“Hey, loser.” Todd tapped Claire on the shoulder. He was wearing a T-shirt that said MY SISTER IS MORE FAMOUS THAN YOUR SISTER. His little friend Tiny Nathan was standing beside him nibbling on a mozzarella stick.
“Hey!” Claire turned her back to Strawberry and bent to hug her brother.
“Easy!” He pushed her away. “Calm yourself, woman.”
“Relax.” Claire rolled her eyes. “I was trying to get away from that stalker. It had nothing to do with you.” She mussed her brother’s red hair. “But it is good to—”
“Yeah, yeah.” Todd kicked Tiny Nathan in the shin.
“Ow!” He grabbed his leg. “Whadd’ya do that for?”
Todd shrugged. “Sorry.”
“Here.” Todd reached into the pocket of his Levi’s. “This is for you.” He pulled out a bag of gummy worms and slapped them into Claire’s palm.
Her heart felt heavy with sadness. “Thanks.” She tried to smile. But it was impossible for her to look at a gummy without seeing Cam.
“Wait, there’s more.” Todd reached inside his pocket. This time he pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. He tossed it at Claire, then chased Tiny Nathan into the “wet section” of the spa.
Claire caught it and squeezed it in her fist, unsure of what to do next. What if it was from Cam? Or worse, what if it wasn’t? But wait, who else would it be from? She made a break for the door and managed to slip out undetected.
The cold air did nothing for her sweaty pits and clammy hands, but it still felt good. Once she was sure no one was around, Claire sat on the frozen grass and unfolded the note slowly, as if it were an explosive that could detonate in her face.
She inhaled courage, exhaled fear, then read.
C,
Meet me behind out back.
C
She read the C-note three more times, then stuffed it in the pocket of her scrubs.
“Cam?” She stood. “Are you out here?”
“Hey.” He rounded the side of the shed.
Claire stared at the boy who’d filled her thoughts for the last three weeks, wondering where to begin. A hug? An apology? A neck-sniff?
“Did you get my e-mail last night?”
He looked at her with his blue eye and green eye and nodded.
“Well?”
He put his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Yes, you are.” Claire started to smile.
“Yes, I am.” He smiled back.
“So you forgive me?”
“Massie called me three times to explain.” He took a step toward her. “So yes, I forgive you.”
Her stomach fluttered.
“So are you really going to show me what you learned on set? Or were you kidding when you wrote that?”
“I wasn’t kidding.” Claire giggled when she thought of her bold e-mail.
Cam took another step.
Then another.
And another.
Without thinking, Claire hurried toward him and pressed her lips against his. They were cold but soft. She pulled back for a split second, took a breath, and then leaned in again, only this time slower. And on the count of three she poked her tongue into his mouth. He met it with his and—
Cl-eh, Cl-eh.
Cl-eh, Cl-eh.
Claire pulled away from Cam and looked over her shoulder. Her heart was pounding from the kiss and the excitement of seeing him again.
“Is that your phone?” he asked.
“Oh.” She felt her cheeks redden. “Yeah. Sorry.” She pulled it out of her jacket pocket and answered.
“Hello?”
“Please hold for Miles Baime,” crackled a woman’s voice on the other end. After a brief pause, she returned. “You’re on.”
An authoritative man took over. “Claire Lyons, Miles Baime.”
“Uh, hi?”
“I’m a talent agent at The Artist Farm.” He paused for a reaction, but Claire had no idea what to say.
“I saw some selects from Dial L for Loser, and I think you’re a real natural. I’d like to represent you and take you to the top.”
“Seriously?” Claire shouted.
“What is it?” Cam dug his hands in his pockets.
She lifted her finger as if to say, I’ll tell you in a minute.
“Dead serious. Can you swing by my office on Monday?”
“Uh, I’m back in Westchester.”
“Well then, we’ll have work on a plan to move you out here,” Miles said over the click-clack of his keyboard.
“Uh, okay.” Claire was stunned. “I mean, let me think about it. I mean, let me talk to my parents.”
Miles gave her his number and insisted she call him first thing Monday morning.
