The Clique: Charmed and Dangerous

by Lisi Harrison

  The three Marvils inched out from behind their silky cover.

  “See?” Yasmine positioned the mirror in front of them. “You’re twigs.” She rubbed the messy blond hair-bun on top of her head, rolled up her white sleeves, then stuffed her quaking hands in the deep pockets of her black trousers. Yasmine always rocked the hot-woman-in-men’s-clothing look. On her, it was sexy. Whenever Dylan tried it she felt like a bar-mitzvah boy.

  Merri-Lee cocked her head and examined her reflection. “Hmmm, must be hormones.” She cocked to the other side. “I look loads thinner than I feel.”

  “Me too.” Ryan sighed her relief, a strawberry blond tendril twirling in the updraft.

  “Same.” Jaime shrugged, dismissing her freak-out with the wave of a hand.

  “Good.” Yasmine wheeled the mirror away, never bothering to put it in front of Dylan, an oversight Dylan took as a compliment. Button-pop or not, the stylist knew the youngest Marvil wasn’t a weight watcher. And even though Dylan was slightly curious about the tight Guccis, she refused to let on. Because that would make her like them—boring as low-sodium rice crackers.

  “Merri-Lee, you’re back in a minute thirty,” crackled a male voice over the dressing room walkie.

  “Blush!” Merri-Lee snapped her fingers.

  Kali tossed the flatiron on the makeup-filled table and raced to her boss’s side.

  “Girls, gather ’round.” Merri-Lee sucked in her cheeks for Kali while reaching for her daughters. “Hold.” Merri-Lee offered her hands. Jaime grabbed one and Ryan took the other. Dylan forced herself between her sisters like a ring-around-the-rosy reject.

  “I want you three to know how proud I am. Not because I host the highest-rated morning talk show in the nation. Or because I landed on my feet after divorcing a man whose fragile ego couldn’t cope with a wife that People magazine named the thirty-sixth most beautiful woman in Hollywood. But because you are my daughters.”

  “Awwww,” the girls cooed.

  “And I can’t wait to show the world how gorgeous you are and to thank you in public for bringing Merri to my name. Without you, I would simply be Lee. I love you.”

  “We love youuuuuuu,” they purred, coming together for a four-way hug.

  “Thirty seconds,” crackled the voice.

  “Gotta jump.” Merri-Lee ripped herself away and scampered for her YSL heels. She slid them on and hurried back to the cameras. “See you out there!”

  “Kali, can you give me an updo?” Ryan wobbled over to the makeup chair in her gold wedges.

  “No, me first.” Jaime clomped behind her, her green thong underwear peeking out the back of her leather pants. “I want my hair super-straight and that takes longer.”

  “What about me?” Dylan screeched, tugging on her half-straight, half-curly hair. “I’m not even done yet.”

  “You look fine.” Ryan jumped into the chair.

  “No, she doesn’t,” said a girl’s voice.

  Everyone turned.

  A dark-haired beauty in a black and silver dress, black kneesocks, and gray Prada wedges stood in the doorway. Hands resting on her narrow hips, she shook her head disapprovingly.

  “What?” Dylan snapped, not sure if she should hate the intruder for her nerve, or love her for that perfect chignon. “Who are you?”

  “Massie Blo—”

  “This is a private dressing room!” Yasmine marched toward the door. “You’re not allowed back here.”

  “Sorry. I kinda got lost looking for my friends and then I saw—”

  Yasmine was about to slam the door in the girl’s face when Dylan stopped her. “Whaddaya mean I don’t look fine?”

  “Those pants are a little…” She pursed her shiny lips and tapped her chin. Her amber eyes darted, then rested on Dylan’s face. Dylan returned the gaze. They connected for a split second, like two parts of a seat belt that clicked together.

  “You know when you squeeze a tube of lip gloss too hard? And some oozes over the top? That’s kind of what those pants look like on you. The oozing part.”

  Ryan and Jaime gasped.

  “That’s enough!” Yasmine insisted.

  “Wait.” Dylan held up her palm. “Can I see the mirror?”

  Yasmine sighed, then wheeled it over.

  After a deep breath of courage, Dylan peeked. She was as long and lean as ever, her leather-clad legs looking like two delicious sticks of black licorice.

