Almost Famous, a Talent Novel

by Zoey Dean

  Mac gasped. How in the world could Ruby have been so stupid as to leave her iPhone alone with her rival? In plain sight? Mac imagined scrolling through Ruby’s voice mails, or sending out e-mails. Her heart soared at the perfect prank potential. It would be so easy to pay Ruby back with the click of a few buttons. She picked up the phone, imagining typing an all-BAMS e-mail that would look like it came from Ruby: Hey, everyone, I have a serious brain disorder and can’t comprehend any spoken words over two syllables. Please address me in sign language or via written messages. If you must speak to me, please be respectful, as overly complicated wording causes an unfortunate reaction in which my drool ducts release and I go into attack mode. Mac giggled, but then she remembered her mom’s words: It’s all about respect. Sometimes being classy was such a burden.

  And sending a prank e-mail would be a very disrespectful thing to do.

  Mac sighed and put the phone down sadly. She went back to her task, reaching for a Moschino sundress to place right next to a Marchesa silk wrap dress just as Ruby bounded back into her bedroom. “Back here if you need me!” Ruby hobbled over to the closet, where Mac was hard at work. “Hey, Mac,” Ruby said, in that sweet voice. “DJ Aoki is good, right?”

  Mac nodded.

  “Great, that’s what I thought. I just wanted to see if you thought so too.” And Ruby hobbled out of the closet.

  An hour later, when Ruby’s wardrobe was newly, amazingly organized for the second time, Mac called out, “Hey, Ruby. It’s arranged from A to Z!”

  From her bedroom, Ruby yelled back. “Oh, boooo. I wanted it by season.” She didn’t even bother to look at Mac’s work.

  Mac balled her fists in frustration. Her lower back was starting to hurt, her fresh manicure was chipped, and she had been there for hours.

  “Sure thing. By season,” Mac hollered, even though that made no sense. There were really only two seasons in L.A.: this and last. But no way would Mac give Ruby the satisfaction of seeing her upset.

  “MAAAAC,” Ruby called. “Could you please, please come out here for a second?”

  Mac groaned and headed out to the bedroom, where Ruby was hunched over her computer, looking at jpegs of flowers. “What do you think?” Ruby asked helplessly. “For the ExtravaBAMSa centerpiece?”

  Mac surveyed the flowers. One was a tacky bouquet of roses and lilies. Another seemed obvio but was too simple: just daisies. The third choice, a simple assortment of white tulips, was just right. “That one.” Mac pointed to the last image.

  “Great, we agree,” Ruby said fake-nicely. “Ooh, and could you tie my shoe?”

  Mac winced in pain as she bent down for what felt like the hundredth time that day to tie the laces on Ruby’s silver-trimmed Alice + Olivia sneakers.

  “I’m having so much fun.” Mac smiled, looking right into Ruby’s narrow eyes.

  “Great,” Ruby said calmly, clicking on the Mac-selected image of flowers. “That makes me so happy.” She looked up and faced Mac.

  They stared at each other in a fake-smiling standoff. They both knew they were totally lying.

  “Well, I’m going to meet with a photographer from WireImage,” Ruby said. She reached for her crutches and left the room, closing the door behind her.

  Ping.

  Mac looked over at the desk. Ruby had left her laptop wide open, her screen saver—of a bunny in a pink hat—totally exposed to the world. The pinging continued, and Mac realized Ruby was being instant messaged. Mac closed her eyes, trying to remind herself of why she could not, could not, could not peek at the chat. . . . It was about paying her dues. And showing respect. Snooping did not show respect. She angled her body in the guise of “stretching” toward the door. And then, just as she was about to give in to temptation and click on Ruby’s keyboard to read the instant message, Ruby smacked in the door with her right crutch. Mac jerked her hand away from the computer keyboard. Thankfully, the screen was still on sleep mode.

  “Forgot to tell you something,” Ruby said. “You should log my wardrobe and then take the log home with you to reassess.” She looked down at the pinging computer and then back at Mac, seemingly unbothered. “I don’t want you wearing anything that I own. Overlapping is just so LY, you know?”

  Mac couldn’t even stop herself. “Ruby, that’s just stupid,” she snapped. “You copy everything I own. We have the same wardrobe.”

