“Oh yeah?” Layne challenged. “Then how come he gave Bean that charm collar with the camera in it?” She didn’t skip a beat. “Probably so he can spy on you when you’re changing and taking a shower and stuff.”
Alicia gasped, crossing her arms over her C-cups. “Opposite of possible.”
Layne shrugged. “Says you,” she said, wiping her dripping forehead.
An uneasy silence settled over Table 18, making the sounds around them of clinking silverware, lunchtime gossip, and scraping bamboo chairs seem ten times louder than before. Claire side-glanced at Massie, who was speed-glossing with the ferocity of a snapping shark.
Claire relaxed back in her chair. It looked like The Real World: Westchester was being canceled before it even premiered. She resisted the urge to leap across the table and bear-hug Layne. The girl deserved an Oscar.
Suddenly, Massie reached across the table, grabbing the journal.
“Hey!” Layne lunged for the journal, but Massie held it out of her reach. “That’s mi—I mean, my brother’s!”
Massie flipped the notebook open to the last page, her amber eyes sliding back and forth. Seconds later, she slammed the open journal onto the table.
“‘October 31st. Dear diary. Halloween is, like, the best holiday there is. Me and my ninth-grade friends can’t wait to do all kinds of dirty stuff to all the eighth-grade OCD girls in trampy costumes. Especially the ones dressed like vampires.’”
Alicia gasped.
“‘But not my awesome sister, Layne,’” Massie continued dryly.
Claire’s stomach heaved. Suddenly, the warm sunlight beaming through the skylights felt like one of those overhead interrogation lights on CSI. Tiny beads of sweat formed underneath her bangs, threatening to drip pale rivers down her lightly bronzed forehead.
“‘She’s totally un-slutty. Actually she’s, like, the coolest, most original—’” Massie stopped reading and held up the diary. The pages were covered in glitter-marker scrawl. “Could you be any more ahbv-ious?” She rolled her eyes. “This is a total fake.”
“Layyyyne!” Kristen swatted Layne’s puffy white arm with a rolled-up magazine.
Massie leveled her glowing amber eyes at Claire, like she could read her innermost thoughts. “Take your dia-ryuhhh and leave, Layne,” she snapped, without shifting her gaze from Claire.
“Fine.” Layne swiped the journal from Massie’s grip, shoved back her chair, and apology-shrugged at Claire before stalking off in her puffy coat.
Claire clenched her jaw. Strike one. And now that Massie’s scheme-dar was up, saving the males was going to take more than a doctored diary.
It was going to take a miracle.
THE BLOCK ESTATE
UPGRADE HEADQUARTERS/THE SPA
Wednesday, November 5th
8:59 P.M.
Normally, the Zen-inspired dry section of the Blocks’ spa was a stressed alpha’s haven. The polished leather couches were inviting, the limestone fountain soothing, and the crackling fireplace comforting. If the feng shui space could talk, it would have whispered, Relaaaaaaahhhhhhxx to every visitor who stepped through the sliding wooden door.
Except for today. Today, the spa screamed, Ehmagawd-ninth-gradeboysaregoingtobehereinTWODAYSandI’mnawteven-CLOSEtobeingready!
With countless swimsuit rejects slung over the furniture, Glamour “Don’t” lists papering the walls, and three Sephora bags full of waterproof makeup testers crowding the marble-topped coffee table, the spa was the opposite of relaxing. Not even Massie’s Sounds of the Rainforest CD or Aquiesse Green Tea Pear candles were helping.
Massie stretched out in corpse pose, her tensed shoulders craving a deep-tissue massage. She and the Pretty Committee had scheduled a 9:00 p.m. conference call. She dialed Dylan on her iPhone and pressed SPEAKER.
“Time to get started,” she barked, jamming a fresh pair of cucumber slices over her eyes. “Everybody there?”
“Present,” Dylan mumbled over a mouthful of something crunchy.
“Tankinis are so sixth, right?” Alicia said.
“Ninety-niiiiiine, one-hundy!” Kristen groaned. “These boys better like six-packs.”
Then the line went silent.
“Kuh-laire?” Massie prompted, rubbing her bare feet over the zebra-print ottoman. The prickly calf hair tickled her soles, making her giggle.
“Study date with Cam,” Kristen said uncertainly. “She just IM’d.”
