Massie

by Lisi Harrison

  Without another word, Massie smiled, turned on her blue kitten heel, and tried hard to walk, not run, back to the Range Rover.

  “Any luck?” Isaac asked gently as Massie slammed the passenger door.

  “The Riordan-Buccolas’ on Murray Lane,” Massie told him as she crossed Lindsey’s name off her Be Home visit log with purple eyeliner.

  Kelsey Riordan-Buccola was related to either Dolce or Gabbana through her mother’s third marriage to a Sicilian exporter. But her real father must have been a total wannabe, because Kelsey’s blood type was LBR positive. Unfortunately, all the couture in the world couldn’t make up for Kelsey’s patchy skin, close-set eyes, and unibrow. However, a Be Pretty transfusion and some tips from a seasoned alpha could.

  They were greeted at the gate by a security guard who patrolled the grounds in a bulletproof golf cart. Once cleared for entry, they drove down the Riordan-Buccolas’ half-mile-long driveway and parked beside an angel fountain that peed moldy water.

  “Truth is beauty,” Massie repeated to herself, hoping that at some point the feel-good philosophy would actually start to make sense. Because come awn, since when had truth ever landed anyone a modeling contract?

  “Be good.” Isaac smiled as he opened her door.

  Massie tightened the grosgrain belt on her shirtdress, gripped her case, and climbed the slate steps to the Riordan-Buccolas’ front door.

  The enormous gray stone manor was more Hogwarts than Hamptons, but Massie silenced her inner critic. Anastasia had earned her place on the Most Beautiful People list by finding the beauty in people with bad taste and worse skin, and so would she.

  Ding, dong, ding, dong …

  The doorbell sounded like the Riordan-Buccolas had hired the New York Philharmonic to play every time someone came to visit. Massie looked around, half expecting to see the orchestra camouflaged in the rosebushes.

  … ding, dong, ding, dong …

  A shiny-haired brunette around Massie’s age, wearing an impossible-to-get beige Stella McCartney slip dress, opened the castlelike door. The girl had the Riordan-Buccolas’ signature ski-slope nose but otherwise she looked wholly unfamiliar. Maybe Kelsey’s stepcousins from the old country were visiting?

  “Is Kelsey Riordan—”

  … ding …

  Massie tried again. “Is Kelsey—”

  … dong … ding …

  Massie threw her hands on her hips and waited.

  … dong.

  “Okay, now it’s done.” The girl grinned. “Massie? Is that you?” She flashed an even-toothed smile.

  “Ehmagawd, Kelsey?” Massie looked deep into the girl’s sapphire blue eyes. “You look ah-mazing.”

  Kelsey smiled appreciatively. “Thanks.”

  Speechless, Massie shook her head in disbelief while she awe-admired Kelsey’s stunning metamorphosis. Her expertly placed chestnut highlights framed her suddenly flawless skin, and the neutral-colored slip dress made her tan pop. “I hardly recognized you without the—”

  Pimples? Braces? Hairy man-legs?

  “Glasses,” Kelsey finished with a knowing smile. “Lasik eye surgery. Now I can actually see the price tags on this season’s wardrobe. Not that they matter, of course.” She stepped outside and sat on the wide slate steps.

  Kelsey shielded her blue eyes from the afternoon sun and peered at Massie. “So, what are you doing here? Did Becki Rogan blab about the boxes I just got from D&G? Because I am so not opening them until my birthday, which isn’t till July.”

  “Puh-lease.” Massie tried not to sound insulted as she took a seat next to the new-and-obviously-surgically-improved Kelsey. But come awn! Even if her credit cards were canceled for the next ten years she wouldn’t act all envy-impressed by Kelsey’s connections. At least not in public. “I came to show you some ah-mazing new beauty products I discovered.”

  Massie popped open her makeup caddy and leaned back so as not to cast a shadow on her treasure.

  Kelsey quickly turned to shoo a yellow butterfly that had begun fluttering around her glistening hair.

  “At Be Pretty Cosmetics,” Massie started, “we believe that truth is beauty.”

  Kelsey was still shooing, so Massie fast-forwarded to the end of her speech. “Let Be Pretty Cosmetics help you become the woman you were meant to be.”

