Almost Famous, a Talent Novel (3 page)

“It
was
a good night until you farted,” Becks teased.

Mac sighed. But in the darkness, she smiled to herself. It was great to have good friends. Friends who had your back no matter what. This was going to be a great year. The Best Year Ever.

E
mily took one last sip of her Moroccan mint tea latte and set the barely touched drink in the cup holder of the Toyota Prius. Mac’s mom’s assistant, Erin, had picked up the Inner Circle from Coco’s hotel and was driving them to school in the Armstrong family staff car. Mac sat up front, and Emily was squished into the backseat between Coco and Becks. There was a fresh copy of
Variety
for Mac and the
L.A. Weekly
for Coco, who read the arts section to stay on top of dance performances she wanted to attend.

The Prius sailed along Stone Canyon Road, past eucalyptus trees and colonial-style mansions, and houses with names like La Cigogne and Jolie-Vie. Erin’s weird flute music was playing on the CD player, but Emily was (almost) used to it by now, and it was (almost) relaxing and spa-like. It would have been a very peaceful ride, except for the fact that Emily’s stomach was thrashing, and she felt as nervous as the day she’d auditioned for a major Hollywood movie.

And then she realized: She
was
auditioning.

Today was her tryout for the part of New Girl at Bel-Air Middle School. And, as Emily put her hand on her leg to stop it from shaking, she realized just how badly she feared being cast as The Girl Who Clearly Doesn’t Belong in Bel-Air. Or worse: The Snob, which was how she’d been cast in Iowa, because no one had understood that she was really just shy. Today was her fresh start, riding to school with the coolest girls in Los Angeles, and she didn’t want to blow it.

She bit her lip and inhaled, thinking of how every year before this she’d walked to school with Paige, her best friend, stopping on the way for chocolate French crullers at Winky’s Donuts. She barely registered the Prius passing Demi and Ashton’s Lexus hybrid SUV, or that Erin was turning onto famous Mulholland Drive. Emily didn’t even notice the crystal-clear view of the Valley below, or the tourists who had stopped along the side to take pictures on the legendary road.

She only looked up when she heard Mac announce, “Time to bounce!”

Erin pulled over in front of an iron gate, wide open to reveal a redbrick driveway lined by pebbled walkways. Erin could have just turned up the driveway, but Mac had already explained that she didn’t want their first steps on campus as eighth-graders to be clunky exits from the Prius. She wanted their first steps to be Le Strut.

As Emily took in Bel-Air Middle School, she almost stopped breathing. BAMS didn’t look like a school—it looked like a large Spanish palace, with blazing pink bougainvillea hanging from its white walls. There was a giant grassy courtyard in the center, lined on all sides by white archways. It was perched on an incline, shrouded by eucalyptus trees overlooking Bel-Air on one side and the Valley on the other.

“Wait till you check out the view from up there.” Mac slipped on her Gucci aviators.

“Now, be nice to all the awkward girls!” Erin said cheerfully, blinking her catlike green eyes. Erin was twenty-seven, but something about her always made her seem like a dorky sixth-grader.

“Girls, do you have everything?” Mac turned to the backseat and looked them over.

“It’s all good,” Coco said confidently, undoing the top button on her sleeveless vest and grabbing the oversize Dolce & Gabbana zebra print satchel at her feet. Coco’s style was sophisticated, with a dash of eccentric.

“Yeah.” Becks yawned loudly, rubbing her eyes and picking up her orange and black North Face backpack, the one Mac was never able to wrangle away from her.

Emily bent down to retrieve her
real
red Gucci bag. On Emily’s first day in L.A., she’d bought a knockoff on Hollywood Boulevard, but Mac owned the real version, and had insisted Emily take it to school with her—something about the knockoff’s buckles being obvio-faux. Emily felt a flash of awe—not to mention fear—over carrying an accessory that cost more than her mother’s car.

Emily closed the door of the Prius and saw that the Inner Circle were already walking toward BAMS. To anyone else they just looked like bored girls who’d rolled out of bed, grabbed their expensive bags, and gone to class. But Emily knew her friends worked hard to get that look—it was Le Strut in action. Mac was in front, holding her iPhone at arm’s length and pretending to check her messages. Becks and Coco were walking arm in arm, laughing like they were going to a party. Which meant that Emily, still by the Prius . . . was all alone.