“Shocker.” These days, if it didn’t involve Cam, Layne, eighth, or gummies, Claire wasn’t interested. “First things first. Research.”
Massie sat upright and reached for the lavender legal pad on the coffee table. The lukewarm cucumber slices plopped to the floor, and she nudged them under the couch with her big toe. She flipped to the survey she’d created, which she’d told her friends to send out to at least three older guys.
Directions:
Please complete this top secret, ah-nonymous government survey and text back to sender NO LATER than Friday at 12 p.m. Participants must be male and graduated from eighth. Anyone who does not meet these qualifications will be disqualified ay-sap. (This means Cam, Kuh-laire.)
1. If I were attending a hot spa party hosted by even hotter alphas, I’d…
a) Snack on:_________________________
(insert fave snacks here)
b) Listen to: _________________________
(insert fave tunes/bands here)
c) Talk about: _________________________
(insert fave conversation topics here)
d) Play: _________________________
(insert fave party/video games here)
2. Cover-ups: Marisa Miller–hawt or Ugly Betty–nawt?
3. One pieces: Sexy mama or grandmama?
4. Spa treatments for boys are…
a) A must. How do you think Clooney’s T-zone stays so taut?
b) Not a deal breaker. But puh-lease, no girly-scented moisturizers.
c) A reason to RVSP NO WAY.
“So tell me your results,” Massie said. Hopefully, the other girls’ data would be enough to guide the party planning, since she hadn’t had time to find any acceptable older boys to survey. It wasn’t that she didn’t know any. It was just that the ones she did know were Landon Crane and Chris Abeley. And they already had her number in their phones, so what would be anonymous about that? “Results? D, you first.”
The line went quiet again. The only sound in the spa was the croak of a rainforest tree frog and Dylan’s chewing.
“I’m waaaaaiting.” Massie dunked her hand in the nearest Sephora bag, retrieving a sample tube of Urban Decay Big Fatty waterproof mascara. Should she go for thickening or lengthening? Blue-black or kohl? Waterproof or resistant? The number of decisions she had to make before Friday was starting to feel overwhelming.
“Um… mymomtookawaymyphoneforgoingovermytext-limit.”
“You got your cell taken away.” Massie pinched a shimmering emerald Shoshanna bikini top between her toes and flung it across the spa. It sailed over the coffee table and landed on one of the leather club chairs. “The cell you’re on right now.”
“What?” The crinkle of fabric against the receiver crackled in Massie’s ears. If she had to guess, it was a raincoat, probably last year’s Burberry. “You’re breaking up!” Dylan yelled.
Massie selected a tube of indigo Nars and coated each of her lashes twice. “Kristen?”
Kristen swallowed. “Sorry. My mom made me swear not to text till after I finished my homework, and—”
“Am I the only one taking this upgrade seriously?” Massie snapped, layering on another coat of mascara. Her body was starting to feel as heavy as her lashes. How was she supposed to pull off a spa party worthy of high school crushes with no menu, playlist, party games, or conversation topics? “May I remind you that I already have an older crush?”
“I’ve got a survey,” Alicia piped up.
Given. Massie should have known Alicia would come through for her when it
came to all things crush-related. She scooted across the floor and leaned against the foot of the leather sofa, allowing herself to relax a little. “Let’s hear it.”
Alicia cleared her throat, the way she always did before she used her best professional TV journalist voice. “If I were attending a hot spa party hosted by even hotter alphas,” she crooned, “I would—”
“Snack on?” Massie prompted eagerly.
“Beluga caviar and a glass of Côte du Rhône.”
Huh?
“Listen to?”
“Mozart’s Concerto No. 13 in F Major.”
The back of Massie’s neck was starting to dampen. Were ninth-grade boys notorious for having horrible taste in music? Was she supposed to know that already? Why weren’t Dylan and Kristen saying anything?
“Talk about?” she said, hoping her voice wasn’t trembling.
“Current trends in international law.”
Massie dropped the tube of mascara. “LEESH!” she screeched. “You did nawt survey your dad!”
“He’s an older man!” Alicia giggled.
“He’s FIFTY!” Massie groaned.
Dylan and Kristen cackled into the receiver.
“You know what?” Massie decided, stomping her bare foot on the carpet. “Never mind. I’ll plan it all myself.”
