Maggie Malone and the Mostly Magical Boots by Jenna McCarthy and Carolyn Evans Page A

looks just like yours, and they put your picture right next to Angel’s on the side of it? It’s totally creepy. And obnoxious, right?”
    â€œUmm, yeah, a little bit!” I say, thinking how I definitely could not handle these people on a daily basis.
    Next comes a sweet little girl, maybe about five years old, dragging a dirty blanket behind her. She’s sucking her thumb along with a corner of the blanket and snuggles in next to me. Her dad stands off to the side.
    â€œWhat’s your name, sweetie?” I ask. She’s totally cute.
    â€œBailey,” she answers, looking up at me with big brown eyes.
    See? This is what all of these “meet and greets” should be like , I think to myself.
    Her dad steps in to make Bailey’s request for her.
    â€œBailey would like to get a picture of you with her woobie, if that’s okay,” he asks, very respectfully.
    â€œSure!” I say. Because how sweet is that?
    The little girl hands me her blanket and I have to tell you, the smell almost knocks me over. It’s sticky and crusty at the same time. Blech! I hold it out to the side and smile with her for the picture, but Bailey looks down, like she’s going to cry.
    â€œUmm,” her dad says hesitantly. “She’d like it if you would put a little bit of it in your mouth. Like she does—just the tip. If you don’t mind!”
    Surely, he’s joking , I think. But no.
    Bailey looks up at me, all hopeful with those big brown Bambi eyes. She is smiling and trying not to cry at the same time.
    Oh, for the love of stinky baby blankets! “Okay, Dad, are you ready?” I yell. I take the disgusting woobie, and for one half of one second, I stick that thing in the corner of my open mouth and smile. I almost gag, but Bailey is grinning ear to ear.
    â€œWait, I’m not sure my flash went off…” the dad is saying, fiddling with his camera, as Vi ushers them out through the gate.
    Where’s the germ juice? I need a breath mint! Is this what Becca has to deal with every night? What’s all that security for anyway?
    I meet a ton more kids and some of them are totally normal and don’t tell me what I did wrong or ask me to chew their gum, which is a relief. I sign autographs until I can’t feel my hand anymore. A lot of the fans even seem like girls I’d be friends with back home at first. Except when I talk to them, they start shaking and crying. And every single one asks me to sign my autograph to “my BFF” and tells me how much she loves me. How weird is that? They don’t love me ! I mean Becca. They don’t even know her !
    It’s after midnight when the whole crazy backstage thing is finally over. I limp back to the bus with Vi. I’ve never stayed up this late at my own sleepover party or even ’til the ball drops on New Year’s Eve.
    â€œGreat show tonight,” Vi says. “You were on fire! I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so…”
    But I’m sound asleep before she can even finish her sentence.

The pounding sound keeps getting louder. I can’t figure out what it is. The warm-up band banging out some crazy drumbeat? Two million feet attached to a million stomping fans? Maybe it’s the roadies loading the gear onto the bus. Whatever it is, I wish it would stop. My head is throbbing and my eyelids feel like someone superglued them shut. It’s probably the sparkly-spider lashes all stuck together. Did I even wash my face before I fell into bed last night? I honestly can’t remember.
    â€œMargaret Flannery Malone, for the love of lasagna, open this door !” shouts a voice from very far away. “I’ve been calling you all morning. Is your phone off the hook or something? Ummm, HAPPY BIRTHDAY! Hey, are you still sleeping ? It’s almost nine o’clock! I brought doughnuts—with rainbow sprinkles! Open up already!!!”
    I sit up in bed and