Almost Famous, a Talent Novel (14 page)

Ruby smiled. She actually seemed relieved to get Mac’s approval. “I’m also going with Sweet Lady Jane for some additional desserts,” she said gingerly. “I’m thinking the triple-berry cake.”

“Good choice. Make sure you tell them to come early.” Mac leaned down to pick up some jeans. “People want to see the dessert when they walk in. It makes for a good impression, even if they don’t eat it until much later.”

“Okay, and they’re good, right?” Ruby asked, tugging at a hangnail on her index finger.

“Of course,” Mac said.

And then, as if realizing she was revealing insecuri ties, Ruby sighed. “I should go meet the caterers. They’re waiting for me downstairs. Just thought you’d like to know what was up.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Mac said, hating that for once in her life she really was jealous of Ruby Goldman. She groaned silently and went back to her mission. She stood on a little white stepladder and grabbed a pair of two-years-ago True Religion jeans from a high shelf. They were in the double-digit size, a remnant of when the brand was cool and Ruby was big. Mac wondered if Ruby kept them as a reminder of her old self, since they’d fit two of her now.

As Mac collected the clothes, she suddenly felt like she was Kate Moss inspecting Sienna Miller ’s closet. Looking at Ruby’s wardrobe was almost like staring at her own. Ruby had ripped off Mac’s look for years. It was almost a joke that whatever outfit Mac debuted, Ruby Goldman would own one day later, or in the time it took to send her father’s assistant on a shopping mission.

Mac sighed wistfully as she bent down to pick up a pair of Deener jeans. She’d been the first girl at BAMS to own a pair. She folded them and felt a sharp crease that didn’t bend with the denim. And then she noticed: Poking out of a pocket was a piece of emerald green paper, folded into a very intricate origami bird.

Mac stared at the note, wondering what kind of secrets passed between the Rubybots. She was about to open it, but then realized she could never rearrange it back into the bird shape. Had Ruby even read it? She tucked it neatly into the back pocket and moved on to the sundresses just as she heard the bedroom door open.

“Mac, I’m back if you have any questions!” Ruby called from inside the room. “Just sending some e-mails ’cause I have to approve all these groups. I’ll be so happy when this is over so I can run to Jamba Juice.” She sighed. “I need another me.”

“Okay, thanks!” Mac called, returning to her chore. It was almost fun to bring order to chaos, she realized.

Two hours later, she’d finished organizing Ruby’s closet. The sections: jeans, pants, casual sweaters, dressy sweaters, day dresses, fancy dresses—were so clearly arranged by style and hue that a toddler could point to and pick a good outfit. Every item of clothing hung at least one inch apart from the other so the materials could “breathe.” The task had been strangely, surprisingly Zen, which was why Mac hadn’t realized so much time had passed. She sighed wistfully, looking at her handiwork. For a moment she wondered if she’d done
too
good a job. The last thing she wanted to discover was that her one true talent was being an assistant.

“Hey, Ruby!” Mac called. “Come take a look at your brand-new super-organized closet!”

Ruby hobbled over to the closet and leaned against the doorway. Her face looked pained and confused, as if she were seeing the Third World for the first time. Finally she sighed. “Oh, shoooot. I wanted it organized by
designer
.”

Mac froze. “But you said—”

“I have to go interview a DJ!” Ruby cut her off, hobbling out on her crutches.

Mac pursed her lips and put her hands on her hips. The rules of the game were coming into crystal-clear focus, like downtown L.A. after a rainfall. No matter what she did, it wasn’t going to be good enough.

Mac stood alone in the middle of Ruby’s closet. For several seconds she was too frustrated to move. Then she bent down to pick up a Christian Louboutin sandal. She threw it angrily at the ground. Looking at the shimmering shoe on the closet floor, Mac wanted to step on it, but as she raised her foot she couldn’t quite bring herself to injure a Louboutin, not even if it belonged to Ruby Goldman. And then she noticed Ruby’s iPhone on the shelf by the door, blinking like a broken traffic light.