“Mac!
Wait up
!” Emily screamed, running on the pebbles toward her friend.

Mac paused in her tracks, clutching her purple Mulberry Mabel bag, but she didn’t turn around.

But Emily didn’t have time to worry about how uncool it was to scream in public or to chase after someone—she was too terrified of walking into school all alone and looking like a loner. Or worse.

“Sorry, I thought you were going in without me,” Emily said, sliding into step next to Mac.

“I know you’re nervous, but for your own sake, don’t do it again,” Mac hissed. “First impressions are
everything
. And early buzz on you is very good.”

“How do I have
buzz
? It’s the first day of school!” Emily stammered. Sure, people in Iowa snap-judged you all the time—that wasn’t new to Emily—but at least they waited until school
started
.

“I’ve been posting about you on the BA intranet,” Mac said. “Just little notes like how everyone is totally gonna heart you.” Mac cleaned her aviator sunglasses on the inside of her C&C pastel pink tank.

“Thank you, I guess?” Emily was starting to wonder if she needed social training wheels.

“You have to control your own press,” Mac explained. “Otherwise people just believe whatever they hear.” She sighed. “I’m just trying to keep you L.A. cool.”

Emily rolled her eyes. Mac always made a distinction between Los Angeles and the rest of the word, as though the bar of humanity had been slightly raised for the City of Angels.

As their feet crunched on the pebbles, Emily focused on her BFF bangle, which she had finally convinced Mac to let her wear, despite the fact that it was “
très
summer camp.” She could feel her right leg shaking slightly, and she was extra glad Mac had insisted she wear Mella flip-flops instead of heels.

Just before they walked through the main archway and onto campus, Mac paused. “In Hollywood, whenever the talent begins a project, she gets a start gift from her agent.” She reached over to Emily and handed her a silver chain. “This is yours.”

Emily looked down and realized there was a silver ring on the end. Emily daintily examined the ring. It was engraved INNER CIRCLE on the inside.

“It’s custom-made by Sydney Evan,” Mac said matter-of-factly. Mac lifted up her own chain with a silver ring dangling from the end, to reveal that she had the same one. “We all have them. Inner Circle, ring, get it?”

“Mac, I don’t know what to—”

“No worries, babe,” Mac said, waving her away. The girls walked in silence to the end of the driveway, a hundred sets of curious eyes watching them. When they reached the white pavement of the campus, they stopped in front of a giant fountain of Neptune. Mac turned to Emily. “I hate to bail on you, but all the social chair candidates have to go register in the main office.” She tapped her purse, where her social chair posters were poking out, rolled into long thin tubes like museum prints.

“I have to check in for dance team captain auditions,” Coco added.

“Yeah, I’m supposed to go to the athletic office, to ask about surf team funding,” Becks chimed in.

Emily desperately wanted to say,
Can’t it wait?
but she knew it was waaay too soon to get all Velcro on her new friends.

Mac pointed to Emily with her iPhone. “Don’t worry—I’ll text you the 411 on what you need to know. See you in homeroom.” With that, Mac, Becks, and Coco skipped off, leaving Emily clutching her Gucci bag, all alone.

Emily took a deep breath and picked up her new, Mac-gifted iPhone, pretending to check her messages. Not that she had any. Paige was definitely not allowed to bring a cell phone to school, which meant she would be incommunicado until 2:30 p.m. Central time. Emily sat by the Neptune statue, hoping she would blend in. She checked the weather in Bel-Air: 78 degrees.

From behind her Gucci glasses (also from the Mac Armstrong lending closet), Emily peered out at her new school, wondering if everyone she saw was judging her the way she was judging them.

She spotted Ruby, standing in a group of girls whom she recognized from Kimmie Tachman’s Sweet Thirteen birthday party. They were all wearing tight jeans and flowy tunic tops, in a close circle around Ruby. Ruby looked like a pop star with her glamorous flatironed blond hair, tight jeans, sparkly white tank top, and orange Creamsicle tan. She was standing on a step in the center of the group, holding a cordless microphone, singing a fiery song, like she was channeling Gwen Stefani.

