Harris Fisher/H.S. 1. Skye kissed him.
2. “Next time it will be forever.” She is in love with Harris, according to Claire. Massie, Claire, Dylan, and Alicia. Claire, Dylan, and Alicia get soccer tips from Cam while Massie searches Harris’s room.
Liam Barrett/H.S. 1. Skye kissed him.
2. “We rode off into the sunset together”— he drives Skye home on his Vespa. Alicia You want a ride on his Vespa but first you have to change into your Vespa outfit (in his bedroom, of course).
Yuri Butterman (aka Yuri Butt-Man)/H.S. 1. Skye kissed him.
2. “Into the same things as me”—majorly into dancing (ballroom). Alicia You need to practice with a tall male partner.
“Why am I the operative on so many?” Alicia whined.
“Look down,” Massie insisted.
Alicia lowered her head, practically resting her chin on her ample cleavage.
“Oh.”
“If our tactics don’t get your into their bedrooms, those will.”
Alicia folded her arms across her chest while Dylan and Kristen cracked up.
Bzzzzzzz.
Massie, Alicia, Dylan, Kristen, and Claire checked their phones.
“It’s me.” Claire jiggled her cell. “It’s a text message from my agent,” she announced, hoping one of them would ask her how her meeting had gone. Instead, they all returned to their documents. She scrolled down to Miles’s message, which said:
Remember, runaways don’t eat.
It was the fifth one she’d gotten from him in the last three hours.
After another moment of fake reading, Claire worked up the nerve to suggest the unsuggestable. “So, um, here’s an idea.” Adjusting her black oversize sunglasses, she gazed into the distance as if considering this for the very first time. “Maybe we should bump the Harris Fisher visit to next week.”
“Why would we make Harris later?“ Massie countered. “If anything, we’d want to go there sooner.”
“Uh, you know, so we can check out some of these other guys first.” She shook the list for effect.
Everyone giggled.
“Kuh-laire, you must be poor.”
“Why?”
“Cuz you’re not making any cents.”
Dylan spit out a mouthful of Diet Dr Pepper.
Kristen cackled. “I love that one!”
“Me too.” Alicia smacked the gray-and-aubergine Indian wool blanket around her legs. Surrounded by the Blocks’ rustic-chic leather furniture and lit by the orange glow of the fire, all she needed was a huge turquoise necklace to look like an exotic model in a Ralph Lauren catalogue.
Claire clenched her fists, resisiting the urge to beat herself senseless. She had rehearsed her argument a million times on the car ride back from Manhattan. Why did she have to say the one thing that defied all logic?
“Kuh-laire, what’s this really about?” Massie finally looked at her. “Is something bothering you?” She sounded like a concerned friend. And Claire couldn’t help wondering if this was Massie’s way of apologizing for not asking about her meeting with Miles. Maybe she had heard the pain in Claire’s voice and opted to put their friendship before this stupid key contest. And if that was the case, the least Claire could do was return the gesture with a little honesty.
“I have an audition Friday night.”
“For what?” Dylan stuffed a handful of Smartfood in her mouth. “Nicole Richie’s understudy?”
“Yeah, what’s with that getup?” Alicia giggled.
“Wait.” Massie held up her palm, obviously ordering them to let Claire finish. “Go awn.”
“Bernard Sinrod wants me to star in his new movie, Princess Nobody, with guess who?”
No one said a word.
“Give up?” Claire tried.
Still they were silent.
“Cole Sprouse!”
She waited for their screams.
“Whatevs. Dylan’s cuter,” said Dylan.
“They’re identical twins,” Kristen insisted.
“Well, his name is cuter.”
What is wrong with you guys? I’m up for a major movie and all you care about is which Sprouse is cuter? Claire wanted to shout. Instead, she fell back on the couch and lowered the brim of her plaid hat.
“So you’re saying you want us to change our plans with Cam, the ones you set up, so you can go to your movie audition?” Massie bobbed her bare feet in anger.
“Yeah,” Claire tried.
“Puh-lease! When are you going to realize this has nothing to do with you and Cam and everything to do with our eighth-grade alphaness?”
