A Tale of Two Pretties (5 page)

Kristen shuffled her legs, then leaned down to adjust her shin guards. Hunched over, she raised her eyes and peeked at her
new teammates.

Andrea Hart stood over to her left, stretching her hamstrings and popping orange gum. She was at least six feet tall, with
leg muscles that looked more like wads than quads. Rumor was she had
Survivor
-like skills: She could outwit, outplay, and outlast every girl in the state.

To her right, a small group of girls were running drills. Jennifer Scholaski was French-braiding her hair while kicking a
ball from one foot to the other. Kristen worried that the pizza rolls she hadn’t eaten would still manage to find their
way back up her throat if she watched Jennifer juggle for one more second. Jen was an all-star striker, and rumor had it that
Division I schools were already scouting her. The two girls beside her were equally impressive with their unmistakable STARS
bodies—Strong, Talented, Athletic, and Ready to Score.

Shake it off. No fear. Focus.
Kristen straightened up and braced herself for another whistle. Like her coach and Ayn Rand always said:
Intimidation is a confession of intellectual impotence.

“Soccer Sisters!” a gruff, hoarse yell came bubbling from the throat of Coach Blake. Short and squat, he had rhino leg muscles,
a bald head, and a baby face.

“Line up for drills!” he called, and Kristen followed her sisters into formation.

You can do this
, she told herself. She was used to drills. She could do them in heels and still beat the rest of her OCD teammates. But she
wasn’t standing beside her OCD teammates. She was standing
under
the Soccer Sisters—by at least three inches. She wasn’t with the rest of her OCD teammates anymore—she was with the Soccer
Sisters. Suddenly she felt very much like she imagined Justin Long had when he dated Drew Barrymore: totally out of her league.

“
Trap, dribble, kick,! Trap, dribble, kick!
” As Coach Blake barked out orders and the girls in front of her in line attacked the ball, Kristen surrendered. Maybe she
would never have to break the news to the Pretty Committee. Maybe she wouldn’t last past the Cleat & Greet. Maybe she was
meant to be the
big fish in the small OCD pond, rather than a small fish who was about to be gobbled up by a killer shark named Andrea.

Peep! Peeeeep!

Coach Blake’s whistle pierced through the air again. “Gregory!”

It was her turn. As she faced Andrea, who stood in the makeshift goal, Kristen’s brain shut down and her body took over, doing
what it had been trained to do for the last nine years. As the black-and-white soccer ball left Coach Blake’s hands and arced
through the air, her green eyes narrowed. Time slowed. The honks of passing cars on the street below muted. The whoosh of
the ball and the thump of her heartbeat were all she heard.
Somebody blot my face because it’s time to shine!

Her foot met the ball at the perfect angle, with just the right amount of strength, and sent it sailing across the rooftop.
Her ponytail swished out behind her, her Soccer Sisters windbreaker crinkled, her skin buzzed. Kristen kept her eyes on the
ball, anticipating the applause her teammates would give her when the ball shot into the net.

WHACK.

A collective gasp filled the rooftop.

Uh-oh.

Andrea gripped the ball against her stomach and doubled over. She fell to her knees. A sound more piercing that the coach’s
whistle rang through Kristen’s ears.
Now what?
Remove her shin guards? Fold up her windbreaker? Pray that Andrea didn’t buy into the whole eye-for-an-eye thing? No
matter how risky, an apology was definitely in order.

Andrea wobble-stood and stomp-marched over to Kristen. The other girls stepped out of the way and formed a tight circle around
them. Coach Blake took a passive step back.
Was he seriously going to let nature take its course? Because things die in nature all the time?

“Gregory?” Andrea’s voice boomed.

Kristen checked the roof for her mother. She wasn’t there.

Andrea’s blue eyes widened as she approached. She held out her hand and Kristen braced herself for a punch. Instead she got
a slap on the back. A… friendly one. “Nice kick!”

“Really?” Kristen said, relaxing her shoulders.

“With Kristen, there’s no way we can lose this season!” Jennifer shouted, and a cheer rose up. Even Coach Blake joined in.
After a group hug, the coach demanded everyone get back to work.

The sharp wind bit at Kristen’s nose. Coach’s shrill whistle poked her eardrums like someone was stabbing her with an icicle.
And her body was trembling with hunger.

