Massie

by Lisi Harrison

  “Massie!” A freckle-faced redheaded girl leapt out from behind a pillar. It was the ever-annoying Ellie Neufeld, her big boobs accentuated by her limeade-colored elastic-top sundress.

  Massie was so startled she dropped Bean, who landed with a squeak.

  “You should see the look on your face!” Ellie cackled, hopping from foot to foot with glee. Massie bent over to comfort Bean, but the pug tore across the lawn to her doghouse—an exact replica of the estate, only mini.

  “Ellie, are you a nocturnal mammal?” Massie asked, the corners of her mouth curling in anticipation.

  “No.” Ellie giggled nervously.

  “Then why are you badgering me?” Massie gripped her side-pony and twirled it around her finger.

  “OMG, Massie!” Ellie bit her flaming-red chapped bottom lip. “Your hair is totally KHBC.”

  “Katie Holmes Before Cruise?” Massie lifted an arched eyebrow.

  “Yes! You’re so on it!” Ellie air-clapped.

  Massie rolled her eyes and scanned the crowd for something— or someone—better. In the distance, atop a Balinese bed by the pool, Lindsey Kearns and Kimmi Redmond lay with their legs tangled. They were giggling at the passing waiters who, as per Kendra’s request, wore nothing more than formfitting Speedos and earth-colored body paint.

  Massie turned on the heel of her silver Sigerson Morrison peep-toe slides and made her way over.

  “Who does your hair, anyway?” Ellie bounced along behind her, following Massie along the candlelit stone path that led to the pool. “My guy moved to Vermont to marry his life partner, even though I told him I’d need a trim before starting sixth. So now my hair is, like, homeless.”

  Ignoring her, Massie marched onward, swatting Ellie’s words away like a malaria-carrying mosquito.

  In the flickering candlelight, the green-and brown-dressed partygoers looked like swirling trees. Or was that the day’s emotions catching up with her? Massie was suddenly so overcome with exhaustion she contemplated sneaking up to bed and starting fresh tomorrow. But it was too late for that now. Lindsey and Kimmi were waving her over.

  “Hey.” Massie stood over them, unsure whether she should commit to sitting. It was still too early to tell.

  Lindsey immediately untangled herself and sat up. “Super-sweet party.” The blonde’s center-parted frizzy dry hair was begging for rain, and her olive Roxy halter dress and J.Crew flip-flops were daytime casual. She was in desperate need of a beauty mentor.

  “Yeah, and those tiny cheesecakes are tooo cuh-yoot.” Kimmi licked her wax-coated, berry-colored lips. They were the only part of her face that wasn’t dotted with cheap drugstore glitter. She looked like she’d been hit in the face with a snow globe. “What are you doing back from horsey camp?”

  Massie accepted a virgin piña colada from a silver waiter and took a long sip. “You mean Galwaugh riding camp?”

  Kimmi nodded enthusiastically.

  “I left.”

  “Why?” Lindsey widened her waterlogged eyes. “I heard that place was the best.”

  “It used to be.” Massie straw-stirred her icy drink. “But it wasn’t challenging me anymore,” she lied. What business was it of theirs why she was back? They should be lip-kissing her silver-sandaled feet that she was even talking to them. “So, what are you guys up to this summer?” she asked, hovering above them.

  “Surf clinic.” Lindsey lifted three fingers. “Third summer in the ocean.”

  Hair doesn’t lie.

  “Can you believe? I think waves are, like, the scariest things ev-er.” Kimmi tugged her dark girly braids, her wide brown eyes fixed on Massie, waiting for her to agree.

  But Massie couldn’t. Nothing was more frightening than Kimmi’s second-grade style.

  “I’m babysitting,” Ellie proudly volunteered. She collapsed onto the bed as if raiding someone’s fridge and watching cable was backbreaking work. “I already have sixty-eight dollars saved.”

  “Two more and you can afford a decent pedicure,” Massie hissed at Ellie’s unpolished toenails.

  Lindsey and Kimmi cracked up. Finally! After the day she’d had, Massie was starting to feel like the only person on the planet with a functioning sense of humor.

  “Move!” Massie shooed Ellie to the edge of the bed and sat.

  “Are you working this summer?” Kimmi rolled onto her stomach and kicked her own butt with the heels of her green Marc Jacobs jellies.

