Maggie Malone and the Mostly Magical Boots Read online

  “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.

  I barely have one foot on the bus when Vi stops me.

  “Hey, Bec,” she says. “Where’re you going?”

  “Yeah, I’m kind of beat,” I explain. “I was just going to take a quick power nap before the show.”

  “You’re funny,” Vi says. “Seriously, if you need the potty, go ahead, but we’ve got to get to the soundstage for your commercial shoot in less than thirty. Hair and makeup will meet us there.”

  Those guys again?

  “I guess I’m good,” I say, jumping back down off the bus.

  “Great, ’cause your car is already here,” Vi says, looking at her clipboard and speaking into her walkie-talkie. “Moving!”

  We walk around the back of the bus where my “car” is parked. And it’s definitely no car—it’s a super-stretch, supremely stylin’ limousine. Yeah baby! That’s what I’m talking about.

  I pick up my step, trying not to break into a sprint toward the limo. I’m reaching for the handle when a dude in a black suit stops me. “Allow me, Miss Starr,” he says, all serious. How could I forget? A rock star doesn’t open her own car door!

  I slide across buttery leather seats and immediately take my shoes off so I can feel the plush carpet under my feet. There are mile-long black couches running down both sides of this thing. I’m not even kidding; I bet I could fit my whole Ranger Girls troop in here. There’s the longest sunroof I’ve ever seen over my head, so I start fiddling with the buttons until I find the right one to open it. Vi is talking on her phone, of course.

  “Tell them we have no comment,” she says, sounding pretty irritated. We buckle our seat belts, and the limo starts moving.

  Vi is chatting away, and I’m staring up at the sky flying past, and all of a sudden, I can’t stand it. I know I shouldn’t unbuckle but I just can’t resist. I stand up right through the middle of the sunroof and open my arms wide, feeling the wind whip through my hair. Heaven! I think to myself. I’d do this every single day of my life if I was Becca Starr.

  Right then, two hands grab me around my waist and pull me back inside the limo lickety-split.

  “What are you DOING, Becca?” Vi says, trying not to raise her voice. “Chaz is going to have a panic attack when he sees what you just did to your hair!”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, feeling my curls—they are a little twisted up. “I just wanted to…” My eyes start filling with tears.

  “No, you know what?” she says, getting herself back together. “I’m sorry. I’m just a little stressed—that phone call—never mind, it doesn’t matter. They’re going to have massive fans blowing straight at you for this commercial anyway, I’m sure.”

  “They are?” I say, confused.

  “Remember?” Vi asks. “The Japanese car commercial? I showed you the storyboards last week. It’s the one where you’re in the convertible.”

  Before I can ask any more questions, the limo stops in front of this humongous metal building in the middle of nowhere. Vi hops out, and I have no choice but to follow her. This is where we’re filming a real commercial? Looks more like an abandoned paper plate factory or something. We walk inside, and it’s like stepping into another world. We’re in the middle of some big city at night with tall buildings and twinkling lights, a starlit sky, and a full moon overhead. I’m not sure you’d actually be able to see the stars in a big city like this, but it looks really good.

  There are at least a hundred people rushing around with headsets on. One of them rushes up to Vi and bows, like he just finished his second grade Thanksgiving play. Then Vi bows right back at him. Next thing I know, I’m bombarded by all those people in headsets bowing at me. Just in time, I remember what my Aunt Fi told me about the bowing custom in Japan—it’s a respect thing—so for once in this crazy rock star life, I know what to do. I bow at everyone and they all bow back. It’s hard to keep a straight face.

  Vi shuffles me through hair and makeup. Chaz only has a mini freak-out when he sees my windblown hair and gets it back into place pretty quickly.

  There’s a red convertible parked in the middle of the fake city street. The guy in charge comes over to Vi, motions toward the car, and says something in Japanese. It’s kind of hilarious when he says the thing in Japanese because he gets this super excited look on his face. Vi nods and comes over to me.

  “Okay, so here’s the deal,” she explains. “You’re gonna get in the car, they’re gonna get the fans blowing, paparazzi are going to swarm the car flashing bulbs, and you’re going to say, KONO IWA! You know, with lots of feeling and excitement.”

  “Wait, do they know I’m not old enough to actually drive a car?” I ask, because I’m just twelve, and Becca’s only fourteen!

  “Yeah, they don’t care,” Vi says. “Repeat after me, KONO IWA!”

  “KONO IWA,” I echo back.

  “Again,” Vi says.

  “KONO IWA,” I say again. “Wait, what does that even mean?”

  “What?” Vi says, looking up from her clipboard. “Oh, I don’t know. I can find out, if you’d like.”

  “Well, don’t you think we should know what I’m saying?” I ask. “I mean, what if they’ve got me saying I LOVE HULA-HOOPING POLKA-DOTTED PANDAS or something?”

