Claire narrowed her eyes at the countless bags dripping from the PC’s arms. The only business they were in was that of overspending.
“Official business?” Layne cleared her throat and stepped forward, looking intrigued. “Follow me.” She waded through the pile of alarm clocks, leading Massie and the PC deeper into the store. Claire scrambled after them, before Darrell the sales associate had a chance to see the rubble.
When they reached the back of the store, Layne nodded at Massie. “Step into my office,” she said smoothly, motioning toward two caramel leather massage chairs with remote controls on the armrests.
“Ehmagawd, Layne.” Massie looked annoyed, but she deposited all the bags (except the Bark Jacobs one) onto the carpeted floor and slid into the chair on the left.
Claire wrinkled her brow. What could Massie possibly need so badly that she was willing to take orders from Layne?
“Just a moment.” Layne leaned over Massie’s armrest, her fingers flying over the remote control. Then she did the same to her chair and plopped down next to Massie. Within seconds, rolling vibrations buzzed from the girls’ heads to their feet, and back up again.
“Sooo telll meeee hoooow Iiii cannnn heeeeeeelp youuuu,” Layne groaned, closing her eyes.
Alicia sighed loudly, leaning against a shelf of talking thermometers.
Kristen was bobbing her head to the beat of the tiny MP3 player/pedometer she’d lifted from a nearby display.
Massie’s snakeskin flats bounced uncontrollably on her footrest. “Iiii neeeeed aaaa faaaaaaaaavorrrr,” she purred, the delicate charm bracelet on her wrist jingling in time to her trembling voice. She reached into the gold Bark Jacobs bag in her lap and produced a tiny shoe box. She lifted the top and Layne peered inside.
“Baaaaaaby booooties?” The apples of Layne’s cheeks shook in confusion.
Massie swung her head from side to side. “Doogggiiiieee boooooties.”
“Ehmagawd, I opposite of have time for this.” Alicia stomped over to the chairs and dug her manicured nail into the OFF button on each remote. “The mall closes in, like, five hours and I still need a dress and a dog.”
“Doggie booties,” Massie repeated, sitting upright. She plucked a brown suede bootie from the box and dangled it in front of Layne’s nose. “I need cameras installed in all of them.” She wiggled against the buttery leather seat, scratching her back.
Layne examined the shoe carefully. “Bootie cams? Easy breezy,” she said finally. “But it’s gonna cost you.”
“Given,” Massie said happily. “You don’t take AmEx, do you?” She reached for her purse.
Layne snorted. “I don’t want your money,” she said. “I want Dempsey.”
Claire’s eyes widened.
Massie’s jaw dropped.
And Kristen flushed. “Layne. That’s totally not fair,” she protested, digging her toe into the gray carpet.
“What’s the problem?” Layne shrugged. “You guys don’t want him anymore, right?”
“Obv.” Massie and Kristen speed-shook their heads a little too quickly.
“So then pinky-swear you won’t ever crush on him again. AND you won’t get in my way when I do.” Layne planted her elbow between the leather armrests and extended her pinky.
Massie did the same. “Done, done, and done,” she said quickly, gripping Layne’s silver-ringed pinky in hers.
It was official: Claire had stepped into an alternate universe. A universe where Massie asked Layne for favors and Layne accepted payment in the form of ex-crushes. A universe where loving eighth automatically made you an outsider. The problem was, Claire couldn’t decide which was worse: living in her old world, where she sometimes felt like the PC owned her soul, or living in her new one, where she felt like she didn’t belong to anyone or anything.
When they slid out of the massage chairs, Massie and Layne were beaming. Claire couldn’t tell if it was because of the massage or the fact that they both clearly thought they’d just gotten the better end of the deal.
“So what are you really doing here?” Claire asked Massie, nodding at the small mountain of colorful bags piled at the foot of the chairs. The floor of Brookstone looked like the Lyons’ living room on Christmas morning.
“Shopping for a party Saturday night,” Massie said, her voice measured. For a brief second, her amber eyes lit up. Was that hope? Worry? Anger?
Claire braced herself. “What kind of party?”
“A niiiinth-grade one,” Alicia offered, giving the word ninth at least six syllables.
“Interested?” Massie plucked an envelope from her back pocket and handed it to Claire.
