Maggie Malone and the Mostly Magical Boots Read online

  “Okay, my mom is going to totally freak out if I just disappear for a whole day!” I whimper, starting to panic even more.

  “Relax, Malone,” Frank says. “Time stops when you’re in the boots. Your mom will never even know you were gone.”

  “Promise?” I plead.

  “Promise,” Frank insists. “You’ve got this.”

  “Well, what if I need you?” I moan.

  “Your pocket mirror comes with you,” Frank says. “It’s in your pocket right now. Get it? Pocket mirror? I love that one.”

  I reach into the pocket of my pajama bottoms, and sure enough, it’s there. Frank is still holding his big belly and laughing when there’s a knock on the door.

  “You ready, Becca?” Violet asks right through it. “We’re at the ’dome, and we’re on a tight schedule, you know.”

  “Coming!” I shout as I watch Frank fade away before my eyes. I quickly pull on a T-shirt and pair of jeans I find folded on a shelf next to the bed and slip the mirror into my back pocket.

  You’ve got this, I repeat to myself, opening the door. Yeah, right.

  I follow Violet straight through the middle of this gigantic, fancy bus. I probably don’t have to mention that it doesn’t look like any bus I’ve ever seen. Hot pink velvet dotted with sparkly, silver stars covers the cushiony walls. There’s a kitchen off to the right that looks like it’s never been used and a long, white leather couch on the other side with a shiny metal table. To top it all off, the floor and ceiling are covered with tiny disco lights. I bet those lights change colors. I saw that once in a limousine when my aunt got married. Violet would know.

  “Hey, Violet?” I call ahead.

  “Becca, are you mad at me or something?” Violet asks. “You haven’t called me by my whole name since the beginning of your first tour.”

  Forget the blinky lights—not important. Be cool, Malone!

  “What? Oh, no! Sorry, um, Vi. I think I just need some food.” I figure that’s a harmless enough excuse for acting like a nut job. Everyone gets a little crazy when they’re starving. And I am ravenous.

  “Oh, you’re hilarious this morning,” Vi laughs. “You never eat breakfast! But if you’re hungry, I guess there’s time to grab a quick bite.” She stops and looks at me square in the eye, and I have to resist the urge to look away. “You sure you didn’t hit your head on the nightstand when you rolled out of bed?” she asks. I nod. She stares at me for another second before stepping aside and pressing her clipboard to her chest to let me off the bus. She leads me under a tent and into the biggest breakfast bonanza of my life.

  Here’s another thing about me: I live for breakfast. I could eat it for every single meal of every day. In fact, I probably average about nineteen breakfasts a week. And this place has about thirty times more food than any breakfast buffet I’ve ever seen. I think I am in heaven.

  I pick up a plate and start piling it with bacon. Then I notice the sausage. Are you kidding me? Sausage and bacon on the same day? That doesn’t happen in real life. I move on to the pastries—sticky buns (my favorite!), chocolate croissants, jelly doughnuts. And eggs—leaky ones, with the yellow ooze coming out on the sides—just the way I like them. When I get to the pancakes, there is no more space on my plate. How sad is that? I carefully lay a short stack across my meat and pour syrup over the whole mess. I firmly believe that just about anything tastes better with syrup on it. If you haven’t tried it on pork chops, you’re missing out.

  “O-kay, Bec,” Vi says, raising an eyebrow. “Going for the lumberjack breakfast today, are we?”

  I just shrug.

  Vi pulls a walkie-talkie from her hip. “Louisa?” she calls into it. “Becca is walking in five.”

  As in minutes? I look at my heaping plate that I can’t possibly consume in that amount of time. I do the best I can to prioritize, stuffing in a couple good mouthfuls of the most fantastic, buttery pancakes I’ve ever tasted. I grab a bite of sausage and cram it in there too, even though I haven’t swallowed the pancakes yet.

  “All right then, let’s go,” Vi prods, snatching up my plate and handing it off to a guy in a white chef’s hat. Torture! The best breakfast I never got to eat.