  “Listen, Bec,” Vi comes in close, whispering into my ear. “They’re paying you two million dollars to say two words—that’s a million dollars a word. I think it’s something like ‘this car is awesome!’ but I’ll find out if you want me to.”

  “Yes, please,” I say with a smile. It just seems like the responsible thing to do. And just as I start to feel the tiniest bit thirsty, somebody puts a cool soda in my hand.

  Vi comes back from talking to the man in charge. “It means THIS ROCKS! Okay, are we all g
ood?”

  “All good!” I say and step into the car. They start up the music and the fans and the photographers get into position around the car. Vi points to me when it’s time for me to do my thing.

  “KONO IWA!” I say with as much feeling as I can muster in a foreign language I don’t speak. The bowing man says something to Vi.

  “Again, Bec!” Vi says from the side of the set. “With a little less excitement—more rock star attitude, please!”

  I squint my eyes and turn my head a little to the side and say, “KONO IWA.”

  The guy in charge is waving his hands, trying to explain to Vi what he wants. “That’s better, Bec!” Vi yells, “But they want a little more everyday American teenager vibe.”

  I say THIS ROCKS! in Japanese at least sixty different ways and finally get it right.

  We walk out of the warehouse and I can’t stop saying it: “KONO IWA!”

  “You love doing commercials, don’t you, Bec?” Vi asks, putting an arm around me.

  “Yeah, that was really fun!” I say.

  “You know what else is really fun?” she asks me, sliding into the limo. “You did such a great job, they just gave you that car!”

  “But I can’t even drive!” I remind her.

  “Yeah, like I said,” Vi reminds me, “they don’t care!” And we laugh together—until Vi gets another call, of course.

  We make it back to the bus in record time.

  “Okay, Bec, you’ve got thirty minutes of downtime to chill,” Vi says. “I’ll be back with your dinner.” I nod, and she closes the door to my bus-bedroom.

  I unload the necklaces and bracelets lining my neck and arms, peel off the sticky leather jeans, and pull on some stretchy leggings, a hoodie, and Becca’s bunny slippers. I have a pair almost exactly like them at home, and I’d wear them to school if my mom would let me. They’re that comfy.

  I’m about to curl up with a magazine when there’s a knock at my door.

  “Come in!” I shout. Vi nudges the door open. She’s got her cell phone in one hand and she’s covering the mouthpiece with the other.

  “So sorry to bother you, Bec, but I’ve got Jonie Lake on the line,” Vi says. Jonie Lake? Sister of a striped stegosaurus! Jonie Lake is the infamous, thousand-year-old entertainment journalist who gets her kicks ripping celebrities apart in her gossip column for Starz magazine. She’s had so much plastic surgery she looks like a cross between the Joker from Batman and one of those creepy dolls whose eyes are supposed to close when you lay her down but they get stuck open all the time. Talk about scary with a capital S.

  “What does she want?” I ask nervously.

  “What she always wants,” Vi says. “A comment on her absurd, made-up story. This time, she’s going to be writing about how all of your Becca Starr merchandise is manufactured by underpaid children in Chinese sweatshops.” Vi sighs and shakes her head. “No comment, I assume?”

  “But…but…why wouldn’t I comment?” I stammer. “That’s a horrible thing to print!” Then I have a terrifying thought.

  “It’s not true, is it?” I ask.

  “Oh Becca, of course it’s not true,” Vi assures me. “Nothing that vile woman prints is true! You know that.”

  “Then…shouldn’t I defend myself?” I ask.

  “You certainly can,” Vi says. “You just usually don’t want to deal with it.”

  “Well, I feel like dealing with it today,” I tell her. “I’ll take the call.”

  Vi lifts both eyebrows but says nothing as she hands me the phone. I take a deep breath before speaking into it.

  “This is Becca Starr,” I say with confidence I definitely don’t feel. “May I help you?”

  “Jonie Lake here,” she growls. “So, you got kids in China, working their little fingers raw for peanuts so you can make millions selling piece-of-junk dolls that don’t even look like you, if you ask me. Any comment?”

  “First of all,” I say slowly, “I’d like to know where you got this information.” It’s not just a stall tactic. In my journalism class at Sacred Heart, you weren’t allowed to make any sort of claim without being able to back it up. That’s pretty basic stuff, in fact.

  “Can’t reveal my sources, sorry,” Jonie snarls. “You got a comment? I’m on a deadline here.”

  “My comment is that it is absolutely not true, not a single word of it,” I say. “All of my products are made right here in the United States. And for your information, I don’t make millions off those dolls. In fact, I don’t make a penny. I donate every single cent I make on my merchandise to the Pack It Up Foundation. You are welcome to confirm that with them.”

