Star Power (3 page)

Mac flipped on her aviators and smiled as the car cruised past the Pacific Design Center, one of her favorite buildings in L.A. Her girls were on track for the next phase of MHD (Mission: Hollywood Domination).

She reached into the canvas shopping bag at her feet and pulled out some kombucha for her friends. She put one in the cup holder for Erin, who was driving.

“Cheers to us!” Mac lifted her sparkling tea. “Red carpets, here we come!”

“Cheers!” Becks and Coco cried in unison.

Mac smiled as she sipped her fizzy drink triumphantly and felt the warm wind from outside whip through her hair. Earlier that month, they had been the laughingstock of BAMS after their classmate Ruby Goldman leaked a video of their slumber party to the entire school. Mac shivered just thinking about how everyone had seen the clip of her gas leakage incident, of Coco basically wetting her pants, of Emily making fun of Kimmie, and of Becks practicing her kissing skills on a frozen yogurt. And yet, Mac thought proudly, it was amazing how quickly you could make a comeback if you were smart about it. Now Mac was hanging out with movie stars and missing school while Ruby was still going to BAMS with the rest of the plebes in town.

Mac turned around to the backseat. “You guys
have
to keep me posted on Ruby while I'm out of school, 'kay?” Mac had worked out a deal with her mother that she could skip school and work on the movie (and have on-set tutoring) as long as she maintained her good grades, kept up her family obligations, and wrote up a report about the value of the experience. She'd even signed it with her little sister, Maude, as a witness. “I need you girls to be my eyes and ears at BAMS. I want to know everything.”

“I'll live-blog for you,” Coco joked, and then glanced down at her iPhone. “I see we are going to Discover My Destiny.” The girls had synched their calendars so that they could all keep track of each other 's schedules. (Or really, so Mac could keep track of them.) Earlier that week, Mac had realized that Coco's destiny was to be a folksy alterna-singer like Colby Caillat (but more indie!). What Mac hadn't told her yet was
how
they were going to go about it.

“That's correct,” Mac said mysteriously. She knew Coco was waiting for her to go on, but she preferred keeping her in suspense. Mac had decided it wasn't necessary to get into the details with her friends. Years of studying her mother, who was, after all, the most powerful agent in Hollywood, had shown Mac that A-list managers took control, made decisions, and led their clients—sometimes forcibly—down the necessary path. Left on their own, Mac's friends might happily read
Us Weekly
instead of being in
Us Weekly
. Without her, they'd never reach their full potential. Which was why Mac had set up a daily iPhone reminder with her new mantra:
Take charge
.

“As long as Coco's destiny is not in a mall, I'm fine,” Becks offered as they passed the Beverly Center. She liked shopping as much as Mac liked back fat.

“I know where we're going, but I won't say,” Erin singsonged from the driver's seat. Mac shot a
don't you dare
look at Erin, who smiled proudly, loving that she was in on Mac's secret. Sometimes Mac appreciated having Erin in her fan club. Other times (like now) it made her sad that Erin was twenty-seven and still a follower. Why didn't she just become a lawyer, or do something with her Princeton degree? Mac shuddered, stuffing the idea away like a muffin-top in skinny jeans. She couldn't manage
everyone's
life.

As the Prius cruised eastward, no one said anything for miles. They silently sailed farther from the ocean, cruising over the Hollywood Hills overlooking the downtown L.A. skyline. Soon the air became thicker and grayer. Even the palm trees looked exhausted.

“We're really far
east
,” Coco said finally, when they passed a run-down freeway ramp. She said “east” like she was looking at a tabloid picture of Kim Kardashian
.
The only time they ventured east of La Brea was to go to VIP parties at Teddy's—but that was at night. “I've never been this way in the afternoon. . . .” Coco finished, fishing for clues. Mac kept a Mona Lisa smile on her face.

Finally they reached the wasteland better known as Hollywood Boulevard. Despite its glamorous name, the street was just a tourist trap with gold stars on the sidewalk. Mac kept a perfect poker face as Erin turned onto a narrow street and pulled the car into a dinky strip mall, where a dilapidated sign said KARMA CAFÉ in hand-painted wobbly letters. It appeared to have been drawn by a three-year-old.

“Voilà!” Mac proclaimed proudly, as though she had surprised the girls with a trip to Paris.

Coco and Becks exchanged a nervous glance.

Mac tossed an air kiss at Coco. “Ciao bella! Have fun!” She pointed at Becks. “We need to hit the beach.”

“Are you for serious?” Coco stayed planted in the car, clutching her seat belt. “I'm not going in there.”

Mac had expected this. “You have to. How else can you check out your competition?”

“My
what
?” Coco made a face as though Mac had forced her to wear pink Uggs.

Mac smiled sweetly. “Anyone in there is competing with you on the coffee shop circuit for fans.”

“Um, Mac?” Coco reminded her friend. “I'm not on the coffee shop circuit.”

“Not
yet
,” Mac corrected. “But if you're going to be the next Colby Caillat but more indie, then you're going to have to sing in indie places—ergo coffee houses—and build your fan base from the ground up.”

