Maggie Malone and the Mostly Magical Boots Page 7

  Vi rushes back onto the bus. “Okay, superstar. Security says seats are already starting to fill so we need to get moving. We don’t want a repeat of what happened in London last year, do we?”

  I have no idea what happened in London last year, but Vi’s raised eyebrow is enough to tell me it was not fun. I shake my head no.

  After another round of hair and makeup, Vi scoots me over to wardrobe for my first costume. I go straight into the dressing room since I know what to do this time. I’m blabbering to Toni from behind the curtain about how gorgeous the tiny sequins are on my perfectly fitted, silver slip dress when I notice a rumbling above my head, like the whole arena is moaning or something.

  “Umm, Toni?” I ask through the curtain. “What’s that sound? Do they have messed-up plumbing in this place or something? It sounds like the roof’s about to cave in.”

  “Ah, cheri, that is the sound of your adoring fans anxiously awaiting your arrival, of course!” Toni says. “They seem extra excited tonight, yes?”

  I get a lump in my throat as fear shoots through my body like a lightning bolt. I’d sort of forgotten about the whole twenty thousand people I’d be singing in front of. I feel a little dizzy as I emerge from the dressing room.

  “Magnifique!” Toni says, throwing her arms in the air like a gymnast who just nailed a perfect landing. I give her a huge hug because, well, I really need a hug.

  Vi steps in. “The warm-up band is clearing the last of their gear now,” she tells me. “You’re on in five. All set? You look great!”

  I sort of nod. You didn’t like being invisible? Not a problem, Malone.

  “Miss Starr is walking,” Vi announces into her walkie-talkie and starts moving for the door. I wonder if it would look suspicious if I asked her to come back and help me unglue my feet from the floor.

  “You coming?” Vi asks, turning around. “You look a little pale,” she says, handing me water with a straw. “Hydrate! And here’s your set list. I know you like to hold it in your hand before you go on.”

  I take a look and I know all of the songs. Every one, completely by heart, which is a relief, but how will I sound? I mean, Rory didn’t exactly give me time to get my groove on during the sound check. Just pretend you’re alone, in the shower, singing your heart out like you always do.

  Vi gives my arm a nice tug, and I manage to unstick my feet. She’s leading me through the hallway maze when some headphone guy pops out of a door and gets me mike’d up while we’re walking. It’s still not a super-fun experience, but I’m not about to complain. At least it’s not Gory Rory.

  The nervousness that started in my toes has spread all over my body, and I can feel my ears getting hot. That’s not good. The last time that happened was when I was in the second grade Christmas pageant. I had a pretty minor role—I was the innkeeper, for Pete’s sake—and all I had to say was, “I am sorry. There is no room for you in the inn.” But by the time Joseph and the Virgin Mary (who was riding on Willis Freedman’s back since he was the donkey) made it next to me at center stage, all I could hear was the blood pumping inside my thick skull.

  “Uhh…uhh…” I said and looked at Mrs. Finklestein, who looked at me like, Say it! Say it! But I couldn’t. I was frozen like a stone troll in The Hobbit. With my mouth hanging open. The only reason I know that I looked like a baby bird waiting for his mom to feed him a worm is because every student was given a DVD copy of the play as a keepsake. And for months, every time Willis Freedman saw me in the hall, he’d drop his jaw and laugh. Jerk.

  So right about now, I’m wondering why, of all the lives on the planet that I could have chosen to step into, why, oh why, did I choose one where I would most definitely have to perform in front of people? And not in front of the whole school, but in front of the equivalent of the whole county. The closer I get to backstage, the louder the blood pumps in my ears. How am I going to do this? I decide I need a mini genie conference, so I have no choice. I give the desperate peepee plea.

  “Vi,” I say, trying not to let my voice quiver. “I know this is a terrible time, but I’ve got to hit the bathroom before I go on.”

  “WHAT?” she answers, shuffling papers and grabbing her walkie-talkie. “Well, better now than in the middle of the show. BUT HURRY.”

