Watch Out, Hollywood!: More Confessions of a So-called Middle Child Read online

  Did she say earn? “But how? After I got busted for the prank masterpiece of all time and got kicked out of school, I swore on my life that I wouldn’t hack anymore, which leaves me with zero earning power.”

  She starts digging, then stops. “How about the Pumpkin Patch on Sunset? I think they’re looking for volunteers this Halloween. The tips are supposed to be great.”

  “The Pumpkin Patch?” As in the place kids from school go to be seen in their coolest outfits?

  “Work there for a week, do a good job, and I’ll make sure you have enough for your head shots.”

  A week of work? Oh, Mandela, help! A week of enslavement? Of forced labor? Of total humiliation?

  “We’ll go and talk to the owners.” She smiles. “It’ll be fun.”

  “Fun?” You gotta be kidding me.

  But then I remember:

  The path to fame is lined with the bodies of the weak. I, Charlie C. Cooper, am not weak. I, Charlie C. Cooper am ready to sacrifice— My computer rings. I click on the screen. It’s Jai, my friend from India. The problem with Jai is that he can see into my soul. I hit ignore as fast as I can.

  Fame Is Better Than Chicken Nuggets and Ranch

  So we’re walking to school the next morning, Pen is teaching Felix some “life lesson,” and all I can think about is that if I play my cards right, I will:

  • Have my very own TV series.

  • Car and driver.

  • Paparazzi following my every move.

  • Huge Twitter following.

  • Get Bobby to really like me, as in sustainable like—as in get dropped off by the parents and hang out at the Grove Mall like.

  I’m so full of hope—which is rare for me—I don’t even realize how far I’ve walked until I see my old enemy Principal Pickler in the parking lot, and all that positivity just drains from my heart. He’s wearing a bad suit and a freakish grin like he wants something. Pickler always wants something.

  “Hello, Cooper.” He puts out his hand. “I’ll admit I was wrong about you.”

  I shake it, even though I seriously don’t want to.

  It’s the first time I’ve seen him since that night he came to our house with the cops and Social Services.

  Pickler puts his long skinny arm around me and grins like the Joker. “Why don’t you come to my office for a little visit?”

  In the old days, I’d be sweating, trying to figure out what I was about to get busted for. But not anymore.

  Pen taps him on his shoulder. “If you have a moment, I’d like to talk to you about what’s happening in the canyons.”

  He looks totally confused. “What’s happening, exactly?”

  “Well, sir, those new megamansions that are being built up on Stanley Hills are killing the animals. You’re aware that it’s called the wildlife corridor because that’s where the animals pass through the hills, aren’t you?”

  “Uh . . .” He shakes his head, points to his office. “I’ll have to get back to you on that.”

  TRUE FACT: That’s his line whenever he doesn’t want to answer the question.

  If Pen actually thinks Pickler cares more about the squirrels than the mansions, it makes me wonder what “gifted” really means. Felix, meanwhile, hopeless as ever, has found a dead rose and is trying to replant it.

  “Charlie, shall we?” He points to his office.

  I follow him into his little office. He points at the chair. “Sit, please.”

  I look at the clock on the wall. It’s already past eight, which means my homeroom teacher, Mr. Lawson—Mr. L for short—has already started on his Gratitude Prayer.

  I hate the Gratitude Prayer.

  If I’m lucky, I’ll miss the whole thing, and then tomorrow I can talk about being grateful for having missed the dumb gratitude speech. Knock out two days at once. Yippee.

  Pickler leans forward and peels off a really long, gross cuticle. “I saw you on TV last night. Ex-bully turned selfless do-gooder.”

  “That’s me.” I beam. I like this new role.

  Pickler narrows his eyes. “So you and Marta are tight?”

  “Yeah.” I look away.

  He leans back. The chair squeaks. “Did you know the Junior Olympics are coming up in two weeks?”

  “Say what?” I ask calmly, but inside I am screaming! Yes, screaming! Fate is so clearly on my side, it isn’t even funny. If I can get her into the Junior Olympics, my lie is canceled. Slate wiped clean. Once again, Charlie = Hero.

