After the boys had left, Claire stood slowly and looked at Massie and Alicia in utter shame, regret, and embarrassment.
“Buuurrrrp!” Dylan emerged from the walk-in pantry holding a half-empty bottle of Canada Dry. She looked around the kitchen. “Where did everyone go?”
Kristen hurried into the kitchen carrying two champagne flutes. “Has anyone seen Griffin?”
“He’s gone.” Alicia squirted some MAC Lipglass on her finger, then spread it across her lips. “They’re all gone.”
Kristen and Dylan looked at each other in confusion.
“I told you not to act like a dude.” Alicia rubbed her shiny lips together. “Your burp contest threw them over the edge.”
“Wimps,” Dylan burped.
“What about Griffin?” Kristen asked, placing the champagne flutes on the island. “Why did he leave?”
“His sensitive side was a scam to get a good grade in ESP,” Claire explained.
“What?”
“The day he reads The Notebook is the day I read Eragon,” Massie said.
“Gawd.” Kristen ripped off her Chucky wig and tossed it into the plate-filled sink. “Never trust a guy in skinny jeans.”
“Looks like it’s just us girls again.” Massie slid down the side of the natural-wood-colored island and slumped to the floor. Everyone joined her.
More bursts of laughter rose up from the basement, reminding the girls that the party was in full swing and that they were missing out.
After a moment of heavy silence, Massie cleared her throat and sang, “‘Strut like you mean it, come on, come on.’”
The girls began to snicker. Then laugh. Then they doubled over in hysterics. They smacked one another’s backs, gripped their aching stomachs, and wiped the giggle-tears off each other’s cheeks.
Sure, they could have wasted the rest of the night analyzing their crushes and plotting ways to get them back. But come awn—that was so last week.
THE BLOCK ESTATE
THE GUESTHOUSE
Sunday, May 2nd
12:07 P.M.
Claire leaned over the side of her bed and reached for her old Polaroid camera. Gripping it by the black strap, she hoisted it onto her tissue-covered lap. Then she sobbed a little more.
Once she was able to manipulate her pout back into a frown (slightly more flattering), she held the camera in front of her face and snapped. Seconds later a photo of herself, all puffy and snotty, rolled out. She labeled it post-party depression, then tossed it on the floor next to her leaf-covered bikini costume from the night before. Like Eve, she had given into temptation. And like Eve, she was doomed to pay the price.
A sharp triple knock on her bedroom door rose above the depressing R&B song on the radio about some girl who had done her man wrong and now it was too late for lovin’.
“Go away, Todd!” Claire yanked her blue star–covered duvet over her head.
“Relax,” huffed Layne, letting herself in. “It’s me.”
Claire peeked out from her down-filled cave.
“I pedaled as fast as I could.” She unfastened her sparkling green bike helmet, removed a pair of orange-tinted snowboarding goggles, and unrolled the rainbow-striped socks off the bottoms of her plaid pajama bottoms. “You’re not gonna believe this.” She unwrapped a Slim Jim, gripped it between her teeth, and hurried toward the Mac.
The sound of Layne’s fingers scuttling across the keyboard reminded Claire of rain on the roof of a car. Which, for some random reason, made her cry all over again.
“Dry your tears, big ears, and come see this.” Layne poked the enter key with gusto and folded her arms across her chest, the Slim Jim hanging from her lips like a cheap cigar.
“Just tell me,” Claire moaned from her undercover cave. “I can’t move.”
Layne wheeled herself over to the clock radio that was still blaring the weepy song and hit OFF. “Not even to see Nikki’s page on MySpace?”
“What?” Claire threw off her covers and shot up. A rush of dizziness forced her back down. Her head felt ten times heavier than usual despite all the stored water weight it had recently shed.
“Up, up, up,” clapped Layne.
Claire stood, slowly this time, and realized she had to pee really badly. But that would have to wait. She shuffled stiffly toward her desk, hiding her fists in the sleeves of her lemon-yellow, gumdrop-covered flannel nightgown—the one she’d been wearing for the last fifteen hours.
“What are you talking about?” She leaned apprehensively over Layne’s shoulder, catching a whiff of spicy beef.
