Almost Famous, a Talent Novel (13 page)

“So we’ll be acting together?” Emily asked, faking enthusiasm.

But Kimmie was on a roll and not listening. “You should probably Netflix
Boys Don’t Cry
to get a sense of this part.” She stared at Emily, her tiny brown eyes crinkling in concentration. “Spazmo should definitely be a freak. I want people to leave the play feeling awful for you.”

Emily nodded numbly. She realized the get-out-of-playing-Spazmo train had already left the station. Was Kimmie trying to torture her? Or did she really want the best actress to be in her play? Or both? She picked up the glasses and held them in front of her face to inspect them, mentally calculating how many people would see her as Spazmo. At least it was just a school play. No one would see it.

“Oooh! I almost forgot—this is your headgear!” Kimmie waved it in the air like a pompon. “It used be mine, so you know it’s real.” She grinned. “Don’t worry, I totally sterilized it in the dishwasher.”

Emily nodded, eyeing the metal device. It reminded her of going to the dentist.

“Put the costume on! Let’s run some lines!” Kimmie clapped enthusiastically.

Emily put on the glasses and the flannel and opened to page one of the script. She inhaled and then uttered her first line, fearfully, like she was jumping off the high dive. “Knock, knock—who’s at my door?” Emily-as-Spazmo read her line. To her surprise, for a second she felt joy at rehearsing, something she hadn’t done since prepping for her audition with Mac.

“That’s great, but can you add a lisp?” Kimmie asked sweetly.

“Knock, knock—whoth at my door?” Emily added obediently.

“Great, and just be a little bit more monster-y?” Kimmie suggested.

Emily read the line again, this time with an even deeper, louder voice and with her shoulders hunched up so high they practically touched her ears. She felt like a troll.

As they continued to run lines, Emily starting getting into the part, and line after line made both girls chuckle. Emily wasn’t sure if it was because she sounded like such a freak or because the play was actually funny. But at least for a second she made herself laugh.

“Oh my gosh, I almost forgot!” Kimmie crossed her arms and stared at Emily. It was almost like an accusation. “I insist on method acting!”

Emily gulped. Method acting meant totally immersing yourself in a role, and it meant a lot of different things to different people. Some actors behaved like they were in character
all the time
. Emily’s mind raced, imagining what Kimmie could mean by “method.” She knew Dustin Hoffman had once gone two days without sleeping in order to tap into his character for
Marathon Man
. Emily didn’t want to give Kimmie any ideas. “What exactly do you mean by
method acting
?” Emily said cautiously.

“Like, you know how you tricked me at the Grove and made me think you were a guy? Nice job, by the way.” Kimmie redid her ponytail and Emily wondered just how much bitterness Kimmie was storing. Maybe she wasn’t so sweet after all? “I want you to immerse yourself in this role twenty-four-seven.”

“So what you’re saying is, I need to be Spazmo
all the time
?” Emily spoke slowly, hoping she’d missed something. Emily imagined walking through Main Quad dressed like Spazmo, walking into classes dressed like Spazmo, searching for her lunch table like Spazmo, and feeling everyone’s eyes on her as Spazmo. She was so new at BAMS that no one really knew who she was. If she had to method-act for Spazmo, then everyone would think she really
was
a total freak. Surely Kimmie wasn’t
that
cruel.

“Yes, starting now.” Kimmie smiled.

Emily felt trapped—she wondered what Adrienne would say. But of course she couldn’t bother Adrienne with something this petty. Plus, she knew Mac and the Inner Circle were counting on her to do her part. If any one of them didn’t fulfill their part of Pax Rubana, the whole deal was shot. Emily had no choice.

Emily opened her mouth to speak. She was about to say, “But nobody at BAMS knows me yet and they’re going to think I really
am
Spazmo!” But then she looked into Kimmie’s twinkling eyes and realized:
That was exactly the point.

M
ac inhaled deeply as Erin’s Prius wound up the tree-lined streets of Benedict Canyon and then turned right onto Mulholland Drive, passing Spanish-style homes hidden behind black gates, and tourists stopping on the side of the road to take pictures. From her seat in the Prius, Mac had a crystal-clear view of the Valley to her left, and the Beverly Hills canyons to the right.

