Star Power (5 page)

“Do you think my mother ever played for just a few people?” Coco asked. Before Coco's mother retired, she had sold out her last three hundred stadium concerts. As a baby, Coco had traveled the world on her mother 's farewell tour, hearing thousands of people screaming her mother 's name.

“Of course Cardammon did!” Emily said, sipping her organic mocha from a coffee cup that said SAVEWATER, and had suspicious-looking crud on the handle. Coco wondered if “saving water” meant “not using dishwashers.” Maybe dirty was the new green?

Mac, who had been e-mailing from her iPhone, snapped back into the conversation. “Babe, you gotta start
somewhere
.” She looked around and waved her phone like a remote control. “And that somewhere is the Karma Café open mic night.”

“I don't think these people came here to hear music.” Coco noted that the only quasi-normals were two girls having coffee, chattering like they were catching up after years apart. Coco imagined how she would feel if she were at an Inner Circle reunion and suddenly interrupted by some random girl with a guitar. She
was
that random girl.

“Sometimes people don't know what they want,” Mac said dismissively. “You're the diamond in the rough here. So go sparkle.”

Coco's nerves throbbed to their own Swedish techno beat. She had to back out—how could Mac set her up like this, after all she had been through in the past month! Coco cringed thinking about her very recent Rejectapalooza:

“I can't handle—” Coco began to protest.

“I'm so proud of you.” Mac beamed with pride. “You have been through so much recently.”

Coco's jaw dropped. Sometimes it felt like Mac could work her emotions like John Mayer playing an older woman. But then she realized—Mac was right. She
had
been through a lot, and none of the rejection had killed her. How could a potentially embarrassing gig in front of a roomful of losers hurt any more than what she had already endured?

The answer was: It couldn't.

Before Coco could utter another syllable, the barista stepped out from behind the counter and walked toward her. “Hey, I'm Finneas Grace,” he said, tugging at his black vest. “But you can call me Finn.” His hair was mussed up and flared around his head, making him look like a boy version of a mermaid. He looked like he had just woken up from a long sleep. Still, there was something slow and cool about him, like it took a lot to impress him.

“You ready to rock out?” Finn asked.

Coco winced, but nodded.

Finn walked up onto the stage. “Good evening, my friends.” He glanced at the list on his clipboard, which was covered in PETA stickers. “Next up, please give some good karma to . . . Coco!”

Mac, Becks, Erin and Emily cheered like they were at a Justin Timberlake concert at Staples Center. The Karma regulars shot them annoyed glares.

Coco tiptoed cautiously onto the rickety platform in her two-inch heels, feeling it creak with every step. She plopped her guitar on her right leg while she adjusted the microphone so it was about three inches from her chin. Then she closed her eyes, strummed the first A-minor chord, and began to sing her “Water Boy” song. It was a silly tune she'd made up at an Inner Circle slumber party, inspired by how she'd been forced to be the water fetcher for the dance team.

It was part Jonas Brothers, part Ashlee Simpson, and it was supposed to be a little bit cute and quirky (like Coco!). And she had forgotten she'd even sung it at the sleepover until days later, when Mac had convinced her to write it down.

The woman with the laptop abruptly slammed it shut. She stood up and stared at Coco, shaking her head in a way that said,
You bad singer, you ruined my day.
Coco's stomach twisted into a knot, and she struggled to remember the next line. She tried to focus on her music, but all she wanted was to unhook the guitar strap and apologize to everyone for interrupting their mellow vibe with her noise.

Still, she could see the Inner Circle listening supportively. Coco owed it to them to continue. As long as there was one person in the audience,
the show must go on.
She closed her eyes and struck another A-minor chord.

And as she focused on her music, and not on the audience, something magical happened: Coco forgot about everything else. She enjoyed the feel of her fingers on her guitar, and she even
liked
singing her song. Coco sat up a little straighter and sang a tiny bit louder, and stayed in that effortless zone until the last line.

I'm just a sad, sad water boy.

When she finished, there was silence. Coco grabbed the microphone with her right hand and, in a breathy voice, said, “Thank you.”

Mac, Emily, Becks, and Erin roared. But as Coco snapped back to reality, she realized that it wasn't just her BFFs: it was
everyone
. Even the crazy man in the rocking chair was smiling and giving her two thumbs up. He swayed his head, still moving to the beat that Coco had stopped singing. The two friends having the reunion had even paused to applaud. So Coco hadn't ruined everyone's day, after all.

Mac high-fived Coco as she stepped off the stage.

“Dude, that was awesome.” Becks bear-hugged her.

“They
really
liked you,” Emily agreed.

“You were beautiful and powerful,” Erin said somberly. “It was extraordinary.”

Coco grinned proudly. Her friends had seen her fail so much in the past month, and now—finally—they could see her succeed. “Yeah, and I only lost one person!” Coco joked about the computer lady.

“Aw, that's nothing!” Erin said, her green eyes twinkling. “Sometimes when I perform, half the crowd leaves.”

There was an awkward pause. Mac, Emily, Becks, and Coco stared at Erin, sadly. She played the flute in a new-age music group and was devoted to changing the world through song.

