by Zoey Dean
Emily nervously tapped at her headgear, feeling the ping inside her mouth and head. About four rehearsals ago she’d gotten over the fact that she was wearing used (but sterilized) headgear. Now it almost made her laugh. Except that her palms were sweaty and her right leg was clattering nervously. Emily was anxious for that familiar click—that moment when her personality disappeared and the character took over.
The green room, where actors relaxed before performances, was really painted red, and it was lined with black velvet couches and ottomans. In the middle there was a flat table with bowls of mini Jolly Ranchers, M&M’s, and Jelly Bellies. Emily sat on a black couch and reached for a Mountain Dew. She steered the straw through the wire-trap maze of her headgear to take a sugar-boosting swig. Kimmie stood in the middle of the room, stretching herself up one vertebrae at a time, muttering, “The rain in Spain stays mainly on the plain,” the last of her warm-ups for her body and voice. When she’d rolled her head to a standing-straight position, Kimmie walked over to Emily. “How’s my favorite Spazmo?”
The real answer was that Emily was thinking about how much she hated the play and looking so ugly, and just wanted to knock it out of the park so that Hank Myler would notice her—but of course she couldn’t say any of that, so she just shrugged.
Kimmie smiled and gave her a thumbs-up sign. “Break a leg, Spazzy!”
Before Emily could respond, the lights dimmed and the audience began clapping. And then, as if by magic, Emily clicked into Spazmode.
She barged onto the stage, totally oblivious to the crowd. “Knock, knock—who’s at my door? I’m Thpathmo and I want to know,” she said, slamming the door to her stage bedroom. And then, to her great surprise—because that wasn’t even the joke—the audience actually laughed. “I mean theriously!” Emily-as-Spazmo moaned. She didn’t feel self-conscious. In fact, her lines came louder and clearer, and she forgot to think about how stupid the play was. She was just thinking like Spazmo: Someone was at her door, and she wanted to know who it was.
Emily barely noticed one of Elliot Tachman’s assistants videotaping the performance in the front row next to Elliot himself. And she definitely didn’t see Adrienne or Becks or Mac smiling with her because she was so engrossed in responding to Kimmie’s character, who at that moment was standing in her stage doorway, looking lost.
The stage was set up to look like a girl’s bedroom, which in Kimmie’s mind meant pink everywhere. There was pink wallpaper, a pink futon, and a pink refrigerator. Emily slunk onto the futon while Kimmie’s character recited a monologue about why she had to get home to Bel-Air, which she loved so much. Emily-as-Spazmo was supposed to tell her why Bel-Air was lame and why everything was better in the mountains, where you could be alone. In the middle of this, Kimmie was supposed to cry, but Kimmie couldn’t fake tears on command, so she turned her head away from the audience and buried her face in her shoulder.
Knowing that Kimmie would be turning away from the audience, Emily waited until that exact moment to cry real tears, which she could fake on command. “It’s better to be alone!” she yelled, letting the tears stream down her face. As they trickled along her cheeks, the audience became so quiet and still, she could hear people breathing. They were listening to every word she said.
Emily had the strange feeling that the audience was on her side. It was as though everything that came out of her mouth was funny when it was supposed to be funny, even when she was just reacting to Kimmie (who wasn’t getting any of the laughs). And when she was serious and sad, it felt like the audience actually cared. By the time she had to do her monologue, Emily knew the audience was enjoying the show. And she felt proud that she’d elevated a mediocre script into something that was watchable. She walked to the center of the stage, the lights warm on her head, to begin her monologue. “You’re a judger or you’re a hater. But guess what? So am I! I judged my hometown and I hated it. I judged myself and I hated that. And I came to the mountains. And I’m still that girl I’m running away from! You can run away, but you can’t hide from yourself!”
Emily delivered her last line. “Don’t be like me, living alone in the mountains, judging and hating, waiting until the day a girl rings your doorbell and gives you something else to judge and hate. Go live in Bel-Air and meet people and hear their stories and love the life you’ve been given!” The red curtains fell and slowly slid together, blocking the audience from Emily’s sight.
