Star Power (12 page)

Emily took a deep breath. If she didn't break her Davey addiction,
she
could wind up as one more Hollywood casualty. But before Emily could hyper-dwell on that thought, there was a knock at the door.

Chris appeared, and led Emily to the giant rugby field. On one side were white-painted bleachers filled with extras dressed as boarding school students on a cool fall day. At the end of the field was a giant score-board. It was still hard to believe this entire
world
had been built just for this scene.

By now Emily was used to seeing hundreds of crew waiting for her, but she still wasn't used to seeing D.F.W. in the flesh. He wore a girl's yellow rugby outfit and was practicing throwing underhanded. He giggled and covered his mouth demurely every time he tossed the ball. Sigh. Even as a cross-dresser, he was adorable.

Mac tapped her on the shoulder. “Have fun out there,” she said, with one eyebrow cocked. Emily knew that was Macspeak for
Don't screw up again.

Emily plastered a confident smile on her face and marched over to the center of the field, where Davey and Shane were waiting.

“Okay, Buttercup,” Shane began. He pointed at Davey. “This is where you find out there's something
off
with your BFF. So give us mystery, intrigue, plus suspense in those gorgeous eyes. Got that, Sweet Pea?”

“Yep,” Emily said very seriously, trying her hardest to not look at Davey. She shook her shoulders, which she always did to tap into her acting zone. Then she closed her eyes, took three deep breaths, and stared at the dewy grass. She imagined a cool fall breeze, even though it was eighty-five degrees. And then, just as she'd hoped, she forgot about Davey and the cameras and the lighting crew, and in an instant—poof! Suddenly, she wasn't in Los Angeles anymore; she was a girl at a New Hampshire boarding school who wanted to play rugby with her new best friend.

Emily grabbed the ball and ran toward the crowd, just as they'd rehearsed.

“Wait!” Davey cried, running after her.

Emily darted between two players, perfectly on cue, and then—as she dove to the ground like she'd practiced—she felt two big arms encircle her. In one fell swoop, Davey grabbed her waist and they both tumbled to the ground. They wound up in the field with their heads perfectly aligned for their close-up.

“You got me!” Emily-as-Kelly laughed. Davey was pressed against her so close she could hear him breathe. It felt wonderful, but she forced herself to just focus on the scene.

She leaned in closer, watching the sapphire flecks in Davey's eyes twinkle. For a millisecond, the real Emily wanted to giggle excitedly, but she pushed those thoughts out of her head and looked at him suspiciously, staying in character.

“Got you!” Davey squealed in the fake falsetto he was using for his role as Tiffany.

Still acting, Emily crinkled her brow. There was something . . . curious . . . something distinctly masculine about her friend Tiffany. She studied him, intrigued.

But as Kelly looked into Tiffany's eyes, searching for answers, something snapped in Emily. Just like that, she wasn't in character anymore. She was Emily, looking into Davey's eyes, feeling a connection so real there was no way they were acting. What she felt was love. And you couldn't fight love.

“
Cut!
” Shane barked. He danced a jig in the mud. “
We got it!
” And then he looked at the crew, smiling broadly. “
That's a wrap!
”

The crew and the extras began clapping. Davey stood up and helped Emily to her feet, offering her a shy smile.

“I think they liked us.” He leaned over, whispering so close to her cheek that she could feel his warm breath.

That was when she realized the crew and the extras were clapping for
her.
Well, for
them
. Because she and Davey had nailed the scene—together. Because they were a team. Like GyllenSpoon, or VanEfron. She imagined what
Us Weekly
would call her and Davey:
SkyWard?

“Brilliant, Dollface, just brilliant!” Shane beamed at her. “I love it when things go great!”

And I love it when they go great in front of Davey
, Emily thought. Davey took off his wig and shook out his messy dark hair. He took off his girl's shirt to reveal a soft, faded gray tee. In a second, Davey went from hot to mega-hot, and Emily's nerves sizzled.

Davey held up his right palm. “High fives,” he cheered.

Emily pressed her palm against his and tried hard not to hold it there forever.

“Hey, you doin' anything tomorrow night?” Davey asked when she slid her hand away. “I wanted to talk to you about something. . . .”

Emily doubled-blinked and hoped she was still a good enough actress to hide her inner freak-out.
Had Davey just asked her out on a date?
“I don't think so. . . .” she said, as casually as she could. Like she would ever not be free for D.F.W. She sneaked a covert glance at Mac, who was talking to Elliot Tachman. Emily breathed a sigh of relief.

“Great.” Davey nodded. “I was thinking we could swing by Disneyland.”

“
Disneyland?
” Emily asked. In her world, that wasn't a place you “just swung by.” That was a place you maybe went once in your lifetime after months of begging, pleading, and planning. Her heart was fluttering at hummingbird speed.

