nine

“IS THIS THE BATHROOM?”

Brooke didn’t bother looking. “No, it’s the Kodak Theater.”

“And this is my phone line?”

“No, it’s a wet bar.”

“Did this broken heel come from your Valentinos?”

Brooke’s head snapped up so fast she gave herself whiplash.

“Just kidding,” Molly said with a tentative smile.

“How fun for you,” Brooke grunted.

Without Brick around, Brooke had lost interest in being nice. The idea of keeping up appearances 24/7 was too much to bear. She didn’t appreciate her personal space being cruelly invaded, especially when she’d done nothing but alert her father—okay, a bit loudly, but still—to a dangerous piece of misbehavior on the part of their crass new tenant.

Leaning back in her desk chair, Brooke looked at the carcass of her room. The NordicTrack had been evicted, as had the couch, a chair, and a coffee table, all replaced with Molly’s queen-size bed. Its tasteful Calvin Klein bedding was sullied by a giant Notre Dame throw pillow and a blanket that looked like someone blindly sewed together a bunch of knitted scarves. Muddy running shoes were tucked near the door, and in her beloved closet, two drawers hung half-open while Molly flung bras, underwear, and T-shirts inside.

“Can I put this here?”

With a huge sigh, its heft equal to the extreme effort she wanted Molly to know it required to feign interest, Brooke turned and saw Molly looking for a place to put a silver picture frame.

“No.”

“What about over there?”

“I just don’t see any room. It’s cramped enough in here as it is,” Brooke said flatly, gazing at the spotless forty feet between her bed and Molly’s.

“Would you mind if maybe we moved this and I hung some—” Molly reached for the framed Vaseline advertorial.

“Don’t touch that,” Brooke bellowed, hopping up with the speed of a lynx to protect her wall art. “That is my mother.”

Molly paused.

“Oh,” she said. “I didn’t realize. I would never… Here, this is mine.”

She handed Brooke the photo she’d been looking to place. Against her will, Brooke looked down at it and was greeted with a friendly, open smile, a freckled nose, and long, straight, center-parted hair with a daisy-chain crown.

“My mom was kind of a hippie,” Molly said. “She’s fifteen in that photo.”

The eyes were warm, and the moment—Laurel was running barefoot along a beach, laughing—seemed so perfect that it could’ve been one of those unrealistic prop photos on a movie set, the kind men moon over en route to winning an Academy Award for not being afraid to cry. Brooke derived some meager satisfaction from seeing that her own mother was technically more of a looker than Laurel, but she had to admit that Laurel was more natural. And she had very pretty hands.

I guess Brick has a type.

“How wholesome,” Brooke said. “There might be space on the bookshelf near my pictures of Mr. Pickles.”

Molly nodded and offered a timid smile. Brooke let fly another aggrieved sigh and plopped back down at her desk, staring at the e-mail she’d begun. After two hours, she’d managed to churn out only “Dear Mom.” As a tiny act of rebellion, she cracked her knuckles. Kelly and her prizewinning hands would’ve hated that.

Brooke’s restless gaze landed on the cluster of pictures Molly was sliding onto the bookshelf. One was of a hunky, apple-pie-American blond boy, arm in arm with Molly, who was wearing a floor-length blue gown. The bodice was covered in delicate, expensive-looking pleats that were repeated on the hem. It was a surprisingly pretty dress.

“Where’d you get the gown?”

“My mom made it.”

It was a predictably tacky dress.

“Who’s the boy?”

“My boyfriend. Well, maybe. I think. No, I guess he is. We—”

Brooke yawned. “I don’t need your life story. Thanks!”

She returned to her e-mail just in time to notice the arrival of a new one. The subject line was, “Is this the Brooke Berlin?” and it was from some person called Ginevra. The name sounded familiar.

Of course. The reporter. Brick would be annoyed if he knew she was in touch with anyone in the media, so by instinct, Brooke made a move to delete the e-mail. Nothing good could come from being aligned with the one major magazine eager to take down Brick’s happy family charade.

But her hand faltered. Maybe if she was cordial, she could get in the magazine’s good graces, which would make everyone’s lives easier. And really, wasn’t it impolite to ignore a thank-you note? Wouldn’t Brick prefer that his daughter exemplify good breeding and proper etiquette?

She hit Reply.

Brooke double-checked it; clearly, she’d written nothing false or inflammatory. Molly did need to walk better in heels.

As she clicked Send, Brooke glanced over at Molly folding a pile of track pants. Brick could bunk them together like some lame Parent Trap sequel, but make them best buddies? Not in this movie.

Molly closed the sliding door behind her and raised her face to the sky. The L.A. air still had a little heat to it, even after sunset, but it felt so much better than the canned oxygen pumping through Brooke’s room. Their room.

Except, no. It was still Brooke’s room. The floor plan matched Molly’s old space across the hall (except bigger), but Brooke oozed out of every nook and cranny—from the Barbie pink color scheme to the eleven thousand mirrors. Molly couldn’t believe Brick’s idea of parenting involved immersion therapy with a girl who’d spent the week smothering her, then hung her out to dry when Molly needed her most.

She’d wanted to believe Brooke’s sob story in Brick’s study, but Brooke’s recent firm, ominous cold shoulder said otherwise. This was more than just a tantrum; it was a really bad portent for the future. She could imagine Charmaine’s reaction: “What did you expect from a person who made you wear chintz?”

