Star Power (16 page)

Becks and her father stood nervously in the middle of her bedroom. It was a clear day, and they could see Steven Spielberg's compound down the beach, and Dustin Hoffman and his wife walking their Labradors. At that moment, however, Clutch and Becks weren't admiring the Malibu scenery. They were staring at Becks's closet, their heads tilted to the side, their jaws slightly open.

They were stumped.

Their mission was to select accessories for Becks's photo shoot the next day, since the Dixie Gals were all self-styled. They'd been at it for ten minutes, and so far Clutch had said nothing for nine of them. Even though it seemed like a simple decision, Becks knew she
couldn't
fail. If she picked something stupid, she'd be disappointing the Dixie Gals, Mac, and herself.

“Havin' fun yet, Pops?” Becks joked.

Clutch Becks was famous for his death-defying stunts, like running across fire, but he looked terrified in the face of fashion. Just like his daughter.

Becks grabbed some large turquoise bracelets made of plastic. They had been her favorites in sixth grade, but now she was pretty sure they were completely LY. She held them up for her father to judge.

Clutch looked quizzically at the bracelets. “Maybe, but. . . .” He didn't finish his sentence. Instead he twirled his hair with his index finger.

“You have good taste, Becksy,” Clutch insisted. “What do you like?”

Becks shook her head. Trusting herself was
not
an option. Not for something so important. She pulled out her phone again to text Mac for advice, but then put it away. She'd already sent three SOS messages with no response. It was beginning to feel like Mac was ignoring her. She really needed her best friend—not to mention her agent—right now. She still didn't know what had happened to the last fourth Dixie Gal, and she didn't want to make a terrible mistake.

“Don't worry if you don't know,” Becks assured her father. “Just go with your instincts and say
yay
or
nay
. Starting with this.” She reached for a leather bracelet that she'd bought in Hawaii.

“Kiddo, I
really
don't know about these things. Look at me!” Clutch waved at himself. He was wearing his uniform: Dockers shorts, a Tommy Bahama button-up, and green Crocs. “My answer to every fashion question is green Crocs.”

Becks knew her father was right. But she'd already tried Emily, who was completely caught up in learning her script, and Coco, whose style overhaul had rendered her useless, too. She'd tried asking the Dixie Gals at Sloopy's, but that hadn't worked either.

“It's times like these I really wish. . . .” Clutch didn't say what they were both thinking, which was that it would be so much easier if Becks's mother were around. She had died when Becks was just a baby, and for as long as Becks could remember, it had just been her and Clutch. Most times, they did fine on their own. But there were other times, like now, when having a mother would have made life so much easier. Beck sighed, sadness washing over her.

“I just don't want to steer you wrong,” Clutch said finally. “Can't you call one of the girls? Isn't Mac good at this stuff?”

“Yes, but. . . .” Mac had said she'd take care of it, but it was the night before the shoot, and so far nothing. Besides, Mac was busy getting everything ready for their big party tomorrow night, and Becks didn't want to bother her. She also didn't want to get into the drama of it all with her father, who was about as helpful when it came to girl politics as he was with accessory selection. “You're all I got, Pops,” Becks said. She was surprised at how alone she sounded.

Just then the doorbell rang.

Clutch and Becks darted downstairs to discover a girl who looked about eighteen, with pink hair in a pixie haircut wearing a polka-dot top with silver ballet flats. “Special delivery from Xochi,” the girl said, hoisting three giant shopping bags toward Becks.

Becks smiled. Xochi (pronounced “
Zo
-hee”) Dawn was Mac's personal stylist, the woman who dressed starlets for their paparazzi opps. So Mac really was on top of this!

As Becks closed the door, she opened the gold-embossed envelope that was stapled to one of the bags and pulled out a cream-colored card.

Becks couldn't believe she'd doubted Mac! Until she read the rest of the letter.

Becks dropped the heavy card back into one of the bags.
Don't get a bathing suit wet?
That was like giving someone a Sprinkles cupcake and telling them not to eat it. Becks peered inside the bag and noticed a black tankini with gold charms. It would have been perfect for
Vogue
, but it was totally useless to Becks. The next suit was tinted green and made out of a thin fabric that felt like rice paper. The rest of the stash was more swimsuits, and Becks didn't even bother to look through them. Mac obviously hadn't been listening when she'd explained that she needed
accessories,
not swimsuits.

“Well these are interesting,” Clutch said hopefully, but he was back to twirling his hair, never a good sign.

