Maggie Malone and the Mostly Magical Boots

by Jenna McCarthy

  Suddenly I remember that Stella is supposed to come over this afternoon. She could be here any minute, so I quickly lock my bedroom door. I wouldn’t want her walking in on this conversation!

  “You wouldn’t be telling a tall tale, now would you, Miss Invisibility?” Frank-the-genie asks me. How does he know about that?

  “Look, mister, I don’t know who you are or who you think you are,” I say, staring in the mirror. “Okay, you say you’re Frank-the-genie, which, can I tell you? That sounds just plain crazy. Who goes around calling himself a genie? I’ve never seen you in my entire life or in my mirror ever before, but all of a sudden, you show up and act like you know me or something. For your information, there’s a word for people who watch people when they don’t know they’re being watched, and it is definitely not genie. It’s stalker!”

  “Somebody’s got her spirit back!” Frank says with a chuckle, adjusting his cowboy hat.

  “That’s a good sign,” he continues. “Okay, Maggie Malone, let’s take it from the top. Like I was saying, those boots you’ve got on there are called Mostly Magical Boots—MMBs for short. They come with magical powers…a very special kind of magic.”

  “What kind of magic?” I ask, getting excited, because who in their right mind (assuming I am, in fact, in my right mind) wouldn’t be excited about possibly being able to wiggle her nose and turn her brother into a hamster or have her room all picked up?

  “First things first,” Frank says. “I show up when the boots show up, and only in the mirror. You can’t look directly at me or you’ll turn to stone,” Frank-the-genie explains.

  I shut my eyelids as tightly as I can. “Yikes! REALLY?” I stammer.

  “No, not really, Maggie Malone,” he says with a big belly laugh. “That one never gets old. I’ll never forget the look on your Aunt Fiona’s face when I gave her the old turn to stone scare. Ever seen Edvard Munch’s Scream painting? She looked just like that. Fiona was the last one to wear the MMBs, you know. Got ’em the day before her twelfth birthday, just like you.”

  “Really?” I ask. “That’s cool! But what—”

  “Let me finish,” he says, cutting me off. “Where was I again?” He starts turning his head to the side as if he’s tuning in to some special genie frequency.

  Just then, there’s a loud knock on my bedroom door. I jump about six feet.

  “Maggie!” Stella yells. “Open up, buttercup! I’m already three months older than you and I’m not getting any younger out here!” Stella knows where the hide-a-key to the front door is, but my mom doesn’t like her to use it so that’s usually a last resort. I guess she must have been out there knocking for a while.

  I look at Frank in a panic.

  “This is definitely not optimal,” he says, rubbing his temples and shaking his head. “I guess it’s time to see if you’re as sharp as your old Auntie Fi says you are. Oh, and not a word about any of this to anyone, you hear?” Frank-the-genie says as he begins to fade away like a watery reflection in the mirror.

  “Use this if you need me,” he tells me, leaning down and sliding a little folding pocket mirror across the floor to me right before he disappears completely. It hits the leg of my tall mirror and is still spinning when Stella gets the door open with a paper clip.

  “For the love of double-decker moon pies!” Stella shouts when she sees me. “What in the world happened to you?”

  “Bottom locker,” I tell her, stealing a glance in my mirror to make sure there’s no genie there. I can’t even believe I just did that.

  “Ouch,” Stella says, leaning in to inspect my gash. I must not look as freaked out as I feel, because Stella doesn’t seem to notice anything but my head. “Was Pinkerton as bad as everyone says?”

  “Worse,” I tell her, still distracted by thoughts of Frank-the-genie. Did I dream that? I want to say something to Stella, but he did say not a word to anyone. Would that really matter if I imagined the whole thing in the first place?

  “Want to talk about it?” Stella asks—referring to Pinkerton, of course.

  “Honestly, I’d rather not,” I tell her, shaking my head and trying to forget about Frank.

  “It was pretty lame without you at Sacred Heart too,” she says, noticing my bank all busted up all over the floor. “Hey, did you get in a fight with Mr. Piggy? Looks like he lost.”

