“Ha!” Layne’s snort blared from the Dell laptop on Claire’s white wooden desk. The computer teetered precariously atop a pile of desk clutter, which included a few back issues of CosmoGirl, a flyer with the Briarwood Tomahawks’ home game schedule highlighted in pink, and an open French workbook.
Claire resumed her Skype-rant. “So I told her I wasn’t gonna chaperone her sleepover, either, and we left.” Claire whipped back the aqua piqued-silk panel that hung over her window. Massie’s windows were dark, which meant the PC was sleeping in the spa tonight. Good. The last thing Claire wanted was to watch her friends giggling about their new crushes. “Can you believe her?”
“Actually, yeah.” A sharp, crunching sound filled the room. It felt like sandpaper rubbing against Claire’s last nerve. She stalked over to the speakers and turned down the volume. “We’re talking about Massie Block, remember?”
“I know.” Claire shoved up the sleeves of her Powerpuff Girls pajamas and yanked out her wooden desk chair. She hadn’t worn these since she’d moved to Westchester, and she was way too old for them now. But there was something comforting about the soft, worn fabric. It reminded her of a simpler time.
“The Massie Block who threw salmon at you and dumped gazpacho on your head when you first moved here?” Layne was sitting cross-legged on her own bed, a giant bowl of pretzels mixed with Halloween candy in her lap. Her handmade bejeweled SAVE THE MALES: DON’T BE A H8R tee glinted in the light of the undulating lava lamp nearby. “The Massie Block who tricked you out of wearing the Dirty Devil Halloween costume she wore last year? The Massie—”
“I get it, Layne.” Claire plopped into the chair, sitting on a crumpled pair of Massie hand-me-down AG Jeans. The button dug into the back of her thigh. She yanked the pants out from under her and flung them across the room. They landed in a defeated heap on the carpet. “But that was last year. We weren’t friends yet.”
Layne shrugged, digging a handful of pretzel mix from the green plastic bowl in her lap. “Just saying,” she mumbled over a mouthful, “I don’t get why you seem so surprised whenever Massie does something mean.”
“Claaaaaaaaiiiiirrrrree!” Judi Lyons’s voice sounded from the kitchen, over the labored churn of the dishwasher. “You in for family game night?”
“In a minute, Mom!” Claire yelled back.
“Easy!” Layne slapped her palms over her ears.
“Sorry,” Claire said. Absentmindedly, she pulled a red colored pencil from her drawer and doodled a tiny heart on the chipped white desktop, bearing down harder than usual. The desk was covered with different-colored sketches, symbols, and notes, more than half of them Cam-related. “It’s not just Massie,” she said. “It’s everybody else. I mean, how can they be so shallow? How can they not even care that they’re ditching their crushes for these new guys they don’t even know?” She re-outlined an old CL CF note from seventh.
Layne swallowed. “So how’d Dempsey look?” She smoothed her unruly brown waves and licked the pretzel crumbs from her hot pink glossed lips.
Claire ignored her, staring at the giant corkboard that hung over her desk. It was covered in photos of Claire and Massie, blowing kisses in the back of the Range Rover… Claire and Dylan, clinking plastic spoons at Pinkberry… Claire, Kristen, and Alicia in their trampire costumes, making sexy-scary pouts in Massie’s entrance hall. The girl in those pictures looked like Claire. And she even looked happy. Like she fit in with the perfectly glossy girls in the photographs. “It’s like their souls got sucked on Halloween, and now they’ve changed into these girls who don’t care about anybody but themselves.”
Layne snorted, spraying a shower of chocolatey pretzel bits into the webcam lens. She licked her finger and wiped the bits away, leaving Claire with a partially brown-smudged view. “Claire. These girls have never cared about anybody but themselves. They’ve always been this shallow.” She paused, her brow crinkling like she was constipated. “Maybe they’re not the ones who’ve changed. Maybe you’re the one who’s gotten your soul sucked.”
The harsh reality of Layne’s words felt like a knockout punch to the gut. But maybe the words hurt so much because they were true. She’d traded her old Levi 501s for Sevens and her short, fluffy bangs for brow-skimming, razor-cut ones. Her outsides definitely looked different… did her insides look different now too?
