Then a second pair of ankles filled the screen next to Landon’s. Only these ankles weren’t boy ankles. They were bronzed, freshly shaved, and slender.
Massie swallowed hard. These were girl ankles. Maybe even alpha-girl ankles.
She reached for the oversize mug on her bedside table and took a gulp. The steaming tea scorched her tongue. But she barely even noticed the pain over the tidal wave of jealousy surging inside her.
Above the ankles, a pair of bleach-stained jeans were rolled up to mid-calf. Below the cuffs were low, gray suede booties. It was a riskier fashion choice than Fergie’s harem pants. But somehow, like the harem pants, it worked.
Leaning closer, Massie could make out the outline of a tiny pink hummingbird floating above a daisy, just above the ankle bone. Her jaw dropped. A tattoo? Did that make the mystery girl tacky, trashy, or edgy? Massie had no idea how to tell.
The gray booties stepped back from the camera. Bean growled as Bark leapt into Ankle-Bird’s arms. She was wearing a fitted boyfriend blazer over a white ribbed tank, with a tangle of long necklaces swinging from her neck. Her hands were freshly manicured, and she wore a sparkly vintage cocktail ring on her left middle finger.
“Show. Me. Your. Face!” Massie demanded, tiny beads of sweat forming along her temple. How could she tell whether the girl was a threat if she couldn’t rate her hair?
Bean bared her teeth at the screen as Bark licked Ankle-Bird’s hand happily. Massie wanted to soothe her puppy, but how could she when she needed soothing herself? She closed her eyes, desperate to regain control.
“You are strong. You are confident,” she said, repeating her confidence mantra. “And no one can take your strength away from you….”
Opening her eyes, she snuck another peek. Watching Landon with another girl was like watching The Biggest Loser: It hurt, but she just couldn’t help herself.
Next to Landon, Ankle-Bird produced an envelope from the green Diesel messenger bag slung across her torso. Then she handed it to him.
Was it a bill? A note? A love letter?
Landon tore it open, obviously curious. At the top of the page, an ink paw print was followed by a date and time that were too blurry to make out.
An invitation to a high school party.
Massie took a slow, deep breath that turned into a heaving, rasping choke.
Because instead of handing Ankle-Bird a note that said, I MASSIE BLOCK AND WOULD SOONER WEAR GENERIC-BRAND DENIM THAN ATTEND A PARTY WITHOUT HER, Landon folded it carefully and slipped it into his back pocket.
He may as well have stabbed Massie in the heart with Ankle-Bird’s gray suede heel.
Ankle-Bird lifted Bark from the floor and stood up. Landon followed, and soon, all Massie could see was his empty room. Suddenly, the John Mayer poster seemed cliché, the Pradas outdated. Massie hadn’t noticed before, but those were definitely two seasons old. At least.
Swiping her emergency sample vial of Chanel No. 19 from under her pillow, Massie speed-spritzed it and sucked in the flowery scent of jasmine and ylang-ylang, like the vial was an inhaler and she was a band geek in the throes of a debilitating asthma attack. The familiar scent slowed her breathing slightly.
Who was she kidding? Landon was still perfect for her, John Mayer and outdated Pradas aside.
Screwing her eyes shut, Massie tried her confidence mantra again.
“You are strong. You are confident. And no one can take your strength away from you.”
She wanted to believe it was true. But the words felt more fake than those ninth-grade girls’ spray tans on Halloween night. She slapped her laptop screen shut and curled up in a terry cloth–covered ball, waiting for the tears to come. But instead of sadness, all she felt was anger.
There was no way she was going to have another crush stolen from her. Not again. Landon Crane was the most alpha ninth-grade crush a girl could ask for, and Massie was his plus-one. Together, they scored a perfect ten. If Massie had to fight to keep Ankle-Bird out of the equation, she’d fight. But first, she had to find the tattooed crush-stealer.
Those gray suede booties could run, but they couldn’t hide.
OCTAVIAN COUNTRY DAY SCHOOL
OUTSIDE THE NEW GREEN CAFÉ
Monday, November 10th
12:25 P.M.