  “Oh, yeah, I needed some spare change for the snack machines at school—can you believe they have Twinkies for sale in there?” I say, scooping up some broken pieces and trying to change the subject.

  “Hey, what’s with the cowboy boots?” Stella asks, coming over to inspect them.

  Flying spider monkeys, I’m still wearing the Mostly Magical Boots!

  “Oh, these old things?” I say, making my way to my closet. “My mom got them at a garage sale and I was just trying them on. They’re really stinky, so you might want to stay back while I take them off.” I slip the boots off and stuff them up into the way back of my closet and slam the door, wondering if my face is burning red. I never lie to Stella!

  “Well, sorry about your day,” she says. “But I have something that might make you feel better.” She’s holding both hands behind her back. I hold out my hands and close my eyes.

  “Is it chocolate?” I ask.

  “Nope,” Stella says. “It’s the new Tween Scene magazine!” Stella and I love Tween Scene almost as much as we love watching music videos on VTV. She got a subscription for her last birthday, and the day her issue comes in the mail is usually our favorite day of the whole month.

  “And the best part is,” Stella adds, waving the magazine around like a crazy person, “there’s a whole huge section on Becca Starr!”

  We flop down on my bed side by side and start flipping through the pages. “Becca Starr is the biggest rock star on the planet and she’s only fourteen years old,” moans Stella, flipping through about 2,395 images of Becca plastered across the pages. “That’s just two years older than us! It’s totally not fair. Look at her here all hugged up with Justin Crowe. How lucky can you get?”

  “You can say that again,” I say. How does one person get everything—fame, fortune, Justin Crowe—and another person gets a gash the size of Texas on her head and a weird, disappearing cowboy-genie showing up in her bedroom?

  Which reminds me: Frank’s pocket mirror. I’d forgotten all about it.

  “I bet she’s best buds with all the coolest kids in Hollywood,” I say, standing up casually and reaching down for the mirror.

  “No, more like all the coolest kids in the entire universe,” Stella corrects me. “She’s huge in Japan, you know.” Stella points to a picture of Becca with at least four billion adoring Japanese fans surrounding her and making lowercase letter b’s with their hands—the universal “I heart Becca Starr” sign.

  I nod like I’m paying attention, but I’m sort of freaking out about the mirror. I turn it over in my hands. It’s gold—and maybe even real gold since it came from a real genie probably—and covered with sparkly jewels and has initials right in the middle. My initials. MM. I open the mirror and let out a little gasp. It’s Frank’s face in the mirror looking back at me, not mine. I snap that thing shut immediately.

  “Hey, what’s that?” Stella asks, eyeing the mirror.

  “Oh, it’s nothing,” I say, trying to slide it into my nightstand drawer. “Just a birthday present from my Auntie Fi.”

  “A birthday present from your Aunt Fi?” Stella shouts. “Those are the best. Let me see it!”

  The thing about Stella is that there’s no point arguing with her, so I don’t. I hand her the mirror, wondering if Frank is going to strike me down with a lightning bolt or something. In my defense, I haven’t said a word.

  “Super cool,” Stella says, flipping it over front to back and inspecting it closely before handing it back to me. Thankfully she’s way more interested in
Tween Scene.

  “Look at Becca getting into that limo in seven-inch high heels,” Stella says, pointing at a glossy picture.

  I close my eyes and try to imagine living that life. Going to glamorous parties and signing autographs and never, ever, ever having to deal with dead pig parts.

  “Becca Starr has got the life,” I say, shaking my head. “She can buy whatever she wants whenever she wants from whatever store she wants. She probably has a whole house full of designer shoes and dresses and fake-fur coats.”

  “And accessories,” Stella adds. “Don’t forget the accessories. Sparkly headbands, gold bracelets, diamond rings, crazy hats, feather boas… She probably has a closet just for earrings.” Stella leans back on my bed, picturing the piles of Becca’s bounty.

  “But only the clip-on kind,” I say. “I read that her body is a ‘no piercing zone.’”

