“So this is Mrs. Potts and Dancing Dish Number Three.” Layne slung her arms around the two girls on either side of her, looking more relaxed than Massie and Kendra after a ninety-minute couple’s shiatsu. “We met at theater camp last year.” The plate of dog bone–shaped sushi rolls in Layne’s left hand was tilting dangerously toward the grass, like the Titanic in the final seconds before it went vertical. “Guys, this is Claire. She’s in eighth with me.”
“You can call me Syd for short,” Mrs. Potts—a petite brunette in torn boyfriend jeans, vintage peep-toe wedges, and a low-cut emerald sweater—smile-nodded at Claire. “At least till opening night anyway.” She was cradling a tiny white maltipoo in a black sweater tunic and puppy Uggs, or PUggs, as Massie called them.
“Cara,” said the other girl, a willowy blonde in an eggplant-colored jacket, a low-cut tank top, and cowboy boots. She unhooked her thumbs from the belt loops of her jeans and grabbed a passing guy with an electric bass guitar slung across his chest. “And this is my boyfriend, Doug.” She pulled the boy in and lip-kissed him, right there in front of everybody.
Mrs. Potts didn’t even bat a lash.
Boyfriend? Not crush? Claire raised her barkarita glass to her lips and fake-sipped, not knowing whether to stare at the ground or watch Cara and Doug make out like it was no big deal.
“Hey. What’s up?” Doug finally pulled away.
“Hey. Nothing.” Claire fought the urge to finger-comb her bangs. How was Layne acting so… natural around an entire park full of lip-kissing high-schoolers?
The pressure of needing to find new friends ASAP was starting to tighten around Claire’s midsection like a cinched leather belt after a gummy binge. Layne’s ninth-grade Westchester Community Theater friends were her last hope. If she blew this, she’d be more than an LBR. She’d be a BFFLLBR (BFF-less Loser Beyond Repair). And that was way, way worse.
“So I gotta run.” Doug tossed his suspiciously sun-kissed, potentially highlighted bangs away from his forehead before they settled back over his eyes. “We’re on in five.”
“Doug’s band is opening tonight,” Cara explained proudly. “Before the auction.”
“Awesome.” Layne dipped a sushi roll in mustard and crammed it in her mouth.
“Smells Like Uncle Hugh.” Doug looked at Claire.
“Huh?” Claire froze. Had she forgotten deodorant again? There wasn’t even a way to sneak a quick pit sniff.
“Smells Like Uncle Hugh,” Doug repeated. “My band. We’re like a mix between Radiohead and Shinedown, you know?”
“Totally,” Claire nodded, even though she didn’t.
While Doug and Cara lip-kissed goodbye like he was shipping off on a six-month deployment, Claire scoped out the park, looking for the PC. This event was practically the opposite of one of Massie’s parties. Instead of stuffy tuxedoed waiters carrying sterling silver trays of catered mini-food, there were two buffet tables—one at human height and one at puppy height—and guests helped themselves. Instead of a DJ, there were a bunch of ninth-grade bands. And instead of designer gowns, everybody wore jeans. Girls and their cru—their boyfriends were actually talking to each other, instead of faking like they’d never met. Plus, there wasn’t a parent in sight. Claire pulled out her phone, wondering if Cam could get out of spending the night at Josh’s.
Claire: What r u up 2? Wanna hang @ a high-skl party?
Claire held her breath.
Cam: Already at Josh’s.
Cam: P.S. Don’t fall for any 9th gradrs.
Claire blushed, even though no one was reading the text over her shoulder.
Claire: Not 2 worry. Wanna go downtown 2morrow? Gourmet Au Lait?
Cam: Def.
An opening guitar chord echoed over the mic, and the entire dog park erupted in cheers and barks. Claire could feel the vibrations from the music and the crowd inching their way from her Keds all the way up her body.
“MythighgoesnumbwhenIpoo!” Syd yelled to Claire over the music, releasing her puppy to the grass.
Claire almost giggle-spat her drink. “What?” she yelled back, leaning closer.
“I said, the guy on drums is so cute!” Syd glanced down at the black lace bra that peeked out from beneath her slouchy sweater. But instead of yanking up her V-neck in embarrassment, the way Alicia would have done, she inched it down a little further.
Claire looked up at the stage, shielding her eyes from the bright, swinging spotlights. The blonde on drums looked weirdly familiar. How did she know that guy?
