Maggie Malone and the Mostly Magical Boots (6 page)

“Ah, voilà!” Toni says, smiling, pleased with her reflection.

Really? Voilà?
Frank
wasn't there?
I
really
need
more
information
on
how
all
this
works.

I throw the T-shirt over my head and lunge out of the dressing room. I almost slam one of Toni's French fingers inside the compact in my rush to snatch it back.

“Sorry, Toni!” I stammer, scampering back into the dressing room. “It's just that's a cherished family heirloom is all. It's really, really old—and fragile.”

“Really,
cheri
?” Toni asks, questioning my claim. “It looks perfectly modern and positively chic, I think.”

“Nope. Extremely old, from an ancient ancestor,” I explain. “I'm pretty sure my great, great…great grandmother brought it over from her homeland on the
Titanic
…wait, it wasn't the
Titanic
…maybe it was the
Mayflower
…well anyway, it was way back in the days of yore.”
What
on
earth
am
I
talking
about?

“How fascinating!” Toni says without a hint of skepticism, like she believes me, but I'm not sure. “What is the meaning of the letters M and M in gorgeous jewels on the top? It is exquisite,
absolument
!”

“Oh!” I say.
This
one's easy
. “Yeah, that's because it belonged to my Granny Malone. Her name was Margaret Malone too! I mean—
NOT
TOO—
there was just her—she was the one and only Margaret Malone. Those are her initials.”
Seriously, Malone? Why don't you just dig yourself a hole and jump into it?

I am full-on freaking out at this point since I figure I'm cold busted. My excessive, over-the-top explanations are only making things worse. I pull the robe off the hook inside the dressing room and open the compact to consult Frank on exactly
how
to
backpedal out of this tall tale I've spun. I open the mirror and there's Frank, shaking his head.

“Way to oversell it, Malone!” Frank says. “But don't fret, Frenchie there is none the wiser. I'm pretty sure she bought your
Titanic
story hook, line and sinker!”

“Cool,” I answer back, not thinking, as I shut the compact.

“What is cool, Becca, my pet?” Toni asks. “You have caught a chill? I will have the heaters brought in
immédiatement
.”

“That would be great, Toni,” I say exhaling, completely relieved. “Thanks.”

Crisis averted! Time to get into my rock-star duds. The leather jeans slide on like butter and fit like they were made by hand for my body. I squat down and stand up, and they don't wrinkle or pucker even one tiny bit. They almost look like they were painted on. My mom would have a full-blown heart attack if she saw me in them, so—as cool as it would be to have her see her own daughter being a famous rock star—it's probably a good thing she's not here. I add the belt and an army of necklaces, then pull back the curtain and shuffle out in my bare feet.

Toni is standing there holding a pair of silver ballet flats in one hand and a pair of platform wedge-heel boots in the other. “I think we will go with the flats for now, since you have a long day,” she decides. “Plus we don't want Justin to feel shrimpy.” It's all I can do not to throw my arms around her and hug all of the air right out of her lungs. I mean, I love clanking around in my mom's heels at home for fun, but this is different. The last thing I need is to be teetering around on six-inch heels and trying to look cool and then tripping on my face in front of none other than
the
Justin Crowe.

I slip into the ballet flats as Vi bursts back into the room. “Oh good, you're dressed,” she says. “Justin's bus just got here. You ready?”

That's like asking an elephant if he's ready to go skydiving
, I think, but I can't exactly say that. Instead I nod my head yes and follow Vi out the door on spaghetti legs.

I get the twitchy leg shakes whenever I'm nervous or excited. Like when I have to stand up in class and give a report or when I can't close my eyes the night before we leave for a super fun summer vacation. But this is different. Right now, I've got the twitchy leg shakes mixed with some major jumpy tummy—the kind that makes you feel like you're going to toss your cookies any second.

Maybe it's a good thing I don't have any cookies to toss—there wouldn't be time for that anyway. Vi walkie-talkies ahead to let Justin's crew and the photographer know that “Miss Starr is moving,” and just before we arrive on set, another pair of double doors flies open like magic. I have to admit, it's awfully cool having someone announce your every move like it's actual news.

