Kristen’s aqua-blue eyes darted from side to side while she listened. “Um, no, the costumes aren’t supposed to be boring. Why?”
The girls covered their mouths and giggled. Kristen kicked them. Dylan grabbed her leg and pulled off one of her orange-and-turquoise Pumas and whipped it across the lawn. Everyone burst into muffled hysterics, even mopey Claire.
“Oh. I see.” Kristen covered her left ear, trying her hardest to stay focused. “Yeah, that sounds great. I would love to go as the Bride of Chucky. And you’ll be…” She paused. “Sure, of course. You’ll be Chucky. Makes perfect sense. Okay, well, I’ll call you Saturday with the details.… Oh, texting is fine? Great. Works for me. Okay, ’bye.” She snapped her phone shut and buried her blushing face in her black Prada messenger bag. “No one say a word,” she moaned.
Everyone cracked up.
“Moving awn,” Massie announced, once the laughter died. She pulled out Dylan’s green cell and tossed it at her. “Stop wasting my time—you’re already done.”
Claire bit her thumbnail, knowing she was next.
“Here you go.” Massie handed her the red Swarovski crystal-covered Dial L for Loser phone she’d gotten as a gift from Rupert Mann, the film’s director.
Kristen sat back up and joined their tight circle, obviously thrilled that it was someone else’s turn to make a fool of herself and that her moment had passed.
“I can’t.”
“You have to.”
“I tossed the love bracelet Cam gave me in the wave pool last night, and we haven’t talked since. How am I supposed to explain that?”
“Bad sushi,” everyone said at once.
Claire giggle-sighed.
“It’s not like he bought the bracelet. It was re-gifted,” Alicia offered, trying to be helpful. “So you shouldn’t feel bad about it.”
“Um, thanks for reminding me.” Claire pushed her paper plate aside. Her turkey wrap rolled onto the grass, but she ignored it.
“Ehmagawd!” Alicia waved her phone. “It’s vibrating! What if it’s Josh?” She fanned her cheeks like a Southern belle.
“What does it say?” Dylan reached for the phone, but Alicia pulled it away.
“It says yes.” Alicia tightened her mouth into an O, obviously trying to hide her budding smile.
Everyone applauded and cheered.
Alicia turned to Claire with newfound confidence. “Come awn, text Cam. It’s easy.”
Claire chewed her bottom lip. “Fine.”
They waited patiently while she typed.
Suddenly, the inside of Massie’s D&G bag dinged. “Ehmagawd, it’s a text from Chris Abeley.”
“Read it!” everyone urged, slapping their thighs excitedly.
Massie’s mouth suddenly went dry. She licked her lips, tasting the minty remnants of Candy Cane Glossip Girl.
“Uh-oh…” She read the message. “He wants me to go to the horse show with him Saturday night at Madison Square Garden.”
The girls squealed with delight.
“No, you don’t get it.” Massie wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. “He needs to be at Skye’s party Saturday night.”
“Point.” Alicia lifted her finger.
Massie exhaled and typed back.
“What are you gonna say?” Kristen leaned toward Massie’s tiny screen.
“I’m inviting him to be my date for the party,” she replied matter-of-factly.
A sudden gust of wind rattled the leaves above their heads, delivering a sudden chill to the air.
“What about Skye?” Alicia untied the mauve cardigan around her neck and slid it back on.
“And Derrington?” Dylan burped.
“And the bomb shelter?” Kristen added.
Claire bit her thumbnail.
“Puh-lease. I have a plan.”
“What is it?” Alicia asked.
“Yup.” Massie giggled.
No one laughed.
“Relax, I’ll figure it out.”
She texted Chris. SKYE’S PARTY. INTERESTED? was all she sent. He responded back immediately.
“He said yes.” She waved her phone, temporarily forgetting that this was hardly a victory. After all, Chris should have been going with Skye. Not her.
Another text followed immediately. Massie read it aloud.
“‘How ’bout I go as Romeo and U B Juliet. Not the Shakespeare ones, the Baz Luhrmann ones with Claire Danes and Leo DiCaprio. U wear angel wings and I’ll wear a bloody shirt like Leo when he screamed, “I am fortune’s fooooool.”’”
