Star Power (14 page)

M
ac stood in Emily's hair and makeup trailer, staring at the circus surrounding her starlet. Lisette the manicurist was filing her nails, Theadora the costume designer was holding shirts up to Emily's face, Tina was misting Emily's forehead with Evian, and Robyn was applying a sticky gel to the ends of her hair. The tall PA was scribbling Emily's M Café de Chaya order on pages of an old script.

“Wonder what Shane's psychic said today?” Tina mused to the group.

Everyone laughed loudly, even Emily. Mac didn't understand what was so hilarious—especially when Emily hadn't said more than
hello
to her since Disneyland. Everything she did was for the good of Team Emily—including MNMD: Mission No More Davey. She was going to tell him, as soon as possible, that being together was
not
an option. She'd been weak, flirting with him at Disneyland, and now she had to be strong, for the good of Emily, their friendship, and both of their careers. Unfortunately, Emily would never know about Mac's sacrifice or be able to thank her for it. And there was nothing Mac hated more than not getting credit where credit was due.

Mac was even crabbier because between Becks, Coco, and Emily, her phone was ringing nonstop. She was beginning to feel like she needed an assistant just to take calls. And then, as if on cue, Mac's phone rang again.

“Hey Becksie! What's up?” Mac chirped, channeling her inner Adrienne.

The trailer was silent, and Emily shot Mac a stern look. “Can you take that outside?”

Diva much?
Mac thought to herself, but she rolled her eyes and decided it was a good moment to get breakfast anyway. At least that way she and Emily could have some space. Without a word, Mac sauntered out of the trailer, letting the door slam behind her.

“So I still don't know what to wear to the photo shoot tomorrow,” Becks whined, as Mac walked toward the catering tent. “They don't use stylists 'cause they want it to be authentic—”

“
Authentic
is just another word for
ugly
,” Mac interrupted, spooning fresh blueberries onto her plain Greek yogurt and stack of cinnamon challah French toast. “You do know that, right?”

“Um . . .” Becks paused. “No?”

Ordinarily Mac would have been happy to debate the semantics of
authentic
versus
ugly
but she had just spotted Davey Woodward coming toward her. She knew that she could fix Becks's authenticity issues with a phone call, but what she had to take care of in person, right that second, was Davey.

“Don't worry, I'm on it,” Mac said. “Ciao bella!” Without waiting for her friend's reply, Mac ended the call and tucked the phone into her pocket.

Davey stood in front of her, his thumbs tucked into his Diesel jeans. “Hey, check this out.” He pulled out his iPhone to show Mac a picture he'd taken of them on Big Thunder Railroad at Disneyland. It was actually a really cute shot—they were leaning into each other, Davey's mouth wide open in an excited yell, Mac's head thrown back in exhilaration.

Mac forced herself to smile coolly and took a seat at the picnic tables where the PAs ate. Normally Mac did not eat with the crew, and as a personal rule she did not eat in front of boys, but she had no choice. She had to have this conversation now, as far away from Emily as possible.

Davey trailed along, exactly as Mac had expected. “You know, we never finished our conversation the other day. I was hoping we could talk—you know, about what I said. . . .”

Mac covered her half-full mouth. “Why?” But what she really meant was,
Why
did he have to make things so difficult?

Davey laughed. “Just my luck that every girl in America loves me, and I can't even get you to notice me
.
”

Mac sighed. Nothing could be further from the truth. She didn't just
notice
him. She noticed when he rotated his polo shirts from Ben Sherman to Ralph. When he wore the Rolex instead of the Patek Philippe. When he left a few strands of hair sticking up or slicked them down.

“Listen . . . if you want me to leave you alone. . . .” Davey trailed off. His eyebrows were knit in concern, but there was a glimmer of hope in his eyes. “
Do
you want me to leave you alone?”

Mac shook her head miserably. She reminded herself that if they were to ever get together, Emily would crumple like a paper doll. And then it would be
adieu
, Emily the star and Mac the A-list agent, and
adieu
to their friendship, and hello, lame old life. And no boy—not even Davey Woodward—was worth
that
.

Mac's heart pounded in her Stella McCartney T-shirt. She thought of that guy in
A Tale of Two Cities
, a book that had been on the BAMS summer reading list, who gave up his own life for the good of his love. She told herself she was making a great sacrifice for the sake of her friend, and felt a little stronger. “Davey, I'm sorry if you got the wrong idea, but—”

And then, before Mac could stop him, he grabbed her hand. “I'm serious, Mac! What does a guy have to do to get you?”

Her stomach twisted into a knot. One decibel louder and there would be no saving Emily. Tawker would be all over this in a second. She racked her brain for ways to make it stop, but she'd already tried everything: denial, avoidance, politeness, and rudeness—and nothing worked. There was only one option left. One very risky, very unattractive option: telling the truth.