“Mass!” Alicia protested. “I was only joking!”
“Exactly,” Massie snapped. “And this upgrade is no joking matter. Do you want to be stuck with immature crushes for the rest of your lives?”
Silence.
“I didn’t think so. Just be here Friday at six. And leave Mozart at home.” Before her friends could answer, Massie tapped her iPhone screen, ending the call. Then she curled up into a ball at the foot of the sofa, wondering if she could fake bad sushi for the rest of the week.
OCTAVIAN COUNTRY DAY SCHOOL
BATHROOM STALL
Thursday, November 6th
2:19 P.M.
By Thursday afternoon, the only miracle Claire had witnessed was watching her brother, Todd, finish the rest of his Halloween candy at breakfast without barfing it up on the way to school. So when Layne had texted Claire to meet in the basement bathroom after sixth period to start Phase Two of Operation Save the Males, Claire had agreed. What choice did she have? She was more desperate than the housewives of Orange County, New York, and Atlanta combined.
By the time she found the basement bathroom, which had been roped off and plastered with Layne’s handmade sign that read OUT OF ORDER—IT’S PRETTY GROSS IN HERE, Layne was already there, dressed in a long black trench coat, a black fedora, and giant bug-eye sunglasses.
“Thanks for meeting me here, Agent C,” she said in a low, serious voice. “Were you followed?” She led Claire across the checkered tile and pushed open the beige door of the handicapped stall, motioning for Claire to go inside.
Claire giggle-rolled her eyes. “This is serious, Layne,” she said earnestly, ducking inside the stall and sitting on the closed toilet lid.
“I knooooow.” Layne slammed the door shut behind her and slid the metal latch into place. “But do you love this coat, or do you love this coat? I got it at the Salvation Army and it has hooks for all your stuff.” Layne undid the frayed sash on her trench and whipped it open. Highlighters, Slim Jims, and Tootsie Pops lined the inside of her coat like she was a fake Rolex vendor on the streets of Manhattan.
“Love it,” Claire said hurriedly. “Now can we get started?”
Layne whipped off her sunglasses and pulled her MacBook from her backpack. Then she crouched in the corner, using her bag as a seat cushion, and fired up her computer. “Okay. Got your list?”
Claire reached inside her teal Mossimo triple-handle tote and pulled out her world history notebook. Instead of spending last period taking notes on the decline of the Roman empire, she’d been jotting down ways to convince Massie that upgrading would mean something way worse than Brutus stabbing Caesar: It would mean the complete and total ruin of the Pretty Committee.
OPERATION SAVE THE MALES
PHASE TWO WHAT’S GREAT ABOUT EIGHTH WHAT BITES ABOUT NINTH
Eighth-grade alphas = head of the entire school = ULTIMATE ALPHA EXPERIENCE. Freshmen = bottom of the heap = AUTOMATIC LBRs.
Briarwood crushes! Everybody knows them. Landon… who????
Normal, skin-colored foundation. Over-bronzing causes cancer. It’s true.
Cam Fisher. NO CAM FISHER!!!!!!
Cam Fisher’s one blue eye.
Cam Fisher’s one green eye.
Cam Fisher’s Drakkar Noir cologne.
Cam Fisher’s ah-dorable smile.
Those last few selling points were more for Claire than Massie. But hopefully the other points would be enough.
Claire scribbled another heart in the margin next to green eye. “Ready?” Layne’s idea was to craft fake e-mails about the wonders of eighth, which would “accidentally” be sent to Massie. And it had to work. Because Phase Three was… well, Phase Three was nonexistent.
“Just call me Hemingway.” Layne’s neon green painted fingertips hovered over the glowing keyboard. “Now shoot.”
“Ummmmm… ‘Dear Layne.’” Claire tapped the eraser end of her pencil against her teeth.
“Wrong.” Layne shook her head, her fingers still hovering in midair. “You never start your e-mails that way. You always just start with… L.”
“Okay, fine,” Claire sighed, hugging her knees to her chest. “‘L.’”
Layne lowered her right index finger to the keyboard. “Done.”
“‘How are you? I was just thinking about how ah-mazing it is to be in eighth—’”
“Wrong,” Layne said again. “Sounds fake.”