The thick, expensive paper felt heavy in Claire’s palm. She opened the envelope, pulled out an invitation, and scanned it. “Pup-A-Palooza?”
“It’s a charity auction,” Dylan piped up, snapping open a cellophane package of peanut butter crackers. “You bid on pet spa packages and outfits and stuff.”
“You can even bid on some of the puppies from the local shelter,” Kristen added. “And all the proceeds go to the Westchester Humane Society.”
“And since I’m so into charity and animal rights…” Massie didn’t bother finishing the sentence. “You can both come if you want,” she said generously, side-glancing at Layne. “Since it’s for a good cause.”
Massie, Alicia, Dylan, and Kristen cocked their heads to the side, waiting for Claire and Layne to accept.
Claire hesitated, stifling the urge to funnel the rest of her gummy bag directly into her mouth. She needed the energy boost for what she was about to do.
“No thanks. I’m more into eighth-grade parties,” she said calmly, even though her insides were screaming. The fresh-from-Orlando Claire would have jumped at the chance to do anything Massie wanted to do, no matter what. But that wasn’t the case anymore. Claire didn’t know exactly where she belonged these days, but she knew where she didn’t: at a ninth-grade party.
Massie leaned forward slightly, like she hadn’t heard Claire correctly. “But I picked a crush for you and everything,” she said, sounding surprised.
“And he has two different lengths of hair!” Dylan added.
“Huh?” Layne looked confused.
Claire didn’t bother trying to figure out what Dylan was talking about. She took a deep breath through her nose and looked directly at Massie.
“I already have a crush.” She spoke slowly, like she was explaining algebra to a toddler. Or like she was explaining loyalty to an alpha. “His name is Cam.”
Massie sucked in a sharp breath, her amber eyes flashing. “Big mistake, Kuh-laire.”
“What is?” Claire snapped, all the confusion and guilt and sadness of the past few days morphing into anger. “Ditching your crushes for a bunch of boys you hardly know? Or wasting all your time spying on them?” She knew she was being harsh. But why should she hold back? She wasn’t just fighting for herself. She was fighting for Cam, who was the one constant, steady presence in her social life. She was fighting for their relationship. And she was fighting for eighth.
“Claire, are you Heather Mills’s bum leg?” Massie’s voice was eerily calm, like the air in the seconds before a category five hit the Gulf Coast. She didn’t even wait for Claire to respond. “’Cause you’re totally dragging behind.”
“Point,” Alicia breathed.
Alicia’s vote of confidence seemed to spur Massie on even more. “You can’t stay stuck in eighth forever, Claire. Sooner or later you have to catch up with the rest of us.”
“You should come.” Kristen forced a smile. “It’ll be fun.”
“You have two choices, Claire.” Massie’s cheeks were starting to look like she’d triple-pinched them. “Either come to the party Saturday night—”
“Or what?” Claire cut her off boldly. “You’ll ditch me, like you ditched your crushes?”
“Awww, snap,” Layne muttered under her breath, taking a cautious step back.
“Did I say I’d ditch you?” Mas
sie blinked, turning toward the PC.
Alicia, Dylan, and Kristen shook their heads.
“You didn’t have to.” Claire’s mouth was starting to taste like pennies. “I know the drill.”
“Good. Then we’ll see you Saturday.” Massie smiled wanly. Her gloss had long since evaporated. She swooped down and scooped up her bags. “I’ll need those booties by Saturday, or the deal’s off,” she told Layne. Then she turned on the balls of her flats and marched out of the store. The rest of the girls followed.
Claire staggered backward into the nearest massage chair. Being friends with Massie took more dedication, hard work, and sweat than Gwen Stefani’s flat abs, and required more sacrifices than a Dionysian ritual.
Layne shimmy-wedged herself into the chair next to Claire. The straining leather squeaked in protest. “Bummer,” she said supportively.
Claire nodded miserably. “Maybe I should just go.”
“I wonder if I could bring Dempsey as my date,” Layne joked.
Claire cracked a smile. But it was a hollow one.
Layne was quiet for a while. Then she shifted onto her hip, facing Claire. “I have an idea,” she said slowly. “You’re not gonna love it, but just hear me out.”
