My Little Phony - 13

by Lisi Harrison

  “Is it my imagination, or is she getting even meaner?” Cam asked.

  “Is that even possible?” Layne affixed a mass of curly silver ribbon strands to her wax lips. “That would be like the ocean getting wetter.”

  Claire finished wrapping the earrings for her mom. This time last year, she’d bought a gold lion charm for Massie. The red metallic box it had come in was so pretty, she couldn’t bring herself to wrap it. Massie had immediately put it on her charm bracelet and worn it every day since. Claire had always seen it as the moment they’d truly become friends. With a pang, she wondered if Massie had taken it off when she’d declared war on Claire.

  Once again, just for a moment, Claire couldn’t help but feel guilty. Maybe she and Layne had gone too far. But no. Massie had brought this on herself by being controlling. She was a bully, and if this were the fifth sequel to Bring it On, this would be the part of the movie where Claire battled back from a bruised ankle (courtesy of Massie tripping her) only to rise to the top of the cheer-pyramid during the last seconds of the Nationals. She’d fist pump the air to the uber-emotional strains of Taylor Swift’s “Fifteen,” while Massie sat alone in the crowd, wearing an ill-fitting sports cap and eating a box of caramel popcorn.

  And like that cheer-champion, Claire refused to feel bad. It was her turn to be on top.

  THE WESTCHESTER MALL

  SAKS FIFTH AVENUE

  Thursday, December 11th

  3:57 P.M.

  “All the jingle ladies, all the jingle ladies,” the Pretty Committee sang as they glided through the garlanded doors of the Westchester Mall.

  Alicia and Kristen harmonized while Dylan swung her hips, narrowly avoiding knocking over a display of high heel–shaped gingerbread cookies near the Saks entrance. While her friends sang, Massie kept her Sugar-and-Spice Glossip Girl–glossed lips closed. She was on a mission.

  And it did not involve caroling.

  “Wow. They’ve literally decked the halls,” Kristen said, admiring the Swarovski crystal lights that bordered every archway and window, and the red and green silk ribbons that draped artfully from ceiling to floor. Every store sparkled with tinsel and glass ornaments. The scent of pine filled the air. It was like walking through the most expensive forest in the world.

  “Merry Christmas!” called an elf wearing curled green shoes, handing Massie a candy cane.

  “Ugh,” Massie growled. She cracked the candy in half and threw it back at the elf.

  “Hey!” the elf cried, throwing up his hands to deflect the flying shards.

  “The halls aren’t the only things getting decked around here,” Dylan joked, taking the candy cane another elf handed her and sticking it in her mouth.

  “Point.” Alicia lifted her finger. “What’s wrong, Mass? Where’s your holiday cheer?”

  “Under a tent in my walk-in closet,” Massie snapped. “Which is why we’re here to buy me a new wardrobe.”

  She’d done the best she possibly could to transform yesterday’s outfit: She’d hiked up her pencil skirt into a mini and tied two pink hair ribbons around her waist to give the illusion of a belt. Then she’d folded her ecru cashmere shrug into a rosette, which was now pinned to her sleeveless blouse. Sure, she looked great. But it was a recycled outfit, and while it may have been good for the environment, it was bad for the soul.

  As they entered Saks, her phone buzzed with a text from Landon.

  Landon: Did u get the cake?

  She hit IGNORE. She couldn’t even begin to think about Landon until she bought a new outfit. She pulled three index cards out of her purse and handed them to her friends. “Here are your shopping lists. Any questions?”

  DYLAN—TOPS

  COLORS

  Acceptable: Wine, sapphire, bronze, gray (dark, not heather), eggplant, black, white, peach (but not too pink!), sage

  Unacceptable: Emerald, powder pink, dusty lavender, yellow, puke green

  FABRICS

  Acceptable: Silk, tulle, linen, 100% cotton, sequins (bronze only).

  Unacceptable: Anything with a greater than 5% blend. Rayon, polyester, mesh, netting. ABSOLUTELY NO LYCRA!

  ALICIA—BOTTOMS (subset: Skirts)

  STYLES

  Acceptable: Mini, bubble, pockets (but not those big drapy ones that look like extra thighs).

  Unacceptable: A-line, anything below $50, anything below the knee (makes even the skinniest calves look fat).

