My Little Phony - 13

by Lisi Harrison

  But the alpha couldn’t expose her jumpy nerves. Her betas expected her to know everything and to approach life with confidence and knowledge. Instinctively, Massie peeked out at the guesthouse again. Her subconscious guided her toward Claire, just as it always did during times of insecurity. But she was nowhere in sight. Massie would have to deal with this one alone.

  Her iPhone bwooped again.

  Landon: Is that a yes?

  “Someone’s hungry for some cake,” Alicia giggled.

  “Too bad,” Massie declared authoritatively. “No one’s eating cake with all that H1N1 going around. It’s unsafe!”

  “Puh-lease,” Alicia rolled her big brown eyes. “That’s so last year.”

  Dylan took a swig of her Red Bull. “Swiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiine fluuuuuuuuuuu,” she burped.

  Kristen laughed so hard, she snorted like a pig.

  “See?” Massie pointed. “Kristen just got it!”

  “Whatevs.” Alicia petted her faux-rabbit pillowcase. “I’d get the swine from someone that fine.” She grabbed Massie’s iPhone.

  “Hey!” Massie lunged toward her like she was at a Tory Burch sample sale and Alicia was the last pair of gold-embellished T-strap wedge sandals. “Give that back!”

  “I WANT UR LIPS TO LAND ON ME!” Alicia typed, her fingers flying over the keypad. “Get it?” she asked. “LAND-on.”

  Massie grabbed Alicia’s arm, knocking the phone to the floor. She reached for it, but Kristen busted out some crazy soccer move and leg-swept it away. Then, lifting it with her toes, Kristen popped it into her hand.

  “Impressive,” Dylan marveled.

  Kristen smiled her thanks while she typed. “LET’S SWAP SWINE!”

  Dylan grabbed the phone. “I’ve got it: HAVE YOUR CAKE AND EAT IT TOO… OFF MY LIPS.”

  “Hand that over, or I’m going to give you the Todd Cut while you’re sleeping!” Massie growled.

  Dylan tossed her the phone. Massie caught it in her right hand, her thumb grazing the screen.

  Bwoooooop!

  Oh no.

  No.

  No no no no noooo.

  The snow outside seemed to stop swirling. Dylan froze mid-laugh. Alicia paused mid-gloss. Kristen’s mouth fixed in a round O. Bean rolled over and played dead. Massie wished she would die for real.

  “Eh-ma-killmenow!” she wailed. “That message just got sent!”

  After a quick exchange of nervous glances, the girls snapped into emergency advice mode.

  “Maybe he lost his phone,” Dylan said quietly.

  “Maybe he went blind,” Kristen offered.

  “Maybe Bark chewed his phone,” Alicia tried.

  “Yeah,” Dylan added. “Like an iBone.”

  “Opposite of funny!” Massie wailed.

  Just then she heard the tune from “You Belong with Me”—Landon’s exclusive ringtone.

  Landon: U read my mind.

  “Ehmagawd,” Massie gasped. “He thinks I sent those! Now what?”

  Alicia tossed Massie her dented tube of Clarins lip balm. “Start moisturizing, that’s what.”

  A yogurt-cover pretzel began inching its way back up Massie’s throat. It was obviously freaking out, too, and eager to escape. If only it could take her with it.

  THE BLOCK ESTATE

  THE GUESTHOUSE

  Friday, December 5th

  9:37 P.M.

  Claire grinned and tugged on the tassels of her new blue hat. Life was good.

  When she’d first learned of Massie’s Friday-night sleepovers, she’d envisioned late nights full of bedazzling, crafting friendship bracelets and gum-wrapper chains, Gilmore Girls marathons, and pajama dance parties. And then she’d actually attended one and her vision was scared away, leaving behind a dust cloud of shattered dreams and an overnight bag filled with unstrung beads and fishing wire.

  But now, after a yearlong absence, those sleepover visions had finally returned. Only this time, they were real. And even better than she had imagined.

  Claire and her mom had transformed their cozy living room into a veritable Candy Land. Overflowing bowls of marshmallows, graham crackers, Hershey’s chocolate bars, gummy feet, and jelly beans tempted her guests to indulge their sweet teeth and fatten their funny bones. Sugar substitutes and the dreaded f-words—“fat” and “free”—were not invited.

