Sunset Boulevard by Zoey Dean Page A

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    Two hours later, Jojo was ready for a nap. But Myla wasn't finished. "Let's review what you've
    learned, okay?" Myla sat on her bed, holding up a hand so Jojo would remain standing.
    "You're at a social function and you've been dancing. It's time for a touch-up. Show me what
    you do in the bathroom." She held up her iPhone's video camera and turned it on Jojo.
    "Um, pee?" Jojo said, waving off Myla's frown. "I'm kidding!" She went to Myla's vanity,
    sitting in the swiveling plum leather chair in front of the round golden mirror. She fluffed her
    hair, which Myla had expertly straightened and then tamed into loose curls. She applied a fresh
    coat of Myla's favorite lip gloss, Philosophy Red Licorice, blotted her nose and cheeks with a
    piece of rice paper, and pressed the side of her index finger to each of her eyelashes, curling
    them up slightly. She cocked her head over her shoulder to check her backside in the mirror.
    Myla nodded enthusiastically. "Good, exactly what I would have done. You don't want to
    come out with a completely remade face. Now, demonstrate your walk to, say, history class."
    Jojo picked up the red Balenciaga hobo they'd been practicing with. It was much lighter than
    the backpack that made her lean to one side like a hunchback. The trick was to only take what
    she needed for each class, instead of carrying everything around all day. She slung the bag
    easily over her left shoulder, then grabbed Myla's textbook from the desk, carrying it neatly in
    the crook of her right arm.
    Jojo usually walked without thinking about it. Now she put one foot in front of the other, heel
    to toe, her head up high and her eyes straight ahead. It was a nothing to see here walk, which
    Myla said showed people they should be more interested in her than she was in them. She
    didn't even look to Myla for approval as she passed at a clip, the bag gracefully swinging at her
    elbow. For good measure, she strode across the room twice more, only making direct eye
    contact with the iPhone's video lens at the very end of her strut. She wanted a memento of the
    cool look on her face.
    "Very nice," Myla said. "Now you see why we stop at our lockers before each period.
    Carrying all your books may be efficient, but efficiency can be the enemy of grace and beauty."
    Jojo shook her head, astonished. "How do you know all this stuff?" She wondered if Myla
    locked herself in the room to practice her walk and her blasé expressions. There was no way
    she'd keep track of all these rules and maneuvers.
    Myla made a who, me? face. "Years of practice. But you're a very fast learner. Of course,
    you're the first one I ever gave lessons to."
    Jojo felt herself beam goofily, and then quickly corrected her smile into a Myla-patented
    satisfied half-smirk. She dropped the bag onto the bed and neatly sat down in one of the chairs.
    She smoothed down the fluffy full skirt of the red Alexander McQueen cashmere flannel dress
    Myla had lent her, admiring her Chanel Lotus Rouge-polished toenails as they peeked out the
    top of Myla's Miu Miu open-toe black bow pumps--at least her pedicure had lasted.
    Jojo looked at their reflection, sitting in their matching chairs, both with their legs neatly
    crossed at the ankle. Myla looked exotic, with her tanned gold skin, her gleaming pinup-girl
    hair, and her candy-heart lips. But it was her own reflection that made Jojo stare. She caught
    Myla's eye in the mirror. "Can I tell you something? I didn't think this would work." Myla's
    face remained open, so Jojo pressed on. "But I can't believe it. I didn't think I could look like
    this... be like this."
    Myla shook her head as if to say, "Silly Jojo!" She shrugged. "I knew you could. We're
    sisters."
    Jojo let herself grin in full, looking once more at her polished and perfect self in the mirror. At
    the modelesque way she posed, hand on hip, one tan leg slightly bent at the knee. At her
    shoulders, thrown back as if to say, I'm wearing this dress. It is not