Maggie Malone and the Mostly Magical Boots (7 page)

I barely have one foot on the bus when Vi stops me.

“Hey, Bec,” she says. “Where're you going?”

“Yeah, I'm kind of beat,” I explain. “I was just going to take a quick power nap before the show.”

“You're funny,” Vi says. “Seriously, if you need the potty, go ahead, but we've got to get to the soundstage for your commercial shoot in less than thirty. Hair and makeup will meet us there.”

Those
guys
again?

“I guess I'm good,” I say, jumping back down off the bus.

“Great, 'cause your car is already here,” Vi says, looking at her clipboard and speaking into her walkie-talkie. “Moving!”

We walk around the back of the bus where my “car” is parked. And it's definitely no car—it's a super-stretch, supremely stylin' limousine.
Yeah
baby!
That's what I'm talking about.

I pick up my step, trying not to break into a sprint toward the limo. I'm reaching for the handle when a dude in a black suit stops me. “Allow me, Miss Starr,” he says, all serious. How could I forget? A rock star doesn't open her own car door!

I slide across buttery leather seats and immediately take my shoes off so I can feel the plush carpet under my feet. There are mile-long black couches running down both sides of this thing. I'm not even kidding; I bet I could fit my whole Ranger Girls troop in here. There's the longest sunroof I've ever seen over my head, so I start fiddling with the buttons until I find the right one to open it. Vi is talking on her phone, of course.

“Tell them we have no comment,” she says, sounding pretty irritated. We buckle our seat belts, and the limo starts moving.

Vi is chatting away, and I'm staring up at the sky flying past, and all of a sudden, I can't stand it. I know I shouldn't unbuckle but I just can't resist. I stand up right through the middle of the sunroof and open my arms wide, feeling the wind whip through my hair.
Heaven!
I think to myself.
I'd do this every single day of my life if I was Becca Starr
.

Right then, two hands grab me around my waist and pull me back inside the limo lickety-split.

“
What
are
you
DOING, Becca?
” Vi says, trying not to raise her voice. “Chaz is going to have a panic attack when he sees what you just did to your hair!”

“I'm sorry,” I say, feeling my curls—they are a little twisted up. “I just wanted to…” My eyes start filling with tears.

“No, you know what?” she says, getting herself back together. “
I'm sorry
. I'm just a little stressed—that phone call—never mind, it doesn't matter. They're going to have massive fans blowing straight at you for this commercial anyway, I'm sure.”

“They are?” I say, confused.

“Remember?” Vi asks. “The Japanese car commercial? I showed you the storyboards last week. It's the one where you're in the convertible.”

Before I can ask any more questions, the limo stops in front of this humongous metal building in the middle of nowhere. Vi hops out, and I have no choice but to follow her.
This
is
where
we're filming a real commercial?
Looks
more
like
an
abandoned
paper
plate
factory
or
something.
We walk inside, and it's like stepping into another world. We're in the middle of some big city at night with tall buildings and twinkling lights, a starlit sky, and a full moon overhead. I'm not sure you'd actually be able to see the stars in a big city like this, but it looks really good.

There are at least a hundred people rushing around with headsets on. One of them rushes up to Vi and bows, like he just finished his second grade Thanksgiving play. Then Vi bows right back at him. Next thing I know, I'm bombarded by all those people in headsets bowing at me. Just in time, I remember what my Aunt Fi told me about the bowing custom in Japan—it's a respect thing—so for once in this crazy rock star life, I know what to do. I bow at everyone and they all bow back. It's hard to keep a straight face.

Vi shuffles me through hair and makeup. Chaz only has a mini freak-out when he sees my windblown hair and gets it back into place pretty quickly.

There's a red convertible parked in the middle of the fake city street. The guy in charge comes over to Vi, motions toward the car, and says something in Japanese. It's kind of hilarious when he says the thing in Japanese because he gets this super excited look on his face. Vi nods and comes over to me.

