MERRI-LEE MARVIL’S NEW YEAR’S YVES PARTY
MERRI-LEE’S DRESSING ROOM
Friday, December 31st
11:09 P.M.
Pushing past the backstage riffraff, Dylan stomped toward her mother’s dressing room. Eminem’s “The Real Slim Shady” blared from behind its closed door. Her temper was hot but her backside was cool, thanks to the six-inch split in the rear of her pants.
“Yazzzzz-min!” She burst through the door, gold YSL wedges blazing. It smelled like salsa and fruit-scented products. “Your Guccis are for hoochies!” She whipped her leopard faux-fur collar on the floor.
“What?” Yasmine turned down the music. Humid fog clouds swirled around the stylist as she steamed the rejected clothes that had been kicked, clumped, and tossed by the Marvil sisters.
“My pants ripped on the air!” Dylan turned around and wiggled her exposed butt as proof. “Where’dja get them? EBay?”
Kali, who was in the midst of pulling red hair chunks from her brushes, turned away, obviously not wanting to get involved. But it was too late for that. The whole world was involved.
“I just flashed ham on a global broadcast, thanks to these terrible pants you made me wear,” Dylan shouted, her heart pounding. “What happened? Did you buy a pair of Bebes and slap a Gucci tag on the back, then charge my mom for—”
“Enough!” Yasmine barked, her bottom teeth jutting out like a bulldog’s. With cheeks flushed from the hot steam, she clomped over in her angry black boots and grabbed Dylan by the wrist.
“Owie,” Dylan moaned.
But Yasmine only tightened her grip.
“Maybe you beefed up a little over the holidays.” She dropped Dylan’s arm and took a step back, as if expecting to be slapped.
“Please! I wish.” Dylan scoffed. “All I do is eat. And every time I look in the mirror I see skin and bones. I’m starting to think I have a tapeworm.”
Yasmine rolled her eyes, then bit her thumbnail.
“Wait a minute.” Clarity snapped the back of her neck like a hair elastic. Dylan inched toward Yasmine’s dewy face and squinted suspiciously. “I know what you’re doing.” She nodded slowly, like a smug detective who just cracked a case. “You’re trying to put this on me.”
“That’s it!” Yasmine huffed, meeting Dylan’s green eyes with her hazel ones, then exhaling the smell of corn chips.
Kali turned up the music.
“You want to know what’s happening here?”
Dylan raised her eyebrows and nodded yes in an oh, this is gonna be good sort of way.
Yasmine glanced at Kali. Kali shrugged as if to say, Go for it. It’s your life.
“Fine. I’ll tell you.” Yasmine exhaled. “I got sick of your mother and sisters complaining that they were fat so I brought in skinny mirrors. They shave ten pounds off when hung straight, fifteen when tilted.”
Dylan considered this for a moment. She could see how the stylist would be driven to such lengths. After all, her sisters were thin-sane. But that didn’t explain the other mirrors in her life.
“What about the ones at home?”
“I had them replaced with skinny mirrors when you were in Saint Martin over Christmas.” Yasmine leaned against her sewing table and folded her arms across her flat chest.
“What about our hotels?” Dylan tried.
“Replaced.”
Dylan’s insides sank. Or was that feeling her fat cells creating more space for their friends?
“What about the dressing rooms at the mall?”
“Oh, those are just tilted,” Yasmine explained.
Dylan exhaled months of denial. A slab of skin curled over the top of her pants like a pouting lip. Had it always been there? Images from the last year of her life sped through her mind like a TV show rewinding.
A bag of cheese-flavored Combos… two slices of ham and pineapple pizza… chips and salsa… chips and guac… chips… caramel latte with whip… extra whip… two brownies… chicken BLT… extra B… extra mayo… waffles and sausage… mixed berries… crème fraîche… hot chocolate…
And that was just today.
The sting that comes with realizing you’ve been lied to prickled and itched Dylan’s skin. Her mouth dried. Her lashes fluttered. She was having another snapshot moment. It could be titled “the moment Dylan lost her innocence.” Or “the moment Dylan stopped trusting people.” Or “the moment Dylan became fat.”
She smacked the pants that had betrayed her. The leather felt cold and unapologetic. “Size four?” She tugged at the label. “Did you fake that too?”
