“Yechhhh.” Dylan pushed her sunglasses down her nose, pinning her nostrils together.
Scarves wilting and shades fogging from the sweat steam hovering in the air, the Pretty Committee barreled down the narrow, maroon-painted cinderblock hallway, which led to several empty rows of dented half-lockers. The only sound was the slow drip of a faucet somewhere nearby.
Massie’s shoulders fell. “Where id eberybuddy?” she muttered, refusing to breathe through her nose.
“Comin’ through.” A muscular, ruddy-faced brunette wrapped in a threadbare mini-towel bowled past the PC’s huddle, headed for a corner locker. Massie crossed her fingers. If this was Ankle-Bird, she could relax and call it a day.
Her eyes slid past the girl’s it’s-obviously-been-three-days-since-I-shaved knees. Around her left ankle was a bluish-black vine tattoo. But no bird.
“Doh-buddy’s eben here,” Dylan whisper-whined, blinking over the tops of her sunglasses. “Cad we just go back?”
Massie opened her mouth to reply, but was cut off by the thundering sound of soccer cleats tromping down the hall toward them. The Pretty Committee’s eyes widened like deer in headlights. Before they could duck out of the way, a wall of uniform-clad, ponytailed soccer players rushed the lockers.
“Ahhhhhhhhh!” The Pretty Committee stumbled back on their flats as the sweat-drenched girls rushed by, threatening them with death by cleat.
“Ex-cuh-USE US!” Taking an elbow to the navel, Massie dove out of the way, colliding with the cold metal of the nearest locker. Ignoring the debilitating pain, she surveyed the passing ankles. They were all covered in shin guards and knee socks. What if the Ankle-Bird was trapped beneath an acrylic fabric cage?
Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing!
Even in the humid locker room, the clang of the ADD bell sent shivers down Massie’s spine. Feeling woozy from the sweat stench and lack of breathable air, she nodded at the Pretty Committee to evacuate the premises.
“Okay, now can we go?” Kristen asked when they burst into the brimming hallway. She massaged her left shoulder and winced.
“Seriously!” Dylan shouted over the deafening roar in the halls. “I think I’m gonna faint!” She made a beeline down the hall for the vending machine near the front doors, extending her elbows to her sides so she could power her way through the crowd.
“Dylan!” Massie ripped off her sunglasses and shoved them in her tote, cradling it close to her torso. “We are nawt done here!” She stomped in Dylan’s wake, ignoring the stares. Alicia and Kristen followed.
Dylan jammed a ten-dollar bill in the machine and pressed six different buttons. Seconds later, she was cradling a Dasani bottle and seven packs of neon orange cheese crackers. She deposited six packs into her purse and tore the last one open. She cracked the bottle open and downed half its contents in a single gulp. Then she went for the crackers.
“’Orry,” she shrugged over a mouthful. “Low ’lood ’ugar.”
“Okay, now we reeeeally have to go.” Kristen bounced up and down like she hadn’t peed in years.
Massie’s jaw clenched. Maybe the other girls weren’t ready to upgrade. This was the price she paid for being ten times more mature than the rest of her—
“Oops.” A girl in skinny jeans and a shrunken leather blazer bumped into Massie on her way to the vending machine. A vanilla-colored envelope fell from her back pocket. A paw print was stamped on the back flap.
Massie froze. The paw print was exactly like the one on the invitation she’d seen Ankle-Bird give Landon in his room. Her head snapped toward the girl’s denim-disguised ankles. Had fate intervened? Was this the girl she’d been looking for all along? There was only one way to find out.
She fake-stumbled into Dylan, sending the open Dasani bottle flying. It hit the linoleum floor, soaking the girl’s feet.
“Ehmagawd, she is soooo sorry,” Massie gushed, yanking Dylan’s scarf out of her hair.
“Hey!” Dylan slapped her palm to the top of her head.
“No problem. Just water.” The girl eyed Massie skeptically.
“No. Seriously.” Massie knelt to the floor, patting the girl’s feet dry. Lifting the hem of her jeans, she checked the ankles. Nothing.
“Um, you really don’t have to do that.” The girl was starting to look weirded out. She jammed her change into the vending machine, retrieved her snack, and hurried down the hall.
