Massie

by Lisi Harrison

  “But I was planning on surfing later.” Lindsey scratched her sunburned forehead.

  “Were you also planning on filing your nails with your lips? Because they are about as smooth as an emery board.”

  “Wait! I know what you’re doing,” Lindsey narrowed her already-narrow green eyes. “You’re trying to make me feel bad about myself so I’ll buy your stuff.”

  “No, I’m trying to make you feel bad about yourself so you stop looking bad. You are under absolutely no obligation to buy.” Massie handed her a tube of Be Slick. “Just try it. Wet your hair, rub it in, and rinse it out after five minutes. I’ll take it from there.”

  Lindsey lifted her green towel off the floor and padded off to the bathroom. She returned shortly, with comb tracks in her blond hair and a smile. “Not a single tangle!”

  “I told you.” Massie beamed. It felt good to put herself aside for a minute to help the less fortunate. Finally, she understood her mother’s addiction to charity parties.

  “What else can you do?” Lindsey love-patted her wet hair.

  “Hmmmm …” Massie folded her arms across her mother’s vintage red-and-orange Pucci shift dress. “I assume you like the natural look, so I’d like to keep it simple. Tinted moisturizer for extreme flakiness, cheek stain, under-eye cream, lid concealer, a palate of neutral shadows, blue eyeliner to reduce redness, brown waterproof mascara, cheekbone highlighter, lip exfoliator, lip quencher, lip gloss, brow remover, brow rebuilder, and rose-scented face mist to counteract the fishy smell of the ocean.”

  “Do you have anything to make my lips look fuller?”

  “How full? Garner full or Johansson full?”

  “Johansson.”

  “How much time do you have?” Massie raised one perfectly plucked eyebrow.

  “Well, since I’m not surfing today …” Lindsey peeked at her hula-girl wall clock. “Until bedtime.”

  A few hours later, Massie could hardly recognize the girl in front of her. Lindsey’s sparkling green eyes shimmered. Her skin glowed in all the right places and, with the help of various blushes and brushes, her cheekbones had emerged from hiding. The wild frizz had been tamed into glossy blond tendrils that bounced just above her shoulders and framed her now-pretty face.

  “Can I look?” Lindsey squirmed under Massie’s translucent powder brush.

  “Almost.” She gave Lindsey’s nose a final tap.

  “Now?” Lindsey bobbed up and down on the beanbag.

  “Now.” Massie handed off the Be Reflective mirror with pride. “You look so good for you.”

  Lindsey gasped. “How can ever I repay you?”

  “Visa works.” Massie grinned.

  CURRENT STATE OF THE UNION

  INOUT

  Be a ten Hang ten

  Grooming LBRs Grooming horses

  Be honest Be Pretty

  THE BLOCKS’ SOUTHAMPTON ESTATE

  THE BACK LAWN

  Sunday, June 21

  10:17 A.M.

  Word spread quickly after Massie rehabilitated Lindsey’s face with her unique “Truth Is Beauty” philosophy. For the last three days, Massie had been pounding the pavement like a pair of clunky Ecco clogs, giving free physical evaluations, drying tears, and selling thousands of dollars’ worth of Be Pretty Cosmetics.

  Encouraging “congratulations” and “keep up the good work” e-mails from the company flooded Massie’s inbox. And promises that she was on Anastasia’s radar fueled her drive. But purple streak aside, the last seventy-two hours were starting to take their toll. Dark circles had formed on the tender tissue beneath her eyes, and her hair was losing its luster. Her lips were dry from hours of fake smiling, and her tweezing hand was starting to cramp. It was time to fast-track her sales, cash out, and retire early.

  Her solution had been to invite every girl between the ages of twelve and sixteen—with authorization to sign her parents’ Visa—to a Be Made Over party. And all thirty-eight of them had showed.

  They mingled on the elegant lawn, drinking antioxidant-rich Bossa Nova açai drinks and nibbling on sushi-grade salmon rolls packed with skin-beautifying Omega 3s. Waiters in purple lab coats offered complimentary straw hats to keep the sun from burning the girls’ product-free faces. Star-shaped Be a Star mirrors hung off the branches of the big oak. Five lavender satin–covered tables were packed with products that had been overnighted from the SoHo office. But no one dared purchase a thing until she had her free consultation with the hostess.

