Infamous

  But still there was something nagging at her. She hadn't exactly been thinking about Sebastian all weekend, but his lively presence had left an aura in her house and random thoughts about him—how much the Teacups loved him, how pleased he'd been when he remembered her from the shore from so many summers ago—had popped into her mind. And she hadn't hated it.

  “Look.” Brett shifted in her seat and bit her Dior Addict Red Stockings-glossed lips. “I owe you an apology,” she said stiffly.

  Sebastian cocked his head but kept his eyes on the road.

  Brett realized how stupid she sounded and dropped into her regular voice. “No really, I'm sorry.”

  “For what?” Sebastian asked. He slowed the car to maintain the flow of traffic. The brake lights in front of them fluttered on and off and then remained a solid red. Sebastian stopped the car and they sat, trapped in gridlock. The skyline of New York was visible off in the distance.

  “I'm sorry for inviting you to Thanksgiving under false pretenses.” Brett stared down at her freshly painted red nails.

  “To embarrass me,” Sebastian added. She could still hear the hurt in his voice.

  “Is that what you think? That I wanted to embarrass you?” She'd never want to intentionally cause someone pain—and definitely not Sebastian.

  He shrugged again. “You clearly didn't invite me over because you wanted to hang out with me.”

  “I'll admit I had ulterior motives.” She twisted toward him in her seat. It was stupid of her not to realize it sooner, but she'd had a really great time hanging out with Sebastian, completely independent of the Coopers, and it suddenly was really important to her that he understood that. “I wanted to, you know, kind of shock those sticks-in-the-mud.” She looked up at him, chagrined. “But I ended up having a lot of fun with you. Can you just, you know, forgive me?”

  Sebastian narrowed his eyes. “Yeah, I guess,” he said, cracking a half-smile. “It's not like I didn't enjoy the look on that old broad's face when you caught her staring at my hair.”

  “She dug it—I know she did,” Brett assured him, laughing. She glanced out the corner of her eye at him and sighed, turning serious again. “I'm not particularly proud of my behavior. It's just that my sister was—”

  Sebastian held out his hand. “Hey, it's over.” He glanced at her as traffic started to move again. “What's done is done.”

  “Okay,” she said meekly. She stared out the window, wondering if Jenny and Callie were on their way back to Waverly right now. Maybe Jenny would be in when Brett got there, and they could make margaritas. She'd gotten e-mails from her and Callie, filling her in on their crazy breaks, but she couldn't wait to see them in person.

  “I just have one question for you.” Sebastian rubbed his hand across his face, and Brett tensed up, wondering if it had all been a setup to pay her back for her awful behavior. “Did you pack that sexy outfit you were wearing at Thanksgiving?” He arched his eyebrows and smiled.

  Brett felt her whole face blush. She had, in fact, gone through her closet and packed some of her old clothes, the kind that would shock people like the Coopers—but there was no way she was giving Sebastian the satisfaction of knowing that.

  “I guess you'll just have to wait and see.”

  A commercial on the radio faded and a Springsteen song filtered through the airwaves. Instead of cringing, Brett reached down and turned up the volume, smiling at Sebastian. He grinned back at her and pulled onto the left-hand shoulder, blowing past the stalled traffic as they hurtled toward Waverly's snow-covered grounds.

  AlanStGirard: Whoa, is it true you hooked up with the Dunderdorf twins???

  BrandonBuchanan: Dude, how'd you hear that already?

  AlanStGirard: So it's true?

  BrandonBuchanan: Not really…just one of them.

  AlanStGirard: Oh, man! You rock. What about Sage?

  BrandonBuchanan: Who??

  BennyCunningham: Just saw Brett climbing out of her little study buddy's black sports car.

  SageFrancis: Interesting. Were they working on Latin all during break??

  BennyCunningham: And I just saw Tinsley curled up on a couch in Maxwell next to that hot frosh, Julian.

  SageFrancis: Man, was everyone getting busy over break except me?

  BennyCunningham: Now that U mention it, I heard something about Brandon and a Swedish model??

  SageFrancis: Thanks. You're like the eighth person to tell me.

  EmilyJenkins: Did you hear Callie and EZ are split for good? He was, like, ready to jump off the Empire State bldg or something.