And then it hit her. It was Luke, Dylan’s new and supposedly improved crush. The upgrade reminder made Claire’s stomach churn.
Cara closed her eyes and rocked out on air drums to the beat of the music, not seeming to care if anybody was watching.
“Niiiice,” Syd laughed. “Looks like all those hours in front of the mirror paid off.”
“Please.” Cara opened her eyes and grinned. “Like you don’t do the same thing.” She waved at a guy in skater shorts who was leading a Great Dane across the lawn.
“Nope.” Syd shook her head. “I’m on lead vocals.” She raised her glass to her lips like a microphone and pressed her index finger into her left ear. “Except usually, my mic is my flat iron.”
“Ehmagawd, I do the same thing!” Claire shrieked, temporarily forgetting she wasn’t supposed to say, Ehmagawd. But nobody seemed to care.
“ME TOO!” Layne winked at Claire, as if to say, See?
“But I only use full-length mirrors,” Syd continued, bending over to pet a giant golden retriever that was drinking from the fountain. “Otherwise the choreography’s a total waste.”
“Exactly,” Claire laughed, feeling the tension in her shoulders starting to loosen. If Massie ever found out about Claire’s mirror-singing, she’d probably expel her from the PC, effective immediately. But with these girls, it was like Claire didn’t have to filter everything she said. It felt more freeing than spending an entire weekend in sweats.
“Hey, have you ever thought about auditioning for one of the shows?” Cara smiled. “We’re doing Little Shop of Horrors in the spring.”
“Wouldn’t she be an awesome Audrey?” Syd bobbed her head to the music.
“Seriously,” Layne agreed, shoving up the sleeves of her gray elbow-patched hoodie.
“I can introduce you to the director, if you…” Cara’s voice trailed off. She was staring over Claire’s left shoulder, her arched brow crinkling slowly in confusion. Claire turned around.
Behind her, the Pretty Committee were standing shoulder to shoulder in full hair and makeup, cocktail dresses, and heels that were sinking slowly in the grass like it was quicksand. At one of the Blocks’ events, the girls would have looked photo shoot–chic. But in the middle of the dog park, they just looked overdressed and out of place. It was like seeing the cast of Gossip Girl in the frozen food aisle at the grocery store.
“Kuh-laire! You came!” Massie’s amber eyes glowed excitedly under the colored lights, complimenting her single-strap olive-green satin dress. Bark Obama was tucked underneath her arm like a furry black clutch, lapping Kobe beef out of her upturned palm. “In Keds, but still.” A Frisbee whizzed over her head, but her sculpted updo stayed frozen in place.
“Yup,” Claire smiled, deciding to ignore the dis. Ninth-graders probably let it go when their friends insulted their footwear. Plus, as weird as it was to admit, Massie hating on her shoes felt comfortable, somehow. Familiar. “Massie, this is Syd and Cara.”
“I think the Keds are adorable.” Syd adjusted her bra strap. “Totally retro.”
Then again, ninth-graders not hating on her shoes felt like a blast of fresh air. Claire bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. Cam would probably like these girls way better than he liked the PC. Maybe she should text him again, just to see if—
“Puh-lease.” Massie placed Bark gingerly on the grass with a fresh slab of beef. “Marc Jacobs’s patent ankle booties are retro.” She wrinkled her nose at Cla
ire’s feet. “Those things are just old.” She lifted her palm in the air.
“Point,” Alicia groaned, wresting her satin-covered heel from the ground. When she finally freed it, a chunk of dirt went flying through the air toward Cara, who had to duck out of the way.
“Oops,” Alicia said coolly.
Cara rolled her eyes.
Massie’s palm was still raised, like she expected the ninth-grade girls to slap it. But after a full five seconds in midair, it was obvious they weren’t going to. Massie’s eyes widened slightly, and she whipped toward the PC for help. But Dylan was too busy shoveling three wedges of cheese in her mouth to notice, and Kristen was kneeling in her silver sheath dress, petting Bark. Claire cringed, contemplating high-fiving Massie herself. Seeing them this overdressed was painful enough, even if they didn’t seem to mind. But this… this was brutal.
“Leesh,” Massie whisper-hissed through her uber-glossed smile.
“What?” Alicia was blending a dab of bronzed body shimmer into her shoulder. “Oh. Right.” She lifted her palm and smacked Massie’s about seven seconds too late.
Cara and Syd looked bored.
