Beneath the Glitter: A Novel (Sophia and Ava London) by Elle Fowler, Blair Fowler

assured him. “We just—”
    “Quiet. I do your mouth now.”
    Hair went a little more smoothly if only because Troy’s French accent made his English entirely unintelligible, and their “New Wave nautical” outfits— MM had done the styling for the shoot and delivered on his promise that he’d put them in something good—were supercute.
    But they couldn’t escape the latent undercurrent of hostility that seemed to follow them everywhere. Even the production assistants lowered their voices and turned toward one another furtively as they walked by.
    As they walked from the trailers toward the tent that held the staging area for the shoot Sophia said, “Are you having flashbacks—”
    “To the first day of high school?” Ava nodded. “Yeah.”
    They were being shown from the trailers to the staging area for the photo shoot when they ran into MM . “Here are my princesses!” he said, giving them each a kiss. “Sorry I couldn’t come find you earlier, we had a problem with the monkeys.”
    “Monkeys?” Ava and Sophia asked in unison, but with very different levels of enthusiasm.
    “Not for you—sorry Little London—they’re for someone else. Don’t ask me why—” He stopped, stood back with a hand on one hip, and looked from one sister to the other. “Okay, what happened? Tell Uncle MM what is going on.”
    “Nothing,” Sophia said, shooting Ava a warning glance. “Everyone is just—tense.”
    “Which means everyone has been a little snobby to you, right?” MM translated. “Take that as a compliment. It means they’re jealous. Just remind yourself of that whenever they do it.”
    Ava made a face. “Somehow that never makes me feel any better.”
    MM adjusted the bow at the hem of Ava’s sweater and patted her on the cheek. “They just don’t know what to make of you, princess. To them, you’re hothouse flowers.”
    “Ohlfons said we were bland, bland, bland, ” Sophia told him, trying to imitate his accent. Doing fake accents was one of the skills Sophia wished she had but didn’t, and her imitations usually fell completely flat, but miraculously not today.
    MM gave a bark of laughter. “Well, he should know. His real name is John White and he’s from Topeka, Kansas. Doesn’t get much blander than that.”
    Ava gaped at him. “That’s not true.”
    “I swear on my new Varvatos work boots,” MM said, bending down to touch them. “They’re lickable, right?”
    “Completely,” Ava agreed.
    MM looked them over from head to toe, made two minor adjustments, and left them at the mouth of the tent. “Will you two be okay? I’ve got to go organize the ‘Mumbai militia’ look for the next model but I’ll come check on you as soon as I can.”
    “We’ll be fine,” Sophia assured him.
    “Thanks to you,” Ava confirmed.
    They ducked through the white plastic flaps of the tent into a wide-open space. Pallets of equipment in black boxes were lined up along the sides of the tent and a bank of tables with computers ran down the center. Thick cables in all colors snaked across the floor of the tent like a tropical root system. The front of the tent had no wall and opened instead to a panorama of Los Angeles, sweeping from Hollywood all the way to the ocean.
    Although it was daylight there were three massive lights directed at the open space, where a rapper named Trapper Keeper was finishing his shoot. Careful to avoid tripping on any of the cords, Ava and Sophia found two seats against the far wall of the tent and sat down to watch.
    Trapper Keeper was wearing a one-piece suit of long underwear with a tuxedo printed on the front and he was being pelted with rose petals being blown in his direction by a wind machine as a woman with bright blue hair moved around him getting pictures.
    The art director, a tall man in a fedora with a scarf looped around his neck, paced up and down behind the bank of computer monitors, a plaid-shirted assistant following at his heels. The art director had