  “This is the most important competition of the year for Happy Canyon. This is where we get ninety percent of our donations, where we recruit our top athletes, our prestigious teachers. Where we get all of our press.” Pickler practically screams. Then he opens his desk and pulls out the program sheet. “We need Marta there. We have to have her there. Can you help me?”

  “Help you?” I jump out of my chair. “Marta would sell her left kidney to go—”

  He points to the chair. “It’s not that easy.”

  “Why?”

  “The aunt refuses to pay. I’ve been on the phone with her all weekend, and she’s refusing to pay a cent. Not a single cent. Did I mention it’s in Texas? We’re talking hotels, food, transportation, and fees.” He puts his feet up on the desk. “I don’t know what to do.”

  I hear screaming outside. I get up and look out his small window, even though I know who’s causing the pain. It’s Marta, all right, and she’s back to wearing her signature homeless Disney princess look—pink velour bottoms, pink crocs, and socks. Her hair and face look like she’s never met a mirror in her life. And she’s got a mood to match. Dragging that dirty old pink Disney princess backpack over the feet of anyone in her way. They cry out. I can hear her yelling at them as her wheels run over their feet. “Move your dumb feet!”

  “You gotta get her in the JOs.” I smile at the sight of her. “She’ll take the team all the way.”

  “Of course she’ll take the team all the way,” he yells like a crazy person. “But her aunt won’t pay.” Pickler slaps his desk. “Everyone pays their own way—this isn’t the Goodwill, you know. It’s a public school.”

  “They’re broke.”

  “Who isn’t?” Pickler counters. “Look, if we pay for her, then we’ll have to pay for everyone. The board will never allow it. You have to get them to pay. My hands are tied.”

  “Untie them.” I walk over to his desk and whisper, “Harvard Westlake’s been calling.”

  All color drains from his face. “What? No! Not Harvard Westlake!”

  “I’d pay for Marta before they snap her up for a full scholarship.”

  “But, but . . .” Spit foams at the corners of his mouth. “How? The board will never approve it!”

  “I’m sure you’ll find a way if you want to keep her.”

  “Of course we want to keep her!” He slaps his desk. “Yes, yes.” He types something into the computer. He opens his drawer, takes out a notebook. “I’ll talk to Coach. We’ll figure it out. Might have to keep it hush-hush, if you get my meaning.”

  “Even better.”

  He snaps at his secretary. “Get Coach down here ASAP.”

  “Thanks, Cooper.” He waves me out the door.

  And just like that the white lie has been canceled. Everything is now perfect:

  • Marta has her JOs—Check!

  • I have my TV series—Double check!

  • My white lie has been totally wiped clean and the day has only just begun—Triple check!

  I run out to try and catch her. The upper yard is almost completely empty. “Marta!”

  Marta comes huffing past me like an angry ox. She doesn’t even stop when she sees me. “Marta!” I call after her. “Will you stop already? What’s up with you?”

  She suddenly spins around. “You want to know what’s up with me?” She looks like she’s gonna hit me. “The JOs are in two weeks. That’s what’s up with me.”

  The massive vein on Marta’s forehead is popping out. “But Gre
ta won’t pay for it. She thinks we live in Romania, where everything is paid for. I’m like, ‘Hello, we’re in America! You have to pay for everything yourself here.’ I want to kill her. I hate her.”

  “What if I were to tell you”—I pause and watch her face—“that there’s a very good chance you’re going?”

  She drops her roller backpack on my foot. “If you don’t shut your mouth—”

  “Jeez, Marta!” Ouch. I lift my foot. “I’m not kidding. I just left Pickler’s office. He wants you to be there.”

  She covers her mouth. She’s turning red and waving her hands like they’re on fire.

  She still can’t believe it. “But how? How?”

  “Because you’re the best gymnast on the team.” I lean in. “And I might have told him Harvard wants you.”

  “You didn’t!” She punches me.

  “I did.” I laugh. Man, it feels good to be on the right side of right.

  “When will he tell us? When will I know?”

  “In the next few days.” I push her off. Jeez, she’s out of control, she’s so happy. “Just don’t say anything, all right?”