Claire snapped her phone shut. Did she really have a future as an actress?
“Who was that?” Cam kicked the frozen grass with his black-and-white Adidas.
“Some Hollywood agent guy,” Claire said, very slowly. “He wants me to move to California.” She blinked. “And become an actress.”
“You’re not going to do it, are you?” he asked. “You know, now that you’re back at OCD?”
Claire rubbed her thumb over the red rhinestones on her phone and imagined her life in California. Sunshine, sand, and palm trees, just like Florida. She would be the center of attention and the girl everyone wanted to hang out with. But the best part would be the acting. She’d get paid to do something she loved.
Then she thought of Massie’s Friday night sleepovers and Layne and OCD and her family.…
She lifted her eyes and looked at Cam.
“How could you leave all this?” He waved his arm at the Blocks’ stone mansion, their pool, and tennis court.
How could I not? she wanted to say. But instead she grabbed his hand and led him back into the party, trying her hardest to follow Rupert’s advice and live in that one moment.
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About the Author
Lisi Harrison is the author of the Clique, Alphas, and Monster High series. She was the senior director of production development at MTV and also served as head writer for MTV Productions. She is currently working on her next novel.
Lisi lives in Laguna Beach, California. Her website is www.lisiharrison.com.
Also by Lisi Harrison
Pretenders
Monster High
Monster High: The Ghoul Next Door
Monster High: Where There’s a Wolf, There’s a Way
Monster High: Back and Deader Than Ever
Alphas
Movers and Fakers
Belle of the Brawl
Top of the Feud Chain
The Clique
Best Friends for Never
Revenge of the Wannabes
Invasion of the Boy Snatchers
The Pretty Committee Strikes Back
Dial L for Loser
It’s Not Easy Being Mean
Sealed with a Diss
Bratfest at Tiffany’s
The Clique Summer Collection
P.S. I Loathe You
Boys R Us
Charmed and Dangerous: The Rise of the Pretty Committee
The Cliquetionary
These Boots Are Made for Stalking
My Little Phony
A Tale of Two Pretties
A Sneak Peek of It’s Not Easy Being Mean
THE BLOCK ESTATE
MASSIE’S BEDROOM
Sunday, April 4th
4:14 P.M.
Dylan Marvil pig-pressed her nose against the bay window in Massie Block’s bedroom and then craned her neck slightly left toward the gated entrance of the Block estate. “Um, Kuh-laire? You may wanna see this.”
Dropping the armload of designer clothes she’d been color-coding
for Massie, Claire Lyons scurried to Dylan’s side. “What is it?” She pushed up the sleeves on her orange velour hoodie.
“Todd and Tiny Nathan are selling your itchy pink-and-red polka-dot scarf to that fast talker Carrie Randolph.”
Alicia Rivera tossed her Teen Vogue on the hardwood floor, slid off Massie’s fluffy, lavender-scented bed, and wiggled between them. Her black velvet leggings were spotted with purple lint from Massie’s bedding. “Ew, that LBR rode her bike all the way over here? To buy that?”
“Todd!” Claire shouted at her brother while struggling to unhook the window’s iron latch. “Party scarf wasn’t on the list!”
Kristen Gregory balanced on her tiptoes, straining to see over their heads. Tiny yellow-and-green Puma shorts showed off her sharp soccer calves, which flexed as she bobbed to witness the unfolding scandal. “How much do you think he’s made so far?”
“Too much.” Claire pounded on the soundproof glass. “I can’t believe people actually want to buy my stuff.”
“Me, either,” Massie mumbled, refusing to get distracted by the LBRs who suddenly thought Claire’s cheap machine washables were worth something because she’d starred in a predictable Hollywood movie with Abby Boyd and Conner Foley. She had more important things to think about.
Turning to her swiveling three-paneled full-length mirror, Massie studied her reflection, wondering if she should have saved today’s outfit for tomorrow. Her C&C California black-and-gray-striped V-necked sweater dress exuded confidence over a pair of mint green leggings and gray suede ankle boots. But still, the dress was boxy, and therefore would only know life on Sundays and snow days.
