one

“ARUGULA, PUT THEM DOWN. You know thigh-high sandals give you cankles.”

Brooke Berlin snatched the seven-hundred-dollar Gucci gladiator shoes out of her friend’s hand and threw them back onto the display table, knocking over five and a half pairs of boots in the process. Choosing not to notice the shoes strewn across the floor—Brooke, in life and in shopping, rarely cleaned up her own messes—she cast a concerned frown at the Tyra Banks clone at her side.

“Relax, Brooke, I was just looking,” Arugula said. “Those are so 2008.”

Satisfied that she’d helped save yet another soul from style self-sabotage, Brooke turned and surveyed the modern, high-ceilinged store—shirts crisply folded on tables illuminated from within; white walls lit by metal pendant chandeliers as skinny as the clientele; gleaming chrome benches for those clients’ tired plus-ones—and inhaled deeply. She loved the smell of retail. Shopping was her Xanax, her Red Bull, her cure for the common cold: Brooke truly believed anything could be fixed by flexing the trusty plastic rectangles in her wallet. Some might have called it excessive consumption (like her father, if he ever noticed the bills), but Brooke preferred to think of it as philanthropy. Those poor schmoes wearing name tags pinned to last season’s blouses all worked on commission, and minimum wage wouldn’t even buy half a sushi roll at Nobu. Shopping was practically her patriotic duty.

Today, though, the central display was underwhelming. Inferno was the trendiest boutique in Los Angeles, the kind of place where paparazzi “caught” people like Nicole Richie buying maxi dresses, and tourists waited outside behind velvet ropes. But inconveniently, a mere week before the most important night of Brooke’s entire life, Inferno’s management decided the next hot fad was an exhumation of Seattle’s 1990s grunge scene. Even Katy Perry, riffling through the racks across the way, seemed dismayed. Through the window, a paparazzo snapped her scowling at a flannel romper. Brooke felt a flare of envy and turned away.

“What lunatic thought this was a good idea?” she whined, poking at an oversize plaid button-down. “I can’t show up at this party dressed like a lumberjack.”

“We could go across to Chanel,” Arugula offered.

“And look like an old lady? I don’t think so.” Brooke cleared her throat and raised the volume a few decibels. “Daddy and I just want everything to be perfect. Brick Berlin doesn’t do anything halfway.”

“Dude, that’s Brick Berlin’s kid?” someone whispered as a spate of heads jerked in their direction. “He’s, like… Oh. My. God. Those abs.”

Brooke beamed. Just because she wasn’t a household name—yet—didn’t mean she was totally anonymous.

“We haven’t even been here five minutes and you’ve already played your trump card?” Arugula whispered.

“I can’t help it if tourists have excellent hearing.”

“I know you better than that,” Arugula said. “You’re clearly anxious. I told you not to skip power yoga this morning.”

“I just couldn’t handle ninety minutes of looking at people’s crotch sweat,” Brooke said. “And I don’t believe in anxiety. It gives you wrinkles. But I do have to look exactly right on Saturday. A girl only turns sixteen once.”

“Technically, this is your third time in a few months,” Arugula replied. “Remember, you let the football team cook you a birthday meal to count toward its community service, and on your actual birthday in May your dad bagged on Spago to scout a location….”

“Details,” Brooke said dismissively. “This is the one that counts.”

She scanned the rest of the store, bypassing spandex bodysuits, vegan shoes—a trend Brooke couldn’t wait to see die; to her, fashion wasn’t cruelty-free if it was ugly—and one very alarming jumpsuit covered in spikes. Her shining moment was too important for an outfit that belonged on VH1 Classic being worn by a big-haired tart writhing on the hood of a pickup truck. Brooke Berlin was many things, but tarty wasn’t one of them.

Across the room, she spied a familiar pair of bifocals peeking out from a messy lump of dresses near one of the changing rooms.

“Brie!” Brooke called. “Find anything good?”

“I thought her name was Martha,” Arugula said.

“Martha is a name for old people with suspenders for their socks,” Brooke said. “I’m doing her a favor. Cheese is so in right now. Brie!”

A fist poked out from the teetering heap and gave Brooke a shaky thumbs-up.

“At least she’s got better taste than the last underclassman you hired,” Arugula noted. “Remember those Hot Topic coupons?”

“I know,” Brooke shuddered. “As if I shop at the mall, much less the store that costumed my dad’s zombie eating-disorder movie.”

“Was Chew any good? I couldn’t bring myself to see it.”

“Don’t,” Brooke confided. “Daddy dumped the lead actress in the middle of filming and you can totally tell. She stops purging with conviction halfway through the second act. So disrespectful.”