  We walk to the far end of the tent where it’s attached to a building. Violet flashes her badge, and a security guard pushes open a giant set of double doors. We wind our way down a crazy-long hallway filled with doors, then another, and then one more. Vi stops in front of a door that looks just like all the rest and swings it open.

  I think I might faint.

  Becca’s entire band—including the kid who does flips across the stage at every concert and her three backup dancers who are also on that TV show Dance Rock USA, plus the drummer chick who has her own clothing line—are sitting around two long tables. They all look up. I smile and hold up my hand in a frozen wave like I’m pledging something really important.

  “Hey Bec,” says this whole room full of famous people. To me. I cannot make a sound. The last time I was totally speechless was when Ricky Garfinkle’s shorts fell down in the lunch line and he was wearing underpants with rainbows and unicorns on them. I wish I could unsee that. I also hope I can keep it together in front of these super-cool teenage professionals. At Stinkerton, all I wanted was for someone to notice me. My mom says it all the time: be careful what you wish for.

  “Please grab a seat, Becca,” Louisa says nicely. I am guessing she’s the teacher or tutor or something like that. Vi hands me a stack of books and paper and leaves.

  “Today we need to review chapters eleven through seventeen for your test next week,” Louisa tells us. I flip through my book—that’s, like, a hundred pages! I wonder how long “school” lasts and if there’ll at least be a potty break. I’m guessing there’s no recess around here.

  “You’re welcome to work alone or pair up and do some practice tests,” Louisa adds. Wow, we get a choice? I like being treated like an adult!

  I turn to the backup dancer sitting closest to me. Her name is Macy McLean and she’s fifteen; I know this because I’m a huge fan of Dance Rock USA. She’s got at least thirteen piercings in each ear—all real, from the looks of it—and either her mom is way better than mine at putting on temporary tattoos or this kid who’s not that much older than me is sporting real ink. Let’s just say she doesn’t exactly look like a bookworm. If I’m going to pair up with anybody and not get crushed like a bug, I’m thinking it’s her.

  “Want to be partners?” I ask.

  “Sure,” she says with a big smile. “Let’s make each other a practice test.” Then she winks at me.

  Oh, I get it! We don’t actually have to do this crazy math stuff. Phew! I mean, I get straight As at home and all, but this book is a few years ahead of me. I smile back at Macy and we each take out some paper.

  I can’t wait to see what Macy is going to do. Maybe she’ll write a funny poem like Stella always does or make up a friendship quiz. I decide to draw her a picture, since that’s my thing and I’m pretty good at drawing horses.

  “You ready to switch?” Macy asks a few minutes later. I scribble “I (heart) horsing around!” at the top of my page, fold it in half, and slide it across the table to her. Then I open hers.

  Macy did not write me a funny poem or make up a friendship quiz. She also didn’t draw me a picture. No, Macy filled her page with about four hundred and fifty tiny, perfectly neat, totally impossible math equations. We each stare at our papers for a second and then at each other.

  “Becca, what is this?” she whispers, looking worried.

  “It’s….well…it’s a horse,” I say. “I’m sorry, Macy. I just can’t concentrate today. And this stuff is really hard.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were having trouble?” she asks. “You know I’m always happy to help you with your schoolwork. I am a math tutor on the side, you know. And science and Latin, of cour
se.”

  Well, knock me down with a squirrel sneeze! Apparently I was wrong about Macy not being the brightest bulb on the porch. And I guess when people treat you like an adult, you’re supposed to act like an adult too. I’m going to have to work on that one.

  Just then, Vi sweeps into the room.

  “Sorry crew, we have to cut today’s lesson short,” she announces. “Becca needs to get into hair and makeup, and the rest of you have your workout in five.”

  We start packing up our stuff.

  “Can I keep your horse?” Macy asks with a smile. “It’s super cute. I might see if my tattoo guy can copy it!”

  “All yours,” I tell her, absolutely positive that if I turn on Dance Rock USA someday and see Macy McLean with a tattoo of my horse on her arm, my head will explode on the spot.

  After the super-awkward horsing-around fiasco, I am ready to sit back, relax, and get pampered. Vi leads me through another series of hallways to a room full of mirrors with those big round lightbulbs going up the sides.