  “I agree,” Kelsey said, satisfied that the butterfly was gone. She tucked her glossy hair behind one ear to reveal the same Harry Winston chandelier earrings Massie had gotten for Christmas. Only Kelsey’s were bigger. Massie decided she loathed the girl more than she had loathed last year’s leg-warmers-and-heels trend. “But I only use Nars and Stila.” She gave Massie’s purple caddy a dismissive glance.

  “But Be Pretty products are—”

  “Sorry, Massie,” Kelsey interrupted, her smile patronizing. “Ever since I heard that Sienna Miller only uses Nars foundation, I swore I’d never use anything else. And now everyone tells me I look like her. In fact,” she said, peering at Massie, “you could probably use a little yourself. Your cheeks are starting to look a little ruddy.”

  Massie stared at Kelsey, her mouth agape. Six months ago, Kelsey Riordan-Buccola had probably had her eye sockets surgically removed from the sides of her nose and had holed up in her family’s tacky faux-castle to recover. Who was she to—

  The red Samsung in Kelsey’s hand started playing Kanye West’s “Stronger” and she waved it at Massie. “Gotta take this.” She stood and hurried inside. “Good luck, you,” she shouted just before closing the carved wood door in Massie’s face.

  Who did Kelsey Riordan-Buccola think she was? Her beauty was new—just like her money.

  Massie stomped down the stairs, scraping the tacky imported slate with every grinding step. Nobody tossed Massie Block out like last season’s It bag.

  Nobody.

  Lindsey Kearns and Kelsey Riordan-Buccola were going to be sorry.

  THE BLOCKS’ SOUTHAMPTON ESTATE

  THE BACK PATIO

  Wednesday, June 17

  11:08 A.M.

  The warm onshore breeze did things to Massie’s naturally wavy hair that Galwaugh’s dry forest gusts could only dream of. It added curl and bounce and a flirty playfulness that said, “Lip-kissed by nature and loving it.” But secretly, Massie would have given anything to be back at horse camp. There, she was a winner. But here, the whole jobby thing was making her feel like a total L—

  Massie shook the thought from her head. It was a new day. There was still hope.

  On the back patio, she set her tiny cappuccino cup down on the marble-and-wrought-iron table with a clink. She pushed her dark Ferragamo sunglasses up her nose, unfolded a laminated map of Southampton, and examined it like a general planning the invasion of a small, wealthy country.

  “This is serious, Bean.”

  The pug paced at Massie bare feet.

  “Yesterday was a disaster.” Massie sharpened a Be Defined lip pencil, releasing eggplant purple shavings into the bright, salt-scented air. She drew X’s over Frizzy Lindsey’s and Kelsey’s streets. “So we’re going to have to try another tactic.” She circled Herrick Road, where the less-fortunate year-rounders lived.

  Bean let out an anxiety sneeze.

  “I know! But it’s our only chance.” Hopes of her purple streak were disappearing faster than marked-down Zac Posen at a Barneys sale. “No one loves inner beauty more than unattractive wannabes. They’ll be all over this stuff.”

  Massie scooped Bean up with renewed determination. Nothing made her feel more streakworthy than her mother’s vintage Pucci halter dress, which she’d paired with white skinny Citizens, emerald green Tory Burch flats, and wood bangles from Calypso. Massie knew one thing: If she could pull off skinny white jeans, she could pull off anything.

  “Isaac!” she called, heading for the driveway. “To the year-rounders on Herrick Road!”

  “Are you sure about this?” Isaac turned onto Herrick Road and parked the Range Rover in front of the first house on the s
treet.

  “Ew.” Massie peered over her sunglasses at the small, cottage-style house with pink flowered curtains in the window. A green flag with appliquéd flowers hung from a pole above the screen door. If the décor was any indication, whoever lived here was in desperate need of guidance.

  She tiptoed to the front door to avoid catching her heel in the weed-infested cracks in the pavement. The potted geraniums on either side of the porch were wilting in the heat. And Massie knew exactly how they felt. She pinched the brass knocker, pulled it back, and dropped it as if it were made of rayon.

  “Yeah?” A girl Massie’s age dressed in an oversize New York Knicks basketball jersey opened up and peered suspiciously at the Range Rover. Her burgundy-from-a-box shoulder-length hair was stringy, and her poo-brown eyes bulged more than Bean’s. Massie was grateful she was wearing her dark Ferragamos, because the girl’s unsightly smattering of upper-lip hair was making Massie’s eyes water.

