A Tale of Two Pretties (2 page)

“Pearl Harbor Trilogy—1941: Red Sun Rising?”

“Yup,” Harris said.

“Shadow of the Ninja?”

He glanced at Derrington in a where-did-you-find-this-girl sort of way and then nodded yes.

“Layne likes,” she said, loosening her tie. “Let’s do this.”

Harris led them into the house, leaving Claire and Cam alone. They had been alone zillions of times but never post-
serenade. Suddenly neither one of them knew where to look. So they giggled.

“Wanna sit?” Cam finally asked. He gestured to a worn blue trunk in the far corner by the lawnmower.

Claire lifted the measly present she got Cam and joined him. Why didn’t she think bigger? He had filled her heart; she’d filled
an elf-covered gift bag.

“I really loved that,” she said, kissing him on his Drakkar Noir–scented cheek.

“It was fun,” he said modestly. Exhaling a puff of breath into the cold garage he asked, “Do you want to open your gift?”

“You mean there’s another one?!” Claire asked, the needle on her Guilt-O-Meter exploding to bits.

Cam reached behind the trunk and presented her with the same elf gift bag.

Awk-ward!

She showed him hers and they laughed like their old selves again. “Wanna open them at the same time?”

He nodded. “On three,” he said. “One, two…”

“Three!” Claire called, digging in.

Cam did the same. “Uh-oh.”

“I know,” Claire began. “It’s not even close to what you got me. I wish I—”

He was smiling mischievously. “Just open your present.”

Claire pushed aside the tissue and gasped. He had given her an old-fashioned candy dispenser filled with red and green M&Ms.
Only instead of M&M, the candies read C&C, for
Claire and Cam. Her gift to him was nearly identical. Only she had a picture of them printed on the candies—the one Massie
had taken over Thanksgiving weekend.

After a thank-you lip-kiss, they both cracked up again.

Fluffy flakes began falling outside the garage. The quiet street was snow-globe beautiful. Claire’s teeth began chattering.
If the moment had been any more romantic they would have taken down the tree and called it Valentine’s Day.

“There’s one more thing in the bag,” he said.

“Cam!” Claire’s cheeks burned with single-gift guilt.

“Don’t worry; it’s something for both of us.” He twirled a loose thread from his shirt around his finger, then yanked.

Claire pulled a glossy card from the tissue. “ ‘Photography lessons for two’?”

He nodded. “Every Friday for the next ten weeks.”

“Cam! It must have cost—”

He lifted his palm to silence her. “It was free. My dad got it for my mom’s birthday but she has Current Events Club on Fridays
so…”

“This is the best!” Claire didn’t know what she loved more: the chance to learn about shadows and light and aperture and transparency
or the guaranteed date she’d have with Cam every Friday night! Her insides began soaring all over again and then, as if hit
by a missile—
Missile Block!—
they came crashing down.

“What?” asked Cam, picking up the trouble signal. And then, realizing, he said, “Oh. Oops.”

Oops?
Oops was “I dialed the wrong number.” Not a call to
arms, which is exactly what would happen if Claire ditched out on Friday night sleepovers with the Pretty Committee. She was
finally an accepted member of the group. Turning her back on that would mean war, under the best of circumstances. But now?
When Massie was reeling from the news of her father’s recent financial crisis? When Claire was the only one who knew? Bailing
would be a kamikaze mission. But Friday night photography with Cam…

The self-help podcast she and Massie had listened to the night before—“Putting the U in Nutshell”—came to mind. After a multiple-choice
quiz, Claire had been deemed a “sympathy-stresser”: someone who takes on other people’s problems as her own. Massie was a
“resist-rejoice”: change was unimaginable, but once she tried it on, it fit like couture.

In a nutshell, Claire needed to learn to put her own needs before the needs of others (
class with Cam
) and have faith that Massie—after an apocalyptic freak-out—would eventually respect Claire’s pursuit of photographic excellence
and might even welcome her back when the ten-week course was through.

Or she could play the bad-sushi card every Friday night until April, and hope no one called her bluff. Which, considering
the options, was, without a doubt, the smarter choice.

“We’re opening presents in five minutes,” Kendra called from the kitchen.

Butter-soaked whiffs of basting turkey greeted Massie as she descended the stairs, a warm pug in her arms and last year’s
Balenciaga scarf draped over her shoulders.