Claire had made the trip from her locker to the New Green Café so many times before, she could have done it blindfolded. But today, everything about her usual route felt different. The cast of musical theater kids belting the entire score of Wicked outside the auditorium seemed free-spirited instead of off-key. The PETA Club papering the lockers with enough I’D RATHER GO NAKED flyers to wipe out the rain forest seemed progressive instead of self-righteous. Even the girl in seventh who spent every lunch period reading The Lord of the Rings on a picnic blanket next to her locker seemed like a mysterious, brooding intellectual instead of just a speed bump along the way to the café.
It was as if Claire had gone through her entire life at OCD with blinders on, and now she was seeing everyone her school had to offer with Lasik-sharpened vision. How could she have been so worried about finding new friends? The social options at OCD were endless. All she had to do was choose.
The traffic in the halls was rush-hour slow, and it took Claire a full three minutes to cover the ground between her locker and the girl’s bathroom. Eyes on the café’s frosted glass doors, she elbowed her way through an obstacle course of messenger bags and bleating cell phones, getting more impatient by the second.
Ducking past a Burberry plaid–covered shoulder, she sighed at the insistent beeping that seemed to follow her all the way to the café. This was exactly what was wrong with Westchester. Back in Orlando, only a few of her friends had cell phones. But here, phones were a necessity, as indispensable as underwear. It was so annoy—
“Hey.” A girl from Claire’s last-period class arched her eyebrow at the patchwork leather bag slung over Claire’s shoulder. “Your cell is giving me a migraine.”
“Oh. Thanks.” Whoops. Claire unearthed her cell from the bottom of her bag.
Layne: Where u b, C? Surprise waiting 4 u in the café. Meet inside the doors ASAP.
Layne: P.S. Like ur new ringtone? I programmed while u weren’t looking. ;)
Claire shoved her phone back in her bag, hurrying toward the café as fast as her Uggs, and the student-clogged hallway, would allow. As usual, Layne was being super-secretive about her plans. But that made Claire’s friend upgrade seem more exciting than a parent-free study date with Cam.
When Claire finally made it into the café, Layne was waiting by the Smartwater dispenser inside the doors, balancing a rainbow glitter–covered velvet ring box on her nose like a trained seal.
“Hey! Ten seconds,” she bragged, wobbling back and forth with zero regard for the line forming behind her for the vending machine. The brass medals clinging to the shoulder of her six-sizes-too-big camo jacket jangled as she moved. “Eleven. Twel—”
“My surprise?” Claire swiped the box and popped it open. Inside was a silver-plated ring featuring a large black center stone.
“My best invention yet,” Layne said proudly, yanking the ring from its velvet nest. “I call it the BFFinder. You put it on, and the stone turns red when you’re getting close to somebody cool. It turns black when you’re around people you’re not compatible with. Patent pending.”
“Huh,” Claire sniffed, accidentally inhaling some of the glitter on the box. When she sneezed, a few specks of silver glitter shot from her nostrils and fell to the floor. It felt like a sign. From this moment on, Claire Lyons was totally free of all things glitz and glamour—free of all the superficial trappings she’d acquired since her arrival in Westchester. She was getting a fresh new start. And there was nothing wrong with that… right? She resisted the urge to sneak a peek at Table 18.
“Allow me to demonstrate.” Layne jammed the ring on her finger and dragged Claire through the bamboo table labyrinth, stopping at a random table of all-bla
ck–wearing sixth-graders. Layne thwacked the nearest one with the ring.
“Ow!” The girl rubbed her shoulder through her World of Warcraft tee.
“See?” Layne lifted her finger. The stone was still black. “Not compatible.” She clapped the sixth-grader on the back and bounded for her regular lunch table.
Sorry, Claire mouthed before stepping over a dried blob of soy cheese on the floor to follow her friend. The striped tie Layne had looped around her jeans as a makeshift belt fluttered behind her like the streamers on Claire’s old bike. Thinking of her bike made her think of Cam, which made her think of the spa party the week before, which made her want to check on Massie all over again. Was she angry at Claire for switching lunch tables? Or worse, hurt? Claire’s stomach seized at the thought.
“Wanna try it?” Layne careened into the side of Table 23 and sat. Three neatly folded copies of the New York Times had been placed at the head of the table. “See if it fits.” Layne wrenched the ring over her knuckle with a groan.