  “Beauty is truth,” Massie began, rattling off the speech with ease. “At Be Pretty Cosmetics—”

  “Who’s there, Cora?” a woman called, then coughed violently.

  “Just some girl selling makeup,” the girl shouted back.

  Just some girl!?

  Massie parted her hairless lips, preparing to point out that she was special and superior and far from just some anyone when the woman yelled, “Tell her we’re an Avon family and come finish cleaning up this puzzle.”

  Cora shrugged like there was nothing more she could do. Without another word she gave the screen a push and padded down the narrow pea green–carpeted hall. Massie stood there in shock as the door slowly wobbled its way shut.

  She looked down at her flawless outfit, just to make sure she wasn’t wearing her Cosabella boy shorts on the outside of her skinny jeans, which she wasn’t. So what, then? Were people threatened by her trendsetting style? Her timeless beauty? Her unstoppable alpha energy? Whatever it was, Massie was determined to turn her luck around. If she didn’t, she’d never see her pride—or her poor Visa—again.

  THE BLOCKS’ SOUTHAMPTON ESTATE

  SITTING ROOM

  Wednesday, June 17

  1:51 P.M.

  Massie collapsed onto the navy-and-cream Italian silk sofa in the Blocks’ guests-only living room. She slipped off her Tory Burch flats and twirled her platinum necklace around her index finger until her finger looked white and strangled. “This must be how Isabella Rossellini felt when she got dumped by Lancôme.”

  Bean took a running leap and landed on the matching ottoman. She nudged the latest copy of Vogue toward Massie with her wet nose.

  “No, thanks.” Massie turned away. Not even seven hundred pages of bored and hungry models could cheer her up. Bean whimpered and collapsed in a ball on top of US Weekly, covering Rumer Willis’s ample head.

  Just two days ago, Massie’s future had been bright. Bright purple, to be exact. She’d imagined leading the Pretty Committee into every three-star Michelin-rated restaurant in Manhattan, with the latest impossible-to-get bag by MJ, Prada, or Gucci slung over her tanned shoulder. One flash of her purple streak and the hostess would instantly show Massie to the best table, even if it meant asking some It chick to leave. Now things looked very different.

  “Massie Block!”

  Bean sprang off the guests-only ottoman at the sound of Kendra’s voice echoing through the foyer.

  “I’m in here!” Massie stood and quickly smoothed the crater in the down pillow before it ratted her out for sitting on it.

  Kendra pushed open the French doors and click-clacked across the hardwood floors. She stopped in front of Massie and placed both hands on the waist of her camel Escada Sport stretch pants. A rose-colored Bottega Veneta tote dangled from one wrist, a Bliss Spa bag from the other. She looked like a mannequin in the window at Saks.

  “What is it?” Massie sighed. Bean cowered behind her legs, peeking out every few seconds.

  “I just spent the afternoon with Trini Neufeld,” Kendra said angrily, as if there was a bigger point to the story than just that. “And it seems as though—” She paused and tilted her head to the right, sensing the slight dent in one of the couch pillows. “Massie, what in the world possessed you to transform Ellie Neufeld into a Paris Hilton and then charge her for it?”

  “Whadaya mean?” Massie asked innocently. She slid her Tory Burch flats back onto her Be Smooth–moisturized feet, preparing to make a run for it.

  “That’s not going to work this time.” Kendra glowered at her. “Trini Neufeld is absolutely furious, and after the incident at the club—”

  “What happened?”

  “Trini was mingling at brunch this morning when Ellie, along with five of her little friends, sauntered by wearing Trini’s stilettos, gray eye shadow, and red lipstick, shouting, ‘Be brash,’ at everyone they passed.”

  Lip stain, Massie thought. Nawt lipstick.

  “Why would you sell a ten-year-old girl three hundred dollars’ worth of makeup?”

  “Have you seen her?”

  “She’s ten!” Kendra shook her shopping bags in frustration.

  But Massie didn’t defend herself. Not when her Visa was at stake. Instead, she dug her nails into her clammy palm and silently begged her mouth to stay out of it.

  “Your job is to be a makeup artist, not a con artist.” Kendra squinted in disappointment. “Taking advantage of friends is completely unacceptable.”