They walked over to Brie, who was sticking out a pasty leg to keep patrons from snagging the lone empty dressing room. Brooke patted her sophomore assistant on the head—it was important to be gentle with the help—scooped up a layer of dresses, and closed the curtain behind her.

“I’m surprised Brick actually agreed to let the tabloids document this party.” Arugula’s voice floated through the velvet drape. “Mother said the agency decided the single jet-setter image did more for his profile than ‘doting father.’ ”

“Actually, Daddy’s just very protective,” snapped Brooke, shimmying out of her sundress. “But once he saw how important it was to me, he couldn’t say no.”

He had, in fact, said no several times. It had been ten years since Brick Berlin let his daughter make any sort of public appearance with him. He claimed it was for her safety, but it wounded Brooke; she liked showing off her father, plus it seemed like a tremendous waste of his connections. But after three crying jags, one expertly rendered fainting spell, and a bunch of brochures scattered around the house with titles like “Twenty Myths About Manual Labor,” Brick caved and agreed to throw Brooke a sweet-sixteen party that would introduce her to Hollywood the way she’d always dreamed: as his daughter, the budding actress. It was about time. What was the point of being a celebrity legacy if it didn’t open doors? Nepotism was only a dirty word if you had no talent.

“Ugh. I look like a Hells Angels reject in this,” Brooke complained, throwing a studded leather skirt through the curtain in Brie’s general direction. “Seriously, if we can’t find something decent for me to wear, this whole cover story will be ruined and I’ll have to abandon Hollywood and make my living as a”—Brooke paused, then shuddered—“a doctor, or something.”

“God forbid,” snorted Arugula as Brooke emerged in a gold textured sheath. “Too scaly,” she added. “Also, don’t disparage premed before you’ve tried it. My own independent study of anatomy textbooks has been engrossing.”

“You are so weird,” Brooke said fondly. “Good thing you punched Magnus Mitchell for gluing my hair to the swings when we were five, or else you might be spending Saturday night reading the thesaurus instead of being fabulous with moi.”

“Please. Even geniuses like to party. Here, try the green one.”

“Ooh, Daddy does love anything money-colored,” Brooke bubbled, grabbing the dress.

Alone again behind the curtain, Brooke felt a wave of excitement. Since Brick had gone from action star to busy actor-director-producer with unfettered access to studio jets, they rarely did anything together. She didn’t begrudge his success—in addition to all the money, being Brick Berlin’s daughter had even the teachers at school treating her like a queen. But Brooke missed the days when her father would come home every night, scoop her up with a grin, and make her tell him a story. Now, if he had time to call from the road, he just absently asked her stuff like whether they still taught gymnastics in PE. It was like he wasn’t quite paying attention.

Well, that will change, Brooke thought, casting an appraising look at her reflection. The tart green silk wove around her in a series of perfect pleats, making her waist look tiny (it was), her light tan look natural (it wasn’t), and her legs seem ten miles long (a theory that several seniors on the cross-country team had offered to test). Brick would be pleased and proud.

A disembodied voice punctured her thoughts.

“Poor Arugula. Last season’s YSLs? Really? Do I smell an exclusive? Is Brick Berlin stiffing your mom on her commission?”

Brooke froze. Shoving her feet back into her Louboutins—this season, naturally—she charged outside and stopped dead in front of the one person who truly made her skin crawl.

“Hello, Shelby,” she said, infusing two years’ worth of contempt into each syllable.

“Brooke. Of course. I thought I smelled drugstore perfume,” Shelby Kendall said, tossing her overabundance of shiny black hair as if she were in a Pantene ad.

Brooke focused on her rival’s annoyingly flawless face and prayed a zit would appear and spontaneously burst all over the Diane von Furstenberg shirt that was slipping off one of Shelby’s smooth shoulders. Ever since Shelby had arrived for freshman year having renovated herself suspiciously quickly from a mousy, forgettable teacher’s pet into a tat-free Angelina Jolie, she’d set her sights on using the school’s TV station to usurp Brooke’s queen-bee status, and the two girls had gotten along about as well as a pig farmer at a vegan restaurant. It boggled Brooke’s mind how easily people bought into Shelby’s popularity ploy and vaulted her up the social hierarchy. At least Brooke’s own charms were natural (well, except for her tan, but it was a fact that bronzer saved lives). Beauty bought with the money Daddy made digging for scandals in half of their classmates’ own backyards seemed like it ought to be a tougher sell.

Shelby met Brooke’s eyes with barely a blink. The paparazzo hovering outside waved at her and pointed at them questioningly, and Shelby shook her head with a very dismissive wave.