And then, just when the edges of the curtains kissed, Emily breathed a huge sigh of relief. She was done! It was farewell to Spazmo and Judgers & Haters forever. And she had already clicked into another role: Networking Actress.
Emily didn’t want to waste any time before meeting Hank Myler and giving him the chance to realize that she was perfect for his upcoming film If You Say So. Still in her headgear and plaid woodsman-y flannel, she darted out the stage door into the courtyard, where the audience waited for cast members.
“Good job!” Becks said, hugging Emily. “I needed a good laugh after today.” Emily smiled gratefully: She knew Becks’s heart had been broken just a few hours ago, and she was so touched that Becks was there to support her. “Mac went to el baño. Too many Red Bulls,” Becks added.
“Mac’s not here?” Emily squeaked nervously. Emily glanced at the line for the bathroom, which was several girls long. She glanced at Kimmie, who was so close to Hank Myler. She couldn’t risk waiting for Mac and losing her shot at talking to Hank. She groaned inwardly, realizing she’d have to brave this without Mac’s guidance.
“She said good job and she’ll be out here in five,” Becks said easily, missing how crew-shal it was for Emily to have Mac around. Especially right now.
Kimmie was standing a few feet away, hugging her grandparents. “How sweet that you wrote a play for such a troubled classmate!” her grandmother cooed. Emily smiled, secretly pleased that she’d fooled even strangers with her performance. She truly was an actress.
Becks leaned in, as if to hug Emily, and then she grabbed her shoulders and whispered right into her ear, “Don’t look now, but Hank Myler is walking righttowardyou.”
Emily slowly tried to take off her headgear, since it made speaking difficult. She needed to be as different as possible from Spazmo when she met Hank Myler so that he would be impressed with her range.
“You didn’t tell me you went to school with the next Cate Blanchett! What chops that girl has,” Hank exclaimed to his daughter, who was standing next to him near a corner of the courtyard. They were just a few feet away from Becks and Emily. “Let’s go say hi!”
Emily’s heart soared.
“No, Daddy, she’s not my friend,” Minka Myler protested.
Emily froze. Becks stared at her, concerned.
“What do you mean?” Hank said. “She’s comedy gold.”
Minka leaned into her father and whispered, “She’s really Spazmo. She wasn’t acting.” Emily thought back to the time she’d winked at Minka in Spanish class. They hadn’t been sharing a moment. All this time, Minka had thought she had issues!
Emily wanted to go talk to Hank but she couldn’t get her headgear off. She spun around frantically, remembering Mac’s words to her on the first day of school: People believe whatever you tell them. She desperately had to do her own PR. She yanked at her headgear in one panicky attempt to shake herself from its grip.
When she looked up, she realized: Hank Myler was staring at her sadly. The way he was looking at her reminded Emily of how she had felt when she read about a two-headed snake in Spain: just amazed and creeped out that it actually existed. Emily wished she could slither away.
She knew that if Hank Myler had a conversation with her, and saw how surprisingly not-Spazmo she was, he’d be once again impressed with her “chops.” She yanked the headgear off her face, forgetting that it was clasped behind her head, too. Frantic to look normal before she lost her window of opportunity, she waved at Hank with her left hand while she fiddled with her headgear with her right hand.
Hank held up his hand, almost like he was saying, Stop.
First impressions are everything—Emily could hear Mac’s first-day-of-school warning. Between the greeting and the one-handed headgear removal, Emily realized she’d gone too far down the freak-show path.
“Hey, where’s your friend Kimmie?” Hank leaned over to Minka. They seemed to have no idea their voices carried in the closed courtyard. Emily’s eyed widened like a mother bear’s realizing someone was after her cub. That role was hers! She put both hands to her headgear and snapped it off. And then, Hulk Hogan style, she ripped off her flannel clothes, dressing down to her Rock & Republic jeans and James Perse tee. When she looked up to chase after the Mylers, she realized it was too late: Hank was already shaking hands with Kimmie.
“So I’m working on this film called If You Say So,” Hank was saying, but Emily couldn’t bear to listen to the rest. She turned around and buried her head in Becks’s shoulder, knowing she was never going to work in this town again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVENS
mac
Saturday September 19
8:45 PM ExtravaBAMSa finale
9:02 PM TDR! Take Down Ruby!