Yasmine looked away guiltily.
“Oh my Gawd, you did!” Dylan stomped her gold wedge. “I am so suing you!”
“Dylan, wait!”
“No, you wait!” Dylan shouted, not quite sure exactly what she meant.
And with that, she stormed toward the door and marched out. It didn’t matter that there was a huge tear in the back of her pants. Or that her blue-and-green polka-dot underwear was showing.
She had already been exposed.
MERRI-LEE MARVIL’S NEW YEAR’S YVES PARTY
BACKSTAGE
Friday, December 31st
11:23 PM
If there was a feeling more pathetic than being the last kid in the school parking lot, waiting for Mom to arrive, Kristen was feeling it now. Seated backstage on a cracked plastic chair by the VIP entrance, she was crying into the terry-cloth sleeve of her sweatshirt, wishing harm on the happy performers who slowed down to stare when they entered. Hoping Marshmallow would stop staring at her. Praying her cab would arrive before tears shrank her Juicy.
Being kicked out of the party by Marshmallow for “impersonating Rihanna” had been a particularly low moment. Leaving without returning the dollar-sign charm had been rock bottom. And watching Ali pull away in the limo had been subterranean. But when her mom found out she’d spent her emergency money on a cab from the airport hanger party she’d crashed, and ridden alone, Kristen would be buried alive.
“Here.” Marshmallow finally handed her a crumpled-up napkin from his inside pocket. It smelled like coffee. “Everything is going to be fine.”
Then why are you hovering over me like a prison guard? Kristen wanted to shout. Instead, she took the napkin and wiped the corners of her eyes. He had been standing watch over her for the last forty minutes. His dark brown eyes filled with a mix of disappointment and pity. It was nothing she didn’t already feel.
Just then, the pretty redheaded girl from her school burst through the door. As usual, she was dressed like a runway model. Her face was also streaked with tears.
Kristen looked up and tried to smile, silently acknowledging that they were both crying on New Year’s Eve.
“Ugh!” the girl sobbed. “There are people everywhere!”
“Everything okay, Ms. Marvil?” asked Marshmallow. The burly bouncer looked confused, almost afraid, to be surrounded by sobbing tweens.
She sniffle-nodded yes, then casually placed her hands over her butt and began backing up toward the wall, as if covering up an embarrassing stain.
“Are you related to Merri-Lee Marvil?” Kristen asked, forgetting herself for a second.
“Yeah. I’m Dylan. Don’t you go to OCD?” she asked, sounding more suspicious than interested.
Kristen nodded. “I play soccer,” she said, hoping that might explain why they hardly knew each other.
“What are you doing here?” Dylan asked, hand-drying her cheeks.
“I—” Kristen peered up at Marshmallow, silently asking if he would let her fib. He shrugged like he was too exhausted to care. “I was already inside but some spaz waiter spilled cocktail sauce all over my Chanel dress and I had to run out and change. Thank Gawd I had a pair of Juicy sweats in the limo. I’m Kristen.” She smiled, realizing she hadn’t really answered the question.
“Why are you crying?” Dylan eyed the red velour pants with interest.
“My cousin took off with the limo. I’m stuck w
aiting for a cab.”
Marshmallow looked away, shaking his head in disbelief.
“Why didn’t you leave with her?”
What was with all the questions?
“Oh, um, because I found this charm on my way out. I heard some girl lost it and I wanted to return it.” Kristen swallowed hard, her heart pounding against the inside of her chest as if trying to tip Dylan off to her many lies.
“No way!” Dylan jammed her hand inside her tight leather pocket. “I found a charm too.”
“What is it?” Kristen leaned forward, teeth chattering.
Dylan held her hand out dismissively.
“Oh, a pig.” Kristen smiled. “Cute.”
Dylan quickly stuffed the charm back in her pocket. Then, as if contemplating something important, her emerald green eyes wandered. She twirled one of her long red curls. When she let go, it bounced back into place. “Where do you live?”
“Um, the Montador Building,” Kristen lied again. But her building, the Pinewood Apartments, was next door to the luxury condos, so it wasn’t too bad. “Why?”
