I So Don't Do Famous Page 4

  chapter

  seven

  I love a hotel room. It’s like a mini life inside your real life. Makes me feel like I’m living in a snow globe.

  Our room is very swank, with a soft beige couch, a modern silver floor lamp that resembles a tall science-fictiony plant, a totally tiled bathroom, photos of famous movie stars on the bedroom wall and a great view of Hollywood Boulevard, specifically Grauman’s Chinese Theatre.

  It’s truly excellent that my dad’s in his own room. His snoring is, in a word, scary. Plus, sharing a deluxe hotel room with my best friend means having a fancy slumber party every night.

  We’re getting dressed for the awards ceremony. Junie’s quieter than usual. Probably, she’s still annoyed about Lorraine and Stef. Junie doesn’t make friends as easily as I do. But, like I pointed out to her, she shouldn’t be bugged about the free tickets. It took me two and a half seconds to hop the elevator up to our room, snag the tickets, then deliver them to Lorraine and Stef, who were sharing a soda in the hotel café. Plus, the tickets were trash if they didn’t get used.

  “But you don’t know them,” Junie says. “And this is a closed event with strict security.”

  “They’re exactly like us.” I pull my dress over my head. “Only fifteen and with tighter, shorter clothes and metal on their faces.”

  Despite Junie’s moodiness, I’m still a complimentary friend and mention the loveliness of her turquoise + white paisley skirt and matching shirt. “Those colors really accentuate the different shades of red in your hair.”

  Junie stretches her lips taut like a monkey and brushes on wet shiny gloss. “Thank you.” She smacks her lips together. “Your dress looks great, Sherry. The purple is really pretty.” She drops the gloss in a tiny black purse. For touch-ups throughout the evening. “I hope this is a magical evening for you.”

  “Thank you.” I give her a hug. My dress is actually violet, but I doubt Junie is currently open to correction.

  I sprinkle mauve glitter in my hair, then twirl in front of the full-length mirror. My dress flares out with style and panache. Eat your heart out, Josh Morton.

  From the hall, we knock on my dad’s door. “Hurry up,” I say. “It’s time to go downstairs to meet our Hollywood Girl rep.”

  He emerges, dressed in tan. The Ruler’s a big fan of the beige family and has redone my dad’s wardrobe in the noncolor.

  By the front desk, there’s a tall and slim girl with long, flat, satiny blond hair and fake lashes that brush her pink cheeks. Her smile is megawatt. “Hi! Sherry Baldwin, right? I’m Madison Brown from Hollywood Girl.”

  She lightly grasps my shoulders and air-kisses either side of my head.

  When I think of L.A., this is exactly how I imagine it. Streetfuls of beautiful people air-kissing.

  “You look even more adorable in real life, Sherry.” Madison leans toward Junie and air-kisses her. “So, you’re the lucky best friend. Junie Carter, right?”

  “Yes.” Junie grins. “Is it okay if I take pictures? I’m the editor for our online school paper.”

  “Absolutely it’s okay!” Madison says. “We’re down with publicity at Hollywood Girl.”

  Madison gives my dad the air-kissing treatment too. He stands stiff and awkward, like he’s one of the Queen of England’s soldier-guards, who, according to the Travel Channel, aren’t allowed to talk or smile or show any expression. Even if you tell them a joke.

  “You’ve got the tickets?” Madison asks my dad. “The policy this evening is ‘no ticket, no entrance, no exception.’ ”

  Junie shoots me a look, which I ignore.

  Dad pats his suit pocket. “All in order.”

  Madison claps. “Yay. We’re set.”

  Once she’s herded us together mother-hen style, Madison ushers us to the ballroom. Along the way, she gives us the scoop on this evening’s program. Like what’s on the menu and how long the ceremony will run. She makes it sound fun, fun, fun. I’m particularly thrilled to hear that there will be an extravagant dessert bar.

  “Dear Elle’s really psyched about meeting you, Sherry.” Madison beams at me. “She was blown away by the depth of your understanding of love.”

  “Yeah, well,” I say. I’m really starting to feel like a fraud. I’ve had one boyfriend. The relationship didn’t even last half a year. I’m no expert on true love. I’m more of an expert on short relationships that end with heartache and awkwardness.

