Free Star Power by Zoey Dean Page A

it was a mock-up of the choreography for the show. She glimpsed shirtless male dancers, a human pyramid, and some Pussycat Dolls-like shimmying before she finally turned away. This was exactly what she was trying to get away from.
    Her mother kept talking. “I know I said I was glad you’d given up on pop stardom,” Cardammon said, a hopeful glint in her eyes, “but I’ve been thinking about it, and I’d love for you to do the finale in my reunion tour.” She held up a purple sequined gown in Coco’s size—it was an exact replica of the monstrosity she was now wearing. The gown hung there limply, like a bedazzled purple puddle. “What do you say, luvvy?”
    Coco pictured herself wearing the dress in front of thousands and thousands of her mom’s fans. Was Cardammon’s idea of mother-daughter bonding international humiliation? She took a deep breath, ready ing herself to say she was actually thinking of taking her sound in a different direction, when suddenly the choreographer pumped up the volume on the “Forever Blue” remix and a techno beat filled her eardrums. The base rattled the floor and her mom’s electronic whine screamed through the speakers.
    â€œThis is your part, luv!” her mom yelled. “We’re going to update the sound for the new era. It’s white hot! Can you feel it?”
    Coco could feel it, all right. She could feel Finn’s words washing over her like a wave, and for the first time the feeling nagging at her took hold and expanded in her mind like one of those magic capsules that grows in water.
    Cardammon began moving her arms in weird circles, gyrating her hips in her purple sequined dress. In the ’90s, one of her videos had started a dance craze called the Flame, but now it just looked pathetic and dated. Like my mom, Coco thought sadly. Even if she was the biggest star in the world a lifetime ago—Coco’s lifetime to be exact.
    â€œThanks, Mom, but. . . .”
    Cardammon reached for the remote and turned the music off abruptly.
    â€œBut what?” she asked, a look of shock taking over her face. “I thought you wanted to be a musician?”
    Coco gulped. She did. Just not with her mom. But how could she say that? There was only one answer: She couldn’t. “You know, the whole performing thing just isn’t for me. . . . Listen, I have to go, but congrats, really.”
    Cardammon’s pointed shoulders fell dejectedly. “Where are you off to?”
    â€œI’m just checking out a coffee shop,” Coco answered. “It’s called Pick Me—” Coco stopped herself, realizing that she’d just told her mother that she was done performing. She reached for another lie.
    â€œI promised Mac I’d work with her. We, um, have a project for school.”
    Madonna growled disapprovingly and Coco made a mental note to Google “dog instincts.”
    Cardammon swooped down to pick up Madonna and placed a fat kiss on Madonna’s adorably smushed face, leaving lipstick marks. “Well, give that girl some sugar from me.”
    â€œMwah, love you.” Coco waved to her mother and flitted out the door, surprised at how easy it was to lie to someone who trusted you.
    Â 
    Coco stood at the side of the stage at Café Pick Me Up in Echo Park, sizing up the crowd. Everyone seemed to have that Finn Grace look—kind of scraggly, semi-tight jeans, and androgynous haircuts. They looked like they needed a grooming intervention, Coco thought. Then she stopped herself. These were her people now. She hoped she could learn to love the look.
    Coco was about to sing her first song, “Water Boy,” and she was already out of breath. Her body had raced with nervous energy ever since leaving Bel-Air. She felt guilty about lying to her mother, and she was jittery about performing. She couldn’t even eat a Larabar. No wonder rock stars were so skinny.
    When her