twenty-five
BROOKE HUNG UP her cell phone and looked around the quad. She had just left her sixth message for Ginevra—one for each day since her potentially disastrous e-mail snafu—and was pretty confident that Ginevra planned to ignore this one, too, just as she had the first five calls and three e-mails Brooke sent, in which she claimed everything from the photo being doctored to temporary insanity.
Thanks to a frenzied final week of play rehearsals, it seemed like Molly hadn’t noticed anything awry about Brooke’s behavior, or at least, nothing she couldn’t ascribe to nerves. She was also wrapped up in her own drama, having spent the last couple of days playing phone tag with Danny. Still. If Brooke were Molly, she would have dumped the guy over voice mail just for that. Brooke appreciated that Molly was taking her relationship seriously and everything—even if it was kind of boring from a gossip standpoint—but she hoped her half sister realized that she risked snoozing and losing where Teddy was concerned. Other people’s hearts ran on their own schedule, like a train; if you found a ride you wanted to take, you had to hop on while it was at your station. Brooke learned that from Brick’s character in Tequila Mockingbird, right before he strangled a drug lord with a shoelace.
Plopping down on an isolated bench within view of the theater, Brooke stared at her phone and shivered—partly because, as they inched into October, the last of the September heat had on cue given way to mild nights, and partly because the damn thing just wouldn’t ring. However, a new issue of Hey! had come out since the Incident, and nothing had appeared in it, nor on its website. Maybe Ginevra, meek intern that she was, believed Brooke’s outright lie about the photo being fake. Or Trip Kendall just decided there wasn’t really any story there and had decided to devote Hey!’s resources to something more important, like whether Bieber Fever was a real medical affliction. Maybe, just maybe, Brooke was going to get away with this. She had to. Didn’t she? Surely the universe wouldn’t punish her for one tiny wee mistake, just when she and Molly were finally friends. At the very least, she must have been owed some karmic brownie points for going seventy-two hours without saying a word about how bad Molly needed a hair appointment.
So, the further away from that fateful accidental e-mail Brooke got, the more she was able to concentrate on the task at hand: It was finally My Fair Lady’s opening night, and she was certain—well, mostly certain—that Brick would be there to witness it. Caroline, Brick’s agent and Arugula’s mother, had called to reiterate that she would be bringing Brick to the theater personally, along with Ari’s botanist father, Phil—the source of Arugula’s name, interest in science, and disdain for iceberg lettuce (he called it nature’s packing peanuts). Brooke was confident that Caroline would deliver, if only because Brick never passed up an opportunity to talk to Phil, the only person as fascinated by nutritional information as he was.
“What are you doing out here?” Ari asked. “Shouldn’t you be in hair and makeup?”
Brooke looked up to see her friend dressed to the nines and holding her chemistry textbook.
“I thought you were driving over with your mom,” she said, shoving her iPhone into her pocket. “Did something go wrong? Are they not coming?”
Ari put down the book and patted Brooke’s arm.
“Relax,” she said. “Brick is still coming. When I left the house, he was getting a lecture about the zucchini-daffodil hybrid my dad is working on. Brick told him to call it a zucchodil, but I think that sounds like something for your prostate.”
“There’s a reason Brick doesn’t work in marketing,” Brooke said. “What’s with all the cleavage?”
“Am I not allowed to engage in exceptional ablutions in honor of my best friend’s debut?”
“Don’t all those syllables ever make your jaw tired?”
“The play is going to be great, Brooke,” Ari said, apparently mistaking Brooke’s bad mood for preshow jitters. “Trust me. I know quality. Your dress rehearsal last night was seamless.”
Brooke stood up and brushed off the seat of her jeans.
“Exactly the issue,” she lied. “A good dress rehearsal means a bad performance.”
“That’s a myth.” Ari sniffed. “Come on, let’s get you in hair and makeup. You need to focus.”
Brooke closed her eyes. Ari knew her so well. Nothing was more calming than false eyelashes.
Relax. Ginevra has obviously fallen off a cliff somewhere, and I am going to be the most beautiful Eliza Doolittle the world has ever seen.
Still, just to be safe, Brooke superstitiously crossed her fingers.
Molly climbed out from underneath Julie Newman’s hem and surveyed the girl’s costume. It was perfect. They were all perfect. It had taken a tremendous amount of work, including considerable neglect of her homework. But it had been worth it: She’d done Laurel proud.