“One of my father’s guys,” Shelby explained. “For a second he thought you were somebody.”

She punctuated this with a sparkling laugh, throwing back her head and clutching Brooke’s upper arm as if they were besties who’d just shared the most spectacular joke. Brooke knew better than to let Shelby provoke her, especially in front of the tourists who’d just heard her bragging about Brick. But she couldn’t resist pushing back a little.

“I see your dad’s coverage of the American Idol scandal bought you another nose job,” she said, with equally false cheer.

“And I see your boobs still haven’t come in,” Shelby said. “Luckily, nobody knows who you are—you could still get them done and no one would notice.”

“We both know I’m going to get plenty of attention after Hey! covers my party.”

Shelby patted Brooke’s shoulder. “I’m sure you’re right, darling.”

Brooke narrowed her eyes suspiciously, but Shelby’s attention had shifted elsewhere.

“Sweetie!” she squealed.

Abandoning Brooke and Arugula, Shelby signaled the Hey! photographer, who obligingly started snapping her as she ran over to a table where one of the lesser Kardashians was autographing a pile of three-hundred-dollar tank tops from her new line, Klothes. The girls shrieked, then hugged without actually touching.

“Something about that makes me uncomfortable,” Arugula warned in a low voice.

“I know, right?” Brooke rolled her eyes. “That family needs to buy another consonant.”

“No, I mean with Shelby. She didn’t even call you a drag queen. That almost never happens.”

“Oh, whatever,” Brooke said. “I’m sure she’s just off her game because her father is putting me front and center in Hey!, and there’s nothing she can do about it.”

In truth, though, Shelby’s victorious expression had made Brooke queasier than a carb binge. She’d seen it often enough to know that it never led to anything good.

Worse, it cast a pall on her shopping day to know Shelby was lurking around, as annoying as the old tube of lip gloss currently leaking at the bottom of Brooke’s handbag. She darted back into the dressing room, scooped up a stack of dresses she figured she’d just buy now and try later, and swanned back into the store.

Shelby had returned, and she was scrutinizing Brie with anthropological fervor. “What is this?”

“I’m Mar—” Brie began.

“Brie is my personal assistant, and I’ll thank you to treat her with respect,” Brooke said, drawing herself up to her full five feet eleven inches to look as imposing as possible. “You know the underclassmen always look to me as a wise big sister.”

“What an appropriate choice of words,” Shelby said, snapping her fingers as if she’d just remembered something important and pulling an issue of Hey! out of her purse. She tossed it at Brooke. “Page fifteen.”

Arugula subtly shook her head, but Brooke couldn’t resist.

BRICK BUILDING A BIGGER FAMILY? screamed the headline. The story read:

Is Hollywood’s biggest himbo hunk hiding a deep family secret? A source close to Berlin confirms that next week, he’ll unveil a love child. When asked if there was truth to the rumor, Berlin said cryptically, “Children, like protein shakes, are God’s greatest present.” We assume that’s a yes.

Brooke didn’t realize she was shaking until Arugula nudged her back to consciousness. Gossip about Brick never failed to chafe, especially because at least eighty percent of it usually turned out to be true—and she almost never heard it first.

“Surely he told you…?” Shelby asked, the very picture of concern. “I can’t imagine my father keeping something this huge from me. Maybe Brick thought the shock would cause a relapse of your tanorexia. That summer you were the color of a traffic cone hurt us all.”

Brooke ignored this and gritted her teeth. She was pretty sure none of Brick’s girlfriends had ended up pregnant—unless the most recent one’s Elle spread was heavily airbrushed, but considering the photo shoot featured her riding a bull, it seemed unlikely. She plastered a smile on her face and met Shelby’s sharp green eyes.

“Juicy,” she said, with all the nonchalance she could muster. “Too bad it’s not true.”

“That’s right. Stay strong, sweet pea,” Shelby said, drifting toward a display of fringed ankle boots. “But why don’t you hang on to that anyway? Might be fun in your family album! No mom in there means plenty of room for a new sibling.”

Ari sucked in a breath. “I’ll get the car,” she whispered.

Swallowing bile, Brooke nodded stiffly and turned to Brie.

“Tell the manager to put this all on my tab,” she announced. “And tell him the clientele here has gone disastrously downhill. I am way skeeved.”

Brooke brushed past Shelby—with a hint of an elbow jab—and exited Inferno with her head high. Once outside, though, she bolted down Robertson and around the corner onto one of the residential streets to hide, so she could have her mini breakdown far away from the photographers waiting for Nicole Kidman to come out of Chanel.

