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Copyright © 2017 by Marianne Levy
Cover and internal design © 2017 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover design by Nicole Komasinski/Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover images © swissmediavision/Getty; Anatoliy Babiy/Thinkstock; mecaleha/Getty; apartment/Thinkstock
Internal images © alicedaniel/Shutterstock; primiaou/Shutterstock; Natasha Pankina/Shutterstock
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks, Inc., is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.
Published by Sourcebooks Jabberwocky, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.
P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410
(630) 961-3900
Fax: (630) 961-2168
www.sourcebooks.com
Originally published as Accidental Superstar in 2016 in the United Kingdom by Macmillan Children’s Books, an imprint of Pan Macmillan.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data is on file with the publisher.
Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
A Sneak Peek at Katie Cox’s Next Adventure
About the Author
Back Cover
The picture quality’s not the best. But even so, it’s clear I’m having a good time. I’m smiling so much you can see all my teeth, and I’m shutting my eyes on the high notes and everything. And my voice sounds all right, I think. Not perfect, but not terrible either.
It’s too bad you can also see a pack of extra-strong acne lotion on my desk. And piles of clothes on my bedroom floor. And something round and fuzzy sticking out from under the bed that I think was once a pepperoni pizza.
If I’d known that two million people were going to be watching, I’d probably have done some cleaning up.
“Amanda, will you please turn it down? Some of us are trying to work.”
Basically, my sister got her first paycheck and bought a new stereo that she has on pretty much 24/7. Even at night. Especially at night.
Meanwhile, my friend Lacey cut her own bangs, and because it didn’t look completely terrible, she’s putting serious pressure on me to join her. Honestly. You get whole, entire lectures on how to deal with people offering you cigarettes and drugs, but no one prepares you for your best friend clicking a pair of scissors in your face and saying, “It’ll really show off your eyes.”
Oh, and Mom and Dad’s divorce was finalized. So there was that.
Otherwise, it was a normal sort of Saturday morning, and I was lying on my bed supposedly doing my English but actually doodling lyrics because that’s how I like to warm up before doing homework. Of course, sometimes I spend so long on the warm-up that I run out of time before I reach the main event.
The problem is that writing songs is just so much more interesting than homework. Writing songs is more interesting than anything. Except listening to songs that other people have written, which is the other way I warm up before doing homework.
It is possible that I don’t spend as much time on my homework as I should.
But this song wouldn’t leave me alone. The hook had been following me around all morning, something about “breakup makeup” with a little pause, then a defiant flick-flick, like the notes were turning around and walking away.
For a second I had the whole thing there in my head.
“Gonna break out my makeup
For this stupid breakup”
And then the pause, and then—
Thump thump thump-thump thump.
“Amanda, will you turn it down, just for a second? I am in the middle of studying.”
For just a second, the bass boom did stop. Then it started again.
I was beginning to realize that I’d been wasting my life. All those years of Amanda not having a new stereo. Glorious, peaceful years, when I could take a nap on my bed or talk on the phone with Lacey or think of a tune—
The noise started up again.
“Manda! My walls are vibrating.”
“You said just for a second!”
I opened my lyric book and wrote everything down before it got away from me again, then pulled my guitar across the bed to get the tune into my fingers.
At that moment, the door opened.
“Katie, I thought you were doing homework?”
My big sister stood in the doorway and gave me one of her looks.
Amanda is tall, with a long face and a long nose and long fingers. But even though all the sticking-out parts of her are thin, the middle parts are pretty solid. By which I mean, she’s got broad shoulders and biggish boobs, and they make her look heavier than she is. I’m allowed to say that because I have them too. (Thanks, Mom.) Then there’s the Cox hair, which is insane, half-curly, half-straight, and the Cox skin, which is pale with an oily T-zone.
“Actually, I am about to start a very important essay on Julius Caesar.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “And you’re writing it on the guitar?”
“If only.”
Which Amanda took as a signal to sit down on my bed, giving Shakespeare a close-up view of her butt. Which seemed as good a moment as any to call it a day.
It’s like I always say with homework—you can push it too far. It’s really important to know when to stop.
“I liked what you were playing just now,” said Amanda.
I played it again.
“Does it have words?”