  “Sherry has always been emotionally mature for her age,” my dad says. Then he jumps into a lame-o story of how I used to dress up my brother and push him around in my toy stroller.

  Junie chimes in. “Sherry’s really popular at school. She gets along with all the different cliques.”

  Thank you, Dad and Junie, for trying to make me look interesting and unique in front of Madison. But it’s embarrassing.

  The Blossom Ballroom has three tall medieval-style wooden doors. Only the middle door is open. A short, plump, spectacled man in a tux stands guard with an outstretched hand and a stern expression that says, “Either fork over a ticket, or go home.”

  “I’m Madison Brown, a Hollywood Girl staffer.” Madison glances at his name badge while handing him hers. “Nice to meet you, Garrett.”

  “Uh-huh.” Garrett rubs her badge between his thumb and forefinger, then locates her name on his clipboard. He’s certainly not the friendliest man in the state.

  Next, Madison gives Garrett our names. With a thin black Sharpie, he draws a slow X next to them, then reaches out for our tickets, which he checks übercarefully. Finally, in a low monotone, he utters, “Head table. Have a good evening.” Hands clasped behind his back, Garrett steps to the side to let us pass.

  This is serious security.

  Madison leads us into the ballroom.

  Junie and I gasp. My dad spins on his heels, exhaling a low whistle.

  We have left the normal world of chores and homework and heartache. Hello, wild and wonderful fantasy world!

  Overhead, the ceiling panels flash rainbow colors. Super-cute miniature windows line the room way high up, like we’re in a castle. Round tables covered in crisp white cloths dot the large room. Everywhere, well-dressed, elegant people are chatting about their exciting lives.

  From the back corner, a band rocks the party. A band with a strong drumbeat and boomy bass. A band whose tracks are on my iPod. A band Josh is crazy about. Camel’s Breath!

  Junie catches my eye. She recognizes the music too. She frowns and wags her finger at me as if to say, “Do not even consider going sad and weepy on your special evening.”

  Josh’s mom drove him to countless coffee shops around Phoenix to listen to Camel’s Breath before they landed bigger gigs. And now, here they are, opening for a Hollywood Girl awards dinner.

  Josh. I sigh. My thumbs itch to text him.

  Junie frowns and wags her finger at me again.

  She’s right. I squeeze my eyes until all I see is black. When I open them, the fantasy world with its lights and people and food smells floods in, filling me up. And Josh is gone. He’s not ruining my evening. I won’t let him.

  Madison points to a table near the podium. “That’s where you’ll be sitting. There are name cards at each place setting.” Then she points to a counter manned by another tuxedoed man. “Why don’t you guys grab a drink and some appetizers? I’ll catch up with you later.”

  She air-kisses me goodbye. “You’ll hear me screaming for you, Sherry.”

  Junie’s staring at the room through her camera’s viewfinder. Click. Click. Click.

  “Who’s the band?” Dad asks me.

  “Camel’s Breath,” I say. “They’re pretty up-and-coming.”

  “Hmpf,” he says. “I can think of some music that would really get this place hopping.”

  “Dad, Céline Dion is not the musical answer to all situations,” I say.

  Smiling, Junie snaps the cover back over the lens. “Those are some decent photos.”

  We head to the
middle of the room, where there’s a mountain of cheese with a bunch of different crackers, along with grapes and olives and mysterious little spreads. Not to mention other finger foods. We load up small plates, then hit the drink guy for a soda with a mini umbrella. I’m sniffing for my mother and keeping an eye out for Lorraine and Stef. Negative on both counts.

  At the head table, we check for our names on embossed cards with gold letters. On my right will be Dear Elle! On my left, Gloria Vasquez, a reporter for Hollywood Girl.

  “Let’s take a load off,” Dad says. He can’t wait to dig into his plate of high-cholesterol, trans-fatty snacks.

  I’m sniffing for coffee. By the appetizers. By the drink bar. By our table. Where is my mother? I want her here for the ceremony.

  “Sherry, are you getting a cold?” my dad asks.

  Junie watches my face.

  “Nah,” I say to them both.

  Dad bites into a drumstick. He chews slowly, savoring. “Deep-fried chicken. How I have missed thee.”