“I’ll make you a deal,” Dylan offered, her eyes sharply focused on Kristen. “Trade outfits with me and I’ll give you a ride home after the show.”
“Yeah, right.” Kristen giggled, assuming the proposition was a joke. The G’s stamped into the leather either stood for Gucci or Gap. Either way, they were nicer than anything she’d ever owned.
“I’m serious.” Dylan pressed her butt against the door.
“Shoes too?”
“Everything.” Dylan began unbuckling her wedges.
“I’m more of a silver person,” Kristen added, trying to sound like she was settling. “But okay.”
“Come on. Let’s go change.” Dylan pulled her by the hand. Marshmallow stepped aside, unwilling to argue with the boss’s daughter.
“Cancel the cab,” he said into the curly wire clipped to the white lapel of his suit. “Have fun.” He smiled as Kristen reentered the world of the rich and famous.
“We will.” She smiled back.
Now that she wasn’t alone, the crowded dance floor looked like a dimly lit dream about supermodels in a club made of gold. It smelled like Kobe beef and exotic perfume. It felt more luxurious than a cashmere sleeping bag. And tasted sweeter than refined sugar.
“How crazy is this?” Dylan giggle-shouted over a Destiny’s Child song while yanking Kristen through the crowd. Her red hair and emerald green eyes were so vibrant and alive, she almost looked animated.
“Cray-zzzzzy!” Kristen beamed, wondering if she looked animated too. But maybe she just felt that way. Because a world usually reserved for celebrities and the popular girls at OCD was starting to open up to her. All she had to do now was find a way to keep it open. And trading clothes with Merri-Lee Marvil’s daughter was the perfect place to start.
MERRI-LEE MARVIL’S NEW YEAR’S YVES PARTY
BACKSTAGE HALLWAY
Friday, December 31st
11:33 P.M.
The swerving motion of the wheelchair was slightly nauseating. Or was the shame that came from being pushed by Mrs. Fossier through a crowd making Alicia’s stomach churn? Maybe it was her throbbing ankle? Bloody knee? Destroyed reputation? Stolen Marc Jacobs bag? Or the fact that Skye Hamilton had clogged her voice mail with a barrage of I have never met anyone more pathetic than you in all my life messages?
“Hurry!” Alicia whined. The world had seen her wipe out. Did they need to see her puke, too?
“We’re almost in our dressing room,” Mrs. Fossier cooed, trying to sound compassionate. But it was obvious from her jerky driving that she was upset Alicia had taken down the troupe too.
Mrs. Fossier hit the brakes in front of room C. Brooke and Andrea had gone home. Once Alicia was inside, she could break down in peace. Hot tears stung her brown eyes as the dance teacher jiggled the doorknob. It was locked. She tried it again, this time with more force. Her body odor, a mix of baby powder and canned peaches, was doing nothing for Alicia’s delicate condition.
“Coming!” called a phlegm-filled male voice from inside. A second later, the door clicked open. “Can I help you?” He coughed.
An elderly man wearing a tall chef’s hat and a white apron that said HERSHEL’S BAKERY across the chest smiled pleasantly.
“I think you’re in our dressing room,” Mrs. Fossier said slowly and clearly, in case the mix-up was dementia-related.
He glanced at the big letter C on the outside of the door. “Nope, this is the one.”
Mrs. Fossier folded her arms across her flat chest. “And you are?”
“Hershel Blum.” He smiled proudly. “This year’s record holder for Biggest Peach Scone. Came in at sixty-one pounds.”
“Are you on the show?” Mrs. Fossier snapped. “Or catering it?”
“On it.” He put his hands on his hips like a satisfied superhero. “Right after the Orlando girl gets her kiss.” He shook his head. “She seems a little young to be kissing though, don’tcha think?”
Entertainers hurried by, amped on the adrenaline rush that comes after a live performance. Alicia lowered her gaze, unable to relate. Dogs had replaced her act, and her dressing room had been given to a giant-pastry maker. This captain’s ship had sailed. “Let’s just go.” She sniffed.
“Good idea.” Mrs. Fossier kicked the brake release and hurried away from the dressing room like a ticked-off driver who’d just lost a parking spot.
She pulled up beside the performers’ food table next to a plate of assorted cheese and a vine of picked-over red grapes. Popping a cheddar cube into her mouth, Mrs. Fossier began to chew-talk.
