It's Not Easy Being Mean

by Lisi Harrison

  They cheered like he’d just scored the winning goal.

  “What was that all about?” Alicia asked in shock.

  “I dunno, but it looks like someone’s getting a new bracelet,” Massie whisper-smiled to herself.

  Once seated, she pulled the Coach key-chain necklace out of her burnt orange Barneys cashmere sweater vest, lifted it over her head, and twirled. The tiny handbags smashed into her knuckles and the chain coiled around her index finger, practically cutting off all circulation to her hand.

  “Yes!” Josh jumped to his feet along with the rest of the navy-and-yellow-clad Sirens fans.

  “Goal!” Derrington wiggled his butt while Cam and Josh smacked it.

  Only the Pretty Committee remained seated.

  “Get up,” insisted Derrington. “Kristen just scored.”

  “She did?” Massie she climbed up on the bleacher with the rest of the Sirens fans. A soccer-ball-size lump of pride stuck in her throat as she cheered for her ex-teammates and one of her best friends. “Numba seven!”

  “One-nothing for the Sirens!” Claire shouted.

  “People who don’t know us must think we’re real fans.” Dylan clapped.

  “Puh-lease.” Massie rolled her eyes. “Everyone knows us.”

  “Point!” Alicia giggled.

  The crowd settled. And the game was back on.

  “We totally used to be on that team,” Alicia told two eighth-grade girls in front of her.

  They gave her a heartfelt thumbs-up.

  “Foot long!” called a girl dressed in a pink Splendid hoodie. She had wavy brown hair, full, high-glossed lips, and cool gold aviators—hardly the stadium-vendor type. “Pass it to Ms. Stella McCartney Glasses over there.” She placed the foil-wrapped dog in Dylan’s hands.

  Massie felt her cheeks redden. “Ew, I so didn’t order that,“ she announced to the people around her.

  “Yes, you did,” insisted the vendor.

  “I did nawt! I don’t do street meat.”

  “Eat it!” she insisted before flipping on her hood and sprinting down the steps.

  “Who was that?” Alicia asked out the side of her mouth.

  “Probably some LBR who wants me to get fat.”

  “Point.”

  “I’ll eat it.” Claire waved her hand in the space between Dylan and Alicia’s heads.

  “Sharing is caring. Let’s split it,” insisted Dylan as she peeled back the foil. “Eh. Ma. Gawd.” She held the hot dog across Alicia’s lap, lifting it toward Massie’s face. “Look!”

  “Yes!”

  Assuming the Sirens had scored another goal, some LBRs in their section jumped to their feet.

  “False alarm.” Dylan motioned for them to sit.

  “Lemme see.” Claire’s poked her head between Massie and Alicia.

  Written with spicy brown mustard, in what they assumed to be Skye’s beautiful loopy script, it said, 4 p.m. storage shed.

  Excitement in the stands started to build. Sirens fans were sliding to the edges of the bleachers, hollering and clapping. It was as if everyone had gotten mustard messages from Skye.

  Kristen was charging down the field dribbling the ball. She circled around a stocky Meerkat, did a kick-fall, and shot the ball straight into the white net.

  “That’s the game!” Derrington smacked Massie’s shoulder.

  Everyone cheered and hugged and chanted Kristen’s name.

  “She’s our best friend!” Dylan shouted.

  “We used to be on the team,” Alicia announced again.

  “We’re going to the finals!” Claire yelled as she and Cam punched the mild spring air.

  Casually, as if removing a mascara booger from the corner of her eye, Massie reached under her sunglasses and wiped away a happy relief drop. Now Kristen was famous too.

  “Block.” Derrington stepped onto her bleacher, then hopped down beside her. “Will you please look at this?” He turned on his digital camera and shielded the tiny screen from the glaring sun.

  “Fine.” Massie lifted her oval glasses. She was looking at a boring shot of a navy-comforter-covered bed and a hay-colored sisal rug. “So what? It’s a room. I’m not even in it.”

  “It’s my room.” He beamed. “I cleaned it for you.”

  Suddenly Massie’s stomach dipped, like she was riding one of the sea-tossed sailboats etched in his tin headboard.

