Alicia’s ankle throbbed.
Her head spun.
Her heart was broken.
And Poppy had made off with her Marc Jacobs bag.
WESTCHESTER COUNTY AIRPORT
MERRI-LEE MARVIL’S NEW YEAR’S YVES PARTY
THE PARKING LOT
Friday, December 31st
10:17 P.M.
“You better be quick,” Ali called from inside the limo.
“I will, I promise.” Kristen slammed the door, exhaling a puff of air.
“Hurry!” Ali called one last time.
Kristen raced to the entrance, paying little mind to the shivering crowd of onlookers behind the gates, the giant purse at the top of a pole, or the red carpet—which was now littered with cigarette butts, silver gum wrappers, and empty water bottles. She was on a mission. And, as with everything she set her mind to, Kristen was determined to succeed.
Clutching the gold dollar-sign charm in her palm, she hurried past the snaking line of wannabe guests outside the door and marched straight to the front.
“Hi.” She smiled brightly at the large gatekeeper in the white suit and matching fur hat. Cold wind blew against her sensitive Whitestripped teeth, sending a shock of pain that resonated all the way down to her frozen flip-flopped feet.
“Back o’ the line!” shouted some grumpy man in a leather trench coat.
“Yeah!” shouted a woman in Lucite platforms and a tacky pink puffy coat. “Who do you think you are? One of those Olsen twins?”
“Where’s your ticket?”
“You on the list?”
“Go home to Mommy!”
Others quickly joined in, cursing her out and wishing her harm for cutting the line.
Kristen finally turned to face her detractors. “I have this, okay?” She pinch-held the charm over her head, proving she had something more valuable than a ticket or a name on a list.
She turned back to the man in the white suit. “I’d like to get in now, please.”
“So would they,” he grumbled, chin-pointing at the angry mob behind her.
Kristen smiled politely. “I don’t want to see the show, I just have to give something to my friend,” she said, loving the way friend sounded.
“So do they.” He chin-pointed again.
“No, but I really do. I’ll just be a minute. Here…” Kristen searched her body for collateral. A watch, a tennis bracelet, diamond earrings. But she had nothing. Ironically, the only thing she had of value was the gold dollar sign. And she was there to give it back.
Tears began to fill Kristen’s eyes. Tears she didn’t even know she had. Yet there they were, in a state of permanent readiness. Destined to fall whenever she thought about things she couldn’t afford—things that came so easily to everyone else.
“You just come from the gym?” the human marshmallow asked, like she would ever wear Juicy to the gym.
You just come from a marshmallow factory? she wanted to shout back. But a cluster of five hip hip-hoppers surrounded him and shut her out. The three guys were covered in Sean John logos and varying shades of Kangol hats. The two girls wore knee-high lace-up boots, their dresses covered by fur coats. While they gave their names to the Marshmallow, Red Kangol paced back and forth, talking on his cell and begging some girl in Queens to get her booty to Westchester.
“Take one of the label’s choppers if you need to, baby. We’re at the airport. The pilot can land right at the front door.” He gestured toward the private planes parked in the distance, as if she could see them.
Kristen’s eyes welled up again. She didn’t even have a bike.
“Your name is on the list,” Red Kangol insisted. He tilted his neck, gripped the cell with the side of his head, and rubbed his hands together for warmth. “It’s so cold here without you, baby.” He listened to her response while eyeing a gaggle of blondes in minidresses as they searched for the back of the line. “Nah, I understand. Happy New Year, Boo. I love you too.”
He dropped his phone in the deep side pocket of his jeans.
“Lemme guess,” Green Kangol mumbled. “Rihanna’s not coming.”
Marshmallow handed them their VIP stickers, then unhooked the red velvet stanchion. The five-pack sauntered inside, avoiding eye contact with the losers still stuck on line.
This set the mob off all over again.
“I’ve been standing here since Thanksgiving!”
“I can’t feel my feet!”
“What makes them so special?”
“A recording contract!” Marshmallow shouted back.
Suddenly, Kristen sensed a billion tiny inchworms crawling up her arms. It was a familiar feeling—slightly ticklish, slightly irritating—one she got whenever she had a risky idea.
