A Tale of Two Pretties

by Lisi Harrison

  Claire: Cheap… [she quickly deleted the word in favor of a more appealing one] Affordable clothes r cute! u’ll see.

  Kristen: Style is style, no matter the budget.

  That seemed to please Massie because she put down her phone and swiped her lips with Chai Latte–flavored Glossip Girl, signaling that she was ready.

  Kristen’s mother pulled into a parking spot and everyone tumbled out of the Focus, except for Massie, who stopped to read a text.

  Claire peered over her shoulder. Landon had sent her a picture message of a pair of bare feet half-buried in white sand, with the outline of a sea creeping toward him and a bottle of Vitamin Water at his feet.

  Landon: Here’s what I’m doing right now in Bali. You?

  Massie removed her scarf and coat. She spread the scarf over the car seat and then propped herself up on her shoulders as if she had been casually resting upon it the whole time.

  Kristen knocked on the car window. “You coming?”

  “Just a sec.” She pulled off her sunglasses, undid her bun, and re-glossed. Then she hit a button and the window rolled down. She handed Claire her iPhone. “Can you take a shot of me? Shoulders up. No car interior. Go!”

  Claire exchanged a quick, confused glance with Kristen but then shrugged and snapped the image. Massie’s face transformed into the sunny embodiment of girl-without-a-care-in-the-world. It was a great pic, if Claire said so herself. She couldn’t wait to show Cam how she’d used the angle to make Massie’s neck appear longer.

  Massie took the phone and sent it to Landon with a message: Spa day.

  Sometimes it amazed Claire how easily deception came to Massie. Or rather, how hard she was willing to work at making it look easy. Instead of pitying or judging her, Claire admired her. There was no one else like Massie Block. No matter how much she had—or didn’t have—she could always be counted on to make a regular day memorable.

  “Let’s go.” Claire smiled, hooking her arm in Massie’s and leading her to Marshalls.

  “Ehma-blind.” Massie recoiled when the fluorescent lights hit her in the face. “This place is lit like Seven-Eleven.”

  Kristen rolled her eyes. “You get used to it. Shoes are to the left and straight ahead is the juniors department.” She led Massie and Claire down the main aisle while Mrs. Gregory headed over to the housewares section.

  “Everything’s bunched together.” Massie looked helplessly at Claire. “The fabrics can’t breathe.” Her face was pinched, like she was about to cry.

  “Poly-blends don’t need to breathe,” Kristen explained patiently. “They’re special that way.”

  “Oh,” Massie said, cautiously reaching for a gold sweater and then snatching her hand back like it had nipped her flesh. “It’s so… shiny! Like it’s been sprayed with pesticides.”

  Claire shrugged. “You’ll get used to it.”

  “Gawd, I hope not.” Massie stroked her forearms as if to say, I’ll never let you suffer like that.

  Claire pointed at an accessories rack. “Look at those belts.”

  “Hmmmm.” Massie wandered over to a wide black belt and rubbed it between her fingers. “Ehma-puh-leather! It’s not even real!” She let go, and it wriggled down to the scuffed linoleum floor.

  Claire reached into her tote and pulled out her depleted bag of C&Cs. “Anyone want one?”

  “What are C&Cs?” Kristen asked, waving away the sugar treat.

  “Claire and Cams.” She blushed. “Part of my Christmas gift.”

  “What else did he get you?” Massie asked.

  Claire couldn’t believe she had kept the rest of his gift so quiet. But she couldn’t find the right way to tell her friends that the new photography class meant she’d be late to every GLU sleepover. Assuming she’d even be included once they moved apart. “He sang me a song,” she said, downplaying the awwww factor so they’d lose interest and change the subject.

  “How ah-dorable,” Kristen said to a red corduroy blazer. She whipped off her tweed toggle coat and handed it to Claire so she could try it on. “Mirror?” she asked. Claire pointed halfway down the aisle, and she took off. “Mass, what do you think? Cute over a hoodie, right?” Kristen straightened the cuffs.

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” Massie said, hurrying toward her.

  Claire stood back and watched them scrutinize the blazer. Clothes were fine, and shopping was fun because it meant hanging out with friends. But she couldn’t imagine breaking down the pros and cons of anything unless it had to do with risky surgery or going to war.