  AlisonQuentin: Totally insane! I think me and Alan are kaput now, too.

  EmilyJenkins: Oh, no! Need a shoulder to cry on?

  AlisonQuentin: More like a stiff drink. And a serious gossip session. Did you hear Jenny and Tinsley are like BFFs now? Word is they're set to stir up some major trouble.

  EmilyJenkins: What happened over break?

  AlisonQuentin: Um, what didn't?

  Anna Percy, Cammie Sheppard, and Sam Sharpe ruled the A-LIST. But there are three new princesses in Tinseltown.

  THE A-LIST

  HOLLYWOOD ROYALTY

  Meet the new Hollywood Royalty: Amelie, the not-so-innocent starlet; Myla and Ash, the golden couple; Jacob, the geek turned hottie; and Jojo, the outsider who'll do anything to get on the A-List.

  SOME PEOPLE ARE BORN WITH IT.

  Turn the page for a sneak peek of this scandalous new novel by New York Times bestselling author Zoey Dean.

  THE FAIRY PRINCESS OF HOLLYWOOD

  Amelie Adams's white stretch limo pulled to a stop outside Nokia Theater, where a ruby-red carpet wound its way past the Staples Center and up to the theater's doors. Standing on risers on either side were models wearing hot pink Prada sunglasses and bright white tent dresses with graphic prints of LA landmarks on them: the Hollywood sign, Mann's Chinese Theatre, the Beverly Hills Hotel, a postcard shot of Malibu. At ground level were throngs of fans, hoping for a glimpse of their favorite Hollywood starlets arriving for the premiere of The A-List.

  “Fairy Princess!”

  “Fairy Princess!”

  Even though Amelie wasn't in the movie, her fans knew she was coming tonight. Through the limo's tinted glass, she saw clusters of little girls waving homemade, glittery signs proclaiming their love for her character. Amelie leaned back in her seat, pushing a red ringlet from her Tiffany-box-blue eyes.

  Her mother's face broke into the wide, full-lipped smile that Amelie had inherited. Helen Adams's own red hair was shorter and her eyes were a dark hazel, but otherwise she and Amelie could have been mistaken for sisters.

  “Have fun. And remember, you'll get it next time.” She winked one heavily-made-up eye.

  Amelie's shell-pink lips formed a grimace. She'd been up for the part of Emma Hardy, The A-List's lead, but lost the role to a just-discovered blonde the producers deemed “more mature.” The Emma character had a sex scene, and while Amelie knew that a jump from petting winged ponies to heavy petting would've been a risky career move, sometimes she longed to do something that wasn't G-rated.

  “Fairy Princess! Fairy Princess!”

  Amelie stepped out of the limousine, plastering on the same grin that had sold four million T-shirts with her face on it. Her new Miu Miu wedges sunk into the crimson carpet and she gracefully adjusted the hem of her silver Jovani flapper-inspired dress. Her character wore pink exclusively, so it was nice to not feel like human cotton candy for once.

  She made her way down the row of screaming fans, signing pictures, posters, and BOP magazines in her trademark swirly script. After each autograph, she flourished her pink Sharpie with Fairy Princess's signature wand-wave.

  At the far end of the red carpet, cast members from The A-List mingled with other actors about her age. Raven-haired Kady Parker and Moira and Deven Lacey, twins who just got parts on School of Scandal, a new CW show, shot her curious glances and then returned to their conversation.

  Amelie sighed
, signing a talking Fairy Princess doll with bubblegum pink hair and glittery accessories. She knew she was lucky to be seated at the helm of a multi-million dollar empire at only sixteen, but sometimes she just wanted to move up from the kids' table. She was growing up, but no one besides Mary Ellen, the on-set stylist who had to let her Fairy Princess wardrobe out in the chest, had really seemed to notice.

  Amelie smiled at a white-blond seven-year-old in a replica of Fairy Princess's Winter Festival ballgown. She handed Amelie a shirt to sign. “Is it true you're playing a new kind of fairy in Class Angel?” the little girl asked.

  “You got it,” Amelie answered. Filming started tomorrow on the new Kidz Network movie Class Angel. It was PG, and more mature than her Fairy Princess role, but she still played a teenager's guardian angel rather than an actual teenager. It was like calling Pinkberry ice cream.

