Free Blonde Ambition by Zoey Dean Page A

classroom. The five girls who considered themselves “actors” (the term
actress,
Anna had learned, was gauche) sat up straighter, or stuck their breasts out, or swung their hair—anything to attract attention. It was one thing for Sam to do a student film and quite another for her to be working on a feature—however low budget it might turn out to be—financed by one of the biggest movie stars in the world, her father.
    All of which was fine, from Anna’s point of view. Except for the fact that she had no idea what Sam was talking about.
    “Tell us more,” called Heather Chasen, who wore a geometric Marc Jacobs mini and had drawn fake lashes below her real ones for a retro Twiggy look. “Does this have anything to do with Anna working on
Hermosa Beach
?”
    Others started calling out questions: How many roles would there be? When would auditions be? When could they see a copy of the script?
    Anna shot Sam a look that conveyed, she hoped, her shock. Sam was clearly unperturbed by it. “As soon as possible, we’ll let you know,” she said smoothly. Then the bell rang, but instead of dashing for the exits, half the class gathered around Anna and Sam.
    “I didn’t know Sam and Anna were working on a feature, did you?” Dee asked as she and Cammie left the classroom.
    “Guess what? I don’t care,” Cammie said.
    Tiny Dee had to walk double time to keep up with Cammie’s long strides. “Just remember, animosity turns loose free radicals. And this isn’t a theory. It was in the Monday Health section of the
Los Angeles Times.
I think.”
    “Dee?”
    “Yes?
    “Be quiet.” Cammie was in no mood to hear any of Dee’s theories on life, health, or the new age. She knew it was but three sentences from animosity and free radicals to the therapeutic nature of high colonics. But the only person she wanted to get a high colonic right now—preferably with sulfuric acid—was her so-called friend Sam. How could she be working on a feature with the A-word and not even mention it? Where were her loyalties?
    “Stevie!” Dee exclaimed, waving to a guy walking toward them. Cammie didn’t recognize him. Which meant he didn’t go to BHH, where she knew everyone who was anyone.
    When the guy reached Dee, he kissed her and kept an arm looped around her tiny shoulders. “Thought I’d come check it out,” the guy said with a heavy New York accent. The word
thought
came out like the word
taught.
    Dubious grasp on diction notwithstanding, Cammie had to admit he was hot, whoever he was, though in a trying-too-hard kind of way. He was tall and lanky, with jet black hair that fell forward almost over his cheekbones. And he wore regulation rock-and-roll black— black jeans, black tee, black leather jacket. The pants had to go. But other than that, he was quite the tasty treat.
    “This is Stevie Novellino,” Dee told Cammie. “From New York.”
    “Brooklyn,” Stevie corrected.
    “Brooklyn,” Dee echoed. “He plays guitar for Border Cross. You know, the band my dad’s producing? They’re in town to do a show tomorrow. At the Hollywood Bowl.”
    “Opening for … ?” Cammie asked, since she’d never heard of Border Cross.
    “Beck,” Stevie said. “You know Beck?”
    Cammie smiled. “He’s a client of a friend of mine.” “You should come ’n check it out tomorrow night,” Stevie went on, shaking hair out of his eyes.
    “Stevie’s band just got signed to Sony,” Dee reported excitedly. “And my dad’s producing the new CD. Isn’t that cool? We met the last time I was in New York. My dad introduced us.”
    “Wow,” Cammie deadpanned. But her sarcasm was clearly lost on both Dee and this guy, who was evidently her new squeeze.
    “I know, it’s so cool!” Dee chirped. She stood on tiptoe to give Stevie a kiss. He turned it into a full-on make-out session, as if Cammie had nothing better to do than to stand there in her Badgley Mischka baby blue suede boots and watch this seventh-grade-cool