Almost Famous, a Talent Novel (9 page)

Mac pressed play again, and the video smash-cut to Becks and Coco chanting, in unison, “KIMMIE TACHMAN!” The impression had seemed funny at the time, but now it just looked mean, like the girls had nothing better to do than make fun of people. Clearly Ruby hadn’t just whipped up the video on her laptop. This monstrosity had been professionally edited.

“But Ems made fun of us, too!” Becks said, pointing a shaky finger at the screen. “She didn’t just make fun of Kimmie!”

“And we said nice things about Kimmie!” Coco wailed, wrapping her lithe arms around her body in a self-protective hug. “Ruby cut out all that.”

“How do we know it was Ruby?” Emily asked innocently. Her eyes were wide open in horror and her leg was shaking. She looked like she was about to topple over.

Becks and Coco shook their heads, as if to say,
Poor little thing
.

“Welcome to BAMS,” Mac said sarcastically.

But the video wasn’t over. Next there was Becks’s Pinkberry disaster. She leaned over her yogurt. “Pretend this is Austin,” she cooed. And there she was, slobbering all over her Pinkberry, looking insane and gross.

“Oh no,” Becks whispered, pressing her hands to her heart. “I’m gonna be sick.”

The next shot was of Coco, squeezing her legs, and Mac pointing out that she’d peed herself. Mac realized that the background “music” was actually an overlay of farting sounds. And then there was Mac’s voice, saying, “I’m lactose intolerant.”

The denouement was Mac’s declaration, “Even after I win social chair I’m still going to hang out with you girls all the time. I have no interest in hanging out with anyone else at BAMS.” Ruby had actually
subtitled
this bit of dialogue so there could be no mistaking Mac’s conceitedness
.
As the girls screamed, “Tell us something we don’t know!!!” and laughed hysterically, everyone looked snobby by association.

Finally, THE END popped up. The screen went black.

Mac’s veins were pulsing out of her body. “It’s THE END all right.” She dropped her phone on the picnic table. The video was making her ache all over.

“So everyone at BAMS knows I peed my pants!” Coco spoke softly, staring at the phone like it was a dead body.

“And that I make out with fro-yo!” Becks said, her hands pressed against her eyes as if to keep them closed. “Austin must have seen it and canceled our date!”

“That’s why Haylie asked if I should be drinking water . . .” Coco mumbled.

“And they all think we hate them,” Emily said sadly, pointing out the far bigger problem. She pushed her cinnamon brown bangs behind her ear.

“I feel so violated,” Mac said. Her sleepover—a private moment just for the Inner Circle—had been judged by the entire school. It was Mac’s worst nightmare times the BAMS population (352). She revised her thoughts on Internet safety.
Rule number one: Always log off.

“We’re destroyed,” Coco said flatly.

Hearing Coco say that, Mac felt a huge weight on her shoulders, knowing that she had caused this problem for everyone. After all, it had been
her
idea to prank Ruby. It was
her
fault for not logging off her own stupid computer. It was
her
big mouth that had made them all look like conceited snobs. Mac
had
to fix this.

Just then, Ruby hobbled over to Le Table on her shiny titanium crutches, wearing white Ralph Lauren trousers and a silky white Nanette Lepore top. Dressed in all white with her crutches, she looked like a mad scientist with metallic arms. She was flanked by her Rubybots: Ellie, Haylie, and Kimmie, whose looks had all evidently been hijacked by the same stylist, given their new uniform of jeans, flowy tunics, flip-flops, and Orange County tans. Ruby stopped a hobble away from the girls and smiled an evil grin.

“Are you girls okay?” she asked, faking innocence. She smiled slyly over at the Rubybots, who smiled back obediently, as if on cue.

“Oh, I wonder, Little Miss Filmmaker,” Mac hissed. “Sofia Coppola better watch out.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Ruby cooed. She shot yet another sly smile over at the Rubybots, who smiled back.

“Save it for the DVD,” Mac snapped angrily. If she stayed angry, then at least she wouldn’t cry. “Everyone knows you leaked that video.”