Becks shook her head. Mac might have known about Hollywood—but Becks was beginning to wonder if Mac really knew about
her
.

To: Mackenzie Little-Armstrong

From: Elena K. @ Elena K. Events

Subject: Party/real paparazzi or faux

 

 

Dear Mac,

 

It was great to meet you at Urth for the Star Power planning meeting. It will be a magical event! Your guests will heart the red-carpet themes.

 

 

Also had a follow-up question per our last convo. Did you want
real
paparazzi or faux? With faux we can control what pictures they take and send them ourselves to the photo wires. Just a thought. Please get back to me at your earliest convenience.

 

 

Cheers,

Elena

emily

E
mily lay on her white Duxiana comforter in the guest bedroom of the Armstrong house. She was dressed in her navy Harajuku Lovers pajamas (a start gift from the casting agent), trying to rest because she had a night shoot later that evening. Emily grabbed a handful of cheddar Chex Mix and crunched loudly. Paige had mailed her a care package of Chex Mix and apple Fig Newtons, since the Armstrongs had no junk food in their house and ate organic everything. Sometimes Emily just needed to eat like a normal person.

The Armstrongs were at a family dinner at some Italian restaurant, which was supposedly the best in Beverly Hills—but to Emily, pasta was pasta. Of course, Emily had been invited, but she had pretended that she needed to run lines. She didn't want to intrude, but mostly she needed a break from Mac. She plopped her laptop onto a white satin pillow so she could iChat with Paige.

Even though the Armstrongs made sure Emily felt at home, she still felt out-of-place in her room. It was called “the Gift Closet,” because it was where the Armstrongs kept wacky gifts that they didn't want to toss or keep on display. It was like a Museum of Celebrity Bad Taste, Emily thought, scanning the walls. There was a signed
Sea Devils
poster (from Davey Woodward—
sigh . . .
), a statue of a ballerina (a new addition from Christina Aguilera), and an old brass owl (an inside joke, apparently, from Owen Wilson) stared down at her from the wall.

Finally Paige's face popped onto the computer screen. Paige had small Renée Zellweger eyes and big chipmunk cheeks. She had brown hair, which she'd parted into three ponytails: two on the side and one on top of her head. Sometimes Emily was afraid that Paige was going to be one of those people who got
really
weird in high school. But for now, she was the most loyal friend a girl could ask for.

“Hold on one sec,” Emily whispered, paranoia-checking herself. She ran over and locked the door, just in case Mac came home early and barged in. When she returned to her computer screen, she whispered, “Mac is driving me crazy.” Normally Emily hated to complain, because she was super-grateful that Mac had discovered her. But right now, she had to vent. “She crashed my date with Davey!”

“That's ridonkulous!” Paige snorted. After Mac had deemed Paige Not Cool Enough when they met, Paige had decided she was Not A Fan. “Why? I mean, what's wrong with her?”

“Well, there's a little more to the story,” Emily admitted. “Remember how I freaked out on the first day?”

Paige nodded and her three ponytails bounced. “You ate the tuna sandwich.” She remembered everything so well that sometimes it felt like she was Emily's diary.

“So Mac kinda made this rule so that I don't lose my job over Davey.”

Paige shot Emily an
are you crazy?
look. “What kind of rule?”

“She decided she basically has to be my babysitter,” Emily said. And then she launched into an explanation of the Disneyland hijacking. “She just showed up. Plus, whenever I try to have lunch to be near Davey, she insists on getting me food and bringing it to my trailer. And she's on set twenty-four seven. She's
always
there. It almost feels like she's stalking me.”

Paige's brown eyes widened. She leaned into her computer so that her face looked like a giant bubble on Emily's screen. “Look,” Paige said, crossing her arms. “Your agent is supposed to get you jobs, not systematically destroy your love life. And P.S., Mac needs you more than you need her. Without you she has nothing.”

Emily winced. She didn't like to think that way. It seemed very diva-esque, and besides, she
only
had Hollywood opportunities
because
of Mac. “But she only has my best interests in mind. And if I have to choose between Davey and acting—”

“Remind me again,” Paige interrupted. “How is being in love with Davey hurting your work? Aren't you supposed to fall in love with him in the movie?”

Emily toyed with a shiny blue button on her pajama top and looked into her best friend's digital eyes. “Yes, but so what?”

“Mac has done a mind job on you. You think it's
either
Davey
or
acting. But really, you
can
have it all.” Paige pumped her fists like a football coach. “You gotta
use
that love for Davey in every scene. Because the only thing better than acting is the real thing.”