  KRISTEN—BOTTOMS (subset: Pants and Shoes)

  PANTS

  Acceptable: Skinny, wide-leg, zippered bottoms, anklet, flared.

  Unacceptable: Straight-leg, high-waisted, hip-ballooned, capri, pedal-pushers.

  SHOES (SIZE: 6)

  Acceptable: If you don’t know by now what kind of shoes I like, then we have a problem.

  Unacceptable: Starts with K and rhymes with dead.

  Dylan cleared her throat as she scanned her list. “Um, Massie? Are you sure you don’t want something with a little Lycra in it? It can be comfortable to stretch a little.” She placed her hand on a Tory Burch boot and stretched her hammy.

  Massie narrowed her eyes at the redhead. “No more bending! Also, sumptuous fabrics are in,” she reminded her friends when they got to the contemporary designer section. “Think velvet and brocade.” She held up a thin Theory crocheted sweater and placed it under a shrunken Elizabeth and James velvet blazer the color of her horse Brownie’s mane. “You have fifteen minutes to browse. Text me the photos, avoid salespeople, and remember: NO LYCRA. Now, fan out!”

  Dylan groaned, touching a black leather belt stitched with metallic silver thread. “I want to buy it all! Why did I spend my entire allowance?”

  “Tell me about it,” Alicia and Kristen said at the same time.

  Massie caught sight of a kidney bean–shaped chaise longue by the dressing room. It was a perfect periwinkle velvet—a cross between Landon’s eyes and a stormy ocean.

  “Kristen,” she barked. “Go ask the salesgirl if that chaise comes in a dress.”

  “But, Massie I don’t think—” Kristen said slowly.

  “Nike!” Massie snapped.

  “How can I just do it if—”

  “Nike!” Massie snapped again.

  Kristen turned in a huff to find a salesgirl. Massie shooed the other girls away and started flipping through a rack of Rebecca Beeson dresses. Usually shopping with the PC was one of her favorite things to do, but today it brought her all the joy of an eyebrow wax. She pawed through silk skirt after shrunken blazer, feeling like a prisoner on death row. Only instead of picking her last meal, she had to pick her last outfit—the last outfit she would wear as Landon’s crush.

  By the time she’d worked her way through Laundry, BCBG, and Twelfth Street by Cynthia Vincent, Dylan, Alicia, and Kristen had returned, staggering under piles of jewel-toned fabrics.

  “They don’t have the couch in a dress,” Kristen said, her pointy chin resting atop a pair of dark wash Citizens. “But they do have it in a pillow.”

  “Uch!” Massie stomped into the brightly lit dressing room and dropped her mound of clothes on a mushroom-shaped stool.

  “Oof!” Dylan tripped over a fallen satin camisole. “Man down!”

  “Gotcha!” Alicia dropped her armful of clothes to reach out and steady the redhead.

  “A little privacy please,” Massie snapped, shutting the doors against her friends. She turned to take in her booty—there were shirts, blazers, jeans, and shoes of every color and shape. She quickly pulled off her recycled outfit, instantly feeling lighter.

  “Ahhhh!” she sighed happily as she tried on a draped, charcoal gray Alexander Wang jersey dress. The belted midsection showed off her waist, and the skirt stopped just above her knees, hiding the worst of her scratch-welts. The soft-as-Bean’s-paws fabric soothed her itchy skin and reminded her of the true purpose of fashion: to make her look and feel great.

  She came out of the dressing room with the strut of an alpha who’d never had to share a pillow wi
th a cockroach or an intimate lip kiss with her ex-crush’s grandparents. “Thoughts?”

  Dylan, Kristen, and Alicia sat on the kidney bean. They all tilted their heads to the right.

  “Beautiful.”

  “Classy yet fun.”

  “Ten!”

  “Perfect.” Massie went back inside and grabbed the outfit she’d discarded on the floor, throwing it in the dressing room’s little metal trashcan with a satisfying plunk. “You know what?” she said over the door, pulling on a pair of black ribbed tights. “I’m just going to get all of it and try the rest on at home. Let’s go get lattes. On me!”