  “The only thing oozing is your jealousy,” Dylan told the opinionated stranger.

  Her sisters giggled.

  “And your…” Dylan walked straight up to the girl and examined her from top to bottom, searching for the ultimate insult. But couldn’t find a single thing wrong with her. So she slammed the door in her annoyingly perfect face, then buttoned her leather pants when no one was looking.

  She was so tired of girls envy-hating her because she was almost famous. So tired, in fact, that she ate two chocolate brownies, hoping the caffeine in the cocoa might perk her up before showtime.

  Pop!

  WESTCHESTER, NY

  THE COLEMAN RESIDENCE

  3748 BREAKWATER CIRCLE

  Friday, December 31st

  8:32 P.M.

  After an hour and thirty-two minutes of breathing through her mouth, Kristen Gregory lost it.

  “Does it always smell like beef stew in here?” Her pert nose crinkled in disgust.

  “Prob’ly,” Ali, her fifteen-year-old cousin, muttered. “I think Mr. Coleman hunts. But I’ve been babysitting here for so long I’m used to it.” She settled into the beige corduroy couch balancing a DVD, a giant glass of Coke, and a bag of mini marshmallows. Without offering Kristen a single thing, she emptied the bag into the soda, pausing while they fizzed in protest.

  Kristen stretched out her legs on the glass coffee table and anger-flipped through her math textbook. The only thing worse than being a babysitter’s assistant on New Year’s Eve was being treated like one.

  “Shhhhhhhhhh,” Ali hissed. “Could you be turning those pages any louder?”

  “Huh?” Kristen looked up, shocked.

  “I just got Max to sleep.” She clicked the video monitor as proof. A black-and-white image of a crib with a lump inside filled the tiny screen.

  “He’s all the way upstairs.” Kristen rolled her eyes. “He can’t hear pages turning.”

  “Don’t talk back.” Ali tossed the video monitor on the glass coffee table. It landed with a loud smash. “Or I’ll dock your pay.”

  “What-ever,” Kristen mouthed, and then reached for her green glitter binder.

  Ali stared at her for an uncomfortable second. “Oh, I know what you’re smelling.” She scooped up a marshmallow with her tongue and mashed it against the roof of her wide mouth.

  “What?” Kristen thumbed through her colored divider tabs.

  “All that brown in your nose.”

  “Whaddaya mean?”

  “I mean, who does math homework on New Year’s Eve?” she asked, like Jerry Seinfeld doing stand-up.

  “People on scholarships who need to keep their grades up.” Kristen folded her arms across her red Juicy Couture hoodie, the only Christmas gift her parents could afford this year. Not that she’d ever admit that to Ali, who only babysat Friday nights to build a résumé for her Ivy League applications. The money was a bonus, a useless prize at the bottom of a cereal box. Her father owned the second-biggest BMW dealership in the tristate area. He hadn’t lost his fortune in an art deal gone wrong like Kristen’s dad. She wasn’t living report card to report card, struggling to survive at the most prestigious private school in the county. Hardly. Ali was homeschooled with three other kids from her gated community. They’d have to set her estate on fire to be kicked out.

  Ali handed her the Blockbuster box. “Can you please try to have some fun?” She tilted her head toward the DVD player, telling Kristen to start the movie. “Besides, classes at OCD don’t start for three more weeks.”

  Kristen looked down a
t her first pedicure—a holiday gift from her aunt Ginny—and sighed. Would her Baby’s Breath Pink toenails still be intact when fourth grade started up again? And if so, would people make fun of her for wearing flip-flops in January? If they even noticed.

  It wasn’t like she was a loser at Octavian Country Day or anything. In fact, she was the most popular girl on the soccer team. But off the field, when she was in class, Kristen felt like a guest in someone else’s home. A very expensive, very exclusive home. A home where no one ate lunch, they did lunch. Where Apples were for students, not teachers. Where the letter A had more to do with a guest list than a grade. Where Religions were jeans, not beliefs. Where there was no “hip” in scholarship.

  “Start the movie.” Ali nudged Kristen’s leg. “Before the Colemans get home. If they open the door while we’re watching Ghost Ship, we might scream and wake Max.”

  “Only if you pay me six dollars instead of five,” Kristen tried. Not that this job was completely about the money. But why not let Ali think that? It was better than the truth: that she didn’t have anything better to do.