Coco grimaced. “What's wrong with Urth Café?” Urth was the quintessential L.A. café where power agents and stars sipped no-fat, half-caf, no-sugar-added lattes. However, Mac had learned from her early research that Karma Café was the quintessential low-budget, independent, anti-Starbucks venue where Coco could start getting indie street cred. It had nightly gigs and a regular audience of alterna-kids.

“Nothing's wrong with Urth,” Mac said. “Except that we like it, and my mom likes it, and the rest of Hollywood likes it, ergo”—she was really loving the word
ergo
these days—“you can't begin an indie career there.” She twirled her Mintee bracelet on her tan wrist. “Work with me, Co. Erin will be back to pick you up. For now, watch and learn.”

“But—”

Mac shook her head and Coco begrudgingly got out of the car, her Tory Burch ankle boots tapping on the asphalt.

As the car pulled away, Mac cringed, seeing Coco's sad, stooped posture. She closed her eyes and reminded herself that sometimes being a good friend meant leaving your bestie with people who didn't wear deodorant, if that would help her reach her dreams.

Mac sighed. Sometimes true love was tough love.

becks

B
ecks and Mac sat on ocean blue sofas in the waiting room of the Dixie Surf Company Corporate Headquarters. Becks tried to stay chill, but her eyes bounced around the room, checking out the giant posters of Laird Hamilton, Kelly Slater, and Alessa Quizon.

If Mac was for real, Becks was one meeting away from becoming the fourth Dixie Gal. They were a team of three surfers (Tully, Darby, and Leilani) who were flown to exotic beaches in places like the Maldives and competed in international surfing competitions so they could be photographed in Dixie surf gear. Their pictures wound up in Dixie stores, surf magazines, and surf calendars. In fact, Becks had a Dixie Gals calendar on the back of her bedroom door. “Remind me again how you got this meeting?”

“I have my ways,” Mac said flippantly as she checked the five-day weather forecast on her iPhone. Of course it was the same every day: eighty degrees and sunny.

“But how do you know I'm even ready?” Becks asked. Sure, Mac knew a lot about movie stars, but the surfing world was another universe. And Becks had figured that she needed at least another three years before she'd be good enough to turn pro and represent a brand.

“I did some research.” Mac looked at her friend. “Actually, I did a
lot
of research.”

Just then a man with tanned skin and bright blond hair emerged from behind a white door, his flip-flops smacking the shiny marble floor. Becks blushed when she recognized Chad Hutchins. The last time she'd seen him had been at the Quiksilver store at the Grove, when she had been forced to take Ellie, a girl from their grade in BAMS, shopping for surfing gear. He had thought that Ellie was the surfer, not Becks, and she was embarrassed just thinking about how she had tried (and failed) to explain that she was actually a really good surfer. She hoped he'd forgotten the incident.

“Buddy! It's you!” Chad exclaimed, recognizing her instantly. “Forgot your name!”

“Evangelina Becks.” Mac stood automatically.

Chad was still looking at Becks, like he was trying to remember how they knew each other. Then he snapped his fingers. “Yeah . . . met you at the Grove. . . . So I work for Dixie now. . . . Small world, huh?” He clapped his hands together.

Becks removed her right hand from the pocket of her hoodie and waved shyly at Chad. She instantly regretted the move. She should have said
something
to him—it was weird to wave when someone was talking to you. Why did she go mute every time she got nervous?

“I'm Mackenzie Little-Armstrong,” Mac said, firmly shaking Chad's hand.

Chad sized up Mac, shaking his head. “Wow, you really are thirteen.” He chuckled. “I've never met an agent your age.”

“And you never will again.” Mac smiled. “So, where are we meeting?”

“Right this way. Come meet my team.” He held the door open and Becks peered inside a conference room that was big enough to host twenty people. In the middle was a giant blue table with rippled edges like a wave. Floor-to-ceiling glass walls revealed an unobstructed view of the Santa Monica Pier, where the sun was shimmering over the roller coaster. On the side wall were three clocks; each one told the time in a different surfing destination: Huntington, Pipeline, and Bondi.

Two people sat at the table. A woman with bleached blond hair and freckles was at the head. She wore a red sleeveless Patagonia fleece, exposing her chiseled arm muscles. Her face was very tanned except for the pale circles around her eyes where sunglasses apparently went. A few seats away from her sat a guy in a Billabong T-shirt who looked about thirty. His brown hair was so curly that it looked like a clown wig.

They were both eating submarine sandwiches and crunching on potato chips, which explained why the room smelled like barbecue sauce. They shot confused glances at Chad, like they had not been expecting this meeting.

Chad put his fingers in his mouth and whistled. “Listen up, peeps!” He pointed at Mac with his thumb, like he was hitchhiking. “I got here Mackenzie Little-A.” Then Chad studied Becks, his face scrunched in confusion. He lowered his voice to a stage whisper. “Buddy, sorry. I keep forgettin' your name.”