  Amelie laid the shirt on one of the models' platforms, crouching in front of the little girl.

  “Mommy!” The little girl pointed at Amelie, then yelled, “Mom, Fairy Princess has boobies!”

  Amelie felt the blood rush to her face faster than Westsiders hit The Grove during a Barney's Co-op sale. Well then. Maybe people were noticing her growing up, after all….

  THE REAL PRINCESS OF HOLLYWOOD

  Myla Everhart stood in the LAX baggage claim, wishing she hadn't worn her Pucci Sundial dress—every time she sat down, the back of her legs touched some invariably sticky surface. The first daughter of America's hottest on- and off-screen couple craned her neck, looking toward the doors to the street. Ash had said he'd park and come inside to help her with her bags. Granted, she'd internationally overnighted her bags via Luggage Concierge, but he could certainly carry her plum Marc Jacobs tote full of French Vogues and her cashmere travel blanket.

  Myla fished her emerald-adorned iPhone from the bottom of her bag. 1:14. Ash knew she landed at 12:30. What was the freaking holdup?

  But then…that was Ash. Her Ash. Laid-back, easygoing, Ash.

  She softened just thinking of him. Long before they got together, Ash Gilmore was her best friend and the only guy who got Myla. It wasn't easy going through puberty as the child of Barkley Everhart and Lailah Barton—People's Most Beautiful Couple, 2001, 2002, 2006-present. Most inattentive, too, by Myla's standards. They'd adopted Myla as a baby, after spending time on-set in Thailand, filming an Adam and Eve-inspired love story that grossed some ungodly amount. It had been just Myla, until they brought home Mahalo from Bangladesh on her twelfth birthday.

  They'd just returned from a Babel-meets-Independence Day shoot and decided to bring back a souvenir. At least that's how it seemed to Myla.

  Then one day in the eighth grade, she was stranded after school because her driver was late to pick her up. Ash was waiting for his dad, Gordon Gilmour, a record producer who spent more time coddling whiny rock stars than taking care of his son. She and Ash were like two lost souls, who both happened to be extremely photogenic. Myla was in the middle of a rant about how Mahalo had gotten to choose his own bedroom furniture when Ash leaned over and kissed her, right there on the stairs of their middle school parking lot. They'd been Hollywood's youngest Golden Couple ever since, and were always together.

  But Myla's parents—Barbar, as they were called by the press—had insisted on a family vacation this summer. “Vacation” meant a whirlwind tour of the Third World, doing United Nations aid work at their adopted countries: Thailand for Myla, Bangladesh for Mahalo and Madagascar for Bobby. Myla had to share a room with her two brothers, often in villages so small and remote she couldn't get a cell phone signal or Internet. She couldn't indulge in online retail therapy, update her Facebook status, or, more importantly, communicate with Ash. It was torture.

  Granted, she could have called Ash every second while she was in Paris last week, visiting her old friend Isabelle, whom she hadn't seen since fourth grade. But she'd been in the City of Love without the love of her life—thinking about him too much would have depressed her.

  Myla punched a string of numbers into her phone, twirling a lock of her long ebony hair around her index finger. She smiled, catching a glimpse of the shiny, emerald-green streak that fell along the left side of her neck. It had been Ash's idea, and Myla had initially been revolted, but now she loved the secret burst of color.

  Isabelle picked up on the third ring. “Ma chère amie, I missed you, too.”

  Myla could hear the clinking of silverware and wineglasses in the background. Even though it was after eleven there, Isabelle was probably just eating dinner now, before hitting Paris's nightclubs.

  “Stop that, Guillaume!” Isabelle squealed delightedly to her boyfriend. “Sorry, he's being a total perv. Shouldn't you be with Ash?”

  “He's late.” Myla fiddled nervously with the Green Lantern bubblegum machine ring she wore on a Tiffany gold chain. She and Ash had traded rings from a Cracker Jack box in eighth grade, and she had worn the plastic jewelry on her neck ever since. Myla fully planned to hire Mindy Weiss, the best wedding planner in L.A., to work the cheap rings into the ceremony when they got married.

  “Better he's late than you are, if you know what I mean,” Isabelle said bawdily, before cracking up. “Oh, that's right! You haven't done it yet. C'est dommage.”