“Don’t get too excited,” she told Bean’s wagging tail. It was just a Thanksgiving novelty candle, meant to fill the house
with the smell of home cooking for those incapable of doing it the old-fashioned way. Kendra had lit one last night, too,
hoping to minimize the trauma caused by Inez’s furlough. But nothing could replace the housekeeper’s gourmet cooking, or change
the fact that the Blocks had spent Christmas Eve eating General Tso’s chicken from a Chinese take-out restaurant, just like
their Jewish friends had. Or that on Christmas Day they’d be microwaving the leftovers.

But the worst part? The Block estate was icier than Jake and Vienna’s breakup thanks to the high cost of heating a mansion
in December.
Who knew?
It wasn’t until Kendra had pointed out that cooler temperatures tightened pores that Massie got on board with a capital
Gawd.

Unfortunately, the explanation hadn’t satisfied Kristen the way it had Alicia, Dylan, and Claire when the sporty blonde
couldn’t stop shivering at last week’s sleepover. So Massie had said that Al Gore had called her father, and as a personal
favor asked him to turn down the heat. That seemed to warm Kristen’s insides. But little else.

Massie stopped in the scantly decorated oversized living room and sighed. “Is my name Freddy Krueger?” she asked the pug.

Bean’s ear twitched.

“Then why am I living in a nightmare?”

The Blocks had a tree, but hiring Sven, the Holiday Cheer Coordinator, to give it the Rockefeller treatment was no longer
an option. So now the thin pine—which was leaning left from the unevenly distributed weight of its ornaments—took the
rock
out of Rockefeller and left only the
fell
.

Gone were the glitter-dusted floors, the festive playlists, the well-dressed party guests, the candy-cane chandeliers, the
ruby-and-emerald window treatments, the gingerbread doghouse, the grazing reindeer, the gold-tipped mistletoe encouraging
Love, Actually
moments from visitors, the illuminated trees, the snow machine, the ice sculptures, the bustling caterers, the cute valet
boys dressed as toy soldiers… and Massie’s will to live.

She swallowed back a tear like it was a cinnamon skinny latte and shuffled in her Tory Burch sheepskin moccasins to claim
the spot in front of the fireplace—the room’s sole source of heat. A single log burned, giving off weak gasps of warmth, like
it, too, had given up. And worst of all—
worst of all!
—there was just one gift under the boughs, sitting alone like Jennifer Aniston at a couples’ retreat.

Bean jumped from Massie’s arms and ran circles around the tree, because she could.
I know money is tight,
Massie thought, glaring at the single strand of lights that adorned the crooked tree.
But how poor could we possibly be? Unless… what if Mom and Dad are doing this to teach me a lesson? What if we aren’t poor
at all? What if this is a continuation of that snoozer lecture Dad gave me a few months ago, about how it’s tacky to buy a
third car because so many people are struggling these days. And the importance of saving money… or whatever it was that made
me yawn so hard my mascara ran.

EhMaGawd, that’s it! This is all an act. They are trying to scare me straight. Phew times a thousand to the power of ten!

Massie peeked behind the brocade couch in search of her real presents as her father limped in.

“Happy Christmas!” William said, clearly still sore from his attempt to climb a ladder in cashmere socks. He’d been trying
to hang mistletoe above the front door when he slipped off the top rung and twisted his ankle.

Or had he? Maybe it was all part of the performance. In which case, bravo!

“Merry merry!” Kendra bellowed, her silky white robe fanning out behind her like a superhero cape as she raced to remove William’s
slippers before he put them on the couch. Red nail polish was smeared on her cuticles.

Massie winced. “Mom, are you a carpenter?”

“No.”

“Then why are you working with nails? Did that trainee at Serenity Spa do that to you? I told you to stick with Olga!”

“Massie,” William said warningly. “We’re all working to cut back.”

“… And cut! That’s a wrap. You’ve made your point.” Massie smiled. “Lesson learned. I’ll save my money. Now can we
puh-lease
go back to normal.” She shivered. “Before my tongue freeze-sticks to the wand in my lip gloss.”

“What lesson?” Kendra lifted a steaming mug to her mouth and blew. The floating coffee grounds spread like rats in a tenement
house.

“You know exactly what lesson,” Massie said, intent on making them confess before this scene caused lasting damage to her
psyche. “I get it okay? Just—” Her iPhone pinged. “Hold on.”