“Can I go in now?” Kristen smiled again. “My name is Rihanna.”
Instead of checking the list, Marshmallow eyeballed her. It was that doubtful squint her overprotective mother had perfected years ago. Regardless of the situation, it always asked the same question: Are you lying to me?
“What? Why are you looking at me like that?” Kristen asked, feeling herself blush. “Check the list. You’ll see. I’m there.”
“Last name?” Marshmallow asked, haphazardly flipping through the pages on his clipboard.
Kristen’s mouth dried. Her heart beat double time. The inchworms ran for their lives. Now what? She stood on her frostbitten but beautifully pedicured toes and peeked at his pages.
He pulled the clipboard back.
“Oh, come on,” she pleaded. “I’m on there. Check Rihanna.”
“No last name?”
“Ummm…”
Out of sheer desperation, Kristen released the dollar sign to the ground. It landed with a plink. “Oh no, my charm!” she gasped, before lightly stepping on it with her flip-flop. In a show of extreme panic she dropped to the frigid pavement. Through a veil of forced tears she whimpered, “Just check under R, okay?” She searched the ground in a frenzy of don’t mess with me emotions.
Marshmallow, obviously too masculine to deal with a sobbing girl, flipped to the R’s. “All right,” he nose-sighed. “Here it is. Rihanna. No last name.”
“Found it!” Kristen declared, holding up the charm.
Marshmallow handed her a VIP sticker with her new name on it and opened the door.
“Happy New Year, Rihanna,” he grumbled.
“You too, M—” Kristen caught herself. “Mister.” She hurried inside where it was warm.
Merri-Lee’s New Year’s Yves party looked different in real life than it did on TV. Less friendly. More chaotic. Completely overwhelming. Colored lights bounced from one hair-sprayed blowout to the next. Music pulsated. Tall people were everywhere. And no one was wearing Juicy.
Kristen hovered by the exit, shaking, like a terrified little flower girl about to walk the aisle at St. Patrick’s Cathedral. What was she thinking? Was she really going in there alone? Where were the girls her age? Her legs stiffened. Her stomach locked. She panted nervously. Hovering next to the old people, who were hovering next to the circular bar, Kristen remained a safe distance from the raucous dance floor. How was she ever going to find Massie in this madhouse?
In an attempt to look like she belonged, Kristen helped herself to a grilled prawn off a passing waitress’s tray. Pigs in a blanket would have made her happier, or maybe one of those mini microwavable egg rolls. But she was trying to look rich, and shrimp cocktail was always the most expensive appetizer on the menu.
And then, the four girls she’d seen on TV scurried by in their matching plaid dresses.
“’Scuse me?” Kristen called before she had any idea what to say.
They stopped. The one with the curly butterscotch blond bob was the first to turn.
“Yuss,” she snarled.
“Ummm.” Kristen took a step back, hating her mouth for writing a check her brain couldn’t cash. “Uhhh…” She thought about coming right out and asking if they knew Massie but decided against it. They were
probably famous. Better to see if they were friendly first. “How much longer until midnight?”
Curly hair checked the screen on her cell phone. “One hour and thirteen minutes.” She took a step closer. “Don’t worry”—she read the name on Kristen’s VIP sticker—“Rihanna, that’s plenty of time to change out of those sweats and into—Stawp!”
“What?” the other girls asked.
“Did you see her name?” Curly waved her hands like a baby chick trying to fly.
The girls leaned into Kristen’s chest.
“Her name is Reee-ahnna!” Curly announced. “She’s an Ahnna!”
“Eeeeeeeeeeeeee!” They all began shaking their hands and hopping around.
“I’m Ahnna.” Curly opened her arms and pulled Kristen in for a sweaty hug. She smelled a little like French onion dip.
“Stawp!” Red Glasses extended her hand. “I’m Shauna.”
“Lana.” A girl with a beauty mark above her lip smile-waved.
“Brianna,” said the one with black bangs.
Three babysitter-age girls dressed like college girls giggled as they walked by.
“Are you a new girl group?” Kristen asked, wishing she had a pen for autographs.
“Pretty much.” Shauna beamed.
“We’re the Ahnnabees,” Lana said proudly.