Right away, I see him.
Justin
Crowe.
He doesn't have a real spotlight shining out of the top of his head, but he might as well. I don't know how to explain it, but he practically lights up the whole room. He's surrounded by a bunch of people huddled together wearing headsets. Until the big metal doors slam shut behind us, echoing a loud
boom
throughout the ginormous room. He turns toward us and breaks into the biggest, most beautiful smile I've ever seen, and I think I might just melt right into the cement floor.
Is
this
really
happening? To me?
The closest I've ever gotten to anybody super famous was when I was four and my parents took me to see The Jiggles and I got my picture taken with the guy in the grape suit. I'm pretty sure that doesn't count anymore.

Justin keeps grinning—right at me—and holds up one finger, to say
just
a
sec
. That's cool, I think to myself. I can wait just a sec for Justin Crowe. As he turns back to the headset people, he does something that makes my head spin: he flashes me the
I
heart
Becca
Starr
hand symbol, right off his left shoulder.
Seriously?
He hearts me! Justin Crowe hearts me! This is the single most superb day of my entire life. Wait, it's not technically
my
life, I remind myself.
But
it
is
today, and it's totally, amazingly, ridiculously awesome.

Justin's crew scatters, and he comes running over to me, scooping me off my feet and spinning me around.
Spinning. Me. Around.
Is there anything better than being spun around by Justin Crowe? I can say, for sure, the answer to that question is no. No, there is nothing better than that.

“Becky!” Justin says.
Becky? Either he doesn't actually know my name or we are total BFFs.
“What's up? I've missed you!”

“Uh…yeah! I know!” I stammer. “I've missed you too!? It's been, like…how long
has
it been?”

“A whole month since our duet at the VTV Music Awards,” he says. “Can you believe it? And you've been around the world and back since then! Hey, we really missed you at the
Vanity
Square
party last week.”

I nod like a cartoon bobble head, terrified to say the wrong thing. Or anything at all.
Get
with
the
program, Malone. You're supposed to be a rock star. You'd better start acting like a rock star.

“Dude, I hear that scene was totally bangin', for real!” I say.

“What did you just say?” Justin asks, looking at me sort of funny.

“What?” I say, cocking my head to the side and giving it another try. “I'm just busting a rhyme, double time, dog!” I get my shoulders into it a little bit to boost the confident rock star effect, but I'm crossing my fingers hoping that sounded a little better.

He stares at me for a beat and a half and then busts out laughing. “Oh, I get it!” he laughs, shaking his head. “You're being that wannabe rock star kid backstage at Madison Quad that time, right? He was all
I'm talking to rock stars so I'm going to talk just like a rock star
. Like we talk like that! People kill me.”

“I know, right?” I say, feeling like the world's biggest dork. “People are ridiculous sometimes.”

Like, especially me—right now. I'm totally blowing it. But what do I do? Justin actually seems pretty…normal. Maybe I should try being a normal person too.
That
I
know
how
to
do.

“Tell me what's up with you,” I say, because it's always nice to ask people about themselves.

“Same stuff, different day,” Justin says, pulling up a folding chair for me and sitting backward in another. “On the road, on the bus, in the chair, sit around and wait. Of course, I love the fans and the performing and all that just like you do, but the whole thing can get exhausting. And lonely.”

Rock
stars
get
lonely? But there are all these people around all the time! I guess there's not a lot of hanging around, though. I think about all the time I spend with Stella at home. I sure would miss her if I lived on the road.

“Are you sleeping any better lately?” Justin asks.

“Umm…I rolled out of bed this morning—right onto the floor!” I say, hoping this is something that might actually happen to a rock star.

“That's classic!” Justin laughs. “You always crack me up.”

Right then, my stomach rips out an embarrassing, monster rumble.

“Dude! It sounds like a bowling alley in there!” Justin laughs again. “Have you eaten lunch yet?” I thought I loved him before, but I
really
love him now.

“I'd kill for a cheeseburger,” I admit.

