fourteen

“I’M SO GLAD YOU CALLED,” Shelby said, twisting her long black locks into a knot, then putting on a sun hat so large that its family reunions would include at least one sombrero. “You can’t spend every day cooped up in your room e-mailing your friends at home. Hey!’s medical expert claims that too much canned air can cause lung depression.”

Molly filled her lungs with sweet, tangy beach air and exhaled. “Nope, nothing depressed here,” she said, letting her head roll back luxuriously.

She’d assumed that calling Shelby would lead to a few sociable encounters in the hallway, maybe a shared lunch hour or two—just enough interaction to make Brooke’s brain explode and trickle out her ear. But Shelby had immediately offered to meet Molly outside the Bel Air gates—“I can’t go inside. A certain beloved Oscar winner had us blacklisted, like it’s our fault he went out to get the newspaper wearing a Speedo and bunny slippers”—and whisk her off to the beach. Molly had been at odds: On the one hand, Shelby’s reputation preceded her. On the other, she’d never seen the Pacific.

That hand won. Actually, it wasn’t even close. And now, staring at the view, not even the issue of Hey! she’d found waiting for her in Shelby’s vintage Mercedes convertible could make her blood pressure spike—even if it did contain a blind item implying that Molly stole all Brooke’s designer shoes. El Matador felt like a secret, tucked away in a far corner of Malibu and reached by two steep wooden staircases and a sharp, dusty hike down to the beach. The swatch of warm sand was narrow, smooth, postcard-perfect, and framed by rock formations—exactly the kind of scene Molly had imagined when she decided to leave the Midwest for California. For the first time since her flight had landed at LAX, she felt truly relaxed. At this rate, she’d be a beach bum in about three days. Maybe she’d learn to surf. Brick would like that; it was, after all, how the titular hero in Rad Man had dispensed most of his rogue justice.

Shelby stretched out facedown on her towel, then reached back and unhooked her bikini top.

“No tan lines.” She winked. “God, isn’t it just fabulous out here? I need this so bad after last week. You would not believe how amateurish most of the students at CR-One are. Don’t they have any ambition?”

A Frisbee landed right at Shelby’s elbow with a soft, sandy puff.

“Sorry,” the dude said, jogging over to it while making no effort to hide his appraisal of Shelby’s bare back. “My aim is bad.”

“Is it?” Shelby purred, gazing up at him. Molly thought she recognized him from TV, but she couldn’t be sure. Charmaine would be so annoyed, but Molly didn’t know yet if it was kosher to gawk at the famous people or just let them be. It seemed rude to stare.

Shelby extracted a Sharpie from her beach bag and scrawled her phone number on the Frisbee before tossing it toward the ocean. Obligingly, the hunky actor trotted away after it.

“See? I am so good,” Shelby said with a triumphant smile. “If he uses the number, Hey! will bust him for pursuing jailbait. Father would be thrilled to get someone from Lust for Life.”

“I’m sure he thought you were eighteen,” Molly said.

Shelby slid her sunglasses down her nose and cocked an eyebrow at Molly. “Did you get carded in the parking lot, honey? This is a public beach. I could be fourteen for all he knows. Someone in his position should really be a little bit more savvy, don’t you think?” She flicked her shades back up over her eyes and rested her cheek on the sand. “Besides, it’s a good reporter’s duty to hold people accountable for their flaws. For their own benefit and the community’s.”

Molly just smiled. Shelby was an interesting creature. She exuded friendliness in a way reminiscent of Brooke’s initial onslaught of goodwill, but with an underlying edge that Brooke lacked, which Molly attributed to Shelby’s much-professed ambition of becoming the Anderson Cooper of celebrity news. She teemed with amusing gossip, and even though fact seemed to blur with fiction occasionally—for example, Molly had a hard time believing that Shelby had a part in discovering Sandra Bullock’s divorce—Shelby’s entertaining penchant for embellishment made her good company.

“So, tell me about Indiana—is there a boy? Is he worth it?”

But reporter mode was never far away.

“That reminds me, I should get a picture of this beach for him. It’s so gorgeous,” Molly said, using her attempts to get a good shot on her phone as a way of evading this. “Thank you so much for bringing me here. Danny will be so jealous, if he ever checks his messages.”

“Trouble in paradise?” Shelby wondered, concern edging her voice.

In fact, reporter mode was never away, period.

“No, it’s just been hard to keep up with each other,” Molly said evasively. “The time difference puts a weird kink in things.”

“Maybe he’s struggling with the fact that you’re not ordinary anymore,” Shelby said, her eyes glazing over as if she were already writing a headline. “I mean, what happened to you is really remarkable, isn’t it?”

“I don’t think that’s it,” Molly said. “I mean, it’s only been, like, a week. And I’m still me, you know? The only thing that’s changed is my location. Well, and my dad, obviously. But that doesn’t quite feel real yet, anyway, especially since Brick’s been in Florida practically this whole time.”