  Massie emerged from the dressing room still in the Alexander Wang dress, her arms laden with some of her best friends: Calvin, Dolce, and Marc, to name a few. As she led the PC to the counter, the lavender-and-steam scent of new clothing filled her nostrils, reminding her that some things—like her impeccable fashion sense and her ability to stay on top no matter the horrific circumstances—never change.

  “Oh, I have this Alice + Olivia dress too. I love it,” said the clerk as she rang everything up. Her name tag read SHELLY.

  “Mmm,” Massie sniffed. Then she handed over her Saks card and ripped the tags out of the military-style Elie Tahari jacket she’d placed over her new dress.

  Dylan picked up a pair of silver polka-dotted socks hanging next to the counter. “I don’t know how I feel about the whole socks-over-tights trend.”

  Alicia rolled her eyes. “That’s because it’s not a trend. It’s a faux pas.”

  Shelly swiped Massie’s silver card through her register. “Hm.” Two dents like quotation marks formed between her brows. “I’m sorry, miss, but it’s saying it’s denied. Do you have another card you’d like to use?”

  Massie sighed. “Here.” She produced a Platinum AmEx. “Use this one instead.”

  The clerk slid it through, slowly and deliberately. A moment passed, then she spoke again. “Sorry, miss, but this one is denied too.”

  Alicia, Kristen, and Dylan fell silent. A line four-deep waited behind them.

  “Maybe you’re doing it wrong.” Massie held her voice steady, but the word denied had sent 9.8-magnitude vibrations through her body. She handed over her Visa Black.

  “Denied,” said the clerk again. The quotation-mark wrinkles on her brow had smoothed out, but she didn’t bother to hide the irritation in her voice.

  “Try it again,” Massie demanded. A Coach-clad mother and her wavy-haired teenage daughter joined the end of the line.

  “I’ve tried it six ways to Sunday,” said the clerk, as Coach Mom whispered, “What is that girl’s problem?” to her daughter.

  “This is why elementary school children shouldn’t be allowed to shop alone,” Wavy Hair replied with an exaggerated eye-roll.

  “Well, try it to Monday, then,” Massie insisted, resisting the urge to fan her pits with the card Shelly was trying to hand back to her.

  Alicia tipped her head forward, her glossy black hair hiding her entire face. Dylan snapped on her sunglasses. Kristen traced a circle on the marble floor with her Puma-sneakered toe.

  The clerk heaved a sigh but did as she was told. “Denied,” she announced loudly.

  “Shhhh!” Massie pawed through her purse for her last card; an emergency MasterCard in Bean’s name. “I’m sure it’s just because my parents are on vacation, and the credit card companies want to make sure nothing is being stolen,” she said to the PC.

  “That makes sense,” Dylan said, though her voice sounded unnaturally high. “That happened to me once when Merri-Lee went to Fiji.”

  “Denied,” the clerk singsonged, like Massie’s credit card crisis was a musical number in an upcoming episode of Glee.

  “This is ridiculous!” Massie pulled out her iPhone and dialed her mother’s cell, just as the blond girl who Claire used to hang out with, the one from ADD—Carol? Cat? Cara?—joined the back of the line. A bead of sweat dropped from the back of Massie’s hairline and trickled down her back. “You’ve reached Kendra Block…”

  “It’s Massie. Nine-one-one. Call me back.” Massie hung up the phone.

  “What are you going to do?” Kristen asked, picking at the hem of her Free People henley.

  “Well, one of you will have to pay for these until I figure this mistake out.”

  Shelly made a tsk-tsk noise with her tongue. Two more people joined the line.

  Gawd, thought Massie. Why was everyone and their mother shopping on a Thursday night?

  “I spent all my allowance on my snow-day shopping spree.” Dylan shrugged and took a few steps away from the counter.

  “Remember?” Alicia shook her head. “I’m on ‘browse’ mode because of the promise I made to my parents. No shopping till January.”

  “Don’t look at me,” Kristen frowned. “I’m poor.”

  “Ehmagawd,” Massie breathed. Then she redialed her mother with one hand and tossed her hair with the other.

  “You’ve reached…”

  Massie hung up and dialed again.

  “You’ve reached…”

  “WHY AREN’T YOU PICKING UP?” Massie yelled into the phone. “Call me.” Redial.

  “You’ve reached…”

  “I know who I’ve reached!” Massie screamed.

