It's Not Easy Being Mean

by Lisi Harrison

  “Wow, poor Cam. I wonder why they did that.” Layne kicked the blowup pit bull away from her bedroom door, ignoring the terrifying bark and growl recording that played every time someone moved it from its guard post. “And that’s why you were crying?”

  “No.” Claire instinctively grabbed Layne’s elbow when they entered her famous glow-in-the-dark bedroom, allowing herself to be led through the pitch-black labyrinth filled with all things luminescent: oozing lava lamps, posters of big-headed martians, and fiery-haired trolls. Finally they reached her bed, the duvet a massive canvas of neon orange, yellow, and hot pink splattered paints. Above it, the solar system in sticker form clung to her ceiling, the stars and planets shining in a radioactive shade of green.

  “I was crying because when I called Massie to tell her I was on my way to her sleepover she freaked out on me.”

  “Why? Because you got the part and she didn’t?”

  “She didn’t even audition.”

  “So, I’m sure she still expected to get the part.”

  Claire giggled, tickled by how well Layne had Massie figured out. “She uninvited me to the sleepover and kicked me out of the Pretty Committee. Forever.”

  “Why?”

  The tears returned.

  “She thinks I stood in the way of her and the—” Claire stopped. A flood of prickly heat itched her palms, reminding her how dangerously close she had come to breaking Skye’s number-one rule.

  “Her and the what?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing!” Then Claire felt a tugging on her arm. “Layne, what are you—?”

  Suddenly, she was being gagged with a glow-in-the-dark Hello Kitty scarf.

  “Mmmmmmm,” she called. The black room, with all its brightly colored inhabitants, made Claire feel like she had been beamed to an animated planet. “Mmmmmm!”

  A blast of electronica music drowned out Claire’s pleas, turning her fear into panic. Suddenly, someone plopped down beside her. The smell of artificial grape flavoring got stronger and stronger until Claire felt hot breath against her cheek.

  “I know,” whispered Layne.

  “Mmmmm?” She grunted as loud as she could, hoping to be heard above the pulsating music. “Mmmm!”

  “I know about the keyyyy.” Layne whispered again.

  Claire ripped the scarf off, wondering why she hadn’t tried that sooner. “You do?”

  Layne’s hand smacked against her mouth. “Shhhhhh, she might be listening.”

  Claire nodded, taking Layne’s hand for a ride.

  “I’m going to show you something. But don’t speak.”

  Layne turned on the lights.

  A bouquet of helium balloons, each with a different message and a guy’s name on them bobbed against the ceiling. They said, Josh Is Number 1, Get Well, Jake, and Best Wishes, Luis—obviously her way in to boys’ houses.

  So Alicia was right. Heather had gotten a CD-ROM, and she’d recruited Layne and Meena to help.

  “Did you find any—?”

  “Ouija?” Layne instantly cut her off. She reached behind her pillow and pulled out the creepy game used to contact the dead. She crossed her legs and balanced the game board on her knees. Claire wiggled into position so that the other side of the board rested on her.

  The alphabet, written in sinister black font, was laid out before them. Without asking the Ouija board a question, Layne placed her fingertips on the oval slab of wood and moved it over certain letters.

  Suddenly Claire understood. Layne wasn’t using the board to get help from beyond. She was using it to communicate her thoughts. It was like text messaging without the technology trail.

  A-N-Y-L-E-A-D-S, she spelled.

  N-O-A-N-D-M-A-S-S-I-E-I-S-F-R-E-A-K-I-N-G-T-H-E-R-E-H-A-S-T-O-B-E-S-O-M-E-O-N-E-W-E-R-E-N-O-T-T-H-I-N-K-I-N-G-O-F

  W-H-O

  D-I-D-U-C-H-E-C-K-E-V-E-R-Y-O-N-E-S-K-Y-E-K-I-S-S-E-D

  Layne reached for the slab.

  Y-E-A-H-Y-O-U

  D-O-H-E-R-S-H-E-Y-S-C-O-U-N-T

  “Huh?” Claire said out loud.

  H-E-R-S-H-E-Y-S-K-I-S-S-E-S

  Layne snickered, then cupped her hands around her heart-shaped mouth.

  “Just kidding.”

  “What?” Claire asked.

  Layne whispered, “She gave Chris a bag of Hershey’s Kisses last month when he drove her home.”

