by Zoey Dean
Coco put her head down and went back to arranging the waters on the foldout table while the Bam-Bams rehearsed for ExtravaBAMSa, drilling their pirated version of Coco’s captain audition. Half curiously, half pityingly, she watched the train wreck that the Bam-Bams had become: Since they were all doing exactly the same dance (hers!), there was no one movement that took focus, and they kept almost colliding. They looked like the Slam-Slams. Coco cringed. It almost made her glad she wasn’t part of the team.
Coco double-checked herself to make sure she wasn’t being a bitter captain-turned-water-boy, but it was pretty clear that Haylie wasn’t helping things. She’d placed herself in the center of the group: a huge, pale eyesore who really didn’t move well. She was always a beat off from the other girls, which in turn made everyone else doubt their counts.
“Good job, girls, you’re really getting this!” Haylie said. She stood in front of the group, pulling her wifebeater down over her belly so no skin was exposed. She turned her baby blue Von Dutch trucker hat sideways.
Coco looked around the room. Judging by the disillusioned looks on their faces, the Bam-Bams knew they weren’t getting it. Eden Singer was staring down at the wood panels on the dance floor. Maribel and Lucia’s icy blue eyes looked like they were fighting back tears. Ames and Taylor seemed nervous, their faces scrunched up in confusion. Even though Haylie was trying to be inspirational, no one could take her dance opinions seriously. It was like taking fashion advice from Bai Ling.
“Girls, we’re gonna rock!” Haylie grunted to the group. She seemed slightly unhinged by the steely eyes staring back at her. Her voice was defensive. “Look, girls, Ruby is in charge of approving the ExtravaBAMSa lineup, and this is the dance she wants,” Haylie said threateningly. “It’s this or nothing.”
Coco checked the group for some reaction, but the girls were frozen in place on the dance floor. No one wanted Haylie as dance captain, but no one was brave enough to say anything. Coco sighed. She could never understand herd mentality.
“Coco, don’t forget to leave my water near the stereo this time!” Haylie said gruffly. “I don’t have time to keep running over to your corner.”
Coco clenched her teeth into a fake smile that didn’t fool anyone. But she didn’t snap anything nasty back at Haylie. She didn’t want to blow it for the I.C. when they’d already invested so much time in Pax Rubana.
“And another thing, Coco,” Haylie said. She didn’t even try to sound nice. “Get a notepad—you might want to write this down.”
Coco obediently reached into her oversize zebra-stripe bag and pulled out a green gel roller and a pink Hello Kitty notebook, making a silent vow that if she were ever in a position to boss anyone around, she would always say please and thank you and speak in a sweet voice.
Haylie put her hands on her hips. Coco couldn’t stop staring at how white Haylie’s hands were or how exposed Haylie’s muffin-top was. “We’re going to need you to tape practices, and then you can upload them and e-mail them at a good file size. Lucia and Maribel need Vitamin Water citrus flavor, not whatever you’ve been getting. Taylor has requested Pellegrino, not Fiji. Eden wants a Diet Coke in addition to her Fiji, which she would like chilled—but not with ice—and we’re gonna need at least four Red Bulls and three kombuchas. Also, we’d like some dried Bing cherries, two Strawberries Wild Jamba Juice smoothies with a shot of wheatgrass in one and an immunity boost in the other, and a medium plain Pinkberry for everyone on the team. I’d like some potato chips, and I don’t care what kind you get as long as they have antioxidants.” Haylie smiled. “Oh, and we’d like everything served on an eco-friendly bamboo tray within the hour.”
Coco fake-smiled. “No prob,” she lied. The only thing that gave Coco the strength to fake-smile was the knowledge that the Inner Circle was suffering with her. She knew that Mac had been Ruby’s whipping girl, that Becks had been struggling with Ellie, and that Emily had to be Spazmo. If they all had to play those parts, then Coco could handle some obnoxious speed-shopping.
“See you in an hour!” Coco smiled and headed out of the room. The second she stepped outside the dance studio, she called her mother’s butler, Pablo, who zoomed up the hill. He promptly drove her down to Beverly Hills, where she ran like a lunatic through town crossing off half her list while Pablo took the other half.