Yet Kristen had never felt better.

Massie surveyed her bedroom, trying to remember what it looked like before it was littered with half-filled boxes, messy piles
of tunics, and last season’s skinny jeans. She squinted, ignoring Kendra’s wrinkle-prevention mantra—“a squint at thirteen
makes a grown woman scream”
—
but it was no use. No matter how much she tried to trick her eyes, she couldn’t block out the events of the past two weeks.
The destruction of her life stood before her like the torn-apart Macy’s juniors section during its Day-After-Christmas Sale.

Bean was comfortably perched in a Barneys boot box awaiting the big move across the backyard. She was wearing a festive red-and-silver
outfit that Landon’s pug, Bark Obama, had sent her as a Christmas gift.

“Should we bring the Massiequin: yea or nay?”

Bean barked once, and Massie nodded. “Ah-greed. We both know Kuh-laire could use her more than I could.” Massie made a check
mark on the Smart Board she’d rolled in from her father’s office, which she was using to organize her move. So far, all it
said was
Winter and Resort Wear
and
Stuff to Spruce Up Kuh-laire and Massie’s Bedroom
.

The sounds of Ke$ha’s latest song rang out from somewhere on Massie’s bed, and she rifled through a pile of scarves
to find her iPhone. Dylan had programmed in the ringtone, declaring that Ke$ha was the only musician on today’s scene who
“got” her energy. Massie thought all Ke$ha “got” was bad makeup advice.

“Mass! Where have you been? You haven’t picked up in days!”

“How was your trip? Was it ah-mazing?” Massie asked. As soon as the words were out, she regretted them. Because now Dylan
would have to ask a similar question in return—and Massie did
nawt
want to tell Dylan how her Christmas was going. In fact, she would need years of sessions with therapists and Scarlett Johansson’s
acting coach before she’d be able to talk about this Christmas without crying.

“It was good. I lost major water weight and mostly hung by the beach. You?”

“Same,” Massie managed. “Without the beach part.”

They were both silent. Massie searched for something to say but couldn’t think of a single topic. Everything on her mind was
off-limits to everyone but Claire.

“Question,” Dylan finally said. “Have you ever had a huh-
yuge
secret that you wanted to tell but couldn’t?”

Massie felt like she’d swallowed a candy cane sideways. Had Dylan heard about her financial fallout? Were people talking about it? Did Merri-Lee want to run a riches-to-rags story
on the Blocks?!

“… Sometimes your family’s not enough. You need to talk about it with your friends, right?…”

Dylan was still chattering on about secrets and lies but Massie could barely hear her anymore.

“… What if someone accidentally blabs and word gets out…”

“Hullo?” Massie blurted. “Dylan, can you hear me? Hullo?”

“Yeah, I can hear you,” Dylan said. “Can you hear me?”

“Hullo? Dyl? Are you there?”

“Massie! I can hear you. Can you hear me?”

“Dyl?”

“Mass?”

“Dyl?”

“Mass!”

“Ugh, AT&T.” Massie groaned and then hung up. Dylan had left her no choice. She was getting too close, no doubt searching
for a confession.

Massie collapsed on a Lanvin batwing cardigan that still had tags dangling from the label. She refused to look at the price.
It would only make her cry.

Kendra knocked on the open door.

“If you’re not coming to shoot me, go away.”

“Massie, I’d like you to meet Tamara Hardwood.”

“Who?” Massie sat up.

“Our realtor.” Kendra smiled apologetically at a well-preserved brunette in a fitted black blazer and matching skirt. “She
was kind enough to stop by on the holiday weekend. Isn’t that so great of her?”

Realtor?

“It’s no biggie.” Tamara waved away the praise. “I’m Jewish.”

Massie stood. The room seemed to tighten along with her throat. “Isn’t today the Sabbath?”

“Oh, it’s okay. I’m not observant,” Tamara smiled widely.

“Uh, clearly,” Massie murmur-muttered. If she was, she would have known Massie was talking about religion, not some random
character trait.

“I’m showing Tamara around the estate,” Kendra explained. Her eyes roamed across Massie’s room, landing on the boxes and clothes
and stray boots littering every surface.