“Maybe you’re right.” Suddenly, Claire’s limbs felt heavy, like they were filled with lead. “Maybe I have changed.” She closed her burning eyes, flashing back to the very first moment her Keds had crossed over the threshold to Massie Block’s world. Standing in the middle of Massie’s spotless white iPad in denim overalls and homemade jewelry, Claire had felt like a cheap pleather bag that had accidentally been thrown in with a display of calfskin totes when no one was looking. She was like Splenda to Massie’s sugar, or flip-flips to her Ferragamos.
What would her life be like now if the Lyons hadn’t moved into the Blocks’ guesthouse when they’d gotten to Westchester? What would she be like? Would she still be wearing friendship bracelets instead of hand-me-down gold bangles? Would she have friends like her old friends in Orlando, who didn’t care about labels or older boys?
Wiping her mental slate clean, she tried to picture a life without the constant stress of Pretty Committee breakups and makeups. Without the pressure of having her outfit rated every day at school, or always feeling like she was trying to catch up with Massie and Alicia. But her mind was totally blank. The Pretty Committee had become her life.
But what if she didn’t want it to be?
“Maybe you guys are growing apart.” Layne lifted the snack bowl to her lips and shook the dusty pretzel remains into her mouth before sending it sailing across the room like a giant Frisbee. Leftover pretzel salt clung to her lips like fairy dust. “No big deal. Happens all the time.” She fell back onto a pile of puff-painted pillows, leaving Claire with a view of only her neck, chin, and nose.
“Really?” Claire said dejectedly, trying not to stare up Layne’s cavernous nostrils.
“Yeah.” Layne’s neck jostled as she talked, reminding Claire of the way Judi Lyons’s arm fat jiggled when she waved. “That’s what happened with me and Heather and Meena. Why d’you think I’ve been hanging out with you guys so much lately?”
“CLAAAAAAAAIIIIIRRRE!” Judi called again. “You want the thimble or the top hat?”
“TOP HAT!” Claire screeched.
“No way! That’s mine!” Todd yelled from the living room.
“FINE!” Claire rolled her eyes. “THIMBLE!” When she glanced back at her screen, Layne was holding two pillows on either side of her head like fluffy white Princess Leia buns. “Oops. Sorry.”
“Claire.” Layne released her downy earmuffs. “Seriously.”
“I think…” Claire chewed at the inside of her cheek, staring down at her desk. “I think I’m ready to find some new friends.” The second the words left her mouth, her eyes fell on a bright purple glitter scribble Massie had added to Claire’s desk graffiti at the end of the summer. Underneath a rough sketch of a charm bracelet, Massie had written PC4L. And next to it, a purple paw print, for Bean.
Suddenly, Claire whip-turned toward her window, as if Massie could be eavesdropping all the way from the spa. Her pulse quickened. Would looking for new friends make her just as bad, just as finicky as the rest of the PC? She shook the thought from her head. This wasn’t the same. It wasn’t like she wanted to ditch her old friends. She just wanted to find a few new ones to hang out with too. Friends who liked Halloween candy and eighth-grade boys.
“Are you for real?” Suddenly, Layne sounded exhausted. “’Cause I don’t think I can take another PC breakup. You guys’ve worn me down.”
“It won’t be like a breakup,” Claire dug her thumb into her desktop, chipping away at the purple charm bracelet. “I’m not totally leaving the PC. Swear.”
“I don’t knooooow.” Layne wrinkled her nose. “Massie’s not gonna liiiiiiike it.”
“Where are you supposed to get new friends anyway?” Layne plugged in a crimping iron next to her bed and started transforming her parched waves into frizzy kinks.
“Uhhhh, I… dunno.” Okay, she definitely hadn’t thought this through. Did Skype have a REWIND button? Wait. No. Claire screwed her eyes shut, squeezing the doubt from her brain. So what if Massie didn’t like Claire having other friends. Wasn’t it a free country? Didn’t she deserve to be happy? “Where do you even meet new friends?”
“Um…” Layne tilted her head to one side.
“CLAAAAAIIIRRRE!” Judi, Jay, and Todd synchro-screamed from the living room. “Your turn!”
Claire shoved back her chair and stalked over to her door, throwing it open.
“Count me out!” she yelled. “I’m busy!” Then she slammed the door again and resumed her position.