“Me too,” he says and calls across to a guy talking to the photographer. “Hey, Butch! Can we get a couple of cheeseburgers over here, pickles on the side? Thanks, man. You're the best.” He turns back to me with that smile again. “Pickles on the side for my high-maintenance friend.” Becca and I both love our pickles
on
the
side
. Talk about a lucky coincidence!

Vi hears this and quickly jumps in. “Actually, Butch, Becca will have a peanut butter protein shake. Tell Chef it's for her—extra creamy. Thanks!” She comes over to Justin and me. “Bec, you know you can't have solid food once you're in full makeup!”

Rats! Make that double rats with stinky rotten goat cheese on top
! No burger and I happen to be allergic to peanuts. I won't be able to sing a note once my throat closes up, and all the makeup in the world won't be able to hide the head-to-toe hives I'll break into if Mr. Peanut even looks at these perfectly polished lips.

“Oh, yeah. Sorry, Vi!” I say. “But about that shake… Can we hold the nuts today? I'm sort of in a chocolate mood. Maybe I could just have a plain milk shake—with extra protein, of course.”

“Sure, not a problem,” Vi says. “And then we've got to wrap up this catch-up session. The guys are starting to load in the gear, and we've got some amazing pictures to take.”

Out of nowhere, a team of hair and makeup artists appears and starts in again with the glosses and powders and sprays. I slump back in my chair. Didn't we just do this?

After seventeen costume changes, eleven lip gloss reapplications, and at least a zillion blinding flashes in my face, the photographer—only the uber-famous Zane Black, the guy who shoots for all the big, glossy fashion magazines—declares that he's got what he needs.
Not
a
minute
too
soon, buddy
, I think. My face aches from smiling.

“So guess what, B?” Justin asks as the crew packs up their gear. “I get to stay for your show tonight! I was supposed to have to take off, like, now—but I convinced my manager to make a little magic with the schedule. I'll be up in the box cheering for you. I'll be the one holding up the biggest ‘b,' so look for me.”

He gives me The Smile and a huge hug, and I think my heart actually stops beating. “Break a leg, Becky,” he adds, and I smile weakly. I know that means “good luck” but right now I'm hoping that
I
don't actually break an actual leg.

“Sound check in five!” shouts one of the headphone guys. “Rory, get Becca mike'd up.”

“On it,” says Rory. He strolls over to me, and before I can even say hello, he twists me around roughly so that my back is to him. I don't even have time to think before he yanks the back of my shirt up really high.
What
in
the
name
of
Ursula's ugly uncle is he doing?
I grab the front of my shirt to keep it from riding up too. I feel a cold hard box being pressed against my back and then clipped to the top of my leather pants. Rory yanks down hard on the box, pulling the back of my pants down with it. Hello, if he makes me flash some cheek I'm seriously going to lose it here!

“That staying?” he growls.

“Yup! Not going anywhere!” I insist, pulling my pants back to my hips.

Rory shoves an earpiece into my ear and plugs in the wire. “Okay, let's do a line check,” he says, twisting me back around, and not very gently, I might add. “Give me a test.”

Um, what's the capital of North Dakota? Can you name all seven dwarves? What's fourteen times fourteen?

I clear my throat. “Testing, one, two, three…” I say, but nobody besides Rory can hear it, because the most horrible screech you've ever heard in your whole life—the kind that makes you cover your ears and double over—fills up the entire 'dome and bounces off the ceiling and walls like we're inside a giant popcorn popper.

“
Jeez, Curtis,
would
you
level
that
already?
” shouts Rory—right into my ear, which is still echoing from the screech.

“Sorry, Rory,” Curtis calls back. “Okay, try it again.”

“Hey, Becca, maybe you could just say
check-check
like we always do,” Rory says in a very unpleasant tone. He is not happy with me right now, that's for sure. Maybe his boxers are stuck up his butt or something. I decide to call him Gory Rory—in my head, of course.

“Now?” I ask, my ears still pounding.

“No, darling, a week from now,” Rory says all sarcastically. “Yes
, now
! What do you think this is? A picnic in the stinking park?”

