These Boots Are Made for Stalking

by Lisi Harrison

  The studio had been renovated at some point since Claire’s fateful first day. Long slate tables had replaced the rows of easels and stools, and the walls and skylighted ceilings had all been painted a pristine white. At the front of the room a model in all black was hunched over his balled fist, frozen like a Rodin sculpture, while a kid in jeans and a worn gray T-shirt bobbed around him, taking his picture.

  “What’re we doing here?” Claire murmured, her eyes falling on a group of kids sitting cross-legged on the table in the back row. Some were sketching in spiral notebooks, and some were just hanging out, laughing and talking. A blond girl with fuchsia-dyed ends—Claire recognized her from study hall—was scowling into her iPhone camera, snapping a self-portrait.

  Layne nodded at the SMART Board across the studio, where a boy with shoulder-length brown hair was scribbling something in shiny black marker:

  When I take a picture, I take 10 percent of what I see.

  “Annie Leibovitz!” Claire blurted, then slapped her palm to her Blistex-buffed lips.

  The guy turned around and grinned. “How’d you know?” He slipped a pair of retro black frames from his nose and cleaned the lenses on his T-shirt, which read TAKE YOUR BEST SHOT.

  Claire flushed. “One of my favorites. It’s on my Facebook profile.”

  “No way! Mine too.”

  “Claire, this is Iain,” Layne announced proudly, licking sour crystals from her fingers. “He’s the president of the Briarwood-OCD PC.”

  “The PC?” Claire muttered from the corner of her mouth.

  “The Photography Club,” Layne whispered back.

  “Hey.” Iain capped his marker and wiped his palms on his jeans.

  The kids sitting cross-legged on the tables waved. Even the statue-still model at the front of the room cracked a smile.

  Claire lifted her palm, wondering what Massie would say if she knew there was another PC at OCD. “Hey.” Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a collection of cameras on the table next to the door. There were tiny digital cameras, long-lens contraptions, and even an old-school pinhole camera. She hovered over them like they were velvet-cushioned diamonds in the display window at Cartier. Was that… No. It couldn’t possibly be…

  “The Nikon D90,” Iain said behind her, reading her thoughts.

  “OMG. I’ve never actually seen one in person!” she admitted.

  “Wanna try it?” Iain grabbed the camera and planted it in Claire’s hand. It felt solid and light at the same time, and the cool silver casing slid perfectly in her palm. “We bought a bunch of them. This one’s an extra.”

  “An extra?” Claire choked, stroking the camera lovingly. “Don’t these things cost a fortune?” She’d wanted to ask for one for Christmas, but when she’d Googled the price, she’d given up hope. That camera was worth more than Todd’s life.

  Iain shrugged. “The PC’s got some pretty famous alumni that give money. Plus, we get to go to some of their gallery openings in the city and stuff.”

  “Food sucks, but the pictures are pretty good,” laughed the girl with pink-tipped ends. “I’m Anya. Cool jeans.” She slid off the table and joined Iain, Claire, and Layne at the back.

  Claire glanced down at her faded Gap boot-cuts. “Seriously?” she said skeptically. Massie had docked her two whole points this morning for the hole in the left knee. It had brought her outfit rating down to a 7.6, which, as Massie had explained, was one-tenth of a point away from a mandatory bad sushi day.

  But this PC was a different kind of PC. There wasn’t a designer piece of clothing in sight, and no one had insulted her bangs, given her a once-over, or suggested she switch to the Sugar Busters diet to repair the damage she’d done on Halloween.

  Was it possible that here she could just be… Claire—holey jeans, sweet tooth, and all? The thought alone made the knots in her shoulders start to dissolve.

  “I thought you guys would… click,” Layne joked, looking thrilled with herself.

  The PC groaned. Anya pelted Layne with an empty film canister.

  Claire giggled, a fresh burst of energy renewing her like a third helping of pomegranate Pinkberry. How could she have been at OCD for so long and not found these cool, artsy people who didn’t care about clothes or ninth-graders? She swivel-turned toward Layne, lifting the camera. “Say cheeeese.”

  Layne stuck out her tongue.

  Claire snapped the picture. “You’re the best.”

  “I know,” Layne beamed. “So I’ve got a Tween Inventors meeting in the auditorium in five. But wanna meet in the parking lot in an hour? My mom can give you a—”

  Iain’s iPhone buzzed in his back pocket. He checked the screen.

