Star Power (10 page)

But as the butterflies once again took flight in her belly, she realized something with a jolt.

She
liked Davey too.

And there was no theorem that solved love triangles.

coco

C
oco stood in her white marble bathroom at the

King Bel-Air Hotel, a five-star hacienda off Stone Canyon Road. Her father was the hotel mogul Charles Kingsley, who owned five-star properties around the world and kept residences in all of them. The top floor of the Bel-Air outpost had been her home for as long as Coco could remember.

In her white marble bathroom, Coco put the final swooshes of blue mascara on her eyelashes. To rid herself of the Rubybot energy after today's lunchtime encounter, she had changed into a Kate Moss for Topshop minidress, black beret, and silver ankle-boots—all bought during a weekend jaunt to her father's London hotel. As she appraised herself in the mirror, she randomly wondered if Finn Grace would think it was too brand name-y or not artsy enough. But then she was annoyed at herself for even thinking of him.

Tonight was her debut at a new coffee shop (at least, it was new to Coco), called Café Pick Me Up—which, Erin assured her, always got a huge crowd of people who understood music. Unlike Finn. So what if he thought her mother ruined music? First of all, Cardammon's songs were legendary, and okay, maybe they were a tad over-the-top, but what did that have to do with Coco anyway? She was indie. She was artsy. She was her own woman, hear her roar.

Her phone buzzed with a text from Erin:

IM DOWNSTAIRS, BEHIND SWAN POND.

Coco spritzed herself with one final dash of Agent Provocateur and took dainty steps on the green carpet leading to her front door. But on her way out, she saw the door to her private dance studio was mysteriously open. Her mother's voice floated down the hallway, along with laughter from strangers. What was going on? Cardammon only used the room for her yogalates classes in the mornings, and it was four o'clock in the afternoon.

Curious, Coco peered inside the studio. There, in a floor-length purple sequin gown, was Cardammon, nibbling at a biscotti while two young stylists pinned her dress. It was strapless and tightightight to the knees, where it fanned out in a dramatic flourish. Her mother looked like a cross between Disco Barbie and Barney. A man who Coco recognized as her mom's old choreographer was holding up a small DVD player with a screen for Cardammon to watch.

Coco's French bulldog, Madonna, was nuzzled against Cardammon's foot in a matching purple dog dress. Seeing Coco, Madonna yapped loudly.

“And there's my beautiful daughter!” Cardammon pointed her half-eaten biscotti at Coco like a wand. Her face was coated in makeup so thick that Coco imagined writing her initials in the foundation. Suddenly, five pairs of eyes were staring at her. The choreographer looked Coco up and down, as if evaluating her potential.

“Baby Cardammon!” cooed one of the stylists, a twentysomething blonde with hair down to her butt.

“No, luv, that's
Coco
,” Cardammon corrected. She waved away the stylists working on her train, and turned to her daughter. “Darling, I have a little surprise for you,” she said, stepping down from the platform. Behind her, her minions stood at attention. “Now, I know I said I was retired for good, but they've worn me down. I'm making a comeback!”

Coco turned her head to the side, as though that might help her make sense of what she'd just heard. Her mother . . . was planning . . . a
comeback
? Her eyes darted around the room. There were freestanding clothing racks scattered all over the dance studio, overflowing with outfit choices: silver and gold armor, leather pants with glittering laces down the legs, a tail of peacock feathers, a yellow feather boa, a gown that seemed to be made of lightbulbs. . . .

“I'm back, darling!”

Coco gulped. Cardammon was back all right. And tackier than ever.

At Cardammon's announcement, the stylists began applauding. One of them pushed a button on the remote and “Forever Blue,” her mom's hit single from the '90s, began playing over the studio's sound system. “I was never convinced the timing was right,” Cardammon continued, waving her fingernails, which were also painted an iridescent purple. “But you know what they say: Forty is the new twenty. . . .”

Coco glanced at the small screen her mom's choreographer was holding up, and realized in horror that it was a mock-up of the choreography for the show. She glimpsed shirtless male dancers, a human pyramid, and some Pussycat Dolls-like shimmying before she finally turned away.
This
was exactly what she was trying to get away from.