Her eyes burned, and not just because of that stupid tabloid story. Even after the letters stopped coming, Brooke never imagined she would turn sixteen without so much as word (or a car) from her mother. And it pissed her off even more that Shelby could push the Kelly Berlin button so effortlessly. Getting upset over her absentee mother seemed almost too obvious, like something from a bad soap opera but without hot, shirtless men everywhere to distract from the pain.

After a few calming yoga breaths, Brooke decided to reject her anger. Kelly’s absence and Shelby’s noxiousness only made it that much more important to make a huge impression on the Hollywood bigwigs at her party. Topping her mother’s feat of being the first hand model ever to wear a Lee Press-On Nail would be tricky—but winning an Oscar at eighteen would be a decent start. Shelby may have gotten the last word today, but Brooke wasn’t going to be derailed by some vague blurb in a magazine.

It will happen, Brooke told herself. Be calm. There is nothing in your way.

Brooke’s funk returned as soon as Arugula dropped her off at home. For all her bravado, something about the Hey! blurb nagged at her, and she needed to talk to Brick.

She trudged up the ten stone steps to her front door and let herself into the house, which was vast and silent as a library. The stillness only added to her irritation. She felt like the building was shushing her when she hadn’t done anything wrong. Petulantly, she hurled her house keys at the nearest surface; unfortunately, that surface turned out to have a face.

“Whoops! Sorry, Stan.”

Her father’s assistant rubbed his bald head. “What happened? Is this what amnesia feels like?”

“I wish I had amnesia.” Brooke moaned for maximum melodrama. “Any idea where he is?”

“The usual—in the library reading Tolstoy.”

“So which is it, gym or pool?”

“Got it in two, hon.”

Brooke blazed ahead to the living room, across the solarium’s parquet floors, through the French doors onto the patio, and down the sloping, verdant grounds to the Olympic-size pool, where Brick’s bright red swim cap gave him away. She tore off her shoes, plopped down on the mosaic tiles that fanned out from the diving board, and stuck her feet in the water.

Brick stroked toward the ledge. Brooke couldn’t resist kicking out at him.

“H-h-hey!” he sputtered, surfacing with a mouthful of water. “Oh, hi, honey. Didn’t recognize your foot. How was your day?”

“It was… interesting,” she said, arranging her features into a mighty pout.

Brick didn’t take the bait; he was too busy hauling himself out of the pool to notice. Brooke winced. She hated his embarrassingly snug racing Speedo, but he swore it was his trademark. It never worked to point out that there was no need for a trademark when he was hanging out alone at the house.

“Hey, Sunshine, since we’re here together, there’s something I need to tell you, okay?” Brick said, peeling off his cap and shaking out his thick russet hair. “And I think it’s going to be super great, but it’s also going to shock you a little.”

“Let me guess,” Brooke spat. “That stupid protein-shake quote was real?”

Brick hung his head. “Let me guess: Hey! wrote something, and you saw it?”

“Shelby basically shoved it up my nose.”

“Those bastards weren’t supposed to say anything yet,” Brick cursed, slapping the cement ringing the pool.

“It was hideous, Daddy,” Brooke wailed. “I can’t believe Shelby Kendall knew about this before I did! Can you imagine what that felt like? I want to run away to Europe and get a face transplant!”

This had worked well on the most recent episode of Brooke’s favorite soap, Lust for Life, although for some reason Bobbie Jean had also woken up in Dr. Hedge Von Henson’s Swedish sanitarium three inches shorter and a redhead.

Brick sighed. “Listen, Sunshine, I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean for you to find out that way. But before you get angry, hear me out. A sibling could be fantastic. Think what it’ll be like to have someone who looks up to you and needs you.”

A calming voice in Brooke’s head (that sounded eerily like Tim Gunn) chimed in that celebrity babies were dominating the tabloids—as were the people holding them. She imagined a “Famous People Feel Things Too” feature in which she tickled the chin of a tot in tiny designer sunglasses while Brick looked on with adoration. Embracing her father’s random spawn would make her look so modern and open-minded.

“And just think how cool it could be!” Brick was continuing. “Someone to shop with, someone to help you with your math homework…”

Brooke snorted. “A baby helping me with math? I know I flunked my geometry final last year, but come on.”

“A baby? Who has a baby?”

The thought bubble containing Brooke’s daydream began to deflate. “Wait, what are you talking about?”

“Your sister. Molly. Well, okay, she’s your half sister, but I don’t want to dwell on that distinction. It might make her feel unwelcome.”

“And this Molly”—Brooke pronounced the name as if it tasted like earwax—“isn’t a baby?”

“She turned sixteen a few days ago.”

Brooke’s mouth went dry. “How… what?”

