It's Not Easy Being Mean (14 page)

Once the GG Strawberry Milkshake gloss had worn off, Massie knew it was time to pull back. Dry kissing was like eating a veggie burger with no condiments. It lacked flavor.

“So you kissed Skye like
that
?” She hid behind a wall of long, razored bangs.

“No.” Derrington wiped his glossy mouth. “She kissed
me
like that.”

“Yeah, right.” Massie did her best to sound playful.

“When?”

“After I saved a goal against the Prairie Dogs last season. It got us to the finals. And she practically jumped me.”

“Puh-lease.”

Derrington held up his palm. “I swear. But I didn't like it. Her lips were too puffy. They felt like a butt.”

A week's worth of anxiety left Massie's body in a single sigh.

“Has she ever been in your bedroom?”

“You
are
jealous!” Derrington jumped on the pedals.

“Am nawt.” Massie wrapped her arms around his waist and they started to move.

She wanted to ask him about his bedroom again, but decided to wait. All the answers she needed were minutes away.

W
ESTCHESTER
, NY D
ERRINGTON'S
H
OUSE

Wednesday, April 7th

4:44
P.M.

Like Derrington, his house had a style all its own. Amid a street of old stone mansions, wrought-iron fences and foreboding trees, “Terra Domus” was an ultramodern cube of metal and glass.

“Hullo?” Derrington opened the red side door and stepped into a spacious stainless-steel kitchen. It smelled like a nauseating combination of meat sauce and lemon Pledge.

“Anyone home?”

Massie hoped no one would answer. With plans to meet her friends at the sandwich shop in less than an hour, she didn't have time for ah-nnoyingly polite parent banter.

“Hu-lloooo?”

“Yes, yes,” answered a woman in a thick Filipino accent, dragging a Swiffer.

“Hey, Mini. Is my mom home?”

Mini shook her head, swinging her long black hair, Pantene style. “Six o'clock. Who's this?”

“Oh, this is my, uh, my Block.” Derrington took off his blazer and tossed it on the glass breakfast table by the porthole window. “Block, this is Mini.”

Massie's palms tickled like she was squeezing a vibrating cell phone. The key was here. It was obvious. Skye's poem had said she loved “all things mini.” And standing before her
was
Mini. She had great hair, a knack for cleaning, and was easily a size two. What wasn't to
love
? Pure jubilation nearly allowed Massie to overlook the fact that this meant Skye had been in Derrington's room. Possibly
on
his bed. Insecurity churned inside her stomach like a curdled latte, but she did her best to remain composed. There'd be plenty of time to obsess over Skye and Derrington's relationship once the key was dangling around her neck. Puh-lenty.

“Nice to meet you, Mini.” She smiled sweetly.

The cleaning woman propped the Swiffer against the shiny silver Sub-Zero fridge, then rubbed the already gleaming marble countertop with a paper towel.

“How ‘bout a tour?”

“Let's go.”

Derrington led Massie through a sun-drenched dining room, past a stone table with chairs made of deer antlers. A long corridor lined with splattered canvases and paintings of Campbell's Soup cans and melted clocks led to two spiral staircases.

“Let's start in the basement.” Derrington gripped the cold metal banister. “It's soundproof, so I can blast video games while my brother plays the drums. Sometimes he tries to play to the beat of the game and I—”

“What about your bedroom?”

Derrington stopped.

Suddenly, Mini was beside them, dusting a marble chest that, according to the bronze nameplate bolted to its base, had been named
A Bust
.

“You should see our new pool table. It's covered with red felt instead of green.”

“I wanna see your room.” Massie was all too aware of Mini and didn't want to sound like a sleaze. “To get decorating ideas for my brother.”

“You don't have a brother.”

“I know, but adopting is so in right now and my birthday is coming up. I already have a puppy and a horse so—”

“Um, it's really cold up there,” Derrington mumbled. “The heat is broken.”

Mini dusted harder.

“That's okay, I just wanna look around.”

“But my mom doesn't allow guests upstairs.”

Mini snickered.

“She's not home,” Massie murmured, hoping her words might somehow slip by Mini undetected.

