Boys R Us

by Lisi Harrison

  3. If you were a celebrity, you’d be:

  A. Angelina Jolie. You and your C-cups are nawt to be trusted.

  B. Oprah. Fine, everybody likes you. But you’ve got major eating issues and seriously? We’re all sick of hearing about it.

  C. Hayden Panettiere. So you’re sporty, have a hawt bod, and can hang with the guys. Big. Deal.

  D. Anne Hathaway. You’re a sweetheart who’s come a long way, fashion-wise. But your super-sugary ways are starting to rot my smile.

  Answer: EW-ma-gawd! None of the above! If I were a celeb, I’d be:

  As Madame Vallon switched to the conjugation of être, Massie folded the quiz and dropped it into her purple metallic Rebecca Minkoff bag, satisfied. She’d distribute it to people at school who showed potential and use it as a screening device for new friends. She’d have a hawt new crew in no time.

  Massie scanned the room for quiz-worthy girls. But everyone around her had at least one major flaw. Mascara boogers, mismatched fabrics, unbleached teeth… it was like a parade of Glamour “don’ts” had invaded G-16. Massie felt her heart sinking fast. Was it possible that Alicia, Dylan, Kristen, and Claire were the best OCD had to offer?

  “And now, the verb faire.” Madame Vallon turned back toward the board.

  “Pssssssst.”

  Massie smelled corn. She swiveled around slowly.

  Layne Abeley was leaning over the desk behind her, handing her a folded piece of Chococat notepaper.

  Massie tilted her head toward the iPhone on her desk, indicating that she only accepted texts. Then she quickly turned back around, resisting the urge to stare down Kristen, who was whispering to Alicia behind her Allons-y! workbook. Were they talking about her? Or did Kristen have gossip? And if so, would Alicia know how many points to give? The uncertainty made Massie’s head throb.

  The bell rang, and Madame Vallon spit-muttered something about copying conjugations for homework, but the sound of scraping chairs and screeching backpack zippers drowned her out.

  “Remember the look on Estée’s face?” Alicia said loudly from her seat across the room.

  “I know, right?” Dylan giggled. The girls got up and started to make their way to the door.

  Massie sniffed her wrist again, this time for courage. The girls would be passing her desk in seconds. They couldn’t know she hadn’t found new friends yet. Pretending to be engrossed in her iPhone, she laughed out loud as Alicia, Dylan, Kristen, and Claire slid by.

  “Ehmagawd, too funny,” she murmured to herself, staring at her text message inbox.

  It read 0 MSGS.

  It might as well have read 1 LBR.

  When she heard her exes disappear down the hall, she slung her bag over her shoulder and headed for the door.

  “Hey.” Layne grabbed Massie’s arm the second she hit the hallway. “I hafta talk to you.”

  Massie rolled her eyes but slowed so Layne could catch up with her. Secretly, she was glad to have the company. But she’d rather have box-dyed her hair than told Layne that.

  “About what?” She sighed, even though she already knew.

  “You know…” Layne said with a meaningful nod. Flecks of orange glitter from her obviously homemade headband went flying everywhere. “Revenge.”

  Massie pinch-plucked a piece of glitter from the shoulder of her Lela Rose cropped shrug, feeling like she was caught in a tacky snow globe. Stopping in front of her locker, she reached for the padlock.

  “Look.” Layne jumped between Massie and the locker. “Are we gonna do this or what?” She sounded shady, like they were a couple’a street thugs meeting in a dark alley.

  “Did you come up with a plan?” Massie tapped her foot, wondering if she actually needed Layne to pull off Massie and Crew. Did she really want her right-hand woman to be a glitter headband–wearing thrift store junkie with barbecue breath? Then again, they were bonded in revenge, and Massie had to admit, Layne wanted to burn Kristen as badly as Massie wanted to burn the ex-NPC. And with Layne at her side, at least Massie wouldn’t have to stage a comeback on her own.

  “Eh. Not really.” Layne shrugged. “We’ll come up with something.” She pulled a half-empty bag of barbecue Corn Nuts from her backpack and shook the dusty pellets into her cupped hand. “We just have to find the perfect scenario.” She slapped her palm to her mouth and tilted back her head.

  Massie inhaled sharply as an eighth grader wearing a too-tight Cheetah Girls T-shirt and tapered jeans sidled up to a locker nearby. “Well, we’re not gonna find perfection within a five-mile radius of that shirt.”