Erin turned the car into a private driveway with a guardhouse, where Ruby lived in a private gated community called Beverly Park. Everyone called it Beverly Barf, because of its ten-bedroom nouveau riche houses. Davey Woodward had moved his extended family into one of those huge houses when he became a millionaire movie star. Erin gave her name to the guard, who let them in.

“So . . . are you friends with Ruby Goldman?” Erin asked, her green eyes bugging behind her red Ugly Betty glasses as they drove down the private road. It was dotted with matching, ginormous Italian villas with ornate fountains and tennis courts and sprawling lawns. “Is she as bad as her father?” Erin whispered cautiously, as if Barry Goldman might overhear. “I had a friend who worked for him, and he got fired for buying the wrong flavor soy milk.”

“Actually, I’m Ruby’s assistant.” Mac slipped on her new Balenciaga wraparound sunglasses, trying to hide her disdain for the
A
-word, since she didn’t want to offend Erin.

“How is Mac Little-Armstrong anyone’s
assistant
?” Erin said incredulously, her silver nose ring shining in the sunlight.

“It’s a long story.” Mac shrugged. “A long, humiliating story involving my big mouth that ends with me being an assistant.”

“Well, now we have something in common!” Erin squealed, hitting the Prius steering wheel overexcitedly with her overly ringed hands. She accidentally honked the horn. Erin was living proof that not everyone outgrew their awkward years. “No offense, but Ruby’s dad makes the worst movies,” Erin continued. “They’re like car chases and explosions with bad dialogue and fake cleavage.”

Mac smiled, pleased that even someone as clueless as Erin knew that Ruby came from tacky stock. It was true: Ruby’s dad directed big-budget action movies that were jam-packed with explosions and bad dialogue. But they were always blockbusters, which was why he was very rich and powerful.

When they arrived at 519 Beverly Park Road, Mac gulped at the sight of Ruby’s sun-yellow Italian villa. Like the other houses in Beverly Park, the Goldman residence was ostentatiously beautiful, but it was shielded by spiky iron gates, fences, and barbed wire. It looked like a prison.

Erin stopped the silver Prius in front of a gate with a giant gold
G
the size of a small child and buzzed the intercom. Seconds later, the gate opened ominously, like a drawbridge. Mac felt like she was on her way to medieval torture. All they needed was a moat.

“I wonder how much it costs to have an electric gate?” Erin asked cheerfully. Mac turned to face Erin, noticing her bright red lipstick and bright white teeth, and for the first time ever Mac realized why she was so nonstop talky: She drove around all day running errands. She was lonely.

 

Ruby’s maid answered the doorbell, wearing a formal black and white maid’s outfit. Either she didn’t speak much English or she didn’t want to. She pointed at a long corridor.

Mac walked down the hallway, passing an indoor swimming pool, a bowling alley, and a private Pilates studio with a Reformer machine. With every step Mac took on the marble floors, she realized that the Goldman house felt un-lived-in, like a museum, but borderline scary. There was almost no furniture, but there were oil paintings everywhere. Supposedly Barry Goldman was a huge modern art fan, but Mac thought his paintings were just weird. One was an orange triangle with a blue circle inside. Another was just a splotch of red on white canvas, like a drop of blood.

The long hallway led to a spiral staircase, with curved walls that were like a photo-shrine to Ruby. Mac crept up the stairs, eyeing the pictures of Ruby in small black frames. They’d all been taken within the past year, after Ruby’s summer weight loss. (Did her family not think she was worth photographing before?) Mac spotted a picture of Ruby with Drew Barrymore. She took another step. There was Ruby smiling with Jessica Biel. Ruby with Shia La Beouf. Ruby with Britney. In all, there were forty-nine pictures of Ruby with famous people. (Pictures of Ruby with friends: zero).

Finally Mac reached the top of the staircase and stood in front of a white door with giant red-block letters that spelled RUBY. Huffing and puffing, Mac made a mental note to take more Burn 60 classes in Brentwood to get in shape. She knocked twice.

“Come in!” Ruby cooed.

Mac slowly pushed open the door. The bedroom smelled like it had been misted in Tocca room freshener, and Christina Aguilera’s “Ain’t No Other Man” was playing from Ruby’s MacBook computer.