  “Puh-lease! I’m here to relax.” Massie slammed her froth-streaked glass down on the teak pool deck. “Summer jobs are for LBRs who miss doing homework.”

  “I have a summer job.” Kimmi pushed herself up.

  “You mean a jobby, right?” Massie assumed.

  “What’s a jobby?” Lindsey asked with an amused grin.

  “A job-hobby. Like making jewelry in your bedroom and selling it to a local boutique.” Massie screwed off the top of her Blueberry Pie–flavored Glossip Girl and smeared it across her suddenly very dry lips. “Something you do for fun, nawt money.”

  “Um, no.” Kimmi grabbed her recycled newspaper clutch and stood. “I work in the SAT kiosk at the beach club … for

  money.”

  Massie stared at her blankly.

  “You know, ‘Sunscreen and Towels’?”

  “Oh, sorry.” Massie smirked.

  “It’s okay.” She softened. “Only in-the-know staffers call it that.”

  “No.” Massie looked at Lindsey with a devious smile. “Sorry you work there.”

  Lindsey gasp-covered her mouth in shock.

  “Glad you don’t!” Kimmi shouted, then stormed off in a huff.

  Massie sighed. “That’s why I don’t work. It stresses everyone out. And life was meant to be enjoyed.” She lifted her palm, expecting an I-totally-agree high five from her new beta. But Lindsey left her hanging and flip-flopped away to comfort-chase Kimmi.

  And that left Massie alone with Ellie, her pre-teen B-cups, and the desperate need for this miserable day to end.

  THE BLOCKS’ SOUTHAMPTON ESTATE

  MASSIE’S BEDROOM

  Tuesday, June 9

  1:17 P.M.

  Massie checked her butt in the mahogany-framed mirror by her bedroom door. “What do you think, Bean?” She rested a hand on one hip. “I found this old Diane von Furstenberg bikini in Mom’s vintage closet yesterday. Thank Gawd she did the Atkins diet a few years ago. It’s totally my size!”

  Bean poked her pudgy head out of the just-for-show mosquito netting draped over Massie’s king-size canopy bed.

  “The burnt orange is unflattering now, but after five days of tanning I’ll be ready to show it off at the beach club.” She turned away from her pale, albeit toned, riding camp legs with renewed hope.

  After sleeping for thirteen hours on her luxurious Duxiana mattress, Massie was starting to feel more like herself again. Her alpha battery had been recharged and her summer plan set.

  Week one: Clear up credit card issues. Tan and rest poolside.

  Week two: Hit the beach club. Recruit summer GLUs in need of an alpha and a good time.

  Week three: Shop and spa with S-GLUs.

  Week four: Yacht day trips with S-GLUs. DVD rentals and sleepovers at night.

  Week five through Labor Day: Combine activities from weeks three and four.

  Labor Day: Say goodbye to S-GLUs and hello to the Pretty Committee (yay x 10) September 8—Look ah-mazing for eighth grade.

  It was a lot less action-packed than her schedule at riding camp. But maybe her termination from Galwaugh was a sign from Gawd, His way of telling her to take a load off and pamper herself for a change.

  Someone rapped on her door. Massie reached for last year’s silver-and-white sarong and wrapped it around her mother’s off-limits bikini.

  “You finally awake?” Kendra entered dressed in her post-party recovery outfit: lavender-scented lilac Frette robe, matching slippers filled with self-heating rejuvenation pearls, and a copper wire anti-hangover bracelet. Her fa
ce was shellacked with a potent cocktail of moisturizers reserved for those rare makeup-free days. She looked like a drawing of a woman in a coloring book, waiting to be filled in and brought to life.

  “I have one question for you, Massie.” Kendra folded her arms, one slippered foot tapping the beige sisal rug.

  “Me first!” Massie padded over to her green apple–colored velvet chaise. Before sitting, she cranked the window open, inviting the salty ocean breeze to work its magic on her hair. “Who canceled my credit cards?”

  “I did.” William entered, an unlit cigar dangling from his lips. He stuffed his thick hands in the pockets of his white boating shorts and rocked back on the heels of his Top-Siders.

  “Why?” Massie stood immediately. “Are we poor?” she whispered.

