Maggie Malone and the Mostly Magical Boots Page 8

  “Well, he sure had that coming,” she says. “And good for you, Becca. That was very brave. You’ve wanted to fire him forever. I was wondering if you’d ever get up the nerve to actually do it. So, now are you ready to get comfy?”

  I nod. I can’t wait to chill on the bus and watch some TV and have a little snack. That is, if I don’t pass out first from being more tired than I was after riding every ride twice at Disneyland.

  “Okay,” Vi says. “Go get changed then. I’ll meet you back here in five.”

  “Huh?” I say.

  “Your meet-and-greets are waiting. And then you’ve got autographs. We won’t run out of pens like last time,” Vi assures me.

  Meet and greets? Autographs? Are you kidding me? A rock star’s work is never done. But that’s okay, ’cause I am on top of the world right now. I totally rocked the house—I mean the Superdome! And now I get to feel the love all up close and personal. This has got to be what it’s all about.

  I swing back through wardrobe to slip out of my last sweaty, sparkly outfit. Toni hands me a soft, colorful T-shirt dress, a cozy red cardigan (because it’s actually freezing in this place when you’re not racing back and forth across a stage), and a pair of cushiony flats.

  I skip around the corner with these big security guys surrounding me on all sides. As I get close to the room where I’ll be signing autographs, I can hear the chanting. “Bec-ca! Bec-ca! Bec-ca!” How awesome is that? I have to say, I’m kind of getting used to the beyond bonkers fan-love these people have for me—I mean Becca. I wonder if I would ever get tired of it. Probably not.

  I take a deep breath and smile. When the security dudes open the door for me, the chanting turns to high-pitched, burst-your-eardrums screaming. Yeah, I might be able to do without that part. Whoa.

  My fans, mostly moms and daughters, are gated off with a red velvet rope, and they are going completely crazy. The girls are screaming and crying and jumping up and down. A few of the moms are too. Some of the moms are holding their daughters back as they reach out to touch me when I walk by. One lady apparently let go of her little gremlin because all of a sudden, I feel this yank in the back of my head.

  Sister of a twisted sock monkey! Somebody just pulled my hair out! Just a little bit, but what in the world? Are these fans totally nuts?

  Vi rushes over to me. She is not happy. She yells something I can’t hear at the security guys.

  “I’m so, so sorry, sweetie!” she says. “They’re just so obsessed with your hair. I promise it won’t happen again.”

  “What? Why would they do that? They want a souvenir of me? Ewww!” I yell so Vi can hear me over the screaming.

  “I know, I know,” she says, encouraging me. “This is not your favorite part, but remember, the fans are why you get to be the world-famous Becca Starr, right?”

  I nod in agreement, rubbing the back of my head.

  Vi walks me into another gated-off section with special red carpet and fancy, satin curtains around it. I plop down on the little couch, take a few big swigs of water, and catch my breath.

  “Do you need a minute or are you good?” Vi asks.

  “I’m good,” I say, because by now I know I’m supposed to say that, even if I’m not.

  I had no idea what a “meet and greet” was when Vi first said it, but it doesn’t take me long to figure it out. Of all of the millions of kids who want a piece of Becca, a special handful get to spend a whole two minutes in her—I mean my—company.

  Vi brings in my first meet-and-greet, a mother/daughter duo. The mom sits down next to me, smiling like the cat that caught the mouse. The little girl stands smack in front of me. She seems really nervous and for some reason, she’s not saying a thing.

  “Becca, this is Harmony Lynn and her mom Shayna Lynn,” Vi tells me. “They drove all the way from Abilene to see you tonight.”

  “Harmony Lynn! You stand straight up, girl, and do it just like we practiced!” Shayna Lynn is barking like a dog and poor Harmony Lynn, who must be about six years old, looks terrified.

  Do what? I wonder. Then Harmony Lynn starts to sing in a sweet, raspy little voice that I can barely hear over the crowd.

