Layne reached out one big-yellow-gloved hand from her perch and took a step up the ladder that was leaned against the outer wall of Massie’s house. Then she checked to make sure her harnesses and clamps were secure.
Claire and Layne had dressed themselves in black from head to spray-painted Keds. Layne had even painted black zebra stripes under her eyes, like a football player. She had tons of trapeze equipment at home from circus camp, so she had insisted on being the active agent in this mission. She wore a miner’s helmet with a headlamp, safety goggles, a pair of climbing gloves, and an intricate system of harnesses and carabiner clips. She looked like Lady Gaga on tour. It seemed like kind of a lot, considering she was just going to be climbing up one story on a very secure-looking ladder. And the harnesses and carabiners were attached only to themselves. But Layne had insisted it was much safer and more official this way.
“Let’s practice the bird sound again,” Layne said.
Claire’s role was more avian than active. She was to stand watch and make a bird sound if anyone came near.
“Well?”
“Cer-ooooo!” Claire whispered, feeling silly. “Cer-ooooo!”
“Well done,” said Layne. “Don’t forget. One cer-ooooo for Massie. Two cer-ooooos for anyone else.”
“Why can’t we use the same cer-ooooo? It’s kind of a lot to remember.” Claire glanced anxiously at her blue Baby G-Shock watch. It was the exact same color as Cam’s left eye, the one that she knew would look at her in disappointment when he found out what she had done. After hearing about their revenge plot, he’d told her not to go through with it. “Don’t stoop to her level,” he’d said. But this was war. And Massie had launched the first offensive.
Layne was saying, “Because, Kuh-lu-less, if it’s Massie I will have one story prepared, and for anyone else I will have another, equally moving story prepared.”
“A story prepared for what you’re doing in Massie’s room with a box full of bugs?” A gummy foot–shaped lump formed in the back of Claire’s throat, but she did her best to swallow it.
Layne fiddled with a metallic purple safety clip. “You’ve obviously never broken into anyone’s house before. Besides, no one will be home for hours, re-mem-ber?”
Claire’s teeth chattered. “I know, I know.”
With that Layne began to climb the ladder slowly, holding the habitat with one hand. “Look at me!” she whisper-shouted from the third rung. “I can see for miles. Look, there’s OCD! There’s the firehouse! There’s Ma and Pa.”
Claire giggled in spite of herself. She held the ladder steady, bracing against the reverberations of Layne’s Keds as they slammed against each step. But Layne had barely reached the fifth rung when, in what seemed like slow motion, she started to sway like a piece of overcooked pasta. She moved to grasp the sides of the ladder with both hands… and she let. Go. Of. The. Habitat.
“Ahhh!” Claire screamed as the plastic box bounced off her head. “Cer-ooooo! Cer-ooooo!” She squeezed her eyes shut, scared to open them and see what she knew to be true: Multiplying pincer bugs were burrowing into her black BDG sweatshirt, feasting on her pale skin, while the crickets left a microscopic trail of insect poo along her hair part, like a stylist applying highlights. Karma! Claire’s inner voice screamed at her as she doubled over and held her knees, breathing deeply into what their yoga teacher called the “child’s pose.”
“Claire!” Layne’s voice sounded from above as her sneakers squeaked down the ladder.
“Are they on me?” Claire asked, swatting herself hysterically.
“Oh no…” Layne gasped. Claire looked up just as Layne hopped off the bottom rung of the ladder. But one of her carabiners had snagged the ladder’s rung. It toppled like a silver domino. In the silence of the night, the crash sounded louder than a foghorn.
“Layne!” Claire shouted at her friend, who was trapped beneath it. “Are you okay?”
“Hurry!” Layne shouted back. The bugs were scurrying in opposite directions.
Taking a deep breath, Claire bent down and, as quickly as she could she—yuck, yuck, yuck, yuck, yuck, yuck, yuck, yuck!—picked up the bugs and tossed them into the habitat before she could feel their creepy-crawly little legs poke her through her mittens. She locked the habitat, then helped disentangle Layne from the ladder. Together, the two propped it back up against the house.
“Do you think anyone heard?” Layne asked, opening her eyes wide as she scanned the backyard for movement.
“All the lights are still off,” Claire pointed out. “So I think we’re clear.”
“Phew! Although,” Layne said, holding up one yellow-gloved finger in the air, “I would like to point out that your use of cer-ooooo in that situation was not entirely correct.”
Claire shook her head as Layne slowly but surely started back up the rungs. When she finally reached the top, she pushed on the windowpane. Once. Twice. “Cer-ooo, cer-ooo!” she whisper-screamed.
“Is someone in there?” Claire cried out, the muscles in her legs coiling, getting ready to bolt.
“It’s locked.”
Claire tilted her head up. The Big Dipper shone brightly in the sky like a bunch of judgmental eyes. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah, you want me to punch through the window?” Layne sounded excited. “These gloves are pretty thick. I think I could do it.”