I made an attempt at singing it. Only it didn’t come out f
un and defiant like I’d intended it to. It just came out sort of sad.
“Do you think,” said Amanda, “that maybe you’ve written enough songs about the divorce?”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s over, and we’re okay. So stop dwelling.”
For the record, there hadn’t been that many. Which I told her.
“‘Four-Fingered Twix’ wasn’t about the divorce! And ‘Home Sweet Home’ wasn’t either. Well, maybe a little bit.”
“Good-bye, bedroom,” sang Amanda.
“Good-bye, past. Homes like ours aren’t made to last.”
“Er, how is that not about the divorce?” she asked.
She had a point. But saying good-bye to the literal home of my entire childhood—how could I not write about it? All the good memories—the guinea pig babies and Easter egg–hunting and the neighbors’ cat falling in the wading pool—were in that house, and when Dad left, we had to sell it. He used his half of the money he made to rent a place in California, where you can sometimes see dolphins from the kitchen window. We used our half to rent an apartment in Harltree, a nowheresville just outside of London, where all you can see from the kitchen window are foxes going through the garbage cans.
In the end, divorce affects everything. Even the wildlife.
“You’re bringing us all down,” said my sister.
“Oh, blame it all on me. The big bad apple on the family tree.”
She laughed. “You should put that in a song. Anyway, things change. People move on.”
“Dad certainly seems to have.”
“This is what I’m talking about.”
“I’m supposed to be miserable! I’m a teenager. That’s just me!”
“Doesn’t sound like the Katie I know,” said Amanda, which was kind of her, given that it did sound like the Katie I knew, for the last few months at least.
“You know what? You’re right,” I said. “From now on, I will be upbeat.” I waved at the window—and any potential trash foxes—and plucked out a bit of a tune.
“So much better,” said Amanda. “And anyway, it’s not all doom and gloom. Mom’s got a boyfriend.”
My fingers froze. “What? No she doesn’t.”
“She does.”
“Amanda, Mom isn’t seeing anyone. She knows it’s way too soon for that. I’ve told her.”
“Which is why she hasn’t told you.”
“And she told you?”
Amanda looked away. “Not specifically. But there are signs.”
The thing about Amanda is that she’s read too many fairy tales about happily-ever-afters and handsome princes and things like that. What she doesn’t realize is that we had the perfect family. We were the perfect family. And then we weren’t. And we never would be ever again.
No biggie.
“What signs?” I said.
“Okay.” She ticked them off on her fingers. “She’s been singing in the shower.”
“Practicing for karaoke.”
“She bought a new jacket.”
“It’s been cold!”
“She’s got…”—Amanda paused for effect—“the glow.”
“She went to a tanning salon!”
“And why do you think that is?” said Amanda.
“I told you,” I said. “It’s been really cold. Can you please get your behind off my books?”
“Okay, but listen—”
“No,” I said. “You listen. Mom was really messed up by all the Dad stuff. It took her forever to get even slightly straightened out, and she’s only just gotten herself into anything like an okay place. I don’t think she’d go and mess that up with someone new right now.”
Amanda stood up. “Not with you telling her she can’t—ugh! What’s that?”
I looked where she was pointing. “Pizza.”
“Katie, we had pizza three nights ago. You are revolting.”
“Then you are free to amuse yourself elsewhere.”
So she got up and left.
• • •
After that, I did try to do my homework. I tried to write a new song too because that tune I’d come up with was truly catchy. I played it over and over and over again, only instead of lyrics, all I could think about was Mom.
It was slightly disturbing to think that I’d been holding her back because all I care about is her happiness. And mine, I guess, but mine is kind of dependent on hers, so it’s all the same, really.
So I was determined to talk to her about it at the earliest opportunity.
That wouldn’t be for a while though because Mom was taking loads of extra shifts at the hospital. Still, if I had to wait a day or two or even a couple of weeks for the chance to have what would probably be a pretty awkward conversation, then that was just how it would have to be. Too bad.
Suddenly, I heard her key in the door.
“Katie? Are you home? I feel like you and I haven’t talked in ages!”
Sometimes I think that maybe the universe is using me to have a bit of a laugh.
“I’m in my room,” I said.
“Coming!”