“The other day I typed in ‘Nikki.’ Just ‘Nikki.’” Layne blocked the screen with her oily, meat-scented palms. “But look what happens when I enter ‘Nikki and Cam.’” She lifted her hands, revealing a picture of a girl with straight black hair and thick blunt bangs. She was either sultry/alluring or witchy/scary. It was hard to tell from the low-resolution photo. But one thing was very clear from her profile. This was the Nikki.
For starters, there was a Photoshopped image of a massive pine tree with two tiny heads nesting side by side in a nest on one of its branches. Written on the trunk in red cursive it said, Nikki and Cam sitting in a tree. To the left, typed over a navy background of twinkling stars and cricket noises, were all the answers she needed blogged out before her.
NAME: Nikki wannabe Fisher but havetobe Dalton.
AGE: 12
STATUS: Heartbroken
DATE: March 31st
TITLE: ***Final Entry***
I surrender.
I’ve rented every romance that Netflix has, like twice, and have tried evey trick ever put on DVD. And nothing has worked. I even got a part in our school musical, hoping he’d quit soccer, transfer to Alvin Middle, and sing with me (luv u, Zac Efron!) But he didn’t. I sent cinnamon hearts for Valentine’s Day, gummy bears on Fridays, and a case of Jones Soda with a picture of us printed right on the label. (Remember the cute one I posted after the summer of us on the camp canoe docks, almost touching shoulders?)
Anyway, the flavor was ‘crushed melon’ since he crushed me. But he didn’t get it. The joke, I mean. He got the case, because I had the tracking number and tracked it, and someone named Harris Fisher signed for it, and I know that’s his brother because I paid this online service to research his family tree. It was going to be his gift for Arbor Day. But I’m not doing that anymore. I’m not doing anything anymore. The crushed melon was the last thing I’ll ever send him.
A week after Harris signed for the soda, Cam sent me an e-mail telling me “for the last time” to stop sending him things. He wants to be friends at camp, but he only wants one girlfriend and that’s Cla–. (I can’t type her name; it’s too painful.) He told me he l—ed her (can’t type the word; it hurts like mad). Then he said I have to respect that. And I have. Because love is all about respect. And I love him. So I have not sent another thing. Not even an IM.
Yes, of course I still check his horoscope (Taurus) and when I go under a bridge, I hold my breath and pray he’ll have a crush on me this summer. But that’s it.
Proud of me or what?
I will write again when I find a love who loves me back.
Broken + Heart = Nikki
Under her sad signature was a live counter that tallied the number of days she had gone without contacting Cam. And today, it said thirty-two.
“Well?” asked Layne, a gleaming smile carved across her cheeks.
“Thank you.” Claire reached around Layne’s back and squeezed. “You’re the best!”
Layne, who was still facing the computer, gripped Claire’s hands and squeezed back. “Cam’s innocent!”
“Innocent!” Claire’s teeth started to chatter.
Layne stood and spit out her Slim Jim, and the girls exchanged a real hug.
Colors and sensations returned to Claire’s previously numb body, as though she had risen from the dead. She was starving.
“How happy are you?”
“So happy.�
� Claire’s teeth chattered harder. “I mean, he still re-gifted, but at least he’s not cheating on—”
“No.” Layne rolled her narrow green eyes. “You’re missing the whole point.”
Claire knit her light blond eyebrows.
“The bracelet. It’s not from Nikki. It’s from Cam!”
“You’re right!” Claire air-clapped—then stopped when she realized that it no longer mattered. Cam was beyond mad at her. She knocked her head until it hurt. “I knew I shouldn’t have spied. I knew it. I knew it. I knew it.”
Layne checked her eyeball-hologram watch. “Gotta go.” She jumped to her feet.
“Wait, you can’t leave. You have to help me get Cam back.”
“No can do, that’s up to you.” She giggled at her accidental rhyme. “My brother is going riding at two-thirty, and he wants me to dye his hair back to normal before he goes. A few of the guys were busting on his highlights at Skye’s party, and now he doesn’t want the stable hands to see them.” She snapped on her helmet, pulled her socks up over her pj’s, and lowered her goggles.