Fifty-eight minutes later, Pablo dropped Coco off in front of the BAMS gates, and she returned breathlessly to the dance studio, her right shoulder aching from lugging so many snacks and drinks. She was pleased that she’d managed to fill a next-to-impossible request in the allotted time. And she’d already taught herself how to tape and download dance routines, because she’d done that with Marcel this summer in London.
“That’s it for today; we’ll regroup tomorrow!” Haylie barked, tucking her Von Dutch trucker hat low across her eyes. Then, spotting Coco, she muttered to the group, “Snacks are here if you want them.”
So much for the need to have it done in an hour, Coco thought dryly. But after hearing about how Mac had had to redo Ruby’s closet three times, she knew the Rubybots were all about making power plays.
The Bam-Bams spilled out to the corners of the room to gather their things, while Haylie stood in the center of the room running through the choreography on her own. She took a step, then started a double pirouette. She stopped mid-spin in a jerky landing when she realized Coco was staring at her.
“Um, Haylie, can I talk to you for a second?” Coco asked.
“Yeeesss, Coco?” Haylie pulled her hat down lower and looked at her.
Coco played with the zipper on her tracksuit jacket and shifted nervously from her left foot to her right. “I was just wondering . . . I know I’m not supposed to rejoin the team before ExtravaBAMSa, but I have a suggestion about the performance.”
“What do you mean, rejoin the team?” Haylie asked, confused. The second Coco saw the blank look in Haylie’s cold blue eyes she instantly regretted her decision to confront the girl. She wished she’d called or e-mailed or somehow never given Haylie the gift of being able to put her down in person. But she’d gone so far down that road she had no choice but to stand there and wait.
“Just, you know, when I get to rejoin the team?” Coco prompted.
“Hmm . . . I don’t know what you’re talking about?” Haylie said. Her confusion looked real.
“The deal . . . you know . . . I do this until ExtravaBAMSa and then I get to . . .” Coco stopped talking because Haylie was still shaking her head, confused. Coco looked away, fixing her eyes on the glowing red EXIT sign above the door.
Finally Haylie spoke. “I feel like there’s been a misunderstanding .”
“Oh, I get it!” Coco said quickly, just to end the conversation. But as she shoved her hands into the pockets of her tracksuit and made her way to the door, she understood one thing all too clearly: She was nowhere near done. And she had a feeling that Pax Rubana wasn’t as up front and simple as Mac had made it out to be.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
mac
Saturday September 12
2 PM Acupuncture to de-stress
6:30 PM Arrive @ the Getty Museum
9 PM Leave and go to Inner Circle sleepover (seriously, how long can this take?)
“What do you think, Mac?” Erin turned and stared at Mac, her green eyes bugging behind her diamond-studded cat-eye glasses. Mac realized Erin was still talking about the films of Barry Goldman. Somehow Erin had confused Mac’s Need for a Car Ride with An Invitation to Reenact Ebert & Roeper.
“I’m sorry, I wasn’t listening.” Mac reached into the glove compartment to grab a Red Bull. She flashed Erin an I’m just being polite smile, but Erin wasn’t people-savvy enough to pick up on it. She had no social radar. Erin pushed up the sleeves on her purple Talbots turtle-neck, which, for some strange reason, she’d paired with a red Patagonia fleece.
“Barry Goldman’s movies,” Erin continued emphatically. “They’re just soooo formulaic.” She lowered the v
olume on her soft-rock flute CD, which was flowing through the car. “He casts hot eighteen-year-old girls to play rocket scientists and then makes them run around in tight tank tops so their boobs bounce.” Erin rolled her eyes. “Not that you can’t be smart and hot, but come on.” She unzipped her fleece. “I mean, by the time you’d finish your Ph.D., gotten practical training, and built up enough of a reputation to be leading a CIA mission, you’d be at least thirty-six.” Mac shot Erin another just being polite smile, but Erin missed it again. At least she was consistent. “What do you think, Mac?”
“I guess so,” Mac said. The conversation would end faster if she just agreed. Mac stared out the window at the eucalyptus trees as they turned off the 405 Freeway and onto the road leading up to the Getty Museum, which was located on a high hill in Brentwood overlooking Los Angeles.