Erin sighed. “Such is the life of a maverick
.
”

Mac shook her head quickly, like she was trying to erase Erin's existence, and gripped Coco by the shoulders. “I am so proud of myself,” she said, peering into Coco's almond-shaped eyes. “Because I totally called this. You are a hit!”

Coco smiled. Compliments from Mac were as rare and wonderful as secret sales at Ron Herman.

“All righty,” Mac said breezily to the group. “Let's bounce. I'm allergic to being this far from the ocean.” As Coco picked up her guitar, Mac swiveled on her Marc Jacobs mouse flats and headed toward the door. Emily zipped up her hoodie and followed, with Becks and Erin right behind.

Just as Coco was about to leave the coffee shop, she felt a thin hand on her shoulder. She turned. It was Finn, the cutely scrawny barista.

“Man, oh man.” His eyes stared off in the distance, like he was reliving every moment of Coco's performance. “That was amazing.”

Coco smiled shyly. She wasn't used to compliments from boys, let alone from boys who seemed like they were in high school, or hard to impress. In a weird way, it was even better than the compliments from her friends.

“Thanks.” Coco grinned.

“You just owned it.” Finn was now looking right at her. “And you're
good
on the guitar. But your voice, it's like just so unique and, like,
not
unique. Like Janis Joplin but smooth. . . .”

“Seriously, thanks,” Coco purred demurely, just like she'd seen her mother do with fans. “Are you a singer too?”

“Kind of,” Finn said. “I play the tambourine for Electric Hug, and I write music reviews for
L.A. Weekly
. But I'm working here after school until I graduate and can do music full-time.”

Finn seemed completely unaware that Coco was trying to go. “Hey, question for you . . .”

Coco's heart began to thump. She had a feeling she was a second away from being asked out.

“You look so familiar—what's your name again?”

“I'm Coco Kingsley—”

The second the name “Kingsley” rolled off her tongue, Finn seemed to jolt awake.

“
Kingsley?
” He studied her face. Coco knew that look: It was the look that came right before someone connected her to her famous mother. And then it clicked. “Wait a hot second—your mom's
Cardammon
?”

“Yes?” Coco admitted, her heart sinking. She hated when people were only interested in her because of her mom. She'd been enjoying having accomplished something all on her own.

Finn fiddled with a button on his vest that said ANIMALS ARE FRIENDS, NOT FOOD for a really long time. Finally he shrugged. “Too bad. I thought you were more of an artist type.”

“I
am
an artist type!” Coco blurted, shocked. “And so is my mom,” she added, feeling defensive.
The best-selling artist of all time
, she added silently.

“Hardly.” Finn just shrugged.

Coco narrowed her eyes. “So if you don't think my mother 's an artist, what would you call her?” What had Cardammon ever done to him, besides nothing?

Finn ran a hand through his messy hair and pondered the question. “An entertainer?” he mused. “A celebrity?”

“Well, sure,” Coco said, relieved that was her mother's only crime against humanity. “
And
she's an artist.”

Finn chuckled like Coco had just insisted Santa Claus was real. “Sure, Coco. You just keep telling yourself that.”

Coco's throat clamped and she tried to swallow. Okay, so maybe Cardammon's techno-Euro pop was a little manufactured—but . . . but what? Suddenly Coco felt shaken, and like she wanted to get very, very far away from Finn Grace. “I should go. . . . My friends are waiting.” She turned toward the door and pushed it open. The Indian chimes overhead clanged together.

“Hey, listen.” Finn tried to stop her. “I didn't mean—”

But Coco wasn't listening. She zombie-walked to the Prius and slumped into her seat.

“Sooooo . . .” Mac asked excitedly. “Does barista-boy want to book you again?”

Coco was still in shock. “Not exactly.”

“Did he want a D-A-T-E?” Becks squealed. “And I don't mean for your next G-I-G!”

“I guess he wanted to tell me that my mom is lame.” Coco realized that she didn't even know what his point had been. “Or that I'm not serious about music?”

“Everyone has a right to his own opinion,” Erin added, saying the wrong thing as always. She started the car.

“He looks like a very troubled person,” Emily offered quietly.

“Earth to Coco!” Mac commanded, cupping her hands over her mouth like a megaphone. “Emily is right. Look at him. He's just bitter that Starbucks coffee is legitimately better!”

Coco smiled, grateful for the attempts to cheer her up. But she also knew that her friends had to say those things, because that was what friends were for. Questions kept rattling around in her head as the car pulled out of the parking lot. She closed her eyes, but one question kept crashing into the back of her eyelids: Did being Coco Kingsley mean she'd never make it as an indie singer?

Her eyes snapped open. She'd always thought her mom would be embarrassed by
her
—not the other way around.

As they turned onto Sunset Boulevard, Mac turned around again to face Coco. “Besides, Cokes, Cardammon Kingsley is famous to, like, our parents. Our generation is ready for their own dose of Kingsley—
Coco
Kingsley.”

Coco smiled. The night
had
gone well, minus the whole Finn thing, and sometimes critics just wanted to be critics. You could always find one person with something bad to say. She just hoped that next time the critic wouldn't be quite so cute.

becks