SOUNDS GR8, she texted back with an eye roll.
“Chris should be the new model for Calvin Klein’s Obsession.” Alicia giggled.
Everyone highfived her but Massie, who knew this situation was messed up and far from funny. Normally Chris’s infatuation with her would be flattering times twenty, but in this case, it was a supermodel-size obstacle that was standing in the way of her alpha dreams. And despite Chris’s ah-dorable haircut and ah-mazing blue eyes, she was starting to resent him.
“Now, Kuh-laire…” Massie checked the time on her cell phone. Six more minutes until the bell rang. “Are you going to text Cam or what?”
Claire looked up as if waking from a deep sleep. “I did. It says, Sorry I took off. I 8 bad sushi and didn’t want you 2 C me hurl—”
They giggled.
“Be my D8 at costume party Saturday nite and I’ll make it up 2 U. U can B Adam and I’ll B Eve, the 1st couple on earth.”
A round of applause followed, bringing a much-needed smile to Claire’s face.
Massie nodded with approval. “Send.”
Claire did what she was told, then fell back onto the grass, hid her face in the crook of her elbow, and mumbled to herself.
Massie’s cell dinged again.
“Chris again?” Alicia’s brown eyes were wide with disbelief and envy.
“Ehmagawd, no!” Massie shouted at her screen. “It’s Derrington.”
Everyone leaned in.
Massie’s head started to throb. She slid on her purple-lensed Chloé sunglasses, despite the shade, and read the text aloud. “‘R u inviting me to that costume party or what? Everyone else is going.’”
“Ehmagawd.” Dylan speed-clapped. “We’ll both have two dates. Two dates will be the new one date.”
“I can’t have two dates.” Massie rubbed her temples. “Chris needs to end up with Skye.”
Claire lifted her phone above her head and muttered, “Cam said yes.”
“What’d he write?” Alicia asked.
“‘Forgiven. I’ll bring the fig leaves.’”
“Cute!” Dylan put an arm around Claire and affectionately pulled her close. “Whatever.” Claire rolled onto her side, her abandoned turkey wrap staring her straight in the eye.
“We better get to class.” Kristen stood and brushed the grass off her navy Puma sweats. “We have two minutes.”
“Wait! What am I going to tell Derrington?” Massie grabbed her ankle.
“Tell him you were just about to ask him,” Kristen urged.
Massie exhaled sharply through her nose. Nothing said “rock bottom” like an alpha begging for boy advice. But then again, Skye had begged her for help at Galwaugh Farms.
The realization forced Massie to reevaluate: Is emotional honesty in and fake confidence out? Before she had a chance to fully contemplate this, she spotted Claire dabbing her bleeding cuticles with a leaf. And suddenly the answer was clear. Fake confidence was far more attractive.
And with that, Massie put the whole “issue thing” with Derrington aside (for now!) and texted him, asking if he would like to be David Beckham to her Victoria.
“Great costume idea.” Kristen oozed jealousy.
“Seriously.” Alicia stood, leaving her uneaten lunch behind for the birds. “Derrington thinks so.” Massie wagged her phone facetiously.
With a tired sigh, Claire forced herself onto all fours and gathered the trash.
“O
ne question.” Dylan held out her hands and let Kristen pull her up.
“How are you going to fit angel wings under a tight Victoria Beckham shirt?”
“Puh-lease.” Massie scooped up her loose belongings and dumped them into her tote. “That’s the least of my problems.”
OCTAVIAN COUNTRY DAY SCHOOL
THE BOMB SHELTER
Friday, April 30th
2:19 P.M.
“Hurry!” Claire squirmed while Massie worked the key in the lock of the bomb-shelter door.
Her urgency no longer stemmed from a fear of Principal Burns, Mr. Myner, or compost duty. Claire needed instant access to the room for one reason only—and that was to see how her story would end.