  “Beep… beep… beep,” Layne said, impersonating a truck while she backed a triple-decker s’more into her mouth. Her nostrils flared as she attempted to chew the wide load. Claire gagged a little as Layne’s green eyes began to water.

  “Ahhhhh.” Layne finally swallowed. “Those remind me of Girl Scouts.”

  “You were a Girl Scout?” Cara asked while sideswiping her bangs.

  “No.” Layne lay back on the sage-colored carpet and rubbed her protruding belly. “I’m talking about the cookies. If they gave out badges for eating those things, I’d look like a patchwork quilt.”

  “You’re going to look like a duvet if you don’t ease up,” Claire joked.

  Layne lifted her head and shot her friend a pained glance. It stung like a slap on the cheek.

  Claire quickly apologized. Not so much because she’d insulted Layne, but because her comment had sounded judgmental and controlling. In fact, it bordered on fat-phobic. It was a Massie comment. Like a cough that lingers after the cold is gone, Claire still had traces of the alpha in her system. For that she truly was truly sorry, and she popped two marshmallows in her mouth to prove it.

  Layne showed her that all was forgiven with a soft smile and the renewed desire to decorate her toenails with mini rhinestones.

  Syd sat cross-legged at the wooden coffee table, sewing soda-can tabs onto a sustainable metallic clutch, the tip of her tongue sticking out between her gold-glossed lips. Cara was making an eco-friendly makeup brush holder out of recycled Popsicle sticks.

  “Do you think I should make a separate one for eyeliner or just put them all in the same holder?” Cara asked.

  “What leaves a smaller carbon footprint?” Syd replied, with a sewing needle between her lips.

  “Smaller carbon feet,” Layne offered.

  The girls burst out laughing.

  “Like these?” Claire wiggled her toes inside her fuzzy, googley-eyed frog socks, and the girls laughed even harder.

  Massie would have thought Layne’s joke was lame times ten—and that Claire’s socks were an insult to amphibians. But Claire quickly reminded herself that Massie’s opinions no longer mattered. Sure, the hat was a nice gesture. But it wasn’t enough to make Claire turn against her new friends. Nothing was—or would ever be again.

  “Hey, Syd,” Layne said, waving her rhinestones dry. “Do ninth-grade boys like independent women?”

  Syd pushed her clutch aside and contemplated the question. She obviously took great pride in being the only girl at the sleepover with a high school boyfriend. And she clearly wanted to give her impressionable students sound advice. “I think it depends on the guy.” She sat up on her knees and folded her hands on the coffee table. “Like Doug, for example. He’s glad I have plans with you guys tonight, but that’s only because he doesn’t have band practice. If he had practice, he’d definitely want me there.” She glanced at the home screen on her phone. It was a picture of Doug and his reggae band, Smells Like Uncle Hugh, standing in front of a Bob Marley poster at Spencer Gifts. “So I guess it’s all about balance and communication.”

  Cara nodded in agreement.

  “So which musicians make the best boyfriends?” Claire asked.

  The girls looked at her with devilish curiosity.

  “No,” Claire giggled nervously. “It’s not like that. I was just wondering. I swear. Cam and I are great.” Her cheeks burned.

  “Well”—Syd leaned forward on her elbows—“if you’re ever looking for an upgrade, I’d say go for the drummer.”

  They asked her why.

  “He’s all the way in the back,” she explained. “He gets no attention w
hatsoever, so his ego is typically smaller—”

  “And you know what they say about drummers with small egos,” Cara snickered.

  Layne and Claire exchanged confused glances.

  “Big sticks!” the ninth graders shouted together.

  Layne, her feet stretched out in front of her, speed-scooted her butt closer to the coffee table. “What else?”

  “Dictation!” Syd insisted.

  Claire and Layne cracked the spines of their newly purchased recycled notebooks, their matching scented glow-in-the-dark candy cane pens hovering above the wood-flecked paper. They were ready for their daily dose of high school wisdom.

  “Syd and Cara’s Guy-dlines,” Syd announced.

  Claire copied down the title and underlined it twice.

  “Number one,” Cara began. “Guys who listen, we’ll be kissin’.”

  “If his style is lame, he’s got no game,” Syd continued.