Nervously, Claire folded the hem of her camo skirt. “I—”
“It’s chaos out there, Kul-laire. Kay-aw-ssss!” Massie pointed to the floor-to-ceiling windows. “While you were lunching with Planet Hollywood, every girl in our grade has been trying to score an invite to Cam’s.”
“Who?” Claire shot forward. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
“Check your cell.” Massie waved her Motorola. “I’ve been leaving you messages all day and you’ve been sending me straight to VM like I was some kind of LBR stalker.”
Claire opened her mouth but nothing came out.
“I can explain,” she finally managed.
“Don’t bother.” Massie rolled her eyes.
“Maybe she’s too famous to answer her phone,” Alicia suggested.
“Or maybe she can’t hear it under that hat,” Dylan said.
“Or see it from behind those glasses,” Kristen added.
Claire stood and faced everyone. “Wanna know why I’m wearing this?”
They glared at her.
She tore off her disguise, revealing a head of goth-black hair that looked like it had been cut by the teeth of a wild dog and a dark, bristly five-inch eyebrow.
“That’s why.”
No one laughed. No one even smiled. All they did was stare.
Swallowing hard, Claire met their eyes and began: “The director wants me to wear this to the audition Friday to show how dedicated I am to the role.”
They said nothing. No jokes, no giggles, no screams. Just silence.
“Ehmagawd. Kuh-laire, is that you?” Massie asked as if, after years, the two had just bumped into each other at Sephora.
“Who did you think it was?”
“Hairy Potter.” Massie burst out laughing.
BRIARWOOD ACADEMY BEHIND MASSIE’S FAVORITE HEDGE
Wednesday, April 7th
3:15 P.M.
The Pretty Committee took cover behind a row of shrubs across the street from Briarwood Academy. Squatting, they scoped their marks.
“I have eyes on Josh.” Massie racked focus on her ahdorable palm-size camouflage binoculars, shading her lenses from the late-afternoon sun. “He’s tying one of his silver Nikes by the army-guy statue. Go! Go! Go!”
Alicia sprang to her feet. After smoothing her wide-legged Ralph Lauren pants, she tucked her cleavage inside the ever expanding borders of her crisp white V-neck.
“Remember, five p.m. at Wrap Star to debrief. First one there gets the booth.”
“Given.” Alicia saluted. “GL.”
“Good luck,” they whispered back.
“Gawdspeed,” Massie muttered as Alicia crossed Brook Street and raced toward her crush.
The thought of losing this contest made her legs weak. She needed to sit but wouldn’t have dreamed of putting her gold silk Chanel shorts in contact with the moist grass. A single green skid mark or mud stain and all confidence would be lost. Instead, Massie shifted her weight from one bare knee to the other and prayed this would all be over soon.
“I can’t see anything.” Dylan smacked the manicured cube of leaves in front of them. “These stupid bushes are in the way.”
“Kuh-laire, scoot back—your eyebrows are blocking our view.”
Everyone burst out laughing.
“Very funny.” Claire adjusted the stylish black Stella McCartney sunglasses and matching wide-brim
med chocolate-brown suede hat Massie had forced upon her.
“There’s Ezra Rosenberg.” Kristen lowered her yellow Radio Shack binoculars. “Time to work on my golf swing.”
“You may want to get that letter out of your mailbox first.” Dylan snickered.
“Oops.” Kristen cackled as she pulled the olive-colored James Perse tube dress she wore from between her butt cheeks.
“There’s Jake!” Massie shoved Dylan, knocking her onto the damp grass.
“Watch it.” Dylan stood. “This is organza.” She inspected her turquoise tunic for water damage.
“This is about your yellow teeth, not your outfit, remember?” Massie huffed. “You’re there to talk to his dad about whitening treatments.”
“Yup.” She licked a lemon gumball and scraped it across her teeth. “Got it. See ya at five.”
“Wait up!” Claire hurried to catch up with Dylan and Kristen. “I see Tiny Nathan.”
Massie lifted her binoculars and scanned the crowded campus, hoping Derrington would emerge soon. Getting caught alone in the bushes with a pair of binoculars could seriously damage a girl’s reputation.