Mac gasped. How in the world could Ruby have been so stupid as to leave her iPhone
alone with her rival
? In plain sight? Mac imagined scrolling through Ruby’s voice mails, or sending out e-mails. Her heart soared at the perfect prank potential. It would be so easy to pay Ruby back with the click of a few buttons. She picked up the phone, imagining typing an all-BAMS e-mail that would look like it came from Ruby:
Hey, everyone, I have a serious brain disorder and can’t comprehend any spoken words over two syllables. Please address me in sign language or via written messages. If you must speak to me, please be respectful, as overly complicated wording causes an unfortunate reaction in which my drool ducts release and I go into attack mode.
Mac giggled, but then she remembered her mom’s words:
It’s all about respect
. Sometimes being classy was such a burden.

And sending a prank e-mail would be a very disrespectful thing to do.

Mac sighed and put the phone down sadly. She went back to her task, reaching for a Moschino sundress to place right next to a Marchesa silk wrap dress just as Ruby bounded back into her bedroom. “Back here if you need me!” Ruby hobbled over to the closet, where Mac was hard at work. “Hey, Mac,” Ruby said, in that sweet voice. “DJ Aoki is good, right?”

Mac nodded.

“Great, that’s what I thought. I just wanted to see if you thought so too.” And Ruby hobbled out of the closet.

An hour later, when Ruby’s wardrobe was newly, amazingly organized for the second time, Mac called out, “Hey, Ruby. It’s arranged from
A
to
Z
!”

From her bedroom, Ruby yelled back. “Oh, boooo. I wanted it by
season
.” She didn’t even bother to look at Mac’s work.

Mac balled her fists in frustration. Her lower back was starting to hurt, her fresh manicure was chipped, and she had been there for hours.

“Sure thing. By season,” Mac hollered, even though that made no sense. There were really only two seasons in L.A.:
this
and
last
. But no way would Mac give Ruby the satisfaction of seeing her upset.

“MAAAAC,” Ruby called. “Could you please, please come out here for a second?”

Mac groaned and headed out to the bedroom, where Ruby was hunched over her computer, looking at jpegs of flowers. “What do you think?” Ruby asked helplessly. “For the ExtravaBAMSa centerpiece?”

Mac surveyed the flowers. One was a tacky bouquet of roses and lilies. Another seemed obvio but was too simple: just daisies. The third choice, a simple assortment of white tulips, was just right. “That one.” Mac pointed to the last image.

“Great, we agree,” Ruby said fake-nicely. “Ooh, and could you tie my shoe?”

Mac winced in pain as she bent down for what felt like the hundredth time that day to tie the laces on Ruby’s silver-trimmed Alice + Olivia sneakers.

“I’m having so much fun.” Mac smiled, looking right into Ruby’s narrow eyes.

“Great,” Ruby said calmly, clicking on the Mac-selected image of flowers. “That makes me so happy.” She looked up and faced Mac.

They stared at each other in a fake-smiling standoff. They both knew they were totally lying.

“Well, I’m going to meet with a photographer from WireImage,” Ruby said. She reached for her crutches and left the room, closing the door behind her.

Mac looked over at the desk. Ruby had left her laptop wide open, her screen saver—of a bunny in a pink hat—totally exposed to the world. The pinging continued, and Mac realized Ruby was being instant messaged. Mac closed her eyes, trying to remind herself of why she could not, could not, could not peek at the chat. . . . It was about paying her dues. And showing respect. Snooping did not show respect. She angled her body in the guise of “stretching” toward the door. And then, just as she was about to give in to temptation and click on Ruby’s keyboard to read the instant message, Ruby smacked in the door with her right crutch. Mac jerked her hand away from the computer keyboard. Thankfully, the screen was still on sleep mode.

“Forgot to tell you something,” Ruby said. “You should log my wardrobe and then take the log home with you to reassess.” She looked down at the pinging computer and then back at Mac, seemingly unbothered. “I don’t want you wearing anything that I own. Overlapping is just so LY, you know?”

Mac couldn’t even stop herself. “Ruby, that’s just stupid,” she snapped. “You copy everything I own. We have the same wardrobe.”