“Layne! It is fake!” Claire huffed, exasperated. She would have taken a deep breath to calm herself down, but the sharp smell of Lysol mixed with the sugary scent of Layne’s Hershey’s Genuine Chocolate Flavored Bubble Yum lip balm made her want to gag.
Layne lifted her palms in surrender. “Don’t shoot the e-mailer,” she said, lifting her fedora and scratching the top of her head. “I’m just trying to make sure it sounds natural.”
“Right,” Claire snorted. “Natural, like your brother’s diary?” She air-quoted your brother’s diary, but instantly regretted it. It wasn’t Layne’s fault Massie could sniff out a fake entry faster than a Frauda.
Layne snorted. “Fair enough.”
Claire rested her chin on her knees. “Okay. ‘L. Found some pics of us in seventh the other day. Beyond funny. Can you believe we’re almost halfway through eighth?’”
“Better.” Layne said, typing Claire’s words as she spoke.
“‘Being in eighth is waaaaaaaaay cooler than being in seventh.’” Claire consulted her list. “‘In eighth, you’re the alphas of the whole school.’”
Layne grinned. “Take it slow, Mo.”
But Claire was on a roll. “‘Plus, crushing on eighth-grade boy alphas is like being alpha squared. So when you’re the alphas of the alpha grade, with alpha crushes, it’s like the ultimate alpha experience.’”
“Say ‘alpha’ one more time,” Layne deadpanned to her laptop screen.
“It’s fine. Massie’s fluent in alpha,” Claire said. “‘That’s why I’m so bummed about eventually moving on to ninth,’” she continued, the words automatically rolling off her tongue. “‘In ninth, you’re at the bottom of the heap again. Which is the opposite of alpha.’”
“Yeaaaah!” Layne’s cheer echoed in the deserted bathroom. “Sing it, sister!”
“‘I mean, I’m glad Massie has a cute high school crush and all, but to be honest? I’m kinda worried. If she spends all her time with guys in ninth, she’ll miss out on the best alpha year of her life! Which would be beyond depressing.’”
“Ayyyy-men!” Layne’s fingers flew over the keys.
“And then just sign it ‘XO, C,’ and send.” Claire breathed in Layne’s excitement like it was an aromatherapy candle. The letter was Pulitzer
worthy. Maybe, just maybe, they’d be able to pull this off after all. And once again, Claire would be responsible for keeping together the Pretty Committee and their crushes.
A nagging thought buzzed at the back of her mind, cutting through her tingles of triumph. Why was it always up to her to keep her friends from falling apart? If she wasn’t saving them from the perils of upgrading, she was reminding them how much they loved one another. She was like a matchmaker for alphas, only without her own show on Bravo.
“Okay, it’s sent.” Layne nodded. “And now for my reply,” she murmured, her face glowing blue in the light of the laptop screen. She opened up a new e-mail and started typing. “‘C,’” she read aloud, “‘For reals. But I’m sure M knows the deal. Ninth-grade crushes = social death. XO, L.’”
Claire burst out laughing. “Perfect.”
“Almost done…” The keys clicked beneath Layne’s fingers. Suddenly, she stopped and glanced up at Claire with a look of mock horror on her face.
“Ohhhhhhh nooooooo!” With dramatic flair, Layne pressed the back of her hand against her forehead and collapsed against the beige metal wall behind her for support. “I accidentally sent the e-mail to Massie instead of you!” she wailed.
“Ohhhh nooooooooo!” Claire giggle-echoed, lifting her palm to high-five her friend. This plan was a little bit genius and a whole lot foolproof. Massie would read the e-mail, realize what a terrible idea the crush upgrade was, and somehow find a way to convince the Pretty Committee that ninth-grade crushes were more out than Lance Bass.
“Ecc-hem!” A cough sounded in the next stall.
Claire’s head snapped toward Layne in disbelief. Layne stared back, her fuchsia-lined eyes wide. But before Claire could say a word, the toilet flushed, and the stall door next to theirs flew open.
“Gig’s up, Kuh-laire.” Massie’s voice sounded on the other side of the door.
“Massie?” Claire slapped her hand against her forehead. Strike two. “What are you doing in the basement bathroom?” Then she turned to Agent L. “Layne!” she hissed. “You didn’t check the stalls first?”
These Boots Are Made for Stalking Page 6