The A-List (21 page)
She looked down at the tapestry carpet. Nothing. There was nothing he could say. Where did she belong? Back home in New York? It wasn’t like she had a parent there, either.
“Come on, Anna. You’ve already made friends. Those girls who brought you home—”
“Those girls hate me!”
“Nah,” he scoffed.
“Yes. And then there’s the boy I went to the wedding with …” To Anna’s shock, a tear trickled down her cheek.
“What did he do?” her father asked, sounding alarmed.
She brushed the tear away. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”
“Yes, it does. What did he do?”
She didn’t answer.
“Anna. What did he do?”
She stared down at her hands, and that made it a little easier. “I thought he thought I was … special,” she whispered, “but he was only after one thing. God. I sound like every insipid girl from every insipid teen romance novel ever written.” She finally raised her eyes to his. “He dumped me when I wouldn’t … you know.”
To Anna’s utter mortification, she began to sob. Her father came over to her and wrapped his arms around her. Anna let her head fall to his shoulder, a place it hadn’t been since she was nine years old. He rubbed her back and let her sob. Only when it seemed as if she was all cried out did he speak again.
“I hate the bastard.”
“Me too.” She reached for a box of tissues by her bedside and blew her nose.
“Look, Anna, there are some asshole guys in this world. Evidently you ran into one of ’em.”
“Evidently.” She blew her nose again.
“I don’t know any other way to say this, Anna. I love you and Susan more than anything in the world. I want to learn how to be a father to you. So what I’m asking is … would you please stay? Please.”
To Anna’s shock, tears had welled up in her father’s eyes. She wanted to believe—needed to believe—that he was sincere. In the past ten minutes he’d let her into his life more than her mother had in the past seventeen years. And she had let him into hers.
“Can I tell you something?” Anna’s voice sounded small to her own ears.
“Anything.”
“I don’t want to call you Jonathan.”
Her father hugged her again, and she cried again. She thought maybe he was crying, too; she couldn’t be sure. It was funny, really. She’d come to Los Angeles because she’d thought it would open her up to new and wonderful adventures. But all it had opened her up to so far was heartache.
She could run back home where it was safe, climb right back inside her wealthy little box. She was sure that most of the people she’d met in the past day and a half would love to see her do just that.
Well, screw them.
So what if Ben had used her and three girls whose lives had briefly collided with hers loathed her? She was not going to allow them to make her life miserable or to force her out of town until she was damn well ready to leave.
This might not be the best of times, but Anna refused to allow these people to make it the worst of times, either. When the many-volumed saga of her life was written, Ben, Sam, Cammie, and Dee would barely merit a footnote. But her father would always be there, written or unwritten, on every page.
She needed him. She’d always need him. And as much as he needed to learn how to be her father, Anna knew she needed to learn how to be his daughter.
BEVERLY HILLS HIGH WELCOMES YOU.
A
nna read the sign on the office bulletin board. The feeling was definitely not mutual. Beverly Hills High was pretty much the last place on earth she wanted to be. But contrary to her father’s assurances, it had been too late to get her into Harvard-Westlake. And Margaret was still feuding with the owner of the literary agency. Which was how she had ended up here.
“Anna Percy?”
The commotion in the high school’s main office was insane; Anna could barely hear the young woman behind the counter call her name. She snaked through the crowd of students. “Yes, that’s me.”
“I’m Jasmine Grubman—you can call me Jazz, everyone does. I’m one of Mr. Kwan’s administrative assistants. Welcome to Beverly Hills High.”
Jasmine, midtwenties, size nothing, with artificial breasts so outsized that Anna was surprised she didn’t topple over, handed Anna a schedule of classes and a map of the school.
“You’ll find everything you need here. Locker combination, class schedule, et cetera. Your locker is in the Lucas wing, through the courtyard. Your homeroom is in the Asner wing—”
“Hey, Jazz. Happy New Year.”
Anna turned. Adam Flood had just walked into the office. He looked comfortable and cute in baggy cords and a blue V-necked sweater over a white T-shirt.
“Happy New Year, Adam,” Jazz replied happily.
Adam half bowed to Anna. “And to you, Anna.”
“Well, hi,” Anna said, finding herself truly glad to see him.
“Hi. You look great.”