  “Seriously?” Claire asked at full volume.

  “Shhhhh!” Layne fanned her mouth like she’d just taken a bite of burning-hot pizza. “Unless Skye works for the CIA and you’re wanted, the room is probably safe.”

  Layne giggled, then tossed the Ouija board on the floor.

  “Skye gives Hershey’s Kisses to every guy who gives her a ride. It’s her thing.”

  “Did you check—?” Claire stiffened with regret.

  A subtle twitch on the side of Layne’s jaw told Claire they were thinking the same thing.

  “Outta my way.” Layne rolled off the bed, command style, and bolted out of her bedroom door.

  Claire raced after her, thinking more about Massie than the key. This was her chance to redeem herself in the eyes of the Pretty Committee…for life.

  In an act of total desperation, she shoved Layne into a freaky decorative totem pole outside the bathroom and squeezed past her.

  The muffled sound of Ne-Yo told Claire that Chris’s bedroom was at the end of the short hall. Slipping on the narrow Oriental rug, she quickly regained her balance and reached for the brass doorknob like it was a life preserver. Layne was right behind her, giggle-panting.

  Claire jiggled the handle.

  It was locked.

  “Chris, let me in, code red!” Layne pounded.

  Claire joined in. She even shouted, “Code red,” figuring it would sound redder if two people were screaming it.

  “Chill.” Chris let them in, then dove back onto his bed and spooned a navy quilted throw pillow.

  “Sorry to brother you—”

  “Whoa, who’s the dude?” he asked, lifting his head.

  “It’s me. Claire.” She covered her eyebrows and smiled shyly. “It’s for a movie.”

  “Whatever.” He tossed a stuffed deer at the ceiling, then caught it. Then did it again. And again. And again.

  “What are you doing to Lil’ Fawn?” Layne asked, as if the doe-eyed Gund were alive.

  “It’s not Lil’ Fawn anymore,” he mumbled. “It’s just a stupid deer.” He whipped it across the room, knocking over the mini-cologne menagerie on his black dresser. The bottles scattered onto the hardwood floor, but he didn’t seem to notice.

  Feeling sorry for him, Claire dropped to her knees and started gathering them. A burgundy Clarins bottle shot toward the wall covered in pictures of his friends from boarding school and Tricky, his beloved black horse. A little bottle of Fahrenheit Summer landed near a heap of dirty jeans and torn Tshirts by the closet, and the Rive Gauche lay beneath his glass desk, near the silver mesh trash can. Inside was a heap of torn photographs of a pretty blonde with a wide toothy smile. And suddenly Claire knew.

  Chris’s bedroom was Skye’s poem. The cologne samples meant he was a mini lover, and there was no question how he felt about “all creatures, big and small,” especially horses. And ever since Fawn had dumped him, his clothes had been stained, ripped, or both, something even Claire knew was “Glamour-don’t” style.

  “Maybe you should get off the bed and get some fresh air.” Claire tried her best to sound constructive.

  Chris rolled onto his side.

  “What was the code red?” he mumbled.

  “Um, nothing. We were just worried about you.” Layne twirled her horse-locket necklace around her stained index finger.

  Claire scanned the room, desperate for inspiration. She found it in the half-empty bottle of Mike’s Hard Lemonade beside his Dell. After a quick pantomime, where she demonstrated throwing the drink on Chris, Claire handed it to Layne. They both bit their lower lip
s, which trembled with a combination of guilt and giggles.

  And then…

  “Ah-ah-ah-choooo!” Layne dumped the leftover lemonade on Chris’s neck.

  “What the?!” He jumped to his feet.

  “Claire, why do you always push me when I sneeze?”

  “Um, s-sorry, Chris,” was all she could think to say.

  “Sorry. We’ll change your sheets while you clean up,” Layne insisted.

  “Girls, man!” Chris grumbled as he stormed off to the bathroom. “I am so going back to boarding school.”

  “Help me lift.” Layne squatted.

  Without hesitation, Claire slid her hands into position. “Ready? One…two…three…”

  With a single hoist, they flipped the mattress off the bed. And there it was.

  THE BLOCK ESTATE MASSIE’S BEDROOM

  Friday, April 9th

  7:51 P.M.

