Sunset Boulevard (15 page)

stay much longer. He had to get to physics in five minutes. There was a break in filming as the

crew erected a pep rally set, so he was going to try to squeeze in a class. It would help his case

when Miles went to speak to the teachers.

Jake was about to grab Miles to leave when a petite hand tapped him on the shoulder. Jake

turned and saw Kady behind him, wearing a silky blue tank top that brought out her

otherworldly eyes.

"Nice pass last night, Jake," she said, her hand still on Jake's arm. "Or should I call you Tom

Brady?"

"He's good, right?" Miles said, introducing himself to Kady. Jake wanted to leave the trailer

immediately, before Miles revealed something embarrassing, like the fact that Jake previously

couldn't even get a spot as a water boy on BHH's team.

"I'll say," Kady said, her eyes never leaving Jake. "Were you and Miles just talking about

leasing an Escalade?" She was regarding Jake like he was captain of the football team,

Hollywood heartthrob, and all-around stud combined into one wild-haired-but-muscular

Jewish package.

"Well, yeah," Jake said, the words barely controlled by his brain. "Fully loaded, right?" He

grinned at Miles, Justin Klatch style.

Miles took the bait. "You got it."

Kady raised one eyebrow sexily at Jake, nodding goodbye to Miles. "Can't wait to see it." She

headed to the exit. As she unlatched the metal door, she turned back, winking at Jake. "Maybe

you could give me a ride sometime."

Miles let out a long, low breath as he watched her hop down the trailer steps in her rhinestone

flip-flops and purple pleated miniskirt. "Jake, that was badass. She got any friends?"

"I'll let you know." Jake grinned, feeling more victorious than he ever had as a champion

Mathlete. So, fine, he hadn't had much experience with "badass" anything up until now. But if

he wasn't mistaken, right now he was the definition of the word.

And badasses didn't worry about being late for physics.

YOU SAY IT'S YOUR BIRTHDAY?

Ash rolled his Camaro into the driveway of his house on Bedford Drive, just as KROQ started

to play Cracker's "Happy Birthday to Me."

Fucking mockery.

It
was
Ash's birthday, not that anyone would know it. He was completely pathetic. Fine, so his

mom had remembered, calling him this morning. Her present had arrived last week--an openended ticket to Austin so he could come down whenever he wanted and get a new amp for his

guitar. His sister had mailed him her usual gift, books, including a she-hoped-it-was-subtlebut-it-wasn't self-help book titled
Damn the Man: A Four-Step Conflict Resolution Guide for

Fathers and Sons
.

Damn the man was right. Gordon hadn't called to wish him a good birthday, or uttered so much

as a thank-you, even though Ash had been tossed on his ass out of a shitty dive bar. If he knew

about it--Daisy's ejection from Powerhouse hadn't made any blogs--Gordon would probably

revel in it. It would be a great story to tell at cocktail parties; he'd cap it with, "That's just life in

the music business." Admittedly, it was kind of funny, and Ash had recounted it several times

over the weekend to Tucker and Geoff.

Ash stepped onto the driveway, pulling his iPhone from his pocket as he did. Myla had sent a

text.
Happy Birthday, Ash. I wish a lot of things for you. Love, M. P.S. Remember, you're

always invited for dinner.

That Myla had remembered--and bothered to do something about it--only added to the sting.

Even his best friends had forgotten. Tucker and Geoff had invited him to Zuma today to hit the

surf, but it wasn't a birthday thing, it was a
we do this every day
thing. In years past, they'd

remembered--as had everyone else he hung with at BHH--because Myla had
made
them

remember. For his sixteenth birthday last year, Myla had rented out four cabins at Big Bear,

and paid for two days of skiing for Ash and all their friends. And she always made him a card,

complete with glitter and stickers, which sounded cheesy, but wasn't. Myla had a crafty side

she rarely showed. More than any gift or party, the fact that she risked her manicure to glue

hundreds of sparkly hearts to construction paper always made his birthday a reminder of how

much she loved him.

Ash heard the squeak of brakes in the Porter-Goldsmiths' driveway next door and he looked up

to see Jake pulling up in his Corolla. He'd been meaning to congratulate Jake on his part in

Class Angel
, and say something to his childhood best friend about his awesome "game."

Jake emerged from his pastel blue Corolla looking a lot different than the scrawny, bruiseprone kid Ash had traded Pokémon cards with. He looked like someone Ash would hang out

with now. Even his crazy mop of curls resembled a style Geoff had tried and failed to achieve.

Ash nodded across the driveway, stepping onto the swath of grass that separated their yards.

"Hey, Jake," he said, feeling awkward. "Congrats on the movie."

Jake grinned widely, making Ash glad he'd paid the compliment. He'd never intended for his

best-friend status with Jake to morph to them not talking at all, but the more they drifted, the

less they spoke.

"Thanks, Ash," Jake said, grabbing his backpack from the passenger seat. He took a few steps

toward his house, then raised his eyebrows. "Oh, and hey, it's your birthday, right?"

Ash squinted at him. "Yeah, it is. How'd you remember?"