Shelby leaned forward. “That must be so lonely, honey.”

“It’s just quiet,” Molly said. “Brooke isn’t exactly speaking to me.”

“And you mentioned in the car that Brick is forcing you to share a room with her,” Shelby noted thoughtfully. “Far be it from me to question your father, obviously, but that seems a bit unfair.”

Molly shook her head. “No, I get it. He just wants us to be friends.”

“Oh, of course!” Shelby said. “What father wouldn’t? But just think of the emotional stress it’s putting on you. I hate imagining you being thrown to the wolves like that.”

“Yeah,” Molly sighed. “Things haven’t been exactly easy.”

Her voice faltered.

Shelby reached over and squeezed her hand. “Let it out, Molly,” she said.

“I guess it’s just that my mom hasn’t really been dead very long,” she heard herself confessing. “People seem to forget that part. It sucks. It’s so awful.”

Molly was surprised to find herself opening up like this. She hadn’t intended to, but Shelby’s sympathy was so unexpected and complete that once she started talking, it was hard to stop. Sort of like popping a big, painful zit.

“And I gave up everything to come here—my house, all my friends, my grandparents. My boyfriend,” she added.

“Danny was a lifeline for you, I’m sure,” Shelby said.

“And having a sister could really have helped, but Brooke doesn’t want to have anything to do with me. And I don’t know what I did wrong,” Molly continued, feeling freer by the second. “She obviously doesn’t like me very much and I don’t think there’s anything I can do to change it. And that hurts, too.”

“That is so like her.” Shelby tsked. “Afraid of change. Afraid of competition.”

“But this isn’t a competition.”

“Oh, Molly, you are sweet,” Shelby beamed. “Of course it’s a competition. At least for Brooke. And if you just hang back and do nothing, Brooke will think she’s won. You know, freshman year, when she decided to tell everyone I had plastic surgery, the only way I could manage to shut her up was by having prescription hemorrhoid cream delivered to the registrar for her.”

“Wow, that is”—brilliant? deranged?— “creative,” Molly said. “What’s the deal with you guys, anyway? When I mentioned we were going to the beach today, she practically choked on her egg whites.”

“Oh, the details of all that don’t really matter,” Shelby said, airily waving a well-manicured hand. “Put it this way: Brooke is the Voldemort of Colby-Randall. And I’m Dumbledore. And you could be my Harry Potter. Right down to being an orphan.”

Molly considered pointing out that her father was alive and sending texts from Florida that read things like, Humidity works wonders for my pores! Let’s get a steam room! xoxoxo, Brick (Dad).

Instead, she just said, “Brick won’t like it if I cause any trouble. He just wants me and Brooke to get along, and fighting in public kind of flies in the face of that. I guess I feel like if I don’t react, she’ll get bored and move along to someone else. Right?”

Shelby made a doubtful noise. “Whatever you think is best. I’m just saying all this because I care,” she said. “One of the first things you learn in this town is to fight fire with fire. That, and never to let the paparazzi catch you eating, obviously.”

“But they get people coming out of restaurants all the time,” Molly said, picking up the copy of Hey! on her lap. “Look, here’s Blake Lively leaving Chipotle.”

“Oh, yes—entering and exiting, for sure, but you almost never see them chew,” Shelby said. “Believe me, we try. One of Father’s top reporters tailed Renée Zellweger for two years and he never caught her putting anything into her mouth that wasn’t a breath mint.”

Shelby stood up and grabbed her BlackBerry. “This gives me an idea,” she said, punching a few keys. “Let’s grab some dinner. Nobu is right nearby. You’ll die for the eel.”

“Aren’t we sort of underdressed?” Molly asked.

She gestured to her wrinkled white Hanes V-neck and denim skirt, which were sitting in a sandy pile on her beach towel.

“This is L.A. If you’re dressed, you’re overdressed,” Shelby said. “And I have a few spare pairs of heels in the car.” She smiled. “Come on, you’ll enjoy this. I just want you to feel at home here.”

Molly grabbed her stuff and tailed Shelby back to the car. She’d come this far. Dinner couldn’t hurt.

After half an hour of BMW-to-BMW traffic on Pacific Coast Highway, Shelby shot through an opening in the sea of cars and exited into the quaint, unassuming little strip mall where Nobu sat. A cluster of paparazzi photographers huddled outside, their backs to the valet stand. They all perked up whenever the door opened, only to deflate when the restaurant expelled someone unrecognizable.

Shelby pulled up to the valet stand at 55 miles an hour, like she was relieved to have some open road at last, then slammed on the brakes at the last possible second. The valet looked terrified as he ran off to get her a ticket.