“Well, Sunshine, you’ve always known your mom and I weren’t exclusive when we first started dating,” Brick began. “I didn’t even know she was pregnant until I got back from the Rad Man shoot. But what I never told you is that on set I met Laurel, and”—he got a faraway look in his eyes—“she worked in wardrobe, and we just connected, you know?”

“What wardrobe? You wore a bodysuit for three months,” Brooke muttered.

“She was an artist with spandex!” Brick huffed. “Anyway, by the time Laurel told me about the baby, I’d already married your mother. Laurel didn’t want any drama, so she went back to Indiana.”

Brooke’s eyes narrowed. “She’s from one of those middle states? Dad, why would you ever let a tabloid hear about this? She could’ve just stayed hidden in her cornfield or whatever!”

“That’s just it, sweetie, she can’t. See, Laurel got sick, and she… she’s…” Brick’s voice broke, which Brooke might have found touching if her world weren’t crashing down around her. “Long story short, Molly’s coming to live with us. In two days. She’ll be here for the party. I was waiting to tell you until all the arrangements were final.”

For a second Brooke thought horror had stolen her voice. She imagined the grief in Brick’s eyes when he realized his indiscretion forever silenced his child, and pictured him laying her on a chaise longue, a single tear falling from his cheek as he whispered, “Sweet Brooke, I will hear your song again.”

Instead, Brick pleaded, “Come on, Sunshine, say something.”

“Something,” Brooke mumbled. Damn, so she wasn’t mute. It was just as well; she couldn’t sing anyway. She made a mental note to learn.

“I should’ve told you from the start. It’s a lot to deal with.”

“A lot to deal with?” Brooke echoed. “Math is a lot to deal with. A crater-faced half sister from the sticks crashing the most important night of my life is a total nightmare.”

“There’s one more thing,” Brick said, a hint of unease in his voice. “I thought we could use the party as Molly’s big debut. You know, make her part of the story.”

“My story?” Brooke gasped.

She gazed at Brick’s blazing white grin and wanted to punch him. This thunder-stealing she-devil was shaping up to be the worst catastrophe since high-waisted jeans.

“Now it can be grand and important and meaningful,” Brick said, losing himself in his thoughts. “It’s such a powerful angle—how in losing her mother, Molly’s gained a family.” He paused. “Wait, that’s kind of good,” he said, reaching for his BlackBerry.

Stung, Brooke stumbled to her feet. Her father’s muscles blurred before her as he typed away on his stupid phone, a stupid smile on his stupid face. Without knowing what she was doing, almost as if the foot belonged to somebody else, Brooke kicked Brick back into the pool and bolted up to the house.

She burst inside her palatial top-floor suite (panting slightly; the hilly lawn and two flights of stairs were a lot of ground to cover at tantrum speed) and slammed the door as hard as she could—mostly out of habit, since she knew Brick was still outside shaking water out of his ears. But the explosion of noise felt good. It matched what her brain was doing. All those fantasies of standing at Brick’s side while he called her the light of his life, anointing her the next jewel in the Berlin acting dynasty, were dissolving like mascara at the Drama Club car wash. It wasn’t fair.

Brooke heaved herself into the plush pink wing chair by the window. Her gaze fell on a framed tabloid page from when she was seven and Brick took her to the premiere of his kids’ film, Diaper Andy, about a stay-at-home dad who invents a baby-changing robot. It was her first and last public event with him, before he’d decided he needed to protect her from people’s prying eyes.

“There’s no sunscreen for the limelight,” he’d intoned. Then they’d split a PowerBar.

Her eyes drifted beneath the tabloid page toward another treasured memento: a proof from a Vaseline campaign showing a graceful pair of hands tenderly moisturizing themselves. Brooke stared down at her own identical fingers, then grabbed her laptop. Her e-mail account’s Saved Drafts folder flashed onto the screen: 198 unsent messages, one for every week since she’d gotten her own computer. Brooke opened one at random from when she was fourteen. It read:

Brooke slammed it shut. “Stupid,” she hissed.

Since Kelly left and Brick’s career took off, Brooke could count on one hand how many birthdays she and Brick had spent together, or how many of her performances he’d been able to attend—people still talked about the courageous death monologue she’d improvised when she played a tomato in her fifth-grade play about cooking. But Brick had been in Cannes. This party was supposed to be her moment. Their moment. Instead, some warty love child was horning in, and not only didn’t he get it, but he didn’t even seem to mind. How could a guy who’d given himself Lasik as an Arbor Day present be so blind?

So as much as she knew the world expected her to embrace her tragic half sibling, truth be told, Brooke was angry at her.

No, not angry. Furious. Brooke Berlin was furious.