  “If this is the road, then where do I go? Nothing’s for real, when it’s all for show…”

  “That’s enough!” the mom yells, turning to me. “She doesn’t do that next part too good yet. But what do you think? We think she’s got what it takes to make it big in the singing world. That’s why we named her Harmony. We knew the second she popped out she was gonna be a star. Just like you, Becca. Do you think she’s got what it takes? Do you? Do you?”

  “Well, I…I think she’s great!” I stammer, not knowing what else to say and looking over at Vi.

  “And here’s her picture from the Abilene Teeny Queen Pageant,” Shayna Lynn says, shoving a wrinkled newspaper clipping in my face.

  Vi picks up on what’s happening and slips her phone into her pocket.

  “Okay, ladies, a quick picture and then we’ve got to keep things moving,” Vi announces.

  “Our number’s on the back of that clip, Becca! Let us know what you can do for Harmony Lynn here!” Shayna Lynn yells as she is ushered out.

  Was that an audition? Super-duper weird. But if I’ve learned anything today, it’s that things can always get weirder.

  “Okay, Bec, next we have Angel and her mom Betty-Jo,” Vi says, giving me the heads-up as Angel and her mom come in. “You’ll remember them from the Dallas show?”

  The little girl grabs a bottle of water from my side table like she owns the place and plops down way too close to me.

  “So here’s how I see it, Becca,” Angel starts, smacking her chewing gum and breathing a burst of sickeningly sweet berry right into my face. She can’t be more than eight years old, even though she’s carrying a grown-up purse and is wearing high-heeled sandals. “Your third costume change is getting really tired looking. You need to get something new there, and I suggest a bright blue. That’s really good for TV too, you know. And that backup dancer girl? The one with the nose ring and the spiky hair? She has got to go.”

  “Oh…well, I—” I begin, but Angel is not finished.

  “And you totally didn’t do that flip over thingy with the boy dancers during ‘Saturday Night Par-tay’ like you did in Topeka,” Angel continues. “Big mistake. Overall, I’d give tonight, like, a six.”

  I sit there with my mouth kind of hanging open. Who does this girl think she is? Some kind of big-time Becca Starr expert? To think Becca has to put up with rude kids like this every day! Wow. I’d like to tell this little monster where to shove her stinky mouthful of Dubble Bubble. But I don’t.

  “Al-righty then, Angel! And what an angel you are. Thanks for the feedback and we’ll see you in Austin,” Vi says, rolling her eyes in my direction and sending them on their way.

  “What’s Angel’s deal?” I lean in to ask Vi.

  “Oh, you can’t possibly have forgotten about your traveling fan club, could you?” Vi laughs. “Angel is the kid whose dad started Little Kibble Kitten Chow. Her parents homeschool her so she never has to miss a concert. You know, they ride around in that bus that looks just like yours, and they put your picture right next to Angel’s on the side of it? It’s totally creepy. And obnoxious, right?”

  “Umm, yeah, a little bit!” I say, thinking how I definitely could not handle these people on a daily basis.

  Next comes a sweet little girl, maybe about five years old, dragging a dirty blanket behind her. She’s sucking her thumb along with a corner of the blanket and snuggles in next to me. Her dad stands off to the side.

  “What’s your name, sweetie?” I ask. She’s totally cute.

  “Bailey,” she answers, looking up at me with big brown eyes.

  See? This is what all of these “meet and greets” should be like, I think to myself.

>   Her dad steps in to make Bailey’s request for her.

  “Bailey would like to get a picture of you with her woobie, if that’s okay,” he asks, very respectfully.

  “Sure!” I say. Because how sweet is that?

  The little girl hands me her blanket and I have to tell you, the smell almost knocks me over. It’s sticky and crusty at the same time. Blech! I hold it out to the side and smile with her for the picture, but Bailey looks down, like she’s going to cry.

  “Umm,” her dad says hesitantly. “She’d like it if you would put a little bit of it in your mouth. Like she does—just the tip. If you don’t mind!”

  Surely, he’s joking, I think. But no.

  Bailey looks up at me, all hopeful with those big brown Bambi eyes. She is smiling and trying not to cry at the same time.

  Oh, for the love of stinky baby blankets! “Okay, Dad, are you ready?” I yell. I take the disgusting woobie, and for one half of one second, I stick that thing in the corner of my open mouth and smile. I almost gag, but Bailey is grinning ear to ear.