“I go there sometimes to blow off steam,” Davey shrugged. He looked sheepish, like he was actually worried she might laugh at him. “So what do you say?”

Emily's eyes darted to Mac once again, but now she was behind a screen watching a playback of the take. She looked pleased—and more importantly, distracted.

“Sounds cool,” Emily said casually, delivering her second-best performance of the day. “I can't wait.”

coco

M
ac and Coco sat in the plush white chairs of Bliss spa in Westwood on Tuesday night. It was down the road from Bel-Air, near the UCLA campus. After Coco's Café Pick Me Up disaster, Mac had insisted a double chocolate pedicure and mud mask were in order, not to mention a major agent/friend check-in.

“They hated me the second I got onstage!” Coco wailed. She took a bite of a chocolate-dipped strawberry while a woman in a baby blue T-shirt painted her toenails bubble-gum pink. Coco had been too distraught to sleep the night before. She'd stayed up until 4 a.m., writing songs about being misunderstood. All she could think was that her life as a singer-songwriter was ruined before it even began. Because of who her mother was, she would never be taken seriously. And now, even in the massage chair, she couldn't relax. “They should call it Café Put Me Down.”

“Babe, you can't think like that,” Mac said, nibbling on her chocolate ice cream. Her face was caked in a baby blue mask, and she looked like a Smurf. “Think of it as a learning experience.”

“Ugh,” Coco groaned. “If this is learning, I prefer to remain undereducated.”

“We knew this was not gonna be a cakewalk.” Mac sighed and wiggled her freshly painted toenails. “If it were easy, it would be called
watching TV
. And really, who cares what a few coffee shop losers think anyway.” Mac waved her hand dismissively.

“Those are the same losers I want to be my fans, remember?” Coco plopped her head against the plush chair and sighed. “It was like a room full of Finns.”

Mac winced. “That scrufftastic kid gave you a complex.”

“But he's right,” Coco explained. “As long as I'm Coco Kingsley, no one is going to give me credit as an artist. ” She sighed. “What I still can't figure out is how they recognized me. I mean, sure, I've been photographed with my mom before, but—”

“Well, now is probably not the best time to show you this, but you're going to see it eventually. . . .” Mac reached into her python-printed magazine tote and pulled out a copy of
Us Weekly.
She opened it to a middle page and handed it to Coco.

The headline read, CARDAMMON BACK AND BETTER THAN EVER! It was a piece about Cardammon's comeback tour, complete with a photo spread of the gaudy outfits Cardammon was planning to wear in the show. Coco's eyes slid over to the sidebar: AND SHE'S BRINGING BABY C! The short piece talked about “rumors” that Coco would be appearing onstage with Cardammon during select shows. Above it was a photo montage of Coco through the years: the baby pictures that had appeared in
People
, the Halloween she and her mom both dressed as belly dancers, Coco stretching after taking a class at her father's hotel in Casablanca. Finally there was a picture of Coco leaving Karma Café, her guitar case slung over her shoulder.

“Oh no,” Coco groaned.

“Oh yes, Baby C,” Mac winked. “We need a plan. . . .”

Coco looked at her friend dubiously. The only thing scarier than having your baby pictures in
Us Weekly
was getting roped into one of Mac's crazy schemes.

“Right now you don't have a shot—you can't even get a song out.” Mac waved the magazine excitedly. “All we need is for people to give you a chance
before
they realize you're Cardammon's daughter.”

The woman painting Coco's toes suddenly stopped and looked up. “
You're
Cardammon's daughter?!” she squealed. “‘Forever Blue' was my prom song! I
love
her!”

Coco shot Mac a
see?
glance. “My mother is inescapable.”

But Mac was undeterred. ”We'll make you unrecognizable. You're going to be Carda-
non
.”

Coco crossed her arms vigilantly. Emily, the last victim of one of Mac's schemes, had been forced to walk around school for a week as a mountain-man freak named Spazmo. “I'm not ready for any of your make overs.”

“Make
under
,” Mac corrected. “I want you to get the Ashlee Simpson look.”

Coco tilted her head, thinking of Ashlee. “You want me to dye my hair red?”

“No, I mean early Ashlee, reality show Ashlee, black hair alterna-Ashlee,” Mac explained. “We're going for the pre-nose job, pre-Pete, pre-blond version. She had to de-Jess herself, and that's exactly what we're going to do with you. We'll un-Card you and make you un-cute—not that you could ever not be cute,” she added.

Coco considered the strategy. It
had
worked for Ashlee. . . . She felt her willpower escaping. “But how am I supposed to be
uncute
in a
kind of
cute way?”

Mac tilted her head toward the waiting room. There, in a colorful knit dress over a purple turtleneck, was Erin, bopping to her iPod. She looked like she had been dressed by an ancient Incan.

Mac smiled a devilish grin. “Just leave it to me.”