Rock Royalty (6 page)

“Six cloves,” her mom repeated. She looked sideways at her daughter. “Earth to Mitchie.”

Mitchie laughed as she placed the six cloves on the counter to crush. “Sorry,” she answered dreamily. “I'm just thinking about the concert.”

Her mother smiled and continued stirring the chili on the stove. “It did go really well,” Connie confirmed, marveling once again at her daughter's star performance.

“Really?” Mitchie pressed.

They'd been over this a dozen times since that night. Mitchie just couldn't believe that a) it had happened; b) it was over; and c) she really hadn't fallen flat on her face and/or forgotten every word to the song.

“Yes! It was great,” her mom reassured her for the umpteenth time. “
You
were great.”

“I was, wasn't I?” Mitchie joked, batting her eyelashes and grinning.

The room grew silent as Mitchie and Connie went back to their chopping. The dishwasher and refrigerator hummed, and, for a moment, all was peaceful.

“Shoot!” Mitchie suddenly exclaimed, breaking the silence.

“What?” her mother gasped, darting across the kitchen in a flash, thinking Mitchie had cut herself.

Mitchie was examining her hands. “My manicure is totally chipping from all this peeling and chopping.” Mitchie frowned and raised her hands to her face. “And I reek of garlic. No one's going to want to stand downwind of me!”

Connie raised an eyebrow. She had been sure Mitchie would snap out of her new high-maintenance ways after the concert. But since then, Mitchie had been less interested in helping in the kitchen and more interested in the world's reaction to the concert—and in herself.

Connie knew Mitchie had been secretly using the computer in the office to check the gossip blogs and Web sites that covered the show. Most of the stories focused on T.J.'s presence at the event and the huge amount of money it had raised. But every few articles, there was a shout-out to Mitchie and her performance with Shane. Connie knew it was all understandable—the concert had been a huge deal for her daughter. But still, Mitchie's behavior lately was just not very . . . Mitchie. Her mom wondered if Mitchie remembered why she'd gotten involved in the concert in the first place—for the scholarship to help kids like herself who normally couldn't afford a summer at Camp Rock.

Unaware of her mom's musings, Mitchie ran her hands under the faucet, scrubbing with soap at the last pieces of garlic. She dried them on her apron and slid the straps over her head.

“Where are you going?” her mother asked. She still had to prepare the fresh veggies for the salad bar, and Mitchie usually helped with that.

Mitchie's eyes widened innocently. “Shane wants to show me the YouTube video of the concert,” she said. “You don't mind, do you?”

Connie put her hand on her hip and looked at her daughter. “Mitchie Torres,” she said suspiciously, “what's gotten into you? You remember the deal: you get to come to Camp Rock, but I need your help in the kitchen.”

“Mommm,” Mitchie whined. “I
am
helping. But isn't the whole point of me coming to Camp Rock to jump-start my career?”

“Your
career
?” asked Connie, raising an eyebrow. “I thought the whole point of you coming to Camp Rock was to have fun and hang out with other kids who love music like you do.”

“Of course it is,” said Mitchie. “But it also helps to build a fan base, and Ginger said the first thing I need to do is refine my image. And I can't do that in the kitchen.”

Mitchie hung her apron on the pantry door, checked her reflection in the stainless steel of the walk-in refrigerator, and started for the door.

“Ginger says ‘your image'?” Connie repeated, not believing her ears. She rolled her eyes. “You know, you're starting to sound an awful lot like Tess.”

Hearing that, Mitchie stopped in her tracks at the door. She turned. “I'll be here extra-early to help with dinner,” she said. “I promise.”

“Fine.” Connie sighed. “Let me know how the YouToo video of the concert turned out.”

Mitchie laughed. “You
Tube
,” she said, correcting her mother.

Her mother laughed, too. “Whatever!” Connie said, throwing up her hands. “You handle that, and I'll stick to the chili.”

“Sounds good,” Mitchie said. Smiling, she headed off to find Shane.