“Welcome!” Ruby called. She was lying on the custard-colored bedspread of her canopy-covered bed, her feet and head propped up by a mountain of white lace pillows. Her crutches were leaning against her white nightstand. Ruby wore a pewter Graham & Spencer dress with silver-trimmed sneakers. Mac winced, knowing that she had debuted that dress last spring. Ruby had no doubt copied her, because Ruby copied everything Mac wore.

Ruby’s bedroom was painted cream and had frilly lace curtains on all the French windows, and cream-colored Anthropologie furniture. It was almost grandma-chic, Mac decided, until she looked up behind Ruby’s bed and noticed a life-size oil portrait of Ruby sitting on a white horse. The room was officially downgraded to Tackorama status. Mac made a mental note to tell the I.C.

“Hi, Macdaddy!” Ruby said sweetly.

“Don’t call me that,” Mac said calmly, stepping closer to Ruby’s bed.

“Whatever, Trevor.” Ruby smiled.

“Bumsies you’re on crutches,” Mac said, eyeing Ruby’s heavily bandaged ankle.

“Yeah, it would be a bummer.” Ruby smiled. “Except that it’s not.”

“But crutches must be really hard on your pop career,” Mac fake-sympathized.

“Yeah, except that I still have my contract with Brigs. While I’m hurt, we’re just focusing on my singing. In fact, I’m going to sing my ode to BAMS at the ExtravaBAMSa finale.” And then, without even pausing to think how awkward it would be to sing in front of just one person, Ruby closed her eyes and sang Gwen Stefani angry-style:

“Ooooh, great,” Mac said fake-sweetly. Inside she was totally annoyed that everything was working out for Ruby when things should have been working out for
her
. Not only would Ruby be the speaker at ExtravaBAMSa, but she also had a record deal? It was too obnoxious.

Mac decided to put the brakes on that subject. “What do you want me to do, Rubes?” She pushed up the sleeves on her James Perse tee and stuffed her hands into her Paige jeans. She was not about to dress down just because she was an assistant.

“The first thing I’d like you to do,” Ruby cooed, reading from a giant index card, “is organize my closet.” She pointed a remote control at the opposite corner of her room and clicked a button. Immediately a shuttered door slid up, like a garage door.

As the door inched its way up, the closet slowly came into view. First Mac saw the floor, which was covered in shoes. Then the door opened a little more, to reveal jeans. Then sweaters. And as it inched up the wall, unveiling a cavern of cotton, Mac realized: The “closet” was more like a separate wing of the house. And it looked like there had been an explosion of clothes: They were everywhere but on hangers.

Mac’s jaw dropped, but she quickly recovered and made a stoic face. The last thing she wanted was to seem fazed by anything Ruby had plotted for her. This wasn’t exactly how she’d envisioned “assisting Ruby as social chair,” Mac realized, as she pulled her hair into a ponytail. Then she imagined her mother making a peanut butter smoothie back when she really wanted to be an agent. She thought of Coco toughing it out as a water boy, Becks having to go shopping with Ellie, and Emily doing whatever it was Kimmie had in store for her. Ugh.
Everybody has to pay their dues,
Mac reminded herself. And at least her dues were being paid in the privacy of Ruby’s home.

Mac tiptoed over to the mess, not quite believing she was essentially going to be a maid. Spying the dirty socks on the carpet, she froze, realizing she’d actually have to touch them in order to put them in the hamper.

“Do you mind if I organize everything by color?” Mac asked, surveying the mess. That was how her three closets had been professionally organized by California Closets. They had totally overhauled her wardrobe, leaving behind pristine shelves and a color-coded organizing system. Her closet now rivaled the racks at Planet Blue.

“Fabulous, organize by color.” Ruby followed on her crutches while Mac began to make piles of clothing. “Just so you know, I decided to go with Joan’s on Third for the ExtravaBAMSa buffet.” She gave Mac a
what do you think?
look
.

“Nice,” Mac said, impressed. It
was
a good choice. Joan’s on Third had crowd-pleasing vegetables and sandwiches, and they were famous for their turkey meat loaf and their cupcakes. The idea of Ruby actually doing a good job as social chair made Mac a little sad.