  “Kelsey Morgan’s walking the second floor with toilet paper on her shoe!” he yelled, stuffing his cell back in his pocket. “Time to move, people!”

  The studio erupted into chaos. The rest of the PC leapt off the table, sprinting for the table of cameras next to Claire. She flattened herself against the back wall next to Layne.

  “What’s going on?” she yelled to no one in particular.

  “A shot of the student body president with toilet paper on her shoe?” Anya slung a long-lens camera over her chest like she was a National Geographic photographer headed for the Serengeti on assignment. “That’s gold, man.”

  “But…” Claire wrinkled her nose. Shooting girls with toilet paper on their shoes wasn’t artistic. It was just… gross. “Why would the Photography Club—”

  “Not the Photography Club,” Anya clarified. “We’re the Paparazzi Club! You coming?”

  “Ummmm…” Claire took a step back. What was happening to the artsy, creative kids she’d just met? Were they just as shallow as the rest of OCD? Had she totally misjudged them?

  “GO! GO! GO!” Iain boomed, tromping out the door behind the PC without giving Claire a second look. The sound of the PC’s footsteps faded down the hall.

  Claire turned toward Layne, dumbfounded. Just minutes ago she’d had an image of a new OCD, an OCD full of fresh promise and possibility. But that image had blurred faster than an overexposed negative, leaving her feeling emptier than an old film canister.

  RANGE ROVER

  EN ROUTE TO ABNER DOUBLEDAY DAY SCHOOL

  Tuesday, November 11th

  12:25 P.M.

  Massie consulted the itinerary on her iPhone for the ninth time since the Range Rover had left OCD property. As long as Isaac didn’t hit lunch-hour traffic or make any unauthorized stops, the PC were right on time. Even so, Massie refused to let herself relax. Her schedule that day was Botox-tight.

  Itinerary: Ankle-Bird or Bust!!!

  6:30 a.m.–6:42 a.m. Deep condition (Ouidad 12 Minute Deep Treatment Intensive Repair). No alpha should head into battle with stressed tresses.

  6:42 a.m.–6:44 a.m. Text-remind Kristen to forge excused absence notes w/Layne’s electronic Counter-Forge-It parent note signer.

  6:42 a.m.–7:30 a.m. Blowout/makeup by Jakkob. Wardrobe: Alexander Wang leggings, Elizabeth and James Laurent shirt, Marc Jacobs snakeskin flats. (Note for PC: Nothing above a kitten heel, in case of need for speedy on-foot departure.)

  7:30 a.m.–7:34 a.m. Range Rover, en route to Dylan’s. GLOSS!!! (Glossip Girl Sweet Revenge Lip Stain)

  7:34 a.m.–7:44 a.m. Meet PC in Couture Cemetery. Pick disguises so upgrades don’t detect PC. SOMETHING SHINY to lure Ankle-Bird out of hiding (birds shiny things).

  7:44 a.m.–7:52 a.m. Range Rover, en route to OCD. Review itinerary w/PC. Rate disguises. Hydrate/energize (Red Bull Sugarfree).

  7:52 a.m.–7:59 a.m. Give forged notes to Principal Burns. If she looks skeptical, compliment her hair on looking extra triangular today. Do NAWT laugh while saying it.

  8:00 a.m.–12:20 p.m. Class. Whatevs.

  12:20 p.m.–12:28 p.m. Range Rover, en route to ADD for “campus tour.” Re-gloss as needed.

  12:28 p.m.–1:02 p.m. HUNT DOWN ANKLE-BIRD!!!!!

  1:10 p.m. Back to OCD. If time permits, victor
y lattes before 5th period.

  “Four minutes out,” Alicia called dutifully, reaching for the fitted gray Priorities blazer she’d draped over the black leather bench.

  “Disguises on,” Massie instructed. She re-glossed in less than five seconds, using the tinted divider between the front and back seats for a makeshift mirror. If she’d had any wiggle room in her schedule, she might have stopped to think about how weird it was that Claire had been so MIA for the past couple days. About how the window seat next to the fridge looked strange without the indent from Claire’s Gap denim–covered butt. Or about how her most recent “gummy cramps” excuse was beyond transparent. But there just wasn’t time. One slip-up and Ankle-Bird could fly the coop.

  “What kind of bird was it again?” Kristen cinched the knot on her printed Pucci head scarf and adjusted her Tom Ford Samantha sunglasses.

