12.3 Let’s meet before every holiday party to plan our wardrobes. PMS is a uniform school. We are behind other schools when it comes to fashion. We can combine our clothes, put together outfits, and style each other so we all look ah-mazing. I don’t decide what I’m going to wear until day of. Sometimes minute of. Sorry. I’m getting help from Yasmine, Merri-Lee’s stylist, and I don’t want her to help you. Every Ahnnabee for herself. Uh-kay?
12.11 Let’s have sleepovers at my house every Friday night. My parents will never approve. They like me at home. I hate being reminded that your house is bigger/nicer/smells cleaner/is better staffed than mine.
12.11 So let’s have sleepovers at your house every Friday night. My parents are private and don’t like guests. I still suck my thumb.
12.19 I don’t think we should wear so much eyeliner. It’s all about cheeks and lips. Tell that to Shauna who just got glasses and needs a little something to make her feel less pathetic. I put on my older sister’s eyeliner at the beginning of the school year and everyone thought I was in the sixth grade. Does anyone think you’re in the sixth grade? No? Didn’t think so.
12.20 Let’s change our name. The Ahnnabees sounds kinda desperate, like we’re wannabes or something. You’re just saying that because you don’t have an ahna name like me, Lana, Shauna, and Brianna and you’re jealous. I managed to convince four girls to name a clique after me. Do you hawnestly think I’m going to change it?
12.24 Let’s play a game called “What Would You Rather Get for Christmas?” Okay, I’ll start. What would you rather get for Christmas? This stupid game or something fun? No.
“We’re here,” Mr. Pincher announced, opening the door and dropping his keys in the white-gloved hands of the parking attendant.
Massie shimmied out of her maxi shearling and followed the others outside. Without shame, the Ahnnabees hurried toward the entrance, each in a different-color puffy jacket: yellow, pink, baby blue, and lilac. They looked like a gang of skinny-legged Easter-colored M&M’s from the commercials.
Over the years, Massie had told them winter coats were party-dress poison. But tonight she decided to let it go. She was over them treating her words of wisdom like sunflower seeds, something to chew on for a second and then spit out. Instead, she raced for the warmth of the giant klieg lights by the entrance, proud to know she stood apart.
A crowd of bundled-up regular people was gazing in awe at the clear night sky. Or rather, at the crystal-covered pole that jutted out from the center of the airplane hangar and the massive gold-and-black beaded YSL clutch affixed to the top. Their chapped lips were agape and puffs of mouth smoke filled the frigid night air, as if they were beholding the star atop the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center, or an alien landing.
Like a true celebrity, Massie avoided their eyes as she breezed by, casually waving her black ticket as if it were nothing more than a tissue.
“Stawp!” Ahnna blurted when they came upon two sumo wrestlers-slash-doormen in white tuxedos and white (faux?) fur hats. Their massive suits doubled as screens that broadcast the party, live—and were currently featuring a performance by Mandy Moore. It was a little something Merri-Lee insisted on doing for her poor freezing fans who hadn’t been lucky enough to win access during her monthlong on-air giveaway.
The Pincher party flashed their tickets and the sumo wrestlers opened the doors.
“Eeeeeeeee,” screeched the Ahnnabees as they entered the enormous space. Usually the stark home to a fleet of American Airlines jets, the hangar was pulsating with life.
Cameras coasted along tracks, gathering sweeping shots of the beautiful guests as they danced, toasted, and embraced. Servers weaved through the crowd, offering samples of the fantastic dishes prepared over the past year on The Daily Grind. Each waitress had the name of her dish, the chef who invented it, and the actual recipe scrawled on her black catsuit in metallic gold pen—handwritten, of course by Freda Luu, winner of Merri-Lee’s high school penmanship contest—episode 267—back in May.
The stage, at the far end of the structure, seemed miles away. But the sound of Sisqó asking the audience if they were ready for “The Thong Song” was clear as a well-cut diamond. Massie’s insides soared like the Times Square ball in reverse. This was the BPE—Best Party Ever.
“Stawp!” Lana slapped a hand against her mouth, covering the black dot of a mole that punctuated the top left side of her lip. “I love this song!”