“I remember a girl…” She leaned against the corner of the table, her tongue sweeping the orange cheese bits off her front teeth. “A real dance talent. A starrrrrr.” She reached for another cube. “One night, during an opening night performance of Swan Lake, she insisted on wearing her new toe shoes. They hadn’t been properly worked in and—”
Alicia looked away. The only thing more depressing than wiping out on TV during a once-in-a-lifetime dance performance was listening to a cheese-gobbling grown-up try to make her feel okay about it.
Two cute boys Alicia’s age hurried by tugging a pack of dogs toward the backstage exit. Forgetting for a second that she was tear-soaked, swollen, and confined to a wheelchair, Alicia flirt-smiled at them.
“I think she’s falling for you,” said the shaggy blond.
His handsome friend cracked up and the blond wiggled his butt with glee.
Alicia felt that sick feeling come back with the force of a fire hydrant.
Mrs. Fossier was still yapping about some dancer who found real joy in teaching, not performing. She was still chewing. And still smelling like powder and peaches.
Was this really happening?
The world began to swirl. Passing people blurred. Alicia began shaking. Her ears rang and her mouth filled with saliva. A deep-throated burp burst out of her mouth and next thing she knew, her insides turned inside out. All over Mrs. Fossier’s Danskin.
“Ahhhhhhh!” The teacher jumped back, slamming into the food table.
“I’m so sorry,” Alicia sobbed, tasting bitterness. Her worst nightmare had been realized. She was more pathetic than a washed-up dancer. She was a washed-up dancer in a wheelchair with puke chunks in her lip gloss.
“I’m absolutely covered.” Mrs. Fossier splayed her arms and legs like a starfish and waddled to the bathroom like someone who’d just peed her pants.
“There you are!” Len Rivera hurried toward his daughter, his warm brown eyes gleaming with pride.
“Dad, what took you so long?” Alicia sobbed, cleaning herself off with a black-and-gold Merri-Lee napkin. A mix of relief and shame overcame her. “Where’s Mom?”
Len leaned down and put an arm around his daughter. He pulled her into his Hugo Boss suit. “They would only let one of us back here.” He loosened his navy-and-lavender-striped tie. “And even that took a lot of convin
cing.” He rubbed his thumb against his fingertips, implying that the convincing hadn’t come cheap. “Are you okay?”
“No.” Alicia sobbed harder. “I feel like such a loser.”
He lifted her gently out of the chair and pulled her close. She buried her face in her father’s lapel and inhaled his spicy scent. As always, he put his hand on her back and tapped like he was burping a baby. In Alicia’s head, the rhythmic beats always seemed to say, You’re gonna be fine… you’re gonna be fine… you’re gonna be fine… you’re gonna be fine….
She lifted her head and breathed deeply. The fresh air helped her throbbing head.
Just then, a man wearing a Merri-Lee Marvil Staff hoodie breezed by and grabbed the wheelchair.
“What are you doing?” Alicia called, hating the desperate sound of her voice.
“I need wheels to move that giant scone to the set,” he explained with the urgency of an EMT. “It weighs a ton!”
Alicia opened her mouth to protest but Len pressed a finger against her lips. “Let it go.” He took a photo of the man with his free hand. “This will only help our case.” He winked a dark brown eye.
“What case?” Alicia asked, scooting onto the edge of the table.
Len dangled a Ziploc baggie under his daughter’s pouting lip. Inside was a tiny gold shoe, no bigger than a fingernail.
“Thanks.” Alicia tried to seem pleased with the cute(ish) get-well gift. But it was pointless. This pain would haunt her long after her ankle healed. And no amount of gold would stop it.
“It’s evidence, my darling.” Len gave her the bag. “This is what you slipped on. I intend to send it out for DNA testing, find out who the owner is, and sue them for dance sabotage.”
Alicia threw her arms around her father’s neck. “Thanks, Daddy.” She beamed, finally feeling rescued. “After we win the lawsuit, the papers and news channels will do a story on the scandal. My name will be cleared!” She leaned forward and hugged her father again. Was there anything he couldn’t fix?
The Clique: Charmed and Dangerous Page 10