  “Hey, Miss Thaaang!” shouts a spiky-haired dude in studded jean cutoffs, a white tank top, a fringed black leather vest, and combat boots. Is he serious? I wonder. “Give me the shake, girlfriend!” he shouts with a southern twang, extending a single finger toward me and planting his other hand on his hip.

  Completely confused, I reach out and attempt to shake his long, outstretched finger.

  “No, the shake! The way only the fabulous Becca Starr can do it. I want the shake before you get in my chair!”

  Really? The shake. What would Becca do? I have no idea. I mean, I know everything about her, but I don’t actually know her.

  “Oh! You want the shake!” I say, deciding to give it one more guess. I throw my arms up over my head, start flashing major jazz hands, and wiggling my butt side to side really fast. I’m just getting into it, turning around in a circle, when Vi steps in.

  “You know what, Chaz,” she says, “Becca’s not really feeling it this morning, okay? And we’ve got a lot of work to do here.” Vi walks me over to Chaz’s swivel chair. Chaz looks at me like I’ve lost my little rock star mind. If only he knew.

  “Get you anything before we get started, love bug?” Chaz asks as he surveys my curls.

  I’m about to say no thank you when I remember something. I’m a world-famous rock star! I read an article in Tween Scene about celebrities and the crazy things they ask for. One actor-guy only drinks from a specific brand of bendy straws, and another band has to have exactly one hundred white roses with all of the thorns cut off waiting in their dressing room when they get there. I sort of want to try that.

  “Um, could I maybe have some, um…jellybeans?” I ask.

  “Coming right up,” Chaz says without any hesitation at all.

  “But not any white or yellow,” I say. Why not milk this a little bit? If I only get one day to be a rock star, I want to make it count!

  “Or orange,” I add. “Or blue. Actually, you know what? Could they just bring me the red and black ones?”

  “No problem,” Chaz says, reaching for the walkie-talkie on his hip.

  This is crazy! Stars get whatever they want, no questions asked? I’d ask for a pony and a swimming pool with a high dive and an amusement park in my backyard!

  “Anything else?” Chaz wants to know.

  “Maybe a Coke? With a lime in it? No, wait. Make that four limes. Well, four slices, not four whole limes!”

  “Coke with four lime slices,” Chaz repeats, his walkie-talkie poised in front of his lips. “Anything else?”

  Could I ask for them to serve the Coke in a crystal goblet shaped like a shoe? Or have the whole thing delivered by a clown, or a lady in a goat costume? That would be awesome! But maybe a tiny bit unnecessary. I wouldn’t want people thinking Becca had turned into a total diva on my account.

  “I think that should do it,” I tell Chaz.

  “So you know what today is, right?” he says after placing my order. “That’s probably why you’re acting a little…funny. Girl, I get it. But we’re gonna make this as painless as possible. Quick and easy, ready?” He reaches his hands up into my hair and yanks the bottom half right out.

  “Holy smokes!” I scream. “Mother of a beetle’s cousin, that hurt! Am I bleeding? Everything’s going black! I’m going down!” I grip both sides of the chair, trying not to fall on my face for the second time today.

  “What?!” Chaz says, all surprised. “Sweetie, we went with the glue-on hair extensions last time, remember? You said they were more comfortable for sleeping. Now look at these gorgeous new ones, made just for you!” Chaz holds up a mound of strawberry blond curls that look exactly like my own hair. “Since this is a big week, I’m going to put in the individual ones. It’ll only take a couple of hours to do it.”

  “Wait, we’re not going to straighten this mess?” I ask, hoping, wishing.

  “Oh, right!” Chaz roars. “And disappoint all your little curly wig-wearing fans? Your curls are worth half the price of admission, sweet thang!” He tilts my head forward, bends down, and gets to work. My jellybeans and Coke arrive, and get this: it’s a gigantic bowl of nothing but black and red beans, and my Coke has exactly four perfectly ripe slices of lime in it. It’s hard to swallow with my chin tucked down to my neck, but somehow I manage.

