Heaven.

Today is discreetly-give-everyone-the-finger day. Some girl on the plane was reading a book called This Book Will Change Your Life, and when she got up to use the bathroom, I picked it up. Of course Brady told me to put it back, but I didn't. I mean, I did in time for her not to notice, but I flipped through it first.

Basically, it gives you something to do with all three hundred sixty-five days of the year. Talk about having too much free time on your hands.

Anyway, the book had entries like "Do Something Nice for Someone Else Without Them Knowing Day" or "Compliment Someone Day." Most of the Days were boring, but I happened to flip to a page that said: "Discreetly Give Everyone the Finger Day," and I thought, Now that is my kind of day!

So Brady and I are sitting on the grass eating Fatburgers and flipping people off. So far I have flipped off seven people without them knowing, and nine total. Strummer got his own Fatburger and I think he enjoyed it, although he ate it so fast I'm not sure it even happened.

So far Los Angeles is a lot of traffic and fake boobs. Maybe there's something in the water. I think I've seen Paris Hilton about thirty-seven times. Must be the look they're going for right now. Kind of like in Fast Times at Ridgemont High, when Jennifer Jason Leigh points out to Phoebe Cates a girl who looks exactly like Pat Benatar. And Phoebe informs Jennifer that there are three of them at Ridgemont.

And there's a lot of sky. I'm not used to there not being tall buildings everywhere, so the sky just seems to be limitless. But it's not blue. I guess that's where the smog comes in. I heard that everyone who lives in Los Angeles has low-grade emphysema, which is pretty scary. So scary that I take a deep breath and hold it.

"What are you doing now?" Brady asks. I'd answer, but I can't because I'm trying to hold my breath. I point to my cheeks to show there's a lot of air in there trying to stay put, and clearly I cannot speak. "I see," he says. "I'll just wait then."

Finally I exhale. "I was decreasing my chance of catching cancer."

"You don't 'catch' cancer," he says with this look that just says, Duh!

"Well, technically, no. You don't catch it the way you'd catch a cold from someone else's germs, per se, but . . ."

"This should be interesting . . ."

"The level of smog in Los Angeles is so high-" I start to say, but he interrupts.

"And you think that holding your breath is going to spare your lungs."

"Absolutely."

"That one time?"

"Surely not," I say. I take another deep breath and hold it. Strummer is panting away, so I grab his snout and hold it shut for a moment to spare his lungs, too. Then I motion for Brady to hold his breath with us.

"No," he says. I bulge my eyes out at him, insisting that he hold his breath. "Uh-uh," he says again, shaking his head back and forth at me. I frown. He takes a deep breath and holds it.

We meet the band at their rehearsal studio, which also doubles as Justin's parents' garage-though a Saturn and some kind of bulbous SUV thing have been forced out. The guys are all really excited to have us there-or should I say kids. It's shocking. The dead at twenty-seven thing aside, I don't think of myself as old . . . I don't feel old . . . but next to these kids I feel almost like . . . a grown-up. There's Sam, vocal and lead guitar, who's got jet-black hair, pale, pale skin, and a safety-pin lip piercing. Perhaps a spare for his diaper. Then there's Ethan, the bass player, with brown dreadlocks and an Atari T-shirt, and Justin, the drummer, who resembles Tanner from The Bad News Bears. His longish dirty-blond hair and cherubic face looks too young even for acne. All three show the signs of spending way too much time together, constantly looking at each other with these silly inside-joke smiles.

They offer us a Red Bull before we settle in to talk. People out here are really big on Red Bull. Brady asks them how long they've been playing and tells them about his label. He's so passionate when he talks about it that I almost don't recognize him. He tells them most labels claim they're "artist friendly" and then stab their artists in the back. He promises them he is not one of them. That's not how he operates. And then laments that's why he has no cash, which may not have been the brightest thing to say in that moment-but there's an earnestness as well as a business savvy that he's got intermingling, and it's really something to see. I sit back and let him do his thing, and when all is said and done, he tells them he's really looking forward to seeing what they can do live.