She’d felt the same way after the season-three finale of The O.C., when Marissa Cooper died. She needed to know how the characters would process the tragedy. Needed to see how their stories would unfold, now that everything had changed. Needed to know if there was still a chance for a happy ending.
“We’re in!” Massie pushed through the heavy door.
The salty, fishy smell of seaweed hit them like a tsunami when they entered. Brown-stained chopsticks, silver foil trays filled with drying wasabi, and red-and-white packets of Kikkoman soy sauce were scattered across the black rubber floor.
“Was Dylan already here?” Massie asked playfully, while clicking on the large-screen TV.
Claire tried to giggle, but she’d been frowning for the last forty-eight hours and her facial muscles seemed locked in a perma-pout. She was hoping a good episode of ESP—one where Cam explained that Nikki was an eight-year-old camper he mentored—might loosen them back up.
“Have you noticed her face swelling?” Massie tightened the gold belt on her navy minidress and pulled up her faded jeans. “One more Philly cheese steak and she’ll need to go up a size in sunglasses. Should we be worried?”
“About what?” Claire asked as she settled into the pink faux-fur chair, waiting for the picture to appear on the screen.
“Dylan!” Massie snapped. “She’s been gaining weight. Haven’t you noticed?”
Claire shrugged. Maybe Dylan’s angular face was looking a little doughy lately, but so what? She was having fun. If doughy meant happy, Claire would take it any day over her current diet of tears and fingernails.
“Well, have you noticed Alicia’s been acting like a grandmother? And what about Kristen? One day it’s death metal and the next it’s—”
“Yes!” Claire interrupted, as the classroom flickered on-screen.
The picture flashed, scrambled, and faded. It made Claire think of a sneeze-tease, where you gasp and gasp and gasp and then, right when the tissue is in position, the sneeze disappears.
“What happened?” She jumped out of her director’s chair and gripped the corners of the screen.
Massie aimed the rhinestone-covered remote at the lifeless monitor and clicked; it hummed like a rebooting computer. “Give it a minute,” she said to Claire’s light blue Old Navy overalls. “Have you been wearing those all day?”
Claire looked down and nodded. “What’s wrong with them? Dylan wore overalls last week and you said they were cute.”
“Yeah, but hers were expensive.” Massie shifted her bangs right with a delicate finger-swipe. “Don’t you think it’s kind of lame that they decided to stay in class? It’s like they have their dates, so why bother? If I were them, I’d wanna find out what Derrington’s issue is, or who Nikki is, because I’m a good friend. But they ah-bviously care more about topsoil and manure than us. Which is fine. I’m just not going to tell them anything we hear.”
Claire heard what Massie was saying in the same way she heard her parents’ conversations through their thin bedroom wall: Her voice seemed distant, the words intended for someone other than her.
A vibrating cell phone put a sudden end to her chatter. Massie flipped open her Motorola and sighed.
Claire sneaked a peek at the message, which simply said, “Tick… tick… tick.”
“What are you going to do about Chris and Skye?” Claire asked, in an effort to care about something other than Cam.
“This.” Massie pulled a crumpled note out of her AG jeans pocket and handed it over.
Claire unfolded the lined paper and read. The handwriting looked like Massie’s, only thinner, and the letters were smashed together, boy-style.
Angie,
I’ll be at your party. I’ll be the guy dressed in a white shirt with blood all over it, because my heart bleeds for you. Can’t wait!
xoxo Brad (Chris Abeley)
PS—Once again, don’t mention this note. I’m still very, very shy.
Claire handed it back.
Massie jammed it back in her pocket. “I’ll give it to her after class,” she explained, as if she were reading Claire’s mind. “It’s the only way.”
“Sounds good,” Claire said… or maybe she just thought it. It was hard to know for sure, because the picture came back on the monitor, and everything else fell away.
A shaggy black hair-wall hung over Griffin’s face as he read under his desk. Plovert and Kemp were seated peacefully beside each other; Josh was hatless, since Alicia was now a fan of New York Yankees caps; and Derrington was painting his nails with Wite-Out. The only person Claire couldn’t see was Cam. Which meant…
“He’s holding the bear!”