  Ruby leaned in, but then remembered her ankle wasn’t strong enough to support her. “You know what’s stupid?” She steadied herself on her crutch. “Getting thisclose and screwing your friends again.”

  Mac stared at Ruby, thankful there were no wit nesses to this transaction. “So just make a list of everything. . . .” Ruby continued talking, but Mac wasn’t listening. She was calculating what she owned that Ruby hadn’t already ripped off: the Vanessa Bruno jumpsuit (not yet debuted?) or the Donatella Versace sweater dress (Donatella had only given away twenty-five to friends and family) or the Loomstate organic dresses (Ruby wasn’t making eco-friendly choices).

  “By the way, what’s a great place for a party?” Ruby asked sweetly.

  Mac blinked. Ruby switched gears faster than a Fer rari.

  “The Getty Museum,” Mac said, without thinking.

  “Great, see you at the Getty this Saturday,” Ruby said. “You’re the party butler. And here’s your uniform.” She smiled, handing Mac a black and white maid’s uniform just like the one Mac had seen on Ruby’s maid.

  Mac mentally rewound, realizing she’d just heard the words you, party, and butler in a sentence that was not a joke. She blinked several times, too shocked to speak.

  “Whaaaa?” Mac finally asked, making a face like she’d tasted airline coffee.

  “I need you at the Getty around seven to serve.”

  A vision flashed in Mac’s mind: spending Saturday night waiting on the Rubybots? What would they do? Spray themselves with fake tan? Discuss more ways to copy the Inner Circle? Mac shivered. Besides the fact that she didn’t want to have to spend time with those people, there was a bigger problem: Mac’s private humiliation was about to go public.

  CHAPTER SIXTeen

  emily

  Friday September 11

  7:30 AM Hello, Spazmo. Ugh. Get ready for school (glasses? Check. World’s ugliest flannel? Check. Huge sense of embarrassment? Check)

  8 AM Spanish class

  12 PM Lunch (where can I be invisible?)

  3 PM Get to be EMILY again

  6:30 PM iChat Paige (I still hate iChat)

  Emily tiptoed nervously into her first day of Señorita Lumley’s Spanish class, walking as quickly as she could so people wouldn’t have time to actually see her. Which was an impossible goal when you were dressed as Spazmo. She was totally loca, wearing crazy glasses, the ugly red plaid flannel that looked like it hadn’t been washed since the ’70s, and (used—ugh!) headgear. What was worse, Spanish class was only once a week, which meant that the whole class would be seeing her for the first time, as Spazmo.

  Spanish class was in the modern wing, a row of classrooms off Main Quad used for foreign language classes. All the desks were equipped with headsets so students could practice speaking with audio CD-ROMs, and they were arranged in a giant U so that everyone faced each other. When Emily entered, the classroom became so silent that Emily could hear the second hand on the clock actually ticking.

  She could feel everyone in the class trying not to stare at the odd girl. She noticed kids shooting her curious, uncomfortable glances and then quickly averting their eyes. Even Señorita Lumley forced herself to look away, focusing her gaze on the Bienvenidos a Barcelona poster of the famous Gaudi church on the back wall. Emily slid into a seat near the back door, opening her Spanish workbook wide to hide her face.

  Just before the clock struck eight, Kimmie Tachman slunk into the last seat right next to Emily. She turned her head to the left so her frizzy ponytail hit her desk and whispered, “Love the outfit!” Emily smiled weakly and turned her attention to the center of
the room.

  Señorita Lumley shook her green maracas to get the class’s attention. “Buenos! Dias! Clase! Welcome to your first day of Spanish class!” Her Spanish had a very thick American accent, even if she had perfect grammar. She had poofy red hair, which she coated in a helmet of hair spray, and freckles, and she looked like she was probably thirty-five. “There is a name tag on your desk. Please write your name and wear this name tag so I can get to know all of you.”

  Emily picked up her pen and was about to write Emily, but then she spotted Kimmie grinning at her mischievously, and she wrote Spazmo instead.

  “Today we are going to introduce ourselves en español,” Señorita Lumley said excitedly. She sounded proud of her assignment.

  Emily groaned, a little too loud.

  Señorita Lumley whipped her focus to Emily. “Hay una problema?”

  Emily blushed. She hadn’t meant to complain—she just didn’t want a group of people to meet her as Spazmo.

  “You can go first and get it over with.” Señorita Lumley smiled.