“Layne! No! I’ve got it covered,” Claire said. “Don’t go anywhere.”
Pressing her back against the stone wall, Claire inched her way along the perimeter of the Block Estate. Shrubs snatched at her thighs, and tree branches smashed her in the face. She crab-slid beneath a dry evergreen.
“Achoo!” she sneezed.
“Good job!” Layne called softly from around the corner. Instead of “Bless you” or “Gesundheit,” Layne liked to say, “Good job,” as in Good job getting those germs out of your nose. Claire rolled her eyes and shrank further into the bushes.
She made it to the Blocks’ large veranda with the giant, carved-out double doors. She perched behind a large potted plant and pressed her hand against the house’s stone façade. A gray brick popped open and revealed a digital keypad. She paused in front of the alarm. It had been so long since she’d used it. What was it again?
Massie’s birthday?
Or Bean’s?
Was it the date Massie became an official Glossip Girl black card member?
Guilt and adrenaline made her hands shake as she pressed 1–1–2–9.
The alarm let out a loud BEEEEP… then DISARMED flashed across the screen in neon red letters.
Tentatively, Claire pushed the door open.
Silence.
She opened the door a little more.
More silence.
Claire stepped into the vestibule of the Block house. There was no one in sight. Quietly, she tiptoed up the plush steps to the second floor. Looking both ways when she reached the second-floor landing, she scurried down the hall and into Massie’s room. The lights were out, and she didn’t dare turn them on. She stepped inside—and directly into something solid… and Massie-shaped.
“Massie!” Claire whisper-gasped, the smell of Passion Fruit filling her nostrils. This was it. It was all over. Her brain let out a forlorn, silent cer-oooo. “I was just…”
But when the figure didn’t let out a shrill Kuh-laire! Claire tentatively reached out her hand. Her fingers grazed something soft and squishy, like the foamy part of a pushup bra, but also hard, like Plexiglas. Claire laid a hand over her racing heart, relief flooding her body. Of course. The Massiequin.
Outside the window she saw Layne, perched on the ladder, flashing her miner’s headlamp in a plea to be let in.
Claire raced across the room and opened the window.
Layne climbed in and clicked the headlamp on. “I want to do a sweep for any Massie-cams or…” She paused dramatically. “BUGS.” She giggle-snorted into her right hand.
As Layne surveyed the room, images of former friendship with
Massie flashed through Claire’s brain. Gossiping on the white throw carpet about Olivia Ryan’s latest nose. IM’ing with the soccer boys on Massie’s MacBook. Trying on Alice + Olivia dresses in Massie’s massive walk-in closet.
Claire’s conscience sent Mean Girl Alert tremors through her body, and for a moment, she wondered if she should really go through with this. Massie was more scared of bugs than Demi Moore was of aging. What if she had a panic attack and turned Bella-white? And what if that panic attack induced an even worse panic attack and she got even whiter, like Bella in Breaking Dawn? At the very least, Massie would be really, really, really freaked out.
But then Claire saw a shaft of moonlight bouncing off Massie’s large flat-screen TV, reminding Claire of the way light now reflected off Todd’s bald head. Her resolve returned, stronger than ever. Massie had balded her brother under false pretenses and sabotaged her new friendships. She deserved to get Raided.
“All clear. No cams,” Layne announced. “Ooh, a Luna bar!” She unwrapped the treat and shoved it in her mouth.
“Layne,” Claire warned. “I think that’s one of Bean’s gourmet dog treats!”
“Huh.” Layne chewed thoughtfully. “Not bad.”
Claire pulled back Massie’s fluffy down comforter, revealing the lavender Frette sheets. Layne undid the top latch on the bug habitat and shook the creepy-crawlies out onto the bed, where they landed with soft kerplunks before scurrying in all directions.
“Go forth and conquer, you little buggers,” Layne said.
Claire and Layne folded the sheets back up and tucked them into the sides of the bed so the bugs couldn’t get out.
Suddenly, the sound of wheels crunching over gravel filled Claire’s ears, and headlights flashed through the window. The girls jumped.
“Evacuate,” Claire cried, fear constricting her throat.
Layne rushed to the window, tripping over Claire’s foot in her hurry. They fell on top of each other like they were playing a spirited game of Twister.
“Get awf me,” Layne said, her mouth shoved into the carpet.
“You get off me!” Claire rolled over and hit the side of Massie’s bureau. She kicked out her leg, knocking into a metal rod on wheels. The Massiequin. “Oh no!”
The mannequin wobbled back and forth, as if taking a minute to think over its next move, then fell on top of the two girls.
“It’s got me!” screeched Layne. “Save yourself, Claire! It’s too late for me.”
Claire righted the mannequin—which, oddly, looked like it had lip gloss on—and dragged Layne up from the floor. “Come on!”
“Cer-oooooo!” Layne whimpered. “Cer-ooooooo!”
Claire helped Layne through the window, and the two climbed quickly down to the ground below.
“Do you think she’ll suspect it was us who put the bugs in her bed?” Layne asked, her green eyes wide, when her feet were pressed firmly in the snow.