“’Kay.” Claire managed an understanding smile. She thought about acting all sad and needy to guilt Layne into staying and helping. But her friend had done so much already. And she knew, despite the ache of loneliness in her body, that it would be unfair to hold her back. So, like Nikki, she swallowed her sorrow and said goodbye.
Once her door was shut, and after she peed, Claire dialed Cam. What she had to say was too important for texting, IM’ing, or emailing. It required intimacy. Of course, she couldn’t confess to having watched his ESP class on a monitor, but she would apologize for reading his journal, chalk it up to a moment of insane insecurity, beg for his forgiveness, and promise never to doubt him or invade his privacy again. And she’d mean every word of it.
Hearing Cam’s phone ring filled Claire with renewed hope. It had been weeks since she called him, and it felt good to imagine talking to him again. She was taking control. She would make things right. She had learned from her mistakes and was dying to share that with him. And when she was through explaining, he’d say he was still upset but was glad she called. He’d say he respected her honesty. He’d say he needed a little time to get over it. He’d say he’d call her after supper. And he would.
Claire was feeling better already.
Until she got his voice mail.
She hung up, waited ninety seconds, and then tried again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
After eleven straight attempts, Cam finally answered.
“Stop calling me!” was all he said.
OCTAVIAN COUNTRY DAY SCHOOL
THE AUDITORIUM
Monday, May 3rd
8:33 A.M.
Principal Burns stood at the podium shuffling papers while the OCD girls filed in. The auditorium smelled like wet textbooks, and the bands of colored light streaming through the stained-glass windows drew unfortunate attention to the major amounts of unsettled dust floating toward the dark, domed ceiling.
Once seated, everyone whisper-gossiped about what this impromptu assembly could possibly be about.
But not the Pretty Committee.
Dressed in head-to-toe gray—a sign of mourning—they had more pressing matters to discuss.
Kristen leaned forward, across Dylan, Alicia, and Massie, and gripped Claire’s wrist. “Ehmagawd, I’m still in shock. He really said, ‘Stop calling me!’?”
Claire averted her eyes and nodded yes. “Then he hung up.”
“Well, that’s better than getting your inbox flooded with flash-art pictures of pigs all weekend.” Dylan sneaked a sip of Enviga, the calorie-burning soft drink.
“Well, I haven’t heard a thing from Griffin, and I probably never will again.” Kristen subconsciously rubbed her nail beds, which, despite three rounds of heavy-duty remover and a scrub brush, were still stained with black Bride of Chucky polish.
“What about Derrington?” Alicia asked Massie. “Has he texted you yet?”
“Um, not since I checked during the car ride over here,” Massie snapped. “He thinks I’m immature, remember?” She rolled her eyes at the absurdity of it all.
“At least you have Chris Abeley to fall back on.” Dylan sighed hopelessly. “I remember when I had two.”
“I kinda got rid of him at the party.” Massie lifted the cashmere fold of her gray turtleneck over her chin.
“What?” they all squealed.
“Why didn’t you tell us?” Alicia seemed genuinely offended.
Massie shrugged, even though she knew why.
The truth was, she had forgotten all about Chris the minute Derrington told her off. And she had become obsessed with wanting to change his opinion of her. Obsessed with wanting him to like her more than the eighth-grade girls. And obsessed with figuring out the most “mature” way of getting him back. But why admit all that when it was cooler to act like it didn’t mean enough to mention?
“It slipped my mind.”
“How is that even possible?” Alicia’s brown eyes widened. “He’s cute and he drives.”
“I know.” Massie sighed. But he’s such a downer.” She borrowed Skye’s word, seeing as it was so appropriate.
“How’d you shake him?” Dylan asked. “He was so into you.”
“I swiped his iPod, found the JoJo song that reminded him of his ex, Fawn, and blasted it. Sent him right back into a full depression.” She smiled with glee.
The girls leaned across one another for a group highfive.
“You know Colleen Campo?” asked Alicia.
The girls shook their heads no.
“Minnie Mouse?”