Landon, her high-school crush, had sent a text.

Landon:
Merry Xmas.

A photo of a square box, wrapped in pearly pink paper with an oversized silver bow, filled her screen and melted her heart.
Finally, someone who understood the true meaning of Christmas.

Landon’s holiday budget had clearly been bigger than hers. The eighty dollars Kendra gave her wouldn’t even cover the cost
of that box, let alone whatever was inside. And she still had the Pretty Committee gifts to think of. Massie had had to cancel
her order for five personalized, monogrammed, butter-leather messenger bags she’d seen Gwyneth wearing as she GOOPed around
London. Instead, she’d gone trick-or-treating
at the Saks cosmetic counters and stocked up on the free samples. The PC would receive unflattering shades like Digi-Dazzle
and the accompanying
let’s-pretend-we’re-going-to-St.-Barts-this-holiday
beach bags, while Landon would get a homemade gift certificate that entitled him to an afternoon of shopping with Massie
as his style consultant.

She was about to write back to Landon when William cleared his throat. “You know the rules, Massie: No texting by the tree.”

Massie set down her phone. “My bad, I thought the ‘tree’ was a coat rack.”

William ignored the dig, plastering a smile on his face. “Present time!”

Kendra handed the lone gift under the “tree” to her daughter, and Massie tore it open, anxious for this charade to end.

Inside sparkled a small black diamond that hung from a gleaming white-gold chain that someone like Kristen or Claire would
have been satisfied with. Massie searched the box for the matching earrings and bracelet. She found nothing.

“Isn’t it the diamond you wanted?” Kendra asked, her smile faltering.

William waited for her answer, an expectant look on his face.

“Yeah, thanks. I love it.” Massie held the diamond up to the light and tried to turn her downward-facing mouth into something
resembling happiness. Ever since she saw the entire set of black diamond jewelry in the Barneys catalogue, she had envisioned
the drop earrings glistening in tandem
with her shiny brown hair and the thick bracelet anchoring her tiny wrist. The necklace—the least impressive member of the
group—was a Jessica Simpson piece. It didn’t thrive being single.

Flashes of Christmas Gifts Past danced across her mind. Just last night she had flipped through her special Moleskine notebook
where she detailed all the gifts she received each year: the exclusive Birkin bag from last Christmas, the walk-on role for
Hannah Montana
the year before that, the trips to London and Bermuda, the MacBooks and iPods, and the dozens of Jimmy Choos and Pradas that
had peeked out from her stocking year after year. At least five pages would be crammed with gift descriptions each holiday.
This year, unless she wrote in really big letters, her holiday haul list would read like a
STOP
sign.

Massie couldn’t deny it any longer. The Blocks were broke. This wasn’t a life lesson. It was the thing life lessons were supposed
to prepare her for.

If only she had paid attention.

“Mo-om! You promised me you’d get rid of this!” Kristen exclaimed as she unwrapped the tissue paper from an old ornament.
It was a raggedy piece of worn green felt that she had painstakingly cut into the shape of a tree and adorned with glitter
during her second-grade art class.

“I lied!” Marsha said, patting Kristen near the base of her high blond ponytail.

Every December Marsha unpacked the ornament from the Rubbermaid storage container stuffed with holiday decorations, blew the
dust from it, and hung it proudly on the tree. And every year, Kristen made a show of being mortified, but secretly, she was
more GLAD than a trash bag when her mother fought to keep it. What they lacked in family, they made up for in Christmas spirit.
And like her mother always said, “Corporate America can’t put a price on that.”

Cinnamon and spice coated the air, courtesy of the hot apple cider brewing on the stove and the cooling gingerbread cookies
Kristen had baked. Marsha’s Clay Aiken holiday CD played softly from the boom box under the television, which was set to one
of those channels that broadcasted nothing but wintry scenes and burning logs in a fireplace. The plastic tree they used every
year was proudly perched in the
corner, wearing twinkling multicolored lights, silver garland, and dozens of ornaments that spanned the years—Baby’s First
Xmas, a picture of a toddler-sized Kristen sitting on Santa’s knee at the mall, teddy bears, snowflakes, angels, and balls
of every size and color. Massie would have taken one look at it and made some sort of joke about it being less coordinated
than Layne Abeley’s wardrobe, but Kristen didn’t care. It carried more memories than an elephant stampede.