  “Wait, I’m not sure my flash went off…” the dad is saying, fiddling with his camera, as Vi ushers them out through the gate.

  Where’s the germ juice? I need a breath mint! Is this what Becca has to deal with every night? What’s all that security for anyway?

  I meet a ton more kids and some of them are totally normal and don’t tell me what I did wrong or ask me to chew their gum, which is a relief. I sign autographs until I can’t feel my hand anymore. A lot of the fans even seem like girls I’d be friends with back home at first. Except when I talk to them, they start shaking and crying. And every single one asks me to sign my autograph to “my BFF” and tells me how much she loves me. How weird is that? They don’t love me! I mean Becca. They don’t even know her!

  It’s after midnight when the whole crazy backstage thing is finally over. I limp back to the bus with Vi. I’ve never stayed up this late at my own sleepover party or even ’til the ball drops on New Year’s Eve.

  “Great show tonight,” Vi says. “You were on fire! I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so…”

  But I’m sound asleep before she can even finish her sentence.

  The pounding sound keeps getting louder. I can’t figure out what it is. The warm-up band banging out some crazy drumbeat? Two million feet attached to a million stomping fans? Maybe it’s the roadies loading the gear onto the bus. Whatever it is, I wish it would stop. My head is throbbing and my eyelids feel like someone superglued them shut. It’s probably the sparkly-spider lashes all stuck together. Did I even wash my face before I fell into bed last night? I honestly can’t remember.

  “Margaret Flannery Malone, for the love of lasagna, open this door!” shouts a voice from very far away. “I’ve been calling you all morning. Is your phone off the hook or something? Ummm, HAPPY BIRTHDAY! Hey, are you still sleeping? It’s almost nine o’clock! I brought doughnuts—with rainbow sprinkles! Open up already!!!”

  I sit up in bed and pry my eyelids open. There’s my polka-dot chair in the corner, and my zebra striped rug and the purple vanity table that I helped my mom paint. I swing my feet around and they land on the floor with a loud plop that startles me. Why am I wearing a dirty, scuffed-up old pair of—

  The MMBs.

  The whole day—all of it—comes rushing back to me in a flash. The bus, falling out of bed, Vi and her clipboard, the breakfast tent, Chaz and the hair extensions, Lisbeth and her tweezers, mean old Gory Rory, the Superdome, the fans, hanging out with Justin Crowe… It was real. I was her and it was real and now it’s over. I jump off the bed and race over to my mirror. I don’t look any different. Am I different? I’m not sure yet.

  “Hang on, Stella,” I shout, pulling off the boots and shoving them back into my closet, up on the highest shelf I can reach. I unlock my door, and Stella practically knocks me over in her rush to get in.

  “Honestly, Maggie, are you sick or something?” Stella wants to know, pushing my stuffed animals aside so she can plop down on my still-warm bed. She has her laptop with her and she fires it up. I slide in right next to her.

  “I mean, HAPPY TWELFTH BIRTHDAY!” Stella announces all official-like with big ta-da hands. She puts the plate of doughnuts in my lap and starts clicking away at her keyboard. “Anyway, check this out: Becca and Justin are boyfriend and girlfriend.”

  “Um, I don’t think they are—” I start to say, but Stella interrupts me.

  “They are too, it’s all over the web,” she points to the supposedly true news story that has a picture of Becca and Justin hugging.

  “I think they’re just good friends,” I say. “I wouldn’t believe everything you read.”

  “You got a better source?” Stella asks.

  “Well, no, but—” I stammer.

  “And get this,” she says, all excited. “Check out this picture of Becca yelling at some poor guy that works for her. She must have a real temper. Or maybe she’s becoming one of those total divas. It happens in Hollywood all the time, you know.”

  I look at the picture. It’s Becca looking steamed all right. And the guy she’s steamed at? None other than mean old Gory Rory.

  “Well, that’s because—” I stop myself just in time. “I mean, that guy is probably some big jerk, and she’s yelling at him because she’s sick of him being totally rude to her all the time. Or something.”