  All the other girls on the soccer team were having a party at the coach’s house. But that was two counties over, and Kristen’s mother didn’t want her so far away on a night when the roads were so full of drunk drivers. As an ER nurse she’d seen, firsthand, what happens to people who get in car accidents on New Year’s Eve and said it made roadkill look like rose petals. So it was either babysitting with Ali or hanging out in the condo with Marty, a male nurse from Pediatrics. Kristen chose babysitting.

  “Fine, six bucks. Whatever.” Ali finger-stirred her Coke.

  A buzzing cell phone vibrated across the glass coffee table. In one swift motion, Ali slammed down her soda, lifted her dirty blond hair, and clipped it to the back of her head. She was desperate to protect the blowout she’d gotten from Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow, on the off chance she could make it to her best friend’s party before midnight.

  “Speak, geek,” Ali answered. “What am I missing? Who’s there?” She jumped to her feet. “He is?… You swear?… He asked you that?…” She leaned against the back of the couch and kicked her legs in the air. “What did you tell him?… You did?… Yes!”

  “Ouuu-wahhhhhhhhh,” cried Max.

  “Shhhhhh,” Kristen urged smugly.

  But Ali kept shouting.

  Max got louder.

  “Of course I brought a change of clothes…. Yeah, the shiny black pair… I know, I know…. They’re perfect.” She beamed. “Keep him there as long as possible. I’ll try to get out of here before midnight.” Ali paused, eyed Kristen, and then hurried toward the kitchen. “She needs the money, what was I supposed to do? Don’t worry, I’ll send her home first,” she whispered. “Okay, cool, I’ll check in later. ’Bye.” She giggle-snapped her phone shut.

  “Ugh, Kristen, what did you do?” Ali hissed, stomping toward the nursery.

  Kristen turned on the TV wondering if she should have chosen the pediatric nurse.

  Down in New York City, Dick Clark was rockin’ Times Square. MTV VJs were counting down the best videos of the year surrounded by midriffs and muscles. CNN was showing celebrations in São Paulo, Brazil. And Merri-Lee Marvil had commandeered an entire airplane hangar, vacuumed up every red carpet in the country, and dumped the contents on her stage. Four lucky girls in matching Burberry dresses were jumping and cheering while Ricky Martin took the mic. Were they some hot new girl band she’d be hearing about in the New Year? Junior models on assignment for a fashion house? Or maybe they were there solely to remind Kristen how boring and uneventful her existence was, is, and would continue to be, for another three hundred and sixty-five days.

  It seemed like everyone in the world was out partying except her and baby Max. Even Ali had plans for later—plans that excluded Kristen.

  The Burberry girls threw their arms around each other and shout-sang “She Bangs!”

  Kristen clicked on the video monitor. Max was still screaming and Ali was shushing him fervently while applying lip gloss.

  Kristen shut off the TV and tossed the remote on the couch. Reflected in the dark screen was a sobering image of herself wearing red sweats and flip-flops, surrounded by textbooks, binders, pencil shavings, and someone else’s vibrating phone.

  Stepping closer, she looked her reflection in the eye, lifted her right palm, and made her first resolution of the night. “I, Kristen Gregory, promise to do whatever it takes to get a life in the New Year.”

  Then she kicked her binder off the coffee table and took a long unauthorized swig of Ali’s marshmallow Coke. It wasn’t exactly life in the fast lane, but at least her pedicured foot was on the gas.

  KISSIMMEE, FL

  THE LYONS RESIDENCE

  CLAIRE’S BEDROOM

  Friday, December 31st

  8:35 P.M.

  Briiinnnggggggggggggg.

  The egg timer rang again.

  “Crafts down!” Claire Lyons announced. Her sharply cut New Year’s Eve bangs brushed across the tops of her eyebrows while she reset the dial for thirty minutes.

  Sarah lowered her glue stick. Sari released her tube of pink glitter. And Mandy placed her paper hat on her lap.

  “Is it time already? ’Cause Ifeellikewejustdidthis.” Sari stretched out her skinny legs on the white shag rug and began French braiding her long blond hair. Her uncle Bruce had completed his first semester at the Vidal Sassoon Institute and taught her everything he knew about twists over Christmas. There wasn’t a doll left in Claire’s room whose locks hadn’t been woven like challah bread.

