A Tale of Two Pretties (9 page)

The scene was a bigger setup than the latest
Real Housewives
reunion show.
This cannawt be happening
, Dylan thought. She knew those pills had to have been planted by the producer. After all, she had never felt better about
her body! The effects of her Caribbean cleanse were still showing, and the shoot schedule had kept her way too busy to sneak
extra meals. For the first time, she believed all those celebrities who said they were too busy to eat. Besides, Dylan had
enough gas and urgency on a normal day. Why on Earth would she ever want more?

“You have to believe me,” she began, staring intently into Merri-Lee’s matching green eyes. “Those pills are
not
mine. Someone must have put them in there by mistake. It’s okay, though.” She patted Merri-Lee’s hands. Two could play this
game. “I forgive you for accusing me.”

Merri-Lee’s eyes tightened. “I’m sorry, Dyl-pickle, but I don’t believe you. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ground you.”

The room fell silent as Dylan felt the repercussions of that word. She was
grounded
? She’d never been grounded in her life. Merri-Lee believed in the Dina Lohan style of parenting—let whatever happens, happen.

Until now, anyway.

Another camera showed up, this time blocking the doorway to the back staircase. Slowly, Dylan slid out of her chair, held
her red head up high, and brusquely pushed the camera aside. She stomped up to her room, her Fiorentini & Baker boots echoing
in time with the cameraman’s rhythm, then slammed the door squarely in his face.

CUT TO:

Lasagna was everywhere. Table after table of steaming, heavenly smelling dishes. She went from one plate to the next, eating
a forkful at each station, savoring the perfectly cooked flat noodles, the crushed tomatoes, the cheese…

A bright light blinded her. The lasagna was gone. All gone!

Dylan opened her eyes. A bright light was shining in her face. “AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” She shot up in bed and kicked off her
covers. But then the light disappeared, and hushed giggles sang out over her bedroom.
Someone whispered, “This scene will be just what we need to claim she’s having nightmares about her weight issues!”

The door clicked shut, and Dylan was alone. She collapsed back onto her pillow and yelled into the feathers.

There has to be a way to shut this down
, she thought, in case they were still lurking. She tried to think back to Jon Gosselin and his fifteen minutes of fame. How
had he managed to get cut from his show?

She stayed awake the rest of the night, watching the moon cross over the sky and realizing for the first time just how much
it looked like a giant camera lens.

CUT TO:

When Dylan awoke next, she flailed her arms through the air in case any more cameras were in her face.

She was alone, for now, but the crew was in the house, squeaking around in Converse sneakers and dragging heavy lighting rigs.

Upon catching a glimpse of reflection in the vanity mirror, Dylan nearly fell off her bed. Her normally lush, shiny hair was
dull and knotted like Britney’s weave. Dark circles that no amount of Clinique All About Eyes could remedy lined her eyes.
Her ruby lips had faded to the color of her cheeks, which, thanks to lack of sleep, were Edward Cullen–pale. Her desire to
be captured on film today was zero-minus-fifty.

Quietly, she slipped on the closest pair of shoes she could
find. KORS Michael Kors platform clogs didn’t complement her flannel pajamas, but only Massie would be thinking about fashion
at a time like this. She crept to a window and slowly opened it. The ice-cold wind slapped-and-chapped her on contact.

Crossing one leg over the ledge, she began shimming down. She was making good progress, one step-shimmy-step at a time, when
her left clog got caught on the trellis. Without warning, the wood snapped, and just like that, Dylan was headed down, down,
down, until she landed—thud!—in the backyard bushes, her clog clinging to life two stories above.

“Ankle,” she moaned.

She tried to push herself up to a sitting position but her flannel pajamas were caught in a rosebush. With an impatient tug
she forced herself free, leaving an L-for-Loser-shaped piece of fabric dangling from a branch.

“Go! Go!” a voice echoed across the backyard. Suddenly a camera appeared over her, capturing her in her full au naturel glory.
Dylan flashed back to all the “Stars without makeup!” features she’d devoured in
Life & Style
. She’d never felt so connected to Heather Locklear before.

The director’s voice shouted, “Stay with her. We can make it look like she’s sneaking out of the house to escape her mom’s
punishment! We can position her as the ultimate family rebel—the Khloe to the rest of the family’s Kourtney and Kim. Someone
who’s always been jealous of her sisters and will do anything for attention!”