“Eeeeeeeee!” The girls squeal-waved. Even Massie did it this time, her charm bracelet sliding off her wrist for the second time.
“Let’s go!” The Ahnnabees unzipped their puffy jackets and whipped them toward the rack of hangers, practically blinding the coat-check guy.
“Stawp!” Massie blurted when she saw her four friends dressed in matching Burberry plaid dresses.
“Stawp!” giggled Lana in shock.
“Stawp yourself,” gasped Shauna.
“Stawp yourself,” cried Brianna.
“Staw-aw-aaawp!” barked Ahnna. “I can’t believe you all copied me!”
A chorus of “we didn’t” and “it was a total accident” followed. Massie opened her mouth to reiterate the benefits of pre-party wardrobe summits but what was the point? Ahnna’s constipated expression said it all.
“You look like you’re wearing the PMS uniform,” she finally said, unable to help herself.
“Awwww, aren’t they precious?” Mrs. Pincher remarked. “Like a girl group. Who knows, maybe you’ll get discovered tonight!”
“Yeah!” Ahnna shouted with glee. “The Ahnnabees!”
“Eeeeeeeeee!” they shrieked again, this time without Massie.
Renewed and ready to take their rightful place by the foot of the stage, they began shoving their way into the crowd.
“Stop!” This time the command came from Mr. Pincher. He casually deposited his empty glass of champagne on a passing server’s tray. “We’ll be calling you every half hour to make sure you’re all safe and accounted for. If you don’t answer, I will hunt you down and take you home, midnight or not. Is that clear?”
Ahnna nodded yes and waved her phone to prove she meant it. Then the four girls pranced into the heavily perfumed crowd, bobbing their heads to Sisqó’s buoyant hip-hop anthem.
And as usual, Massie trailed behind, like a tag-along sibling or a piece of toilet paper stuck to the bottom of a Jimmy Choo. But wait—comparing the Ahnnabees to fabulous footwear was ten kinds of wrong. They had terrible style, made her feel small, and were cheap. They were the opposite of Jimmy Choos. They were Jimmy Poos. So why was she sticking to their bottoms at all?
The truth was, LMNOP already had an M, and the Ahnnabees were the next best thing. During many sleepless nights Massie told herself to stay patient and keep trying. Eventually they’d realize she had good ideas. Great ones, even. And then they’d start treating her better. She wouldn’t feel like toilet paper anymore. And the emotional blender in the pit of her stomach would stop churning up feelings of sadness and despair. Maybe they’d even change their name to include hers? Or sleep over? Or compliment her inventive outfits? But that day felt more distant than Uranus.
Pushing past the densely packed partyers, trying to catch up to her so-called friends, Massie was reminded of the turquoise beaded dress she’d bought last year at Saks.
Her mother had been taking her to the Marc Jacobs show during Fashion Week, and Massie was dying to wear something new. The event was about to start, and after an unsuccessful Fifth Avenue blitz and a ton of “hurry up” pressure from Kendra, she agreed to the tacky mini, which was much more figure skater than fashion model. The instant she pushed through the store’s revolving door she wanted to return it. But it was too late. The bill had been stamped FINAL SALE in thick red letters. There was no going back. She had settled out of desperation and was stuck with it for life.
Just like the Ahnnabees.
WESTCHESTER COUNTY AIRPORT
MERRI-LEE MARVIL’S NEW YEAR’S YVES PARTY
DRESSING ROOM C
Friday, December 31st
8:23 P.M.
Alicia Rivera bent slowly from the waist, luxuriating in the stretch that warmed her hamstrings and showcased her hyper-flexibility.
“Ahhhhh,” she exhaled, rolling a black cashmere leg warmer up her slightly hairy calf.
According to her mother, shaving got a PG-13 rating and was therefore not an option for four more years. One would argue—which Alicia did and did and did—that dancing on one of the biggest television broadcasts of the year would warrant an exception or, at the very least, some Nair. But Nadia Rivera had a very prominent lawyer backing her up: Alicia’s father, Len. And they were in the audience, not only to watch their daughter perform, but to make sure her legs were still dusted in unsightly dark hair, just like they were when they left the house.