  “Echem.” Shelly tapped her eggplant-polished nails on the granite countertop. “I’m going to need you to step aside so I can help these other costumers.” She gestured to the line behind Massie, which had grown to nine customers.

  Massie put her hands on the counter and leaned forward until she was just inches from Shelly’s watery blue eyes. “Excuse me, but are you an iPhone on airplane mode?”

  “No.”

  “Then RING ME UP.”

  Shelly placed a hand on the black phone in front of her. She picked it up and pressed a single red button. “Security,” the clerk whispered. “We may have a situation.”

  Immediately, three guards clothed in gunmetal gray uniforms swarmed the counter.

  “Miss, you’ll need to come with us.”

  Massie felt like her entire body had been injected with Botox. She couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t open her mouth to form the flurry of angry words she wanted to hurl at the security guards. Instead, while the PC looked on, their hands clapped over their mouths, she just let the guards sweep her back to the dressing room, like they were the ocean and she was caught in a riptide.

  One guard, a man with gray hair and crinkly green eyes, handed her the outfit she’d stuffed in the trash can.

  “We’re prepared to let you off with a warning,” he said kindly, as though he were throwing her a life preserver. But all it did was remind her that she was drowning. And she had the sinking feeling that she hadn’t even hit rock bottom.

  THE GUESTHOUSE

  THE LIVING ROOM

  Friday, December 12th

  6:15 P.M.

  After school on Friday—and following a sledding date with Cam—a snow-covered Claire pushed through her blue-painted front door, Layne at her heels.

  The second she saw her living room, she stopped short.

  Layne slammed into her back. “Woah, Nelly!” She grabbed Claire’s shoulders to steady herself.

  “Um, Massie?” Claire said, taking in the transformed state of her living room. “What’s going on in here?”

  Massie, wearing what looked like ripped silk boxers, stood in the center of the living room, sorting through a stack of DVDs. The lights were turned down low, and pillows from every room in the house—Claire’s ORLAN-D’OH! Simpsons pillow, her parents’ lacy shams, even Todd’s old SpongeBob novelty pillow—were strewn around the coffee table. All of her mother’s best candles were piled on the table next to a stack of old Vogues. Bean was off to the side, snoozing on a pile of Luckys.

  Massie blinked in mock confusion. “What I do every Friday night. Host the PC’s sleepover.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” Claire blinked back, showing that she wasn’t going to let Mass
ie push her around. She crossed her arms and tilted her chin. “I forgot you had your weekly sleepovers in the living room of my house.”

  “Technically, it’s mine,” Massie answered, as if that explained everything.

  “You’re unbelievable,” Claire muttered, gathering up the candles and putting them back in their boxes. Yes, technically the guesthouse belonged to the Blocks, but it was Claire’s home. That had to count for something, didn’t it?

  Massie unpacked the candles again and placed a thick silver one on the table with a bang. “Wherever I am, the sleepover is. So, if I am forced to live in”—she looked around her, as if the room were a Salvation Army warehouse filled with coffee-stained furniture—“these conditions, this is where the sleepover will be.” She picked up a bottle of Crabtree & Evelyn Clean Cotton Room Spray and spritzed madly, like she was a firing squad executing smelly prisoners.

  “Do you even still have friends? Or have you Lycra’d them out of your life?” Claire said, sneezing as a waft of cotton smell settled over her.

  “Good job!” Layne said, smacking Claire on the back.

  “I guess you’ll never know,” Massie shrugged, ignoring Layne. “Because you’re nawt invited.”

  “Like we care. Layne and I already have plans for tonight. And they don’t involve lip-kissing our magazines.” She motioned to an old copy of Vanity Fair with Robert Pattinson on the cover.

  Layne pulled a bag of mini carrots from her pockets and nibbled on one like it was a piece of corn. “Wait, who has big plans? We do?”

  “Yes,” Claire said through gritted teeth. “Remember?”

  “Oh. Right. Big plans.” Layne turned to Massie and put her hands on her black jeans–clad hips. “Huge plans. We can’t even talk about them because they’re so top secret.”

  Massie rolled her eyes. “Well, I hope they don’t involve makeovers of any kind. The world can’t handle another follicle-challenged Lyons.”

  Claire gasped.