  She readjusted Kristen’s coat in her arms, and something fell from a pocket and landed on the floor. All she could make out was an official-looking letter with an embossed soccer ball. Claire wondered if it had anything to do with her mysterious soccer commitments. Unfolding it was the only way to know for sure. And that was immoral.

  But what if the fluorescent lights happen to catch it just the right way as Claire was returning it to the coat and she happened to see through the paper? Not as bad, right?

  She bent to retrieve the piece of paper and surreptitiously held it up to the light. Several words stuck out: “Soccer Sisters”… “Daily practices”… “Saturday morning games.” Claire’s brows furrowed. Had Kristen been accepted to some soccer team?

  “I’ll take that,” Kristen said, coming up behind Claire and grabbing the letter.

  “Oh, it fell out,” Claire said, expecting an explanation. But all she got was a red-cheeked explanation about how Kristen always found old junk in her pockets.

  Claire blinked at Kristen, then cleared her throat. The piece of paper wasn’t old junk. It had a date on it… from four days ago. Their eyes met in a gaze that was more charged than Massie’s old credit cards.

  Was Kristen keeping a secret, too?

  “Ehma-finally!” Massie’s screech startled Claire. She and Kristen turned to find their friend triumphantly holding up a pair of BCBG booties. “They’re from this season. And they’re 50 percent off!”

  The girls applauded her find.

  She shoved them into Claire’s hands, along with a fistful of crumpled bills. “Can you puh-lease pay?” She wrapped her scarf back around her head and lowered her Dior sunglasses before glancing furtively around the store. “I’m not quite ready for purchasing.”

  With a sigh, Claire agreed. Operation middle-class makeover was progressing, even if it was only by one BCBG bootie step at a time.

  WESTCHESTER, NY

  THE MARVIL HOUSE

  Monday, December 27th

  4:43 P.M.

  “Hello, sweetie!” Merri-Lee cried, like she wasn’t even mad Dylan was thirty-five minutes late for call time. She leaned forward and kissed her daughter on the forehead and then ushered her inside.

  “Um… hi, Mom!” Dylan’s red curls got caught in her Laura Mercier gloss as she swiveled her head around in search of the production crew. But the Marvils’ front foyer was empty.

  “How was your day, pickle?” Merri-Lee looped her arm over Dylan’s shoulders and led her to the living room, where Jaime and Ryan were chilling on the couches, nibbling on fruit kabobs.

  “It was good,” Dylan said vaguely. She could count on one hand how many times her family had hung out together in the formal living room. It felt like the set of The Daily Grind, only without one wall removed for audience seating.

  “Those Citizens are so slimming,” Jaime gushed. Dylan turned around to see who she was talking to.

  “I’m talking to you, Dylan!” Jaime clarified.

  Ryan patted the empty couch cushion next to her. “Come sit. Let’s catch up!”

  Dylan sat, but not before scouring the room for hidden cameras. She ran a hand through the chamaedorea palm tree in the corner and then tried to discreetly examine all the decorative pillows. They seemed clear, yet… her mother never had time to relax with her daughters on a random afternoon. Her sisters were never this interested in her.

  But she couldn’t find any evidence of the prod
uction team, and her family was looking at her expectantly. So she collapsed onto the couch next to Ryan, released her doubts into a brie-and-raspberry tart, and told them about the clothing sale. They even offered to contribute. An attentive family and delicious foods? A girl could get used to this.

  CUT TO:

  A little while later, Dylan stood in her walk-in, blaring Ke$ha and pulling items to donate. Out came the old Pradas and Nanette Lepores, the only-worn-once-but-already-way-over-it rompers and miniskirts. As she pruned her closet, she felt like she was shedding another ten pounds.

  The unmistakable smell of lasagna drifted past her nose, and Dylan stopped, mesmerized. Merri-Lee’s lasagna was a meal legends were made of, but she hadn’t made it in at least five years—not since her talk show had taken off and catapulted her into low-carb celebdom.

  “Dylly-pie, dinner time!”

  Merri-Lee’s voice wafted up the stairs and into Dylan’s room, just like the aroma of meat sauce and basil. Her pink Calvin Klein tank fluttered to the floor like a low-fat tortilla, and she dashed out of her room.

  “Whoa!” she blurted, running headfirst into the hair and makeup team.