  “Of course I won’t.” Marta narrows her eyes and stands tall and proud. “You won’t be sorry.” She picks up her backpack and starts running.

  “Wait,” I yell out. “I almost forgot.”

  She comes running back like a puppy. “What, Charlie?”

  I pause, take a breath, slow my heart—“Do you think you could teach me a routine on the beam?”

  QUESTION: Do I feel guilty? Is that what you want to know? The answer is Yes and No. If it all goes according to plan, we’re both winners.

  She gets this weird look on her face. “A routine on the beam? You?”

  “I know.” I roll my eyes. “It’s for a dumb thing Chad wants me to do.”

  “An audition?” She looks immediately suspicious. “He didn’t say anything to me. I thought he represented us both.”

  “He does. Of course. But this is to play a kid who wants to be a gymnast but is totally hopeless. You are a great gymnast.”

  “But . . .” Now she looks hurt. “I could play someone who isn’t.”

  “You’d rather do this than go to the Olympics?” Her face changes before my eyes. “Because you have to go on hundreds of auditions, get head shots, work the whole acting thing, grovel, before you actually book something. You can die on an audition—you should see how many old people there are just nodding off into eternal sleep. But you, Marta”—I grab her shoulders for emphasis—“you’re following in your mother’s footsteps. You’re going to the JOs.”

  She thinks about it and agrees. “You’re absolutely right. I don’t have time to waste on that nonsense. I don’t know what got into me.” She stomps up the stairs, stops on the first landing, and turns around. “I’m going to Texas!” she sings. “You know they’re making me keep a three point seven-five average—

  otherwise I get booted from the team? And Greta is making me train for two hours every morning before school.”

  “See?” I chase after her, feeling way better already. “You wouldn’t have the time to make some dumb commercial anyway. That’s why they never asked you. You’re going to be an Olympian one day.”

  She pulls open the door. The hallway is lined with weird self-portraits by the fourth graders. “Course I’ll help you, Charlie.”

  “You have enough time?”

  “After what you did for me—”

  Down the hall behind us, our classroom door opens. Mr. Lawson comes out. “Ms. Cooper? Ms. Urloff?” His angry voice bounces off the cold hallway. “Are you two planning on gracing us with your star power anytime soon?”

  “We were in Pickler’s office,” I yell back, “and not for anything bad, I swear.”

  “Now that would be a first.” He taps his shoe. “I’m waiting.”

  “Coming, Mr. L.” Marta walks faster.

  “Wait.” I pull her pink sweater. “How long do you think it will take to make me look believable?”

  “As a gymnast?” She snorts. “Years. Decades.” She has a blueberry stuck to her back molar. “Your DNA is all wrong.”

  “First of all, offensive,” I point out. “And secondly, you know me. I am a very fast learner.”

  “Ms. Cooper?” Mr. L is growing impatient. “American history is full of people almost as great as yourself.”

  “Don’t worry.” Marta nods confidently. “I’ll make it so they’ll never know you’re not a real gymnast.”

  Mr. L is losing his Buddhist calm. “Now, or it’s detention.”

  Detention? Seriously? Does he not know who he’s talking to?

  “Remember,” I call out quietly, “hush-hush.”

  Marta runs.

  “Charlie!” He points right at me. “Now!”

  “Consider me there.”

  But first I must reapply my new MAC matte red Rock and Roll lip crayon that is awesome.

  Beginning of the End

  I saunter into class, all cool and calm. Do I expect a standing ovation for my heroics in the tunnels? No. I’m so not that egotistical. But a huge round of applause, a few mentions of how great I looked on CNN? Maybe a cupcake tray?

  What I do not expect is that Marta’s big fat mouth is already flapping big-time.

  Lillian, the team captain, is screaming. “You are not coming to the JOs. No way. Coach said so, and it’s final.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure.” Marta pushes back.

  Erica, Lillian’s second-in-command, yells in her face, “You can’t afford it.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure,” she says again like she has some inside knowledge.

  “Liar.” Lillian hops over her desk, coming straight for her.