Sweet of him to say so, but Anna hadn’t given it a whole lot of thought when she’d dressed that morning—she never really did when she went to school. Back in New York outsized jeans—preferably from some vintage store—ancient sweats, and stretched-out sweaters with obvious holes were all considered not only appropriate, but hip. The idea was to look as if you didn’t give a shit.
This morning Anna had pulled on a pair of jeans and a white thermal T-shirt and topped it off with a camel moth-eaten cashmere cardigan that had definitely seen better days. She’d brushed her hair, tied it back with a clear band, smeared on a little Burt’s Bees so her lips wouldn’t chap, and called it a day.
But, as she’d quickly learned on her walk from the parking lot to the principal’s office, kids at Beverly Hills High had an entirely different notion of appropriate. Skirts were tiny, sweaters tight, heels high. Girls who chose jeans wore them low enough to show off tanned abs, navel rings, belly chains, and/or tattoos. One girl’s lower-back anaconda wriggled as she walked.
“Thanks,” Anna told him. “It’s nice to see a friendly face.”
Adam nodded. “Right back atcha. Welcome to BHH.”
A tall kid with a nose ring muscled between Anna and the administrator. “Hey, you need to sign this, Jazz.” He thrust a paper at her.
She scanned it quickly. “No, your homeroom teacher has to sign.” She pushed the paper back at him and he slammed out of the office.
“God, first day back, already I get attitude,” Jazz told Adam.
“So, how’s it going?” Adam asked her.
“I did an under-five on
General Hospital
last week,” Jazz answered with pride.
“Great. So listen, Principal Kwan asked me to show Anna around.”
“Oh, you guys know each other?” Jazz asked.
“Yup. You ready, Anna?”
This was news to Anna. “Sure. That would be great.”
“Cool. See you, Jazz. Hang in there—your big break’s right around the corner.”
“Yeah, right.” A girl in a two-sizes-too-small hot pink Juicy Couture hoodie snickered as they moved away.
Adam opened the door for Anna. “So, we meet again.”
As they dodged bodies on their way down the crowded corridor, Anna asked, “How did the principal know we know each other?”
“He didn’t.” Adam pushed open another door that led to an open courtyard and gestured Anna through. “I made that up. The truth is, I was walking by the office and I saw you. Figured you could use a friend. I didn’t know you were going to school here.”
“I wasn’t. It’s a long story.”
“Anyone else know you’re here?”
“You’re the first.” Anna wished he would also be the last. Because fate had now put her at the same school as Sam, Dee, and Cammie, who were the last three people on the planet she wanted to see. Well, it was a big school. She told herself she could simply be polite and avoid them. It was doable.
“Nice out, huh?” Adam said. “The weather here rocks.”
Anna turned her face to the sun. The third of January was glorious: a cloudless sky, sunny, and just cool enough to merit a sweater. There was a major snowstorm back east, which meant that by today, the drifts in Manhattan were already black. Or yellow. Or both.
“When my friends ask me what I like about Los Angeles,” Anna began, “first on my list is the weather.”
“Mine too. You can ski at Mountain High in the morning and surf at Zuma in the afternoon. We
definitely
didn’t have that in Michigan. So, the low-rent tour.” Adam opened his arms expansively. “This, obviously, is the BHH grand courtyard. Kids hang out, eat lunch, sneak illegal fill-in-the-blank, like that. Of course, every group hangs on its own turf.”
Anna could easily decode the school pecking order. At a central cluster of picnic tables, beneath a triangle of palm trees, was the school A-list. The girls were the best looking, with the hippest, most expensive clothes and the most attitude. The guys were their Abercrombie male equivalent—hot enough to model for the catalog and rich enough to scoff at the idea of shopping there.
The table closest to the door they’d come through held the geeks—bad skin, hair, bodies—all the money in the world couldn’t buy them out of the high school experience from hell. Next to them were the alts. They sat on the ground with their backs against the building, looking disdainful. A handful of goths hung out
under
another picnic table. Meanwhile the flotsam and jetsam of the student silent majority jockeyed for position around the edges of the lawn.
“Maybe we all have microchips in our brains, signaling us to separate into these diverse little groups,” Anna mused.