We get to the club about a half hour before they go on, and Brady stakes out his spot. Not right up front, but not all the way in the back with the wannabe hipster, trucker-hat-wearing idiots who are too cool to even nod their heads along with the music.

The band goes on, and I'm nervous. I know this is important to Brady, and I really want them to be good. And they are. They're really good. And I can tell that Brady likes them because I've noticed that when Brady's excited, he gets this glassy, happy twinkle in his eyes. He smiles, and he's got that twinkle. He looks over at me, and I nod at him. The nod is like an entire conversation. I know he's just decided that this band is his future. He knows that I approve, and I think-even though he made up his own mind-the fact that I approve means something to him as well. He smiles at me, and goes back to watching the band.

The room is packed, too. The kids are singing along to their songs, which is always a good sign. I look around-and not only is the place packed . . . it's not the ordinary semi-bored army of eyes wandering, looking for cute skinny guys or girls with belly piercings. Everyone in the room is locked onto the band. There's a girl wearing a DIY "Superhero" T-shirt. I walk over to her.

"Hey, cool shirt," I say to her.

"I made it myself," she says.

"Cool," I say back. Then I notice four more girls with four more homemade shirts, and one with "I Heart Superhero" painted on her jeans. It's a little following. And something tells me it's going to get much bigger, soon-which gives me an idea.

I look around the room and spot a neo-hipster standing in the back in a trucker hat. Trucker hats are the silly fad made famous by Ashton Kutcher, where by wearing a mesh-back hat you are somehow saying, "I am supercool, I am down with the white trash, look how ironic I am." Sadly though, just like every other fad, this one has seen its time, and this dolt doesn't know any better. The rest of the hipsters have moved on to the shrunken old Rolling Stones T-shirt and blazer. Maybe the memo hasn't reached L.A. yet. I feel for these people. Having to change your musical tastes and wardrobe and move to a different neighborhood every two years must be exhausting.

Then I get this feeling in my stomach-the same feeling I get when I'm caught in a lie or run into a long-lost ex-boyfriend when I didn't have time to fix my hair. Because this is not just any out-of-touch dolt: It's none other than Darren Rosenthal. Darren was my college boyfriend, and every one of my girlfriends wanted him. Tall, wavy dark brown hair, white teeth, just enough stubble, and a boatload of his parents' money. He was the coolest guy in our class. He definitely should know better. He should at least have the rocker T and blazer in effect. But, despite the hat, he's looking pretty darn good.

I walk over to him and knock the hat off the back of his head. This would annoy anyone, but especially someone wearing one of those hats, because that type will not want to be seen with the aftereffects of the trucker hat, which is really bad hat-head. He whirls around to see who the asshole is that knocked his hat off. And he's blown away when he sees it's me.

"Heaven?" he exclaims. "Oh my God, how are you? What are you doing in Los Angeles?"

"I'm here with a friend checking out this band," I say, instantly aware of how dumb that sounded.

"They're great, aren't they? I've got a good feeling about them," he says. "I might sign them." Uh-oh. I realize that he's there doing what Brady's doing, and all of a sudden I get protective.

"I don't know," I say. "They're not doing anything really different."

"You don't think?"

"Nah," I say. "There's already a dozen bands just like them out there, and three dozen more camp followers have been signed, who'll probably be dropped before their records come out," I say with complete authority, even though it is total bullshit.

"You in the business?"

"Sort of," I lie.

"Still a girl of mystery, I see," he says. I catch Brady's eye. He waves me over.

"I'll be right back," I say, walking over to Brady.

"Who are you talking to?" Brady says.

"Darren Rosenthal."

"Darren-cokehead, asshole; I never had an opinion of my own, but I made a fortune off everybody else's opinions; look at my fake tan, I'm such a dick-Rosenthal?"

"Well, he never mentioned his middle name."

"You know that guy?" he asks.

"He's my ex-boyfriend."

"You've got to be kidding."

"Nope."

"I've lost all respect for you," he says. "That guy is the biggest scumbag in the business."

"It was a long time ago," I say uncomfortably.

"Still."

"And I didn't sleep with him."

"Thank God for that."

"Not for at least two months."