  Marta doesn’t back down. It’s not in her DNA. Mr. L stops Lillian and turns her around. “Class, enough, enough!” He points to me. “Take your seats, please. What is all of this about?”

  “Ask Charlie,” Marta says.

  The class is quiet. “What? Ask me what?”

  Lillian’s face is so tight it looks like a mask. “Is she or is she not coming to the JOs in two weeks?”

  I shrug. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Lillian looks like she wants to erase me from sight. “So”—I smile like a superstar—“who watched the news over the weekend?”

  “Five minutes of fame, babe.” Lillian looks at my feet. “Big Deal. And Marta’s NOT coming.”

  “Not bad, Cooper.” Bobby taps his pencil on his desk. “You even looked like a girl. Had a waist and everything.”

  He’s fallin’ for me. I kid you not. And I’m gonna kiss him if it’s the last thing I do.

  Bobby starts drawing a skull. He’s wearing this leather necklace with a shark’s tooth on it. So hot. “Just be careful out there in Hollywood land— ”

  “Ssh,” I whisper. Last thing I need is Lillian, Erica, or Babette knowing my business.

  He shakes his head. “They suck you dry and leave you dead inside.”

  “Bobby. Ssh.”

  “Class, speak quietly amongst yourselves while I finish writing this amazing poem by Mr. Ralph Waldo Emerson on the board.” L’s back is turned. Talk about out of touch. Waldo? And who the heck reads cursive? Html, baby, that’s where it’s at.

  “Just watch out.” Bobby shades in the skull, darkens the teeth of his death pic.

  “Well, Mr. Depressing.” I lean back and fix my black sequin butterfly barrette. “Good news. I don’t have to. I have a great agent who watches my back. He’d never let anything happen to me. Ever.”

  “Yeah, right.” Bobby pulls up his hood and keeps on drawing the corn teeth.

  The bell rings, Lillian mumbles something to Erica, and they take off like there’s a fire. Something’s going on. I look for Marta and see her running out the door.

  “Marta, hold up!”

  “Hey, Coop.” Bobby, beautiful Bobby gets in my way, and I forget all about Marta.

  Bobby Digs Me
Big-Time

  The hallway empties about as fast as it fills.

  “What’s up with you?”

  “Nothing.” He gets all jumpy. “Nothing’s up. ”

  “You know you can tell me, right?” I pretend to read one of the fourth graders’ super dull personal narratives hanging in the hallway. The title of this one: “How Video Games Are Evil.” Yeah, right.

  “Kids spouting their parents’ lies.” Bobby smiles.

  I turn my back on the wall of narratives. “I’ll never tell your secret. Cross my heart.” I cross it, making sure I don’t bring attention to the bumps.

  But he’s looking at me. And let me tell you, he’s got this look on his face that’s making my mouth dry up faster than a desert pond. It’s like he’s going to kiss me. I wonder if my breath stinks. Oh, God. My breath stinks. I take a step back.

  “Dude”—he kicks the wall with his high-tops—“why do you want to go and do something dumb like Hollywood?” He wipes his eyes with both fingers like guys always do. “It’s full of scumbags.”

  “Oh, come on, Bobby! I might have my own trailer!” I jump up and down like a fool. “And a golf cart! You know how they all cruise around in golf carts? What part of that doesn’t sound awesome?”

  He shrugs and says, “I thought you were different.”

  Ouch.

  “They messed up my dad. All his old friends hate him now. Stay true, Cooper.”

  “True’s my middle name.” I pick up my pack. The hallway is empty now, and my stomach is mad that I’m not feeding it.

  Bobby and I walk toward the exit. He’s about a foot taller than me—man, do I like tall men. He starts bouncing the ball that lives under his armpit. “Wanna maybe shoot some hoops after school?”

  Do I want to maybe shoot some hoops? Do I breathe? Of course I want to shoot some hoops— “Oh, shoot! I almost forgot. I have to go to Marta’s house.” I look into his huge brown eyes.

  Suddenly his whole attitude changes. “No, that’s cool. She needs all the help she can get. See ya around.” He takes his basketball and bounces it out the door.