Messy

by Cocks, Heather

  “Are you coming in, Max?” asked Mavis Moore as she passed by.

  “I guess,” Max said, shouldering her book bag. She glanced down at the tangled gray lump under Mavis’s arm, which had long skinny needles poking out of it. “Your colon is looking good.”

  Mavis, a fellow junior described most diplomatically as “quirky,” had been knitting her way through the human body since spring of sophomore year.

  “Thanks,” Mavis said proudly, holding up what looked like a soft, squishy sausage. “I’m almost done. Just a few major organs left. I’ve got the spleen going at home.”

  Max grinned. “You know, if you could mass-produce those, you’d probably be a millionaire. It’s either a great study aid or something doctors could safely throw at the TV screen whenever Grey’s Anatomy makes up something idiotic.”

  Mavis blinked several times rapidly. “I would never sell my innards,” she said, wandering into the classroom.

  “I love that girl,” Max said under her breath. For every ten Jennifer Parkers with their competitive Chanel and razor-sharp elbows, there was at least a Mavis to keep things fresh.

  Mr. Kemp’s room had been chosen for the meeting, ostensibly because the tall, arching windows got fabulous natural light, but Max spoke CRAPS fluently enough to know that translated to “Because there is a perfect view of lacrosse practice.” As if anyone needed such a hormonal excuse to like that room—in fact, all the rooms at Colby-Randall were beautiful. The school was a rambling old estate that had, over the years, annexed surrounding properties and either converted or rebuilt them. The result was a lot of newfangled outbuildings (like the Brick Berlin Theater for Serious Emotional Artistry that rose like a white shark fin from the ground by the man-made lake) surrounding the majestic old main house, with its lead-paned windows, dark wood paneling, creaky old floors, and closets that were surely as full of juicy secrets as they were of upperclassmen making out. It would be perfect for a horror film. Half of Max’s classmates were Jennifer-flavored zombies, anyway; she could just turn a camera on and let it roll.

  As soon as Max headed in, she saw Jake Donovan sitting next to Jen in the back row. “Over here, dude,” he called out.

  Max felt a wave of pride, then quickly squashed it. She didn’t want to be the kind of girl who trembled every time a popular kid acknowledged her existence.

  “Ugh, you can’t sit here,” Jennifer whined, throwing a pained look at Max’s clothes. “I’m allergic to dust.”

  “Then how come you auditioned for that horse movie?” Jake asked, befuddled.

  “Sweetie, movie sawdust is hypoallergenic,” Jennifer said, as if addressing a very small child. “It’s make-believe. Like Fox News.”

  “Did you get the part?” Max asked. “Or did they give it to an actual horse?”

  Jake snorted gleefully. Max turned to face front, but not before she saw Jennifer whip out her cell phone and start typing. No doubt this would make for a frosty Twitter update. Jake and Jen were constantly sniping at each other through the Internet. As much as Max liked Jake’s congenial doofyness—and his hot, hot face—she couldn’t figure out why he and Jennifer were still dating. Did the universe give Jake six-pack abs in exchange for common sense?

  “Okay, everybody,” Max heard a familiar, commanding voice say. “Let’s bring to order the first meeting of the Colby-Randall Spring Carnival Planning Committee.”

  A hush fell over the room as Molly’s half sister Brooke Berlin walked into it, immediately owning the space with her imposing height and, of course, even more imposing paternal pedigree. Brooke was alternately adored and feared by everyone in the school. Until last fall she was mostly feared, thanks to her tendency toward bossy, imperious behavior; however, after her nemesis Shelby Kendall broadcast some very personal letters of Brooke’s on the school news station, everyone developed sympathetic amnesia about the many ways Brooke had terrorized them. Now she was seen as more of a benevolent dictator, less Kim Jong Il than a very bronzed Simon Cowell. Max tried to tolerate Brooke for Molly’s sake, but after years of being treated like a piffling underling, she privately would’ve enjoyed it if Brooke seared off every last blonde hair in a tragic tanning-booth accident.

  Brooke took a central position behind Mr. Kemp’s desk, flanked by her sophomore assistant (legal name: Martha; painfully trendy Brooke Berlin–created pseudonym: Brie, bestowed on her like a charitable donation) and a couple of fidgety juniors and seniors. One of them was Anna Fury, whose mother, the infamous Judge Fury, had the country’s number one syndicated courtroom show. Anna whipped out a gavel from her purse and rapped it so vigorously on the desk that she almost conked Brooke in the chin.