  “Hummingbird,” Massie snapped. She tilted the air-conditioning vents in her direction and turned the air on full blast. The icy shot rippled through her tresses, sealing in the shine. As an added bonus, the air cooled her cheeks, which were flushed despite the slight autumn chill that nipped at the Range Rover’s windows. All the planning had left her overheated. Or was it nerves—and the thought of Landon catching her hunting Ankle-Bird in the off-season?

  “Do guys in ninth like tattoos?” Dylan chewed her bottom lip. “’Cause my mom says if I ever get one, she’ll cut off my clothes allowance.”

  “My mom says she’ll homeschool me till college,” Kristen grimaced.

  “One of my Spanish cousins has a tattoo of angel wings on her lower back,” Alicia offered, pulling a violet Patricia Underwood cloche over her ears. “It’s kind of cool.”

  Dylan lifted her Red Bull Sugarfree can to her lips and tapped the bottom to get the last few drops. “Traaaaaaamp staaaaaaamp,” she belched.

  “Ewwwww.” Alicia giggle-shooed away Dylan’s burp fumes.

  “The point is not whether the tattoo is quote-unquote ‘cool’,” Massie interrupted. “The point is that I am nawt letting some ink-stained ninth-grader steal my crush and cancel our upgrade.” She looped her silver silk Diane von Furstenberg scarf around her head, careful not to ruin her blowout. “Are we clear?”

  “Cuh-lear,” the PC echoed.

  “Good.” As the Range Rover turned into the ADD front circle, Massie pulled her Gucci aviators from their protective case and cleaned them on the hem of her blouse. The Pretty Committee were suddenly silent. This was it. There was no turning back. She lowered her lids and conjured up a mental image of Landon’s blue-green eyes. If this mission failed, mental images were all she’d have left. It was time to fight.

  A light whirring sound filled the back seat as Isaac lowered the divider.

  “Enjoy the informational interviews,” he said, pulling up to the curb. “I’ll be right here when you’re done. And remember, it’s always best to keep an open mind.”

  “Thanks, Isaac,” the PC chimed, pursing their glossy lips together to keep from laughing.

  Massie opened the door and lowered her black snakeskin flats onto the cracked sidewalk. Alicia, Dylan, and Kristen slid out behind her. Looking like a super-chic special-ops force on a top secret mission, the girls tiptoed across the crunchy, yellowed lawn. Massie tilted her face to the sky so the sun’s bronzing rays could give her an extra boost.

  When they reached the doors to the main building, Massie swiveled on the balls of her feet, facing her troops.

  “Bathroom first,” she whisper-ordered. “Then we’ll hit the girls’ locker room, the cafeteria, and the auditorium. Questions?”

  “Ma’am, yes ma’am!” Dylan saluted, clicking her kitten heels together.

  Massie rolled her eyes. “What, Dylan?”

  “When are we gonna have time for lunch?”

  Ehmagawd. How could Dylan possibly think about food, when the entire upgrade was in jeopardy? “No idea,” Massie said impatiently. “Now. Are there any mission-related questions?”

  The PC shook their heads. Dylan protest-clutched her stomach.

  “Good. Now, let’s go.” With a determined flourish, Massie threw open the door and slid inside.

  ADD’s deserted main hallway smelled like a combination of old tuna fish and pencil erasers. Massie lifted her Chanel-spritzed wrist to her nose to stave off the odor. The chipped paint jobs on the lockers looked at least two semesters old, and the linoleum flooring was a dingy shade of brownish gray. She’d definitely do a better job appreciating OCD when she made it back. If she made it back.

  “Ehmagawd, this lighting is the opposite of flattering,” Alicia lifted her hand to shield her face from the flickering fluorescents overhead. “I am so nawt coming here,” she announced, as if she’d actually been considering it.

  The PC giggled behind their disguises.

  Nearby, a girl in track shorts and a hoodie shoved a wrinkled dollar bill into a vending machine.

  Massie glanced down at the girl’s ankles. Apart from an ugly gold imitation anklet, the girl’s ankles were free and clear.

  “This place is, like, on the verge of collapse.” Kristen hopped over a linoleum square that was curling up at the edges. “I don’t know how the boys do it.”

  “Agreed,” Massie nodded. The fact that Landon was rugged enough to withstand such hazardous learning conditions just made him hotter. She spotted the girls’ bathroom at the end of the hall and motioned for the girls to pick up the pace.