  I skedaddle into a big, empty backstage bathroom, into a stall and whip my pocket mirror out of the little tote I’m carrying that will be taken back to wardrobe as soon as I hit the stage. I told Toni it was my good luck charm and that I felt like my great, great, great granny Malone was somehow with me onstage if I could keep it with me until I go on. I think she got a tear in her eye. She also promised to take it back to the bus for me. She’s so taken with the whole tale I’ve spun, I just know she’s gonna ask to hear more from the real Becca Starr. Oh well. Can’t be helped. I open the compact, but only see my own reflection in the glass.

  “Frank! Frank!” I say in a whisper that quickly turns to a yell. “Where in the world are you? I’m dying here!”

  Finally, Frank shows up, and I hear Hawaiian music in the background.

  “What’s up, Magpie?” Frank says, sipping something from a coconut. He’s clearly someplace tropical. “You having fun?”

  “Um, no! No, I’m not!” I say, a little irritated because he’s just so relaxed. “Where the heck are you, anyway?”

  “Macau,” Frank says. “Do you know where that is, Maggie Malone?”

  “Uh, no, and I’m not in the mood for a geography quiz, Frank. I’m scared stiff! I’m losing my marbles here, and was supposed to be onstage five minutes ago!”

  “Uh huh,” Frank says, taking a long pull on his coconut drink.

  “I think I’m ready to go back home now,” I finally say. “Wait, I don’t think I’m ready, I know I’m ready. I did this, okay? I got to live Becca’s life and it was great and all of that—well, mostly great, anyway. But all good things have to end, so let’s get me back to 337 Willow Avenue. Please and thank you.” I squeeze my eyes shut because I figure Frank might not want me to see what happens when he beams me back home.

  “I can’t do that, kid,” Frank explains. “And anyway, you’re just now getting to the best part. You see, each life you step into will involve a certain task, a challenge, if you will. And I hope you will. Because if you stare that challenge right in the eyeballs, you’ve got it licked for life. Not many people get that opportunity, you know.”

  “Ugh!” I say, irritated. “Really?”

  “Yes, really, Maggie Malone. Now get out there and look your fear in the face. And remember, it’s as if this life was always yours. Now go live it!” Frank says and leans back onto a lounge chair, tipping his cowboy hat over his face.

  I guess we’re all done here.

  “Becca?” I hear Vi’s voice say. “WHAT is going on? WHO were you just talking to?”

  I hadn’t heard her come in. YIKES. Think fast, Malone!

  “Um…” I say, sliding the compact back into the tote and opening the stall door. “Yeah. I figured I’d run through a few of my positive affirmations while I peed. Deekap ChoCho told me I should do that before I perform. Well, he didn’t say that part about peeing while I say my affirmations, but…”

  Vi takes me gently by the arm and guides me out of the bathroom, saying, “You, my dear, are a piece of work today.”

  My little talk with Frank didn’t do much to calm my nerves. It feels like every cell in my body is on high alert when Vi helps me up onto a small, square platform under the stage.

  “All right, Bec. Give ’em a good show. And remember: have fun!” Vi says, adjusting a few stray curls and stepping back off the platform. She flashes me a big grin and the “b” sign. I give her a shaky smile and a thumbs-up in return.

  Have fun? That’s a tall order. I’m just looking to survive.

  My knees are wobbling uncontrollably as I hear a loud boom like fireworks, and then t
he platform starts rising. Get a grip, Malone. Ready or not, here you go!

  I rise up to stage level in a sea of fog. As it clears, I realize I am standing face-to-face with a bajillion girls who look just like me. And man, are they going CRAZY. I’m talking full-on, hog wild, cuckoo-ca-choo crazy, worse than the time my four-year-old cousin Cameron ate that jumbo Fun Dip, three sticks and all. They’re screaming, jumping, and crying (why are they crying?!) and I haven’t even opened my mouth yet. Becca Starr gets all of this just for showing up? Crazy!