Molly stared nervously at the paparazzi. There was a borrowed pair of Prada sandals on her feet, but they didn’t make her feel much better about her non-outfit, since Shelby—despite her assurances that their attire would be fine—had changed into a BCBG dress she’d pulled out of an overnight bag in the trunk.

“I’m having total acid flashbacks from the party,” Molly shuddered. “Thank God none of those guys remember who I am.”

Shelby tucked away her lip gloss. “Of course they do,” she said. “It’s their job. Half of them were at your party.”

“What? Wait, this is not a good idea,” Molly said, peering at herself in the passenger side mirror and noticing that her nose was pink. “I don’t think that Brick—”

“Brick will be delighted that you’re out having fun,” Shelby said, pushing open her door. “Hurry up, we’re causing a traffic jam here.”

Molly considered her options. If she stayed in the car, she’d look like a bratty child. If she got out, she’d be immortalized in a wrinkly, damp outfit and hair that looked like she’d combed it with an immersion blender.

Shelby made the decision for her, walking around to open Molly’s door and all but drag her to her feet.

“Shelby Kendall and Molly Dix Berlin,” she called out to the assembled photographers as she led Molly toward the entrance of the restaurant. Once they were smack in front of the photogs, Shelby planted her feet and turned to smile at the cameras, which started obediently clacking their shutters. Molly tried to step away but Shelby wrapped her arm around Molly and turned to her, laughing as if Molly had just said something deeply hilarious.

“Molly, one on your own, please!” called out a voice.

“Please, Molly, just one over here!”

“Come on, Molly, we love you! Step over here!”

Shelby tugged on her hand. “Enough,” she said. “I’m so hungry. Let’s get a table.”

As she dragged Molly inside, the reporters groaned. Molly turned, offered a half smile, and waved an apology to the reporters. Their flashes went off a few more times, and then suddenly Molly was inside. The room was much better lit than she’d anticipated—she’d expected tiny tables and dim lighting, the better to rendezvous with an illicit fling, but Nobu was bright and buzzing with life. Molly noticed a crowd waiting for tables and didn’t see a single empty seat.

“Table for two,” Shelby announced at the podium.

“It’ll be about an hour,” the hostess told her.

Shelby smiled and handed her a business card. “You misunderstand.”

The hostess glanced at it, then back up at Shelby. “Okay. But it’ll be an hour,” she said, dropping the card in the “Free Lunch” raffle jar.

“Well, then, Hey! won’t be printing the name Nobu for the rest of the year,” Shelby snapped. “Come on, Molly, let’s go to Katsuya.”

Molly wondered if the entire meat of her friendship with Shelby would involve firing off apologetic glances as Shelby pulled her from place to place. But as she made eye contact with the beleaguered hostess, the girl’s eyes widened.

“I know you!” she gasped. “You’re Brick Berlin’s daughter! The one with the dead mother!”

“I… yes,” Molly said.

“Why didn’t you say that?” The hostess snapped her fingers frantically at another woman, then grabbed two menus and said, “We’ll have a seat at the bar for you right away.”

Molly couldn’t believe it. She turned to Shelby, who blinked so quickly that Molly almost didn’t notice the icy glint in her eye. Almost. Man, she and Brooke are more alike than they think.

“Very bold to go straight to ‘Don’t you know who my father is?’ ” Shelby said as they followed the girl to the two empty seats that had magically appeared, even though a moment ago the restaurant was packed to capacity.

“But I didn’t, that was—”

“I mean it. Well played. You’re going to fit right in here,” Shelby said, sliding into the padded chair the hostess held out for her.

Molly thanked the hostess, then turned to the menu, but before she could even open it, one of the sushi bar chefs slid a plate of something in front of them.

“Compliments of the house,” he said.

“Of course, now you’ll have to tip them,” Shelby said. “My advice is to buy each of them a sake bomb, and be sure and order a few of the pricier items on the menu. It’s polite.”

“I don’t have that much cash,” Molly said, scanning the menu and watching the imaginary bill inflate before her eyes.

Shelby put down her menu and placed both hands on the table, as if summoning strength from it.

“Honey,” she said. “You think Brooke feels guilty when she buys four pairs of peep-toes in one swoop? You’re a Berlin now. Put it on your card.”

Molly popped a slice of their complimentary tuna roll in her mouth. It was bliss—savory, spicy, perfect. The black Amex Brick ordered for her hadn’t seen the outside of her wallet since Stan had handed to her. But Brick probably wouldn’t begrudge her one little dinner out on the town with a new friend. Especially if keeping the chefs happy meant the Berlins maintained a generous reputation.

And the VIP seats they’d been given were only four people down from Kate Winslet and a guy who looked eerily like Steven Spielberg. Which meant it probably was Steven Spielberg. Molly was officially A-list adjacent.

“You’re right.” She grinned at Shelby. “It’s about time I had some fun being Brick Berlin’s kid.”

“That’s my girl.” Shelby beamed.