“I don’t know. But I do know why James Bond worked alone.” Claire shoulder-bumped Layne.
Layne nodded, a look of great certainty on her face. “Totes,” she said. “Because it was easier to score chicks that way.” And with that Layne ran-hobbled to her bike, and with one final “Cer-ooooo!” she took off.
THE BLOCK ESTATE
MASSIE’S BEDROOM
Tuesday, December 9th
9:09 P.M.
Fifteen minutes after the apoca-lips—although it felt more like fifteen years or fifteen seasons of Gossip Girl—Isaac pulled into the Blocks’ driveway, and Massie’s suspicion had solidified into fact. It was definitely over. Landon had not called or texted once. Not even to say he had Bean.
Massie’s stomach clenched, like she’d been kicked in the gut with a steel-toed stiletto. She’d never been this mortified, not even when Alicia had informed her that thong was nawt just another word for flip-flop. Within a matter of hours, it would be around the high school and the local old-age homes. Landon’s grandparents were obviously very tech-savvy. The next seventy years of her life would be plagued by this one horrible accident. She wondered how hard it was to get into witness—or in this case, kissness—protection and secure a new identity for herself.
Massie got out of the car, wiping the tears off her mascara-streaked cheeks. A warm yellow light was glowing from Claire’s bedroom window in the guesthouse. Massie felt a sudden overwhelming urge to run over there, knock on Claire’s window, and spill her guts about the kisstastrophe. Instead, she turned and trudged into her house.
The house was dark—her parents were still out—but for some reason the alarm system was down. She reactivated it, then just stood there breathing for a moment, thinking about how her anxiety cloud had just turned into a bluish-black tornado.
She ran up to her room, turned on the anxiety audiobook, and collapsed onto her white shag carpet.
“MAINTAIN PERSPECTIVE,” the voice told her. “THINGS ARE NEVER AS BAD AS THEY SEEM.”
Massie wondered if maybe, just maybe, her kiss wasn’t as bad as she thought. Maybe she had to maintain perspective, to find the good in her situation. Maybe her kiss was more similar to the famous kisses than she realized—it was, if nothing else, dramatic.
She reviewed her list mentally.
The Mys Kiss, in Spider-Man, for example, was similar because… well, Massie had been at sort of an awkward angle, which was kind of like how Spidey had been upside down. Although, it would have been more similar had Kirsten Dunst pulled Spidey’s face mask all the way down by accident during the kiss, knocking him off the wall and into a pile of cardboard crates.
The Risk Kiss in Twilight was similar because kissing in front of your crush’s grandparents was risky. Although the Risk Kiss would have been a little more similar if afterward Bella had actually died. Of embarrassment. The way Massie had.
The Diss Kiss at the VMAs was definitely similar insofar as only one of the participants in her kiss had actually been ready to kiss at that moment. Although the kisses would have been more similar if Kristen Stewart and Robert Pattinson had knocked foreheads and then he had run away screaming and fallen off the stage.
The Aqua-Bliss Kiss, truthfully, wasn’t similar to hers at awl, except for the fact that Massie had cried a lot afterward, so her face was just as wet as Rachel McAdams’s and Ryan Gosling’s faces after kissing in the rain.
The Hiss Kiss on Gossip Girl was similar because both kisses involved onlookers. The kiss would have been more similar, though, if when Serena kissed Nate at a party to make his cougar girlfriend jealous, it turned out that all of Nate’s family members and the family members of the cougar girlfriend were watching on video chat.
Oh gawd, who was she kidding? Her kiss belonged in a category all its own: the I’m Never Going to Get Over This Kiss. Oh gawd. The high-schoolers would laugh at her. The middle-schoolers would no longer look up to her. And the grade-schoolers would see her as a public service announcement for what nawt to do.
Massie’s iPhone buzzed loudly.
Landon?! Maybe he was telling her that he’d tucked Bean in for the night. Or that, after some thought, he’d decided he had liked the kiss and wanted to video all their kisses.
Frantically, she dumped her handbag on her bedspread. Out fell two Glossip Girl tubes, a case of peppermint Altoids, the ticket stub to Liaisons Diaboliques, a mascara-soaked tissue, and finally her iPhone. A text glowed on the screen.
Alicia: Ready to kiss and tell?
“Ugh!” Massie immediately powered down her phone and stuck it in her desk drawer. The only thing that could help now—short of a time machine—was sleep. She slipped into her lavender silk pajamas, then climbed onto her bed, and hid under the soft covers.
“Bean, is that you?” Massie called groggily an hour later, awaking to a light tickle on her leg.
“Arf?” Bean responded from her perch on her doggy bed, a clean three feet away from the tickle on Massie’s leg.
Confused, Massie sat up and snapped on her bedside light. She pulled back the p
urple duvet and—
“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”
THE GUESTHOUSE
CLAIRE’S BEDROOM
Tuesday, December 9th
10:17 P.M.
“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”
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