  Their high-pitched wailing pierces my ears. At least I can hear something over the blood pounding in there. I hear “‘Dance Like You Mean It’ in 3, 2, 1!” inside my earpiece. I step off the platform as the guitar player gives me a nod, like start singing. I can feel my lower jaw starting to go slack. My chin hits the mike with a loud thud. The band looks at each other, confused, and starts to repeat the intro. Get it together, Maggie. You’re not in the second grade anymore. Look your fear in the face! I look up and realize that because of the blinding stage lights, I can only see the first three rows of fans. They seem to really dig whatever I do, so I decide to just focus on them.

  “Are you guys ready to dance?” I ask the first three rows, but the whole dome erupts in a booming “YEAH!” I really should’ve expected that kind of volume, but I’ve never had 20,000 people answer a question before, so I jump about three feet in the air. The band plays louder, and I know it’s time to do this thing. The first bit of the song is kind of a rap. Stella and I used to sing it every day when we rode our bikes to school together. Anyway, I know it by heart so I go for it.

  “So you THINK you can dance, you can really, really dance?” I start rapping and dancing with the backup dancers like I’ve done this routine, like a million times, because the truth is, Stella and I have performed it in my bedroom at least a million times. Maybe more.

  The song goes pretty well, but there isn’t really much singing involved. The next song is still a pump-you-up, get-those-wigs-a-wagging kind of song—“Party Like a Rock Star.” I have to say, it’s not my favorite, but I know it because they play it on 95.9 The Whiz all the stinking time. That one’s super loud with a ripping guitar, so you can barely even hear me singing. As I wrap it up, I see Toni at side stage waving at me like come on, let’s go! I run off the stage, and the backup dancers take center stage to entertain the crowd while I…yeah, I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing back here.

  I follow Toni down six metal stairs and when I get to the bottom, at least four sets of hands start ripping my clothes off, yelling at me—and each other. They pull my slip dress right up and over my head so I’m like, hello, practically NAKED in the middle of all these people, but no one seems to care. Did I mention I’m a teensie bit modest?

  “Arm, Becca! ARM!” a frantic-looking lady towering over me shouts for me to slide into a long-sleeved lace top, which is kind of hard, considering my arms are drenched with sweat from the lights and the dancing.

  “Oh, sorry!” I say, starting to comprehend what we’re doing here.

  Then another woman at my feet yells, “Left foot—NOW!”

  These people are animals. It’s freaking me out how they’re pulling and pushing me—I think one of them scratched me on the back. I haven’t had so many people screaming at me since the sack race on field day last year when I fell down and couldn’t get back on my feet until after Annie Spelzer had crossed the finish line. Being yelled at didn’t help then, and it’s not helping today.

  “Becca! Please focus! You act like you’ve never done this before!” the giant woman says, whipping me around, putting a belt on my waist.

  “Easy there, tiger!” I say, grabbing the ends of the belt and buckling it myself. Vi appears out of nowhere, grabs my arm, and hustles me back up the stairs. Holy smokes. How many more costume changes do I have to endure?

  The next song is a ballad, “I Still Believe.” That means it’s just me and my guitar player at the front of the stage. No fun backup dancers to distract from my less than perfect dance moves. No backup singers to fill in if I croak out the wrong note. I know five people just dressed me, so why do I feel completely naked?

  I focus on my first three rows of expectant fans looking up at me as I approach the stool at the front of the stage. The guitar player runs through the beginning bit. I take a deep breath and start to sing. BUT NO ONE CAN HEAR ME. I look around. My curly-haired twins look confused. I’m confused. I smile a half smile and spot mean Rory on the side stage with his face as red as a ripe tomato, so furious he looks like he’s going to explode. Technical difficulties. The cheers in the audience turn to a low hum, and I make a vow right on the spot that if this microphone starts working, I will never hide my gum wrappers between the couch cushions or call my brother Icky Mickey ever again. I tap on the mike and a loud boom, boom, boom fills the arena. And then everything goes quiet.

  I look over at Rory and he’s waving his big arm, like AGAIN!

  “Let’s try that again,” I say quietly, almost to myself. But they hear me this time, and the arena explodes once again with screaming, jumping, cheering fans.