  Massie, feeling confident in a lime green silk Marc Jacobs dress and silver woven Tory Burch wedges, sat in the leather wing chair in the center of the lawn. All the guests were wearing Be Pretty name tags that spelled out their names in purple glitter. Except Massie. Everyone already knew who she was.

  She applied a final coat of Be Nude peach gloss—her Piña Colada Glossip Girl was safely hidden away until the customers cleared out—lifted her legs onto the matching ottoman, and crossed her ankles. It was time. “Line up, ladies!”

  Instantly, the girls raced over and arranged themselves single file as if visiting Santa at the mall.

  “Welcome to the Be Made Over party.” Massie smiled humbly while everyone applauded. “One by one, you will approach the chair so I can analyze your face. I will give you instant feedback and tell you what products to buy. Everything you need to look Be-yoo-tiful is on one of those tables behind me. Grab what you need, and Isaac will check you out.”

  The driver, decked out in a purple lab coat and dark Versace sunglasses, smirk-waved from behind a white Mac PowerBook.

  “Let me remind you, this is not for the thin-skinned.” Massie took off her white MJ push-lock sunglasses and replaced them with a pair of sophisticated antique silver Chanel frames from her mother’s vintage closet. The prescription-free lenses gave the illusion that she could detect all flaws, no matter how tiny. “Prepare yourselves,” she said to the eager faces staring back at her. “I am going to be brutally honest, because truth is beauty. So if you’re not ready to hear what I see, help yourself to a complimentary sample packet and go home to your mommy. No hard feelings.”

  Girls began biting their brittle nails, twirling their dry hair, and lowering their undefined eyes. But no one left.

  “Okay, is everyone ready?”

  Just then, a low-flying helicopter circled overhead, kicking up a wind that blew the tree mirrors and made them clang like a stack of bangles. The girls gazed up at the blue sky and clutched their straw hats. The helicopter swooped toward the ocean, and the girls shrugged off the interruption. It was probably just the Seinfelds.

  “Let’s get started,” Massie said to the first girl in line, and checked the name tag stuck to her multicolored polka dot –infested tank. It said BE MARIN. “Hi, Marin.” She removed her legs from the ottoman, inviting the girl to sit.

  “Hi.” Marin blushed. “Thank you so much for—”

  Massie lifted her palm. “I need total concentration,” she insisted as she leaned forward and analyzed the strawberry-hued thirteen-year-old. The girls were silent, probably anxious to know if the rumors about Massie’s tough-love sales technique were true.

  “I feel a little nauseous.” Massie covered her mouth and leaned back in the white leather chair.

  Marin offered a sip of her of Bossa Nova.

  “Drinking won’t help.” Massie quickly recovered. “But a good foundation will.”

  “Huh?” Marin crinkled her freckle-covered nose.

  “I see dots on your face and dots on your shirt, and the whole thing together is making me dizzy. You need some Be Flawless to even out your complexion. You also suffer from a bad case of newborn-gerbil eyes. I recommend Be Bold mascara to bring out your lashes, unless of course you want to look like Richard Gere.” She scribbled something on her Claire Fontaine graph-paper pad, tore off the top sheet, and handed it to her first customer. “Enjoy your beauty. Next.”

  Marin lowered her head and hurried over to the products table before anyone could tell if she w
as crying or not.

  Be Cathie sat next, and in the interest of time, Massie got right down to business.

  “Blackheads and whiteheads? Gawd, I am so sorry.”

  Cathie cupped her swollen nose.

  “It looks like someone threw salt and pepper at your face.” Massie handed her a sheet of paper. “Get Be Clear face wash and the entire Be Clear line. I’m talking exfoliator, toner, foundation, concealer, and blush. It’s noncomedogenic, so it won’t clog your pores. But before you use it, see Porsha for an extraction facial and Dr. Miller for a nose job. Their numbers are on the back. Enjoy your beauty. Next!”

  A ghostly pale girl named Angelica sat down.

  “Be Rosy and Be Bronze. Aysap.” Massie handed her a sheet of paper. “And check the family history for anemia. Your see-through skin tells me you’re low on iron. Eat a steak. Enjoy your beauty. Next!”