The other thing about me? I don't like it when people are rude to me. Like, I can't stand it.
At
all.
My eyes start to fill with tears, and all I can think of is the sparkly-spider lashes and the dozens of layers of makeup and powder beneath them and the melting-clown mess I'm going to be if I even think about blinking. Why did I ever think I wanted to be a rock star? Maybe because I had no idea what it was all about. I wish I were somewhere else right now. Anywhere else. Even worse-than-awful Stinkerton.

Get
it
together, Malone. This is it. You're doing great, don't mess it all up now. You can do this. You
will
do
this. You don't have a choice.

I square my shoulders. “Check-check,” I croak. It comes out like a froggy whisper, but at least there's no screech.

“
What
on
earth
is
going
on
up
there?
” Rory roars again, this time even louder. “You bozos want to give me any juice, or do you want me to try to guess what she's gonna sound like tonight? Unbelievable.” He mutters the
unbelievable
part under his breath, and I decide that his boxers are not only up his butt but they must be crawling with fire ants. I know it's not a nice thing to say, but I sort of hope they are. I mean, I truly, honestly can't stand this guy. This is actually a good thing, because now I'm not so much upset as I am mad. And nobody better mess with Maggie Malone when she's mad.

“We got it fixed, Rory,” Curtis shouts. “Bad connection. Try it again—it should be good now.”

“It better be,” grumbles Rory.

“Check-check,” I say, loud and clear. The sound of my voice fills the arena, and I get chills down my own spine.

“Beautiful,” Rory says. “All right, give me a line. And before you can ask what I mean like you've never done this before, I am asking you to
sing
something
, princess. Anything, I don't care.”

That
I can do. I mean, I know every word to every Becca Starr song ever recorded, and I don't know about onstage at the Superdome, but at home in my shower, I'm not half bad.
You're a rock star now, so act like one. Don't hold back! Show them what you've got.

“Way back when, before I knew,” I belt out, loud and proud. I close my eyes and pretend it's just me, Maggie Malone, singing into my bottle of conditioner. Not to brag or anything, but I think I sound pretty good. I'm about to really get into it when Rory shuts me down.

“That's fine,” Rory says, cutting me off. He doesn't smile or anything—I don't know if he's even capable of smiling—but at least he doesn't look like he's going to bite my head off anymore. Mickey might like it if I came home headless, but my parents would bust a serious gut.

The rest of Becca's—I mean
my—
band gets the same lovely Rory treatment, one by one. When he's satisfied, he stalks off the stage without even a “see ya.”
That's right, take a hike, Gory Rory
.

“We put up with him because he's the best,” says a voice behind me. I turn around, super happy to see Vi.

“I guess,” I say. “But does he have to be such a jerk?”

Vi just shrugs, and I decide right then and there that when I'm a world-famous rock star, I will have a very strict No Jerks policy. If you want to work for Maggie Malone, you'd better be nice. End of story.

“Hey Bec, I have some bad news,” Vi says, steering me back down the hallway. Man, am I beat. I look at my watch and thankfully it's still pretty early. I'm definitely going to need a little nap if I'm going to be expected to perform an actual rock concert tonight.

“What's up?” I ask Vi, picturing myself sliding into that delicious satin bed.

“Your mom called,” Vi says, not looking at me. “She can't make the show tonight. She said to tell you she's really, really sorry but her fund-raiser co-chair got sick and she has to run the whole auction tonight by herself and she knows that this happened last time and the time before that too but there's nothing she can do and she promises she'll make it up to you.” Vi spits this last bit out in one rush of a breath, and even I can tell she's trying to cover for Becca's mom. It's no biggie to me, of course, but I feel super sad for Becca. Her own mom doesn't come to her shows?

I think about my mom. She's never missed a single soccer game or school play or even a silly field trip. Never, not even once. I decide to do something really nice for her when I get home, like make her breakfast in bed or pick up all the disgusting dog poop in the backyard without even being asked. I follow Vi back to the bus, thinking how weird it is to feel sorry for Becca Starr.