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ahead of yourself
, he told himself.
Maybe she only thinks of you as a friend. Which is the kiss of death
.
    Her left hand was near his right one. He could take it so easily. No big deal. All he had to do was—
    At that moment Anna moved her hand away.
    Damn.
    “It’s nice out here,” she said.
    “Yeah.”
    Just friends
, he told himself, disappointed.
Once again with a girl I really like, it’s going to be “just friends.”
    Which was why he was so surprised when she leaned over and kissed him.

Bloated, Painted Clown
    O kay, dreams don’t necessarily mean squat.
    That’s what Sam told herself the next morning as she showered, letting the scalding hot water blast down on her shoulders. Jeez, what a dream. It starred her and Anna. And it was a replay of a real-life moment from Dee’s sweet sixteen party, when Dee’s parents had rented the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion—the same concert hall where they used to hold the Oscars—for the party. They’d hired a set designer to convert the place into a Vegas casino, complete with showgirls and live animals.
    In real life, someone had slipped some high-test Russian vodka into the punch, and Sam had gotten totally wasted. Just to be outrageous, she had kissed Dee in the middle of the stage. To her surprise, she’d kind of liked it.
    In Sam’s dream it had been her own sweet sixteen. For a goof the party had an Oscar theme—she’d just received the fictitious Academy Award for best director. Anna had been the presenter. When Anna had handed her the gold statuette, she’d kissed her. Not on the cheek, either. But on the lips.
    And … Sam had kissed her back. Like
really
kissed her back, as the theme from
Titanic
had swelled in the background.
    Very weird. Because she was certain she wasn’t gay. The lust bunny had jumped into her boy-cut La Perla silk panties many a time for many a guy. She wasn’t as slutty as, say, Cammie Sheppard—who
was?
—but she’d had her share of hookups. So what was up with the dream, then?
    Maybe it was because Anna had been with Ben, and Sam had crushed on Ben for so long? Some kind of bizarre brain-wave syntax-firing blip?
    It couldn’t
possibly
be because she was gay. No flip-pin’ way.
    “Hey, wait up,” Sam called to Anna, who she saw walking toward the high school building. It was another beautiful, sunny L.A. morning. Sam hurried to catch up as quickly as her stiletto heels would permit.
    It was three hours later. When she’d dressed, she’d taken a last appraising look at herself in her three-way, floor-length mirror. She loved the Asian-inspired red-and-violet-silk Yohji Yamamoto fitted T-shirt, the cropped red leather Valentino jacket, and the size-eight Gucci jeans, which were surprisingly slimming, considering how low cut they were. Just before breakfast the family limo had arrived with her hair guy, Raymond, so he could do a blowout at home. (Sam couldn’t imagine sitting with the other I’m-getting-a-blowout-before-I-start-my-day types at his brand-new salon, Menage.) As usual, Raymond had done a spectacular job; with the help of his new Raymond’s Genius hair extensions, her hair looked thick and luxurious.
    But even with all that, plus makeup applied the way she’d learned at Valerie’s cosmetics emporium, Anna Percy—who wore nothing more elaborate than a long-sleeved black T-shirt, low-slung black pants, and utterly non-trendy Capezio dance flats—made Sam feel like a bloated, painted clown.
    “Hi, Sam. What’s up?”
    “The party-at-my-place-and-film-it thing is out for this weekend,” Sam told Anna as they entered the building together. “Listen, how many synonyms do you know for stupid?”
    Anna looked confused. “Sorry?”
    “Dumb, dull, retarded, thick, moronic, dim-witted, imbecilic, pea brained,” Sam answered herself as they cut through the building and out onto the quad. “They all apply to my new—gag me—stepmom, who has decided to redo my home in her image, beginning this weekend.