“What’s with the Hot Sox?” Andrea Saunders paced restlessly across the gray carpet in the tiny dressing room. “Were they part of the costume? Because no one told me they were part of the costume. And I don’t have any.” Her cheeks were flushed and her thin, wiry arms were covered in red hives. “Do you have any?” She pulled the earbuds out of Brooke Gleason’s ears.
“Huh?” Brooke’s thin upper lip curled in annoyance.
“Did you bring leg warmers?”
Brooke shook her head no with such conviction her black side-braid smacked her chin. Then she replaced her earbuds, closed her narrow eyes, and lay back on the tattered red love seat she had been dominating for the last thirty minutes.
“Then what are you doing?” Andrea grunted. She crossed the dressing room and gripped her stomach, doubling over in pain. “Owwwww! Crrrr-amp.”
“I’m the dance captain,” Alicia told her reflection. “I should stand out.” And hide my gorilla legs.
“What? You don’t think these costumes stand out?” Andrea tugged at her silver sequin–covered tuxedo vest, then smacked her pin-striped short shorts like they were somehow responsible for all of this. “Because I sure do!” She grabbed a handful of Lycra from her butt crack. “And besides. You’re. Not. The. Captain! Skye Hamilton is.”
“Well, she’s not here now, is she?” Alicia stomped her silver Capezio. “And Mrs. Fossier said while she’s gone, I’m captain. And I decided that I should wear these, and you shouldn’t!” she yelled at Andrea’s smooth legs.
It might have been easier if Alicia confessed the whole hairy reason she needed to cover up. But why should she have to? Until Skye returned from her family vacation to Hawaii, she was dance captain. And dance captains shouldn’t have to explain.
Not to mention she was legitimately the best dancer in BADSS—Body Alive Dance Studio Squad. But Skye’s parents owned the studio and she was a year older, so naturally she got the title. But after tonight, everyone would know who really deserved it. And next year everything would be different. Everything would be right.
Suddenly, the room smelled like Egg McMuffin.
Someone triple-knocked on the door and then entered.
“Oh, students, you should see how many cameras there are out there!” gushed a petite, prematurely gray-haired woman in desperate need of a haircut and deodorant. But every dancer worth her salt overlooked those details because Mrs. Fossier had performed with Alvin Ailey for four years, and was featured in two coffee-table books. “Do you know how exciting this is? To represent the local culture in Westchester? To…” She paused to sniff the air in the tight, windowless dressing room. “What is that smell?”
Alicia and Brooke exchanged a knowing glance. They bit their lips, barely managing to resist hysteria. Had she finally caught a whiff of her own Danskin?
“Sorry.” Andrea fanned her short shorts. “I’m just a little nervous. I’ll be right back.”
“Very good.” Mrs. Fossier tapped Andrea on the head as she squeezed by.
When she finally returned, Andrea’s cheeks were clammy and pale. Hives ravaged the back of her legs.
“How about one more run-through before you go out there and show the world how three young bodies can move as one?” She perched, erect and proud, on the arm of the couch, then began clapping to the metronomic beat in her head. “I’ll count you in. Ready?”
Alicia lifted her chin like a confident leader and blinked once for yes. It was time to shut off her brain and let her body do the work. Work that she had been born to do. Work that, after tonight, she would be paid to do.
“Wait.” Andrea fanned her glistening face. “Does this mean we’re going on soon?”
Mrs. Fossier grin-nodded, like someone who couldn’t stand to keep a secret for one more minute. “The stage manager should be here shortly to escort us to the stage.”
“Ohhhhhhhhhh.” Andrea gripped her stomach, which seemed unusually bloated. “I have to go again. I’m not sure I can do this!”
A doughy man with a low ponytail, wearing a black Limp Bizkit concert tee, appeared in the open doorway. “What do you mean you can’t do this?” he barked, adjusting the headset to his walkie-talkie. “Aren’t you one of the dancers?”
Andrea nodded yes, and then accidentally gave him a taste of her Egg McMuffin. “But I’m kinda getting stage fright.”
“I can smell, I mean tell.” He fanned the air.
Alicia and Brooke burst out laughing.
“Enough!” Mrs. Fossier snapped. “A dancer’s body is beautiful no matter how toxic.” She looked warmly at Andrea, whose brown eyes were now filling with tears. “You go ahead. The show won’t go on without you.”
