by Zoey Dean
The Inner Circle exchanged uncomfortable glances.
Mac pursed her Chanel-coated lips together and searched the room to see her mother’s reaction. At that exact second, Adrienne turned to face Mac and their eyes locked. But Mac couldn’t tell what Adrienne was thinking—she had a natural poker face. She went back to listening intently to Ruby’s speech, leaving Mac feeling even more embarrassed. Her mother would never allow herself to be humiliated in front of a group of people. How could she have played this so badly?
“Thank you all so much for being here.” Ruby smiled demurely. The crowd applauded politely and Ruby daintily hobbled off the stage.
Mac was fuming inside. She stared at her friends. They were in shock, like war victims. Not only had Ruby publicly humiliated Mac yet again, she’d managed to look humble and well spoken in the process. It was like throwing salt on their wounds and then wounding them again.
Ruby hobbled all the way back to the buffet, where the Inner Circle was standing. “Nice try, Macdaddy,” Ruby hissed through her fake smile. “I really did trust you and then you tried to blast me. Don’t worry—it’ll never happen again.” Then she went back to join the Rubybots, who were clapping excitedly, like Ruby had just won an Oscar.
Mac swallowed and realized she was experiencing a very uncomfortable sensation. It was the feeling of not getting what she wanted. Was this how other people felt all the time? Mac shook herself to ease the tension. All the AmExes and dues-paying in the world couldn’t buy back her reputation now.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
becks
Sunday September 20
7:45 AM Wake up and surf
11 AM Wake my friends up
12 PM Go back to surfing
Becks’s eyes were puffy when she woke up in her screening room the morning after ExtravaBAMSa to the sound of crashing waves and a barking dog. She checked her G-Shock watch: It was only 7:45 a.m.
She wiped the sleep from her eyes and remembered why she felt so exhausted: On the Sad Scale of 1 to 10, the Inner Circle sleepover had been a 200, culminating in a double feature of The Notebook and Steel Magnolias. They’d spent the whole night crying until they finally fell asleep.
Becks woke up while her friends were fast asleep in her screening room. Mac’s mouth was hanging wide open, her arm draped over her American Apparel track shorts. Coco, in Victoria’s Secret Pink pajamas, was snoring every third breath. Emily was curled in a ball on the couch, wearing her Harajuku Lovers pajama set.
Knowing she’d never be able to fall back asleep, Becks decided to sneak out to catch some surf. It was the only thing that could make her feel almost normal again. At that moment, she just felt like a tall, mean person with really jittery nerves.
She grabbed a Daisy May longboard from her rack and slipped out to the beach, breathing the salty, windy air. It was such a clear day that in the distance she could see the cliffs of Palos Verdes Peninsula and its red-tiled houses. Down the sand, Ellen Pompeo, Becks’s neighbor, was splashing her feet in the water. She gave Becks a cute wave as she headed down the beach. Becks waved back and inhaled the coconut sunscreen and saltwater scent that was Malibu.
Becks had barely stepped onto the sand when she spotted a familiar red and black plaid blanket and a goldendoodle. Down the beach about fifty yards, Austin was tossing a red Frisbee to his dog, Boone.
Becks paused at the end of her backyard. Austin Holloway was at the top of the list of People Becks Did Not Want to See. She could forge ahead to the beach, hold her head up high, and pretend like nothing had happened, or she could sneak back into her house and avoid another uncomfortable moment with Austin. He knew too many embarrassing things about her: the Pinkberry Slobber, sabotaging Ellie, the fact that she’d even had a crush on him in the first place—there was only so much humiliation a girl could handle. She was tired of strat- egizing ways to win his heart.
And then Becks realized: No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t make someone like you. All the scheming, hoping, wishing, conniving—no boy was worth that much energy. And it didn’t work anyway. Becks was too sad to care.
She tiptoed back into the house and into the kitchen. Her father was at the emerald green granite countertop, holding down the top to the blender while a pink concoction whizzed inside. He was off the total body cleanse but not yet on solid foods. Becks waited until the whirr had subsided. Spotting Becks, he smiled.