"Oh, come on," Brady says. And he covers his ears, even though I already said all I had to say. I remove his hands from his ears.

"It was in college. Jeez!"

"He's an asshole."

"So you say."

"You didn't tell him we were here for Superhero, did you?" he asks anxiously.

"Yes. I said you wanted to sign them, and you were offering them a deal as soon as they got off the stage tonight."

"Please tell me you're kidding."

"I'm kidding," I say.

"Are you telling me you're kidding because I just told you to tell me that you're kidding, or are you really kidding?"

"I really am. I'm not an idiot, you know." I turn and walk over to the bar to get another Red Bull and catch up with Darren some more.

After the show we hang around and watch the crowd say their hellos to the band. Brady waits until they've done all of their schmoozing before he moves in to do his own schmoozing.

By the end of the night the band has a record-deal offer on the table with Sleestak Records, Brady's label. I really hope they sign with him.

We go to The Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf, which is L.A.'s competition for Starbucks. Apparently it's been around for a long time, and they seem to have a devoted following. Many of them are even directly across the street from Starbucks, and neither seems to suffer for it. I guess you are either a Coffee Bean person or a Starbucks person.

I order a Vanilla Blended, which is quite possibly the best thing I've ever consumed. As I'm taking my second sip I notice a bottle of water they're selling. At first I think I can't be seeing right, but when I walk over to the counter I find that my eyes were not deceiving me. They are selling bottles of "Fat Free" water. No, really. This is true. You can go in there and see for yourself. Now, this is not like Vitamin Water, or any of the fruit-flavored waters, some of which have a calorie count and additives that might make you question what you were drinking. This is just plain water-God's own water. But here it is bottled and labeled as "Fat Free." Unbelievable. And it is at this moment that I truly realize that I am in L.A.

Brady.

I leave Heaven at The Coffee Bean, where she's marveling at the Fat Free Water, and I tell her I'll meet her back at the hotel in a few hours.

I head out to meet the band so we can talk about my offer. I think I'm lost. We're meeting in Hollywood at this Mexican restaurant on Sunset Strip called El Compadre, which the band is particularly fond of. I realize I've gone a little too far into Hollywood when I get to the corner of Crack Whore and Gangbanger, so I make a U-turn and finally spot the place.

As I'm going around the block looking for a place to park I give Phil a quick call on my cell phone, because I realize that I didn't check in with him after the show last night.

"Hello?" a female voice says-a voice that sounds remarkably like Sarah.

"Sorry, I think I have the wrong number," I say. I hit End as fast as I can because I think I called Sarah by accident. She laughs as I'm hanging up the phone-probably because she thinks I did it on purpose. I'd call her back to tell her I didn't, but it's not even worth it.

I close the phone and open it once more, just to make sure we're disconnected. Then I scroll through my phone book and find Phil. I hit Send and watch as it says "Calling Phil" and then "Connected to Phil."

"Hello?" the female voice says again. I pull the phone away from my ear to look at it and make sure that it indeed still says "Phil."

"Sarah?" I ask.

"Yes, Brady?" she says back.

"Sorry, I'm trying to call Phil."

"You've succeeded."

Huh?

"You're with Phil?" I ask, completely confused.

"I am."

"Okay . . . can I talk to him?"

"He's in the shower," she says with this breezy, I-just-fucked-your-oldest-friend tone in her voice.

"I see," I say. And there's an uncomfortable silence. Do I ask her to have him call me back? Do I react to this extremely fucking strange situation? No. I'm just going to play it cool. It's none of my business.

"We're fucking," she says.

"I thought he was in the shower," I say.

"He is. I just mean, in general. We're fucking."

"It's none of my business," I say with a calm, cool tone that even surprises me.

"Hmm," she says. "Did you know that Phil's dick curls to the right?"

"What part of 'it's none of my business' did you not understand?" I say, now sounding much less cool.

"I heard you. I just think it's funny."

"That you're fucking my friend, or that his dick curls to the right?"

"Well, both, I guess."

"Fair enough," I say. "No, Sarah . . . I did not know that Phil's dick curls to the right. But could you have him give me a call when he gets a chance?"