  Layne’s eyes followed Massie’s. She stared at the ensemble with a mixture of admiration and disgust. “That outfit takes some serious bawls.” She nod-approved.

  “Focus, Layne,” Massie snapped. Suddenly, the hallway seemed packed with ill-fitting jeans, dull hair, and Lohan-orange foundation. “I need alphas. And there obviously aren’t any here.”

  Layne shoveled another handful of Corn Nuts into her mouth, staring into space. “See, this is why I love the thea-tahhhh,” she said. A nut was stuck on her eyetooth. “You can create a whole new world, and everything goes exactly the way you want it to. Same with Sims.”

  Massie shuddered at the word theater. It reminded her of Dempsey. “I’m so done with actors.”

  Layne’s head snapped back to position. Nuts clattered to the ground as she gripped Massie’s shoulders with both hands.

  “Ow!” Massie yelped.

  “Actors!” Layne said excitedly. She released her grip, tiny bits of red salt clinging to Massie’s shrug like colorful dandruff. “Gimme your iPhone.”

  “No way.” Massie took a cautious step back. Layne’s eyes looked wild. It was probably the cheap glitter liner, but Massie wasn’t taking any chances.

  “Come awn,” Layne begged. “My aunt runs a talent agency in the city. We could borrow some of her actors and use them to get back at that Dempsey-stealing dirtbag.” She glanced meaningfully at the iPhone in Massie’s hand. “Just take a look at some of the headshots.”

  Massie hesitated, the idea blooming in her mind. If she hired actors, she could get them to be whatever she wanted them to be. And what she wanted them to be was pure alpha. She felt an instant surge of hope.

  “Fine,” she whispered to Layne. “But not here.” She speed-scanned the hall, searching for signs that Layne had been overheard. If anyone found out she was considering hiring best friends, she’d have to transfer to another hemisphere.

  Layne’s eyes flashed with excitement. “So where?”

  Massie nodded sharply, signaling for Layne to follow her. It was lunchtime, and the crowds in the hall were starting to thin. “In here.” She ducked back into the now-empty G-16 and shut the door behind them.

  “What’s the name?” Massie asked, unlocking her iPhone.

  “Shooting Stars Talent Agency,” Layne whispered.

  Massie connected to the Web site. The headshots page was filled with black-and-white thumbnails. Massie clicked on the slide show setting, waiting for the girl parade to begin.

  “Lemme see.” Layne loomed over the iPhone, fogging up the screen with her hot nut breath.

  “Layne!” Massie barked, wiping the screen with the back of her arm. “Two steps back.” She held the phone at arm’s length, the way Kendra did when she was trying to read the New York Times Sunday Style section without glasses. As pictures began fading from one to another, she surveyed the girls for flyaways, chapped lips, or recklessly applied highlighter. But each was more perfect than the next.

  “She looks good.” Layne pointed to a shot of a willowy girl with flawless, translucent skin and an edgy dark pixie cut. Her large, light blue eyes were the only pop of color in the photograph. She stared directly into the camera, like she was daring Massie to pass on her. “Check her stats.”

  “Lilah Poole. Five-seven, black hair, blue eyes,” Massie read aloud. “Broadway debut in Chicago… plus a couple of indie films… and a guest appearance on Law and Order.”
Massie fought the smile starting to twitch at the corners of her mouth.

  “So?” Layne tugged at her faded I ME T-shirt. “Whaddaya think?”

  “I think,” Massie said slowly, “whoever I hire has to be the complete opposite of the Pretty Committee.”

  “So… you want girls who’re… nice,” Layne said drily.

  Massie didn’t really care about defending the PC anymore, so she chose to ignore the jab. “I’d need at least four,” she said decisively, twirling her purple hair streak around her index finger. She felt excitement starting to bubble up inside of her like fizzy bath salts. “Let’s make the call.”

  “No deal, Lucille. I’ll call my aunt, but only if I’m in the crew too.”

  Massie’s hyper-glossed lips dropped open. “You?”

  “Yeah,” Layne said brandishing her cell like a weapon. “If I make the call, you let me in. That means sleepovers, parties, and a guaranteed lunch table spot. No tricks.”