  “Anna!” Brooke barked. “This is not Mommy’s courtroom. Put it away.”

  Anna shrank back toward the blackboard. It was hard to pull a power trip based on your mom’s daytime TV show in front of Brooke Berlin, whose father’s face was on no fewer than four billboards within a half-mile radius of the school.

  Brooke cleared her throat and shook her long blonde curls away from her shoulders. “As you know, this year is the twenty-fifth anniversary of the carnival, and as such, I fully intend for it to kick serious ass,” she began. “Not that it will be so hard to beat last year’s. I don’t know what Keely Harris was smoking when she went with the Tribute to Ryan Seacrest theme. Anyway, I’m sure I’ll come up with the perfect idea myself eventually, but first let’s be democratic about it.”

  Jennifer’s hand shot up. “The movies of Brick Berlin!” she practically panted. “Amendment to Hell has that whole Ferris wheel chase scene!”

  Even Brooke, who counted Jennifer among her best friends, rolled her eyes. “No.”

  “How about an Ode to Shopping?” suggested Justine McGrath, whom Max recognized as being on the cross-country team with Molly. “Each ride could be, like, themed by a different brand. The Christian Loveboatin tunnel, a Jimmy Choo-choo…”

  “… a Silence of the L.A.M.B. funhouse, with real kidney snacks,” Max piped up.

  Justine scowled.

  “Anybody else? Anybody serious, who actually cares about things other than sarcasm?” Brooke said, glaring at Max. “Come on, people. We are the highly educated leaders of tomorrow. And also, I don’t have all day. Barneys won’t hold those new Brian Atwoods for me past six.”

  “How about a courtroom theme?” Anna suggested hopefully.

  “No, do vampires!” called out Emily Matsuhisa. “My dad’s restaurant just catered the birthday of one of the Twilight special-effects guys, so I bet we could get a deal on fake blood.”

  “The music of Katy Perry!” Magnus shouted. “My mom once dated her manager!”

  “What if we made it like a mini-Disneyland?” said Jennifer. “I once did a Disney TV series, as you all know, so I have major pull.”

  Max couldn’t help snorting.

  Jennifer raised her hand. “Brooke, can I move to eject anybody who isn’t willing to be a positive creative force in this room?”

  “Why are you here, Max?” Brooke asked. “Don’t you hate anything fun?”

  Max smiled innocently. “I don’t see any of that here, so we’re good.”

  Brooke crossed her arms. “I’m sure your mother would be very upset to hear that you’re not giving this carnival your all. I’d just be devastated if you got grounded and missed the three days your clothes came back into style.”

  “Fine,” said Max. “How about Justin Bieber? Or ‘The Crucible: A Celebration,’ or why not just build a replica of the Taj Mahal, that seems totally rational and affordable….”

  “Oh, Max,” Brooke said, shaking her head sadly. “Bollywood is so last year.”

  The room exploded as people volleyed suggestions left and right. Max sank back in her chair and stared up at the clock hanging over the chalkboard. Four ten. Just another ninety minutes or so and she’d be due at Mel’s to meet her random actress. If only she’d blown off this committee meeting, she’d have had time to drive home and change. Toda
y she felt extra conscious of living in a Fendi world on a Forever 21 budget. Especially since she just noticed that her shirt had a hole in the sleeve.

  There was a barely audible thud as a triangle of paper landed near her feet. Pretending to pick lint off her tights, Max swiped the clumsily folded note off the floor and opened it in her lap.

  IF I START SNORING PLEASE KICK ME BEFORE JENNIFER THINKS IT’S MY THEME SUGGESTION.

  Max grabbed her pen and wrote:

  A nap-themed carnival might be better than whatever Justine just said about Betty White.

  When Jake read it, he laughed under his breath. Max noticed Jennifer doing that thing where she was pretending to gaze out the window but was in fact actually watching Jake. After a respectable amount of time had lapsed, Max fished her phone out of her pocket and pulled up Facebook. Jennifer’s status update read Lacrosse players soooooo much hotter than football players, fyi. Social media really was a godsend when it came to spying on people who had no filter. If only Max were up for a gig writing the blogography of the Jake and Jennifer relationship. She was already an expert.