Claire couldn’t believe her luck and timing. She was finally going to get the answers she needed.
“That was a great trust exercise,” Dr. Loni’s voice boomed, still from beyond the camera’s reach. “Now that we’re all warmed up, let’s touch on some unresolved issues. I want to start with Derek’s issue with May-ssie, and we will get to that next—”
“It’s Maa-ssie!” she shouted at the screen. “And stop calling it an issue!”
“But first, it seems as though there was an incident between Cam and Claire the other night.” Throats were cleared. Chairs creaked. “And I am very pleased that you boys pulled together and created a safe house for Cam and his feelings, which I understand were hurt very badly. Tell me, is it Nikki again?” Claire’s stomach lurched when she heard that name.
“It’s awn.” Massie leaned forward, like she was watching a suspenseful chase scene in a movie.
And then, in a single flash, everything went dark.
“What just happened?” Claire screeched.
Massie pressed her thumb into the remote with cuticle-whitening determination.
Nothing.
She pressed harder.
Nothing.
She gripped her charm bracelet, pinched the gold crown, and jammed one of the spires into the POWER button.
Nothing.
“It’s dead,” she announced. “Time of death: 2:27 p.m.”
“It can’t be.”
“It is.”
“Why is all of this happening?” Claire smashed her fist on the wood handrest of the director’s chair. The throbbing ache that followed felt good, the same way getting punished for doing something terrible can sometimes be better than living silently with the guilt.
“Relax,” Massie insisted. “All we have to do is get into that classroom and fix whatever broke.”
“But the party’s tomorrow night,” Claire whimpered. “And now we’re going to have to face Derrington and Cam without knowing—”
“You don’t think I know that? You don’t think I’ve spent the last three nights spritzing my pillowcase with Crabtree & Evelyn lavender sheet spray to help me relax? Derrington has an issue with me and everyone knows about it but me.” Massie tried the remote one more time. But it was pointless. “Ugh!” She whipped it onto the floor and looked away in anger when the black plastic battery cover bounced off. After a deep, composing breath, she turned to Claire, her tone noticeably calmer. “We’ll have to file until this camera is fixed.”
“What?”
“File. Fake-smile.”
“How are we going to do that?”
“W
hat? File or fix the camera?”
“Both.”
Massie tapped her fingernails against her pearly white teeth until her lips curled into a confident half-smile and her eyes lit up.
“Well, do you know?” Claire asked again.
“No.” Massie marched to the exit. “But I bet Layne does.”
“Layne?”
All of a sudden, Massie flicked off the lights, leaving Claire in the dark to wonder if she was, in any way possible, serious.
BRIARWOOD ACADEMY
PARKING LOT
Friday, April 30th
8:10 P.M.
The Blocks’ silver Range Rover glided over Briarwood Academy’s dark, rain-slicked pavement.
“Isaac, kill the lights,” Massie whisper-shouted from the backseat.
The driver did as he was told.
“Stop here.”
Isaac shut off the engine near the statue of the Army Guy—a proud general (or officer or whatever) who saluted his invisible troops from an iron pedestal a few yards away from the front steps. Everyone in the backseat exchanged nervous glances.
“Is there a reason you girls need to accompany Todd inside?” Isaac put an arm around the back of the empty passenger seat, then craned his neck to face them. His graying brows were arched, his smile suspicious.
“I told you,” Massie said wearily, “he forgot his science homework.”
Isaac squinted, the crow’s feet around his gray-blue eyes deepening. “Yes, but why are you all going?” He scanned everyone’s outfits, as if questioning those more than their solidarity.
Massie peeked at the Pretty Committee. They did look suspect in their black-on-black ensembles, smoky eye shadow, and nude lips.
Initially, the plan had been to tell Isaac they had been trying on outfits for an upcoming fashion-forward high school party. Then Layne had shown up wearing a plastic yellow miner’s hat (complete with blinding headlight) and a thick tan leather tool belt. Fashion-forward in West Virginia, maybe. But Westchester? Definitely nawt!
Sealed with a Diss Page 14