  “Oh, no, look at her here—those are definitely real holes,” Stella says, pointing to a picture of Becca in a gold evening gown with big, sparkly earrings that hang almost all the way to her shoulders.

  I decide to let that one go.

  “Doesn’t she always look so amazing?” I ask. “Can you imagine getting your hair fixed perfectly every day and having your makeup done by real professionals, not your mom or one of those ladies with the carts in the mall?”

  “And staying in fancy hotels—the ones where they bring food into your room on a tray? ‘Here you are, Miss Malone, hamburger and French fries with a side of jellybeans, minus the gross white ones, and a chocolate milk shake to drink.’” Stella stands, pushing a pretend tray across my bed before plopping back down against the mountain of stuffed animals on it.

  “She probably has tutors that come to her so she doesn’t have to worry about getting bonked on the head by books if she’s got a bottom locker or accidentally bringing a Number One pencil to math class,” I say.

  “I bet she doesn’t even have to do PE or a science fair project,” Stella adds. “How great would that be? I’d give anything to be her—even for just one day.”

  “Right?” I say in agreement, shaking my head at the unfairness of it all.

  “I’ve got to go home now,” Stella says, slapping the magazine shut. “My creepy cousins are coming over for dinner.”

  “The ones that bring their cats over on leashes?” I ask.

  “Yep, those are the ones. See ya!” We high-five and she’s out the door. I lock it behind her, open my closet, and pull the MMBs down from the shelf. Then I slip them on and flop down across my bed, waiting for something magical to happen.

  Nothing.

  Stella’s Tween Scene magazine crinkles underneath me, and I pull it out. I flip through the pages, imagining what it would be like to be a world-famous rock star.

  “Ugh,” I moan, turning to my side and pulling my knees in close. “I want Becca Starr’s life.”

  What’s that weird rumbling noise? I wonder, sitting up in bed. And where did these hot pink satiny sheets come from? I don’t remember my mom buying—

  I don’t have time to finish my thought, because all of a sudden, there’s a massive earthquake and everything on the bed—including me—goes flying and lands on the floor with a huge thud.

  “Are you okay?” The door whips open and a pretty lady pokes her head in. “There was a tire in the road, and the bus driver had to swerve at the last second so he wouldn’t hit it. Do you need help getting up? Are you hurt? Can I get you anything? Should I call a doctor?”

  Nothing this strange lady is saying makes any sense at all to me. I must be having a dream. I shake my head back and forth, trying to wake myself up.

  “Becca, are you okay?” the lady says, marching right over to me and shaking me by the shoulders. “Becca, say something. Please!”

  Becca? Did she just call me Becca?

  “Um, yeah, I think I’m fine,” I say, grabbing onto the bed and pulling myself up.

  “Are you sure?” the nice lady asks, sitting down on the bed next to me. She is wearing black jeans and a purple hoodie and has a clipboard stacked with papers on it in her lap. A tag clipped to a strap around her neck reads BECCA STARR STAFF. Beneath that it has the name Violet Kelly.

  “Because if you are and since you’re awake and all,” she goes on, “maybe we should go over your schedule for today. We’re almost at the arena anyway.”

  Either this is the most realistic dream I’ve ever had, or I’m actually her. I’m Becca Starr. But it can’t be. It just can’t.

  “Yeah, right, my schedule, of course,” I stammer, figuring I should go along with this craziness until I figure out what’s going on. “Let’s definitely go over that.”

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” the Violet-person asks.

  “Me? Oh, yes, totally fine. Really. Couldn’t be better. Yup. I’m just dying to get a peek at that schedule is all.”

  “Okay, if you’re sure…” she says, flipping over the first page on her clipboard. “Let’s see. When we get to the Superdome, you’ll go right into class so we can get that out of the way before hair and makeup.”

  She keeps talking, but I’m not really listening. So I am her, at least in this ridiculous dream. And I’m on a tour bus, apparently, on my way to an arena to do a show. Violet must be my assistant, or one of them. Maybe I have a whole bunch of assistants! For the love of gooey green gumdrops, this cannot really be happening. Did she just say the Superdome?

  “How many people does the, uh, Superdome hold again?” I ask, trying to sound casual.

