It's Not Easy Being Mean (12 page)

“Puh-lease, I doubt the rules apply to
us
.” Massie swiped some glitter-infused Caramel Cream Glossip Girl on her lips and blotted on the inside cover of her science textbook. “Skye probably made up the whole don't-talk-to-me thing to keep the LBRs away. Any good alpha would have done the same.”

“Point.”

They turned onto Birch, parking across from a quaint A-frame colonial. The winding street was packed with average-size homes complete with two-car garages and enough front lawn for a game of five-person tag. Nothing more.

Massie grinned.

Her neighborhood was better than Skye's.

“Ehmagawd, there she is.” Alicia sounded awestruck. “Wearing a ballet tutu over gray stovepipe jeans. I
heart
that.”

“I like her beat-up jean jacket,” Kristen noted. “There's a great juxtaposition thing going on there. The whole tough-meets-feminine thing.”

“Whatevs.” Dylan shoved yet another sprinkle-covered Munchkin in her mouth. “Our soccer uniforms were just as creative.”

They watched in silence as Skye stepped off Liam Barrett's black Vespa. She unclipped her silver helmet, then finger-fluffed her just-got-back-from-the-beach sand-colored ringlets.

Massie kicked open the door. “I'm going in.”

Alicia grabbed her wrist. “What are you going to say?”

“I'm gonna reason with her, alpha to alpha.” Massie slipped off her gray Vince shrug so that her ah-dorable red Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress wouldn't go unnoticed.

Kristen crossed her fingers. “Good luck.”

“Wait!” Dylan grabbed the sleeve of Massie's dress. “Take these.” She tossed her the wax-coated bag of Munchkins. “Skye likes mini things, remember?”

Massie caught the bag, saluted her girls, and then headed out.

W
ESTCHESTER
, NY T
HE
H
AMILTON
H
OME

Tuesday, April 6th

4:36
P.M.

The clouds darkened to an eerie greenish gray as Massie marched across the street, moving through varying pockets of humid and cold air. Wind rustled the leaves on nearby trees, which at first sounded like someone whispering, “Shhhh.” Was nature urging her to keep her mouth closed? She stopped walking and listened again. This time it sounded like applause, an obvious message to forge ahead.

The Hamilton home had a cheery vibe. The porch was surrounded by charmingly rusted wagons filled with wild-flowers and smooth round rocks. Smoke puffed from the chimney, filling the neighborhood with the spicy warm smell of firewood. It reminded Massie of the ah-dorable Shire scene in
Lord of the Rings
(the only decent part of the whole snoozer of a movie). But truth be told, the whole thing was no bigger than her guesthouse—something Massie hoped Skye had noticed when she and her mysteriously hot, yellow-Porsche-driving friend were at the Block estate two days earlier.

At the top of the driveway, Skye and Liam were beside the Vespa, touching palms to see whose was bigger. Feeling like an LBR stalker, Massie reminded herself that the only real difference between her and Skye was age. If they were in the same grade, they would be BFFs. So why let something as silly as a birthday intimidate her? After all, Skye would probably be psyched she'd stopped by.

“Hey, Skye.” Massie charged up the driveway.

“Hey!” Skye removed her hand from Liam's and waved. Her crackly voice gave Massie the sudden urge for Rice Krispy Treats.

“I need to talk to you for a second.” She paused. “In private.”

Liam shrugged, then flicked a silver Hershey's Kiss wrapper onto the driveway. His wide hazel eyes were droopy with what Massie assumed was exhaustion.

“Let's go round back.” Skye held up a finger, letting Liam know she'd only be a minute.

He adjusted his tan knit cap and shrugged again.

Massie beamed, thrilled with herself for trusting her instincts.

Skye, who walked with her feet out in first position, led the way in metallic green ballet flats that matched the storm clouds overhead. Massie tried to imitate her but instantly felt like a duck.

“So, what's up?” Skye touched the ivy-covered stone on the side of her house. Her left arm glided gracefully across her torso, skimming the neighbor's hedges, then drifted over her head like an arched feather. She plied twice, then rested in third position.

“Doughnut?” Massie held out Dylan's bag. “They're mini.”