  The band kicks up and I start to sing, “Way back when, before I knew, some fairy tales just don’t come true…”

  And here’s the freakiest part: I sound exactly like her. Becca Starr’s velvety voice booms out of my lungs like it’s always been there, waiting to be heard. My heart feels like it’s going to explode with happiness. I am a real-life rock star and my fans love me. I close my eyes and belt out the words, and I’m pretty sure every person in the arena is singing along with me. Me! Remember this moment forever, I beg my brain, pretty sure that won’t be a problem.

  I don’t mean to sound full of myself or anything, but the next song comes and I am on fire on the stage. I don’t miss a single beat, and when the backup dancers join me, I fall right in line. I am a real-life, full-fledged, bona fide rock star. Mostly Magical Boots? Try Totally Magical Boots. I could do this all day, every day.

  Eventually I wrap up the show with Becca’s first-ever hit song, “Breaking Hearts,” and when I do, I swear to you, the entire audience is a sea of b’s. We heart you, Becca Starr! We heart you with all 20,000 of our hearts! It’s the craziest thing I have ever seen in my life.

  After my final bow, I step forward to the edge of the stage. I’m past the blinding row of lights so I can see that practically every person in the whole crowd—mostly girls around my age and younger—is reaching for me and screaming. I try to touch as many of those hands as I can, and when I do, each one of those girls screams even louder and looks like she’s going to lose her mind or faint right there on the spot. I hope somebody on my team knows CPR.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Rory giving me the wrap it up signal. He wants me to leave the stage? But why? This is the best part—like saving the frosted part of your cupcake for last! I decide to ignore him and head over to the left side stage and give them a little Becca love. The whole left side of the arena goes wild as I pace back and forth, high-fiving every hand in my path. It wouldn’t be right to leave the right side hanging, would it? I skip across the stage and start blowing kisses that way.

  I look up and see Justin smiling down at me, and I blow him a big kiss. Then I look over and think I can actually see steam coming out of Rory’s ears. Ugggh! Okay, I guess it’s got to end sometime.

  “Good night, everybody! I LOVE YOU, NEW YORK!” I shout (I’ve always wanted to say that!) and run off the stage, right over to Vi.

  “Great show, Becca!” she says, giving me a huge hug. “But we’re in Houston.”

  “Whoops! Sorry!” I say. “It just sort of slipped out.”

  “No biggie,” Vi says. “I’ll deal with that tomorrow. You ready to get comfy?”

  I am so ready to get comfy. I can practically feel those furry slippers hugging my feet already.

  “Starr,” I hear a voice behi
nd me yell, just as Vi and I link arms and start to make our way toward the backstage exit.

  I turn around and see Rory’s mean old face. He’s giving me the iciest stare I’ve ever seen.

  “Yeah?” I call back, planting my hands on my hips.

  “Pull that little routine again and you can find another sound engineer,” he says. He bends back over on the floor and starts ripping tape off some of the wires behind stage. He’s clearly done with me, but I am so not done with him. I walk over and stand directly over him.

  “Rory, can I talk to you for a second?” I ask his back.

  “What do you need now?” he barks at me without even turning around.

  “It’s just, well, I just,” I stutter. Man, this is not easy. I take a breath. “I really don’t like the way you talk to me.”

  Rory stops what he’s doing and stands up really slowly. He turns to face me, glaring.

  “Oh, really?” he hisses sarcastically. “And what are you going to do about it, little miss superstar?”

  “I’m going to fire you,” I say before I can stop myself. Holy fish sticks, I cannot believe I just said that. Me! Maggie Malone. I just fired Becca Starr’s big-time sound guy.

  “You can’t fire me, you little brat,” Rory spits.

  “Actually, yes, she can,” says Vi, who has snuck up behind us. “Becca’s the boss.” She puts her arm around me.

  “You’ll both be sorry,” he shouts, dropping all of his gear and storming off the stage.

  “I doubt it,” I say to Vi with a little giggle.