“It’s such a spectacular home,” Tamara added. “And this room?
Gorge
.” Suddenly she was all business. “Before we list I’ll stage it, of course. Something in a warmer palette. White doesn’t exactly
scream cozy.” She winked at Massie. And then to Kendra she said, “Don’t worry. A few coats of paint and the place will sell
itself. Even in this bear economy.”

Sell?

Kendra sigh-nodded.

Tamara turned to Massie and pasting a big smile on her unevenly lined lips. “I know one girl who’s ready to say good-bye to
this room.”

“’Scuse me?”

Tamara gestured to the boxes and tapped on the Smart Board. “It looks like you’re excited about the big move!”

“Big move?” Massie asked, heart pounding. “You mean to Claire’s?”

“Tamara, why don’t I show you the rest of the house,” Kendra suggested, steering the realtor toward the hall.

As Tamara inspected the doorframe, Massie glared at her mother. She felt like Bristol Palin while Levi Johnston was pitching
reality shows in Hollywood: totally left in the cold.

Dylan tried blinking but it was impossible. Her eyes wouldn’t budge. She struggled to sit up, but that, too, proved futile.
A pair of strong arms held her against the massage table in Merri-Lee’s spa bathroom. She was stuck.

Nicolette, the network’s aesthetician, playfully swatted at Dylan’s arm. At least, Dylan thought it was a playful swat. But
with her eyes taped shut, she couldn’t be sure.

She was sure of one thing, though: Attaching eyelash extensions took longer than growing them from scratch.

“Stop moving,” Nicolette demanded, her Tic-Tac-scented breath slithering up Dylan’s nostrils and cooling her brain.

Dylan felt something dangerously sharp touching down on her lid and then a gentle tugging of her upper lash line. Blindness
was so not fun. She flashed back to a history class about the various methods of torture enacted upon prisoners during the
Middle Ages. She’d be willing to bet her hefty
Marvilous Marvils
paychecks that remaining still while getting eyelash extensions topped the list.

“Can I at least make another phone call?”

“If it keeps you from complaining, I’ll dial the numbers myself,” Nicolette said gamely.

“How about someone with Sprint this time. AT&T to
AT&T drops more than Beyoncé drops singles. Try Alicia.”

Alicia’s dad was a hotshot lawyer. Maybe he’d be able to help her sidestep the confidentiality situation.

Nicolette held the phone against Dylan’s ear.

“Heyyy,” Alicia said, after two rings. “Merry Christmas! How are you? Are you back? How was the Caribbean?”

“Caribbean-y…” she joked, not wanting to talk about her ten-day cleanse, but rather the fastest way to cleanse her soul of
the secret she was carrying. “So, Leesh, question: What would you do if you were sworn to secrecy about something but wanted
to tell?”

“Same thing I always do: run a gossip points cost-benefit analysis. If the gossip points are bigger than the trouble I might
get in for telling, I risk it. If not, I don’t.”

Dylan pressed the phone to her lips and whispered, “This is more serious than gossip points. People could go to jail for telling.”

Alicia was quiet.

“Hullo?” Dylan said, shaking her phone. “Not again. Gawd, I hate AT&T. Leesh, are you there?”

“Yeah, I’m here. Sorry, I was just thinking.”

“And?”

“And this is a question for an alpha. Not me. Ask Massie.”

“I’m thought you could help because your dad—”

“Hold on, Dylan,” Alicia said. “What, Mom?” she called. “
Dinner?
”

Now?
Dylan couldn’t open her taped eyes to check the time
but the trace of balsamic in her burps meant only one thing: Lunch was still digesting.

“I have to go,” Alicia said. “Mom freaks when the paella is cold.”

“But—”

The line went dead.

When did Alicia start choosing carbs over gossip?

“Nicolette?” Dylan said, lifting her phone over her head. It smashed up against something hard.

“
Ouch!
My chin!”

“Sorry. Would you please dial Kristen?”

The aesthetician jammed the ringing phone against Dylan’s ear so hard the post of Dylan’s diamond stud almost shattered her
skull. She was about to scream when—

“Okay, how tan are you on a scale from Claire to Alicia?”

“I’m about a Kristen after a full day at Massie’s pool, SPF four.”

“Nice.” She giggled.

“Listen, Kristen, I need some advice and my battery’s about to die so…”

“Sure, what’s up?”

“What would you do if you had a big secret—like, really huh-yuge—but you were obligated to keep it quiet even though you were
dying to tell someone?”