As Claire listened to Layne’s plan, every cell in her body was waving a white flag. She’d done everything in her power to fight for eighth. What more could she possibly do? But what if Layne’s idea worked…
“Okay, I’m in,” she said, reaching for the chair remote. She turned it on full blast, hoping the vibrations would shake the last ten minutes from her memory.
THE BLOCK ESTATE
MASSIE’S BEDROOM
Saturday, November 15th
5:02 P.M.
“Massie?” Kendra Block’s voice came over the intercom next to Massie’s bedroom door, interrupting the low, soothing sounds of her confidence CD on loop. “Layne’s here to see you.”
“Can you hear me now?” Layne’s breathy cackle sounded like she was just millimeters from Massie’s ear.
“Send her up.” Jamming her thumb into the PAUSE button, Massie leapt off her bed and hurried to the door, feeling like it was Christmas morning and Layne was Santa Claus. Because Layne wasn’t just delivering bootie cams. She was delivering a way for Massie to spy on every ankle at Pup-A-Palooza, guaranteeing an Ankle-Bird capture by the end of the night. Layne was delivering hope for Massie’s future with Landon. And that was priceless.
When Massie opened the door, Layne bulldozed past, wearing a faded black trench coat, rainbow-striped tights, and glitter-flecked jellies. In the middle of Massie’s pristine all-white bedroom, she looked like a deranged mental patient in the isolation ward.
“Special deliiiiiiiiiivery,” Layne announced, a wide, orange gloss–stained grin lighting up her face.
At the sound of voices, Bean padded out from Massie’s closet, took one look at Layne, and yelp-scampered back into hiding.
“You’re late.” Massie eyed the alarm clock on her bedside table.
“I was busy adding a little extra flair.” Layne made a weird gurgling sound, almost like she was swallowing a laugh. “Free of charge. But if you don’t want ’em…”
“I didn’t say that.” Massie said, as casually as possible. “So let’s see.” She crossed her arms over her black Design History sweater tunic to keep herself from bouncing with curiosity.
“In a minute.” Layne slid up to the Massie and Bean mannequins in the middle of the bedroom. Massie’s mannequin was wearing a satin olive-green cocktail dress accessorized with strappy metallic Manolos and tasteful Kenneth Jay Lane chandelier earrings. Bean’s mannequin was naked, since Massie was holding out on the puppy.
“Isn’t this kinda dressy for a dog park?” Layne reached for the mannequin.
“Don’t!” Massie yelped, squinting at Layne’s fingers for any hint of barbecue dust or crystallized sugar. Who knew where those fingers had been?
“I’m just wearing jeans,” Layne announced, like Massie had asked.
You would, Massie thought.
“What’s Claire wearing?” Massie pretended to examine the hem of the dress for rogue threads. She’d checked Claire’s Twitter status four times since noon, but Claire hadn’t mentioned her plans for the night. Still, it just didn’t seem possible that Claire would actually choose to spend her Saturday night without the Pretty Committee.
“Dunno.” Layne shifted in her jellies. “We haven’t talked about it.” She was obviously lying.
Massie glared at her. “Just show me the booties, Layne.”
“Chill, Phil.” Layne undid the sash on her trench and snapped it open. She held the bootie box under Massie’s nose, lifting the top slowly.
Massie grabbed the box peered inside. “Ehmagawd.”
“I KNOW!” Layne lifted the fashion atrocities from their box. She had hot-glued every neon dyed feather, cheap plastic jewel, and glitter bead in the tristate area to the chocolate suede booties. “They’re groundbreaking. You can’t even see the cameras.”
Massie’s mouth went completely dry. That kind of footwear did nawt belong in her bedroom. It belonged in the wardrobe department of Fashion Disasters on Ice.
“Layne!” she screeched, finally finding her voice. “No self-respecting puppy would ever wear these!”
Layne stage-pouted, her lips twitching slightly. “Sorry. No refunds.”
Before Massie could protest, Layne flounced toward the door. “Later, gator,” she called over her shoulder, slamming the door behind her.
Dumbfounded, Massie stared at the closed door. She should have known not to trust Layne.
Sensing that it was safe to reemerge, Bean appeared in the closet doorway, blinking curiously at the brown box in Massie’s hand.