  “But you hate cliques, re-mem-ber?” Massie tried to steady her voice. Adding Layne to her new crew was a guaranteed way to drag the alpha average lower than the rise on a pair of J Brand Boyfriend jeans. “And how will it help you get back at Kristen?”

  “I’m not sure yet,” Layne admitted. “And even though I hate cliques, I like a good ensemble cast, and I love revenge.” She extended her right pinky. “Deal?”

  Suddenly, the PA system crackled to life.

  “Good afternoon, OCD, I’m Alicia Rivera and this is your lunchtime update.”

  Massie’s stomach clenched at the sound of Alicia’s voice. Her polished, peppy newscaster voice used to make Massie proud to be friends with Alicia. But now it just felt fake. Like their friendship must have been.

  “Great,” she muttered to Layne. “It’s Meredith Vi-ew-a.”

  Layne snorted.

  “Just a reminder that this Friday is the Briarwood boys’ last day,” Alicia chirped.

  “Yeaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh!” The boys could be heard all the way from the New Café.

  “So let’s spend the rest of the week making them all sorry they have to leave.” The sound of rustling papers echoed over the speakers.

  “And now for a new segment I like to call Couples Update.” A brief pause was followed by a prolonged kissing sound. “Which Briarwood thespian is now playing opposite OCD’s cutest soccer star? And are rumors of a steamy all-night textathon really true?”

  Massie clenched her iPhone in her fist. This was a total abuse of journalistic power.

  “Plus, which four alphas and their crushes were spotted in a white limo yesterday afternoon? And is it true things really got hot when AR and JH”—Alicia giggle-paused—“got a couples foot massage together? Tune in next time to find out. Till then, this is Alicia Rivera for OCD saying, I heart you.”

  Layne made a gagging sound. “I don’t know how you ever hung out with her,” she said, shaking her head.

  Massie closed her eyes, the sound of Alicia’s voice pounding inside her brain. She swallowed the growing lump in her throat, recalling the one piece of useful information she’d learned in world history last year: In times of war, people did unthinkable things. It was unthinkable to let Alicia think she had what it took to be an alpha. Unthinkable to let Kristen think she could steal Dempsey. Unthinkable for Dylan and Derrington to be so ah-nnoyingly perfect for each other. Unthinkable for Claire to think she didn’t have to choose sides. Unthinkable for Massie to conspire with Layne. Unthinkable for them to hire actresses as friends. The only thing more unthinkable than any of that was to sit around and do nothing.

  Opening her eyes, Massie linked pinkies with her new partner in crime and shook.

  “To the Fraud-Squad,” Layne whisper-giggled.

  “To the Fraud-Squad,” Massie allowed herself to whisper-giggle back.

  CURRENT STATE OF THE UNION

  IN OUT

  Headshots Latte shots

  Actress Drama

  Hiring friends Firing friends

  BOCD

  THE NEW GREEN CAFÉ

  Friday, October 16th

  12:40 P.M.

  “’Scuuuuze me.” Alicia speed-walked into the New Café, balancing a teetering pyramid of gold tissue–stuffed gift bags with the skill of an Olympic gymnast. The inaugural gifts she’d had overnighted for the Soul-M8s had arrived that morning, and it had taken every ounce of self-control not to spoil the surprise before lunch.

  She walked slowly to her table, using the opportunity to show off the new ensemble she’d bought for the boys’ last day: black pencil-leg jeans paired with a black silk Elizabeth and James racer-back tank. Classic black Louboutin flats and a stack of bangles finished the outfit. The all-black was meant to subtly indicate that while Alicia Rivera might be suffering, her sense of style wasn’t.

  Even though she knew the outfit was at least a 9.8, she almost wished Massie could have confirmed her suspicions. But since that wasn’t an option anymore, Alicia had had to settle for having her dad rate her before she left the house. He gave her an 11 out of 10. As always.

  “Prezzies!” Dylan squeal-clapped when Alicia reached the table, temporarily forgetting that she was supposed to be in mourning. The black half-veil spilling from the comb lodged in her side-part fluttered as she jumped up and shoved the trays of soy cheese veggie burgers and tofu stir-fry out of the way to make room for the gifts.

  Alicia tilted forward and dumped the overstuffed bags at the head of table thirty-six, like she was barfing generosity. “It wouldn’t be a going-away party without presents.”