Defeated, Massie rose to her feet. “Not her.”
“There has gawt to be an easier way to do this,” Alicia sighed, kicking the fallen envelope out of her path. It slid toward the gap underneath the vending machine.
Massie lowered her ballet flat onto the paw printed flap just in time. Then she crouched down and picked up the envelope, unfolding the invitation inside as carefully as if it were an ancient treasure map.
1st Annual
PUP-A-PALOOZA
Music Fest & Charity Auction
Hosted by the Abner Doubleday Day Kennel Club
WHO: You and your puppy!
WHERE: Westchester Dog Park
WHEN: Saturday, November 15th, 8 p.m.
WHY: ’Cause we to party with our puppies!!
FEATURING: Live music, complimentary pet spa
services, an auction benefitting the Westchester
Humane Society, and much, much, more…
** Regrets: Text “Pup-A-Pa-Loser” to 917.555.0817
The tension throbbing in Massie’s body began to ease instantly. Maybe fate really had intervened. Now she knew exactly where to find her target. And if Ankle-Bird wouldn’t come to her, well, then she’d go to Ankle-Bird.
THE WESTCHESTER MALL
BCBG MAX AZRIA
Tuesday, November 11th
3:45 P.M.
Smiling into the four-way mirror in the sprawling BCBG dressing area, eight Massie Blocks tilted their heads to the right, examining the eleventh outfit of the afternoon: a rib-squeezing navy minidress with a sequined asymmetrical hem.
The original Massie snuck a shallow breath and admired her bronzed shoulders in the soft lighting. “Does this say ‘ninth-grade charity benefit’ or ‘eighth-grade semiformal’?” She turned around to consult the Pretty Committee, who were lounging on the floor of the minimalist dressing room, balancing recharging triple-shot lattes on their knees. Glossy shopping bags brimming with expertly folded wardrobe options littered the gold carpet.
Alicia sat against one of the mirrored panels. She examined Massie with the solemn focus of a Project Runway guest judge. But before she could respond, her iPhone pulsed with a text. She lifted her left index finger, the way Kendra did when she was on a call.
“Aidan’s going to Pup-A-Palooza too!” she announced, batting her lashes at the screen. “And he wants to know if I’m going!”
Massie jammed her hand on her hip. “Leesh. Benefit or semiformal?”
“Pluuuuus he wants to know if I’m bringing my puppy!” she squealed, slapping the soles of her black Pour La Victoire over-the-knee boots on the carpet.
“You don’t have a puppy,” Dylan reminded her.
“So? I’ll get one.” Alicia dipped into the reject pile next to her, lifting a moss-green spaghetti-strap gown and draping it over her skinny charcoal cords. The hazy green hue made her dark eyes gleam. “What kind of puppy goes with green silk?”
Kristen swatted Alicia’s silk-covered thigh.
“Do you girls need help in here?” A smoky-eyed salesgirl in low-rise black pants and a purple silk tank popped her head into the dressing area. She eyed the pile of dresses on the floor with disdain. “You know, you’re only allowed six items in the—”
“Do you have this one in a smaller size?” Alicia tossed the spaghetti-strap dress toward the doorway, obviously just trying to get the girl out of her hair.
“And this one!” Dylan balled up the ivory sheath and giggle-pitched it.
“Wait!” Kristen flung a bronze maxidress in the sheath’s wake.
“I’ll check,” the girl
sighed.
“So has Landon texted if he’s going?” Dylan gulped her free-trade latte, then plunked her cardboard cup down at Massie’s feet. A few drops leapt from the cup and soaked the puffy gold carpet fibers. Option number four, a cream one-shoulder sheath, was draped over a wingback chair by the doorway. Dylan yanked it free and used it to dab at the carpet stain.
Massie turned back toward her reflection in the mirror. “He hasn’t decided yet,” she lied, eyeing her silent, dark cell, which was nestled on top of her pumpkin Chloé Forever bag for easy retrieval. Her minidress was starting to feel tighter by the second, like she’d just hit the Cinnabon in the food court—hard. Why hadn’t Landon called or text-invited her to the benefit? Were they nawt exclusive? Did he want to see other crushes?
“What if he takes Ankle-Bird?” Alicia wondered aloud. Then she slapped her palm over her mouth.
