Star Power (4 page)

“Everyone calls her Becks. One word,” Mac reminded him. “Like Rihanna.”

The executives laughed. Becks wasn't sure if they were laughing at Mac or if the moment had been funny in some way that she didn't register. She tried to make eye contact with Mac, but Mac was still smiling at full attention.

“Okay, Mac and Becks,” Chad said, “I'd like you to meet our head of advertising, Dale Goody.” He pointed to Crazy Curls, who was reaching into his mouth to pick at his teeth, “and the founder of our company, Liz Dixie.” Chad took a seat between them.

Becks wanted to say goodbye and leave them to their lunch, but to her horror Mac eased confidently into an empty swivel chair across from the executives and patted the seat next to her, motioning for Becks to follow. Becks started to get that feeling she sometimes got when she was surfing—like she'd picked the wrong wave and a wipeout was inevitable. Except that she hadn't picked this wave.

“Thank you so much—” Mac began.

“Listen, Mackie,” Chad cut her off. “Here's the deal.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “I originally took this meeting so you'd stop hounding me.”

Beck's stomach churned. Of course it had been too good to be true. She looked for the door and wondered if it would be crazy to run out
rightthissecond
.

“But your timing is actually really right on,” Chad continued, “because our fourth Dixie Gal didn't, ahem, quite work out. So we're actually holding tryouts for a new fourth this weekend.” He looked at Becks. “How old are you?”

The way he phrased the question, Becks was sure there was a wrong answer. She pursed her lips and tried to think of different answers to the question. She could only think of one. “Thirteen?” she finally squeaked.

“Yeah, I was afraid of that. Our minimum cut-off age is usually fifteen.” Chad looked genuinely disappointed. “Too bad, 'cause I checked out the clips of you on YouTube that Mac e-mailed. You're pretty hard-core.”

Becks blushed. She had no idea Mac had been sending her homemade surfing videos to strangers.

Mac seized the opportunity. “Going young would be the smart thing to do, since she can grow with the brand. Plus, Becks is tall enough to look fifteen, and she can totally hang with the Dixie Gals. And this is coming from the demographic you're trying to sell—”

Chad opened his mouth to speak, but Liz put her hand out to silence him. “Let her finish,” she said firmly.

Mac clasped her hands. “Here's the thing. Yes, you guys are leading national sales of athletic bikini brands, but you could do even better. Especially in SoCal,” Mac said. “Fortunately, I was able to get my family's accountant to crunch some numbers for you.” She whipped out a pile of glossy pages from a clear plastic folder and handed one each to Liz, Chad, and Dale. “You're lagging in sales in your own state because people here go for brands endorsed by real surfers. The problem is that you're picking models over talent. Tully, Darby, and Leilani—no one doubts they can surf, but what you need is the Michael Phelps of girls' surfing.” Then she looked at Becks adoringly. “And here she is.”

Liz nodded slowly. “Funny you bring this up,” she said, looking at the men. “We just had a meeting about this.”

Becks could feel the eyes in the room landing on her like flies on half-eaten fruit. She hated being the center of attention. The only person not looking at her was Chad—he was staring at the glossy one-page Mac had just distributed, which was titled “Next Wave for Dixie: Evangelina Becks.” Becks cringed, spotting the giant picture of herself in the middle.

Mac sailed ahead. “Um, question,” she began, reading notes off her iPhone. “Do any of your girls have the full backing of world champion Kelly Slater?”

The executives shook their heads.

Mac continued reading from her screen. “How many of your girls surfed Pipeline . . . before their fourteenth birthday? I'm guessing none?”

The executives again shook their heads.

Becks stared at her childhood best friend in awe. She noticed that all the executives were looking at Mac just as wide-eyed as she was. Liz Dixie was actually
taking notes
on things Mac said.

Mac still wasn't done. “Obviously Becks is adorable, but more importantly, she's the next colossal thing in your sport. So if I were you, I'd want to sign her today before someone else does.” Mac gave them a sympathetic look. “Or you'll be knocked out of the SoCal market for good.”

To Becks's surprise, there was silence. No chip chomping. No dental hygiene. Only the ticking of the three clocks.

Liz cleared her throat and looked at Becks. “Obviously, you're a beautiful girl,” she said. Becks grimaced.
Here it comes
, she thought, knowing there would be a “but.”
Here comes rejection
.

“YesIgetitthanksforeverything,” Becks blurted. She stood up and turned toward the door, but in her haste, Becks knocked over her chair. It crashed to the ground, making a loud
thud
. Then, reaching to pick it up, she knocked over Dale's drink, sending peach-colored Jamba Juice all over the blue table. Becks glanced frantically around the room for napkins. Seeing none, she yanked off her sweatshirt and began mopping the table with it. Suddenly she had gone from quiet surfer girl to clumsy freak show. She blushed so brightly that her cheeks hurt.