“Because all of our names have Ahnnas in them,” Brianna explained.
“You know…” Ahnna hooked her arm through Kristen’s. “We’re looking for a new member,” she whispered. “We lost one tonight.”
“Oh.” Kristen tried to sound sympathetic while quickly scanning the crowd for Massie Block. “Sorry for your loss.”
“Hakuna matata.” Ahnna made a peace sign. “She wasn’t a true Ahnna. Not like you.”
“Huh?” Kristen tuned back in to the conversation. “But I can’t sing. I’m more into soccer and stuff.”
“You don’t have to sing.” Ahnna giggled. “You just have to be an Ahnna and you, Reee-ahnna, are a true Ahnna.”
“Oh.” Kristen looked down at her name tag. “This is not—”
“Give her the quiz!” Brianna interrupted, bouncing up and down.
“Yeah, the quiz!” Lana echoed.
“Can I ask the first question?” Shauna pushed her red glasses up the bridge of her nose.
“What quiz?” Kristen asked with growing interest.
“It’s mostly about your favorite things,” Ahnna explained. “You know, to see if we have anything in common other than our names.” She winked. “Even though I can tell by that VIP sticker that we already do.”
“The thing is…” Kristen giggled, suddenly excited to share her secret. Excited to laugh about the clever way she swindled Marshmallow. Excited that Ali was stuck waiting for her in the car. “I kind of snuck in here tonight.”
Their eyes widened, encouraging her to continue.
“My real name is Kristen,” she blurted. “I came to find some girl named Massie. She lost this charm and—”
“Security!” shouted Ahnna.
“What?” Kristen gasped.
“Secur-i-teeeeeee!” she shouted again.
Instead of waiting to find out what had gone wrong, Kristen bolted for the door marked VIP. She burst inside and crashed head-on into a thick white wall.
“Ahhhhhhhhhhh!” shouted the wall.
Kristen looked up. It was Marshmallow. And he was covered in burning hot coffee.
“What are you doing back here?” she asked, taking a step back.
“I’m on my break.” He scowled and then grabbed her by the hood of her sweatshirt.
“Where are we going?” Kristen trembled.
“You’re going outside.”
“But I thought you were on break.” She smiled, laying on the charm.
“Break’s over!” Marshmallow chucked his empty coffee cup in the trash, dragging Kristen and her charm toward the nearest exit.
WESTCHESTER COUNTY AIRPORT
MERRI-LEE MARVIL’S NEW YEAR’S YVES PARTY
Friday, December 31st
10:52 P.M.
Everyone envy-stared as Merri-Lee’s bodyguard led the Marvil girls to the stage. No one knew who they were exactly, but it was obvious from their matching outfits, flawless makeup, and three-hundred-pound escort that they were special.
Digital cameras flashed in their faces, each spark of light charging Dylan’s mood. She waved at the guests, blew kisses to the cute ones, and smiled widely for lenses of all sizes. Could Derrick and Cam see her?
Jaime and Ryan, however, lifted their chins, rolled back their shoulders, and scowled. They were obviously trying to project “bored supermodel” but gave off “constipated cadet” instead.
The bodyguard cleared a path with his giant chest and placed the girls at the foot of the stage.
“Um, sir…” Ryan cupped her updo. “We’re supposed to be awn the stage, not under it.”
The bodyguard grunted and shook his head no.
“Whaddaya mean, no!?” We’re Merri-Lee’s daughters!” Jaime shouted loud enough for everyone to hear.
A cluster of over-hair-sprayed moms inched closer and began taking their pictures. Dylan threw her arms around her sisters and smiled brightly while Jaime and Ryan continued arguing.
“He’s right,” interjected a stage manager. “You girls will be down here. Your mom wanted it to seem like you were having fun at the party. The camera will find you, don’t worry.”
“Paaaaarty!” Dylan threw her hands in the air, snap-swaying to the Smash Mouth remix the house DJ began playing after Christina’s short set. Smash was hardly her favorite, but it was better than listening to her sisters complain.
Not that she had a choice. Ryan and Jaime were all she had. Most of the girls at school were only interested in Dylan’s famous mom, so she stuck close to her sisters, who were only interested in themselves.