  A girl covered in makeup hurried onto the ottoman. Her lids were heavy with green shadow, her brown eyes lined with blue, her cheeks caked with terra-cotta blush, and her lips stained cherry red.

  Massie peeked at her name tag, then back up at her brought-to-you-by-Crayola face.

  “Um, Noelle, did you get trapped in Sephora during an earthquake?”

  Everyone in line giggled except Noelle, who simply shook her head no as she tooth-scraped the waxy color off her bottom lip.

  “You need a complete make-under,” Massie insisted. “Go get four bottles of Be Clean makeup remover and then everything marked Be Natural. When I’m done here, I’ll be glad to show you how to apply it. Hurry! Before someone accuses you of binge-eating melted M&M’s. Enjoy your beauty. Next!”

  “Hey there.” Kimmi Redmond smirked, her overly glitter-dusted face winking flecks of light at anyone who dared look at her head-on. “Enjoying your job?”

  “It’s nawt a job—it’s a jobby,” Massie insisted, just as the helicopter returned. The low rumble of the whirling blades reverberated in her chest. “Probably an US Weekly photographer!” she shouted over the deafening noise.

  The girls nodded in agreement as the helicopter circled the estate with undeniable interest. Hats and napkins blew across the pristine lawn. Massie noticed her parents standing on the back patio.

  At first she assumed they were concerned by the high-flying intrusion, but she quickly changed her mind. They weren’t looking up at the sky or chasing after windswept debris— they were lovingly watching their daughter outperform any other Be Pretty Cosmetics sales rep in the company’s six-year history. And that was almost better than a limitless Visa and an all-access hair streak.

  Almost.

  Finally, the helicopter tilted left, scattering iridescent flecks into the air. As quickly as it had come, it zipped away, leaving a purple sparkle–covered lawn in its wake.

  Giggle-gasping, the girls shook out their hair and brushed off their outfits.

  “Kimmi!” Massie said to her glitter-covered lap, “this is why you have to tone it down. One gust and we’re all living in a snow globe.”

  “It wasn’t me,” Kimmi insisted, her blue eyes wide with innocence.

  Massie glared at Kimmi, silently accusing her of lying. Until she realized … Kimmi abused gold, silver, and pink glitter.

  Not purple.

  Massie’s heart soared. Without another word she removed her fake-prescription glasses and lifted her eyes. The sky was empty and silent. But if her alpha instincts were right, it wouldn’t stay that way for long.

  THE BLOCKS’ SOUTHAMPTON ESTATE

  THE ETERNITY POOL

  Sunday, June 21

  1:11 P.M.

  Massie felt like her iPod Classic—low on power and white.

  The makeover party had been a major hit, but she was beyond exhausted and extremely tan-deprived thanks to her hectic jobby. An afternoon lounging on a water-resistant ivory chenille chaise and cooling off in the rose petal–infused infinity pool was exactly what she needed. There would be plenty of time to tabulate her sales when the sun went down. Not that she needed a calculator to know she’d broken every sales record in Be Pretty Cosmetics history. The countless follow-up text messages from her thirty-eight satisfied customers were proof enough.

  Compared to the morning, the Block estate grounds were remarkably silent. The staff was on lunch break, William was playing golf, and Kendra was power-walking to town to buy Massie’s favorite low-fat crab cakes—a well-deserved treat for her hardworking daughter. The only sounds came from the tweeting birds, the neighbor’s humming lawn mower, and the waves lapping against the caramel-colored sand in the distance. Even Bean, who usually snored, was breathing easy next to Massie’s Be Soft–exfoliated feet.

  She was about to text the Pretty Committee with an update on the day’s events when the whirring sound returned.

  Bean scampered up the chaise and burrowed into Massie’s wavy summer hair.

  “Yes!” Massie sat up and hugged Bean a little too hard. She lowered her white-framed MJ sunglasses, slipped on her mother’s black-and-white Chanel sarong, and thanked Gawd she was wearing the matching black bikini with the gold C’s at the cleavage.

  The chopper was visible in the distance. It looked like the tadpole-shaped birthmark on the cheek of new customer number sixteen, Jenny Browning. Bean leapt off the lounge chair and darted nervously around the bluestone pool deck, barking at the sky.