“This looks great,” Julie said, leaning over to examine her lace hem. “You’re really good at this.”
“Thanks,” Molly said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Okay, take it off again real fast. I need to steam it.”
Julie trotted off to change, and Molly looked around the room. The vast wardrobe area was as neat as her sewing basket—the one that used to be Laurel’s, and was therefore arranged with a military precision—but in twenty minutes, it would be full of students in thick pancake foundation and seven coats of mascara. Everyone’s wigs and accessories were neatly set out next to masking tape stuck to the Formica table with the corresponding actors’ names written on it. Once Brooke finally stopped trying to murder her costumes, Molly had grown to enjoy the camaraderie of the theater. It was like being part of a highly dysfunctional, deeply dramatic family. Not unlike her actual family, when it came right down to it.
Molly glanced out the window in the cozy nook where her sewing machine lived, which overlooked the back parking lot. There, next to her Lexus and Neil Westerberg’s beat-up red Vespa, was Teddy’s 4Runner. She wondered if she had time to find him and give him the Danny update: They had a date to talk the next morning, after nearly two weeks of missing each other—or “missing each other,” since surely nobody was that dense about basic math. It felt like he was doing that irritating boy thing where they act all obtuse until the girl breaks down and does the ugly work. Danny had to be avoiding the Talk again, just as much as she’d been, but it was time to face it. Molly wondered how Teddy would react: sympathy, supportiveness… excitement, maybe…
As if summoned by her thoughts, Teddy came into the window’s view, looking adorable in a sport coat over one of his usual tees. Then a tall figure in a tight dress emerged from the shadow of the theater and threw its arms around him. It was Arugula, and Molly had never seen her flash so much cleavage. Teddy returned the hug, then threw back his head and laughed at whatever she said, causing Arugula to flush in a way that meant she had been trying to impress him. She hugged his arm to her ample chest, stroking it as they walked away, smiling.
Molly’s heart plummeted to her knees—an involuntary reaction, like her body had already made an executive decision about something without consulting her. But she knew she had no right to feel disappointed. Technically, she had a boyfriend. If Teddy is happy, that’s all that matters. Right?
There was a rustling behind her, and a door slammed. Max emerged from the dressing room area holding three lighting gels.
“What were you doing back there?” Molly asked, arranging her features in what she hoped was a calm expression.
“When the UPS guy delivered my gels, they put the package up here with your shipment of theatrical makeup.”
“Cool,” Molly said. “Um, so, hey, have you talked to Teddy?”
Max rolled her eyes. “He’s coming with Arugula. Can you believe it? She actually corrected my grammar in English the other day. Gross.”
She smacked her hand against her head. “Oh, my God, I almost forgot the other reason I came in here! Jake. His shirt won’t stay buttoned,” she whispered. “So he’s just walking around in there half naked. Can you please avoid him for a while? For me?”
“Molly!” Jake cried, bursting out of the dressing room. “My clothes keep falling off and I need your help!”
“Please no,” Max mouthed behind Jake’s back.
“Come here, Jake.” Molly grinned, grateful that she had something to distract her. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Awesome,” Jake said, struggling with his sleeves. “This feels so big.”
“The shirt?” Molly asked, pinpointing a loose button and a missing one. She retrieved her beat-up cardboard box full of extras from under her sewing table and fished around for a decent match—slowly, though, for Max’s benefit.
“No, the play,” Jake said. “I’m so nervous. This is way harder than football. There, my face mask is my mask. I mean, like, literally and metaphorically.”
“You’ll be fine,” Molly said, threading a needle. “Hold still.”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Jen said—”
Max snorted. Jake swiveled to look at her.
“Sorry,” Max said.
“Hold still,” Molly warned.
There was an interminable pause, during which Molly could tell Max was fumbling for a way out of her faux pas. Then her friend took a long breath and actually made eye contact with Jake.
“I’ve been at all the rehearsals, and I think you’ve improved so much. You’re a natural,” she said. “So ignore Jennifer. You’re going to be great.”
Molly wanted to applaud. Jake shot Max a smile that would’ve tempted the angels to book a table in hell.
“That’s totally what I needed to hear,” he said. “Thank you, Max.”
At the sound of her actual name, Max threatened to turn purple again.
“No problem,” she managed. “It’s all true.”