A man dressed in black appeared with a big TV camera. He flicked on a blinding light, then began swaying back and forth; in her face… away from her face… in her face… away from her face…. How many millions of people were seeing this?
Drinking up the light like a sunflower, Dylan danced harder. Arms waving overhead, black cashmere tank sliding up her belly, leather-encased booty undulating, exfoliated feet balancing in gold wedges, hair half-straight half-curly smacking the side of her face…. The more her sisters argued with the bodyguard, the more solo airtime she was getting. It was perf—
Whaah??
Dylan’s gold YSL stomped down on something fleshy. Sashimi?
“My hand!” shouted a girl from the floor.
“Stop the camera!” Dylan held her palm in front of the camera.
“I wasn’t rolling,” the cameraman said. “Just testing light.”
“Oh.” Dylan pouted, wishing she hadn’t busted out her A-game for his lens.
“Offa my hand!” shouted the girl again.
“Oops, sorry.” Dylan lifted her foot, then quickly crouched to assess the damage.
Pop! Her belly tsunamied from her pants. What is up with this button???
“Are you okay?” she asked, lowering her upward-creeping cashmere tank.
“No!” The girl’s amber eyes were moist.
It was her! Massie Blo—.
“What’re ya doing down there?” Dylan stood. “Looking for friends?”
“You’re the one who should be looking for friends.” Massie stood too; their eyes locked.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dylan’s cheeks warmed.
“You’re still wearing those pants.” She half smiled. “A real friend wouldn’t let you do that.”
“What is so bad about these pants?” Dylan stomped her foot.
“Look.” Massie pointed at the “last-minute mirror” propped by the side of the stage for artists to have one last look before performing.
Dylan stomped over.
“Where are you going?” called the bodyguard.
But Dylan ignored him and approac
hed the mirror with gusto, anxious to prove what she already knew. Dylan Marvil was thin. Possibly too thin. And her pants were just poorly made.
Dylan eyed her reflection.
Ahhhhhhhh! Fat-a-touille!
This mirror made her thighs bulb, her abs pooch, and her cheeks chipmunk. Her only slim feature was the left side of her hair, the part Kali had straightened.
“See?” Massie half smiled again.
Did she have to be so perfect looking aaaand so right?
Dylan swallowed the double cheeseburger–size lump in her throat. There had to be a logical explanation. Had to be… had to be… had to… and then she found it. And just like that, her angst melted like a bite-size Butterfinger in her back pocket.
“The only thing I see,” she managed, “is one of those TV mirrors.”
“What’s a TV mirror?”
Dylan rolled her eyes, as if a lifetime of explaining “the biz” to average Janes was exhausting.
“It adds ten pounds to people so they know what they’re gonna look like on TV.”
Massie pushed Dylan aside. “Funny,” she said to her reflection. “I still look thin.”
Confusion bubbled inside Dylan like a shaken Pepsi. What was going on? Who was this girl and why was she so intent on destroying Dylan’s confidence? Was she jealous? Evil? Or… right?
Impossible! She had to be jealous. Everyone else was.
“Let’s go!” The stage manager tugged Dylan’s arm and dragged her back to the stage.
Ryan and Jaime were trying to convince some dad in a leather suit to hold their lip glosses until their segment was over. “We don’t want the home audience to see them in our pockets and think they’re bulges of faaaat,” Ryan explained.
“’Course not.” The guy took the tubes and stuffed them in the inside pocket of his jacket, next to the cigars. Seconds later he was off, chasing his angry girlfriend.
“Is he trying to steal those?” Jaime tugged her ironed hair.
“Focus!” The stage manager clapped once. The girls finally gave him their attention.
“Now remember, your mother is going to talk about the little Christmas trip you took downtown to feed the homeless. The camera will cut to you girls in the audience looking all happy and charitable, and then it will show the video.” He chuckled as if remembering a funny joke. “Dylan, there’s a great moment where you’re hiding behind your mom, chowing an Entenmann’s doughnut that is obviously supposed to be for one of the homeless people.” He laughed again. “It’s classic!”
The Clique: Charmed and Dangerous Page 8
