seventeen

“SHE STABBED IT? Just like that?”

“Just like that,” Molly affirmed, unlocking the front door and ushering Shelby inside the house. “Can you believe it?”

“Fascinating,” Shelby said, her eyes darting around the Berlin family foyer. In a flash she found and popped open the secret coatroom. “Is that a bow and arrow? Does this mean Brick is actually considering doing the remake of Russell Crowe’s remake of Robin Hood?”

“Beats me,” Molly said, reaching around and clicking the door shut as nonchalantly as possible. “Come on, my room’s upstairs.”

Molly led the way as quickly as possible. She wasn’t one hundred percent certain that Brick would approve of Trip Kendall’s daughter being granted passage, much less getting a peek at the coat closet, so she thought it best to try to avoid Stan—Brick’s eyes and ears—altogether.

“A bust of Brick wearing a Viking helmet,” Shelby murmured as they passed the second floor, where it guarded the door of Brick’s memorabilia room. “Priceless.”

“Your dad must have a ton of souvenirs from work, huh?” Molly asked.

“Oh, goodness no, not in the shared spaces,” Shelby said. “He wants the house to feel like everyone’s home, you know?”

Molly prickled a bit. “Well, I like it,” she said. “It’s fun to see everything Brick has done.”

“Of course it is,” Shelby cooed. “It’s like a museum of all the years you missed.”

It sounded cheesy when Shelby said it, but that’s exactly how Molly felt when she’d peeked into the room full of old costumes, props, photographs, and scripts. They were tangible items that lined up Brick’s life with hers: When she’d broken her arm falling off the monkey bars, Brick was cowriting Diaper Andy; when she won the West Cairo Regional Spelling Bee, he’d been in the middle of playing Leif Ericson in It Takes a Pillage; when she’d gotten her braces removed in ninth grade, he’d just finished the Dirk Venom series (the tightrope from which was preserved lovingly in a Plexiglas case). It made her feel close to Brick even though, in Florida, he was currently as far away geographically as ever. But she certainly didn’t expect Shelby to understand that, and she wasn’t up for explaining it. Talking about Brooke was one thing; they had her in common. Brick was personal.

When they reached the third floor, Molly turned. “Are you ready for more pink than a Barbie Dream House?” she asked, and then flung open the door to the bedroom. She knew Shelby had been dying for this kind of access to Brooke’s inner sanctum, and seeing the intense curiosity fill Shelby’s face, Molly felt weirdly powerful being able to satisfy it. Even if it was just to do algebra.

“So this is Brooke Berlin’s room,” Shelby said, her eyes darting across every surface with the quickness of a speed-reader.

“Yeah, I take no responsibility for the poster of that Lust for Life guy,” Molly said.

“He never did call me after that day on the beach,” Shelby mused. “Which means he’s way too virtuous for Brooke.”

“Or too sane,” Molly said. “She acted like a complete psycho today.”

“Today?” Shelby laughed.

“No kidding,” Molly said. “I’m beginning to think that crazy is actually her normal state.”

“She’s so destructive,” Shelby said. “I can’t understand it. This house isn’t to my taste, of course, but it’s not like she was raised in a barn. My mother would be mortified by that sort of behavior. But then again, my mother is very involved in my upbringing.”

“Oh, really?” Molly asked. “Does she work at Hey!, too? What does she do?”

“A little of this, a little of that,” Shelby evaded, tugging on a strand of hair. “But she makes sure she’s around. I don’t even see any pictures of Brooke’s mother in this room.”

“Look again,” Molly said, pointing at the wall. “Those are Kelly’s award-winning hands massaging themselves with lotion.”

“So she claims,” Shelby said, leaning in to examine the tear sheet more closely. “I wonder what Kelly Berlin is up to these days.”

“Whatever she’s doing, apparently it involves staying as far away from L.A. as possible,” Molly said.

She dumped her backpack on the bed and dug through it for her algebra book. “Okay, so how do you want to do this? Start the homework and just stop me when you get stuck, or what?”

“That sounds perfect,” Shelby said. “But can I check my e-mail first? My phone gets no signal here and my laptop’s broken. Daddy loaned it to a reporter who dropped it climbing up Heather Locklear’s drainpipe.”

“Why was a reporter climbing up Heather Locklear’s drainpipe?” Molly wondered.

“Someone has to.”

“Can’t fight that logic.” Molly curled up on the bed and hugged her math book to her chest. “I can’t believe I have to remake all those clothes,” she groaned. “It’s going to take me forever, which is exactly what Brooke wanted. I guess she wins this round.”

“You must feel so betrayed,” Shelby said. “Get it off your chest.”

Molly happily obliged. It was their favorite subject, after all.