  Massie pulled the cap off her purple Sharpie mini. “Yes, I’m calling from the Board of Health. Did you ever make out with Skye Hamilton?” She sat cross-legged in the middle of her purple down-filled duvet. Alicia, Dylan, and Kristen faced her, like preschool kids during story time.

  “I wish,” snickered Deron McEvoy before hanging up.

  “Ugh!” She crossed another name off her list. “Who’s next?”

  “Jack Rubell,” Alicia read.

  While Massie dialed, Alicia wiggled out of her nylon soccer shorts and slipped into a pair of buttery soft black Splendid sweats.

  “Yes, um, I’m calling from the Board of Health. Did you ever make out with Skye Hamilton?” She rolled her eyes, already knowing the answer. It was the same one eleven other guys had already given.

  “No.” he paused. “Wait. Sarah, if this is you, I’m telling Dad.”

  “Double ugh!” Massie whipped her phone across the room. It landed on one of her fluffy ivory sheepskin area rugs.

  “I’ll get it this time.” Kristen jumped off the bed and hurried to the rescue.

  Massie buried her head in her hands.

  One of the girls placed a comforting hand on her curved shoulder while another finger-combed her hair. Bean licked her elbow.

  “How about some nice chamomile tea?” Kristen offered, handing her back the phone. “It’s very soothing.”

  “Ew!” Massie glared at Kristen through the spaces between her fingers. “Chamomile sounds like Cam. And Cam reminds me of Mrs. Fisher kicking us out of her house for making a mess, and making a mess reminds me of the key, and the key reminds me of—”

  “Okay, forget it!”

  “Sorry.” She sighed. “But we’re down to our last guy and something tells me Skye did not kiss Shawn O’Hare.”

  “You mean Shawn O’Harelip?” Dylan made a distorted kissy face.

  Kristen cackled.

  Lifting her Motorola, Massie looked deep into the eyelike camera lens and warned, “Bring me luck, or I’m getting a Samsung.” After a deep, cleansing breath, she dialed the last eleven digits on her list of potential key keepers.

  “Hi, Shawn? Um, I’m calling from the Board of Health.

  Did you ever make out with Skye Hamilton?”

  Beep. Beep.

  Call waiting interrupted before he could answer.

  “Well, did you?” Massie hurried him along.

  “Uhhh, can you call back after my supper?”

  Beep. Beep.

  “Whatevs.” Massie jammed her thumb into the red End button, then quickly checked her screen. It flashed UNKNOWN CALLER.

  “Bet it’s Claire, begging for forgiveness because of the whole uncle lie.” Alicia rubbed Crabtree & Evelyn sesame oil on her cuticles.

  “I still can’t believe she did that,” Dylan huffed.

  Kristen shook her head in disbelief. “Me either.”

  Tightening the sash on her white chenille robe, Massie stood. It was against her policy to answer UCs. And it was double against her policy to answer if it was Claire. But what if it was a lead? She hit speaker and the girls pressed an ear against her Razr.

  “Hullo?”

  “I. Have. What. You. Want,” said a computerized voice.

  Everyone’s eyes widened, silently questioning Massie on her next move.

  “Um, can I get your number? I’ll call you right back from a landline. My reception is—”

  “No. Landline. Talk. Now.”

  “What do you want?”

  “We. Have. Demands. Do. What. We. Say. And. We. Will. Give. You. The. Key.”

  “Reveal your identity or I’m hanging up.”

  Alicia gasped.

  Massie knew her approach was risky, but what if Skye was testing her? The rules clearly stated she was not to discuss this with anyone. So obviously the way to play this was to act dumb. Dumb and safe. Unless, of course, this was a legitimate caller who really had the key. And if it was, the last thing Massie wanted to do was drive this person toward the competition by not cooperating.

  “Ugh, just tell me who you are,” she snapped.

  “Do. What. We. Say.”

  “Re-veal.”

  Alicia bit her fist, Kristen covered her mouth, and Dylan stuffed a cube of Blue Razzberry Bubble Yum in her mouth.

  “Do—”

  “Reveal,” Massie interrupted.

  “Good. Bye.”

  The line went dead.

  Massie whipped the sweaty phone onto her bed. Dylan raced to retrieve it.

  “Ehmagawd.” Alicia flapped her hands like a baby bird trying to take flight. “Now what? What if they offer it to someone else?”