Massie swallowed, pasting a giant faux grin on her face.
“Heyyyy, Bean,” she cooed. “Ready to try on your new booties?” She knelt to the powder-scented carpet and inched slowly across it toward her puppy, not even caring that she was wearing out the knees of her brand-new gray skinny Citizens.
When Bean caught sight of the booties, a low growl escaped her throat. She backed up a few steps, a wary glint in her wet eyes.
“Puh-lease, Bean,” Massie begged. “Wear them for me.”
But the determination in Bean’s glowing black eyes said that not even the Dog Whisperer could make her change her mind.
Somewhere deep, deep, deep down, Massie was proud of her puppy for having such discriminating taste. Still, she wished Bean would take a fashion hit for the team, just this once. Massie’s entire plan to find Ankle-Bird at Pup-A-Palooza depended on it. Since the event was ahbviously pet-friendly, no one would think twice about Bean being there. And the “bootie cams,” as Layne referred to them, would be at the perfect height to record the guests’ ankles. Plus, Layne and that LBR Candy Corn had figured out a way to hack into the SnoopDawg Web site, so Massie could monitor the bootie cam feed from her iPhone. And once she caught sight of that hummingbird tattoo, all bets were off.
The plan was nothing short of genius. But it, and the future of Massie and Landon’s relationship, depended entirely on Bean, who had just scampered into Massie’s closet.
“Fine,” Massie called after her. “I guess I’ll just have to sit at home like an LBR and wait for Landon and Ankle-Bird’s wedding announcement in the Sunday Times.”
Bean nudge-slammed the closet door behind her.
Massie did a face-plant into her carpet, moaning into the thick white fibers. Parenting was beyond stressful. No wonder Jon and Kate had cracked under the pressure.
She allowed herself a full five seconds of self-pity before righting herself again. There just had to be another way to make this work.
Bean barked indignantly from behind the closet door.
Bark! Massie giggled at her flash of inspiration. If she could get Bark Obama to wear the booties and go to the auction, she could still ankle-spy without Bean having to humiliate herself in public. She pulled her iPhon
e from her back pocket and leaned against the foot of her bed, feeling renewed and back on track.
Massie: Want me 2 pick up Bark? I can watch him if u have 2 go to dinner.
Landon: Not sure Bark = healed enough to move…
Massie had to take a gloss break to shake that one off. Landon obviously hadn’t been worried about Ankle-Bird moving Bark. So what was the problem? After she’d applied a triple coat of Glossip Girl Thin Mintspiration gloss, she returned to her phone.
Massie: I’ll take xtra good care of him. Pinky-swear. B there in 10.
She powered off her iPhone before Landon could protest.
“Oops!” she giggle-pouted, tossing her cell onto the bed. “Battery died.”
Operation: Ankle-Bird or Bust was back on track. And tonight, coming up empty-ankled was nawt an option.
CURRENT STATE OF THE UNION
IN OUT
Bootie cams Cam Fisher
Ankle-Birds Ankle boots
Spying-eye dogs Seeing-eye dogs
WESTCHESTER DOG PARK
PUP-A-PALOOZA CHARITY AUCTION
Saturday, November 15th
8:08 P.M.
Claire had been to the dog park with her parents and Todd for tons of Sunday-afternoon walks, eating ice cream and watching Westchester’s population of wrinkly old men cheat at chess and backgammon. But the lush green lawn, with its mosaic wishing fountain and maple leaf canopy, had never looked like this before.
Colored Christmas lights were threaded through the changing leaves, making the treetops look like glowing galaxies. The picnic tables that usually edged the park had been replaced with long, rustic wooden buffet tables piled high with sushi, cheese plates, and desserts for the humans, and Kobe beef and frosted dog treats for the puppies. The fountain at the center of the park had been transformed into a bubbling dog Jacuzzi. And behind the fountain stretched a spotlit main stage, where a guy in ripped black jeans was doing a sound check.
But the biggest difference was the people. Instead of being surrounded by ninety-year-olds and their chess boards, Claire was surrounded by ninth-graders and their puppies. And she was starting to wish she’d texted in sick. After all the time she’d spend talking up eighth, how could she have let Layne talk her into this?
These Boots Are Made for Stalking Page 12