“She obviously thinks I’m trying to tank the costumes, which is ridiculous,” she began. “It’s my reputation, too. Everybody knows I’m doing them.”

She heard Shelby murmur her approval.

“And the cast is getting fed up with her. I can feel it,” Molly said, gazing absently out the window. “She acts like she’s the only person this play matters to, which is bull. Neil Westerberg came offstage practically crying the other day when she yelled that Paula Abdul would make a better Colonel Pickering.”

The more she thought about it, the more Brooke’s selfishness rankled. It wasn’t Brooke’s play. It was everyone’s play. They deserved to be treated with respect, not terrorized by a despot who wouldn’t know the words thank you if they took human form, introduced themselves, and handed her a coupon for free Zone Diet Home Delivery.

“And yet no one stands up to her,” Molly went on. “They’re all afraid of her. It’s ridiculous, seriously. Who the hell is she, anyway? She needs to be brought down about thirty pegs, I swear to God.”

Shelby stopped typing.

“Brought down?” she asked.

“Okay, maybe not thirty pegs, but at least two,” Molly said.

Her eyes focused again, and she noticed Shelby was using the laptop at the desk.

“Dude, that’s Brooke’s computer, not mine,” she said.

Shelby clicked the mouse twice quickly and made a big show of recoiling in horror.

“Where is my Purell?” she retched. “I can’t touch my face until I sanitize. I might grow a mustache.”

Molly laughed. It felt good to have someone who just sympathized with her instead of trying to make her see the other side of things all the time, and on that score, Shelby was the world’s greatest company. She didn’t know what Teddy had been so paranoid about: It was just dumb high school gossiping. Nobody was getting hurt.

Three hours and half the Barneys shoe department after rehearsal, Brooke’s mood had improved. Nothing beat the healing power of a five-inch stiletto, especially when you tried on enough of them to fund a semester of Ivy League tuition.

“Ohhhhh, that’s the stuff,” Brooke exhaled, leaning back on the cream-colored banquette and admiring the hunter green croc booties gleaming below her ankle.

“Gorgeous,” Brie said, jotting notes on the spree like she always did. “It’s a dead ringer for the color of the car your dad got Molly.”

Brooke’s mouth puckered. She sat upright and practically tore the Lexus-colored shoe off her foot, hurling it at its box. Their regular salesman, René, turned puce and swooped over to rescue its mate before it met with a similar violent fate.

“Careful, Brooke,” Arugula warned as René lovingly boxed them up to safety. “You break it, you buy it, as they say.”

“Let’s face it, I’m probably going to buy it, anyway. Even if it is the color of pure evil.”

“But according to my retail journal, you have two similar pairs at home—croc booties, and dark green pumps,” Brie pointed out.

“But I don’t have a combination of the two,” Brooke said petulantly. “Brie, it was a really bad day. I stabbed a hat. Lashing out at accessories is the first sign of a stress tumor.”

“You asked me to make sure you don’t double up on shoes,” Brie said. “I’m just doing my job. I think these are superfluous to your collection.”

“Ethical fortitude and an ample vocabulary,” Ari said. “I approve. Maybe being plowed into by Shelby Kendall at lunch does a girl good.”

“Can I go one day without hearing the words Shelby Kendall, please?” Brooke pouted. “They’re more overplayed than the Black Eyed Peas.”

“I saw her leaving school with Molly today,” Brie said. “Looking very pleased with herself.”

“I don’t get it,” Brooke said. “How are they even friends? Shouldn’t our families’ DNA be, like, innately allergic to each other?”

“You should be more curious about what they’re doing together,” Arugula said. “It can’t just be algebra tutoring, because I saw Shelby’s grade on the last test and it was a B plus.”

“Better grade than I’d give her summer brow lift,” Brooke said. “I’m sure they’re just sitting around braiding each other’s hair and talking about what a bad person I am.”

“And salivating over Teddy,” Arugula added grumpily.

“Oh, chill. Molly has that dumb boyfriend at home, remember?”

Arugula straightened up in her seat. “Well, then explain this to me.”

She handed Brooke her iPhone. On it was a very intimate photo of Molly and Teddy at the lockers, hugging. Molly’s eyes were closed. It reminded Brooke of the time she’d spent three hours talking with Zac Efron about hair products at a party. During their good-bye hug, she’d committed the smell of his jacket to memory.

“Where did you get this?” she asked.

“I took it,” Ari said. “I caught them when I was looking for Teddy to do some extra credit, and I thought it could be useful.”

Brie came around and stared over Brooke’s shoulder.

“Wow,” she said. “I bet her boyfriend would be really upset if he saw this.”

Brooke leaned forward and stared at the pile of shoes on the floor, tapping the phone against her forehead. She raised her head and met Ari’s gaze.

“He would, Brie,” Brooke said slowly. “He would.”