  My cell rings. “It’s Paula. Across the miles, she can sense what you’re eating, Dad.”

  He wipes his mouth with a napkin.

  I put the phone to my ear. “Hi, Paula.”

  “Sam and I are calling to wish you good luck tonight,” Paula says.

  That woman has a memory like a steel trap. “Thank you.”

  “Make sure Junie and your dad take pictures. Maybe with their phones? So they can send them to us while the event is still going on. It’ll be as though we’re there with you.”

  “Sure,” I say.

  “Here’s your brother,” Paula says. “He wants to talk to you.”

  “Was I supposed to feed your fish today?” Sam asks.

  “No! Not until tomorrow. Sam, do not overfeed Cindy and Prince. You’ll kill them. The feeding schedule’s on the fridge under the Pets Galore magnet.” How can he be such a math brainiac, but incapable of following a simple chart?

  “Hey, did you know I’m spending tomorrow night at Joe’s?” Sam says.

  “Sam, get Paula to help you with the fish.”

  “We’re going cosmic bowling first,” he says.

  “Sam, listen to me. Do not let anything bad happen to my fish.”

  I hear The Ruler’s muffled voice in the background.

  Someone taps my shoulder. I turn my head. Yet another guy in a tux.

  “Sam, promise me—”

  “Break a leg, Sherry.” Sam disconnects.

  “Excuse me.” The guy taps on my shoulder again. “Are you Sherlock Baldwin?”

  “Yes.”

  “They need you at the entrance. There’s a problem.”

  chapter

  eight

  “Hi, Sherry!” Lorraine and Stef say in unison. A little too brightly.

  They’re standing outside the entrance to the Blossom Ballroom.

  “These two girls said you gave them tickets,” says Garrett, the guard.

  Lorraine and Stef are smiling way wide at me, their eyes pleading, “Help us. Don’t leave us stranded.”

  “I did give them tickets,” I say.

  The girls relax.

  “But their names aren’t on my master list.” Garrett holds up his clipboard.

  “Probably the names Paula Baldwin and Sam Baldwin are,” I say.

  He runs a finger down the first page. “Yes, they are.”

  “Paula and Sam couldn’t make it,” I say. “And I didn’t want the tickets to go to waste.”

  “Are these girls’ names anywhere on my list?” He peers over his glasses at me.

  “I doubt it,” I say.

  People in the line are grumbling. I’m starting to sweat. Garrett the Human Stop Sign obviously takes his job too seriously. Suddenly, I hear a cheerful, cheerleadery voice.

  “Anything I can help with here?” Madison asks. “I need to get our guest of honor back to her seat.”

  “Guest of honor?” Garrett says suspiciously.

  “Yes, Sherry Baldwin.” Madison touches my shoulder. “You already checked her in.”

  “Hmpf. Your guest of honor is trying to sneak people in.”

  Madison looks at me.

  “I didn’t mean to sneak anybody in,” I say. “I just gave my stepmother’s and brother’s tickets to Lorraine and Stef.” I gesture at the girls, who are standing quietly, waiting for a verdict.

  “These are your friends?” Madison asks.

  I should say no. All I know about Lorraine and Stef is that they recognize a great essay on true love when they see it. And they dress cute and stylish. Tonight Lorraine’s wearing black capris, a shimmery blouse and a black vest. Stef has on tight black leggings and a long fuchsia top. Both are rocking loads of gold eye shadow. However, Garrett’s hard-core security-guard behavior is annoying to the max, and I want to get the girls in to bug him. Plus, I like them, and there’s no reason for them not to attend. “Yes,” I answer emphatically.

  “Garrett,” Madison says gently, “our guest of honor is allowed to invite four people. Her dad and one of her friends are already seated. Let’s admit her other two good friends okay?”

  Garrett steps to the side. “General seating only,” he intones.

  “We’re in?” Lorraine says. She high-fives Stef. They skip around Garrett, give me a quick hug and disappear into the crowd.

  Madison wraps an arm around my shoulder and gives a little squeeze. “Sorry about that.” When we’re out of earshot of the security guard, she says, “Garrett’s brother is really high up in Hollywood Girl.”

  “No problem.”

