Maggie Malone and the Mostly Magical Boots (4 page)

What's that weird rumbling noise?
I wonder, sitting up in bed.
And
where
did
these
hot
pink
satiny
sheets
come
from? I don't remember my mom buying—

I don't have time to finish my thought, because all of a sudden, there's a massive earthquake and everything on the bed—including me—goes flying and lands on the floor with a huge thud.

“Are you okay?” The door whips open and a pretty lady pokes her head in. “There was a tire in the road, and the bus driver had to swerve at the last second so he wouldn't hit it. Do you need help getting up? Are you hurt? Can I get you anything? Should I call a doctor?”

Nothing this strange lady is saying makes any sense at all to me. I must be having a dream. I shake my head back and forth, trying to wake myself up.

“Becca, are you okay?” the lady says, marching right over to me and shaking me by the shoulders. “Becca,
say
something.
Please!”

Becca? Did she just call me
Becca
?

“Um, yeah, I think I'm fine,” I say, grabbing onto the bed and pulling myself up.

“Are you sure?” the nice lady asks, sitting down on the bed next to me. She is wearing black jeans and a purple hoodie and has a clipboard stacked with papers on it in her lap. A tag clipped to a strap around her neck reads BECCA STARR STAFF. Beneath that it has the name Violet Kelly.

“Because if you are and since you're awake and all,” she goes on, “maybe we should go over your schedule for today. We're almost at the arena anyway.”

Either this is the most realistic dream I've ever had, or I'm actually
her.
I'm Becca Starr. But it can't be. It just can't.

“Yeah, right, my schedule, of course,” I stammer, figuring I should go along with this craziness until I figure out what's going on. “Let's definitely go over that.”

“Are you sure you're okay?” the Violet-person asks.

“Me? Oh, yes, totally fine. Really. Couldn't be better. Yup. I'm just dying to get a peek at that schedule is all.”

“Okay, if you're sure…” she says, flipping over the first page on her clipboard. “Let's see. When we get to the Superdome, you'll go right into class so we can get that out of the way before hair and makeup.”

She keeps talking, but I'm not really listening. So I
am
her, at least in this ridiculous dream. And I'm on a tour bus, apparently, on my way to an arena to do a show. Violet must be my assistant, or one of them. Maybe I have a whole bunch of assistants!
For
the
love
of
gooey
green
gumdrops, this cannot really be happening. Did she just say the Superdome?

“How many people does the, uh, Superdome hold again?” I ask, trying to sound casual.

“Twenty thousand or so,” Violet says. “You've only done the 'dome, like, a billion times. Are you nervous today or something?”

“No, of course not!” I answer as fast as I can, nearly tripping over my words. “I just don't think I'm really awake yet.”

“Well, it has been a crazy week, that's for sure,” she agrees, saving me without even knowing it. “Six cities and two thousand miles in seven days might even be a record. Anyway, after hair and makeup, you have your photo shoot with Justin, next we'll do a quick sound check, and then you've got that commercial to shoot—the producer promised me it won't take too long since they've shot everything but your scene.”

All I hear is blah, blah, blah, JUSTIN.

“Justin?” I ask.
She
doesn't mean THE JUSTIN CROWE, does she?

“Yes, Becca. Justin Crowe. The guy you're doing your next album with? Seriously, you're starting to freak me out a little.”

“I think I need a glass of water or something,” I tell her.

“Red!” she shouts, turning her head toward the door. “Becca needs water! Pronto!”

“You got it, Vi!” comes a voice back through the door. “Coming right up.”

Before I can even count to seven, the door pops open a few inches and a hand appears holding a frosty bottle of water with a straw in it, just the way I like it.

A
beverage
put
right
in
my
hand
the
second
I
ask
for
it? I could get used to service like this
, I think, grabbing the water and taking a huge gulp.

“You sure you're okay, Becca?” Violet asks.

“Sure, yup, totally,” I tell her. “But maybe you could give me a second to, uh, freshen up a little?”

“No problem,” she says, walking toward the bus-bedroom door. “Call me when you're ready.” She shuts the door, and I scramble over to a mirror, not at all sure what to expect.

I still look like me—Maggie Malone! So how can I be
her
? What in the world is happening here? And I don't suppose there happens to be an earth-to-genie walkie-talkie on this thing. Wait, the mirror! Frank said I could find him there!

“Frank,” I whisper, leaning in close to the mirror. “Frank! I need you, please. Pretty please with whipped cream on top! Frank, can you hear me?”

“Maggie!” bellows Frank, coming into focus behind me. He's wearing a black, furry bathrobe and has a towel wrapped turban-style on his head. You know, like a genie. I can't help it, I whip around again—but of course, he's not there.

“Or should I say
Miss
Starr
,” Frank-in-the-mirror says with a laugh.

“What…is…happening?” I ask in a panic.

“Yeah, well, we didn't really get to go over the
details
of those Mostly Magical Boots,” Frank says with a sigh.

“You
think
?” I ask. “Maybe you could fill me in now. Wait, is that a
rubber
duck
in your hand?”

“You caught me just getting out of the bath, what can I say?” Frank says. “But we don't really have time for stories, Maggie. The
mostly
magical part of the boots is that when you put them on and say the magic words, you get to step into somebody's life for a day.”

“
What
magic
words?
” I ask. “You didn't tell me anything about magic words! What did I say? And how did I get here?”

“You wished for somebody else's life,” Frank says simply. “Whenever you do that while you're wearing the MMBs, the next time you wake up, you're her. It's pretty simple.”

“Well, that might have been some good information to give me up front!” I tell him. “So what do I do now?”