“Can't we just hang in the basement?”

Massie wondered if Skye had encountered this much trouble getting in.

Mini straightened an already straight Jonathan Adler floor vase. “Why do all females want to see inside Derrick's room?”

Massie practically exploded like a rattled can of Diet Coke. “
What
females? I'm going up.” She raced to the second staircase.

“Wait, you can't!” Derrington chased after her. “Block, stop!”

“What are you so afraid of?” Massie rounded the cork-screw staircase, trying her best to fight the dizziness. “Are you hiding
Playboys
in there?”

“No.” He reddened.

“What about pictures of Skye?”

“What? No!”

Massie stopped three steps short of the landing. “Then what is it?” she asked sweetly, leaning in to kiss him.

Derrington closed his eyes.

Massie ran.

“Wait!” Derrington reached for her ankles.

But it was too late.

She pushed open the red steel door and—

“Eh. Ma. Gawd!”

Derrington chuckled nervously as they stood under his doorframe.

“I tried to stop you.”

Massie buried her nose in the crook of her elbow. “What is that
smell
?” Her eyes rolled over a greasy pizza box, a clear bowl of soggy Cookie Crisp cereal, half a moldy sesame bagel, soggy green bath towels, and a heap of sweaty soccer clothes. The sisal rug added an essence of hay to the decomposing-seal-on-a-humid-day stench brought on by everything else. Massie dug inside her white leather bag, grabbed her Chanel No. 5, and sprinkled it around the room like holy water.

“The rest of your house is so clean. I don't—”

“My bed's not so bad.”

The carved tin headboard illustrated some Greek myth about angry waves, windblown clouds, and teetering sailboats. His blue comforter was littered with comic books and old sports sections from the
New York Times
. The desk, which had the same carvings as the headboard, was cluttered with stacks of CDs and DVDs that loomed over his computer like prison watchtowers. Smudged press clippings on the 2006 World Cup covered every square inch of wall.

Did it look this way for Skye?

“Do you hate me now?” Derrington slid his arms around Massie's waist.

“‘Course nawt.” She slapped his hands away from her clean clothes. “But why don't I help you tidy?”

“You don't have—”

“Puh-lease.” She slid her fingers under his mattress. “I
want
to. Grab the other side and on the count of three we'll slide this off the bed.”

“Why?”

“Because we're going to bury all your…
stuff
.”

“Block?” Derrington beamed. “I like your style.”

An hour ago, those words would have filled her with frothy warm Jacuzzi bubbles. But now, after seeing—and
smelling
— his unsanitary living conditions, they slid off her like oily soap scum. The sooner she got the key, the faster she'd be outside, where she could breathe without dry heaving.

“Ready? One…two…three.” Massie pushed, Derrington pulled, and a second later she was staring at a dusty box spring—a
keyless
dusty box spring.

Derrington tossed a handful of X-Men comics where the key
should
have been, and an angry dirt cloud, similar to the one on his headboard, emerged.

“Ehmagawd, what time is it?”

“Five-fifteen.”

“I'm late. I have to go.” Massie leaped over a tangle of action figures brought to justice in a web of vegetable lo mein.

“Want a ride?”

“No, that's okay, I'll call Isaac.”

“Thought you were conserving.”

“We are. But this is an emergency.”

Massie raced down the stairs and back through the smell of meat sauce and lemon Pledge, which suddenly didn't seem so bad.

W
RAP
S
TAR
G
OURMET
S
ANDWICH
S
HOPPE
W
ESTCHESTER
, NY

Wednesday, April 7th

5:37
P.M.

“Puh-lease tell me someone found it.” Massie weaved through the 1950s-diner-style tables and sat on the edge of the horseshoe-shaped booth. Her amber eyes were vacant and sad, like she'd just lost something special, something more than the key.

Holding up two fingers, Massie let Lysa, the waitress, know she wanted her usual—a single scoop of tuna on plain wheat toast.

“Anyone?”
she tried again.

“Nope.” They shook their heads.

Massie unfolded her master list and put a purple slash of Glossip Girl Blueberry Pie through the names Jake Shapiro, Derrington, Josh Hotz, Tiny Nathan, and Ezra Rosenberg.