The song was a little batty, but Ruby looked like she was having the time of her life. Girls were smiling and nodding as Ruby sang. Even guys (cute guys!) in jeans and Reef sandals were nodding along.

When Ruby finished, she put the microphone down and giggled to her friends, who were clapping enthusiastically. The cute surfer guys whooped.

“Thanks, guys,” Ruby said, fake-humbly. “That’s a track from my new album. It’s dropping this fall, and it’s a taste of what you’ll hear at ExtravaBAMSa ... if I get elected social chair.” She winked playfully at the boys.

Emily watched Ruby in awe. She’d never heard someone debut a song from an upcoming album at school. Apparently, she had a lot to learn about Bel-Air. She surveyed the crowd, hoping she didn’t stand out in her James jeans and red Shadow Stripe racerback tank, all alone.

Emily had wanted to wear a dress—her only L.A. outings with the Inner Circle had been to VIP parties, where everyone wore designer cocktail dresses—but Mac had insisted the smartest strategy was to dress down. Emily realized Mac was right (as usual). Before her was a sea of sandals and cotton. No one looked like they were trying to be stylish, and yet . . . everyone looked amazing.

These kids looked like they’d been plucked straight from the covers of various clothing catalogues. Everyone had a very specific look. There was the Abercrombie group—girls dressed in colorful tank tops and faded jeans—walking through the archway and onto campus. The Anthropologie girls followed, three friends all wearing super-girly dresses with lace
and
bows on their behinds. Next Emily noticed two Billabong guys who looked like models playing Hacky Sack on the sprawling grassy lawn. At the end of the lawn she saw a group of guys in American Apparel hoodies, purple skinny jeans, dyed black hair, and red plastic sunglasses. Boys in Iowa didn’t dress like that. A girl in an Urban Outfitters sundress and red polka-dot Toms shoes relaxed on the other side of the fountain, lying on her back reading
The Alchemist,
holding it with her right hand while her left dangled to the ground
.

Emily blew out her bangs, trying not to stare at any one person for too long. What if the school principal took one look at her and deemed her unfit for BAMS?
I’m sorry, Miss, ah, Mungler, but we have a cool-people-only policy. And you’ll notice on page twenty-seven of your handbook, clause F, that we do not accept students who have spent a significant amount of time in the Midwest.

Emily was standing there when a text came through from Mac.

DNT 4GET 2 GO 2 RM 201 @ 759.

Well, at least Mac was looking out for her, Emily thought. She checked her Swatch. It was 7:55 a.m. Four minutes of painful, everyone-wondering-who-is-that-new-girl solo time. She stared at her iPhone again, wondering at what point it would become totally obvious that she was just trying to look busy, when she noticed a Rolls-Royce Phantom with the vanity plate E TACH pulling into the driveway.

Even though Emily was brand-new, she could figure out whose car it was: Kimmie “the Tawker” Tachman’s father, Elliot Tachman, was known in the trade magazines as E-Tach. He was the most powerful producer in Hollywood, a guaranteed hit maker, and the man everyone wanted to work with. According to Mac, he was also the reason his daughter held high social status instead of just being known as a pink-obsessed musical theater nerd.

The car door opened and Kimmie bounded out, wearing a pink message tee that said PURRRFECT with Joe’s jeans. She skipped toward Emily like a puppy charging after a ball. A bright, energetic, pink puppy.

“Hey, girl!” Kimmie put her hands on her hips and faced Emily. She always seemed a little too excited to see people. “My dad wants to say hi to you,” she announced.

Emily winced. Elliot Tachman was the producer of
Deal With It.
He had been at her audition—and then rejected her in favor of redheaded super-starlet Anas tasia Caufield. It was extra embarrassing because during the audition, Emily had been forced to improvise, and she’d even
kissed
Davey Woodward, her star-crush. Her heartbeat quickened just thinking about it. But what could E-Tach possibly want with her now?