Layne snorted. “Speaking of mind-blowingly AWESOME shoes…” She grin-winked at Claire, nodding at the booties on Bark Obama’s feet. The decorations were starting to come unglued, leaving a glittering trail in Bark’s wake.
“Seriously?” Cara burst out laughing, kneeling down to inspect the booties. “What are these things?”
Massie reddened, her hand shooting into her cracked metallic clutch and emerging with her iPhone. Her fingers flew over the keys and she squinted at it intently, like it might levitate if she stared hard enough.
Claire lifted her glass to her lips again, to cover her twitching lips. It wasn’t that she enjoyed watching Massie squirm. It was that she loved Massie seeing how Claire could hang with ninth-graders too, if she wanted to. And strangely enough, as she watched Cara inserting a fallen feather from Bark’s booties into her jacket lapel, she was starting to think she did. Maybe age really was nothing but a number.
“So when’d you get here?” she asked, trying to capture Massie’s attention. What she was really saying was I’m here. Happy?
“Just now,” Massie murmured, glaring at the image of Syd’s and Cara’s ankles filling her screen. After a moment she dropped her cell back in her bag and turned her attention to Claire. “Having fun?” The glint in her jet black liquid-lined eyes said, I knew you’d come.
Claire nodded, turning away from the group. “Actually, these girls are really cool,” she whispered, shielding her mouth with her empty glass.
“OMG, did I nawt tell you?” Massie whisper-giggled back, temporarily forgetting her own N-OMG rule.
“Tell her what?” Dylan elbowed her way into the powwow, her breath smelling like sharp cheddar. Her shiny red mane had been teased and tousled to new heights.
“About how ninth-graders are ten times better than eighth-grade LBRs,” Massie beamed, hip-bumping Claire and looping her bronzed arm around her shoulder.
“Yup.” Dylan was staring openmouthed at her new crush drumming away on stage, a cheddar crumb perched on her bottom lip.
“Fine. You told me,” Claire admitted, basking in the glow of the old Massie. The Massie who said OMG, and took a break from crush-spying to giggle with her friends. Even if they were in eighth.
“Woooooooooo-hoooooooooooo!” shrieked the crowd as the band finished their set.
“Thanks, guys.” Doug leaned into the mic. “We’re Smells Like Uncle Hugh, and that song was called Pee-Hugh. We’re gonna take a quick break, but stick around, ’cause we’ll be back for more in just a few.”
“Ow-owwww!” hooted someone in the crowd.
Somebody’s dog barked in agreement.
Dylan’s head snapped toward Massie. Her emerald eyes were panic-glazed. “Does my hair look okay? Should I go over there or wait for him to come over here?”
“Wait,” Massie advised. “You don’t want him to think you’re desperate.” She gripped Claire’s wrist. Her hand smelled like beef. “Plus, that’ll give us time to introduce Claire to her new crush.”
Syd and Cara’s eyes lit up at the exact same time.
“New crush?” Syd elbow-nudged Claire.
Claire shook her head, pulling away from Massie. “No thanks. I’m good.” A sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach told her things were about to get uglier than Layne’s homemade hoodie.
“Um, Kuh-laire?” Massie turned around, her grip tightening. “Are you Joan Rivers’s face?”
Claire sighed. Massie cutting her down in front of the ninth-grade girls was getting kind of old. “No. But I don’t want a new—”
“Then why are you so frozen?” Massie snapped, her good mood evaporating faster than cheap moisturizer. Bark was doubled over on the ground in a coughing fit, but Massie ignored him.
“I told you already.” Claire was starting to feel like a broken record. “I don’t. Want. A new. Crush. I’m sticking with Cam.”
Syd, Cara, and Layne were suddenly silent. Claire felt her cheeks getting hotter by the second. And it wasn’t from the spotlights. As far as she was concerned, Cam was her upgrade. And she was sick of Massie acting like he wasn’t good enough.
“Fine.” Massie’s jawline jutted out, and her amber eyes darkened. Claire had only seen that look of angry humiliation once before, when Kendra had taken away Massie’s AmEx right in front of the PC for online ordering their fall wardrobes with her card because it was easier than entering five different card numbers, security codes, and expiration dates.
“Come on, Bark,” Massie hissed, pivoting on her sinking heel.
Still wheezing for breath, Bark bent over Massie’s foot and hacked up a neon blue feather.
“Ewwwww.” Alicia giggled.