“Hey, you! What a day yesterday, huh?” he said, as he poured the strawberry-banana concoction into a tall clear glass. “How’s your friend Ellie? She took quite a spill.”
Becks looked down at the slate floor in shame, actually feeling worse than she had just seconds ago.
“She’s fine,” Becks said, hoping to end all Ellie talk.
“What a trooper,” Clutch said. Becks rolled her eyes that yet one more person in her world thought Ellie was great.
“You okay, Evie?” Clutch asked, looking at his daughter in concern. He only called her by that nickname when he was serious, which wasn’t very often.
“Hey, Pops, do you think you could drive me to Zuma today? I’d like some new scenery,” Becks said, twirling her Inner Circle ring at the end of a short silver chain.
“What’s wrong with our scenery?” Clutch asked, looking out the sliding glass screen door and staring at the stretch of empty white sand. Becks followed his gaze and caught a glimpse of Austin waxing his board.
“Everything,” Becks sighed.
She’d finally accepted it: No matter how well she surfed, she couldn’t surf her way into Austin’s heart. Evangelina Becks, the girl who never quit, had officially given up.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
COCO
Sunday September 20
11:30 AM Is it bad to go home and sleep some more?
1 PM In-house spa therapy—paraffin mani? I need some ME-HAB!
Coco got a ride back to the King Bel-Air Hotel from Erin and Mac and lazily dragged her knee-high Uggs (which, for the record, she only wore to slumber parties or when the temperature was below 70 degrees) into the Living Quarter. The first thing she saw when she opened the front door was her mother, sitting on the couch. Cardammon was sipping what looked like a mimosa, and petting Coco’s French bulldog, Madonna, who was curled in her lap, wearing a black dog tee that said RUFF. They were bathed in sunlight pouring through the French doors.
Coco looked at her mom with her tired eyes. Even though it was Sunday, Cardammon was wearing a black satin tube dress with a zipper down the middle. She was surrounded by tiered trays of mini scones and thin sandwiches, like she was having a tea party all by herself.
“Are you okay?” Coco asked, wondering what in the world this was about. She already felt bad enough about embarrassing her family at ExtravaBAMSa—she didn’t need any more surprises.
Cardammon raised her champagne flute. “It’s for you! We’re celebrating!” Madonna yelped from Cardammon’s lap.
“Celebrating what?”
“You’re dee-lish just the way you are,” Cardammon declared, sounding very much like she’d rehearsed every word with her life coach, Dee Dufflin.
Coco smiled weakly. “This is really lovely, Mom.” She sized up the cucumber sandwiches and the porcelain teacups and mini Bonne Maman jams. Coco knew her mother was only trying to comfort her after weeks of seeing her dreams get crushed. Sure, it was terrible to have been rejected by the world’s most famous record producer (three weeks ago). Of course it was awful to have been demoted from dance captain (almost two weeks ago). And yes, ExtravaBAMSa had been beyond humiliating (last night). But Coco didn’t regret any of it. The way she saw it, September had been a really bad month. And surely there were better things on the horizon. As the light sparkled off Cardammon’s pebble-size yellow diamond ring, Coco realized: She hadn’t gone through any of that to please her mother. She’d done it for herself.
“I’ve pushed you far too hard with the dancing and the pop star thing,” Cardammon said in a serious tone. “I w
anted you to have this life because I’ve enjoyed it, but no one needs this.” Cardammon waved at a row of her own framed platinum records on the wall. “Seeing those every morning isn’t what makes me happy.”
“I was born to perform,” Coco said, believing it, but wondering why she felt so defensive. “I do this because there’s nothing I love more.”
Cardammon looked down at the pale green carpet, her expression like a sad Norah Jones song.
Was her own mother telling her she should quit?
Coco bit her lip and thought of her idol, Christina Aguilera. Xtina didn’t give up. Xtina had gone before the whole world in trashy, stomach-baring outfits with black makeup and fake braids before she glammed it up, went multiplatinum (hair and records), got married, and had a baby, Coco reminded herself, twirling her Inner Circle ring. But then again . . . Xtina had been the most talented girl in America by age six. No one thought Coco had that kind of talent. In fact, everyone thought Coco was embarrassingly bad.