  I finally look up after, I don’t know, maybe eleven hundred hours and realize that I have approximately four times the number of crazy curls that I was born with and a monster crick in my neck. They like my curls? Huh. Well, it looks kind of good, I guess—in a world-famous rock star kind of way.

  Chaz grabs my face in his hands, air-kisses me on each cheek, and tells me I look divine, then hands me over to Vi.

  “Thanks, Chaz,” I say. For the torture treatment.

  Vi shuffles me over to the other end of the room where a table is laid out with enough makeup to fill up a department store. I start to relax. I mean, if I know anything at all, it’s that this part is going to be waaaay more fun than the hair nightmare I just lived through.

  The tallest woman I’ve ever seen in my life, whose nametag says Lisbeth Kruger, comes over to me and gives me a quick once-over. I get the distinct feeling that she’s not all that happy with what she sees. Without warning, she grabs my chin in her hand, gives me a weird little smile, and starts ripping my eyebrows out with pointy tweezers. One at a time. It feels like she’s sticking scorching-hot needles into my face.

  “Umm, Lisbeth?” I mutter, trying to blink back tears. “That really hurts.”

  “I know it’s not your favorite,” she says. “But we do what we have to do, right? Or are you finally ready to go with the tattooed brows? It really would be much easier—for all of us.”

  Get a tattoo? On my face? What planet are these people from?

  “Yeah, that might be a good idea,” I say. “Maybe we could schedule that for next week or something.” I feel bad throwing Becca under the bus like that, but honestly. If I came home with a tattoo on my face, I am positive my parents would send me off to one of those boarding schools like my cousin Seamus went to after he got caught stealing Milk Duds from the 7-Eleven.

  I sit in this makeup chair for what feels like a hundred million years and get smeared, smudged, and glossed within an inch of my life. I decide to keep my eyes closed and wait until Lisbeth is totally done to see my magical transformation. She spends at least a year applying eye shadow with the softest brush you ever felt. I wonder if it’s made out of mink or something, but I decide that it’s probably not because Becca is a huge animal-lover, like me. I would fall asleep sitting here if my mostly empty stomach wasn’t rumbling louder than a chainsaw. I wonder if Lisbeth can hear it, but if she can, she is being very polite about it. After an eternity, she glues these fake lashes that look like sparkly spiders to my eyelids and announces that she’s done. I open my eyes (I actually have to peel
them apart since the spider-lashes weigh about seven pounds each) and I see…wait for it…me. Maybe a little shinier and sparklier, but it’s still just me—with even bigger, curlier hair.

  I can’t believe Becca does this every single day, I think. I’m pretty sure that would drive me totally bonkers. Maybe being a rock star isn’t as glamorous as I thought.

  “You look fabulous, Bec,” Vi says, helping me up from the chair. “Let’s get you over to wardrobe ASAP or you’ll be late for Justin.”

  Okay, maybe it’s a little bit glamorous. Jeez Louise, who am I kidding? Wardrobe and Justin Crowe. Somebody pinch me. Wait, never mind. I’ve had enough pain for one day.

  The wardrobe room is about the size of my classroom at school—if you cleared away all the desks and lined the walls with rolling clothes racks. There must be thirty of them, all packed solid with the craziest, most beautiful clothes you can imagine. I walk around checking out the haul, afraid to touch anything. There’s everything from sequin-covered miniskirts and long, ruffled jackets to this incredible pair of stretch-leather jeans that look like someone glued lace right over the top. One whole wall has racks stuffed with shoes from floor to ceiling. All of this is for me. Well, for Becca technically. But today, she’s me. Or I’m her. Whatever.

  “Salut, ma cheri!” a voice behind me booms. “Ça va bien?” I turn around and nearly fall over backward. Standing not three feet away from me is Toni Laroux, the famous fashion stylist from the TV show Wear Ever. I know Toni speaks English since I’ve never missed a single, solitary show, but maybe Becca is fluent in French on the sly and that’s their little thing. Which would royally stink for me, seeing as aside from fries, my knowledge of French is, like, zero.

  Toni leans in, squeezes my shoulders, and does the double-cheek kiss thing.

  “Hi, Toni,” I mumble. “Er, I mean, saloomahshurry.” I try to say it just the way she did.