  He cared.

  “Wanna come over after the game and see it in person?” His brown eyes were wide with hope, like a little boy asking his mom for a chocolate-chip cookie before dinner.

  “I would, but there’s something I have to do.”

  “Cool.” He turned, in search of his friends. “I better go and—”

  “How about tomorrow? After school.”

  Derrington wiggled his butt.

  OCTAVIAN COUNTRY DAY SCHOOL SOCCER FIELD

  Sunday, April 11

  3:50 P.M.

  “Let me go.” Kristen struggled to break free from Dylan’s grip. “I have to shower.”

  “We don’t have time!” Massie helped drag her through the crowd.

  “But some people wanted my autograph.” Kristen looked back at the cluster of fans on the field, surrounding her teammates. “And the coach is taking us out for—”

  “We’re meeting Skye,” Massie whispered in her sweaty ear.

  “Ehmagawd! Skye contacted—?”

  Massie slapped her hand in front of Kristen’s mouth. They had come too far to blow it now.

  The sound of excited chatter faded into the distance as they rapidly crossed campus, finally giving the girls a minute to talk freely.

  “I can’t believe she wrote the message on a hot dog,” Kristen gasped while wiping her forehead with a pink-and-orange Puma sweatband.

  “I can’t believe Coach Davis made you captain for next year,” Claire panted.

  “I know.” Kristen folded the elastic on her navy shorts, revealing her flat, pale abs. “I’m—”

  “Less talking, more walking.” Massie grabbed Kristen’s clammy hand, then checked over her shoulder. “Hurry, Leesh. We can’t be late.”

  “I’m try-ing, o-kay?” She pumped her arms.

  “I see them!” Dylan stopped to shake a pebble from her ruby red ballet flats, then pointed at the wood storage shed between the tennis courts and the school’s basement entrance.

  “Where?” Alicia broke into a light trot.

  “On the roof.” Dylan gazed at the five girls sunning them selves in a perfect line, each with one leg bent.

  Massie immediately slowed her pace to a casual mall-wander.

  “How’d they get up there?” Kristen squinted.

  “How’d they get heather gray leggings?” Dylan asked. “They’re the hardest color to find.”

  Alicia huffed. “I bet Skye got them from Body Alive.”

  “Whatevs.” Massie smoothed a coat of Glossip Girl Original Bubble Gum across her lips, then pinched her cheeks for a burst of natural color. She would become a confident alpha in three…two…one—

  “We’re here!”

  Skye lifted her head and snapped three times.

  One by one, the all-blond quintet leaped off the roof, each one landing gracefully on the blue gymnastics tumbling mat that had been strategically placed below the shed. One had braids, two had long ponytails, and another had a voluminous bob. Skye was the DSL Dater with long thick waves, and the only one Massie envied.

  She sauntered over to greet them, toes pointed in second position and clutching the gold locket.

  The other blondes followed.

  Massie grinned, projecting confidence. Without a word, she pulled the Coach key chain out of her oversize orange V-necked sweater and let it slam against her chest.

  “Nice work,” Skye grinned.

  “Nice work,” echoed the DSL Daters.

  Relief hugged Massie like a pair of skintight Sass & Bide jeans.

  “Ready to go?” Skye pushed up one sleeve of her angora pink s
weater. Among the tangle of bracelets, a black satin blindfold lay wrapped around her wrist. She pulled it off, letting it dangle from her index finger. The DSL Daters did the same.

  “Ready,” the Pretty Committee answered.

  All of a sudden, Massie’s eyes were being covered to the clang of Skye’s gold bangles. “Hey, what are you doing?” Kristen squealed.

  “Shhh,” hissed one of the DSL Daters. “By the way, good game today. You were awesome.”

  “Thanks,” she giggle-gushed.

  “Ow. Stop pulling me,” Alicia whined.

  “Leesh, is that you?” Dylan asked.

  “No.” Claire laughed. “It’s me. Get your hand off my butt.”

  “Ooops, sorry.”

  “No talking!” Skye snapped. “If we get caught, it’s over. Now let’s move.” She gripped Massie’s elbow and led her across the grass.