Especially Coco.
She let go of the ring. Maybe it was just easier to give in. Why fight it? Even her own mother was holding open the escape hatch.
Coco smiled and reached for a pumpkin scone, lathering it with thick whipped cream from a white ceramic pot, even though she didn’t much feel like eating. Normally she only ate when she was hungry, but now she just wanted to take her mind off dancing.
“Cheers, Mom,” Coco said, numbly raising her scone to her mother’s glass. She was tired of fighting—for her place on the team, for dancing, for her reputation, for approval. It was so much easier to just go with the flow.
“Cheers, luvvy,” Cardammon said. She tapped her glass against Coco’s scone.
It was time to take a bite out of reality, Coco decided. It was time to stop living in a pop star dream world. As she bit into the still-warm scone, she realized it didn’t even taste good. In fact, much like reality, it was very unappetizing.
CHAPTER THIRTY
emily
Sunday September 20
12 PM CALL MOM
Emily stared up at the ecru-colored wall of the guest bedroom, her home for the last two weeks. The Armstrongs called the guest bedroom the Gift Closet, because it was where they kept all the presents they didn’t want to throw away but didn’t want to keep on display. Emily’s eyes landed on a heart-shaped jewelry box, a gift to Adrienne from Ben Affleck and Jennifer Garner. Then she shifted her gaze to the signed Shakespeare in Love poster (from Gwyneth Paltrow) and the Princess Diana commemorative plate (from Elton John) and the brass owl (from Owen Wilson).
On better days, Emily had found the gifts cool. But today, everything about the Gift Closet felt uncomfortable, and not at all like home. It was just a stark reminder that she wasn’t in Iowa anymore, where her walls were covered in yellowed pictures of Davey Woodward ripped from magazines, and goofy self-portraits of her and Paige at Winky’s Donuts.
Through her windows overlooking the Armstrongs’ swimming pool, Emily spied Mac lying in the hammock, lazily flipping through a French Vogue under the shade of a palm frond—which she knew was Mac’s go-to de-stress activity. Mac’s brother, Jenner, was practicing his volley-ball serve on the lawn by the pool, and Mac’s fluffy-haired little sister, Maude, was playing at her laptop computer. Jenner walked over to the pool and scooped out a handful of water to throw at Mac. She jerked back and shot him a disgusted look. Maude giggled from behind her computer. Even teasing each other, they looked like such a family. It made Emily feel like more of an outsider. It wasn’t her family. It wasn’t her home.
She picked up the cordless phone from the silver side table and dialed her mom’s number. She wished she could click her heels three times and magically be back in Iowa.
Lori Mungler picked up on the first ring. “Hey, hunny, how’s it going?” She took a bite of what sounded like a Cheeto. The TV was on in the background, and Emily could hear Dr. Phil, which her mom must have TiVo’d, because his show wasn’t on on Sundays.
Emily felt a tear trickle down her cheek as she listened to the sounds of home. She couldn’t believe that she was getting wistful thinking about Cheetos and Dr. Phil, and that thought only made her more sad. Normally Emily could control her tears, but these days, it seemed like all she did was cry uncontrollably.
“Sweetheart . . .” Lori paused to swallow. She lowered the volume on the TV. “Is everything okay with Mac and the girls?”
“Yesbutitsnotworkingformeasanactress!” Emily cried, her chest heaving up and down. She stared at the brass owl. Its carved eyes looked like they were judging her. Even the brass owl thought she was a loser.
“Sweetie, take deep breaths, okay? Everything in life happens for a reason. I miss you, too. But remember, you don’t have these opportunities in Iowa.”
“I know, I don’t care!” Emily cried. Tears streamed down her face. “I want to be home.”
“Sweetheart, it’ll all be okay. When you know what you want, then you can put it into the universe.” Lori soothed. Normally Emily rolled her eyes at her mother ’s Secret-inspired wisdom, but today its familiarity filled her with relief. Emily was quiet and her breathing slowed.
Finally, when she was able to speak coherently once again, she said, very calmly, so her mother would know she was being serious: “This was a huge mistake and I hate Bel-Air.”