“Get away!” Dylan screamed as the clog fell from the trellis and bounced off her knee. Pain white-flashed in front of her
eyes but she managed to stand and speed-limp toward the garage before the tears came.

But the camera caught every single uneven step.

From the hordes of tracksuit- and sweatpants-clad girls marching through the Riveras’ gate, there was no denying that the
PC’s idea of hosting a hand-me-down clothing swap was going to be a Massie-ive success. Kristen followed the crowd and stumbled
up the drive, grateful for Alicia’s event-planning ability. It was easy to get lost on the Rivera estate, and even though
Kristen had been there dozens of times, it was a maze of marble statues, snow-covered gardens, and unexpected paths that veered
off into any number of garages, guesthouses, and sheds.

Luckily, Alicia had thought to order professional, custom signage that marked the way to the backyard tent, where the sale
was being held. GREEN IS THE NEW BLACK! shouted the signs, followed by RETHINK YOUR WARDROBE, REUSE OUR CLOTHES in smaller
lettering. The grin on Kristen’s face grew wider. She wasn’t sure if criticizing the LBRs of OCD was the way to get them to
spend their money, but from the looks of things, it was working—and not just for OCD, she realized, racing past a group of
unfamiliar preteens. Clearly, Alicia’s Facebook advertising and promotional Tweets had worked. Students from all over the
area, including ADD and even the elementary school, were hand-me-down hungry and anxious to dig in.

Kristen slipped inside the back door of an oversized tent where girls were swarming. Alicia had rented dozens of long tables,
clothing racks, and mannequins, and styled the interior like a charming Nolita boutique. Accessories dangled from a piece
of chain-link fence, footwear was displayed on columns made of shoeboxes, and barely worn dresses, skirts, jeans, and coats
had been divided into sections named after every member of the Pretty Committee and marked with a cardboard cutout of the
girl. The Alicia section was crisp and tailored. Kristen’s was sporty. Massie’s was high-end and eclectic. Dylan’s was full
of brights and bolds. And Claire’s was full of markdowns. The enthusiastic crowd drowned out the Miranda Cosgrove song that
was pumping through the speaker system. Amid it all, caterers handed out See’s Candies to keep the energy up. Kristen’s head
throbbed at the overwhelmingness of it all.

Or maybe it was from the brutal practice she’d just endured. Her calves cramped at the memory. She gingerly touched the spot
on her arm where Andrea had punched her in delight after she’d scored during a tough drill. Already, it had blossomed into
a shiny purple bruise. It was ah-mazing!

A tickle of sweat dripped down her back. “Why is it so
hawt
in here?” she grumbled. She shrugged off her coat, wincing again, and then saw the heat lamps. Alicia had thought of everything!

She stashed her gym bag under the nearest table she
could find. Jennifer’s mom had given her a ride to Alicia’s, and like she had done so many times before, she changed in the
car, swapping her Soccer Sisters gear for a Massie-friendly outfit: skinny black cords, a long-sleeved Elie Tahari tee, and
motorcycle boots from DSW. When it came to shedding disguises, she was more qualified than Batman.

“Kristen!” Alicia called.

She slowly raised her arm to wave hello, but when pain radiated up from her bruise, she quickly dropped it and opted for an
I’m-ready-to-help-and-sorry-I’m-late
smile.

But apparently Alicia’s smile-decoding skills were off today, because she storm-marched over to Kristen, holding a walkie-talkie
up to her ear and another one in her clenched fist.

“PCKG has been spotted in the tent. I repeat, the eagle has landed. Call off the search!” Alicia hiss-commanded into her walkie-talkie.
She glared at Kristen. “You’re late.”

The walkie-talkie cackled to life, carrying Dylan’s voice with it. “Who’s the eagle again? And why do we care?”

There was another burst of static and Claire’s voice wavered over the airwaves. “I thought Massie was the eagle? But she’s
a dressing room attendant with me.”

“Stylist! I’m consulting as the stylist! Gawd, Kuh-laire,” Massie’s voice corrected.

Alicia rolled her eyes and pressed a button, and the walkie-talkies went dead. “Kristen. Did we or did we
nawt
all iChat last night and agree to be here at one-thirty to help set up?”

“We did,” Kristen said, dropping her eyes. She had a perfectly valid excuse for being late. If only she had the courage to
share it. “I’m sorry.”