  “So then I’m like, ‘Look, if you want to take a break, fine. Just don’t expect me to be here when you’ve gotten blondes out of your system.’” A girl wearing low-rise jeans and a plaid men’s shirt was leaning over the sink in the bathroom, applying thick, dark liner to her lids. A wallet chain dripped from her back pocket like a shiny snake. She didn’t even turn when the Pretty Committee walked in. “I am so over high school boys.”

  “Right?” came a muffled voice from one of the stalls.

  Kristen’s eyebrows arched over the tops of her Fendi frames.

  On any other day, Massie would have braved the hazy, Glade-scented bathroom to take notes on high school conversation topics for research. Today, she had more important things to do. She signal-nodded, and each member of the PC crouched in front of one of the four stalls.

  Massie checked her stall: ripped gray denim rolled up at the cuffs and a scuffed pair of black Converse sneakers. No tattoo. Pressing her hands against her thighs, she pushed herself to standing and glanced at the other girls.

  “Negative.” Alicia shook her head, then stood up.

  Kristen did the same.

  Just then, the gray metal door leading to Dylan’s stall swung open, smacking her in the forehead.

  “Owwww!” Dylan toppled onto her butt, clutching her head in pain.

  The Pretty Committee dissolved into giggles, their head scarves slipping.

  A girl in a shapeless yellow sweater dress and flats peered out from the other side of the doorway. “What the—”

  “Abort! Abort!” Massie squealed, checking the girl’s ankles before she rushed out behind Alicia and Kristen. They stumbled into the hallway, doubled over.

  “Ehmagawd,” Alicia gasped, removing her sunglasses to wipe the tears from her eyes. “Did you see the look on that girl’s face?”

  The bathroom door flew open. Lips pursed tight, Dylan crossed her arms over her chest. A giant red welt was starting to form on her forehead. “Can we go now?” she grumbled, lifting her fingers gingerly to her rapidly swelling skin.

  Massie shook her head. “We haven’t even checked the cafeteria.”

  Kristen consulted her watch. “If we don’t get out of here soon, we’re gonna be late.”

  “If we each take five tables, it won’t take long.” Massie insisted. But her gloss, along with her resolve, was starting to fade. It had been more than seven hours since she’d chased her Dulce de Leche Luna Bar with a protein smoothie, and the fluorescent lighting and old tuna smell was starting to make her feel light-headed.r />
  “Speaking of the cafeteria…” Dylan glanced down at her belly. It growled in response.

  “If we check the cafeteria, the boys’ll see us for sure,” Alicia said warily.

  “Fine. We’ll check the locker rooms and then get out of here.” Beneath her scarf, Massie’s scalp was starting to sweat. Panicked, she fanned her hairline. Sweaty scalp led to oily tresses. Which led to breakouts. Which led to social isolation, which led to LBRdom. If she didn’t find Ankle-Bird soon, she risked losing more than her crush. She risked losing her alpha status.

  “I dunno.” Kristen checked her watch again. “What if we get in trouble for being late and I lose my scholarshi—”

  “The only thing making us late is your chitchat!” Massie hissed. “Now come awn!” She charged past a faded yellow bulletin board sprouting flyers for the spring musical, the French club, and yearbook picture day.

  Silently, the PC hurried alongside her, the buzzing fluorescent lights making them look more washed-out than the Olsen twins. No wonder ADD girls bronzed as often as Massie glossed.

  “Anybody know any bird calls?” Kristen muttered at her navy flats. “That’d speed this thing up.”

  Massie pretended not to hear. Giving in to distractions could rob her of the element of surprise, giving Ankle-Bird the upper wing. The only option was to stay focused on the maroon doors at the end of the hallway, which were barricaded with piles of nylon gym bags. Bingo.

  She kicked the gym bags out of the way when she reached the door. Once the path was clear, she handed out assignments.

  “Leesh, you check the showers.”

  Alicia raised her left eyebrow. “Um… that’s illegal.”

  Massie shrugged her off. “Then you and Dylan can split up the locker bays. Kristen, scope out the bathroom stalls. And I’ll check the changing area. If you have a sighting, text ANKLBRD.” She paused for a quick Purell break before flinging open the locker room doors. Immediately, the overpowering smell of sweat and ripe sneakers laced with fruity body spray rushed over her, yanking her stomach to the back of her throat.