  Massie lowered her amber eyes, the way someone who felt bad would do. But how could she really feel bad when she’d saved Ellie from drowning in LBR quicksand? The girl obviously felt more confident or she wouldn’t have been Be-ing Brash at brunch.

  Massie thought back to the afternoon of her one—and only—Be Pretty sale. Ellie had been a prematurely B-cupped caterpillar until Massie’s alpha instincts and good old-fashioned honesty turned her into a butterfly. And she’d done it without that corn-dog script from Be Pretty Cosmetics. In the words of Anastasia Brees, beauty is truth.

  And then, for some reason, that phrase repeated itself over and over in her head, like the chorus of a song you just

  can’t seem to shake. Beauty is truth… . Beauty is truth… . Beauty is truth… .

  Ehmagawd! Beauty is truth!

  It was so obvious. All she had to do was tell her clients how sincerely ugly they were and they’d load up on product. Just like Ellie had. And then the silver card and the purple streak would both be hers.

  Done, done, and done.

  KEARNS ESTATE

  FOSTER CROSSING

  Thursday, June 18

  10:22 A.M.

  This time, when Frizzy Lindsey opened the smoky glass doors, Massie was ready.

  “One question. Do you want to hang ten or be a ten?” She pushed past the surfer girl and marched straight into the stark-white, kitschy plastic furniture–filled home.

  “Huh?” Lindsey dried her hay-hair with a bleach-spotted green towel.

  “Where’s your bedroom?” Massie gripped her purple makeup caddy with both hands and rocked back and forth on the heels of her red Prada wedge sandals.

  Lindsey pointed down a blue-lighted corridor. Extra-long aquariums filled with exotic fish had been built into the stucco walls, reflecting rippling water onto the ceiling.

  “Great. Let’s go.” Massie led the way, trying not to make eye contact with a creepy pink squid that followed her down the length of the hallway.

  Barefoot, Lindsey follow-chased her. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Massie stopped in front of a tank filled with bumpy starfish.

  “The same thing a clean mirror and some natural light would do if you let them.”

  “And what’s that?” Lindsey pushed the sleeves of her light blue GOT SURF baby tee over her peeling shoulders. She rubbed off a layer of skin and released it, letting it drift to the espresso-stained floor.

  “I’m going to tell you exactly what I see.”

  Massie let herself into what she assumed was Linds
ey’s bedroom. Glossy posters of surfers charging cobalt blue waves covered every inch of wall space. Her canopy bed frame was built from shellacked wooden longboards, and strings of brown-and-white pukka shells surrounded it like a curtain. It was to the rest of the sleek, modern house as Lindsey’s hair would be at a Pantene convention —frighteningly out of place.

  Massie set her caddy down on a pink corduroy beanbag and slumped below the porthole-shaped window. She triple-tapped it, inviting Lindsey to cross the room and join her.

  When she did, Massie circled her twice, making mental notes.

  “What?” Lindsey released her green towel to a Mexican blanket turned rug.

  “The ocean has given you a major case of high-and-dry.”

  “What’s that?” Lindsey sat. The beans rustled and sank under her fit body.

  “Surfing has toned you. Your butt is nice and high. But everything above it is d-r-y.” Massie handed Lindsey the purple Be Reflective mirror and eyed her blue-and-black board shorts with contempt. “I’m sure I speak for everyone on Long Island when I say I’d like to see less coverage on the bottom and ah lot more on top. Starting with your face.”

  “Seriously?” Lindsey touched her scaly cheek like some post-op patient who’d just removed the bandages. “Is that why I’m always itchy?”

  “And blotchy and uneven and often called Lizard Kearns behind your back? Yes.”

  Lindsey stood. “What should I do?”

  “For starters, how about a pair of bikini bottoms.”

  Massie pulled several purple boxes from her caddy. One by one, she laid them out on a low bamboo magazine table. “When you start wearing bikinis, everyone will realize you’re a girl. And if you look like a girl, you should feel like a girl, right?”

  Lindsey blinked her bloodshot eyes in agreement.

  “So allow me to introduce Be Supple all-over body whip, Be Flawless foundation, and Be Silky conditioner. Oh, and let’s not forget Be Slick hot-oil treatment, which you need to apply to your scalp aysap.” Massie held up her hand and rubbed her fingers against her thumb. “Your hair is seriously sucking the moisture of this room. You should consider a humidifier until the conditioner kicks in. I’m finding it hard to breathe.”