  The shimmering tadpole got bigger and the dicing propellers grew louder. “It’s back!” Massie shouted at the helicopter, her heart beating venti triple-shot Frappuccino style.

  Massie immediately sat up and tossed her Glossip Girl SPF 30 into a rosebush.

  Her skin cooled in the dark shadow of the Hamptons Bird as it descended. The grass blew flat. The pool water rippled. And the rose petals lifted into the air and swirled up like snow in reverse. Golden highlights whipped against her sun-kissed cheeks, and purple glitter rained down from the heavens for the second time that day.

  The lack of a landing pad was of no concern to the pilot as the helicopter wobble-descended, then rested its silver blades in the middle of the lawn.

  “Ehmagawd,” Massie mouthed into the wind. The words Be Pretty were scrawled across the bronze door in purple glitter

  script.

  Only one person could be inside.

  Massie scooped up her trembling puppy and hurried to greet her VIG (Very Important Guest).

  The door opened and Anastasia Brees lifted goggles and a gold helmet off her head. With a single shake, her precise black bob fell right into place. She wore a breezy lavender draped-over-the-shoulder goddess gown, which could have passed for neon against her deep olive skin. It made Massie completely rethink her Juicy-sweats-when-flying rule.

  The makeup mogul emerged barefoot, clutching her light gray dwarf pony, Muse. Her cotton-white mane and mini hoofs made Massie’s fingertips tingle. She wanted to grab the ah-dorable little thing, smother her in kisses, and take her shopping on Fifth Avenue.

  Anastasia drew the dwarf pony closer to her ample chest, then paused to take in her surroundings. Her almond-shaped brown eyes darted between the house and the ocean. Finally they settled on Massie, who was now standing directly in front of her.

  “I’m Anastasia Brees,” she stated, her voice low and soft and barely audible. She extended her supple hand. Massie took it, trying not to buckle under the weight of the giant amethyst on her middle finger.

  “Massie Block,” she offered coolly, mimicking the VIG’s collected tone. “And this is Bean,” she told Muse.

  Gently, Anastasia placed her calf-high pony on the grass.

  “Be free,” Anastasia whispered to her. Muse fluttered her lips in response and pranced off with delight to wander the grounds.

  Massie lowered Bean and whispered something in her ear, as if they too had a silent mode of communication. And luckily, off Bean went, run-yapping toward Muse.

  “What an ah-dorable dog,” Anastasia said softly as she glided toward the pool, her dress billowing. She dipped a mauve-painted t
oe in the water. “Has she ever done any modeling?”

  Muse and Bean lapped at the purified water with their tiny pink tongues.

  “Bean would be perfect for my new ad campaign,” Anastasia offered, padding over to an ivory chaise. Her wet toe print left a trail Massie wished she could somehow save.

  “I’m about to launch a line of—” She stopped herself and invited Massie to lean in with a flash of her mauve-polished nails. Massie got so close she could smell the sweet Be Fruity body oil warming Anastasia’s blemish-free skin.

  “Pet nail polish,” she finished in a low whisper. “I’ve been testing colors on Muse. She wears hot pink extremely well.”

  “You can call it neeeigh-l polish.” Massie giggled.

  “Cute.” Anastasia smiled, revealing perfect Dentyne-white teeth. “I’ll use that.”

  “Of course.” Massie nodded. “Maybe you could use my horse Brownie as a model too. He’s so ah—”

  “Is he a mini?” Anastasia crossed her toned legs.

  “No, but he’s—”

  “Minis only,” Anastasia insisted with a pity-laced grin. “Now, Massie …” Anastasia sat up straight in her lounge chair and slipped on a pair of gold aviators with purple lenses. “I’m not in the habit of paying personal visits to salesgirls.”

  Massie quickly searched the desolate grounds. Why wasn’t anyone around to witness this?

  “I’m here,” she continued, “because in less than a week you’ve become the highest seller in Be Pretty history.” She casually tucked some hair behind her right ear.

  And there it was. Peeking out at Massie. Framed in silky blackness.

  The legendary purple streak.

  Massie’s skin prickled. She felt like she was looking onto the eyes of Gawd. And He was looking back. Blessing her with a lifetime supply of fabulous.

  “I don’t know what to say,” she murmured.