down position, Amelie tried to smile at a flock of girls who hovered over the new fiction shelf, staring at Grant. The school had allowed the crew use of the library for an audition s.p.a.ce, as long as one half stayed open for BHH students and the film didn't cause any disruptions. Apparently, BHH administration had forgotten its female population's inability to function in Grant's presence. Three pretty girls, two blondes and a brunette, were front and center, waving excitedly at Amelie. She waved back, halfheartedly.

She nodded at Grant, scratching her head beneath her new costume accoutrement: an actual halo, worn atop her red curls. Designed by Christian Siriano, the headgear was fas.h.i.+oned from golden lace starched into jagged points. Wearing it, Amelie looked like she'd escaped from an asylum in Colonial Williamsburg. Insult, let me introduce you to injury, Amelie thought.

Glancing over at his fan club, Grant smiled his I'm probably up to no good but you're gonna love it smile, and said, "So, where's the acting talent at this school?" The power of the Stalker Club's collective giggle could have fueled a smart car for a week.

Kady, flipping through a copy of Spin at one of the study carrels, hauled herself up, trudged over, and flopped on the couch across from Amelie. "We're never going to find a Tommy," she said, her slim shoulder peeking out of her wide-neck yellow tunic. "This sucks."

Amelie nodded. "Sucks" was an understatement. All the BHH guys thought they were stars in the own right. They didn't want to go by the script and play Tommy as an earnest, down-to-earth jock. Or they showed up with full makeup. Or, before auditioning, they wanted to talk to Gary about getting Tommy a few more lines.