Massie narrowed her amber eyes at her friend.
“So how’re you gonna find her Saturday night?” Dylan asked quickly.
“I don’t know,” Massie admitted, biting her lower lip. “I have to figure out a way to check all the ankles at the—”
“Luke’s band’s playing Saturday night!” Dylan cut Massie off, distracted by her cell. Then she nudged Alicia’s thigh with the tip of her round-toe wedges and gasped, obviously forgetting about Massie’s dilemma. “What if he asks me to hang backstage with the other rock-star crushes?”
“Opposite of fair!” Alicia pouted.
“Bring me!” Kristen begged.
Massie wanted to stomp her bare foot on the carpet as hard as she could, then demand that the girls focus on her for the rest of the afternoon. They seemed to have forgotten that if it weren’t for her, they’d still be same-grading at soccer practice instead of upgrading at a benefit. She cleared her throat and tried one more time.
“Does this say, ‘BE-NUH-FIT’ or ‘SEH-MEE-FOR-MAL’?” she blared.
Finally, the PC quieted, shifting their gazes in her direction.
“Neither.” Dylan eyed the sequined hem. “It says, ‘V-V-V-VEGAS, BABY!’”
Alicia and Kristen exploded into giggles, turning their attention back to their phones and texting like there was no tomorrow.
Massie whirled back around, taking a second look. Horrified, she realized that her friends were right. The sequins practically belted out showgirl, while the hem length suggested another Vegas-friendly occupation. She reached for her latte and chugged half its contents, braving the scorching pain that seared her throat. Was she losing it? Cracking under the pressure of finding the perfect charity auction–crashing outfit? Or had the expedition to ADD exhausted the fashion sense right out of her?
As she stared at the sequined BCBG monstrosity, she mentally inventoried all the possible disasters that could ensue if Landon showed up to Pup-A-Palooza with Ankle-Bird instead of Massie. For one thing, the entire ninth grade would know that she was crush-minus. And with Alicia, Dylan, and Kristen moving on to ninth-grade crushes, where would that leave Massie? Stuck hanging with Claire and Cam?
Massie grabbed her iPhone. It was time to take matters into her own hands.
Massie: Plans Sat. Nite? Bean & I r having movie nite if u want 2 join.
She tried to ignore the sinking feeling that came every time she thought about the fact that Landon had never even mentioned Pup-A-Palooza, let alone invited her. What was he trying to hide? She stared at the screen, willing it to buzz. It worked.
Landon: Can’t. Dinner w/ the parents. Wish we could hang out tho… maybe Sunday?
Massie reread the last line six times, the words more affirming than a commission-driven salesgirl. Derrington and Dempsey never would have come right out and told her they wanted to hang out with her alone. But ninth-grade boys didn’t play games. And neither would she, as soon as she found Ankle-Bird. As much as she hated the idea of showing up solo to her very first high school party, maybe things were better this way. With Landon MIA, she could focus 100 percent on the hunt for Ankle-Bird…
A freckled redhead in braided pigtails appeared in the doorway, holding a magenta tulle skirt.
“Occupied,” Massie barked, without taking her eyes away from her phone.
“But…” Confused, the girl eyed the aisle of vacant white dressing cubes past the mirror.
“Save yourself the trouble,” Kristen advised, slathering her lips with her new Smashbox gloss. “Not your color anyway.”
In a huff of pink tulle, the girl stalked out of the dressing room.
“Ladies, I have an idea,” Massie announced.
Kristen, Dylan, and Alicia turned to face her, and Massie was back where she belonged—in the spotlight. And after Massie dealt with Ankle-Bird, her upgrade would be complete—and just like her betas recognized her as their leader, Landon would realize there was no better crush, or animal supporter, than Massie Block.
THE WESTCHESTER MALL
BROOKSTONE
Tuesday, November 11th
4:11 P.M.
“Me first.” Layne hovered excitedly over the giant chrome eight ball bolted to a display stand at the front of Brookstone. Pressing her palms on both sides of the ball, she screwed her eyes shut. “Ummmm… willmeandDempseyenduptogether?”