  One by one, the girls took turns reciting their Guy-dlines while Claire and Layne wrote at a fat-burning pace.

  If he uses too much mousse, cut him loose.

  If he’s mean, he’s off the scene.

  If he’s a flirt, make him hurt.

  If he loves your pet, you’re all set.

  If he calls you fat, block him on G-chat.

  If he has BO, the answer is no.

  If he doesn’t own soap, the answer is nope.

  If bikini babes are on his walls, screen his calls.

  If he makes good jokes, return his Facebook pokes.

  Acting like a mute is so not cute.

  If he won’t admit to crying, he’s heartless or lying!

  T-zone too slick? Make a new pick.

  If he ignores you at school, the guy’s a fool.

  If he burps in your face, you must replace.

  If your photos cover the inside of his locker, he’s a stalker.

  If he has an earring, consider disappearing!

  If he can’t score a goal, stop, drop, and roll.

  If he won’t return a text, move on to the next.

  If he’s rude to your mother, go find another.

  Rude to your pop? Close up shop.

  If he’s a bad kisser, find your inner disser.

  If he fails driver’s ed, date his friend instead.

  If you catch him in a lie, find an honest guy.

  If he has no muscle, time to hustle.

  If he doesn’t think you’re funny, the boy ain’t money.

  If he’d rather play Wii, hasta la vista, baybeeeeeee.

  “I have one,” Claire said. “If his eyes don’t match, he’s a good catch.”

  “Nice,” Cara applauded.

  “How about…” Layne waggled her unplucked brows. “Use a brush, or no crush.”

  “No floss, his loss,” Syd giggled.

  Claire scribbled furiously.

  Bzzzzzzzzz.

  The oven timer interrupted their list making.

  “Cookies are ready!” Claire tossed her notebook on the coffee table and hurried to the kitchen. Her mom was standing over the wooden butcher’s block, flipping through the paper, her brown bun held in place by a meat thermometer.

  Judi Lyons pushed her reading glasses onto her forehead. “Having fun?”

  Claire smiled. “Yeah. Lots.”

  “I can tell. You’re acting like my little Claire Bear again.” She pulled her daughter in for a hug.

  “Moooooooooooom.” Claire wiggled out of her mom’s grasp.

  “Sorry. Was I acting like an LBR?”

  “Stop,” Claire shuddered at her mother’s attempt to speak Massie.

  “What?” Judi bit her bottom lip. “Does that make you miss her?”

  “No,” Claire insisted. “It makes me miss you.”

  Mrs. Lyons laughed, and then slid the red-and-white-gingham oven mitts toward her daughter.

  Claire lifted the holiday-scented cinnamon cookies out of the oven and arranged them on a pink heart-shaped serving tray. Her mother was right. She was feeling like her old self again. No one had criticized her clothing, called her Kuh-laire, or questioned her about her friends in weeks. It was more liberating than a skinny-dip in August.

  “Did someone order Cinnabon?” Claire bellowed, returning to her friends with a tray full of chewy love.

  The girls didn’t respond. They didn’t even look at her. They were squat-huddled over Layne’s iPhone, distracted by something major. By the look of their intensity, it seemed like more drama than a mere 3G device could deliver.

  Claire set the cookies down on the fireplace mantel and hurried over.

  “No wayyyyy,” Cara said. “I’m not shaving my head!”

  Syd pulled anxiously on her short brown bob. “That look didn’t work for Natalie Portman in Vendetta, and it won’t work for me.”

  Claire knelt down next to Layne. “What’s going on?”

  Syd shot back three feet and cowered next to the fire. Cara clutched a Popsicle stick so tight, it broke in half.

  “Nothing.” Layne tried to hide the phone behind her back, but Claire snatched it out of her hands.

  Massie: Heads up! There’s a louse in the house. Y do U think Todd shaved his head? Make sure Claire doesn’t wear Todd’s blue hat. Sleep tight. Don’t let the head bugs bite! O

  Claire whipped off the hat.

  “Ehh!” Syd gasped, scrambling to her feet. “Don’t spray them!”

  Cara grabbed her tie-dyed canvas bag and quickly covered her head.