Dejected, Molly flopped down in the chair farthest from the bedroom window. Between moving, getting drunk, landing on a tabloid’s website, and having a hangover in front of the father she’d only just met, Molly had done more living in one week than in her entire sixteen years. What was next? Flunking out of school? Immaculate conception?

Her phone buzzed.

OMG ARE YOU A HOMEWRECKER?

Charmaine had been texting her all day, as dribs and drabs of the night before leaked onto the Internet. Aside from the photo of her passed out at Brooke’s feet, someone had posted a creative lie on Hey!’s message board that Molly drunkenly hooked up with Pete Wentz.

Molly texted back:

I WILL NOT DIGNIFY THAT.

Her head spun, partly from her hangover and partly because she was on her second bedroom in less than a week. Unpacking was taking forever—Brooke’s closet was the size of a studio apartment, yet she swore it wasn’t possible to clear more than a three-foot stretch of hanger space. Molly probably could’ve pressed the issue with Brick, but as nice as he’d been about the passing out thing, she counted that as one strike. She refused to get the other two, in case Brick decided letting her come here had somehow ruined things and then she wound up with no parents at all.

Buzz.

PETE WENTZ, HUH?

She knew Danny was teasing, but it hit a nerve. Gritting her teeth, Molly dialed him.

“I never pegged you for a groupie,” Danny greeted her. “What was it like to make out with a dude who wears eyeliner?”

“Beats kissing a guy who thinks Skittles hide the taste of chewing tobacco.”

“Ooh, good one,” Danny said. She knew he was grinning. “Those photos online were crazy.”

Molly just sighed. “Tell me about it,” she said.

“Are you okay? Do you need me to come there and kick anyone’s ass?”

The tenderness in his voice made the tension in Molly’s spine ebb a bit.

“I still don’t get how you drink so much beer,” she said. “I feel like my head is going to explode, and I’m so exhausted.”

“That’s because drunk sleep doesn’t count,” Danny said. “You’ll feel better tomorrow. What did your dad say? Was he pissed?”

“Not really,” Molly admitted. “It was kind of amazing. He actually understood. It was probably the third time we’ve ever talked but he totally got me.”

Danny snorted. “Lucky. My dad gets mad if I have a Coke.”

“He’s your coach. He’s just looking out for you.”

“You two always did get along. He tells me every day how much it sucks that you’re gone,” Danny said, lowering his voice. “And he’s right, Molls. It’s not the same.”

“I know,” she said. “I’d much rather be in your basement than all over the Internet.”

“I keep trying to imagine you surrounded by all those photographers, and in every mental image, you are screaming and running away,” Danny said, sounding amused.

“It was so insane. I’m starting to understand why celebrities attack the paparazzi with umbrellas.”

“I’m proud of you for getting through it, babe. And you looked beautiful.” He paused. “When you were upright.”

“Gee, thanks.” She laughed. “And thank you for not asking about Brooke.”

“That one kinda spoke for itself.”

“She claims the photo isn’t what it looks like, but little bits of last night keep coming back to me. I think she hates me, Danny.”

“You’ve seen too many TV movies with Charmaine,” he scoffed. “I bet she’s—ha-ha, stop it, Weebs, I’m on the phone!”

Molly frowned. “Where are you?”

“I’m over at Smitty’s house. We’re playing Mario Kart against some kids in Japan—oh, damn, Weebs, you just got smoked.”

“I wish I was there,” she said. “Everything is so much easier at home.”

“No, you don’t,” Danny said. “And remember what your mom used to say—what’s easy isn’t always what’s right. L.A. will get better, I promise.”

“That’s true, because I’m not sure it can get any worse,” Molly said, so tragically that she had to laugh at herself. “Wait. Yes, it can. I start school tomorrow with a bunch of people who have already seen me passed out drunk on the ground.”

“So you can only go up in their estimation,” Danny said. “Speaking of which, Smitty wants to know how come you never went out drinking when you lived here. Ha! You’re such an ass, Smitty.”

“I should let you go,” Molly said, trying not to sound lonely.

“Yeah, maybe this isn’t the best time,” Danny replied. “I hate that you’re so far away. Wanna Skype on Thursday?”

“It’s a date.” Molly smiled at the balcony railing. “I love you like Pete Wentz loves his flatiron.”

The distance between L.A. and West Cairo suddenly felt more like two hundred thousand miles. And thanks to Danny’s brainiac denial strategy, Molly didn’t know if she was supposed to be seeking comfort as his girlfriend or just a wronged buddy. After the last six months, Molly was so sick of trying to interpret her own emotions, she kind of just wanted Danny to take charge and tell her how it was between the two of them.

Buzz.

OK, THEY RETRACTED THE WENTZ THING.

Molly shoved her phone into her pocket. She didn’t feel like talking to Charmaine about the scurrilous facts and fictions of her big Hollywood debut right now. Instead, she had real problems. Like where she was going to put her clothes. And which of them she was going to wear when she started school the next day.

Originally, she’d planned to ask Brooke. That clearly wasn’t going to happen; Brooke had all but thrown her into the fire pit down by the hot tub, and that was just one party. If she was capable of doing that practically right in front of their father… well, Molly didn’t want to think about what she might do next.