10:30 PM I.C. slumber party (whewsies! We need a party after this week!)
ExtravaBAMSa could not end soon enough, Mac decided, as she popped a portobello mushroom quesadilla into her mouth. Standing by the buffet table, she surveyed the Tachman Center, the formal room used only for super-red-carpet events. The ExtravBAMSa closing ceremonies always featured a catered dinner and a speech by the newly elected social chair.
It was bad enough that Mac had to wear her Loomstate organic gingham dress to a formal affair, thanks to Ruby’s no-dupes rules. The dress was the only not-yet-debuted piece in her closet. But because it was so casual and unassuming looking, no one would ask about it. And no one would know that it was 100 percent cotton, grown free of pesticides, or that it had been designed by Bono’s wife. So Mac just looked plain for no reason, and got no props for her environmentally friendly choices. And on top of that, she knew she would have to witness Ruby being the star. Ugh. It was enough to make her want to barf all over her organic dress.
That night the Tachman Center, which had wall-to-wall windows overlooking Benedict Canyon, had been decorated with hundreds of circular tables, covered in white tablecloths, with white tulips in the center. The walls were plastered with maps of Africa and SAVE DARFUR banners. Photographs of Sudan, donated to the event by National Geographic, hung from the ceiling, and a slide show about Africa played on the back wall. A musical group, flown in from Darfur, played drums while the crowd mingled.
Mac bitterly surveyed the scene: It was classy, international, and appropriate.
Because Mac had secretly approved every choice.
Mac had considered not going to the finale, but then decided she’d just look bitter, like when Leonardo DiCaprio skipped the Oscars when he got snubbed for a nomination. Of course, Mac was bitter. She just didn’t want to show it. But thankfully, it would be over soon.
Mac scoured the crowd, spotting her mother and father, who were mingling with Kimmie’s parents, Elliot and Tina Tachman, who had long blond hair that was clearly courtesy of extensions. They were laughing so loud that Mac could hear them from across the room. Clutch Becks and his buddies from his TV show That Was Clutch were at another table. Even Barry Goldman, wearing Ray-Ban sunglasses despite the fact that it was (a) indoors and (b) nighttime, made a cameo.
Mac stood with her best friends by the food tables. They looked sadder than movie stars who’d overdosed on plastic surgery. Becks was twirling a Sprinkles dark chocolate cupcake in one hand, sticking her tongue out to lick off the icing. Coco sipped a strawberry mocktail, stirring her tall glass sadly. Emily stood next to them holding her stomach with one arm and chewing on a strand of her long cinnamon-brown hair. Mac never encouraged her friends to look too happy at parties, but looking this sad was even worse.
Mac clapped her hands, calling them to attention. “Girls, don’t worry. I’ve got it all under control.” Even though the rest of the I.C. sabotages hadn’t gone quite right, this was the one element of the comeback track that she controlled, and Mac had utter faith in her ability to make things happen. She’d run off earlier to make sure her plan was in effect, claiming she’d had one too many Red Bulls.
Coco smiled sadly, like she felt bad for Mac. “What’s to control?” She shrugged. “Tonight I became the biggest freak in the history of BAMS.”
“At least people here knew you before,” Emily whined. “I’m just Spazmo forever.”
“Austin haaaaates me,” Becks said. A mother in a black velvet dress gently pushed Becks to the side so she could reach for a cupcake.
“Girls, let’s have our pity party later, okay?” Mac said, channeling her inner Adrienne. She lowered her voice and the girls moved closer. “When Ruby blows it tonight, there’s a very good chance she’ll be overthrown as social chair. And this whole regime will crumble. Your life can change like that.” Mac snapped her fingers.
Coco stared at Mac like she had suddenly turned into an African elephant. “Why would Ruby blow anything? She’s been really, really good at ruining our lives.”
“I’d say she’s a world-class expert,” Becks chimed in.
Emily smiled encouragingly at Mac, trusting her scheming.