Jake looked down at his Converse. Just when his old friend might start to think he was unlame,

Jake had to do something as girly as remember Ash's birthday. "Just good with numbers, you

know? But happy birthday." He shrugged nonchalantly and looked up to see Ash grinning in

an appreciative way. Maybe remembering wasn't lame and girly. He noticed Ash was about to

head into his dark and empty house. Most nights, Ash's car was the only one in the driveway,

and the only light on in the house was in Ash's room, on the second floor across from Jake's.

In theory, it sounded cool that Ash got a mansion to himself at sixteen, but Jake knew it had to

be depressing. Especially on a birthday. "You know, you're welcome to come over for dinner

here. My mom always has a lot of food. And don't worry, she never cooks anymore. Takeout.

So everything's edible."

Ash laughed. Mrs. Porter-Goldsmith once had served them grilled cheese sandwiches made

with microwaved matzo bread and cream cheese. "Um, thanks, but I think I'm supposed to do

something later." First Myla had invited him over, now Jake. He must have looked like an

orphan.

"Cool," Jake said. "But the offer stands, you know, whenever."

Ash lay on his bed, eating leftover chow fun noodles from Dragon's Fire, a Chinese restaurant

on Santa Monica. He flipped idly through the
Damn the Man
book, laughing at how poorly the

advice would go over with Gordon.

Clear the air,
read the start of step one.
Set a date to do something manly as father and son.

Get your aggressions out on the basketball court, at an automobile race, or even by taking a

long run. Then find a quiet place to have a coffee, or even a stiff drink if that makes you both

comfortable. Whoever does the inviting should then announce, "It's time for a talk." Agree to a

no-interruptions opportunity to list your complaints with your father or son, and then be

patient as he does the same.

Ash rolled his eyes, flopping onto his stomach and putting his head under a pillow. Yeah, like

Gordon would listen to a list of complaints.

From under the pillow, Ash heard his muffled ring--reset to a new Raconteurs song. Lifting the

corner of the pillow, he reached for the phone, seeing his dad's face on the screen. At least he'd

remembered his birthday.

"Hey, Dad," Ash said, hating that he felt incrementally better.

"Son," Gordon said, sounding jovial instead of stern. "Heard you had quite an adventure with

Daisy last week." He chuckled. "Bet you've never had a night like that."

Um, you're welcome,
Ash thought grimly, but didn't say anything. His dad was waiting for

some acknowledgment of the Daisy adventure, and Ash was waiting for his dad's birthday

wish.
We could stay like this all night,
he thought.

"So tonight, I need you to come up here," Gordon said. "We're having a party."

Ash instantly softened. A party? For him? The last time his dad had planned him a birthday

party was a paintball outing in the seventh grade. It was right before the divorce.

"You didn't have to do that, Dad," Ash said.

"Of course I did. Investors want to meet Daisy, and I need to show she's not a liability. You're

good with her. To an extent, anyway. Be here at eight?"

"Um, actually, I have plans." Ash gripped the phone tightly, pissed off that his dad would plan

a party for Daisy while forgetting his birthday.

"What kind of plans?" Gordon asked skeptically. "It's Tuesday night."

And my birthday,
Ash thought.
Not that you care.
He racked his brain for an actual

engagement, not just hanging with Tucker and Geoff. Ash glanced out his window at Jake's

navy curtains. "Actually, I'm supposed to go the Porter-Goldsmiths' for dinner," he said,

hoping his Porter-Goldsmiths invite sounded like an unbreakable obligation.

"Yeah, of course. Must be a big night for you," Gordon said, sounding more amused than hurt.

"Have a good time."

And with that, he hung up. Ash exhaled, laughing to himself as he imagined stodgy investors

chatting up Daisy in one of her crazy tutus. It might have been fun to go, but if Ash's birthday

was so easily forgettable, so was his dad's stupid party.

He rang the Porter-Goldsmiths' bell, feeling like a tool. He'd fetched a bottle of wine from the

cellar and now he hastily untied the gift tag signed by Francis Ford Coppola from the bottle's

neck. He tossed it in the bushes just as Jake's mom answered.

"Ash," Jake's mom, Gigi, said, her familiar halo of auburn hair tied in a loose ponytail. She

looked a little surprised to see him, but pleased. "What a nice surprise. Come in." Memories

flooded Ash as he stepped through the door. He and Jake had practically lived at one another's

houses until they were ten. Mrs. Goldsmith had seen him in his Power Rangers underwear.

He handed her the bottle of wine, as she protested that he didn't have to do that.

As he walked into the Porter-Goldsmiths' eat-in kitchen, every face registered surprise at seeing

him.

"Hey, Ash," Jake said, looking confused as he brought a plate of spaghetti to the table.

"Ash, 'sup?" Jake's little brother, Brendan, said, nodding approvingly as he sat down. Brendan

had always tried to hang out with Ash and Jake when they were younger. He had to be thirteen

now, and was almost Ash's height. He'd been a little chubby as a kid, but now he was all

muscle, with shoulders that looked broad and square compared to his face, his cheeks still a

round reminder of his baby fat.

Jonathan, Jake's dad, stood, clutching Ash's hand in his solid grip. "Good to see you, Ash. Sit,

sit. I hear it's your birthday." The Porter-Goldsmiths' kitchen table was still the same dark,

round six-seater he'd eaten at hundreds of times growing up. The kitchen was updated with

granite counters and a stainless-steel fridge, but Gigi's collage of old Hollywood stars still hung