After letting out a long sigh, Massie returned to her life-size mannequin, which ruled the corner of her room between the walk-in closet and her mirror. She fastened a thin gold braided belt around its waist, then stepped back, tilted her head to the left, and took it all in. Cinching the brown Ella Moss T-shirt dress instantly elevated it from a seven to a nine. But still, something was off. Was it the tan linen vest? Too safari? Or maybe it was the espresso-colored Marc Jacobs ballet flats. Yup. It was the flats. They were a little too precious for her first day back at Octavian Country Day School. After her celebrity-studded three-week expulsion, she needed something that said, “I’m back and better than ever.” And right now all she had was, “Hey, guys, how’s it goin’?” She took a long swig of Tab Energy, then tore the poo-colored clothes off the Massie-quin.
Time to start over.
“Ehmagawd!” Dylan squealed. “It’s the pasty goth barista from Starbucks!” She shook her arms free of the long military-style jacket that covered her dark-wash Earnest Sewn pencil-straight jeans, revealing a faded pink Porky Pig tee.
“Buying my Kipling backpack!” Claire wailed. “Monkey and all!”
“Thank Gawd.” Alicia rolled up the sleeves on her pin-striped Norma Kamali shirtdress. “That thing was eye-poison.”
Kristen’s narrow blue eyes widened, “It looks like your books are still in it.”
“They are!”
“Massie, you have to see this!” Alicia giggled and kicked Dylan’s jacket aside.
“Pass.” Massie pulled the flats off her mannequin and replaced them with navy Michael Kors cork wedges. “I’m busy.”
Besides, she already knew what Claire’s stalkers looked like. They had been riding past the estate on bikes and scooters for the last two days to see where the star of the movie Dial L for Loser slept, ate, and peed. Massie was constantly fighting the urge to poke her freshly razored layers out the window and yell, “Didn’t any of you stalkers watch The Daily Grind? Didn’t you see Alicia and me broadcasting live from the set every day for two weeks straight? Don’t you remember those pictures of me with Conner Foley in Us Weekly? Why don’t you want to buy my scarves? Why don’t you want to take my picture? Whyyyyyy?” But all she said was, “Get used to it, Miss I’m-moving-to-California-to-be-a-Hollywood-superstar.”
“Why should I get used to Todd and Tiny Nathan selling my things to strangers?” Claire pressed her entire left side against the bay window.
“A celebrity’s life is public property. If you don’t like it…” Massie grabbed a thin white remote off her bedside table and pressed her manicured thumbnail into the top right button. “Leave it.”
The window clicked open and Claire fell forward.
“Whoa!” She steadied herself on the curved stone ledge.
Massie examined the newly naked mannequin. “Now will you puh-lease focus!”
Finally, everyone turned away from Todd, Tiny Nathan, and the red Radio Flyer wagon filled with Claire’s personal belongings. They stood, their backs to the window, while Massie paced.
“In case you forgot, the Pretty Committee was just expelled from OCD for three weeks because we ran off into the woods on a class field trip and got lost.” Massie put her hands on her narrow hips. “Instead of sitting on our couches watching High School Musical, we went to Hollywood and made something of ourselves and—”
“Speak for yourself.” Kristen exchanged an eye-roll with Dylan.
“Yeah, some of us weren’t allowed to go to California, remember?” Dylan stuffed a cube of watermelon-flavored bubble gum in her mouth, then immediately unwrapped another piece and jammed it in.
“Some of us stayed here, wrote a butt-kissing essay, and signed your name to it so you could get back into school, re-mem-ber?” Kristen glared at Massie.
“Of course I re-mem-ber. I was getting to that part,” she lied. “But seeing as you already mentioned how great you think you are, I’ll skip over it.”
Kristen and Dylan muttered apologies.
Massie took a cleansing breath, exhaled in frustration, and continued. “The point is, in less than twenty-four hours we’ll be walking the halls at OCD while hundreds of jealous eyeballs scan us, searching for flaws.”