  “Easy,” Massie pleaded. “I’m in clogs.”

  Skye slowed her pace.

  Panic was starting to set in, and breathing suddenly became painful; each shallow inhalation bit Massie’s lungs like an overexcited puppy. What if people were watching them and laughing? What if the Pretty Committee was being set up and the whole key thing was a joke? What if she tripped? Desperate for saliva, Massie licked her bubble-gum-flavored lips. But nothing came. Even her spit was starting to panic.

  “Do we really need these blindfolds?”

  Skye smacked Massie’s wandering hand, delivering a fresh waft of Clinique’s Happy perfume straight to her nostrils. “You can’t see where the room is until I know you have the real key.”

  “Puh-lease!” Massie turned to Skye, even though her eyes were covered. “I don’t do fake!”

  “None of us do!” Alicia insisted.

  Skye tightened her grip, silently forbidding Massie to say another word.

  The familiar pump of the horizontal handle—found only on the door to the gym, the side entrance, and the pool—assured Massie that they were still on OCD grounds.

  “Ow! Watch the toes,” Dylan snapped.

  “Shhhhh,” hissed one of the DSL Daters.

  Suddenly, everything felt dark. The air around them was no longer fresh. It smelled like a mix of orange-scented floor wax and the inside of a tuna lover’s lunch box.

  “Are we by the loser lockers?” Alicia asked.

  Dylan sniffed. “More like the janitor’s room.”

  “Mass, what do you think?” Kristen asked.

  “E-nough,” Skye hissed.

  Massie didn’t care where they were. As long as they were getting closer—closer to their secret campus club-house, closer to their fabulous future, closer to eighth-grade domination.

  After one hundred and thirty-nine paces across a slick floor, a walk down a short ramp, and two flights of stairs, they reached their destination—a damp room that reeked of wet cardboard.

  “We’re here.” Skye shimmied Massie between the smell of Angel perfume (Alicia?) and Finesse shampoo (Claire?).

  “Ready?”

  “Yes,“ the Pretty Committee said together.

  Massie was overcome by pre-present tingles, a flutter she’d get in her stomach just before tearing the wrapping paper off her birthday presents. To her, nothing was better than that sliver of time that hung between expectation and reality. Because in that sliver, anything was possible.

  “Okay,” Skye trumpeted. “Blindfolds off!”

  It took a moment for Massie’s mascara-covered lashes to unstick and her eyes to focus. When they finally did, the DSL Daters were huddled around the girls, keeping them from seeing anything in the dim corridor.

  Skye held out her hand. “Key.”

  Massie slapped the necklace in her smooth white palm and grinned.

  Alicia squeaked.

  Dylan twirled a curl.

  Kristen twisted her sweatband.

  And Claire bit her thumbnail.

  After a back bend, a neck roll and some quick calf stretches, Skye stepped up to the silver handle. The DSL Daters parted just enough for the Pretty Committee to see the blue door in front of them.

  “Before I open the room, I need you to understand that you are about to become members of an exclusive club.”

  Massie curled her toes to keep from leaping.

  “If you get caught in here, you will have ruined a sacred, time-honored tradition, and all the past key holders will unite and make your lives miserable.”

  “Don’t worry, we never get caught.” Massie hooked her hair behind one ear.

  “Aren’t you the girls that got expelled?” asked Braids.

  The others giggled.

  “We got back in, didn’t we?” Massie countered.

  “I guess,” murmured Braids.

  “Don’t worry.” Alicia looked straight into Skye’s intensely turquoise eyes. “The room will be safe with us.”

  “Good.” Skye stuck the key in the lock. She jiggled it to the right. Then the left.

  A prickly sweat rushed Massie’s armpits.

  “It’s not opening.” Skye tugged the handle.

  Massie immediately cut Claire with her eyes, silently threatening to destroy her life—and her afterlife—if she and Layne had given her the wrong key. “Let me try.” She stepped forward.

  Skye burst out laughing. “Just kidding!”

  The DSL Daters high-fived.

  Massie tried her best to giggle.