There was a rattle at the door. Emily looked up and saw Mac standing in the doorway, holding a glass pitcher full of lemonade. Mac clutched it with both hands, her eyes wide open like she’d seen a ghost. The look on Mac’s face gave it away: She’d heard everything. She turned and left.
“Oh no,” Emily gasped.
“Ems, are you still there?” Lori asked.
Emily looked at the phone and then the empty doorway, feeling even more powerless than she had ten seconds ago. Nothing she put into the universe was any good.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
mac
Sunday September 20
ALL DAY SORRY EVERYONE. Please don’t drink the haterade, ’cause I’m working on it
Mac tiptoed as quickly as she could down the stairway from Emily’s room, holding tight to the banister. She felt her life spinning out of control. She’d failed as an agent and as a friend. She’d lost social chair, her reputation had tanked, and now, her only client (who happened to be her good friend) was ditching her.
Mac needed to talk to her mother—who, as usual, was working on a sunny Sunday afternoon. Adrienne was in her home office, on the phone, raking her Japanese rock garden, when she looked up and spotted Mac. She held up her index finger to show that she’d be right with her.
“All righty, Milo, I’ll get into this some more tomorrow. You be a good boy in Vegas,” she said. “No pictures in Us Weekly, okay? Promise?” After a pause, once Milo had clearly hung up the phone, Adrienne leaned into her hands-free headset to speak to her assistant, who had also been listening in on the call. “Are we clear, Charlotte?” Adrienne asked.
Mac couldn’t believe that her mother’s office assistants got paid to eavesdrop on phone calls and take notes on what celebrities said. Or that her mother was so powerful that some poor assistant actually had to work on a Sunday, dialing phone numbers and connecting Adrienne to A-list clients so that she didn’t have to do it herself.
“Thanks for the good work, Charlotte. Especially on a Sunday. We’re done for today. You can come in at nine tomorrow.” Adrienne flicked off her headset and looked at Mac, who had slunk into the Eames chair across from her desk.
“Brighten up,” Adrienne said perkily.
Mac doubled-checked that her mother was not still on the phone. Sometimes she was talking to other people and Mac didn’t realize it.
Negative. The headset was definitely on the table.
“How can I brighten up when I’m a big failure?” Mac asked. She looked at her mother ’s framed black-and-white pictures of 1920s Los Angeles Art Deco buildings. “I mean, you were at the fund-raiser—you saw what happened.”
&nbs
p; Mac looked down at her red Toms shoes, not wanting to hear her mother rub it in. “Mackenzie, I’m so proud of you,” Adrienne said. Mac looked up at her mother, sure she hadn’t heard right. “Emily showed everyone what a talented actress she is,” Adrienne continued, as if reading Mac’s mind. “I’ll bet the only reason she didn’t quit that dreadful play was because you encouraged her to make something of that role.” Adrienne pushed her Armani glasses against her nose. “Am I right?”
“How did you know that?” Mac’s eyed widened. For the first time in a while, she felt a sense of accomplishment: She had made her mother proud, and that was one of the best feelings in the world.
“It’s what we do. We push people to make the best choices for themselves,” Adrienne sighed. “Tristin may be a fireball of talent,” Adrienne said, referring to her two-time Oscar-winning client, “but if it weren’t for me, she’d get one-liners on How I Met Your Mother.”
Mac buzzed with hope for just a second. Maybe things weren’t so bad after all? But then she remembered that she’d failed. Emily was leaving for Iowa. And this time, she’d have no reason to believe Mac if she tried to stop her. As if remembering her true loser status, Mac blurted, “But if I’ve done such a good job, then how come I’m so subprime at BAMS? I did what you said—I paid my dues—and no one will deal with me anymore.”
“Did you do your best?” Adrienne asked.
Mac nodded slowly. She’d done it right initially, holding up her end of the deal. But then she remembered the moral detour she had taken when she decided to sabotage the Rubybots. She thought about how that plan had completely backfired, and sunk them even deeper into the self-centered off-ramp of misery. If only she’d stayed on track and followed her mother’s advice! Then maybe none of this would have happened.