It wasn’t long before she spotted the shaggy-haired blond wiggling his butt for a group of amused seventh-grade boys. They high-fived before parting ways on their bikes, them in various shades of tan khakis and him in blue plaid AE shorts.
The traffic light at the top of Brook Street must have turned green, because a row of cars zipped past, blocking Massie’s view. By the time it cleared, Derrington was gone.
Immediately, she speed-dialed.
He answered after one ring.
“Block?”
“Hey.” Massie glossed up with Glossip Girl Strawberry Milkshake. “Where are you?”
“Riding down Grove Street.”
“Oh.” Massie tried to sound disappointed.
“Why?”
“I’m across from the army guy. I was hoping you could double me.” She shoved the tops of her argyle socks into her riding boots, buttoned her shrunken black blazer, and tugged her mocha Vince tank so that it kissed the white Hermès scarf she’d threaded through her belt loops. Standing, she flipped her hair and tapped her chilly thigh, congratulating herself on an outfit well put together.
“Where’s Isaac?” Derrington asked, his voice strangely louder than it had been a second ago.
“Um, we’re trying to conserve gas,” Massie tried. “Not because we’re poor, though. It’s a green thing.”
“Conservation is coooool,” someone whispered, right in her ear.
“Ahhhh!” Massie whipped her head around to find Derrington bouncing on his silver BMX bike, laughing.
“Puh-lease, I knew you were there.” She rolled her eyes, trying to conceal the Pop Rocks-style explosions she felt in her stomach every time she saw him.
Derrington smiled. “Jump on.” He smacked the black seat.
In an effort to avoid lifting her leg like a dog (so gauche!), Massie straddled the back tire, then shuffled toward the seat like she had a pair of lacy Cosabellas around her ankles.
Derrington pushed off the curb. “Hold tight.”
Massie gripped the cold metal bar, feeling like Skye on the back of Liam’s Vespa.
Derrington quickly turned his head. “No, hold on to me.”
“Oh.” She pinched the back of his gray Briarwood blazer.
“Whoa!” Derrington spun to the left, then the right, then the left again.
“What are you doing?”
“You better hold on!”
“You’re not scaring me!” she shouted, grateful that he couldn’t see the terror in her eyes.
“I’m gonna keep doing this until you hold on!” He made another sharp left.
“Heeeelp!” she squeaked.
A sudden loss of balance—caused by the shifting makeup and books in Massie’s white Marc Jacobs calfskin tote—made her tip. Prickly, stinging sweat flooded her armpits.
“E-nufff!”
Derrington dragged his black Vans along the street and stopped.
“You okay?”
Hanging off the side, Massie dug her fresh manicure into the seat and pulled herself up.
“Uh-huh,” she managed, despite how close she’d come to having her face exfoliated by Maple Boulevard.
“You gonna hold on this time or what?”
Massie took a deep breath and on the silent count of three wrapped her arms around Derrington’s fat-free waist like someone who wasn’t the least bit nervous to touch a boy.
“Better.” He began pedaling.
They turned onto Oak Lane and Massie dropped her shoulders. The lush neighborhood reminded her of Galwaugh Farms with its serene, winding horse trails.
“Hang on!” Derrington tugged on the handlebars and jumped the bike onto the curb.
Massie tightened her grip—not because she was scared, but because she wasn’t.
By the time they hit Cedar Walk they were practically slow dancing. Massie had to remind herself that she was on a mission.
“You live around here, don’t you?”
“No,” he shouted into the balmy breeze.
“Oh. I can’t believe I don’t know where you live.”
“Yes, you do, you came over two years ago on Halloween, remember? Dylan slipped on a smashed pumpkin and spilled her candy?”
“I don’t think I was there,” Massie lied, remembering dozens of kids descending on the candy while Dylan fought them off with white pebbles from Derrington’s garden. “And I hate that I can’t picture where you sleep.”
Derrington stopped pedaling. “Wanna come over?”
“Sure.” Massie smiled behind his back.
“‘Kay.” He turned the bike around.