“Thanks.” Claire’s gaze swooped over to Table 18, like there was a magnetic force between her and the PC that was impossible to fight. The girls were leaning together in an airtight huddle over untouched plates of vegan mac ’n’ cheese and seitan skewers with peanut sauce. Were they gossiping about their new crushes? Worse, were they gossiping about her, thinking she’d ditched them?
Claire had the sudden urge to compose a quick text-planation so the PC would understand. Although maybe they wouldn’t care as much as she’d thought they would. When she’d broken the news to Massie that she was having lunch with Layne to meet a few new friends, Massie hadn’t batted a lash. She hadn’t threatened Claire with PC dismissal or revoked Range Rover privileges for the week. In fact, she’d kind of seemed to understand. Claire’s ruby angora hoodie was starting to feel itchy all over. If all she was doing was broadening her horizons a little, why was she starting to feel like more of a player than Beckham?
The PC’s huddle loosened, and Massie caught Claire’s eye from the head of the table. Claire lifted her hand in a wave. Massie blinked coolly but half smiled back. She was obviously trying hard to be flexible. Less controlling. And Claire knew her well enough to know that being less Lycra required more effort than her annual pre-bikini season carb fast. Had Massie really changed since the PC’s big fight? Was Claire the one being unfair, by not giving Massie a chance to show her true colors?
“Claire.” Layne flicked the ring in Claire’s direction, and it skittered across the table. “You gonna try it on, or what?”
Not wanting to hurt Layne’s feelings, Claire slid the ring over her middle finger. The stone instantly turned puke green.
“So we’re having lunch with Bill Gates,” Layne announced. “I tried to get Oprah and Shakespeare, but they couldn’t make it on such short notice.”
“Huh?” The ring felt weighty on Claire’s finger. She dropped her hand casually to her lap, secretly tilting it toward the Pretty Committee’s table. Was she close enough to get a read? According to the BFFinder, were she and the PC compatible? She forced herself to look. But the stone was still puke-colored. Not realizing she’d been holding her breath, she exhaled.
“You know,” Layne was saying impatiently, “from the Witty Committee. Just to see if you guys get along.”
“Oh. Right.” Layne and Kristen’s Witty Committee was a group of super-smart OCD’ers who got together to… actually, Claire had no idea what the Witty Committee did.
“But this is just to road test the ring,” Layne qualified, snapping open her copy of the Times. “You can’t actually join the Witty Committee unless you’re, like, a genius.” She smiled into the World News section.
Before Claire had the chance to bristle, Bill Gates appeared across from her.
“Greetings.”
Danh Bondok was a tech genius–slash–exchange student Massie had christened “Candy Corn” because of his yellow teeth. He was smiling and holding a sweating brown bag that smelled like coconut curry.
Claire forced a smile. “Hey, Cand—” She caught herself just in time. “I mean, Danh.”
“Call me Bill.” Danh-slash-Bill-slash–Candy Corn deposited his lunch on the table and hitched up his already ankle-skimming Dockers, revealing hairy, pencil-thin ankles. He sat down across from Claire and grinned nervously.
“’Kay… Bill,” Claire said uncertainly.
“Check the ring,” Layne hissed excitedly.
Claire checked. “What’s green mean again?”
Layne shrugged. “I’m still working out the kinks.”
“Claire,” Bill Gates said politely, poking the bridge of his glasses until they skidded up his nose, “Layne tells me you’re into photography.” He tore open his brown bag and pulled out a plastic container of noodles, popping the top and digging in.
“Um, yeah.” Claire nodded, temporarily ravaged by the spicy-sweet scent of curry.
“I’m a bit of an Ansel Adams buff myself,” Danh said. “His use of sharp focus and heightened contrast is pretty genius, don’t you think?”
Layne nodded, like Danh had been speaking English the whole time. “Totally.”
“Uhhhhhh.” Claire scratched the back of her neck, which was damp with sweat. “Sure.”
Danh shot Layne a look. Was that pity? Or curry-induced indigestion?
“So Bill,” Layne said, obviously trying to change the subject, “tell us what’s new with you.”
Dahn nodded. “Well, as we’re all aware, the Vista operating system has been found to have several irreparable design flaws.” His dark eyes settled on Claire, waiting for her to contribute.
