L.A. Candy - By Lauren Conrad Page 0,2

or how, exactly, but all that was about to change. Moving to L.A., putting off college for the Fiona Chen internship…all of it was meant to shake things up, to make room for something new and amazing in her life.

Jane’s happy fantasy was interrupted by the sound of a loud burp, then a toilet flushing. A moment later, there was a knock on her door. “Cassandra?” a guy’s voice called out.

“One door down!” Jane shouted back.

Ugh. Her new and amazing life would have to wait until she and Scarlett settled on some house rules. Like…Scarlett was not allowed to bring home guys who were too stupid or too baked to find their way back to her room.

On second thought, maybe Jane would just invest in a lock for her bedroom door.

2

YOU’RE NOT A TOTAL BITCH

Scarlett poured a cup of coffee, black, into her favorite mug, which said: COGITO, ERGO SUM, her favorite saying by her favorite philosopher, René Descartes. It was Latin for “I think, therefore, I am,” but she liked to tell anyone who bothered to ask that it was Swahili for “I’m shallow, but you’re ugly,” although she actually thought of herself as the opposite of shallow, and she considered beauty—or at least what passed for beauty in Southern California—to be highly overrated.

Scarlett knew that she had a strange sense of humor. It made people a little wary of her. But she liked it that way.

The midmorning sun slanted through the grimy windows and lit up the urine-colored kitchen walls. Outside, palm fronds swayed against the black-and-white backdrop of this week’s billboard: some random teen modeling a thong. Noises rose up from the street: cars honking, rap blaring from someone’s apartment, the guy from the ground-floor bodega swearing in Spanish. (Scarlett spoke four languages passably, including Spanish, and recognized mierda and caray.) The window fans whirred silently, stirring up the thick air without actually cooling anything. The cracked white thermometer with the smiley face on it registered 92 degrees.

Sipping her Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf French Roast, Scarlett caught a glimpse of her reflection in the garage-sale mirror Jane had propped next to the fridge to “make the room look bigger.” (Although who wanted to make a urine-colored room look bigger?) Wearing only a faded black tank and American Apparel boy briefs, Scarlett recalled the dozens of times guys had told her how hot she looked in this particular ensemble. But her appearance was not a quality she thought much about. In fact, her attractiveness sometimes got in the way of what she really wanted. It made other girls jealous of her and, consequently, they snubbed her (at best) or acted like sabotaging, PMS-plagued, psycho bitches from hell (at worst). It made guys unable to see past her super-long, wavy black hair, olive skin, and piercing green eyes to actually connect with her brain, which she worked hard to cultivate and was actually quite proud of. This made hookups easy, but friendships with guys nearly impossible. Her good looks made her parents—Mom was a shrink, gag, and Dad was a cosmetic surgeon, double gag—lecture her frequently and patronizingly about the risks of teen sex, as if only hot girls got pregnant or contracted STDs.

Scarlett had read in some book that Descartes was thought to have had sex only once in his life. Poor Descartes! Maybe Mr. “I think, therefore, I am” should’ve spent a little more time thinking about sex. Scarlett believed passionately in a life of the mind and the body—that is, to be brilliant and to hook up as often as possible. It was a good life, as far as she was concerned. Even though it sometimes led to mistakes, like the one she had brought home last night.

“Morning.”

Scarlett glanced up. Jane was standing in the doorway, stifling a yawn. She was wearing her blue robe that made her look about ten years old, and her long blond hair was wet. There was a spot of white moisturizer on her lightly freckled nose, and she smelled like strawberry shampoo. She was, as always, an adorable little mess. She looked like the girl next door, and had the innocence to match. That innocence made some people (like Scarlett) fiercely protective of her. It made other people (like all the assholes of the world) try to take advantage of her.

Scarlett smiled. “Hey. You want some breakfast? Or is it lunch already?”

“Hmm. What do we have?” Jane asked.

Scarlett opened the fridge. Half a questionable-looking lime, one peach soy yogurt