  “Max, wait up!”

  Max stopped on her way across the school’s front lawn and saw Molly jogging toward her. “I just wanted to wish you luck at your meeting with Miley Cyrus,” she panted, wiping the sweat off her face with the hem of her CRAPS Track and Field Invitational T-shirt.

  “If it is Miley Cyrus, I may lobotomize myself with a milk shake spoon.”

  “I think this is the part where I tell you to keep an open mind,” Molly said, pulling her right foot into a stretch behind her back. “Charmaine thinks it’s Heidi Montag. She wants to know how freaky Heidi looks in person.”

  “I find it suspicious that some random girl in Indiana knows all my secrets,” Max said.

  “Not any of the important ones,” Molly said lightly. “Oh, but she did tell me to say that you should stop reading Jennifer’s Twitter.”

  “Not a chance,” Max said. “The last hour of the meeting she tweeted six things about how quarterbacks have weak calves.”

  Molly snorted. “Okay, I’m off. Teddy and I are supposed to go see The Hangover 3D, and I stink from practice. Have fun with the chick from Jonas L.A.”

  “You won’t be laughing when it turns out to be Dakota Fanning,” Max called out as Molly sped off.

  Dragging her backpack carelessly behind her, Max walked the short distance to her car. Unlike Teddy’s 4Runner, which he had paid for by selling his comic book collection, Max’s yellow Chevy wagon was an inheritance from their aged neighbor who’d had his license revoked due to glaucoma. The tailpipe was hanging by an intricate duct-tape braid, and the back right window had gotten smashed by the kid across the street during his BB-gun phase, so it was covered in Saran Wrap and taped along the sides. Calling this car a hunk of junk was exceedingly tactful. People at CRAPS were so terrified of it, they refused to park near her. So some days, like today, Max parallel parked across three front spots, just to do it.

  She unlocked the door, pushed the button on the handle, and yanked upward. It opened with a loud groan. Dakota Fanning was going to love that. Max putt-putted out of the lot, pointing her car down the canyon road toward Sunset, then turning right and cruising the short distance to Mel’s, a Hollywood landmark of a greasy spoon. It was an odd choice for a meeting, which maybe was precisely why It Girl picked it. Maybe it was a test. Or maybe she wasn’t as scene-obsessed as all the wannabes at Colby-Randall.

  Max parked at Mel’s and pulled out a wrinkled red cardigan from behind the driver’s seat. That and her Bachelor-branded notebook were the two hallmarks she’d given to It Girl so she’d recognize her. These were, in Max’s way, also a test. Because if this girl didn’t understand the secret comic genius of that train wreck of a show, or offered to pay for her dry cleaning, then she wasn’t Max’s platonic work soul mate at all.

  She slid into a booth and ordered a chocolate malt, putting her notebook right at the edge of the table. Her heart thumped. Max realized this felt uncomfortably like a blind date, and worse, she was actually nervous. Maybe she’d been counting on this gig more than she’d thought.

  “You have got to be kidding me. WordNerd94 is you?”

  Max felt a cold, creeping sensation spread slowly across her chest. She looked up at the golden curls framing a face she knew all too well, a face that wore an expression of disbelief tinged with amusement. Her heart sank.

  “Well, well, well, Maxine. So you want to be my employee?”

  four

  BROOKE BERLIN ALWAYS EXPECTED things to go her way. Eventually. History backed her up: The events of six months ago, when her father’s secret love child moved in with them and temporarily ruined her life, could have gone much more horrifyingly than they did. Sure, she and Molly had gone through a rough patch that ended in Brooke accidentally chasing her back to Indiana, but they were past that now, thanks in part to her and Brick taking a nightmarishly rustic road trip to West Cairo to win Molly back. When they’d arrived, after three days without hair product and sweating oil from eating mostly Sonic Tater Tots, Molly swore she’d already decided to come back—but Brooke figured her and Brick’s disheveled patheticness lent their pleas a sincerity that helped the cause. (Even so, as soon as Molly’s intentions were clear, Brooke wasted no time in making Brick sell his godforsaken RV and fly them home on a private jet, like civilized people. Even sincerity had its limits.) Now, several months hence, she and Molly had slowly settled into a sisterly routine. Molly was as well adjusted as anyone could ask, which Brooke attributed to her own recent efforts to look past her sister’s ill-conceived bangs and humble hayseed beginnings and find the kindred spirit within. They were, if not terribly alike, very bonded. Score another one for Brooke Berlin.