Claire shook her head, plucking a green gummy from the waxy paper bag in her palm. “You know those things don’t really work, right?” she asked glumly, releasing the gummy onto her outstretched tongue. But if she’d been alone, she would have asked the eight ball if she was doomed to live the rest of her middle school days in social purgatory, hovering on the outskirts of the Pretty Committee, with no new friends to show for the sacrifice.
And right now, it seemed like the eight ball’s answer would be No duh, Claire. That’s what she got for trying to branch out. Did she really think she could find better friends than the Pretty Committee? And did she think she could do it without hurting Massie’s feelings?
“Shhhhh.” Layne scrunched her features together, making her face look a little too much like Bean’s. Claire was suddenly reminded of Massie’s trip to ADD earlier that day. A terrifying thought forced its way into her mind: What if the PC had fallen so in love with high school, they’d decided to transfer, ay-sap? The gummy suddenly felt like lead on her tongue.
“The outcome is highly unlikely,” bleated the eight ball’s electronic robot voice.
Layne’s eyes snapped open. “This one’s busted,” she informed a passing pimply-faced sales associate. “You should probably bring out a new one, um… Darrell,” she said, squinting at the name tag pinned to the employee’s polo shirt.
Darrell eyed the neon orange Doritos fingerprints on the side of the ball.
“Come on, Layne,” Claire said quickly. “Let’s go check out the karaoke machines.”
She dragged her friend away from the eight ball, trying to shake the sinking, anxiety-filled, boulder-in-the-pit-of-her-stomach feeling that came on when she thought about the Pretty Committee’s new ninth-focused lives. She reminded herself that if they could move on to bigger and better things, so could she. Only those bigger and better things would still be in eighth.
“Do you think Cam would use an alarm clock that wakes him up with a recording of my voice?” Claire paused in front of a neatly stacked display pyramid, standing on tiptoe to reach the box at the very top. “Or is that creepy?”
“Creeeeeeeeeeeepy,” breathed Darth Vader’s voice from a pair of surround-sound speakers next to Claire.
“Look at this thing!” Layne gushed, waving a wireless mic over her head. “It has settings for, like, five hundred different character voices. Listen to this one.” She programmed a number into the keypad on the mic and raised it to her lips.
“KUH-LAIRE.”
Claire doubled over laughing at Layne’s spot-on impression of Massie, backing into the display. The cardboard pyramid toppled to the floor as feedback from the mic squealed throughout the store.
Eeeeeeeeiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii
iiiiiiiiiiiii!
“Ahhhhh!” Layne ditched the mic and plugged her ears.
An elderly woman eyeing a digital photo display next to her turned down her hearing aid and hobbled out of earshot.
“Ehmagawd!” Claire dropped to her knees amid the rubble, trying to restack the boxes. But she was laughing so hard, tears blurred her vision. The harder she laughed, the more the knot in the pit of her stomach seemed to loosen, leaving her feeling lighter. Like things were back to normal, and she didn’t have to worry about upgrades or mining OCD for diamonds in the rough that apparently didn’t exist.
When Claire finally wiped her tears away, the first thing to come into focus was a pair of black Marc Jacobs snakeskin flats. Claire knew those flats. And those flats meant one thing: Massie’s voice had been the real deal. Claire’s toes curled involuntarily, and she braced herself.
“Kuh-laire,” Massie’s voice echoed throughout the store again. Claire tilted her head back to get the full view. Massie was standing with one hand on her jutted hip, the other wrapped around a microphone. Tissue-stuffed bags from BCBG, Sephora, Nordstrom, Club Monaco, and Bark Jacobs hung from her crooked elbow. Dylan, Kristen, and Alicia stood next to her, each with bags of their own. Posed in the middle of the alarm clocks and the digital photo display section, the girls looked like mannequins somebody had delivered to the wrong store.
“Oh. Hey.” Claire swallowed a giggle, pushing herself to her feet. For some reason, she had the sudden itch to duck behind the globes display at the back of the store. Massie knew Claire and Layne were friends, and that they hung out without her sometimes. So why did Claire feel like she’d just gotten caught friend-cheating? “What’re you guys doing here?”
“We’re here on official business,” Massie informed Claire briskly. “We need to talk to Layne.”
Alicia, Dylan, and Kristen nod-agreed.
These Boots Are Made for Stalking Page 11