There was no way she was glowing, although it was true that Mom did look a little happier than she had been. Probably just the result of her new jacket. And the haircut. And was that an actual manicure?
“So,” I said. “How’re things? It’s all been pretty tough lately, hasn’t it?”
“I suppose so,” said Mom.
“Because of the move,” I said. “And this place being so cramped.”
“It’s growing on me,” said Mom.
“Like mold,” I said.
I guess I should describe our apartment, but there’s not much point. It had somebody else’s curtains on the windows and someone else’s hairy, old carpet on the floor. So it wasn’t really ours at all.
Mom was still going. “I know things have been…well…but I feel like we’re really turning a corner.”
“We as in—”
“Me, you, Amanda. Us.”
Which made me feel a little better. “Maybe.”
“Definitely,” said Mom. “It’s like there’s been a dark cloud over us, but you know what? Summer’s on its way. We’re settled here now. We’ve made it, Katie.”
“Are you sure?” I said.
“I really do think we’re going to be all right,” said Mom. “So cheer up. Promise?”
I wasn’t going to promise, but I did say, “I’ll try,” which was pretty much the same thing. Because maybe we would be all right now. Amanda was pretty annoying, and I wasn’t at all sure about Mom’s taste in jackets. But all things considered—and there were a lot of things to consider—we’d made it through fairly well.
“Are you all right to do dinner without me tonight?”
“Sure,” I said, doing a little dance inside. The things Mom does to food would be considered torture if it wasn’t already dead. “What’s the occasion?”
“It’s karaoke at the Dog and Duck, and for once I’m not at work.”
Mom is a complete karaoke fiend. I think her version of “My Way” is better than the original. And the Elvis version. It’s maybe even as good as the Nina Simone one.
“Is that why you’re in such a good mood?” I said.
She flushed. “They’re a nice bunch of people. They don’t ask about your father. And they like my singing.”
Of course they liked Mom’s singing. How could they not?
“So that’s why you’re so happy,” I said. “It’s funny because Amanda thought you had a new boyfriend!”
There was this pause.
And then Mom said, “Clever Amanda.”
“What? Why? Amanda isn’t clever. Amanda doesn’t know anything. You don’t have a boyfriend.”
“His name is Adrian,” said M
om. “I’m sure you’ll like him a lot.”
I wanted to say, Adrian? How long has this been going on? And didn’t you think to maybe ask me first?
“Adrian? How long has this been going on? And excuse me, but didn’t you think to maybe ask me first?”
“Only a couple of months,” said Mom. “And I don’t need your permission, Katie.”
“But I thought…” And then I ran out of words and just stared at her.
“He saw me singing a few times and said I had a nice voice, and then one thing led to another and…” I had to tune out for a while. I came back in on, “I’d never have started seeing him if I hadn’t thought you could deal with it. He’s nice, Katie. I promise.”
“If he ever hurts you, I’ll kill him with my bare hands. And my hair straighteners, which are pretty lethal when they’re heated up.”
She laughed, which was annoying, because I meant it.
“I’ll have him over for lunch on Sunday. I’m sure you’ll get on like a house on fire.”
She went back downstairs. And I did feel like a house on fire.
But I don’t think Mom meant it like that at all.
“I’m a bad person,” I said.
Lacey and I were walking along the canal to school, which sounds all pretty and lovely and like it’s full of boats and ducklings but, in fact, is quite a risky way of getting somewhere because of all the sixth-grade boys and the incredibly dirty water.
Which isn’t to say that there aren’t nice parts. There’s a really friendly cat that likes to hang out on top of the barges, and once a year the geese have chicks or geeselings or whatever baby geese are called.
Mostly, though, it’s graffiti and seagulls picking things out of the trash. And people sitting on benches chatting, which seems fine until you notice that (a) they are all drinking beer and (b) it is eight thirty in the morning.
“What do you mean you’re a bad person?” said Lacey.
“You’re supposed to say, ‘No, you’re not,’” I told her.
“Okay, no, you’re not. Why?”
“Because Mom’s found a new boyfriend and she’s really happy, and I know I should be happy too, but I’m not.”
“That’s not so bad,” said Lacey.
“But you think it’s a little bad?”
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