“So, um, what do you think of Skye Hamilton?” Massie asked once they picked up speed.
“She’s okay, I guess. Why?”
“I heard a rumor.” She held her breath, fearing his response.
“Oh yeah?” he perked up. “What?”
“Just that you lip-kissed her.” Massie tried to sound casual and unjealous.
“How’d you hear that?”
“So it’s true!”
“Are you jealous?”
“Are you admitting it?”
“Jealous?”
“Admitting?”
Massie flicked an imaginary piece of hair off her sleeve, hoping to hide her disappointment.
“So what happened?”
Derrington faced her. He looked like an ahdorable dopey golden Lab.
“This.”
He leaned in, accidentally pressing his cold lips against her left nostril.
Massie raised her head, letting him know it was okay to try again.
This time he got her freshly glossed lips.
Massie lifted her arm and rested it lightly on his shoulder. The wool from his blazer was rough, but the rest of Derrington was surprisingly tender. Cars whooshed past, their engines sounding muted and distant, like Massie was wearing headphones or a fluffy winter hat. She felt light and warm and tingly, suspended in a place where it didn’t matter what the drivers might be thinking of her outfit or her hair or her kissing technique or her boyfriend.
And for the next forty-one seconds, those feelings stayed with her.
Once the GG Strawberry Milkshake gloss had worn off, Massie knew it was time to pull back. Dry kissing was like eating a veggie burger with no condiments. It lacked flavor.
“So you kissed Skye like that?” She hid behind a wall of long, razored bangs.
“No.” Derrington wiped his glossy mouth. “She kissed me like that.”
“Yeah, right.” Massie did her best to sound playful.
“When?”
“After I saved a goal against the Prairie Dogs last season. It got us to the finals. And she practically jumped me.”
“Puh-lease.”
Derrington held up his palm. “I swear. But I didn’t like it. Her lips were too puffy. They felt like a butt.”
/> A week’s worth of anxiety left Massie’s body in a single sigh.
“Has she ever been in your bedroom?”
“You are jealous!” Derrington jumped on the pedals.
“Am nawt.” Massie wrapped her arms around his waist and they started to move.
She wanted to ask him about his bedroom again, but decided to wait. All the answers she needed were minutes away.
WESTCHESTER, NY DERRINGTON’S HOUSE
Wednesday, April 7th
4:44 P.M.
Like Derrington, his house had a style all its own. Amid a street of old stone mansions, wrought-iron fences and foreboding trees, “Terra Domus” was an ultramodern cube of metal and glass.
“Hullo?” Derrington opened the red side door and stepped into a spacious stainless-steel kitchen. It smelled like a nauseating combination of meat sauce and lemon Pledge.
“Anyone home?”
Massie hoped no one would answer. With plans to meet her friends at the sandwich shop in less than an hour, she didn’t have time for ah-nnoyingly polite parent banter.
“Hu-lloooo?”
“Yes, yes,” answered a woman in a thick Filipino accent, dragging a Swiffer.
“Hey, Mini. Is my mom home?”
Mini shook her head, swinging her long black hair, Pantene style. “Six o’clock. Who’s this?”
“Oh, this is my, uh, my Block.” Derrington took off his blazer and tossed it on the glass breakfast table by the porthole window. “Block, this is Mini.”
Massie’s palms tickled like she was squeezing a vibrating cell phone. The key was here. It was obvious. Skye’s poem had said she loved “all things mini.” And standing before her was Mini. She had great hair, a knack for cleaning, and was easily a size two. What wasn’t to love? Pure jubilation nearly allowed Massie to overlook the fact that this meant Skye had been in Derrington’s room. Possibly on his bed. Insecurity churned inside her stomach like a curdled latte, but she did her best to remain composed. There’d be plenty of time to obsess over Skye and Derrington’s relationship once the key was dangling around her neck. Puh-lenty.
“Nice to meet you, Mini.” She smiled sweetly.
The cleaning woman propped the Swiffer against the shiny silver Sub-Zero fridge, then rubbed the already gleaming marble countertop with a paper towel.
“How ‘bout a tour?”
It's Not Easy Being Mean Page 8