Ruby tapped her chin with her index finger, pretending to think. “Oh, the link I sent you that I found online? I did see it. It was so . . . interesting.” She shrugged, as if she were bored of talking about it. “Here’s a prezzie for you,” Ruby said, handing Mac one of the yellow Lance Armstrong bracelets that everyone at BAMS was wearing. “In case you need more stuff with your name on it,” Ruby laughed. Then she hobbled off, her entourage triumphantly trailing after her.

Mac looked down at the bracelet, wondering what in the world Ruby was up to. Then she realized instead of LIVESTRONG, the bracelet had been custom-made to say FARTSTRONG. She dropped it like it was a trans fat.

Mac shuddered, wondering how many people had been wearing this atrocity, making fun of her all day. She hadn’t even noticed. Missing the obvious was the worst feeling of all. She looked around the quad and realized BAMS students were checking out La Table like drivers checking out an accident on the 405 Freeway. Mac looked up and took in the scene: She spotted the baseball boys. The fake-goth twins. Even Hunter and Lukas (oh no!). It seemed like everyone was wearing a yellow bracelet. And suddenly La Table—at the center of it all—seemed like the worst place to be. Mac inhaled very slowly, knowing that these people probably hated her for her cruel remarks. Mac would have hated herself too.

Coco was staring at the ground and hugging herself, and Emily was rapidly twirling a lock of hair around her index finger while her right leg bounced nervously. Becks was standing on one leg taking deep breaths that sounded like borderline sobbing.

From the table, Mac’s phone buzzed, breaking the eerie silence. Emily and Coco realized their phones were buzzing as well.

Becks reached down to pick up Mac’s phone. She checked the screen quickly, and then said somberly, “It’s an all-school e-mail.”

“Just tell me what it says,” Mac groaned, shielding her eyes with her right hand.

“Sorry, Mac,” Becks said sadly. She turned the screen toward Mac so she could read the e-mail herself.

E
mily sat on a padded white chaise longue by the Armstrong’s pool, toying with her BFF bangle. She was trying to seem calm while Mac used her iBook’s wireless to lurk on the Bel-Air intranet, reading the comments on Slumbergate, as their video scandal had been quickly dubbed. Becks and Coco sat in lounges next to her, looking like people on TV news who’d lost their homes in a fire. They seemed stunned and sad, and like they had nowhere to go.

“How is that even allowed on the Bel-Air intranet?” Becks asked glumly. She took a handful of dried goji berries from the clear bag on her lap. It was a gorgeous Los Angeles afternoon, with dry air and hot sun, and the turquoise Olympic-size pool sparkled invitingly. But nobody had even bothered to change into a swimsuit. Playing in the pool was the sort of thing people did when they were ready to have fun, which probably wasn’t going to happen for the Inner Circle anytime soon.

“It’s not allowed. But no one can prove Ruby leaked it,” Coco pointed out, taking a sip of her Lemogrino, which was a Mac-created blend of San Pellegrino bubbly water, squeezed Meyer lemons, and sugar.

“Well, the good news is that the video’s been removed,” Mac said, looking up momentarily from her laptop screen. “But the bad news is that it was up there for eight hours.”

Becks and Coco looked at each other and groaned. Emily zipped her teal Forever 21 hoodie just to do something with her fingers, which were shaking uncontrollably. She pushed back the cuticle on her index finger.

“We’re D-listed,” Becks said glumly, kicking her heel against the deck chair.

“More like Z-listed,” Coco corrected.

“There’s no letter far enough from A to describe us,” Mac said, not looking up from her computer.

“Don’t say that,” Coco snapped.

Mac pointed to the screen. “I’m just reading what Anonymous13 wrote.”

Emily wanted to steer the session back to solutions. “Maybe we’re not ruined?” she asked hopefully, smiling gently at Mac and the girls.

“You’re ruined,” Mac said flatly, the way she might say,
It’s Tuesday.
“Kimmie told E-Tach you made fun of her. Ergo you’re blacklisted.”

Emily’s whole body was shaking, like she’d had ten Moroccan mint tea lattes. She squeezed the cushy lounge chair pillows just to calm down. Why had she ever agreed to move to Bel-Air? It was officially the worst decision of her entire life. She could be home in Iowa right now, doing homework with Paige and watching
Access Hollywood
instead of living her own
E! True Hollywood Story.