  “Twenty thousand or so,” Violet says. “You’ve only done the ’dome, like, a billion times. Are you nervous today or something?”

  “No, of course not!” I answer as fast as I can, nearly tripping over my words. “I just don’t think I’m really awake yet.”

  “Well, it has been a crazy week, that’s for sure,” she agrees, saving me without even knowing it. “Six cities and two thousand miles in seven days might even be a record. Anyway, after hair and makeup, you have your photo shoot with Justin, next we’ll do a quick sound check, and then you’ve got that commercial to shoot—the producer promised me it won’t take too long since they’ve shot everything but your scene.”

  All I hear is blah, blah, blah, JUSTIN.

  “Justin?” I ask. She doesn’t mean THE JUSTIN CROWE, does she?

  “Yes, Becca. Justin Crowe. The guy you’re doing your next album with? Seriously, you’re starting to freak me out a little.”

  “I think I need a glass of water or something,” I tell her.

  “Red!” she shouts, turning her head toward the door. “Becca needs water! Pronto!”

  “You got it, Vi!” comes a voice back through the door. “Coming right up.”

  Before I can even count to seven, the door pops open a few inches and a hand appears holding a frosty bottle of water with a straw in it, just the way I like it.

  A beverage put right in my hand the second I ask for it? I could get used to service like this, I think, grabbing the water and taking a huge gulp.

  “You sure you’re okay, Becca?” Violet asks.

  “Sure, yup, totally,” I tell her. “But maybe you could give me a second to, uh, freshen up a little?”

  “No problem,” she says, walking toward the bus-bedroom door. “Call me when you’re ready.” She shuts the door, and I scramble over to a mirror, not at all sure what to expect.

  I still look like me—Maggie Malone! So how can I be her? What in the world is happening here? And I don’t suppose there happens to be an earth-to-genie walkie-talkie on this thing. Wait, the mirror! Frank said I could find him there!

  “Frank,” I whisper, leaning in close to the mirror. “Frank! I need you, please. Pretty please with whipped cream on top! Frank, can you hear me?”

  “Maggie!” bellows Frank, coming into focus behind me. He’s wearing a black, fu
rry bathrobe and has a towel wrapped turban-style on his head. You know, like a genie. I can’t help it, I whip around again—but of course, he’s not there.

  “Or should I say Miss Starr,” Frank-in-the-mirror says with a laugh.

  “What…is…happening?” I ask in a panic.

  “Yeah, well, we didn’t really get to go over the details of those Mostly Magical Boots,” Frank says with a sigh.

  “You think?” I ask. “Maybe you could fill me in now. Wait, is that a rubber duck in your hand?”

  “You caught me just getting out of the bath, what can I say?” Frank says. “But we don’t really have time for stories, Maggie. The mostly magical part of the boots is that when you put them on and say the magic words, you get to step into somebody’s life for a day.”

  “What magic words?” I ask. “You didn’t tell me anything about magic words! What did I say? And how did I get here?”

  “You wished for somebody else’s life,” Frank says simply. “Whenever you do that while you’re wearing the MMBs, the next time you wake up, you’re her. It’s pretty simple.”

  “Well, that might have been some good information to give me up front!” I tell him. “So what do I do now?”

  “Do?” Frank laughs. “You spend a day as your favorite rock star, that’s what you do.”

  “But I don’t know anything about being a rock star, Frank!” I wail.

  “But you know everything about Becca Starr,” Frank tells me. “And besides, the great thing about the MMBs is that this life you’re living? It’s like it’s been yours all along.”

  “Huh?” I say, completely confused.

  “It’s complicated, kid,” Frank says, “and we really don’t have time for a history-of-magical-boots lesson. Just trust me—and yourself. You’ll get the hang of it.”

  “Well, what if I don’t like it and I want to go home?” I ask.

  “What do you think this is, a taxi service?” Frank asks. “Once you’re in the boots—and in the life—you’re in, period. You wake up as that person and you go to bed as that person. When you wake up again, you’ll be the one and only Maggie Malone.”