“Yummers!” Skye dug in and pulled out a sugarcoated ball. “I love mini things.”

“Same!” Massie forced herself to bite into a Munchkin. The sugar rush made her jaw tighten.

After Skye swallowed, her smile faded. Her Tiffany-box-colored eyes darkened as she glared at Massie, like she had on the CD-ROM. “Why. Are. You. Here?”

A gust of cool wind blew through the shrubs like a 3,000-watt hair dryer over a Mohawk.

“Um, I, uh…” Massie's palms itched. The hedges felt like they were closing in on her.

“Well?”

“It's an alpha thing,” Massie tried.

Skye reached into pocket of her jean jacket and pulled out a tiny heart-shaped mirror. Holding it up to her face, she said, “I only see one alpha.” Then she held it up to Massie. “And one cheater. And you know what that means.”

A clap of thunder interrupted her, and then the rain began to fall. First one drop, then another, and within seconds it sounded like hundreds of acrylic nail tips tapping nervously on a desk.

“Actually,” Massie shouted above the rain, “I'm, uh, here to find out what you want for graduation.”

“Really?” Skye tilted her head and folded her arms across her chest.

“Really,” she stalled, desperate for a lightbulb moment.

“And why do
you
want to get me a graduation present?”

And then it hit her.

“Who said it was from me?”

Skye furrowed her blond brows.

“Can I trust you?”

The doubtful expression behind Skye's eyes softened. “Course.”

Massie signaled her to come closer.

Clearly not into taking orders from a seventh grader, Skye angled her head, giving Massie an ear instead.

“Okay.” Massie looked right. Then left. “But you can't say a word to anyone.”

Skye crossed her heart, oblivious to the soaking rain.

Cupping her mouth, Massie leaned in toward Skye's ear. “The gift,” she whispered, “is from an ah-dorable boy who sent me to find out what you want. That's why I'm here.”

“Seriously?” Skye chirped. “Who is it? Who sent you?”

“Guess.”

Massie's heart thumped in anticipation.

“Ehmagawd, is it—?” She quickly cut herself off.

“
Who?
Who were you going to say?” Massie pleaded, feeling certain the answer would lead her straight to the mystery mattress.

Skye's eyes hardened.

“No one.”

As if noticing the rain for the first time, Skye shimmied out of her jean jacket and held it above her already drenched head, leaving Massie exposed. Something in her had shifted.

“A pony.”

“Huh?” Massie dried her cheeks with the back of her hand.

“Tell
him
I want a pony for graduation. And if I don't get one, certain
other
people won't ever, ever, ever get what they want.” She glared deep into Massie's eyes. “Know what I mean?”

For a split second Massie considered playing dumb. But Skye was obviously onto her, and it would have been
legitimately
dumb to anger her more.

A dizzying, falling sensation overcame Massie. It felt worse than an eyebrow wax. The pain lingered in ways that associated with ripping hair out of her face didn't.

“Don't worry, I'll tell him about the pony.” Massie showed Skye her phone to prove it. “I'll call him as soon as I dry off.”

“While you're at it, tell
him
to stop sending LISPs to do his dirty work.” She put her hands on her hips. “That is, if
he
even exists.”

Massie's ears buzzed. No one had ever called her a Little Insignificant Seventh-grade Pee-on before. No one had ever dared! Standing there, trapped under the hateful gaze of OCD's eighth-grade alpha, Massie didn't know whether to defend her honor or run.

If only she could highlight the last ten minutes and delete them. She'd drive straight past Skye's
Lord of the Rings
house and spend every waking moment trying to find subtle yet effective ways to show Skye that she was the opposite of a LISP. And prove that she was a rich, beautiful, clever, stylish comeback queen. But that opportunity was long gone.

“Why are you still here, LISP?”

Fat drops of rain beat down on her like angry punches. “I'm nawt.” Lifting her gray Rafe bag above her head, Massie dashed down the driveway, unable to stop herself from running like an LBR. She kicked Liam's silver foil across the soaked driveway, then whipped the soggy Dunkin' Donuts bag into the trash bin by the curb. She'd failed in her mission, a mistake so grave it could cost the Pretty Committee the key.