They nodded.
“I heard she doubled home on the back of Barbie’s Ken’s bike, and Mickey Mouse ended up crashing in Skye’s downstairs bathroom because he was too embarrassed to leave without her.”
“How upset was Barbie?” asked Kristen.
“Ew, puh-lease, she didn’t care.” Alicia rolled her eyes as if this should have been obvious. “Ken is her twin brother.”
“I heard Emily Merlino told Rachel Brown that we had the cutest dates there,” Alicia beamed.
“Until they bailed on us,” Dylan whispered as she silently read the nutritional information on the back of her sparkling green tea drink.
“Shhhhh,” Massie hissed, eye-warning her friends about the passing girls and their hunger for all things Pretty Committee–related. “I thought we weren’t going to mention the date-ditch in public.”
“It’s not like people won’t find out,” Claire mumbled, her eyes swollen and red. “Besides, everyone’s been staring at us all morning.”
“Puh-lease, they’re always staring at us.” Alicia lifted her chin.
“I know word will spread, but as long as the Briarwood boys are over there”—Massie pointed south, where the boy’s school was located—“and OCD is over here, we can spin the truth. Call them liars. Spread our own versions of the truth. It’ll be easy.”
“I hope so.” Kristen sighed just as Strawberry, the faux redhead, and Kori, her bad-postured sidekick, walked by their seats, whispering.
“Trust me,” Massie assured them. “Besides, I have a new life plan.” She pulled out her PalmPilot and read her screen, taunting the others with her mysterious new credo.
“What does it say?” asked Alicia.
“Share,” insisted Dylan.
Kristen and Claire leaned across the others to avoid being left out.
“It may not be for everyone,” Massie teased. “It’s probably something I should do on my own.”
“No,” they pleaded.
Allie-Rose and Sydney half-turned their heads to try and eavesdrop.
“Do you mind?” sneered Massie, rolling her eyes at her lack of privacy.
The girls slid down the back of their seats in utter shame. When Massie could no longer see the tops of their heads, she continued.
“As of May third, I—I
mean, the Pretty Committee is on a strict boy fast.”
“Ah-greed.” Dylan gave her the thumbs-up. “I gained eight pounds with my crushes. That’s like four pounds each!”
The girls snickered.
“No more thinking about boys,” Massie continued. “No more talking about boys, and no more crushing on boys.” She paused for objections but there were none.
“We must rid our systems of all the boy toxins that are clogging our pores and dulling our complexions. So what if we’re the Cheetah Girls. We don’t need—”
“Um, question.” Alicia raised her hand. “Does this mean I can’t IM Josh tonight while I’m studying?”
“Not if you want to be part of the New Pretty Committee.”
Alicia bit her lower lip.
Massie secretly held her breath while Alicia chose between a boy and her friends.
“Okay, I’m in.” She removed Josh’s Yankees cap and placed it gently at her side.
Massie exhaled. “Maybe the DSL Daters need boys to make them feel special, but we’re better than that. We’re already special. So from now on, the New Pretty Committee is boy-free. No more sadness, no more temptation. No more distractions. It will just be us, all the time, with clear skin, having the best time ever. Ah-greeed?”
“Ah-greed.” They air-clapped.
“Done, done, and done,” Massie nodded at her PalmPilot before shutting it off and dropping it in her gray Versace Madonna bag.
“Simmer down,” grumbled Principal Burns as she bent the microphone closer to her thin lips and focused her beady black crow eyes on the students. “Simmer!”
The murmurs faded to whispers, which faded to a few dry coughs. And then silence.
“In preparation for summer, all lockers should be cleaned out no later than Friday at noon. I want all the stickers, mirrors, photos, and glitter letters scraped off the metal.” She paused, giving way to the inevitable chorus of agitated mumbles. “If, at twelve-oh-one, so much as single shiny fleck catches my eye, everyone in that row will start off their summer break with a weekend detention.”
More mumbles. A few random stares from LBRs looking to see how the Pretty Committee was reacting to the news assured Massie that even if word about the date-ditch had spread, she was still their beloved alpha.
Sealed with a Diss Page 18