Ruby leaned in, but then remembered her ankle wasn’t strong enough to support her. “You know what’s stupid?” She steadied herself on her crutch. “Getting
thisclose
and screwing your friends
again.
”

Mac stared at Ruby, thankful there were no wit nesses to this transaction. “So just make a list of everything. . . .” Ruby continued talking, but Mac wasn’t listening. She was calculating what she owned that Ruby hadn’t already ripped off: the Vanessa Bruno jumpsuit (not yet debuted?) or the Donatella Versace sweater dress (Donatella had only given away twenty-five to friends and family) or the Loomstate organic dresses (Ruby wasn’t making eco-friendly choices).

“By the way, what’s a great place for a party?” Ruby asked sweetly.

Mac blinked. Ruby switched gears faster than a Fer rari.

“The Getty Museum,” Mac said, without thinking.

“Great, see you at the Getty this Saturday,” Ruby said. “You’re the party butler. And here’s your uniform.” She smiled, handing Mac a black and white maid’s uniform just like the one Mac had seen on Ruby’s maid.

Mac mentally rewound, realizing she’d just heard the words
you
,
party
, and
butler
in a sentence that was not a joke. She blinked several times, too shocked to speak.

“Whaaaa?” Mac finally asked, making a face like she’d tasted airline coffee.

“I need you at the Getty around seven to serve.”

A vision flashed in Mac’s mind: spending Saturday night waiting on the Rubybots? What would they do? Spray themselves with fake tan? Discuss more ways to copy the Inner Circle? Mac shivered. Besides the fact that she didn’t want to have to spend time with those people, there was a bigger problem: Mac’s private humiliation was about to go public.

Emily tiptoed nervously into her first day of Señorita Lumley’s Spanish class, walking as quickly as she could so people wouldn’t have time to actually see her. Which was an impossible goal when you were dressed as Spazmo. She was totally
loca
, wearing crazy glasses, the ugly red plaid flannel that looked like it hadn’t been washed since the ’70s, and (used—ugh!) headgear. What was worse, Spanish class was only once a week, which meant that the whole
class
would be seeing her for the first time, as Spazmo.

Spanish class was in the modern wing, a row of classrooms off Main Quad used for foreign language classes. All the desks were equipped with headsets so students could practice speaking with audio CD-ROMs, and they were arranged in a giant U so that everyone faced each other. When Emily entered, the classroom became so silent that Emily could hear the second hand on the clock actually ticking.

She could feel everyone in the class trying not to stare at the odd girl. She noticed kids shooting her curious, uncomfortable glances and then quickly averting their eyes. Even Señorita Lumley forced herself to look away, focusing her gaze on the
Bienvenidos a Barcelona
poster of the famous Gaudi church on the back wall. Emily slid into a seat near the back door, opening her Spanish workbook wide to hide her face.

Just before the clock struck eight, Kimmie Tachman slunk into the last seat right next to Emily. She turned her head to the left so her frizzy ponytail hit her desk and whispered, “Love the outfit!” Emily smiled weakly and turned her attention to the center of the room.

Señorita Lumley shook her green maracas to get the class’s attention. “
Buenos
!
Dias
!
Clase
! Welcome to your first day of Spanish class!” Her Spanish had a very thick American accent, even if she had perfect grammar. She had poofy red hair, which she coated in a helmet of hair spray, and freckles, and she looked like she was probably thirty-five. “There is a name tag on your desk. Please write your name and wear this name tag so I can get to know all of you.”

Emily picked up her pen and was about to write
Emily
, but then she spotted Kimmie grinning at her mischievously, and she wrote
Spazmo
instead.

“Today we are going to introduce ourselves
en espa
ñ
ol
,” Señorita Lumley said excitedly. She sounded proud of her assignment.

Emily groaned, a little too loud.

Señorita Lumley whipped her focus to Emily. “
Hay una problema
?”

Emily blushed. She hadn’t meant to complain—she just didn’t want a group of people to meet her as Spazmo.

“You can go first and get it over with.” Señorita Lumley smiled.

Emily shot the teacher a
please don’t do this to me
look, but it was either lost behind her ginormous freak glasses or Señorita Lumley didn’t care.