  “You’re right. We did just do this.” Claire passed around the silver bowl of gummy worms. “A half hour ago.”

  “And the half hour before that and the half hour before that.” Mandy picked through the gelatinous tangle until she found three yellows. Her electric blue eyes lit up with joy.

  “Sugar is the only way we’ll make it to midnight.” Claire rolled a new can of grape soda to each girl. “Now drink!” She popped open her Fanta, tilted her head back, and chugged. This was her year. She was finally going to stay awake long enough to see the ball drop. And she was determined to share the moment with her favorite people in the world. Even if it made their teeth rot.

  Sarah tilted her head back and yawned. When she straightened up, short butter-yellow curls boinged around her narrow face.

  “Only two and a half more hours,” Claire urged. She hiked up her plaid flannel Gap pj’s and padded over to the Hello Kitty sticker-covered boom box by the bed. “What’s that, Britney?” she shouted over “Oops, I Did It Again.” “I can’t hear you!” She cranked the volume up to nine. “Much better!”

  Claire bopped back to the craft circle and happily reclaimed her place on the shag. The girls were making party crowns and masks out of construction paper and metallic markers. They were twisting pipe cleaners into garish jewelry. And salting their hair in their glitter colors—blue for Mandy, pink for Sari, orange for Sarah, and green for Claire. If all went according to plan, and everyone managed to stay awake, they would adorn themselves in their festive creations and pose for a self-timed photo at exactly midnight.

  “Ehmagosh, who am I?” Sarah jumped to her feet and hiked up her hearts ’n’ bunnies nightgown. She balanced a paper crown on her nest of short blond curls and wobbled across the rug on her tiptoes, smile-waving. Then she tripped and landed on her knees with a thud.

  The girls burst out laughing.

  “N-n-no.” Mandy stood. “It was more like this.” She lifted onto her toes, took a few uneven steps, then crashed down on her butt. Strands of damp dark hair covered her pale face.

  The CD skipped on the word ooops, as if in on the joke.

  Sari and Claire joined in, offering their best impressions of the fallen Miss Kiss and the tragic ankle twist that had landed her in the orchestra pit and cost her Kissimmee’s most prestigious pageant title. The girls had been imitating her for years. And it never, for one second, stopped being hi
larious.

  “Watch this one,” Sarah shouted, cycloning around the room, her arms spinning at her sides. After eleven dizzying rotations, she stopped and then swayed. Her neck moved like a spring, tipping from side to side under the weight of her woozy head. She teetered stiffly like a zombie on the high seas and then slammed straight into—thud-smash!

  The Hello Kitty sticker–covered boom box landed on the floor. White plastic splintering across rug was the last sound it ever made.

  “What was that?” shouted the red-faced teenage babysitter, who, thanks to her prescription zit medication, always looked embarrassed or sunburned. “Is everyone okay?”

  “We’re fine, Kelsey.” Claire sighed at the plastic shards.

  “Should I call an ambulance just in case?”

  “We’re fine.”

  Kelsey surveyed the damage. “Nobody goes near those broken bits, understood?” She tossed a pillow over the crime scene, then jumped back as if it were shooting flames. “I’ll be right back with a broom and a—Wait! Where’s Todd?”

  The girls shrugged.

  “Todd?” Kelsey called.

  No one answered.

  “Todd!” She bolted into the peach carpet–covered hallway and stormed the boy’s bedroom next door like a one-woman SWAT team.

  “Todd?” she panic-shouted. “Todd?” Seconds later, she was back in Claire’s room. “Okay, your brother is gone. Totally gone. Was he standing near the boom box when it fell? Did he get hit on the head and wander off in a state of delirium? Oh no. Was the window open?”

  Claire and her friends suppressed their giggles. The only thing funnier than Miss Kiss falling into the orchestra pit was watching Kelsey the babysitter panic.

  “Oh my heavens, it was!” Kelsey stomp-raced over to the window and peered out at the grassy front yard. “Where is he? You can tell me. We don’t have to tell your parents if I can confirm his vitals and make sure he’s okay.”

  “I have no clue where he is.” Claire rolled her blue eyes, letting her friends know that she was no more okay with Kelsey’s intrusion than they were. “Maybe you should check the kitchen or the—”