  The gummies in Claire’s stomach joined together for a group hug in a gooey show of support. “I don’t have lice,” she cried in a mass of anger and desperation. “And neither does Todd!”

  “Then why would May-see say you did?” Cara challenged.

  Syd put her hands on her hips. “Yeah, and why would your brother shave his head? It’s obviously not flattering, so…”

  “Because she’s Mah-ssie,” Claire explained. “She’s mad that I’m hanging out with you, and she’s trying to scare you away.”

  “That’s quite an elaborate plan, wouldn’t you say?” Syd said, stuffing her pop-top clutch with the sewing supplies.

  “Not for her,” Layne said, sounding unimpressed by the alpha’s latest scheme. But she was obviously trying to comfort Claire, because even she had to admit it was an impressive—albeit demented, self-centered, and malicious—scheme.

  Cara rubbed the duffel against her scalp, tending to an itch that wasn’t there. “That’s a lot of trouble to go through just to get back at someone.”

  “Here’s a rule,” Syd added, grabbing Cara by the wrist. “If there’s lice in the hair, get outta there!”

  Cara nodded, allowing herself to be pulled toward the front door.

  “I need a Brillo-bath—stat,” Syd said, with a squirmy wiggle.

  “Wait! I promise, no one has lice!” Claire cried.

  But her words fell on panic-stricken ears, and faster than she could say, “RID,” her new friends took off.

  Hot tears prickled at the back of Claire’s eyes. She felt a heavy arm plop down over her shoulders. “You’re not leaving too, are you?” she asked Layne, her voice shaking.

  “No to the way,” Layne said. A smile spread over her lips. “I had lice once, and I happen to love the shampoo. It smells like science camp.”

  Claire hung her head. “I don’t have lice.”

  “I know,” Layne said simply. “If they believe you have lice, they aren’t very nice.”

  Claire linked her arm through Layne’s. “A friend that is true, will stand by you,” she would have said if she thought she could speak without crying. Instead, she tried to inhale the comforting smell of cinnamon cookies.

  But that, too, was gone.

  THE BLOCK ESTATE

  MASSIE’S ROOM

  Saturday, December 6th

  10:56 A.M.

  “Kiwi Strawberry?” suggested Dylan.

  Massie shook her head. “Landon once told me kiwis make his lips itch.”

>   “Well, then you could scratch his lips with yours!”

  “Eww!” Alicia tossed a fuzzy slipper at Dylan’s head.

  “Candy Cane?” Kristen called out.

  “Then he’ll think she’s trying to cover up bad breath.” Alicia turned toward Massie. “I mean, not that you would be.”

  “Cayenne Pepper?” Dylan asked.

  “Too hawt to handle!” Massie joked.

  Kristen squinted at a green tube. “This looks like mold.”

  “Toss it,” Massie instructed. “I never liked the Caesar Salad flavor.”

  “Okay, what about Passion Fruit!”

  “Or Vanilla Bliss.”

  “Vanilla KISS!”

  “Ha ha,” Massie said drily.

  She’d awoken that morning with a smile on her face. Two sets of fresh footsteps had led away from the guesthouse, meaning she’d successfully defriended Claire the previous night. But then she’d received a text from Landon, reminding her that it was T-minus three days until their first lip kiss, and her heart had plummeted faster than Tiger Woods’s career. Now she and her friends were standing in front of Gloss Row, a glass-encased wall of her closet that contained her entire lip gloss collection, trying to decide which gloss would be most effective for kissing an older man.

  Alicia pushed her dark hair off her shoulder. “We should play gloss tarot to see what the kiss will be like.”

  “What’s that?” Dylan asked.

  “Massie closes her eyes and picks a gloss from her collection,” Alicia answered. “Then whatever flavor it is, it’ll tell her something about what the kiss will be like.”

  Massie rolled her eyes, but Kristen and Dylan nodded eagerly.

  “Where’d you learn that?” Dylan asked.

  “My cousin Nina went to this psychic last weekend who said that if you have a question and you concentrate on channeling the energy of the question out into the universe, you can tell your fortune with almost anything.” Alicia shrugged.

  Massie was about to make a crack about Alicia’s cousin’s brain being out of the universe, but a wave of kiss-anxiety hit her, so she closed her eyes and plucked one of the glosses from the pile.