Lifting her chin slightly, Massie clenched her jaw and hobbled into the crowd. Bark limp-trotted behind her, followed by the rest of the Pretty Committee.
“What’s with her?” Syd murmured to Cara.
Cara looking to Claire, her gray eyes questioning. But Claire just shook her head, too exhausted to bother explaining. Not that there was much to tell. It was pretty simple. Her friendship with the Pretty Committee was like Bark Obama’s booties: coming apart at the seams.
WESTCHESTER DOG PARK
PUP-A-PALOOZA CHARITY AUCTION
Saturday, November 15th
8:46 P.M.
Zigzagging through the underdressed crowd, Massie pinky-swore to herself not to let Claire take up one ounce of her mental energy until her mission was complete. Ankle-Bird was priority number one. And Massie was going to track her down the same way she’d tracked down the new Bottega Veneta metallic leather tote the day it had debuted at Saks: with focus, dedication, and a refusal to let a bunch of girls and their puppy-stuffed handbags get in her way.
“She’s gawt to be here somewhere,” Massie muttered to her cell. With one hand on her iPhone and the other pulling pieces of Kobe beef from the stash in her clutch, she cut across the grass, leading Bark toward the back of the park.
“Is it time for a break?” Dylan huffed in Massie’s left ear, temporarily replacing the delicate notes of Chanel No. 19 that orbited her with the hot stench of blue cheese. “I wanna wish Luke good luck.”
“Nawt yet.” Massie recalculated her plan of attack. She’d work her way from the buffet tables toward the tiny massage tables where puppies were getting complimentary spa services, past the pockets of guests and their dogs stretched out on picnic blankets, around the Jacuzzi fountain, and up to the stage. And then she’d get Bark back to the Block Estate before Landon could flirt-thank her for all her help.
“Have you guys seen Scott yet?” Kristen shielded her eyes with her palm, scanning the crowd.
“Aidan texted and said he’d be here in five.” Alicia snapped her picture with her cell, then studied the shot for imperfections.
“I should at least say hi before the band starts up again, right
?” Dylan gripped her tiered black satin dress with both hands, taking long strides to keep up. “I mean, I want Luke to see me while my hair still looks good.”
“Listen.” Massie spun around to face the PC. “We’re not here to find your crushes. We’re here to find Ankle-Bird and leave, ay-sap.” Her tightly wound chignon was starting to loosen, just like her grip on the evening. Feeling Bark’s scratchy pink tongue flick across her fingertips, she reached for another piece of beef and refocused on her cell. Last year’s Pumas, a pair of individual-toed rainbow socks, and a tiny Tinkerbell tattoo crossed the screen. But no hummingbird.
“ATTENTION.” Kristen cupped her hands around her lip gloss–lacquered pout like a megaphone. “PUT DOWN THE SP-IPHONE AND STEP AWAY FROM THE BEEF. IT’S TIME TO PAR-TAY.”
Alicia giggle-eyed the madras picnic blanket at her feet, where a girl and her crush were gunning for a Best Lip Kiss VMA.
“Be right back.” Dylan shot toward the buffet like the sushi rolls were tiny, powerful magnets and she was made of solid aluminum.
“Fine,” Massie snapped, sick of the distractions. “Go ahead. Alicia, since Aidan isn’t here, you can come with me. Watch the camera while I feed Bark.” She thrust her phone into Alicia’s hands.
“’Kay.” Alicia took it, too busy staring at the lip-locked couple to protest.
“Meet at the fountain in twenty,” she instructed the girls. “Come awn, Leesh.” Stepping over a huddle of King Charles spaniels sharing a plate of chocolate-frosted pup-cakes, she lifted herself to the balls of her feet to keep her heels from sinking into the grass. Her shea butter–moisturized calves were already starting to burn. An outdoor charity event packed with puppies was like a six-inch Jimmy Choo heel: adorable in theory, but impossible to walk in.
Winding around the buffet table, she dropped tiny beef bits at her heels to keep Bark moving while Alicia followed behind. The bright lights, the buzzing and barking crowd, and the opening beats of the band on stage seemed muted, like she was walking underwater. Drifting mindlessly through the crowd, she tried to barricade her brain against thoughts of Claire. But it was pointless. Her mind was working in overdrive, trying to understand. Claire had practically been the mascot for eighth, and here she was ditching the PC for a pair of ninth-graders she barely knew? It just didn’t make sense. Unless…
These Boots Are Made for Stalking Page 13