  So Brooke assumed her blogographer ad would be a hit. Surely any rational, breathing human would leap at the chance to get in on a budding showbiz empire, especially once they realized she was the daughter of the man who coined the phrase “Sayonara, scumsucker.” But getting a response after just five minutes exceeded even her imagination. Of course, that response had been from a guy sending her a picture of his feet, but it had started the ball rolling: In quick succession she got two e-mails from people asking if she knew Taylor Lautner, one from a girl who wanted to know if they’d be in Seventeen together, and then a reply from WordNerd94. It was sparse—just a brief mention of writing aspirations—but also spelled correctly. Way more promising than the one that followed, from a thirty-six-year-old man wanting to write a piece called “Dear Jake Gyllenhaal, I’d Like to Buy Your Vowel.”

  Max finally closed her gaping mouth. “Brooke.”

  “Max.”

  “Brooke.”

  “Max,” Brooke said again, impatiently. “Can we move on to some other words?”

  “Sorry,” Max said. “It’s just that the ad said ‘teen actress/It Girl,’ so I was expecting some sort of, you know… teen actress/It Girl.”

  “And I was expecting someone who isn’t the social equivalent of menstrual cramps,” Brooke retorted. “Tough day all around.”

  This depressing turn of events was the opposite of what Brooke had pictured. Obviously, she wanted her blog strategy to work. She needed it to work. But she’d envisioned it involving a bookish beauty who would be eternally grateful to Brooke for changing her life, beginning with a makeover that blossomed her into a spunky mini-Brooke, and continuing through highly nurturing shopping and social adventures. Instead, Brooke’s best candidate was her high school’s resident pale, acid-tongued loner whose gold-tinged eyes and green hair made her look like a refugee from some nerdy movie about elves.

  A model-esque beauty in trendy glasses appeared behind Brooke’s shoulder. “Max McCormack? Surely you jest.”

  “We covered that part already,” Brooke told Arugula, relieved that her best friend had arrived to diffuse some of the awkwardness. “We’re already up to the bit where I say, ‘But aren’t you some kind of antiestablishment shut-in?
’ ”

  Max stood up. “I have a sudden urge to go behead all my old Barbies.”

  “Oh, please. Don’t be so melodramatic.” Arugula scooted into the booth. “Maybe this is destiny. Maybe the hand of fate is trying to give you a massage.”

  Max glared stonily at Arugula. Brooke stifled a snicker. She and Ari had been best friends for ages, long before anyone—including Arugula—figured out Ari was the class genius. Brooke liked basking in the reflected glory of her friend’s intelligence, but sometimes it was hard to keep a straight face.

  “Whether fate is getting handsy or not, Arugula does have a point,” Brooke opined. “Obviously you answered my ad for a reason.”

  Max smacked the table. “God, that ad. I am going to kill Molly for not telling me it was you.”

  “I don’t run everything I do past Molly,” Brooke said, offended. “We may be sisters, Max, but we are our own people.”

  “Sure. Whatever.”

  Brooke studied Max. There was nothing to indicate that she’d be a particularly successful writer. But then again, Brooke had always assumed from their previous interactions that Max didn’t have any ambition to be anything except sarcastic, and that she would live out her days as a cranky drugstore cashier, staring pointedly at all the weird things people had in their baskets and trying to make the kids buying condoms feel really uncomfortable. The fact that she’d confided career aspirations in an e-mail to someone she thought was a total stranger made Brooke wonder if Max had hidden depths.

  “Okay. I can’t afford to waste the time I’ve carved out in my schedule,” Brooke said, feeling decisive. “And since I skipped Yogilates, we might as well do this.”

  “Oh, no,” Max said. “I’m not staying. I need an actual job.”

  “This is an actual job, and technically, you have already stayed,” Brooke said. “Obviously you’re not my first choice, but maybe you’ll be good practice for interviewing real applicants.”