  “Touch-up time!” one of the stylists sang.

  “Wha—”

  But before Dylan could even finish asking what they were doing there, the team quickly rubbed some sticky pomade into her curls, blotted her face, and outlined her eyes and lips. Then there was a final coat of sheer gloss, a straightening of her Marni blouse and jeans, and she was off to claim her dream meal.

  In the dining room, Jaime and Ryan, shiny in all the right places and matte everywhere else, sat on either side of Merri-Lee, leaving Dylan to sit at the foot of the table. Not only did the food smell ah-mazing, it looked that way, too. Bowls of crisp garlic bread, hunks of fresh parmesan, and tall pitchers of ice water with lemon wedges surrounded the main event: the lasagna, which sat in the center of the table on Merri-Lee’s best crystal serving platter. Dylan sat down and grabbed the Tiffany serving spoon (a gift from the ladies of The View ), but Ryan kicked her under the table.

  “Not yet,” she hissed as Walkie-Talkie walked in. He headed straight for Merri-Lee.

  “You remember what we talked about, right, Merrily?” He said her name like it was one word and Dylan braced herself. Merri-Lee did nawt like to be mistaken for someone with an adverb as a name. Dylan had learned that lesson even before she knew what an adverb was.

  “All set,” Merri-Lee muttered through pursed lips. Walkie-Talkie left, the lights went on, and finally Dylan heard the mysterious director yell, “Action!” Without wasting a moment, she cut into the lasagna and began serving herself.

  “So, is everyone excited to be back home after our lovely vay-cay?” Merri-Lee asked, squeezing lemon into her water.

  Dylan watched Ryan and Jaime for cues on how to respond and then nodded when they did. How does everyone know what’s going on but me? Dylan assumed that was the price she paid for being late and finger-dragged it to the oh-well pile. Technically this was a reality TV show, so a little reality every now and then couldn’t hurt.

  “Jaime-doll, what was it like to see Hunter after all that time apart?”

  Hunter Templeton was Jaime’s longtime crush. Dylan rolled her eyes. Like Claire in a candy shop, once Jaime got started on the Hunter subject, she couldn’t stop.

  “It was so sweet,” Jaime recalled dreamily. “He met me at the mall and—”

  The doorbell interrupted her. Dylan slumped in her seat and waited for the producer to yell “Cut!” but instead, some random maid entered the dining room, followed by a teenager in a Flowers by Algernon polo. He was carrying a massive bouquet of tulips and orchids.

  “Ryan Marvil? Flower delivery,” he said dully. Everyone looked on in surprise as Ryan accepted the bouquet and opened the card. Everyone, Dylan noticed, except Merri-Lee. Dylan could even swear she caught her mother wink at Walkie-Talkie.

  “ ‘Dear Ryan, I saw these flowers and thought of you. Hope you’re thinking of me, too. XOXO, Hun—’ ” Ryan stopped and gaped at Jaime. Jaime leapt up and ripped the card from Ryan’s hands.

  “Hunter? My Hunter sent you flowers?!” She started ripping up the card, sending little white speckles of cardboard across the table.

  “Ew, nawt in the lasagna!” Dylan yelled, cupping her hands over her plate.

  “I swear, I don’t know why he sent these!” Ryan cried. A camera zoomed in and captured the look of anguish on her face.

  “Liar! I know he gave you a ride home from Julie’s yesterday.”

  “Yeah, but that was nothing,” she said. “He did say I looked good with a tan, but I didn’t think—”

  “You never do!” Jaime reached out and grabbed the bouquet, spilling green plant food all over the garlic bread. Dylan snagged an unblemished piece before it was ruined, and then froze.

  If this had been any other family, she’d have hunkered down with popcorn to watch the fight. But this was her family, and something about the whole thing smelled more suspicious than the combination of Italian food and fertilizer.

  Another cameraman ran into the room, taking position behind Jaime just as she started shrieking and ripping up the orchids. “I’ll never forgive you, Ryan!”

  “Loves, can’t we figure this out rationally?” Merri-Lee tried to broker the peace, but Jamie just shrieked again and Ryan started openly sobbing.

  Dylan looked up at Merri-Lee for help. Behind her mother, she caught sight of the producer low-fiving the cameramen. The looks of glee on their faces told Dylan all she needed to know: This whole thing had been a setup. And it would make great (reality) TV.