  “You are.” William smugly flicked the brim of his navy sailor cap. “I’m not.” The cap was the exact same color as his Lacoste polo and a little too matchy-matchy, but out of spite, Massie chose not to tell him.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” She stomped over to the bed and flopped onto its puffy silk eiderdown, her lower lip drooping in a well-rehearsed pout.

  Her parents shot each other meaningful looks. William removed the cigar. “You just got kicked out of the most prestigious riding camp in the state of New York and yet you fail to grasp the gravity of the situation.”

  Massie buried her face in a Jo Malone Nectarine Blossom – scented pillow and rolled her eyes. She understood the gravity of the situation perfectly—she was going down.

  “What drove you to glue Maxwell Galwaugh’s grand daughter to a saddle?” William’s light brown eyes were totally twinkle-free. “What was so darn important about winning that race?”

  Massie widened her amber eyes to heart-melting proportions. “The winning part.”

  Kendra sighed. “There’s nothing wrong with coming in second every once in a while.”

  “But Daddy always says, ‘Be the best Block you can be,’” Massie tried. “That’s all I was doing.”

  “You were doing it at someone else’s expense.” William sat on the edge of the bed and ducked under the mosquito netting. “And that’s unacceptable.”

  “Sorry.” Massie inched beside her father and put her arms around him. “Do you forgive me?”

  William instantly returned the hug.

  Done, done, and done.

  “I won’t do it again,” Massie told Kendra, who was standing above them, arms folded across her sunburned chest.

  “I hope not,” she huffed.

  “Now will you please turn my credit cards back on?”

  “Of course, dear,” Kendra purred. “As soon as you pay us back for your summer at Galwaugh.”

  “What?” Massie snapped. She searched her father’s eyes for that just-kidding sparkle, but found all-business brown instead. “So we are poor!”

  Her stomach filled with panic acid. Her fingertips froze. And her heart pounded a distress signal. Poor and alpha were the social equivalents of a Big Mac and a Diet Coke. Both begged the question, “Who are you kidding?”

  “We are absolutely not poor,” William insisted. “In fact, I just had a record-breaking year.” He puffed out his chest with pride.

  “You are going to pay us back because we want to teach you a lesson,” Kendra told her daughter.

  Massie stomped over to her window and looked out at the tree-lined driveway, wishing she were back at camp, free of debt, and galloping with Brownie on the lush woodsy trails. “What lesson is that?”

  “Winning at all costs is a very bad investment.” William stood. He kissed his daughter on the back of her glossy brunette head and hurried out in case she started crying.

  Kendra appeared beside Massie. “Trini Neufeld was able to get you a job at the Southampton Beach Club.” Her voice softened. “Ellie goes to their day camp, and they’re looking for some summer help.”

  Massie turned to face her mother. “You seriously want me to get a job?”

  “It sounds like a lot of fun,” Kendra tried. “Trini says Ellie just loves the program.”

  A salty breeze blew by, as if trying to remind Massie exactly what she was fighting for.

  “Pass!” She glared into Kendra’s unwavering hazel eyes. “Mom, if I have to work this summer, I’ll be too exhausted to reach my potential at school next year, and then I’ll tank in the PSATs and I won’t get into a good college! Really, is it worth risking everything just so Ellie can have a friend?”

  “I’m afraid you don’t have a choice, Massie.” Kendra headed for the door. “We’re not asking you to get a job. We’re telling you to.”

  “What if I refuse?”

  “Hasta la Visa, baby!”

  Massie’s stomach lurched.

  The image of Kimmi sweating in the SAT hut while her friends read magazines by the pool popped into Massie’s mind. It was more depressing than fur coats.

  If Massie was going to do this, she needed something glamorous. Enviable. Alpha-worthy. Something that earned

  like a job but looked like a hobby.

  She needed a jobby.

  “Can I at least find my own summer career?” Massie insisted.

  Kendra pressed one shaky finger to her temple. Massie could almost see the veins bulging. “You have one week. Otherwise, I’m calling the club and telling them you accept.” She shuffled toward the open door.

  “Can I think about it by the pool?” Massie called.

  “Whatever works.” Kendra shut the door behind her, the word works echoing in Massie’s brain like a bad J.Lo remix.

  THE BLOCKS’ SOUTHAMPTON ESTATE

  POOLSIDE

  Monday, June 15

  10:47 A.M.

