Maeve on the Red Carpet (2 page)

Maeve Kaplan-Taylor

Maeve wants to be a movie star. Bubbly and upbeat, she wears her heart on her sleeve. She is entertaining, friendly

Ms. Razzberry Pink

The stylishly pink proprietor of the †Think Pink. boutique is chic, gracious &

Marty

The adopted best dog friend of the Beacon Street Girls is feisty, cuddly & suave.

Happy Lucky Thingy and alter ego Mad Nasty Thingy

Marty„s favorite chew toy, it is known to reveal its alter ego when shaken too roughly. He is most often happy.

Lights…camera…action!

My personal stretch limo, very pink of course, and decked out in plushy velvet seats, is pulling up to the crowd of fans and photographers outside the theater. Lights, camera, action! The red carpet is rolled out before me … little
moi!
Be still my heart! A white-gloved hand taps on my window—it’s my cue. Someone very handsome opens the door. I step out to the “click, click, click” of cameras. The fans are screaming. They hope for a smile, a wave, or an autograph. Naturally, I oblige. Are you kidding? I LIVE for this moment! “Maeve, who are you wearing?” “Are the rumors true? Is Maevonardo finally tying the knot?” “Maeve, are you really selling your mansion in Malibu?” “Smile, Maeve!” “Maeve, is it true you’ve been asked to play the role of Eliza Doolittle in the remake of
My Fair Lady
?”

“Maeve, why are you drawing a gigantic pink marshmallow?” asked my brainiac little brother, Sam. I was sitting at the kitchen table, right in the middle of my
all-time fave movie star fantasy … until Sam’s rude question popped it.

I threw my arms over my notebook. “It’s NOT a marshmallow, Sam. I’m
trying
to design the perfect dress for my future movie premiere. If I’m going to be a famous star, I have to totally look the part …
helloooo
?”

Sam leaned in again. “Well you sorta look more like a pink s’more than a famous star. Sorry.” He smiled sweetly. How could someone so adorable be so annoying?

Obviously, the picture was supposed to be me. I mean, the girl in it had long red curls like me. I thought my dress looked just faaaaabulous. It was a flapper dress, vintage style. (The flappers were the “it girls” of the 1920s who wore lots of pearls with short, loose dresses—awesome for dancing in!)
Classic vintage is so timeless!
I sighed dreamily.

But when I looked down, I saw the terrible, terrible truth—Sam was right. My design was definitely coming out more like a pink s’more than a red carpet–worthy outfit. I chewed the end of my pen. “Okay, Sam, I know. How about when I’m famous, I’ll just make Katani my personal stylist!” I clapped my hands together. “Voilà. Problem solved.” Katani is the fashionista of the BSG. The BSG stands for the Beacon Street Girls. It’s kind of like a best friends club. There are five of us in all—Avery, Charlotte, Isabel, Katani, and
moi
—Maeve Kaplan-Taylor.

“I told you it looked funny.” Sam pretended to start walking away and then dropped to the floor. “Stealth mission!” he shouted and slithered toward me on his elbows.
He reminded me of a pygmy copperhead snake. (I saw a picture of one in my science book once.)

“Eeew! Sam!” I shrieked. “Get
off
the kitchen floor! That’s so gross.”

Sam’s life goal—so far—was to be an Army dude. In fact, he was pretty much obsessed. I thought it was kind of weird for a seven-year-old, but it seemed like adults thought it was cute or something. Whenever Sam wore his Army camouflage and crawled behind the furniture, my mom would say, “Don’t you just love that little cutie?” Of course I loved that little cutie, but seriously, I’d had about all the Army stuff I could handle.

Just then, I heard a “bonk” from underneath the table. A tiny hand shot up and snatched my notebook. “Mission accomplished!” Sam cried. “Headquarters, alert! Headquarters, alert! The eagle has landed! Repeat, the eagle has landed!”

“Sam! That’s mine! Give it
back
!” My little brother was really good at school and pretending to be an Army guy, but his best talent was definitely being a major tease. I grabbed my notebook and pulled it as hard as I could. Sam pulled too. “I
said
give it back …” We were both yanking with all our might, when suddenly the front door burst open.

“Mom!” Sam exclaimed, letting go of the notebook. “Saaaaam!” I went flying backward and landed flat on the kitchen floor, hugging the notebook to my chest. “Ooof. Thanks for that.”

“Maeve, Sam, what is going on here?” Mom’s hood
was over her head and her tan coat was soaked with slushy snow. She was holding a huge brown bag with a tinier plastic bag of dressings and soy sauce stapled to the top. That could only mean one thing.

“Chinese food!” I cried. “Wow, Mom, thanks!”

“Whoa, Mom. You rock.” Sam beamed at Mom and she beamed right back. Takeout Chinese was an instant hit, as everyone in the Kaplan-Taylor household
loved
Chinese food. Mom was a chicken lo mein person, the scallion pancakes were my personal fave, and Sam liked the moo shu pork. It was perfect. I just loved it when everyone agreed!

Mom plopped the bag down and pulled down her hood. I blinked. For a split second, I barely recognized her. “Oh my gosh! Mom, your hair!” I gasped.

Mom had gotten her shoulder-length brown hair cut into a wispy chin-length bob. And … it had blond streaks in it! Mom looked at me with worried eyes and glanced at her reflection in the hallway mirror.

“I know. I went a little crazy today at the salon. I just needed a change. Does it look terrible?”

I almost laughed out loud. I’d never seen my mom nervous about her hair before. In fact, as the redheaded, curly-haired drama queen of the family, I was always the one asking for hair feedback. (Believe me, one wrong move and it was frizz city.) But now that Mom’s new look was sinking in, I had to admit—I really did like it.

“Terrible? Are you kidding me? It’s totally
stunning
!
Très
retro, Mom!” I wasn’t sure what “
très
retro” meant
exactly, but I knew it was a compliment. I think. I picked it up from a fashion article in my latest
Teen Beat
magazine.

Mom laughed and ruffled her new short ’do as she primped in the mirror.

“I think you look beautiful
all the time
, Mom,” Sam added, probably trying to out-compliment me. Typical! I opened my mouth to say something not-so-nice to Sam, but then I decided it was a much better idea to fill it with something delish instead.

“Scallion pancakes, please!” I reached into the bag, grabbed the carton, took a deep breath, and then—a giant bite.
Mmm, mmm
. Crispy on the outside, soft in the middle, and crunchy all around.
Perfecto!

“Ah, ah, ah, young lady. Plate, please … and chopsticks?” Mom pointed at me and Sam.

“Mom … there’s no time for chopsticks. Please pass the forks!” Sam declared between bites. He was totally right. Both of us were already munching away. We were waaaay past the point of chopsticks.

“Yikes,” Mom shook her head
and
her newly cropped hair. “You’d think you two were raised in a barn.”