Layne was upright again and scribbling furiously on a Hello Kitty notepad. “Got some ideas,” she murmured, dropping the left, crimped side of her head toward her shoulder. “Hold on…”
Claire swallowed the faint taste of pennies that had deposited itself in the back of her throat. Her eyes traveled over the photo board again, over the memories that she had created with the Pretty Committee. Only this time, the pictures seemed faded. Stiff. Maybe it was time for some new memories. Maybe Claire was ready to see the world through a whole new lens.
“Okay.” She leaned toward her laptop screen, looking Layne dead in the eye. “I’m ready.” It was time for an upgrade of her own.
THE BLOCK ESTATE
MASSIE’S BEDROOM
Sunday, November 9th
5:01 P.M.
Wrapped in a fluffy white spa robe, Massie was trying hard to concentrate on the open algebra text propped against her knees. But not even the steaming mug of ginkgo biloba–infused pomegranate tea on her nightstand could help her focus on slope-intercept equations. Not when the sweet smell of Landon Crane’s cologne still lingered on her robe. Burying her nose in her shoulder, she took a long, deep breath. The soft cotton fibers smelled like true love. The rare kind that existed between Ellen and Portia. Penn and Blake. Kanye and himself.
And now, Landon and Massie.
Bean, who was napping on an overstuffed sham at the foot of the bed, let out a satisfied sigh, her tiny pink tongue hanging happily from the corner of her mouth. Massie wondered if Bean was dreaming about her crush too.
Focus. She turned her attention back to her workbook and read the first problem: Find the equation of the straight line that has slope m = 4 and passes through the point (-1, -6).
Out of the corner of her eye, Massie’s sleeping MacBook was blinking. Inviting her to check the SnoopDawg Web site for a quick Landon fix. A white, glowing beacon, the slowly pulsing battery light seemed to call out to her:
Lan-don. Lan-don. Lan-don.
At her feet, Bean’s rhythmic sighs seemed to whisper:
Cuh-rane. Cuh-rane. Cuh-rane.
And on the bedside table next to her, the second hand on her white, round-faced alarm clock ticked:
Snoop. Dawg. Snoop. Dawg. Snoop. Dawg.
It was official: The universe was dying for her to catch a glimpse of her crush. Probably because the universe understood the agony that came with a Landon-free weekend. It seemed like years since the spa party, since she’d watched his dimple deepen every time he laughed at her jokes. And even though he’d sent an adorable thank-you text quote-unquote “from Bark” on Saturday morning, going forty-eight hours without actually seeing him just didn’t feel right. It was like eating sushi without wasabi. Watching television without TiVo. Wearing Dolce without Gabbana.
Ugh! It was time for a distraction. She flipped her math notebook to a blank page and grabbed her favorite glittery purple gel pen.
TOP 10 REASONS I LANDON CRANE
10. The way his one dimple deepens when he laughs at all my comebacks. Bonus points for sense of humor.
9. He’s in ninth, which means he’s nine times more mature than ex-crushes Derrington and Dempsey.
8. His ah-mazing blue-green eyes, which change colors depending on what I’m wearing, so we’ll never clash.
7. He never wears shorts in the winter like Derrington. Or wiggles his butt when he’s happy. Or ditches me just because he has to quote-unquote “go to soccer practice” or he’ll quote-unquote “get kicked off the team.” Puh-lease.
6. He’s not into theater like Dempsey. Or Africa. Or volunteering.
5. Bark Jacobs, his mom’s posh pet spa–slash–boutique. Automatic wardrobe upgrade for Bean!!!
4. Bark Obama, his ah-dorable pug. Automatic crush for Bean!!!
3. His wardrobe is almost as good as mine. Plus, he looked amazing on the runway at my Ho Ho Homeless benefit, without stealing the focus. He’s ahbviously confident enough to let his crush shine.
2. The way his name sounds when I say it out loud: Landon Crane. Landon Crane. Landon Crane.
1. HE’S IN NINTH! Having an older crush = ALPHA & BEYOND.
Massie put down the pen and sighed. All those facts were true, but they didn’t tell her what Landon was doing right now. And the sleep light on her Mac was blinking almost hypnotically now.
Lan-don. Lan-don. Lan-don.