“I did find
this
.” Dylan placed a ceramic mold of a buck-toothed mouth on the table. “Ew!” Alicia squealed. “Didn't we see that at the Museum of Natural History?”

“Not unless Jake Shapiro donated it.” Dylan pushed back the bell sleeves on her turquoise tunic. “His father made it before his first orthodontist appointment. This was him
before
the braces.”

“And you stole it?” Claire lowered her sunglasses to get a better look.

“I
had
to.”

“Well, unless it unlocks that room, I'm not interested.” Massie slouched.

“I bet it could.” Claire giggled. “Check out that incisor.”

Everyone burst out laughing, making Claire's teeth chatter. It was her body's way of releasing joy—like sweating, but for emotions. She loved how the Pretty Committee was working toward a common goal and that the goal wasn't “let's humiliate Claire.” For once, they were all on the same side.

“In case anyone wants to know, Josh's room was creepy clean.” Alicia licked raspberry fro yo off her spoon. “Even for a girl.”

“Derrington's was creepy-dirty.” Massie dipped a paper napkin in her water glass and scrubbed her hands. “He's so dead to me.”

Claire stopped chattering. “Just like
that
?”

“Yup.” Massie threw the soaked napkin on the table, where it landed with a soggy splat. “The bedroom is the window to the soul, Kuh-laire, and his soul smells like kitty litter.”

“Ehmagawd!” Alicia grabbed Massie's wet palm. “Josh's soul smells like Mr. Clean. Let's be single together!”

“What about the double-date movie I was planning?” Claire asked, not entirely believing that Massie could change her mind about Derrington so quickly.

“Unplan it.”

“Will someone puh-lease tell me a sad story?” Dylan shoveled a pile of ketchup-covered macaroni salad in her mouth. “I
need
to lose my appetite.”

Fire returned to Massie's amber eyes. “Here's one. If we don't get that key, some alt.com loser friend of Layne's will be the new alpha. Imagine being dominated by a group of girls who look like Kuh-laire does right now. By choice!”

Claire opened her mouth, ready to remind everyone that she was doing this for a movie. But Massie cut her off.

“Take off the hat and glasses,” she said to Claire.

“No,” Claire snapped. She was not going to be made a—

“They're mine, remember?” Massie held out her hand and wiggled her fingers. “Either take them off for a second or give them back for good.”

Stone-faced, Claire removed her disguise and stared at the mini jukebox on the wall.

“Do you want eye-bangs to be in next year?”

Everyone shook their heads.

“Well, they will be if the alt.coms find that key. To them, a good wax is a tall black candle.”

Alicia shuddered.

“Or the school could be run by Duh-livia Ryan.” Massie crossed her eyes and poked her tongue through her teeth like an electroshock-therapy patient.

Dylan squirted another dollop of ketchup on her noodles. “I said a sad story, not a scary one.” She popped a forkful of macaroni in her mouth.

Claire bit into her Say Cheese wrap. An orange glob of cheddar oozed out, stretching toward the waxed paper, reminding her of Cam's grape gum. Ahhhh, Cam…with his adorable green eye and blue eye…his Drakkar Noir-drenched neck…his beat-up leather jacket…his—

Her cell phone buzzed.

She put her sandwich down. It was another text message from Miles.

Runaways are thin.

Freaked out by his timing and suspicious that he might be spying, Claire reluctantly hooked her finger around the gooey cheese and yanked it out.

“
C
to the
L
to the
A
to the
I
to the
R U
kidding me?” someone shouted from the front of the restaurant. “What are you
doing
here?”

“Layne?”

Claire put on her glasses.

“Here comes our new alpha,” Massie snipped, “dressed in yellow low tops, pink-and-orange-striped kneesocks, denim cutoffs, and a tuxedo blazer.”

Everyone snickered.

“What are
you
doing here?” Claire asked.

“He's depressed.” She pointed to the takeout counter, where her brother, Chris, was lightly kicking the base of a stool.

His signature scruffy brown hair was messed to perfection. But torn jeans and a ripped black tee were an unflattering look for the otherwise preppy all-American.