“Okay, so here's the deal,” she explains. “You're gonna get in the car, they're gonna get the fans blowing, paparazzi are going to swarm the car flashing bulbs, and you're going to say,
KONO
IWA
! You know, with lots of feeling and excitement.”

“Wait, do they know I'm not old enough to actually drive a car?” I ask, because I'm just twelve, and Becca's only fourteen!

“Yeah, they don't care,” Vi says. “Repeat after me,
KONO
IWA
!”

“KONO IWA,” I echo back.

“Again,” Vi says.

“KONO IWA,” I say again. “Wait, what does that even
mean
?”

“What?” Vi says, looking up from her clipboard. “Oh, I don't know. I can find out, if you'd like.”

“Well, don't you think we should know what I'm saying?” I ask. “I mean, what if they've got me saying
I
LOVE
HULA-HOOPING POLKA-DOTTED PANDAS
or something?”

“Listen, Bec,” Vi comes in close, whispering into my ear. “They're paying you two million dollars to say two words—that's a million dollars a word. I think it's something like ‘this car is awesome!' but I'll find out if you want me to.”

“Yes, please,” I say with a smile. It just seems like the responsible thing to do. And just as I start to feel the tiniest bit thirsty, somebody puts a cool soda in my hand.

Vi comes back from talking to the man in charge. “It means THIS ROCKS! Okay, are we all good?”

“All good!” I say and step into the car. They start up the music and the fans and the photographers get into position around the car. Vi points to me when it's time for me to do my thing.

“
KONO
IWA
!” I say with as much feeling as I can muster in a foreign language I don't speak. The bowing man says something to Vi.

“Again, Bec!” Vi says from the side of the set. “With a little less excitement—more rock star attitude, please!”

I squint my eyes and turn my head a little to the side and say, “
KONO
IWA
.”

The guy in charge is waving his hands, trying to explain to Vi what he wants. “That's better, Bec!” Vi yells, “But they want a little more everyday American teenager vibe.”

I say
THIS
ROCKS!
in Japanese at least sixty different ways and finally get it right.

We walk out of the warehouse and I can't stop saying it: “
KONO
IWA
!”

“You love doing commercials, don't you, Bec?” Vi asks, putting an arm around me.

“Yeah, that was really fun!” I say.

“You know what else is really fun?” she asks me, sliding into the limo. “You did such a great job, they just
gave
you
that
car
!”

“But I can't even
drive
!” I remind her.

“Yeah, like I said,” Vi reminds me, “they don't care!” And we laugh together—until Vi gets another call, of course.

We make it back to the bus in record time.

“Okay, Bec, you've got thirty minutes of downtime to chill,” Vi says. “I'll be back with your dinner.” I nod, and she closes the door to my bus-bedroom.

I unload the necklaces and bracelets lining my neck and arms, peel off the sticky leather jeans, and pull on some stretchy leggings, a hoodie, and Becca's bunny slippers. I have a pair almost exactly like them at home, and I'd wear them to school if my mom would let me. They're
that
comfy.

I'm about to curl up with a magazine when there's a knock at my door.

“Come in!” I shout. Vi nudges the door open. She's got her cell phone in one hand and she's covering the mouthpiece with the other.

“So sorry to bother you, Bec, but I've got Jonie Lake on the line,” Vi says.
Jonie
Lake?
Sister of a striped stegosaurus! Jonie Lake is the infamous, thousand-year-old entertainment journalist who gets her kicks ripping celebrities apart in her gossip column for
Starz
magazine. She's had so much plastic surgery she looks like a cross between the Joker from Batman and one of those creepy dolls whose eyes are supposed to close when you lay her down but they get stuck open all the time. Talk about scary with a capital S.

“What does she want?” I ask nervously.

“What she always wants,” Vi says. “A comment on her absurd, made-up story. This time, she's going to be writing about how all of your Becca Starr merchandise is manufactured by underpaid children in Chinese sweatshops.” Vi sighs and shakes her head. “No comment, I assume?”