  “Dear Elle is here and dying to meet you!” All that’s missing from Madison is a pair of fluffy pom-poms.

  “I can’t wait,” I say. Walking through the room, I’m smelling for coffee. Nothing. Where is my mother?

  When we get to the table, everyone is seated, including Dear Elle, who’s chatting with the woman on her right side. The waiters have already served bread and salad. The Ruler would approve of the dark green leaves.

  Madison pulls out my chair, and I slip in. “You’re going to love her,” she whispers. “I’m scooting over to my table. Bon appétit.”

  “What was the big problem?” Junie asks me from across the table.

  She would not approve of how I handled the ticket situation. “Nothing.” I sip my soda. “Total misunderstanding.”

  “What did Paula want?” Dad tears off a chunk of his roll and slathers it with butter.

  “To wish me good luck and ask you to text her pictures from tonight,” I say.

  Dear Elle turns to me, her blue-black hair glinting in the light. “Sherlock, it’s so very exciting to meet you.” She smiles at me while glancing around the table.

  In real life, Dear Elle looks even younger than she does in the thumbnail photo in the magazine. Maybe early twenties. Her skin is completely blemish-free and wrinkle-free and freckle-free. She looks like a doll. And she’s petite like me, about five feet one.

  I’m gazing around, trying to find the purse. Junie’s staring too. Probably already imagining the headlines.

  From a silver hook clipped to the table, Dear Elle pulls off a black evening bag with a sparkling diamond clasp. “Girlfriends! Is this what you’re looking for?”

  I nod. Junie nods.

  “That’s the question I always get when I meet people. ‘Where’s the diamond?’ ” Dear Elle clasps and unclasps the purse so everyone at the table can see how it works. “Too cool, right?”

  “Where do you get a purse like that?” my dad asks.

  “This is a one-of-a-kind designer item. Made especially for me by Jake’s Bags. It even came with this one-of-a-kind hook.” Dear Elle hangs the purse back on the silver hook.

  The hook is a cool accessory, but if I had an exclusive purse like that? I’d superglue it to my shoulder.

  “Could I take a picture of you and your purse?” Junie says.

  “Have we met?” Dear Elle swings the purse up by her face and smiles with small, sparkling
teeth.

  “I’m Sherry’s best friend.” Her eye peering through her camera’s viewfinder, Junie pops off a few quick shots. “And the new editor of our middle school’s paper.”

  “Sherry?” Dear Elle takes a dainty sip of water.

  “Short for Sherlock,” I say.

  “That was a very good essay.” Dear Elle trickles dressing from a silver jug onto her salad.

  I feel myself blush. “Thank you.”

  “Have you read my book? Love, Revealed?” she says a little louder than necessary.

  “Uh, n-no,” I stammer. “But I follow your advice in Hollywood Girl religiously. It’s the first page I flip to when the magazine arrives in the mail. In fact, I can pretty much quote you word for word after a couple of—”

  “I’ll be signing after dessert,” she interrupts. “And there are copies here for sale.”

  Gloria leans over me. “Dear Elle, I freelance for an entertainment paper that’d be interested in a book review and interview.”

  Elle flips her hair over her slender shoulder. “Awesome, Gloria.”

  “You have a lot of fans at Saguaro Middle School.” Junie grabs a roll and passes the basket to the woman next to her. “They’d love to see pictures of you and Sherry together.”

  “Absolutely.” Dear Elle pokes her fork into her salad. “And maybe a couple of poses on my own?”

  The main course arrives. Dad digs into his steak like he hasn’t seen one in months. Which he hasn’t.

  “Nothing like the aroma of a good steak, right, Sherry?” Dad says between bites.

  In no time flat, the meal is over, including the chocolate fudge sundae and the lemon square I snag from the delicious dessert bar.

  Dear Elle leans toward me. “Are you ready for your moment in the sun?”

  I sniff. I guess my mother isn’t going to make it. Bummer.

  Junie pushes back her chair and pops the lens cover off her camera.

  “But I don’t have to talk, right?” I say.

  “Just a few words. Nothing to get nervous about.” Dear Elle pushes her straight hair behind her ears and brushes imaginary crumbs from her satiny blouse. “How do I look?”

  “Great,” I say. “But not a speech, right?”