“Maybe it should,” Andrea squeaked. “I don’t feel so well,” she moaned and then sprinted down the hall toward the bathroom.
“It can’t,” insisted the stage manager. “The director camera-blocked the performance during rehearsal. It’s too late to change it now. Either you have three dancers or the Canine Chorus will get to bark two verses of ‘Auld Lang Syne’ instead of one.”
The stage manager consulted his clipboard and made some notes. “You have fifty-two minutes to figure out a solution.”
“Done,” Alicia blurted, refusing to let the biggest opportunity of her life go to the dogs.
MERRI-LEE MARVIL’S NEW YEAR’S YVES PARTY
MERRI-LEE’S DRESSING ROOM
Friday, December 31st
8:26 P.M.
“Where are my girls?” Merri-Lee Marvil stormed into her dressing room and kicked off her five-inch YSL heels. “I need my girls.” She slid into a pair of pink Ugg clogs and shuffled over to her daughters, snapping her fingers urgently, like their flight was about to board and they were stuck on line at the Starbucks kiosk.
“Over here!” Dylan leapt out from behind the white satin changing screen, thrashing around in spastic homage to the heavy metal song blasting from the stylist’s boom box. In her low-rider leather pants, gold YSL wedges, black cashmere tank, and leopard faux-fur collar, she felt sexier than Shakira. Oh yeah! She was ready for her close-up.
“I’m not coming out!” whined her fourteen-year-old sister, Ryan.
“Me either,” added Jaime, the thirteen-year-old.
“Why not?” Merri-Lee shouted at the screen, finger-fluffing her red curls.
“They think they look fat.” Dylan rolled her green eyes. She was so over her sisters’ pathetic weight obsession. Partly because they looked malnourished to begin with, but mostly because it was boring. They never wanted to have giant cookie-baking contests or eat fast food or pound soda and squish the empties. They were too afraid of getting “carby.” Not that they would. Dylan did those things all the time and she was still ramen-noodle thin.
“The whole eating-makes-you-fat thing is a lie,” she explained for the billionth time. “Advertisers just say that to sell gym memberships and Lean Cuisine.”
“If they think they’re fat, I must be a Pig Newton.” Merri-Lee checked the giant digital clock on the wall. The red LCD numbers indicated that she had four minutes and twenty-two seconds left in this commercial break. “I’m coming in,” she announ
ced. “Make room for the belly of the ball.”
Seconds later, the usual, “You’re so thin, no you’re so thin, no you are, I wish, no I wish…” wafted from behind the changing screen like the fresh-baked smell of sugar-free, low-fat brownies. Dylan ignored her size-two mother and her size-zero sisters and hopped up into the makeup chair so Kali could tame her long red curls. She was about to make her first TV appearance ever. Frizz was not an option.
Facing the mirror, she crossed her legs and—pop. The button on her leather pants snapped open. A stomach tsunami surged toward her lap. Gucci pants should not malfunction like this, she thought before quickly buttoning them back up.
“Stop moving.” Kali lifted the flatiron away from Dylan’s head.
“Sorry.” Dylan exhaled.
Pop!
The tsunami surged again.
“Yazzz-min!” she managed without moving.
Merri-Lee’s longtime stylist stuck her head over the white screen, clutching four safety pins between her lips. “Hmmmm.”
“I think you gave me the wrong pants.”
“Hmmmm?” Yasmine hummed.
“These are kinda tight.” Dylan lifted her pelvis and sucked in her stomach, trying to create space between the digging button and her flesh.
Yasmine spit the pins into her hand and sighed, “The pants are the right size. They look great. You all look great. Now stop stressing and finish dressing or you’re going to miss your segment.”
“She’s right,” Kali muttered, pressing a chunk of Dylan’s hair between the hot clay plates. A puff of steam billowed around her head.
“I’m keeping my whale butt right here where it’s safe!” Ryan called. “I don’t want to get harpooned.”
“Ugggggh,” Yasmine groaned, marching toward the full-length mirror, the heels of her black boots click-clacking years of frustration in ways her mouth wouldn’t dare. She rolled the mirror toward the girls and huffed, “Look!”
The Clique: Charmed and Dangerous Page 2