  “’S no big deal.” Derrington shrugged, elbow-nudging Dylan. “We’re just going back to Briarwood.”

  “Yeah,” Josh added from his place at the boys’ end of the table. “It’s like five minutes away.”

  The girls were suddenly silent. Alicia’s smile morphed into a tight line. Why couldn’t Josh at least pretend he didn’t want to leave?

  “I guess,” Dylan sniffed, producing a tube of DiorShow waterproof mascara and shellacking her lashes with it.

  Kristen shrugged, yanking the zipper of her black Puma hoodie up to her chin.

  Claire just stared down at her untouched soy cheeseburger, looking sadder than her faded black Old Navy henley.

  “Okay!” Alicia said brightly. Just because the boys were leaving didn’t mean her party had to be a funeral. “Let’s get this party started!” She eyed Cam and Dempsey, who were hunched over their end of the table, working on their paper football goal kicks.

  After a few seconds of silence, the boys finally took the hint and settled down. Alicia distributed the bags according to the gold glitter–scripted initials on each tag. “The boys can go first,” she announced, taking her seat at the head of the table.

  Derrington held up his bag and shook it. “Ugh,” he said, wrinkling his nose at the tissue paper. “What’s that smell?”

  “Wellareyougonnaopenitornawt?” Alicia said quickly. Maybe she’d been a little heavy-handed with the perfume. But the extra spritzes of Angel ensured that they’d remember her long after they left OCD.

  “Harrington!” Ben Wright, a seventh grader and the Tomahawks’ second-string goalie, came up behind Derrington’s seat. “Careful not to mess up those naaaaiilllllls.” He wiggled all ten fingers in front of his face.

  The boys flushed.

  “Heard you guys got mani-pedis,” Ben’s friend Topher Bank added, using a squeaky girl voice. “Was it just to diiiie for?”

  “Shut up, Bank,” Josh mumbled, whipping a roll at the boy’s head.

  “Who cares?” Dylan said through a mouthful of fries. “I saw you guys last weekend getting spray tans at Sun of a Beach.”

  Ben and Topher’s bronzed cheeks turned purple. Derrington stared at the table, looking like he couldn’t tell whether Dylan had just saved him or doomed him.

  “Whatever, mani-prettys,” Ben spat, storming off.

  “Okay, seriously,” Alicia groaned, annoyed that the focus had shifted from her. “Open the prese
nts.”

  “Hey, is this made from recycled paper?” Dempsey asked, pointing to the gold tissue.

  Kristen kick-nudged Alicia with a black Puma.

  Alicia bounced impatiently in her seat. “Just open it.”

  Dempsey’s forearm disappeared into the bag. When it reappeared, a key chain attached to a small, square LED screen was dangling from the crook of his finger.

  “It’s a digital photo key chain,” Alicia chattered nervously, searching the boys’ faces for their reactions. “So you’ll remember OCD. It has pictures of us from the last few days. Like from the spa and stuff.”

  “Ehmagawd, that’s too sweet.” Dylan dabbed at her eyes with a napkin. Her “waterproof” mascara left a dark football player smudge under her left eye.

  “You’ve got proof?” Derrington screeched, slumping back in his chair.

  “If those things ever get out…” Dempsey shook his head, his green eyes wide.

  Alicia froze. Was her idea totally lame? Should she have gone with the monogrammed iPod shuffles instead? “Plus it has ‘Soul-M8s’ engraved on the back,” she said quickly, trying to reel them back in. “Annnnd it’s an MP3 player.”

  “Cool!” Cam smiled reassuringly. “Did you load music onto them already?”

  Alicia’s cheeks burned. Should she have? Would Massie have thought of that? She shook her head no, but Cam grinned anyway.

  “Thanks.” He scooted his chair closer to Claire and started scrolling through pictures of them eating gummies together. Claire smiled sadly down at the screen, as if the photos were the last memories of Cam she’d ever have.

  Derrington jumped up and wiggled his butt.

  “Yeah, thanks.” Josh leaned across the table and lifted his palm for a high five. His dark brown eyes flickered like he meant it.

  Relieved, Alicia met his hand midair. A jolt of electricity shot through her palm and zipped down to her stomach the instant their fingers touched. She realized it had been ten days since their last lip kiss. Who knew how long it would be before their next one, now that they wouldn’t see each other every day.