Normally Mac enjoyed the Getty. She sometimes did homework in the café because the view of the gardens de-stressed her before tests. But tonight, all she wanted was to finish her night’s duties as Ruby’s PB (Party Butler). Then Erin could drive her to Becks’s house for the Inner Circle’s Saturday night sleepover and her fun could finally begin.
As the Prius cruised higher up the hill and the stark white concrete museum came closer into view, Mac began predicting the guest list. It was a challenge, because Ruby had never actually had friends before this year. Mac guessed: Kimmie, Ellie, Haylie. And a wild card. (Eden Singer? She was a social climber.) Mac sighed. All those girls had one thing in common: They were just beneath her. And yet here she was, listening to Erin’s flute soft rock, and a never-ending rant on the misogyny in Barry Goldman’s films, dressed in a polyester maid’s uniform and getting ready to be their party butler.
It was almost a comedy, except that it was her life. The only good thing about the maid’s uniform was that she hadn’t had to search for an outfit Ruby didn’t own, yet another deal point that had been hanging over her all that week like a storm cloud.
Mac walked to the front door of the restaurant, which Ruby had rented out—weird, since it was a pretty big space. Ruby greeted her at the door, balanced on her crutches, wearing a turquoise half-sleeve Juicy Couture dress that had just gone on Shopbop.com that very morning.
“Follow me,” Ruby ordered. Then she turned and swung into the party area.
Mac’s jaw dropped open as she realized the party wasn’t just the Rubybots + a Random. Ruby’s party was packed.
Mac started to feel a little dizzy, and it wasn’t just the glare bouncing off the wall-to-ceiling windows, the strobe light Ruby had focused on the makeshift dance floor (ew), or the fast beat of the pop music blaring through hidden speakers. The sea of faces went blurry as her eyes darted around the L-shaped room, which overlooked the Getty gardens.
Some of the Bam-Bams—Eden Singer and the Peet twins—wore matching Petro Zillia silk mini jumpers, and sipped orange-colored drinks. Petra Rockets (child model) and Matilda Summers (guitar player) were lounging on a giant white sofa. On the far right side of the room, Khloe Divonne (Green Club president) and Nika Alexander (girl who always referred to herself as an heiress) were playing Dance Dance Revolution on a giant screen. She realized that Ruby had invited THEIR ENTIRE GRADE.
Mac’s heart beat even faster when she spotted the soccer boys throwing pita chips at each other. Jaden and Slate Shean (even they were invited?!?!) were standing on the deck, awkwardly pretending to play hopscotch but really just drawing on the ground with chalk. Mac’s gaze flitted around the room, searching frantically for the one boy she hoped most of all wouldn’t be there. But sure enough, in the back, staring at her with an amused twinkle in his dark eyes, was Lukas Gregory. Even worse, he was flanked by his water polo teammates Hunter Crowe and Moses Ridgely. So his whole group of friends could witness what a tool she was. Mac’s heartbeat screeched to a halt. How could this be happening to her?
Mac looked down and remembered she was wearing her maid’s uniform. Of all the times she’d perfected her ensembles just so Lukas could see her—of course she had to run into him on a day when she looked like staff. Mac plastered a fake smile on her face just so she didn’t cry.
She stood still and felt the eyes of her entire grade on her. And every face said the same thing: What is Mac Armstrong doing here, dressed like that?
Ruby pulled out a cordless microphone. “Hey, peoples, do you all know Mackenzie Little-Armstrong?” she asked sweetly, as though everyone had social amnesia and had forgotten the past five years, during which Mac had been the most popular girl in school.
Mac made an insta-decision to smile and embrace the moment, knowing that to back off on eye contact now would only make her look pathetic, and—worse—like Ruby was the one running the show. Mac had to look strong—she was representing the Inner Circle. She twirled the I.C. ring at the end of her necklace for strength.
“Hey, everyone,” Mac said sweetly. She cheerfully put a hand on her maid’s uniform, like it was the latest fashion craze and she was posing for the paparazzi. If she was going to get a ton of attention for something embarrassing, she was going to look as cute as possible doing it.
“Mac is helping me out tonight,” Ruby cooed to the group as though they were a bunch of preschoolers. “So if you need anything—refills, extra snacks—just let her know!”