“Do?” Frank laughs. “You spend a day as your favorite rock star, that's what you
do
.”

“But I don't know anything about being a rock star, Frank!” I wail.

“But you know
everything
about Becca Starr,” Frank tells me. “And besides, the great thing about the MMBs is that this life you're living? It's like it's been yours all along.”

“Huh?” I say, completely confused.

“It's complicated, kid,” Frank says, “and we really don't have time for a history-of-magical-boots lesson. Just trust me—and yourself. You'll get the hang of it.”

“Well, what if I don't like it and I want to go home?” I ask.

“What do you think this is, a taxi service?” Frank asks. “Once you're in the boots—and in the life—you're in, period. You wake up as that person and you go to bed as that person. When you wake up again, you'll be the one and only Maggie Malone.”

“Okay, my mom is going to totally freak out if I just disappear for a whole day!” I whimper, starting to panic even more.

“Relax, Malone,” Frank says. “Time stops when you're in the boots. Your mom will never even know you were gone.”

“Promise?” I plead.

“Promise,” Frank insists. “You've got this.”

“Well, what if I need you?” I moan.

“Your pocket mirror comes with you,” Frank says. “It's in your pocket right now. Get it?
Pocket
mirror? I love that one.”

I reach into the pocket of my pajama bottoms, and sure enough, it's there. Frank is still holding his big belly and laughing when there's a knock on the door.

“You ready, Becca?” Violet asks right through it. “We're at the 'dome, and we're on a tight schedule, you know.”

“Coming!” I shout as I watch Frank fade away before my eyes. I quickly pull on a T-shirt and pair of jeans I find folded on a shelf next to the bed and slip the mirror into my back pocket.

You've got this
, I repeat to myself, opening the door.
Yeah, right.

I follow Violet straight through the middle of this gigantic, fancy bus. I probably don't have to mention that it doesn't look like any bus
I've
ever seen. Hot pink velvet dotted with sparkly, silver stars covers the cushiony walls. There's a kitchen off to the right that looks like it's never been used and a long, white leather couch on the other side with a shiny metal table. To top it all off, the floor and ceiling are covered with tiny disco lights. I bet those lights change colors. I saw that once in a limousine when my aunt got married. Violet would know.

“Hey, Violet?” I call ahead.

“Becca, are you mad at me or something?” Violet asks. “You haven't called me by my whole name since the beginning of your first tour.”

Forget the blinky lights—not important.
Be
cool, Malone!

“What? Oh, no! Sorry, um, Vi. I think I just need some food.” I figure that's a harmless enough excuse for acting like a nut job. Everyone gets a little crazy when they're starving. And I am ravenous.

“Oh, you're hilarious this morning,” Vi laughs. “You never eat breakfast! But if you're hungry, I guess there's time to grab a quick bite.” She stops and looks at me square in the eye, and I have to resist the urge to look away. “You sure you didn't hit your head on the nightstand when you rolled out of bed?” she asks. I nod. She stares at me for another second before stepping aside and pressing her clipboard to her chest to let me off the bus. She leads me under a tent and into the biggest breakfast bonanza of my life.

Here's another thing about me: I live for breakfast. I could eat it for every single meal of every day. In fact, I probably average about nineteen breakfasts a week. And this place has about thirty times more food than any breakfast buffet I've ever seen. I think I am in heaven.

I pick up a plate and start piling it with bacon. Then I notice the sausage. Are you kidding me? Sausage and bacon on the same day? That doesn't happen in real life. I move on to the pastries—sticky buns (my favorite!), chocolate croissants, jelly doughnuts. And eggs—leaky ones, with the yellow ooze coming out on the sides—just the way I like them. When I get to the pancakes, there is no more space on my plate. How sad is that? I carefully lay a short stack across my meat and pour syrup over the whole mess. I firmly believe that just about anything tastes better with syrup on it. If you haven't tried it on pork chops, you're missing out.

“O-kay, Bec,” Vi says, raising an eyebrow. “Going for the lumberjack breakfast today, are we?”

I just shrug.

Vi pulls a walkie-talkie from her hip. “Louisa?” she calls into it. “Becca is walking in five.”

As
in
minutes?
I look at my heaping plate that I can't possibly consume in that amount of time. I do the best I can to prioritize, stuffing in a couple good mouthfuls of the most fantastic, buttery pancakes I've ever tasted. I grab a bite of sausage and cram it in there too, even though I haven't swallowed the pancakes yet.

“All right then, let's go,” Vi prods, snatching up my plate and handing it off to a guy in a white chef's hat. Torture! The best breakfast I never got to eat.

We walk to the far end of the tent where it's attached to a building. Violet flashes her badge, and a security guard pushes open a giant set of double doors. We wind our way down a crazy-long hallway filled with doors, then another, and then one more. Vi stops in front of a door that looks just like all the rest and swings it open.

I think I might faint.

Becca's entire band—including the kid who does flips across the stage at every concert
and
her three backup dancers who are also on that TV show
Dance
Rock
USA
, plus the drummer chick who has her own clothing line—are sitting around two long tables. They all look up. I smile and hold up my hand in a frozen wave like I'm pledging something really important.

“Hey Bec,” says this whole room full of famous people.
To
me.
I cannot make a sound. The last time I was totally speechless was when Ricky Garfinkle's shorts fell down in the lunch line and he was wearing underpants with rainbows and unicorns on them. I wish I could unsee that. I also hope I can keep it together in front of these super-cool teenage professionals. At Stinkerton, all I wanted was for someone to notice me. My mom says it all the time: be careful what you wish for.