Mac shrugged impishly. “You just never know. I would just feel so bad for her if the song she is about to lip-synch was swapped with say, some really mortifying lyrics about how she hates BAMS, is half gorilla, and secretly loves the Shean twins.”
“Are you nuts?” Coco hissed, awestruck. Becks and Emily looked at each and then looked back at their alpha friend.
Mac was staring intently at the podium. She spoke in a toneless voice. “Let’s just say that I might have encouraged Ruby to record and lip-synch her song, and let’s just say that maybe what I gave the dude in the sound booth was”—Mac made air quotes—“accidentally the wrong CD.”
“Are you for serious?” Coco smiled mischievously.
“That’s why you’re my hero,” Emily said proudly.
“For reals.” Becks nodded.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Headmaster Billingsley’s voice boomed. “How about a big hand for the young lady who made this all possible? Miss Ruby Goldman!”
Mac shot a glance over to the other side of the room, where Ruby stood flanked by the Rubybots, who beamed as though their names had been called. Ruby was wearing a pink Calypso sundress and silver Charlotte Ron- son sandals. Ellie was wearing a teal Elijah one-shoulder minidress, looking slightly slutacious, and Haylie wore a pantsuit. Kimmie, who had changed into a pink Juicy Couture sundress, was sitting by her computer studiously, live-blogging the event for the BAMS intranet.
“Isn’t that your Calypso dress?” Coco asked Mac, eyeing Ruby’s ensemble.
“Apparently Ruby and I have the same taste.” Mac shrugged. “And by ‘the same’ I mean mine.”
Ruby hobbled to the front of the auditorium on her shiny crutches while the crowd watched silently, reverently. Mac surveyed the room, recognizing almost all the parents. Across the sea of tablecloths and tulips, she spotted her mother and father clapping politely and winced, wishing they were clapping for her social chair speech. “Get ready for Gettysburg.” Mac rolled her eyes. She did not want to have to see Ruby give the speech that should have been hers. Was this how Hilary Duff felt when she saw Joel and Nicole?
Ruby made her way up the stage and took her place behind the podium. The room became quiet and the Inner Circle leaned in nervously, waiting for signs that Mac’s work had kicked in. “First of all, I would like to sing a song that I have written for BAMS. It’s a single from my upcoming album, to be released by BP Records this spring.”
There were some oohs and aaahs from the crowd.
Mac held her breath. She couldn’t wait for Ruby to fake-sing her song, and then have something embarrassing come out instead. It would be a cros
s between the Ashlee Simpson SNL tragedy and Mac’s own Slumbergate disaster—but on an even larger scale. Mac was filled with nervous energy, like when she watched Olympic gymnasts on the balance beam, waiting for them to fall.
Ruby’s voice crooned perfectly over the speakers.
Wham BAMS
Thank you, ma’am
You made me who I am
You taught me what I know
Nothing about half gorillas, nothing about love for the Shean twins. What was worse—Ruby looked like she was having fun. She was really owning her performance, covering the stage, making eye contact all over the room, singing loud and proud. Mac checked the room for signs of nausea or disgust, but no one was smirking. Parents (even hers!) were smiling. A bald man at the table behind her parents was snapping to the beat, like a guest at an expensive, classy sing-along. Mac rolled her eyes.
You made me who I am
You taught me what I know
When Ruby finished, the crowd applauded wildly. Mac felt sick.
Ruby beamed proudly. Then she bowed with her head like she was in yoga class saying Namaste. She walked to the podium and leaned close to the microphone. “I would like to thank all of you for being here tonight to support our great institution and the cause of saving Darfur.” If she was nervous about speaking in front of such a big crowd, she didn’t show it. “Though I must give credit where credit is due. I couldn’t have put this event together without the help of my assistant, Mac Little-Fartstrong. . . .”
There were tiny giggles, mostly from BAMS students. Mac stared straight ahead at the stage, refusing even to blink. She absolutely would not show how embarrassed she was by such a stupid joke or the fact that she had been outed as an assistant in front of all the families.
Ruby cleared her throat. “Armstrong. Excuse me. Her generous help in ways big and small—very, very small—has made this event the success it was.”