Mac squeezed Davey's hand to quiet him. Electricity shot through her, and she took her hand away. “Listen. This is super awkward for me.” She winced, knowing she was about to betray a confidence, but she reminded herself she was doing this
for
her friend. “The thing is, Emily really . . . she kind of has a thing for you—”

Davey shook his head. “Emily's great but she's not my type. I was only hanging out with her to find out how to get to
you. You're
my type, Mac. It's always been—”

“DAVEY!” Mac practically screamed. She was about to say,
There will never ever be anything between us,
but before she could get the words out, she spotted Kimmie Tachman, walking past their table, clutching her iBook. She was staring at Mac and Davey, a fascinated smile on her face, a delighted twinkle in her brown eyes.

Mac raised her voice to be sure that Kimmie heard what she was about to say. “Sorry, Emily is too busy to star in another movie with you.”

“Wha?” Davey jerked back, looking confused and hurt. “Did you even hear what I said?”

Mac stood up and dropped her half-eaten French toast into a wire trash can.

“Yes, and Emily's schedule is full. Thanks anyway!” Mac charged out of the tent so fast that she almost knocked into Kimmie. “Ohheysweetsdidn'tseeyou therebye!”

She marched forcefully back to Emily's trailer, her Tory Burch flats slapping loudly on the hot pavement. But before she stepped inside, she allowed herself one look back at Davey.

He was still sitting at the picnic table, a sad hangdog look on his face. It seemed MNMD was a success. She should be proud of herself.

But she didn't feel satisfied at all.

coco

T
hursday after school, Coco marched toward her dance studio, the offending
Us Weekly
tucked under her arm. She found Cardammon wearing a sparkly green leotard and matching boa, doing a revamped version of the Flame in the mirror, waving her arms like a crazy woman. It didn't look retro-chic—it looked mega-lame.

Coco grabbed the remote control and zapped the Bose speakers in the corner of the ceiling, abruptly shutting off the music. There was only the sound of the eco friendly air-conditioner in the studio.

“Mom,” Coco said. She hoisted the
Us Weekly
article at her mother. “I told you, I don't want to do this.”

Cardammon wiped a trickle of sweat off her brow with a green armband. She eyed the article, then appraised her daughter. “Sorry, luv. We'd already released the photos before our chat.”

Coco crossed her arms over her chest to show her mom she was serious, expecting a fight. “Well, I'm not doing it.”

“I see. . . .” Cardammon looked around at the sea of sequins and feather boas. “It's not the outfits, is it?” She ran a bright green fingernail over a glittery, sexy Little Red Riding Hood outfit. “They
are
a little over the top. I hope I'm not about to make a giant arse of myself.” She sighed and looked at Coco. “I'm
not
, right?”

Coco froze. She hadn't expected this to become a
dialogue
. And while the outfits were problematic, they weren't what was making her want to run from the reunion tour.

“Or is it the dancing? I was afraid it was a little dated. . . .” She trailed off. “Or the songs? They're all wrong, aren't they?” she asked, her eyes getting surprisingly misty.

Coco stared at her mother in shock, her heart aching. She wasn't used to seeing Cardammon anything but blithe and blissfully unaware, and her sudden vulnerability shook Coco like an 8.5 earthquake. She didn't know what to think, let alone say.
Yes, your outfits are tackier than Cher in Vegas? You're too old to be dancing like a stripper? Your music was
always
embarrassing?

“I just . . .” Cardammon wiped her nose against the back of her hand. “I thought you would want to do this with me, but . . . maybe I'm just an embarrassment now,” she finished, almost to herself.

Coco would have said almost anything to make her mom feel better. Anything but the one thing she wanted to hear. She took a deep breath. “The tour's going to be great,” Coco lied. “My decision's got nothing to do with you, Mom.”

Cardammon's eyebrows arched hopefully. “Really?”

“Really,” Coco told her earnestly. “It's me. I'm done with singing.”

Almost instantly, Cardammon looked like herself again. Her shoulders snapped back and with one swipe under her eyes, she was back to normal. “Well, you're old enough to make your own decisions about these things.” She gave Coco a light peck on the forehead.

Coco smiled encouragingly. Sure it was a white lie. But it was a lot kinder than the truth.

 

A few hours later, Mac, Coco, and Erin stood in Coco's private dance studio, preparing to see Coco's new look. Cardammon was meeting with her life coach, who lived in Palm Springs, so they were safe for at least three hours.

They had just returned from their MCM: Mission Coco Makeunder shopping spree, which began at Whole Foods and ended at a used clothing store called Wasteland. Coco had traded in a Marc Jacobs smock from his 2008 collection to buy a tan pleather vest, three dresses, big tan cowboy boots, red plastic sunglasses, and a black velvet beret.