  Myla rolled her eyes. “We can't all be French sluts like you,” she teased her friend.

  A woman in a JESUS SAVES (ASK ME HOW) T-shirt rumbled by, scowling at the dirty talk.

  “I know, you're waiting for the right time,” Isabelle yawned. “Just make sure to take advantage of being young and hot. Now go moisturize before he gets there.”

  Isabelle hung up with a giggle, probably to stop Guillaume's wandering hands again, and Myla flipped off her phone. Two girls walked by arm in arm, wearing matching Fairy Princess T-shirts and glittery purple leggings.

  Myla sighed. Even if they were only ten, you had to start learning fashion sometime. She yanked the pile of dog-eared Vogues from her bag and thrust the magazines into the taller girl's arms.

  If thoughts of “stranger danger” occurred to either girl, they didn't show it. They studied Myla's round cheeks, smooth skin, and almond-shaped, shamrock-colored eyes. A flash of recognition flashed across their pink-hued faces.

  They must have seen her photo in People, helping Barbar hand out care packages in the Philippines. And here she was again, doing charity work of her own.

  Ash Gilmour was late for everything, a habit he'd never wanted to develop but learned from his father, record impresario Gordon Gilmour. “Early means eager. Eager is weak,” he'd always said.

  But when it came to Myla Everheart, Ash was weak. And he'd wanted to be waiting at LAX when she'd landed. He wanted to watch her come down the escalator to the baggage claim, to see whatever impossible shoes she was wearing, followed by her long legs with the tiny birthmark below her right knee. Then her slim little body, and her tumble of hair with the green streak just for him. And then that face—lips that reminded him of the cherries on top of a sundae and eyes that always looked a little sleepy but saw every little thing.

  Ash parked his black Mini Cooper and stumbled out, half running across the wide one-way street reserved for shuttle buses and taxis. He dashed past planters of daisies lining the median and skidded to a stop. On the drive over, he'd called House of Petals to get Myla's favorite hot pink peony bouquet, but they were crazed with some Endeavor agent's wedding. He reached down and picked six daisies, then sprinted across the rest of the street, nearly getting hit by a limo driver.

  Safely on the sidewalk, Ash composed himself and stepped through the automatic doors. The air conditioning swallowed him, but he saw no sign of Myla on the benches or near the baggage carousel. He checked the arrivals board. Her flight had made it. Had she left without him?

  Myla was in the LAX ladies room, applying a final coat of Urban Decay XXX gloss in Baked. Satisfied, she tossed her hair and headed for the door. Surely Ash would be here by now. Swinging her bag back to her shoulder, she pus
hed through the doors only to be greeted not by her boyfriend but by four paparazzi.

  “Myla, where's Barbar?”

  Now that Myla was sixteen, and with her parents less, she got photographed more and more on her own. Some days she didn't mind it, but after a fourteen-hour flight? Come on.

  She gave the photogs a sarcastic smile, knowing an unflattering scowl would certainly make the tabloids. “Take your pick: Adopting a baby from a war-torn region. Building houses in a hurricane-ravaged stretch of the South. Having wild passionate affairs with their co-stars.”

  A photographer donning a jet-black goatee asked, “Are they here, Myla? You can tell us.” His eyes were focused on Myla's toned thighs.

  Myla raised her eyebrows. “First, take a picture, it lasts longer. Which you should already know. Second, no, my parents are not here. Now please get out of my way.”

  They fired a few more shots and were gone. Myla blinked post-flashbulb into the crowd of new arrivals. And that's when she saw him.

  There, clutching a sad bouquet of crumpled daisies, was Ash. His sun-lightened hair hung shaggily over his ears, and his chestnut-colored eyes looked like a heartbroken puppy's. She stopped where she stood, waiting for him to come to her.

  Once he spotted her, he nearly tripped over his Vans trying to reach her faster. When he did, he lifted her into the air, dropping the daisies to the polished airport floor. And with hundreds of travelers and tourists surrounding them, he kissed her like it was the only thing he ever needed to be good at in his whole life.

  Myla was only vaguely conscious that the paparazzi were shooting photos of them. Their reunion wouldn't make a cover but, because of her parents, they'd get an inset box. She could see the caption now: HOLLYWOOD'S PRINCESS FINDS HER PRINCE CHARMING.