  Emily shot the teacher a please don’t do this to me look, but it was either lost behind her ginormous freak glasses or Señorita Lumley didn’t care.

  “Sometime this school year!” Señorita Lumley waved the maracas at Emily.

  Reluctantly, Emily stood up very slowly, too aware of the ticking sound from the clock in the super-quiet classroom. She spotted Lukas Gregory watching her with a curious smile, like someone was about to tell him a good joke. She wondered if he recognized her as Mac’s friend. A girl next to him picked up her cell phone and surreptitiously began texting under her desk (cell phones weren’t allowed in class). Emily wondered how many other people were gossiping about her, or were planning to.

  Finally she spoke, making sure to use her androgynous voice and Spazmo-lisp. “Hola. Me llamo Eh-mee-lee-a .” She stared down at her desk, kicking her Vans against each other. “Venga de Iowa.”

  Señorita Lumley put down her maracas and looked at Emily sadly. The class was silent, and no one was laughing. Lukas Gregory had stopped smiling, and he looked bummed out. Surely the class knew this was a joke, right? Then Emily realized her worst fears had come true. These kids had never met her as Emily. They thought she really was Spazmo.

  Kimmie cleared her throat from the desk next to Emily. She scribbled something on her pink notebook and turned her notebook so Emily could read. It said, METHOD!

  Emily took a deep breath and began again. “Soy El Spazmo,” she said, this time with even more of a lisp, so it came out Thpathmo. “Me encanta Los Angeles.”

  Next to Emily, a tiny brunette whose name tag said MINKA smiled encouragingly at Emily. Thank goodness someone gets the joke, Emily thought. She winked at Minka, just to show that she was in on it. Minka looked a little startled but smiled back.

  Suddenly the sea of horrified faces staring at Emily was too unbearable. She needed to escape this torture chamber. Emily raised her hand. “Puedo ir al baño?”

  Señorita Lumley nodded somberly.

  Emily walked quickly to the bathroom, not looking up. She raced into a stall and leaned her back against the door, staring up at the baby blue ceiling. She felt totally friendless and freakish.

  Thankfully, she had her iPhone with her. She pulled it out of her Diesel jeans pocket and called the one person she knew would be happy to hear her voice. The phone rang once.

  “Baby, what’s wrong?” Lori Mungler spoke soothingly into the phone.

  “Hi, Mom! Nothing’s wrong,” Emily said, so relieved to hear her mom’s voice.

  “Oh, please! I don’t believe you’re calling dear old Mom in the middle of the school day because everything’s just peachy.” Emily imagined her mother standing over their honey-colored kitchen counter. She was probably on her fourth cup of black tea, watching Dr. Phil until her shift at the hospital began. Her mother was an emergency room nurse and she worked nights. “Are classes hard?”

  “No. Classes are fine. It’s just that . . . ” Emily took a deep breath, ready to spill about Kimmie and Pax Rubana. Then her mom would tell her everything was going to be all right, and it would be.

  Just when Emily was about to unleash her emotions, the bathroom door clicked and she heard that all-too-familiar singsongy voice.

  “Method!” Kimmie Tachman called from the sinks.

  “Is everything going okay out there?” Lori asked. “Because if it’s not . . .”

  Emily closed her eyes, not listening to her mother. She felt like a fugitive who had just been caught. She could run but she could not hide from the Tawker.

  “Thorry, I have to go,” Emily whispered into her phone. She could never explain this all to her mother with Kimmie eavesdropping.

  “What? I can’t hear you!” Lori said.

  “Thorry!”

  “Why are you speaking with a speech impediment?” Lori asked.

  “Creth Whitethrips!” Emily whispered, holding her phone close to her mouth.

  “But why are you wearing them at school?” Lori sounded completely confused.

  “I love you! Gotta go!” Emily said, and put her iPhone back into her pocket. She sat on the closed toilet seat in her jeans, not ready to face Kimmie Tachman.

  As far as she could tell, she only had two options:1. Stay in Bel-Air and be a total loser who should have stayed in Iowa.

  2. Return to Iowa as the total loser who failed in Bel-Air.

  Her choices were lame and lamer, and she wasn’t sure which was which. All she knew was that, like the green gum on the back of the bathroom stall, she was muy, muy stucko.