  “Don’t you guys see what’s happening here?” Dylan screeched. Someone had to be the Bruce Jenner in this scene, and it may as well be her.

  “Shut! Up!” Jamie yelled. “You always take her side!”

  “Ehma-what?” Dylan said, dumbfounded.

  “Girls, let’s—” Merri-Lee tried, but not really.

  “And you always take her side!” Ryan screamed. She stood up and threw her napkin down on the table. “Screw this. I’m going to go have dinner with Hunter. At least he likes me!”

  Jaime looked like she’d been slapped in the face.

  The director yelled “Cut!”

  So Dylan did. Taking her knife, she sliced into another piece of lasagna and ate around the petals. For the sake of “reality.”

  CUT TO:

  Merri-Lee opened a cabinet, scanned its contents, and then closed it. She tried the next one, and then the one after that.

  “The serving dishes go over here, Mom,” Dylan said patiently.

  “Silly me! I always forget.” Merri-Lee laughed.

  Forget? Like you ever knew, Dylan thought—something she was getting used to doing when the cameras were around.

  She and her mother were “cleaning up the kitchen” after the disastrous dinner. It was a redundant effort, because production had already cleaned up most of it. But Dylan got the sense that she and “Merrily” were supposed to have some sort of mother-daughter moment. Due to her lack of experience, Dylan recalled the Gilmore Girls for inspiration.

  “Thanks for helping me clean,” Merri-Lee said. She cupped the glass of red wine that production had poured for her and took a seat at the breakfast bar. Once Dylan put away the last of the clean dishes, she joined her and guzzled the Diet Coke that someone had helpfully placed on the counter. Sponsor much?

  “That was some fight your sisters were having, huh?”

  Dylan tensed, feeling the cameraman breathing down her neck as he tried to get his shot. She wondered what he’d do if she took the camera and broke it over his head. Would it be considered good TV?

  “Anyway, I’m glad we have this alone time.” Merri-Lee’s face was as concerned as her Botox injections would allow. She reached into the pocket of her Vera Wang tunic and held up a small package of pills. The light from the overhead rig reflected off of it, making Dylan squint.

  Merri-Lee t
ook a deep breath. “I found these diarrhea pills in your purse.”

  “WHAT?” Dylan gave the producer hovering in the doorway a death stare. “Mom, those are so nawt mine.”

  Merri-Lee put a manicured hand on Dylan’s knee. “I’m concerned that you might be taking extreme, unhealthy measures to control your weight. You must face a lot of pressure, having me as a mom. But these”—she waved the packet of pills around—“are not the answer.”

  The scene was a bigger setup than the latest Real Housewives reunion show. This cannawt be happening, Dylan thought. She knew those pills had to have been planted by the producer. After all, she had never felt better about her body! The effects of her Caribbean cleanse were still showing, and the shoot schedule had kept her way too busy to sneak extra meals. For the first time, she believed all those celebrities who said they were too busy to eat. Besides, Dylan had enough gas and urgency on a normal day. Why on Earth would she ever want more?

  “You have to believe me,” she began, staring intently into Merri-Lee’s matching green eyes. “Those pills are not mine. Someone must have put them in there by mistake. It’s okay, though.” She patted Merri-Lee’s hands. Two could play this game. “I forgive you for accusing me.”

  Merri-Lee’s eyes tightened. “I’m sorry, Dyl-pickle, but I don’t believe you. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ground you.”

  The room fell silent as Dylan felt the repercussions of that word. She was grounded? She’d never been grounded in her life. Merri-Lee believed in the Dina Lohan style of parenting—let whatever happens, happen.

  Until now, anyway.

  Another camera showed up, this time blocking the doorway to the back staircase. Slowly, Dylan slid out of her chair, held her red head up high, and brusquely pushed the camera aside. She stomped up to her room, her Fiorentini & Baker boots echoing in time with the cameraman’s rhythm, then slammed the door squarely in his face.

  CUT TO:

  Lasagna was everywhere. Table after table of steaming, heavenly smelling dishes. She went from one plate to the next, eating a forkful at each station, savoring the perfectly cooked flat noodles, the crushed tomatoes, the cheese…