S
hane already had the video of the concert playing on his iPhone when Mitchie knocked on his cabin door. She could hear herself and Shane singing the refrain of the song through the screen windows.

“Who is it?” Shane called.

Mitchie cracked open the door. “Yours truly,” she sang out.

“Ah. Just who I wanted to see,” said Shane. “Come on in.”

She flopped down in a chair. “Is that the video?” she asked.

“Yep,” he said, handing her the phone. “Whoever smuggled in a camera got some pretty decent footage.”

Mitchie watched the clip on the small screen. She nodded her head along to the beat and smiled when the cameras came in for a close-up of Shane. But she frowned when they did the same to her.

“What's wrong?” Shane asked, noticing her frown. He took the phone out of her hand and looked at the screen.

“They didn't get my best angle,” said Mitchie. “I look fat from that side, and my hair is totally flat.”

Shane's eyes grew large. “Fat?” he repeated in disbelief. “Mitchie, you know you are
not
fat. And your hair looked great.”

Mitchie pouted a little, and Shane rolled his eyes. “Please tell me you're not going to become one of those divas,” he said.

Mitchie flinched at his use of the word “diva.” It reminded her of what her mother had just said.

“I am not a diva!” she protested.

“Well, you will be if you keep talking like that,” Shane replied. “Now, if I give this back, will you promise to watch how great you were?”

Mitchie blushed and smiled. “Yes,” she promised. She realized how silly she sounded.

“Okay,” Shane said and handed the phone back to her. He pressed PLAY again and watched over her shoulder.

“We nailed that note!” Mitchie exclaimed when the video reached a particularly difficult part of the song.

“Now that's more like it.” Shane grinned.

C
HAPTER
E
IGHT

W
ads of crumpled-up paper were flying around the Vibe Cabin, which could mean only one thing: Ella's weekly care package from her mom had arrived. Each week, Ella's mother shipped a box full of candy, CDs, makeup, nail polish, and—best of all—the latest copy of all the entertainment magazines, including Ella's favorite,
Celeb Beat
.

With Tess, Peggy, and Lorraine standing over her shoulders, Ella ripped through the new package until she got to the magazine at the bottom. She pulled it out of the packing peanuts, but it was immediately snatched from her hands by Tess.

Connect Three was on the cover, but Tess wasn't concerned with that. She flipped furiously through the glossy pages until she found the article on the School Rocks concert.

“Oooh!” squealed Lorraine when Tess found it. “There's a photo of you!”

Sure enough, Lorraine pointed to a picture of Tess and her mother singing onstage as red balloons descended around them.

“That's a great picture, Tess,” offered Peggy.

“I know, right?” Tess replied excitedly.

She started to read the article out loud:

“ ‘School Rocks met Camp Rock last week when stars aligned to raise money for after-school music programs at a special concert.' ”

“Whoo!” Ella and Lorraine clapped and cheered as Tess read on.

“‘The lineup included pop sensation and Camp Rock camper-turned-instructor Shane Gray, singing . . . blah blah blah,'” said Tess, skipping ahead. “‘Concert organizers brought out Tess Tyler to perform with her mother, pop star and Blush Cosmetics spokesperson T.J. Tyler, when—'”

Suddenly, Tess stopped short. “Never mind,” she said, tossing the magazine on her bed. “It's just a stupid little article. It doesn't really say anything.”

“What do you mean? You have your name in
Celeb Beat
!” Peggy said, picking up the magazine. “‘Concert organizers brought out Tess Tyler,'” Peggy started reading again, “‘to perform with her mother, pop star and Blush Cosmetics spokesperson T.J. Tyler, when . . .' Oh,” Peggy said.

“When
what
?” Ella asked, taking the magazine from Peggy's hands.

“‘When T.J. insisted she wouldn't perform without her daughter,'” shot Tess before Ella had a chance to read it herself. “Okay? There it is in black and white. My mom made them invite me to sing with her.”