  When life gave Massie lemons, she made lemon-mint spritzers. Or at least, she sipped them.

  After a long, brain-numbing swig, she set the tall glass in the cup holder of the portable pedicure chair, powered off her white iPod, and wiggled her toes. It was a subtle “hurry up” hint, aimed at Rita, the famed “poolside polisher,” who, after an hour, was just starting to apply the first coat of Chanel’s Black Satin. With exactly five hours left to find a jobby before her mom forced her to work at the beach club, Massie was starting to panic.

  Rita quickly lifted the tiny black brush off Massie’s big toe. “Stop squirming!”

  Massie rolled her eyes at the drugstore blonde’s dark roots and then sighed.

  “Gawd, you’re so lucky.”

  Rita lifted her blue-colored-contact eyes. “How am I lucky?”

  “You have a job you love.” Massie adjusted her white Tom Ford wrap sunglasses. “Did you always dream of doing people’s nails?”

  “Oh yeah, sure. It’s a real dream job.” The chubby older woman clipped a stray cuticle from Massie’s toe, then snickered, revealing an uneven row of top teeth.

  “Well, I need to find mine.” Massie checked the time on her iPhone.

  “Any leads?” Rita dipped the brush in the square glass bottle.

  “I don’t know where to look.” Massie pulled a black hardcover sketchbook and purple glitter pen from her white leather beach tote.

  “Why don’t you make a list of things you enjoy, and then you can think of jobs that fit those things?”

  “I did,” Massie opened her book and read her list to Rita.

  THINGS I ♥JOBBYSPROSCONS

  Animals • Vet

  • Dog clothing designer

  • Dog walker • Save animals

  • A doggie fashion show would be ah-dorable

  • Toned legs • Need education

  • Must wear lab coat

  • Sewing is boring

  • Scooping poop for a paycheck is highly un-alpha.

  The Pretty Committee Social-life planner Comes naturally They are away

  Fashion Wardrobe Stylist Get to shop all day … … for other people

  Parties Party planner Get paid to go to parties Have to work while I’m at parties

  Being in charge President
Private jet Pantsuits

  “Rita?” Massie reapplied her clear Glossip Girl SPF 30 lip conditioner and peered across the lawn. The gardener was driving some tractor-style lawn mower that filled the air with the earthy smell of fresh-cut grass. It seemed like everyone was tapping into their dream job but her. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Of course,” Rita said, applying a second coat of Black Satin. “Anything.”

  Massie surveyed the list with a critical eye. “Can you grab my Teen Vogue? It’s right next to you on my chaise. I need a break.”

  Rita’s knees cracked when she stood.

  Massie began flipping through the glossy pages. Models, leaping through the surf dressed in bikinis and long chain necklaces, mocked her with their berry-stained smiles. Toward the back there was a story about a teen girl traveling Europe and blogging on international trends. And a profile on Whitney Port, the famous intern from The Hills. It seemed like everyone had a glam summer jobby but her.

  After a few more minutes of envy-flipping, Massie’s eyes landed on a striking twentysomething with a precise jet-black bob; dark, almond-shaped eyes; and olive skin. She wore an ivory silk shift dress that had the word be handwritten across it in deep red lipstick. She was perched on a metallic purple Vespa, above the custom-made sidecar that carried her light gray dwarf pony, Muse.

  Sometime around the holidays Massie had read about the limited-edition mini pet and tried her hardest to get one. But the dwarf-pony breeder had suggested she call back in 2011, when the waiting list opened up again.

  “Listen to this.” Massie wriggled her ink-colored toenails. “‘Anastasia Brees, founder of Be Pretty Cosmetics, is out to make the world a more beautiful place.’” Massie removed her white sunglasses. “I totally agree. I’ve always said ugly people should stay indoors.” She started reading again. “‘And in the process, this twenty-five-year-old makeup mogul has landed in Forbes’s Top 100.’”

  Massie quickly scanned the rest of the article, devouring the stats as avidly as Isaac kept track of the Yankees. Anastasia Brees was the ultimate adult alpha. At twenty-five, she has a cosmetics empire, a private helicopter, and apartments in New York, Los Angeles, Rio, London, and Paris. She’d even placed one higher than Jessica Alba on People’s Most Beautiful list.