“Lucky for you it’s all running smoothly—” She paused and pressed a button on the walkie-talkie. “Dylan! Come over to the
southwest corner ay-sap!” Then she released it and added, “Unforch, there are still some odd jobs that need to be done. You
and Dylan can handle them.”

“Whatever you need!” Kristen chirped. Beside her, at least fourteen girls were fighting over a stand-up mirror.

Alicia smoothed her camel-colored Ralph Lauren jacket and eyed Kristen suspiciously. She held out the extra walkie-talkie.
“Here. This is yours. We’re on channel nine—you know, like Chanel No. 9.” She beamed. “My idea.”

Dylan arrived, limping over to Kristen and Alicia. As Alicia radioed new directions to Massie and Claire, Kristen studied
Dylan’s right foot. It was stuffed into a Tory Burch flat, but Kristen could swear it was puffier than normal.

“Hey Leesh,” Dylan said. “Did you tell Olivia Ryan that blondes get 10 percent off?”

Alicia rolled her eyes. “Opposite of yes!” She stormed off, but not before shoving the walkie-talkie into Kristen’s arm, where
it brushed against her bruise. She winced and gripped the area to soothe the pain. She could barely hear as Dylan
tried to explain how she and Kristen were tasked with scissor duty.

“Wait, two questions,” Kristen interrupted when the blinding pain had abated. “First, what is scissor duty? And second, why
are you limping?”

“Third,” Dylan corrected her. “Where’d you get that bruise?”

Kristen paused. “Um… Beckham. He pounced on me. I seriously need to put him on a diet. Now you answer.”

Dylan tossed back her hair. “Scissor duty is the job we’re not going to
actually
do, but we’ll tell Alicia we did. And I slipped in my new Giuseppe Zanotti heels. There was ice on the driveway.”

Alicia’s crackled through the walkie-talkie. “Pretty Committee, it’s time to regroup. Center table under the chandelier in
five. Over.”

It took Kristen and Dylan five full minutes to make their way through the crowd to the center table because girls kept pouring
into the tent and piling clothes into the reusable shopping bags Alicia had provided. They were five different shades of green,
just like the custom signage, and said, REDUCE YOUR CARBON FOOTPRINT. REUSE OUR OLD CLOTHES. RECYCLE THE DESIGNERS WHO MATTER.

Already under the chandelier, Massie waved Kristen and Dylan over to her, Claire, and Alicia.

“It’s runway time!” Massie called to them. Her eyes flashed with power. “Alicia had the brilliant idea of having the Pretty
Committee show off some of the ah-mazing deals we have today.”

Alicia smiled at Massie’s praise, but Kristen noticed it didn’t quite reach her eyes, which was odd because a compliment from
Massie was rarer than a pink diamond.

“I think that’s a great idea,” Kristen offered.

“I’ve pulled outfits directly from the racks for each of us. Kuh-laire, for you.” Massie presented Claire with a pair of Alicia’s
wide-legged black pants. On the tag it said:
Purchased from Barneys in November; worn once.
A gauzy floral blouse that matched the blue of Claire’s eyes perfectly claimed:
Purchased at Lala in Los Angeles; never worn.

“Nine point four!” Alicia decided, nodding in approval.

“Kristen, this is for you,” Massie declared, handing over a never-before-worn Marc Jacobs romper, paired with Diane von Furstenberg
booties whose tag read:
Worn when I met Chace Crawford with my mom on her show; courtesy of Ryan Marvil.

“Ssshhh.” Dylan held a finger to her lips. “I kinda forgot to tell her I was taking this.”

“It’s perfect,” Kristen whispered, running her hands over the smooth romper. It would feel so nice to slip into this and curl
up on a couch somewhere. Preferably with some aspirin and an ice pack.

Massie presented the rest of the outfits and then said, “I thought it would be fun to twist things up a bit! So, Alicia, you’re
wearing Dylan’s asymmetric Halston dress from the first week of December—it’s a solid nine-eight. And Dylan, you’ll be in
that Ralph Lauren cape and leather pants Alicia bought during Fashion Week last fall.”

“Yesss!” Dylan hissed, grabbing the leather pants. “I’ve always wanted to be Catwoman!”

“And what about you, Mass?” Alicia asked, gently draping the Halston over her shoulder.

“Moi?” Massie fluttered her eyelashes. “I’m modeling Alicia’s Tibi ankle pants and Dylan’s Alice + Olivia sequin tee. Something
from each of you!” She held up the items and the girls gasped.