  Skye poked the key in the hole again: This time, it entered without a problem. Then, with a single click, the door unlocked. “Welcome to private-school paradise.”

  Massie reached her hand inside the dark room and flicked on the lights. Alicia, Claire, Dylan, and Kristen stepped forward.

  Everyone gasped.

  “Did I lie?” Skye gushed.

  Massie tried to answer but couldn’t find the words.

  No one could.

  Q&A LISI HARRISON ANSWERS QUESTIONS FROM HER READERS

  When will THE CLIQUE be a movie? Can I please play Massie?

  Everyone asks this question. EVERYONE! And I wish I had better news for you. I really do. All I know is that there are powerful, suit-wearing people in Hollywood trying to make this happen. But until they do, you’ll have to keep reading the books and imagine yourself saying the lines. As soon as I get an update I will post it on LisiHarrison. net. Pinky-swear.

  And for all you wannabe Massies out there: Practice your comebacks and keep honing your inner queen bee. That way you’ll be ready if opportunity knocks!

  Who are the girls on the cover supposed to be?

  Is the one in the middle Massie or Alicia? Where is Claire? And why are there only three of them and not four? The girls on the covers are models, meant to represent a clique, not the Clique. It’s up to you to decide based on my description and your imagination what Massie, Claire, Alicia, Kristen, and Dylan look like. So if the girl in the middle looks like Alicia to you, then fine, she’s Alicia. And if she doesn’t then that’s fine too. Whatevs.

  Which character is most like you?

  I kind of have all the characters in me to some extent. I’m like Massie because I love fashion, clever comebacks, and my puppy Bee Bee. But I am not a bully and would never want to make anyone cry, especially my friends.

  I’m like Claire because I try to accept myself for who I am.

  I’m like Dylan because I think burps are funny and I love to eat.

  I’m like Layne because I think unique is chic. And I go through food obsession phases. This week I can’t get enough of those little egg rolls filled with pizza.

  The characters I am not like at all are Kristen because I stink at sports and Alicia because I have small boobs and I would never follow anyone.

  How are you able to write for seventh graders when you are clearly no longer in the seventh grade?

  Simple. I WAS in the seventh grade at one point in my life and I remember what it feels like to wake up in the morning and wonder if my friends will still like me, even though I did nothing wrong. I also
remember what it feels like to gang up on someone else because, well, better them than me, right? We’ve all been Massies and we’ve all been Claires at one point or another, and those feelings of abusing and being abused never go away.

  How did you come up with the idea to write about cliques?

  I worked at MTV for ten years, and it reminded me a lot of middle school. People were always trying to fit in with the “cool” crowd, and it brought back a lot of memories. I’d hear things like, Who are you hanging out with this weekend? Did you get invited to any cool parties? Where did you buy that outfit? Who did you eat lunch with today?

  Sound familiar? It wasn’t long before I realized that cliques and the desire to be accepted don’t go away when you get older. They just get easier to laugh at. And that’s why I wrote THE CLIQUE as a comedy and not a heart-wrenching drama. Sometimes the way we act is so pathetic it’s funny.

  Any advice for wannabe writers?

  1. Write every day. It doesn’t have to be good or interesting or grammatically correct. Just write anyway. It will keep your juices flowing, and I guarantee that by the end of each session you will have at least one good sentence that you can use in the future.

  2. Read a lot. And read the stuff you like, not the stuff you think you should like. Because chances are you will write in the genre you like to read. So it’s important to know how other people are doing it.

  3. Carry a little notebook everywhere you go. If you see something funny, write it down. If you meet someone with a cool name, write it down. If you think of an interesting story idea while you’re on the bus, write it down. Get it? So the next time you’re racking your brain for details or ideas they will be right there in your ahdorable little notebook.

  4. If someone tells you you’ll never be a writer, put on your pointiest boots, take a deep breath, and kick them in the shin.

  Write about that!

  How many CLIQUE books will there be?

  Right now there will be eight. But if you want more, I’ll write more.

  Are you going to write other stuff?

  Totally! I am always thinking of new and different ideas. My next novel is about fifteen-year-olds at summer camp.