  Taking her phone back, Massie scrolled through her received-calls log. Her hand quaked with a mix of frustration and fear. The only thing worse than losing was being made a fool of, and at the moment, she was at risk for both. She highlighted UNKNOWN CALLER and pressed send with such force her thumb turned white. But the phone wouldn’t make the call.

  “Ugh!” She whipped it across the room and flopped down on her bed, trying to figure out her next move.

  And then, as if by magic, her cell rang.

  “Get that!” Massie called.

  Kristen darted across the hardwood floor like she was sprinting for soccer drills and pulled the Motorola out from under Massie’s purple-faux-fur-covered desk chair. “It’s the UC.”

  “Hurry.” Massie leaped off the bed and raced to meet her in the middle of the room. Without hesitation, she flipped open the phone and lifted it to her ear. “Hullo?”

  A shuffling sound, like someone rubbing their cheek against the speaker, was all she heard.

  “Hul-lo?” Massie pleaded again, loudly.

  “What is that?” someone on the other end whisper-shouted. “Oh no! Your butt just dialed Massie. Stand up!”

  “Kuh-laire, is that you?”

  “Quick, press end!”

  “I did, nothing happened….”

  “Shhh, she can hear us. Say something.”

  “Hell. O,” said a girl in a robot voice.

  Massie rolled her eyes. “Layne?”

  The line went dead.

  “Busted!” Alicia punched the air.

  Dylan and Kristen burst out laughing. They turned their palms to Massie, who pushed them aside and belly-flopped onto her bed.

  “Do you really think they found it?”

  “Puh-lease!” Dylan dove beside her, sending puffy duvet waves across the bed. “Claire’s just trying to pay us back for kicking her out of the Pretty Committee.”

  “Point!” Alicia wiggled across the queen-size mattress and joined them.

  “If they found it, why wouldn’t they keep it?” Dylan asked.

  “Because they know I’ll make their lives miserable,” Massie mumbled into a pink satin throw pillow.

  “What now?” Kristen sat beside her.

  “This.” Massie hit last call received. Someone picked up after the first ring.

  “Do you have the key or nawt?”

  After some fumbling and frantic whisper-panicking, Layne said, “Yes.”r />
  “Where did you find it?”

  “Under Chris Abeley’s bed,” Claire chimed in.

  “Ehmagawd, Kuh-laire?” Massie felt sick to her stomach. “You’re involved in this?”

  “Yup,” she replied proudly.

  “Well, as the head of the Pretty Committee, I insist you hand it over.” Massie wished she could text her hand to Claire’s phone and smack her. “If you don’t, you will be charged with treason.”

  “You kicked me out, remember?” Claire sounded like she was sticking out her tongue. “Your rules don’t apply to me.”

  Massie temporarily hated Claire for being right.

  “Well, I want proof.”

  Layne scraped the key against the phone.

  “You should have seen his bedroom,” Claire boasted. “It was the poem.”

  She told them about the mini-cologne bottles, the “Glamour-don’t” clothes, his love of horses, and, most important, the Hershey’s Kisses.

  “No way!“ Massie remembered Liam crumpling up the silver foil and tossing it onto Skye’s driveway. How could she have missed that? It had been right in front of her face.

  “Um, can you hold on a minute?” Massie covered the phone and turned to Alicia. “Why didn’t you put Chris Abeley’s name on the list?”

  “Uh, I—”

  Then she turned to Kristen. “Why didn’t you tell me Skye was into Hershey’s?”

  “How was I sup—?”

  “And Dylan, I can’t believe you let Claire lie to us about Cam’s uncle.”

  “I didn’t know—”

  “Kuh-laire, I insist you give me the key ay-sap.”

  “We will.” Layne continued scraping. “Once you meet our demands.”

  Alicia, Kristen, and Dylan cheered silently. But Massie knew it wasn’t going to be that easy.

  “Kuh-laire, this is crazy,” Massie hissed. “Whose side are you on?”

  “The side of justice.” Claire’s voice was steady and confident. “Like she said, we have demands.”

  “Fine.” Massie rolled her eyes. “What do you want?”

  “We have a list,” Layne grumbled. “Where can we meet?”

  “E-mail it,” Massie snapped.

  “Where? Can? We? Meet?“ Layne sounded like a frustrated parent who was not going to ask again.