She grabbed her gels and turned to go.
“By the way, I like your hair,” Jake called out. “You remind me of those badass little mushrooms on Super Mario Brothers that give you extra lives.”
Max flashed him a wide grin, her eyes glowing amber in the light, then practically skipped out the door.
“She’s cool,” Jake said to Molly.
“She’s very cool,” Molly agreed. “And your button is fixed. You’re all set. Break a leg.”
Jake recoiled. “Why would you say something like that? I need these legs for football!”
He trotted back to the dressing room. Molly giggled, and bent down to stow away her button box.
“Watch your head,” came a voice from above. Molly was so startled by this—she thought she was alone—that she actually did jump, and cracked her skull against the underside of the metal desk.
“Ow,” she said, and crawled back out, rubbing her tender head.
She looked up. Shelby Kendall stood above her, sophisticated in a slim black cocktail dress, which Molly vaguely remembered having seen in last month’s Vogue. Her hair was pulled back into a low, complicated knot. She looked about twenty-five years old.
“What do you want?” Molly asked.
“That looked painful. Should we take you to the hospital? An undetected brain hemorrhage can be fatal,” Shelby asked, oozing false concern.
“I’m fine,” Molly said shortly. “Actually, I’ve got a lot to do.”
“I can only imagine,” Shelby said. “I won’t be long. When I was at Father’s office, someone asked me to deliver this to you.”
She held out a manila envelope. Confused, Molly took it and slid out a copy of Hey! that was clearly freshly printed. The cover was an alarming collage of celebrity cellulite, underneath an orange headline screaming: BUSTED: CELEBRITY BUMS! But Molly’s gaze was diverted by a Post-it stuck to the front:
Page five is all us, Brooke! Look for this live online later tonight! Thanks for the scoop, and I can’t wait to work with you again! Love, G.
“This is for Brooke,” Molly said, feeling like she was pointing out the obvious.
“Is it?” Shelby said. “My mistake. I was sure it was for you, considering…”
“Considering what, Shelby?”
“Why don’t you see for yourself?”
A slow, cold smile crept across Shelby’s beautiful face. Molly’s spine quivered. She hated humoring Shelby, but she was too curious to resist.
BERLIN BABE BREAKS HEART OF HOMETOWN HONEY, the headline on page five announced, and beneath it, there was a grainy photo of her and Teddy at her locker, wrapped in each other’s arms. Her face was to the camera and her eyes were closed, the expression on her face very relaxed and happy. It was so intimate that Molly shivered. They looked like a couple. And the pièce de résistance: Danny’s yearbook picture sat just beneath it. Molly remembered that he’d been really hung over that day thanks to a weekend jaunt out to the sand dunes, but in the photo he was the picture of apple-cheeked innocence.
Molly’s breath caught in her throat, emitting a weird choking sound.
“I was sure you knew,” Shelby murmured.
Molly said nothing. She was reading the blurb:
Superstar actor/director Brick Berlin is one of Hollywood’s most notorious heartbreakers, and his brand-new daughter Molly, 16, is following in his famous footsteps! The troublemaking student—who’s already struggled with alcohol—got caught getting down and dirty with a hunky classmate (pictured above), leaving in the dust her hometown honey, Danny Johansson, 17. “Danny thought he and Molly would be together forever,” said a source close to the former high-school sweeties. “When her mother was dying, Danny was like hospice for Molly’s heart. He brought her sunflowers. He was her rock.” Sources confirm Danny had no idea they were even on the rocks. “She’s a chip off the old Brick,” the source told Hey! “Looks like someone left her manners back in Indiana.”
It was like all the oxygen had been sucked out of the room. Molly sank down into the desk chair in front of her sewing machine and felt it rotate gently until she was facing the window again. The landscape swam in front of her eyes.
High heels tap-tapped on distant hardwood floors, the sound growing nearer with every metallic thwap.
“Helllllllo?” Brooke called. “Molly? Time for final wardrobe review!”
Molly said nothing.
“Molly?” Brooke repeated, banging through the door. “Where are you? Aren’t you going to tell me to break a leg?”
Even in the blurry reflection in the window, Molly could see Brooke start when she heard Shelby’s voice.
“Welcome to the party,” Shelby continued, grabbing the back of Molly’s chair and bodily revolving it until Molly and Brooke were facing each other. “We have a present for you.”