“Tell us everything, and don't leave one thing out,” Alicia squealed when Massie dove into the backseat. “Did she tell you our dance instructor gave me a star for my pas de bourrée last week?”

“She wants us to win, right?” Kristen asked.

“Where's the key?” Dylan burped.

Everyone laughed, except Massie, whose mood was further agitated by the sting of the air-conditioning on her wet skin.

“Dylan, is my name Dorothy?”

“Uh, no.”

“Then why did you think Munchkins could help me?”

They cracked up again while Massie stared out the window at the long wet road ahead, wondering how she was going to buy a pony without her parents finding out.

T
HE
B
LOCK
E
STATE
M
AIN
L
AWN

Tuesday, April 6th

5:40
P.M.

Claire closed the door of the bronze Ford Taurus as quietly as she could. Judi did the same. They tiptoed across the gravel driveway toward the stone walkway that sliced through the Blocks' lawn and led to the guesthouse.

“Let's go.” Judi held her black Talbots tote bag above her head. “It's dark and raining and—”

“Shhhh,” Claire hissed. “Run ahead if you want, just don't make any noise.”

“Claire, you're being ridiculous.”

“Shhhhh.” Claire ducked down.

“Suit yourself!” Judi scurried toward home, leaving her daughter behind in the rain.

Just as Claire had feared, the lights were on in the horse-shed-turned-spa.

They were in there.

If she could only sneak past the windows undetected. From there it would be a quick sprint and just two flights of stairs to the safety of her bedroom.

An urgent text message vibrated on Claire's cell phone.
911 meeting in GLU headquarters,
it said. Which really meant Girls Like Us headquarters, which really really meant the spa.

Pushing her black oversize wannabe-Dior sunglasses up her nose and securing her Faux-ch (fake Coach) plaid bucket hat (thank heavens for Times Square vendors and their cheap designer knockoffs), Claire assumed the crouch'n'dash position. She was about to make a run for it when someone shouted, “Hey, Nicole, I loved you on
The Simple Life 4!
“

She froze.

“Looks like you're really embracing the whole Hollywood thing.” Dylan snickered. She was wearing a Burberry trench coat and carrying a six-pack of Diet Dr Pepper and a black bag of Smartfood, obviously taken from the pantry in the main house. “Come on.” She tilted her head toward the spa. “Massie's been texting you like crazy. Let's go.”

Wiping her palms on the sides of her wet cargo minidress, Claire followed.

“After you,” Dylan conceded when they reached the rustic barn door.

“Great,” Claire murmured, sliding it open like the door of a minivan.

Inside, dozens of vanilla-scented candles cast a warm orange glow across the leather furniture and created long treadmill shadows against the rustic wood walls. The water-fall in the Zen rock garden trickled while the burning wood in the fireplace popped and crackled. Ceramic pots of bubbling chocolate fondue—surrounded by skewers of strawberries, bananas, and sponge cake—filled the room with a rich, sugary smell that made Claire's mouth water.

It felt more like one of Kendra Block's après-ski parties than a Pretty Committee meeting, until she saw the glass coffee table piled high with empty, gloss-stained Starbucks cups.

Without lifting her head, Massie handed Claire a stack of stapled papers. “Nice of you to show.”

“What's going on?” Claire sat on the ottoman beside Massie's bare, French-pedicured feet. Obviously, no one cared enough to ask how her meeting with Miles had gone.

“Read.”

Claire looked down, wishing she had been bombarded with what-are-you-wearing jokes. Something! But the girls were silent, making the document in her hands the only place Claire could turn.

She scanned the first page. It was a copy of the poem Skye had read on the CD-ROM. The rest was a grid that listed the boys she had kissed and the reasons they might have the key.

FOR PRETTY COMMITTEE EYES ONLY

The boys who sleeps atop the key

Is into the exact same things as me.

He loves all creatures, big and small,

So his age doesn't matter, not at all.

I try not to think about his “glamour-don't” style

By focusing on his kick-butt smile.

Note to self. I've kissed this guy,

But I've kissed them all. How bad am I?

We already node off into the sunset together,

But the next time use do, it will be forever.

Holla!