  I so nailed that! Stella and I have watched the Becca Starr documentary at least a dozen times, so I’ve actually seen her manufacturing plant. It’s in somewhere like Detroit or Pittsburgh or one of those other cities where they make a bunch of stuff. I can’t remember exactly, but I’m positive it’s in the United States because they made a big deal about it in the movie about how hardly anybody makes anything in the United States anymore, which is sad. Then later in the movie, there’s this whole scene about Becca’s work with Pack It Up. Every year, she gives them money to buy backpacks and fill them with school supplies for kids who can’t afford to buy them. Becca even helps them pack those bags herself. I’d never even thought about not having enough money to buy a pencil before I saw that. It’s a tearjerker of a scene, and after we saw it the first time, Stella and I both took our entire allowance and stuck it in an envelope and mailed it right off to them, along with my favorite Crazy Kitten pencil case packed with as many supplies as we could stuff in there.

  “Well, that’s not what my source said, so I guess you don’t really have anything to add,” Jonie grumbles. And then there’s a click.

  Is this some kind of joke? She was asking me about me! And I told her the truth and she didn’t even care. And now she’s going to print her evil article full of lies, and there’s nothing I can do about it? It’s so totally not fair.

  This is almost exactly like that time at Sacred Heart when somebody started a rumor that Sally Keester had six toes on her left foot. Nobody even knew how the rumor started, but it sure did spread like wildfire. As if it wasn’t bad enough having to go through life with a last name that’s another word for backside, that poor girl walked to school in the snow wearing sandals all winter, just so people could count her frozen toes for themselves. (There were only ten. And she asked me to count them, for your information.) Even after Sally nearly got frostbite, kids still said she had one little piggy tucked underneath the others. Some of those kids still call her Six Toe Sally to this day. Why are some people mean for no good reason? It should be against the law.

  I look at Vi helplessly and hand her the phone. A tear slips out of the corner of my eye. Vi sits down next to me.

  “Sweetie, this is all part of being a star, you know that,” she says, hugging me. “People are going to say what they’re going to say and think what they’re going to think, and all you can do is keep being you. You know as well as I do that this will only make headlines until she makes up something even worse about somebody else. Until then, all you can do is ignore it. Besides, who cares what a bunch of strangers think? Those of us who know and love you are the only ones who matter, anyway. Right?”

  I nod and look down at my lap. Vi stands and slips quietly out of the room. Who knew being a rock star would be such a roller-coaster ride?

  I try to take my mind off the Jonie Lake disaster by thinking about food. I am so hungry I could eat a hot dog, which may not sound like much, but I haven’t eaten a hot dog in four years. That was when I nearly choked to death on one at the Sacred Heart Harvest Carnival. Tiffany Treadmore said that’s what I got for trying to eat on the Whirly Bird, but I think she was just mad because some of my ketchup flew onto her Rocking Rolls T-shirt when that Bird started Whirling. />
  Knock, knock.

  “Come on in,” I call.

  “You ready for dinner?” Vi asks, peeking her head back in.

  “Is water wet?” I ask.

  Violet laughs. “I’m glad to see you’re feeling better and that you didn’t let that Jonie Lake thing get you too down. We need you to be on your game tonight and not be worrying about that crusty old toad.”

  Vi’s right, there’s nothing I can do. I’m not wasting another ounce of brain space on dinosaur-face. Right now, I’m thinking about dinner—as in real, solid food that I get to eat. Pretty please with pineapple on top, let it be something good.

  I follow Vi out to the living room of the bus to find a silver domed plate waiting for me. I slide into my spot at the table and lift the lid. Yes! I’m staring at a plateful of spaghetti with meatballs the size of my head. I dig right in because you never know how long you’ve got to chow down around here.

  “As soon as you’re finished eating, we’ll get you in for your final hair and makeup touch-ups and then we’ll do this deal,” Vi says. “You’ve got about twenty minutes or so.”

  And then she leaves.

  Have you ever eaten a whole meal at a table all by yourself? It’s weird, let me tell you. At home, dinner is loud and fun and even when Mickey is getting yelled at for making farting sounds with his armpit or trying to slide bites of food to our dog Willy, everyone’s usually laughing and happy. But I have nobody to talk to, not even Vi, who is probably off doing something Very Important for me. Is this what my life is going to be like when I’m back home, as me, at Stinkerton? I don’t want to be the Girl Who Eats Alone forever. I shudder and try to shove that thought out of my brain.

  When every last morsel of food is gone, I wipe my mouth and lean back. As much as I want to lick the plate, I don’t. Even without my mom here to tell me not to, I know that would be really bad manners. I wonder if she’d be proud of me. The sun’s starting to go down, and back at home, that’s when I usually do my homework while my mom starts dinner. She doesn’t need to help me much with it anymore, but I still do it in the kitchen because I like having some company. I’m really starting to miss her. I wonder if Becca misses her mom all the time…or if she’s just used to it by now.