“Why would they do that?” Claire scratched her blond eyebrows. “You always say everyone loves the Pretty Committee.”
“No. I always say they want to be us.” Massie swatted her flirty new chocolate-colored side part away from her amber eyes. “Which means they’re secretly studying us, hoping to spot a weakness so they can—”
“A weakness?”
“Yeah, like an out-of-place hair.” Alicia pointed to her perfect side part.
“Or bad grades,” Kristen offered.
“Or an open fly.” Dylan covered her crotch.
“Or smudged eyeliner, or last year’s boots, or peanut-butter breath.” Massie circled her hand to show that the list went on and on. “Anything they can use to put us down.”
“Why would they want to—?”
“It makes them feel better about their sorry selves. That’s why.”
“Point!” Alicia lifted her finger.
Massie took another swig of Tab Energy and slammed it down on her mirrored pedestal night table. She fell onto her bed beside her ahdorable sleeping black pug, Bean, allowing herself to get swallowed by the cluster of white faux-fur pillows as if surrendering to an avalanche. “If we don’t look ah-mazing times ten, everyone will think the Pretty Committee’s lost its magic and we’ll be blog food.” She lifted her arm out of the fluff and checked her silver DKNY bangle watch. “It’s already 4:27 p.m., and not a single outfit has been approved.”
“Point!” Alicia plopped down beside her.
Bean lifted her head and growled.
“You’re right,” Dylan pouted. “Sorry.” She joined them on the bed.
Claire turned and closed the window.
“What about the soccer lesson?” Kristen grabbed the white wooden bedpost and stretched a hamstring.
“Ew! Why would we want to spend our last hours of freedom doing that?” Alicia shuddered, as if Kristen had suggested using their blush brushes to scrub toilets in the boys’ locker room.
“Um, starting tomorrow, you’re members of OCD Sirens. Remember?”
They all looked at her blankly.
“Gawd, don’t
any of you want to learn how to play before you join the team?”
“Opposite of yes.” Alicia reached to the floor, picked up her Teen Vogue, and crawled under the feathery purple duvet cover.
“Leesh, I swear, if we don’t make it to the finals because you—”
“Hey!” Massie stood and held up her palm like a crossing guard. “Kristen, are you mad at Alicia?”
“No, I’m just—”
“Then why does it sound like you want to socc-er?”
Everyone cracked up except Kristen, who folded her arms across her green Juicy hoodie and looked up at Massie’s new multicolored crystal chandelier as if begging it to give her strength. “It was your decision to join the team.”
“We had no choice.” Dylan punched the mattress. “It was the only way Principal Burns would let us back into school.”
“You had to pick an extracurricular activity,” Kristen reminded them. “No one said it had to be soccer.”
“We thought it’d be a good way to bond with the boys.” Massie twirled the diamond stud in her left earlobe.
“And burn calories.” Dylan rubbed her flat stomach like someone who’d eaten too much chocolate-chip cookie dough.
“And tone.” Alicia curled into the fetal position.
“Claire, you like soccer, right?”
“Yeah, but I have to meet my agent in Manhattan, so I’m gonna miss practice.”
Clenching her fists, Massie fought another urge to tear Claire’s white-blond hair out of her ah-nnoying, conceited, movie-star head. “Are you seriously going to pass up a summer cohosting pool parties and gossiping about boys to work?”
“Um, yeah,” Claire said, in a who-wouldn’t sort of way.
“Point!” Alicia lifted her finger out from the duvet.
Dylan and Kristen giggled while Massie contemplated her sudden need to make Claire cry. She wanted to hurt her feelings and crush her confidence and treat her like an unworthy, unimportant, undesirable loser. Maybe then Claire would understand how Massie felt, being dumped for a stupid movie.
All of a sudden, a shock of angry boy music filled the room. Massie raced to her silver cube of an alarm clock and slammed the off button. But the electrified screaming wouldn’t stop. It sounded like someone had placed a gigantic set of Bose headphones around her alabaster-white walls and cranked up the volume on some basement dweller’s amplified nervous breakdown.
Dial L for Loser Page 20