Mac’s turquoise eyes narrowed into slits. “Oh, look, it’s an all-school e-mail from Ruby.”

“No more Ruby!” Coco whined, covering her eyes, but she couldn’t help but look.

The girls stood up from their chaises and walked behind Mac so they could see her computer screen. Mac clicked on the video link, and a tiny square popped into her screen. It was Ruby, in a red knit dress, her hair tousled Ashley Olsen bed-head style.

From the video screen, Ruby spoke in a soft voice. “First of all, I would like to give a sincere and heartfelt thank-you to everyone at BAMS for voting for me and entrusting me with the responsibility of social chair.” Ruby sounded like she was reading off a teleprompter. She was a terrible actress, Emily decided. Nothing she said sounded sincere or heartfelt.

“I could almost
wet my pants
to tell you about what’s in store with me as social chair.” She grinned wickedly. “First of all, we have a new exclusive contract with
Pinkberry
for the food hall. And for those of you who are
lactose intolerant
”—Ruby actually winked at the computer screen—“we’ll be serving a sorbet option.” She smiled smugly. “I am so proud to be your elected social chair. Thank you so much. Here’s to another great year at BAMS!” She shrugged her shoulders,
aw shucks
style, and the screen went black.

Emily glanced at Mac, who was staring openmouthed at the computer, looking defeated. If Mac was crushed, then how was Emily supposed to have any hope? Nothing about Bel-Air made any sense to her. She didn’t even know how to find her locker, let alone find some sense among these ruthless people.

Emily rubbed her temples, wondering if it was too late to sign back up for Cedartown Middle School. She could be on a plane the next day. Sure, it would be uncomfortable to explain to Mac and her mother that she was going home, but in a few hours it would all be forgotten. She could send them a handwritten thank-you note on her Mom’s Crane stationery for their effort and interest. She would include a check for the Polo Lounge breakfast. And maybe some nice tuberose soaps from the Bath & Body Works store in the mall.

Emily closed her eyes and imagined being back in Iowa, where she could walk through acres of sunflower fields on her way to school, where kids didn’t have their acceptance speeches professionally edited and digitized, and where there was officially zero chance of insulting a legendary producer ’s daughter and thereby ruining one’s own life. She opened her eyes again and stared out at the Armstrongs’ shimmering swimming pool. She sort of felt about it the way she did about her Hollywood life: It seemed too good to be true, and just out of reach.

Emily sighed. With hardly a word of goodbye, she slunk away from the girls and dragged her feet upstairs to the guest bedroom to iChat with Paige. She’d officially blown her role as New Girl. And her Hollywood career had ended faster than she could say
Z-list.

A
fter her friends went home, Mac sat in her bedroom in her green Louis XIV chaise and kicked her heels up on her French-style desk, which she’d had painted the exact same color as her favorite Parisian pastry shop, Hélène. She flipped through a stack of postcards from her friends Emilie and Helene in Paris, wishing she were sipping tea with them at Café de Flore instead of dealing with this fiasco in Bel-Air. But she couldn’t stop thinking about Emily. The poor girl had moved all the way from Iowa to have a career. She’d trusted Mac. Now she had nothing.

The doorbell chimed its “Für Elise” ring. Normally Mac ignored the front door, since it was usually messengers or assistants dropping off screenplays or contracts for her parents. But then Mac’s phone vibrated. It was a text, from an unknown number:

HEY ITS RUBY. @ YR FRONT DOOR.

Mac winced at her phone like it was a UV ray giving her wrinkles. It didn’t seem like a joke. But if it really was Ruby, what on earth did she want? Hadn’t she caused enough pain and suffering? Mac peeked at the security screen on her wall, to see what the front-door cameras picked up. Sure enough, there was Ruby, leaning on her BeDazzled crutches, looking right into the cameras. She was smiling as though she knew Mac was watching. It was like a scene from a horror movie.

Mac tiptoed from her bedroom, down the staircase to the white marble foyer. The door was handcrafted wood, engraved in Bologna, Italy, and it had thick stained-glass panes designed to look like peacocks. Mac angled herself so she could see outside but remain out of Ruby’s vision.