Her mother kept talking. “I know I said I was glad you'd given up on pop stardom,” Cardammon said, a hopeful glint in her eyes, “but I've been thinking about it, and I'd love for you to do the finale in my reunion tour.” She held up a purple sequined gown in Coco's size—it was an exact replica of the monstrosity she was now wearing. The gown hung there limply, like a bedazzled purple puddle. “What do you say, luvvy?”

Coco pictured herself wearing the dress in front of thousands and thousands of her mom's fans. Was Cardammon's idea of mother-daughter bonding international humiliation? She took a deep breath, ready ing herself to say she was actually thinking of taking her sound in a different direction, when suddenly the choreographer pumped up the volume on the “Forever Blue” remix and a techno beat filled her eardrums. The base rattled the floor and her mom's electronic whine screamed through the speakers.

“This is your part, luv!” her mom yelled. “We're going to update the sound for the new era. It's white hot! Can you feel it?”

Coco could feel it, all right. She could feel Finn's words washing over her like a wave, and for the first time the feeling nagging at her took hold and expanded in her mind like one of those magic capsules that grows in water.

Cardammon began moving her arms in weird circles, gyrating her hips in her purple sequined dress. In the '90s, one of her videos had started a dance craze called the Flame, but now it just looked pathetic and dated.
Like my mom,
Coco thought sadly. Even if she was the biggest star in the world a lifetime ago—Coco's lifetime to be exact.

“Thanks, Mom, but. . . .”

Cardammon reached for the remote and turned the music off abruptly.

“But what?” she asked, a look of shock taking over her face. “I thought you wanted to be a musician?”

Coco gulped. She did. Just not with her mom. But how could she say that? There was only one answer: She couldn't. “You know, the whole performing thing just isn't for me. . . . Listen, I have to go, but congrats, really.”

Cardammon's pointed shoulders fell dejectedly. “Where are you off to?”

“I'm just checking out a coffee shop,” Coco answered. “It's called Pick Me—” Coco stopped herself, realizing that she'd just told her mother that she was done performing. She reached for another lie.

“I promised Mac I'd work with her. We, um, have a project for school.”

Madonna growled disapprovingly and Coco made a mental note to Google “dog instincts.”

Cardammon swooped down to pick up Madonna and placed a fat kiss on Madonna's adorably smushed face, leaving lipstick marks. “Well, give that girl some sugar from me.”

“Mwah, love you.” Coco waved to her mother and flitted out the door, surprised at how easy it was to lie to someone who trusted you.

 

Coco stood at the side of the stage at Café Pick Me Up in Echo Park, sizing up the crowd. Everyone seemed to have that Finn Grace look—kind of scraggly, semi-tight jeans, and androgynous haircuts. They looked like they needed a grooming intervention, Coco thought. Then she stopped herself. These were
her
people now. She hoped she could learn to love the look.

Coco was about to sing her first song, “Water Boy,” and she was already out of breath. Her body had raced with nervous energy ever since leaving Bel-Air. She felt guilty about lying to her mother, and she was jittery about performing. She couldn't even eat a Larabar. No wonder rock stars were so skinny.

When her name was called, Coco nervously gripped her guitar and walked slowly onto the red Persian carpet that was, apparently, the stage. The crowd gave her a few weak claps. No one seemed to notice, or care, that she was up there hoping to get their attention.

“Hello. I'm Coco,” she began timidly, looking into the crowd. A few tables in, a young woman pointed to the magazine she was reading and whispered something to her friend. From there it looked like a game of telephone, as she whispered something to the man behind her, who whispered something to someone else.

Coco strummed the opening chord of her song, when finally someone said, “Coco
Kingsley
!?”

“Sing ‘On Fire for You'!” someone else yelled from the darkness.

“‘Forever Blue'!” another voice called out. It felt like a small hipster army was making fun of her.

Coco looked down at her silver boots, wishing she could click them together and vanish. She wanted to cry out,
But I'm not Cardammon and you never gave me a chance!
But what was the point? These people—
her
people—thought she was a joke.