Adam chuckled. “Maybe we do. It wasn’t so different in Michigan. The difference is that here, hardly anyone’s family has an income under heavy six digits. Come on.”
They crossed the courtyard to the two-story Hepburn wing. Adam showed her the state-of-the-art biology and chemistry labs, science library, and class-rooms.
Anna noticed that Adam had buzzed off his hair since the wedding. Now she saw that he had a tiny tattoo behind his left ear, a blue star. He turned and caught her looking at it. And blushed. Which, in Anna’s experience, was so
not
Beverly Hills.
He touched his ear self-consciously. “My hair was long when I got it. I refused to cut it for months so my parents wouldn’t see the tattoo. My mom hates them.”
Anna smiled. She thought it was sweet that his mother would get upset over so tiny a tattoo. Not that she had any body art. Not that she wanted any.
“So, what do you think?” Adam asked.
“I think it’s cute.”
“I, uh, meant the school. Come on, we can take a shortcut through here.” He led her through a side door to an outside passageway. “Now we’re heading over to performing arts, also known as the Thank God for Streisand wing.”
“Meaning she paid for it?” Anna guessed.
“Hey, she’s a Democrat who believes in public education. So are Michael Douglas, Ed Asner, Spielberg, et cetera, et cetera. They donate all this cool stuff. That way they can send their kids here, feel like they’re getting the best, and still be politically correct. Believe me, we have everything that kids have at ritzy private schools like Harvard-Westlake. Maybe more. Meanwhile kids down in South Central probably study from science textbooks that say, ‘Someday, people hope to put a man on the moon.’”
Adam opened a door and led her into a dark, cool theater. She took in the massive proscenium-arch stage, the orchestra pit, and the endless wing and fly space. “Wow. This must seat a thousand people.”
“Pretty awesome, huh?”
“Kids in South Central don’t have anything like this, I’m assuming.”
“
No one
has anything like this,” Adam admitted. “Except us. Hey, I shouldn’t bitch about it. It’s not like I’m protesting having all the advantages. Like, for example, the gym? Totally state-of-the art.” He mimed shooting a foul shot. “The hardwood is the same as in the Staples Center. Our head coach used to coach at Texas Tech, and the sports psychologist for the Lakers works with us. He helped me big time. You like b-ball?”
“Honestly? I don’t know much about it.”
“Well, if you’re ever interested, I’m your man.”
Their eyes met. Anna liked what she saw there. “I just might take you up on that. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
Anna’s cell phone rang. Who would be calling her on a weekday morning? She wondered if it was Cyn, playing hooky. Or not playing hooky—it wouldn’t be the first time Cyn had made a clandestine phone call right under her teacher’s nose.
Anna found her phone and checked the incoming call. Her heart skipped a beat. It was Ben.
Now?
He was calling her now, just when she was starting to talk herself down? One part of her wanted to tell him just exactly where he could shove his Nokia. Another part of her wanted to demand an explanation for his behavior.
But no. She refused to give in to either of those feelings. She didn’t answer but simply dropped her phone back into her purse.
“Ben?” Adam guessed.
“No one important.”
“Okay, well, moving on.” He checked his watch quickly. “Five minutes until homeroom, and my homeroom teacher is a freak about punctuality.”
“Did I make you late?”
“I’m already late—I’ve got to go back to the main building.”
“Well, blame it on the new girl.”
“Not a problem.” He grinned. “Perks of being a jock with a 4.3 average—”
Anna’s phone rang again. She checked the incoming number again. Ben wasn’t giving up.
“Aren’t you going to answer?” Adam asked.
“Won’t some teacher hyperventilate if I used my cell during school?” Anna invented.
Adam nodded. “Where’s your homeroom?”
“Uh, let’s see.” She pulled out her schedule. “Asner 218.”
“This way.” He walked Anna to an entrance to the courtyard and pointed. “You go straight across to that building. Then up the middle staircase and turn left. You can’t miss it. I don’t suppose you’re on first lunch, are you?”
“Yes, actually, I think I am.”
“Cool. So, I’ll look for you. See ya.”
“See you. And thanks again.”
He loped off, and Anna set off across the courtyard. What a nice guy he was. There was no artifice; what you saw was exactly what you got. It was so refreshing after the many people she’d met in this oh-so-lovely town who reeked of insincerity—