“She's much better in the water than on land,” Mac offered.

The room laughed.

“As I was saying,” Liz cleared her throat. “We
might
have an opening for a new fourth Dixie Gal, and we'd be willing to reconsider the age restrictions, but we have to see you on a board and see how you fit in with the group.” Liz smiled. “The one thing we've learned is that the group dynamic is key.”

Becks froze, her palm in a puddle of yogurty slop, a shy grin spreading across her face. Did that mean she had a chance after all? Her heart pounded and suddenly she didn't mind that her hands were sticky with smoothie or that her favorite sweatshirt was now an overpriced sponge.

“There are a lot of good-looking girls who think they can surf.” Chad shook his head like it was a great travesty. “But most of them are useless on a board.”

“Come to the tryouts in Manhattan Beach this weekend,” Liz offered kindly. “If nothing else, it will be some good surfing.”

Dale had finished his sandwich and was wiping his fingers one by one with a paper napkin. He nodded approvingly, his clown curls bobbing.

“Greatthanksthatsoundsreallyreallygreat!” Becks said, trying not to freak out.

“We appreciate this opportunity,” Mac said, sounding professional. She leaned down and calmly reset the overturned chair and pushed Becks's smoothie sopped sweatshirt into her Prada bowling bag with a
slop
. She smiled. “Thank you so much. The best is yet to come.”

Still burning with embarrassment, Becks followed Mac out to the parking lot. Erin was waiting in the Prius, crunching on dried wasabi peas. Mac and Becks climbed into the car, slammed the doors shut, and didn't say a word. They waited until Erin had started the car and turned onto Abbot-Kinney Boulevard, safely out of Dixie territory, and then, in unison, they shrieked.

“Ahhhhhhhhh!”

“Ahhhhhhhhh!”

“Becks, they're gonna love you!” Mac exclaimed.

“I know!” Becks cried. Then she covered her mouth, embarrassed she had sounded so conceited. But the only thing about herself that Becks believed in 100 percent was her ability on a board.

“Wa-hoo!” Mac flashed the hang-loose sign, with her thumb and pinky sticking out. “Cowabunga, brah!”

Becks winced. “Mac, you know that's totally poser, right?”

Mac grinned broadly. “But you'll have to admit I was pretty, ahem,
tubular
in that meeting!”

Becks groaned. “We have to work on your slang.”

“Kidding, B! You know I don't speak surfing.” Mac stuck her hand behind her head to flash Becks the hang-loose sign yet again. “But I speak Hollywood, bébé, and we are riding one awesome wave.”

Then she cranked up KIIS FM and they giggled all the way back to Malibu.

coco

C
oco could not believe that she was a)
back
at Karma Café and b) next up to perform. On Wednesday she'd watched a few sad acts, and was ready to bail when Mac sent her a text ordering her to sign up to perform Friday night. Now she was sitting with the Inner Circle on an orange couch, sipping an organic, fair-trade mocha. Erin sat across from them in a green wooden chair, reading a
Spin
magazine that was two years old and tattered.

Everything about Karma Café was old and tattered: There was a bulletin board covered with a mess of thumbtacks and so many yellowed papers on top of each other that all of the notices were unreadable. The tables and chairs were mismatched and/or missing legs. Even the people looked out of whack, like they were still waiting for their chai to kick in.

In the center of the café, standing on a small wooden stage with her eyes closed, was a woman singing. If one could call it that. It was more like high-pitched chanting. She wore a long purple skirt and her black hair was pulled into a low ponytail. A streak of white ran through the middle of her hair, like a skunk.

“I really don't think this is where I belong,” Coco said solemnly.

“You don't
belong
here! You are
starting
here,” Mac hissed.

“Hurray to that,” Erin chimed, lifting up her coffee cup in a fake toast. In a long draw-stringed skirt with sparkly threading, Erin was the only person who actually looked like she fit in. The thought was terrifying.

“I'm not so sure,” Coco whispered. She
was
sure that her life had sunk to abysmal lows. Less than a month ago, she'd auditioned for the biggest record producer in the world, and now here she was, about to perform in a coffee shop that only served earth-friendly, animal-friendly, soul-friendly coffee, according to the barista. These people were too weird for their own good.

“You have to build your fan base from the bottom up.” Mac shot her an imploring look as the “singer” onstage let out a final, punctuating bleat.

Well, I've definitely found the bottom,
Coco thought, as she nervously clutched her Yamaha guitar and studied her future fans. A fortyish woman with pigtails and denim overalls typed furiously on her laptop, like she was mad at the keyboard. Another woman with a long, pointy nose sat primly on the couch, knitting what appeared to be a yellow ski hat even though it was eighty degrees outside. A rail-thin man in shorts and Birkenstocks dozed in a rocking chair, rocking away.