  Finally she heard the door close and she was sure that Kimmie was gone. Emily crept out of the stall and stared at herself in the bathroom mirror. It was like looking at a stranger. Even she didn’t recognize herself behind the black frames, the huge shirt that made her look like a refrigerator box, and the headgear. She sighed, remembering Mac’s pep talk and Pax Rubana. If Coco, Mac, and Becks could lower themselves to work as assistants, then surely Emily could do this to pay her dues. She dabbed some water on her face and headed out.

  The first person Emily spotted when she stepped into the hallway was Mac, thwopping down the hallway in her Havaiana flip-flops, her blond hair flowing down the back of her Nanette Lepore sundress. Emily smiled. They were both on a bathroom break at the same time! The first stroke of good luck all day.

  Emily eagerly walked toward Mac, who stared ahead, ignoring her.

  “Hi, Mac! Emily cried.

  Mac smiled uncomfortably. It was the kind of fake, nanosecond smile that Mac flashed to non-Inner Circle people.

  And then Emily realized: Mac didn’t even recognize her!

  Emily grabbed Mac’s arm. “Hey, it’s me! Emily!”

  Mac stared for a long time, like Emily was a puzzle she was trying to mentally assemble. “Wow,” she said finally. “You’re really transformed.”

  “Oh no,” Emily sighed. “Is it really that bad?”

  “You’re doing great! Stick with it,” Mac said, in full Adrienne mode. Just then, her gaze landed on something in the distance. She arched her shoulders. “I should go,” she said, turning toward the bathroom. “I’m missing class.”

  Emily turned to see what had caught Mac’s attention: Lukas Gregory was walking toward them. And she was making Mac look like a loser by association. Emily looked like such a freak that her best friend in Bel-Air was embarrassed to be seen with her.

  Emily hung her head and crawled back into Spanish class, wishing it—like her Bel-Air experience—would be over pronto.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  COCO

  Friday September 11

  11:45 AM Dance practice. Bleh

  Coco walked into the BAMS dance studio wear ing a Michael Stars V-neck Henley over Ksubi super-skinny jeans. She inhaled the lavender room freshener and sweat smell just as the Bam-Bams were beginning their stretches. They stood in a row, one leg on the barre, arms over their heads, wearing matching navy blue hoodies a
nd Lululemon pants with a pink band around the hips. Spotting Coco, Haylie picked up a pile of clothes from the floor and walked over.

  “I want you to feel like you’re part of the team,” Haylie said, hoisting the bundle at Coco. Haylie’s hoodie said CAPTAIN in lowercase letters. “I had this made for you.”

  Coco opened the ball of clothing excitedly. All her hard work had paid off, and she knew that once she put on her matching hoodie, she’d finally feel like she was back on the team. But when she unraveled the bundle, her heart plummeted as she realized it didn’t match the other members’ outfits—it was a navy blue tracksuit jacket and giant pants. When she held up the jacket, the back read WATER BOY. Yes, WATER BOY, in giant Arial font lettering. There could be no mistaking Coco’s lame new title.

  But it was only for one more week, Coco reminded herself as she put the enormous tracksuit on over her clothes. She headed to her water station in the corner of the studio. She reached under the table to retrieve a Voss bottle, her knees cracking as she bent down. A giant tub of industrial soap and a huge sponge had been placed on the floor, with a Post-it that said, Coco, please scrub floor. Coco rolled her eyes.

  “All righty, girls! Water break!” Haylie bellowed to the room. “And we’re back in five!”

  As the Bam-Bams trickled by to grab their waters, Coco felt totally invisible. When Eden Singer reached for her special-requested Voss, she didn’t even look at Coco, let alone say thank you.

  “Good job out there, Eden,” Coco chirped. She meant it, but she sounded like a total suck-up. She was so desperate to have someone to talk to. “You looked like you were having fun.”

  “Uh . . . thanks?” Eden said tentatively, looking around as if she didn’t want to be seen talking to Coco.

  Coco jerked back in surprise. Since when did Eden blow her off? Coco was so scarred by that, she didn’t even bother trying to make small talk with the other girls, who certainly didn’t initiate conversation with her. Why did they have to hate her? Wasn’t she paying her dues by working this lame job? Or did that only make them think she was a kiss-up? She wondered if Haylie had instructed them not to talk to her . . . or if she was so far beneath them that they were choosing not to themselves.