“Yeah. It’s really… too bad.” Claire dug her nail into her thigh, hating how the words sounded coming out of her mouth. Why couldn’t they talk about something she actually had an opinion on, like the Maksim-Karina breakup or Serendipity’s new line of gourmet-flavored gummies?
Dahn’s thick black eyebrows slanted in disappointment. “Anyway, it looks like Microsoft is going to have to say, ‘Hasta la… VISTA’ to the old version.” He paused, fighting a smile.
While Danh and Layne cracked up, Claire checked the ring again. Still puke green. Maybe the ring was better at detecting her mood than she’d thought.
OCTAVIAN COUNTRY DAY SCHOOL
CLAIRE’S LOCKER
Monday, November 10th
3:13 P.M.
By last period, the familiarity of the Pretty Committee was starting to feel as enticing as Cam’s extra-large Briarwood fleece. Maybe the fit wasn’t perfect, but at least it was comfortable.
Luckily, Layne wasn’t in Claire’s last-period study hall, which gave Claire a fighting chance of getting out to the parking lot undetected. So when Mr. Myner shoo-dismissed the class five minutes early, Claire jerked her backpack out of her locker and made a break for it, trying to ignore the guilt itch creeping down her neck. Sure, Layne was only trying to help, but how was wrist-dragging Claire down the hall, shoving the BFFinder in everyone’s face, actually helping? So far, Claire had zero new friends and one rapidly developing case of carpal tunnel.
There had to be an easier way.
Golden afternoon sunlight poured through the open double doors at the end of the main building hallway, promising freedom, a giant bowl of Cinammon Toast Crunch, and an afternoon bike ride with Cam. Just a few… more… steps…
Three feet from the doors, two hands clamped over her eyes.
“Ahhhhhhh!” Claire yelled, feeling a knot tighten at the back of her head. Her hands flew to her face, clawing at the synthetic blindfold now squeezing her throbbing brain.
“Surpriiiiise!” Layne’s hot breath smelled like guacamole-flavored sours, her new favorite afternoon snack.
So close… Now Claire knew how Bean must have felt after a full day of trying on themed Halloween costumes for Massie: exhausted, defeated, and too weak to fight back.
“What’s next?” Claire asked warily, ignoring a round of giggles that was obviously directed at
her.
Layne gripped Claire by the arms and swung her around in a full 180-degree turn. “One more stop for the day. You’re gonna love this one. Pinky-swear.” She shoved Claire forward.
Claire’s left shoulder collided into someone, knocking her counterclockwise.
“Careful, you two,” a gruff man’s voice warned. “No horseplay in the halls.” Claire tensed, the scent of chalk dust and stale coffee overpowering her heightened sense of smell.
“Sorry, Mr. Myner. Sir.” Claire backed into Layne, almost tripping over her squeaking rain boots.
“Oops!” Layne whisper-giggled. “Myner oversight on my part.”
“Ha ha,” Claire snapped, rubbing her throbbing shoulder. Just to be safe, she extended her hands in front of her as a buffer.
“Almost there.” Layne guided Claire awkwardly through the halls like they were a pair of amateur figure skaters hitting the ice for the first time together. The slam of locker doors, clicking of padlocks, and rustle of ballet flats swirled around her in the wavy darkness.
Finally, Layne yanked back on the blindfold knot, jerking Claire to a halt.
Claire ripped off her sweaty blindfold, rubbing guacamole-scented tears out of her eyes. They were standing outside the OCD art studio.
“You weren’t supposed to take off the blindfold till I said,” Layne pouted, loosening the knot on her striped tie belt and securing it back around her hips. She gripped the smudged silver door handle and hip-bumped the door open. “Come on.”
Claire followed cautiously behind, finger-fluffing the blindfold crease in her hair.
“Ta-daaaaaaaa.” Layne stepped aside, spreading her arms wide like she was a model for The Price Is Right.
Claire rapid-blinked until her eyes adjusted to the white light that filled the airy studio, her heart fluttering slightly at the sight of it. She had avoided the studio at all costs since last year, when Alicia had ruined Claire’s first day at OCD by painting her white pants with red paint period stain. Claire hadn’t been back to the studio since, for fear of a panic-flashback.
These Boots Are Made for Stalking Page 9