“But…but…why wouldn't I comment?” I stammer. “That's a horrible thing to print!” Then I have a terrifying thought.

“It's not
true,
is it?” I ask.

“Oh Becca, of
course
it's not true,” Vi assures me. “Nothing that vile woman prints is true! You know that.”

“Then…shouldn't I defend myself?” I ask.

“You certainly
can
,” Vi says. “You just usually don't want to deal with it.”

“Well, I feel like dealing with it today,” I tell her. “I'll take the call.”

Vi lifts both eyebrows but says nothing as she hands me the phone. I take a deep breath before speaking into it.

“This is Becca Starr,” I say with confidence I definitely don't feel. “May I help you?”

“Jonie Lake here,” she growls. “So, you got kids in China, working their little fingers raw for peanuts so you can make millions selling piece-of-junk dolls that don't even look like you, if you ask me. Any comment?”

“First of all,” I say slowly, “I'd like to know where you got this information.” It's not just a stall tactic. In my journalism class at Sacred Heart, you weren't allowed to make any sort of claim without being able to back it up. That's pretty basic stuff, in fact.

“Can't reveal my sources, sorry,” Jonie snarls. “You got a comment? I'm on a deadline here.”

“My comment is that it is absolutely not true, not a single word of it,” I say. “All of my products are made right here in the United States. And for your information, I don't make millions off those dolls. In fact, I don't make a penny. I donate every single cent I make on my merchandise to the Pack It Up Foundation. You are welcome to confirm that with them.”

I
so
nailed that! Stella and I have watched the Becca Starr documentary at least a dozen times, so I've actually
seen
her manufacturing plant. It's in somewhere like Detroit or Pittsburgh or one of those other cities where they make a bunch of stuff. I can't remember exactly, but I'm positive it's in the United States because they made a big deal about it in the movie about how hardly anybody makes anything in the United States anymore, which is sad. Then later in the movie, there's this whole scene about Becca's work with Pack It Up. Every year, she gives them money to buy backpacks and fill them with school supplies for kids who can't afford to buy them. Becca even helps them pack those bags herself. I'd never even thought about not having enough money to buy a
pencil
before I saw that. It's a tearjerker of a scene, and after we saw it the first time, Stella and I both took our entire allowance and stuck it in an envelope and mailed it right off to them, along with my favorite Crazy Kitten pencil case packed with as many supplies as we could stuff in there.

“Well, that's not what
my
source said, so I guess you don't really have anything to add,” Jonie grumbles. And then there's a click.

Is this some kind of joke? She was asking me about
me
! And I told her the truth and she didn't even care. And now she's going to print her evil article full of lies, and there's nothing I can do about it? It's so totally not fair.

This is almost
exactly
like that time at Sacred Heart when somebody started a rumor that Sally Keester had six toes on her left foot. Nobody even knew how the rumor started, but it sure did spread like wildfire. As if it wasn't bad enough having to go through life with a last name that's another word for backside, that poor girl walked to school in the snow wearing
sandals
all winter, just so people could count her frozen toes for themselves. (There were only ten. And she asked me to count them, for your information.) Even after Sally nearly got frostbite, kids still said she had one little piggy tucked underneath the others. Some of those kids still call her Six Toe Sally to this day. Why are some people mean for no good reason? It should be against the law.

I look at Vi helplessly and hand her the phone. A tear slips out of the corner of my eye. Vi sits down next to me.

“Sweetie, this is all part of being a star, you know that,” she says, hugging me. “People are going to say what they're going to say and think what they're going to think, and all you can do is keep being you. You know as well as I do that this will only make headlines until she makes up something even worse about somebody else. Until then, all you can do is ignore it. Besides, who cares what a bunch of strangers think? Those of us who know and love you are the only ones who matter, anyway. Right?”

I nod and look down at my lap. Vi stands and slips quietly out of the room. Who knew being a rock star would be such a roller-coaster ride?