“I think that's sweet,” Lorraine observed. “Your mom obviously loves you a lot if she jeopardized an opportunity like this to make sure she got to sing with you.”

Ella and Peggy nodded along.

But Tess was fuming. That may have been true, but. . . . “How did
Celeb Beat
know?” She glared at the page.

“They do have reporters,” Peggy pointed out.

“But the concert organizers
promised
my mom they wouldn't tell a soul,” Tess said. “It was in their contract. There was no way they would have told.”

“Unless,” Lorraine said shrewdly, “the magazine had a mole.”

“Like the animal that lives in the ground?” Ella asked, confused.

Peggy rolled her eyes. She adored her cabinmate, but she wasn't always the brightest star in the sky. “No, like a secret inside source,” she explained. “A spy.”

Tess hadn't really been listening. The mention of a mole had sparked something. “That's it,” she said, narrowing her eyes. The day Caitlyn found her crying outside the rehearsal cabin—hadn't she mentioned that her mom only agreed to perform if Tess sang? “And I bet I know who it is.”

W
hile Tess was fuming, Mitchie was floating on air. After Shane had made her watch the video again, she had to admit it rocked. To celebrate, she was heading to B-Note for some ice cream.

“Hey,” Mitchie said, walking in and spotting Lola, Caitlyn, Barron, and Sander all huddled around a magazine. “What are you guys reading?”

There was a scramble, and Barron stuffed the magazine under his seat.

“What are you talking about?” Caitlyn asked.

“We're not reading anything,” Lola said.

“The dictionary!” Sander blurted. Caitlyn shot him a sideways glance.

“You're reading the dictionary?” Mitchie asked. That seemed a rather odd choice for summer reading.

“Yep,” said Barron. “Just looking up some words for the new rap we're working on. Wanted to see what rhymes with . . .”

“. . . summer,” Sander said, nodding.

“How about ‘bummer'?” Mitchie offered. “Which is what you all are. A major bummer. I know you're not reading the dictionary. What magazine is it?”

Caitlyn and Lola looked at each other.

“
Celeb Beat
,” Caitlyn finally answered.

“Oh!” Mitchie cried. “Can I see it? Is there something on the concert?”

Again, Caitlyn and Lola exchanged worried glances.

“Yeah,” Lola said warily. “There's something on the concert.”

But no one moved to show Mitchie the magazine.

“So . . . can I see it?” she asked. “Why are you guys acting so weird?”

Caitlyn sighed. “The article's not the most . . . flattering. Barron,” she said, and he produced the copy of
Celeb Beat
from under his seat and handed it to Mitchie.

Mitchie flipped through the pages until she got to the article on the concert.
SCHOOL ROCKS CAMP ROCK
, the headline screamed across the page. There was a photo of T.J. and Tess, and another smaller one of Mitchie and Shane.

“I don't think the pictures are so bad,” Mitchie observed. “I mean, I know I'm not the
most
photogenic person in the world—”

“Read the article,” Caitlyn said.

Nervously, Mitchie read: “‘Newcomer Mitchie Torres had no trouble adjusting to the bright lights. On the contrary, she was quite the pop princess. The camp chef's daughter demanded her own hair and makeup team and refused to drink anything but Evian water. She may have been Shane Gray's backup, but sources tell
Celeb Beat
that Torres was the one calling the shots.'”

Mitchie was horrified. “What are they talking about?” she said, her mouth dropping open in astonishment. “
They
gave me a hair and makeup team! I didn't ask for one. And I said I didn't care what kind of water I had.”

She looked from Caitlyn and Lola to Sander and Barron. They shrugged. Mitchie kept reading: “‘Several campers commented on Torres's divalike behavior. “Mitchie's cool, but I guess you could say this concert's kind of gone to her head,” one source told
Celeb Beat
. “I'm not sure why only Mitchie gets to perform,” said another camper, who requested anonymity. “She hasn't even won a jam yet.” '”