  “It says here that she fired him!” Stella gasps. “What did I tell you? Diva!”

  “You never know—” I say, but Stella interrupts me again.

  “Look at this,” she says, scrolling down the page. “Here she is lounging on the beach in Mexico. Life is so totally not fair. I mean, she gets to lie around all day and sing for a couple of hours at night. Tough life. Where do I sign up?”

  “I bet it’s not as glamorous as you—er, we—think,” I say. “I mean, she probably has to be on the road a lot, driving from show to show and all, and think about what goes into a concert! The lights and the equipment and the microphones… There’s so much that can go wrong, it must be really stressful. I’ll bet even all that fussing over your hair and makeup gets old after a while…” I decide I’d better stop talking before I blow my own cover.

  “If it makes you feel better to pretend Becca Starr has this really awful, miserable life, knock yourself out,” Stella says, snapping her computer shut. “I’m pretty sure her life is perfect.”

  “Like my mom always says,” I tell Stella, “you don’t know what you don’t know until you spend a day in someone else’s shoes.”

  And boy, do I know.

  My alarm startles me awake to the sound of disc jockeys laughing way too hard, bantering back and forth about something that makes no sense to me. I’m still pretty tired from my birthday weekend extravaganza.

  I didn’t want a birthday party this year, so on Saturday night, my parents took the whole family, plus Stella of course, to the Ichihana. My brother Mickey and I love that restaurant because the chef wears this ridiculously tall white hat, chops the food up right there in front of you, and plays tricks on the kid having the birthday. This chef was pretty impressive and caught, like, three shrimp tails in his lofty hat. And a raw egg that didn’t even break. Then he tossed a delicious shrimp bite right into my mouth.

  After dinner, Stella and I put our drink umbrellas behind our ears and danced in our seats when they beat the drum and sang the birthday song to me. It was a great night and after dinner, we had a sleepover at my house and stayed up way past our bedtimes making up dance routines and doing our toenails and watching Frenemies reruns. I went to bed around eight o’clock last night but I still feel like I could sleep for another year. Which would be awesome, because then I could snooze right through the rest of sixth grade at Stinkerton.

  But I know that’s not an option, just like I know my mom will go batty if I’m not up and dressed w
hen she calls me for breakfast, so I blink hard and try to stretch myself awake.

  Finally I shuffle across my room to the blue sparkly tank top, black cardigan, and jeans I laid out the night before. Dread fills up my now twelve-year-old body. All the excitement of being Becca Starr, a super-fun birthday weekend, and now I’m right back in the same spot, getting ready for another agonizing day at my monster of a stinking school. When I was Becca Starr, if I was confused or angry or scared, all I had to do was pull out my MM pocket mirror and get some good genie advice from Frank. I could use a little of that right now.

  I get dressed and sit down at my desk. Then I pull the pocket mirror from the way back of my desk drawer and open it up.

  “Good morning, Maggie!” Frank says from inside the mirror. He’s here! SWEET! “Ready for another adventure already?”

  “Um, not really,” I stammer, because I remember I wasn’t supposed to bother Frank until I was ready to take the MMBs for another spin. “I just wanted, you know, to say hey. And so…hey.”

  I realize my voice sounds pretty shaky on that second hey because Frank asks, “You okay, kid?”

  “Uh, yeah, not exactly,” I say, slumping down in my chair.

  “Do me a favor,” Frank says. “Go back and read that letter from your Aunt Fiona again, the one that came with the boots. You’ll understand what you have to do. The choice is yours. Now I gotta go. There’s a kid in Taipei trying to strap a pair of jetpacks onto the back of his MMBs. Shame the boots don’t come with a healthy dose of common sense.”

  “What?” I ask again, completely confused.

  “You get to decide, kid,” Frank says, starting to fade away.

  “Wait! Decide what? Choose WHAT?” I ask, pulling the mirror closer, but Frank is fading fast.

  “See you next go-round, Maggie Malone!” he says as his reflection turns to mine.

  Flaming fiddlesticks! Does he have to play the mysterious disappearing genie card EVERY time?