Everyone looked confused, as if Ruby had just spoken in Japanese. “Why?” asked Maya Hulse (soccer player), her head tilted in confusion.
Mac cringed, hoping Ruby wouldn’t drop the A-bomb. Still, she kept her smile, like a politician at election time.
“Because she’s my assistant!” Ruby said proudly, beaming at Mac as though it were a dream come true for them both. Mac felt like a new purse dog being shown off to the group. And that feeling was her intuition telling her to bolt. “I gotta get to work,” Mac said, glancing toward the kitchen. It was time to leave this freak show, of which she was the star.
Mac waited alone in the Getty café’s industrial kitchen, which had white-tiled walls and silver appliances. Since Ruby had rented out the space, the Getty staff had gone home for the evening. In the middle of the kitchen was a shiny silver counter with three large trays of food, which Mac assumed she would be serving. She leaned against the counter and sent desperate text messages to the I.C.: RED ALERT! ENTIRE GRADE IS HERE! AACK!
Emily’s text came first: AT LEAST ENTIRE GRADE KNOWS U R SRY?
Mac laughed at her friend’s sweet yet naïve effort to see the bright side.
Coco got it: THAT BLOWZ. And so did Becks: WORD.
Mac was about to respond when Ruby appeared. “All right, I know you don’t want to be here,” Ruby said matter-of-factly. Mac noticed Ruby was wearing wooden bangles—Mac’s signature item. She made a mental note to switch to silver bangles. “So all you have to do is serve the food, course by course, and then go.”
Mac mentally calculated the task ahead. Three courses x 15 minutes per course = 45 minutes. She’d be at Becks’s house well before nine! At least Ruby had some heart.
“The thing is, we need to try everything because we’re testing the menu for ExtravaBAMSa,” Ruby said, pointing to the three trays of food. “I know we discussed this earlier, but I still can’t even decide if I want to go with Joan’s on Third or The Little Next Door.” Ruby shrugged. “Seriah-sly, be glad you’re not social chair.”
Mac almost rolled her eyes but didn’t take the bait. She knew Ruby was trying very, very hard to push her buttons. She leaned against the silver countertop and played with the Inner Circle ring at the end of her silver chain.
“I want every guest to feel important, so what that means is that you have to offer every single person every single item. No drop-the-tray-and-run kind of thing,” Ruby warned. “Or we can just call the whole thing off.”
Mac nodded. All she wanted was to do the work and get out of there and be with her friends.
Ruby pointed to a silver tray with rippled edges. “Mini cupcakes,” she said. “We also have mini chocolate fondants.” She po
inted to a shiny gold hatbox in the corner, which Mac hadn’t noticed. “Flown in from Maison du Chocolat, merci beaucoup.” Ruby smirked.
Mac wasn’t thinking about airborne chocolates. She looked at her silver Baume & Mercier watch. It was seven fifteen. She clenched her fists determinedly. If she hustled, she might actually make the Inner Circle’s movie, which this week was an advance super-top-secret release of the uncut version of Davey Woodward’s blockbuster summer movie, Time Bomb.
“All right,” Mac said, clenching her teeth and removing the saran wrap from the mini cupcakes.
“Oh, and one more thing . . .” Ruby placed her iPhone on the counter and walked to the industrial-size fridge. Mac had been so busy texting her friends that she hadn’t thought to peek inside. Ruby opened the fridge and waved inside like a Deal or No Deal beauty opening her suitcase. “You should probably start with all this.”
Mac gulped. She tiptoed over to the refrigerator and peered inside. It had at least ten huge shelves of even more food. There were tiny folded signs above each tray, spelling out in calligraphy what each dish was. Shiitake mushroom polenta cakes. Manchego bruschetta. Portobello mushroom quesadillas. Low-fat spanakopita with feta and ricotta. Pancetta-and-leek tartlet. Chinese scallion pancackes. Thai chicken satay. Sea bass skewers. Baked Brie with pecans and green apples. And on and on and on. Mac’s workload had just gone from one hour to five.
Mac death-gripped her phone in her pocket, seconds away from texting Erin and begging her to pick her up and end this misery. But then she remembered Ruby’s promise, and how this would restore her friends’ place in the BAMS hierarchy. She had to pay these crappy dues for them, despite the pain.