Finally, she couldn’t take the torture anymore. She reached for her laptop, flipped it open, and typed the SnoopDawg URL into the Web browser. Immediately, a puppy in a Sherlock Holmes outfit with a magnifying glass in its paw sniffed its way across the screen, signaling that the site was loading. The anticipation made her stomach churn like Jacuzzi jets on full blast, and she felt giddier than Claire did before a study date with Cam.
Thoughts of her crush were suddenly replaced with thoughts of Claire, who had ditched the sleepover to do Gawd knew what else. She’d claimed bad gummies, but that was obviously code for I’ve got something better to do. Only, what plans could Claire possibly have that didn’t involve the Pretty Committee? Not knowing exactly what Claire was up to made Massie feel more uneasy than the time at the mall she’d gotten distracted on her cell and accidentally wandered into the Dress Barn instead of BCBG. It was strange and unfamiliar territory, and no self-respecting alpha belonged there.
When the site loaded, a herd of cartoon puppies flounced into view, yap-prompting Massie to enter Bark’s ID number in the doghouse graphic in the middle of the screen. Bean’s eyelids fluttered open, and she scampered across the duvet, collapsing in an excited heap in the crook of Massie’s arm.
“It’s not that Claire doesn’t want to hang out with us anymore, Bean.” With her right hand, Massie typed in the ID number and password that had come with the charm, while she scratched behind Bean’s ears with her left. If she’d had an extra set of fingers, she would have crossed them that Landon hadn’t changed Bark’s password yet. “It’s just that she’s obviously not ready to upgrade. She’s kind of young for thirteen.”
Bean wrinkled her pug nose, obviously sympathetic.
“I know. It’s beyond frustrating,” Massie nodded, feeling slightly better that she wasn’t the only one to notice Claire’s immaturity. “But if we’re really her friends, we can’t control what she does. We just have to give her time to mature and realize that…”
She clicked ENTER and screwed her eyes shut. Slowly, she opened her left eye a crack.
The cartoon puppies trotted into the doghouse, and the screen went black. Then a grainy, dim image of a puppy paw invaded the screen.
She was in.
“Yesssss!” Massie leaned forward, squinting at the screen like Kendra squinted at Vogue when she misplaced her reading glasses. Fuzzy claws scraped and scratched at the camera lens, completely obstructing Massie’s view of anything Landon-related.
“Baaaaark,” Massie moaned. “Quit messing with your collar!”
&
nbsp; Bean lapped at the screen, leaving behind a trail of drool.
“Ewwwww,” Massie giggle-chided her puppy as she swiped the drool away with the sleeve of her robe.
Seconds later, the camera dropped to the floor, leaving Massie with the same view of Landon’s room she’d have if she were in downward-facing dog position in yoga class. She leaned closer, the tip of her nose almost smudging the screen. Unexpectedly, she was drenched with a fresh wave of adoration for her crush. Landon’s room confirmed what she already knew: that he was meant for her. The John Mayer Trio poster over his bed proved he was poetic. The olive-green duvet and 600 thread-count (give or take) sheets said he was stylish enough to care about home decor, but the chocolate brown throw pillows strewn haphazardly across the bed said he didn’t care too much. And the Prada sneakers peeking out from under his bed screamed style, style, style.
Then the screen went black.
“Ehmagawd!” Massie gripped the sides of her laptop screen and shook it like an Etch A Sketch. A drool-slicked pink tongue and a mouthful of tartar-stained teeth appeared as the camera twisted and turned, making Massie feel queasy.
“Bark!” she screeched at the screen. Bean shot to the foot of the bed, chasing her tiny tail in frantic circles. “Do NAWT eat the SnoopDawg! Bad puppy! Bad!”
As if he could hear her desperation, Bark spat out the camera, and the drool-soaked lens bounced and rolled into the middle of Landon’s room. Massie fell back onto her pillows, exhausted. A chilly breeze from her cracked bedroom window wafted past her lavender curtains and over her bed. She burrowed deeper beneath her duvet, keeping her eyes on the screen.
A pair of Puma Black Labels and dark-wash denim–covered ankles crossed in front of the camera. Massie shot upright again.
“Landon!” she squealed, her heart revving beneath her ribs as the camera teased her with a tiny taste of her crush. From the expertly faded wash around the hem of his jeans, Massie could tell Landon was wearing Paper Denim & Cloth. It was the perfect choice for a crisp fall Sunday.
These Boots Are Made for Stalking Page 8
