It's Not Easy Being Mean (19 page)
Kristen unbuttoned her denim A&F blazer and flung it over the back of her chair. “Are we seriously going to give in to
all
four of those demands?”
“’Course nawt.” Alicia dropped a stack of dusty legal books on the table. “We're gonna counter.”
Dylan licked her spoon. “Meaning?”
“Meaning we argue her list and come back with a new one of our own.” Massie nibbled her thumbnail for the first time in years.
“What if she doesn't like our list?” Kristen asked. “What if Layne insists on all or nothing? Then what?”
“Then we'll be making masks on Friday nights and protesting on Sundays.” Dylan sighed.
“Point.”
“Wrong!” Massie snapped. “We can't compromise the Pretty Committee like that. I'd rather lose the room than sacrifice the things that are important to us.”
“Really?” squeaked Alicia.
“Really.” Massie exhaled the tsunami of stress that had been wreaking havoc on her insides for the last six days. “What good is a shoe if it doesn't have a sole?”
“Huh?” Dylan seemed to ask for all of them.
“Um, I have a question.” Alicia raised her hand. “What if the shoe
has
a sole but no one wants to wear it?”
Massie grinned. “I'll find a way to make people want to wear it. That's what alphas do.”
Ten minutes later, Alicia stood. “Layne we've heard your terms. Now hear ours.”
She sat.
“Can I get Clah back on the phone?”
Massie nodded at the black spaceship.
Completely unaware of the Oreo chunk dangling from the side of her wig, Layne dialed.
After four rings, Claire picked up. “Mom, I'm going to get some water,” she announced. “Be right back.”
“I'll have some,” said a deep-voiced man.
“Me too,” another chimed in. “Make mine with ice.”
Claire sighed.
“How's it going?” Layne asked. “How much are they going to pay you?”
“Don't know yet. We're still trying to decide if I should go to summer school or night school.”
“Ew to both!” Alicia winced.
“I know.”
“Won't you be back here in the fall?” Layne asked.
Massie wrote her name in bubble letters on the card-board back of her legal pad, pretending not to care.
“No, the final act is being shot in Bhutan. Then in January they want me to go to Japan to do press junkets. You know, so I'll have experience when it's time to do them here.”
“Sayonara.” Massie waved to the spaceship, placing all her hope in reverse psychology. “Now can we puh-lease move on?”
“Ugh! I hate my
hair,”
Claire whispered.
“No argument here.” Massie flipped through her notes. “We hate your hair too.”
Alicia, Dylan, and Kristen snickered.
“I said,” Claire whisper-shouted, “I
hate
that I'm not
there.
“
“Don't worry, it will grow back eventually.” Massie lifted her legal pad. “Here are the terms set forth by the Pretty Committee.”
Layne pulled a feathered quill and a tiny jar of red ink out of her wool kneesock and set them on the table.
“One. Claire may be reinstated into the Pretty Committee.”
Claire squeaked with joy.
“As
long,
“ Massie continued, “as she apologizes for lying about Cam's uncle and—”
“I'm sorry.” Claire sounded choked up. “I will never ever do anything like—”
“Forgiven,” Massie interrupted. “
And
as long as she remains in Westchester. If she moves, she's out.”
Layne dipped her quill, then scribbled on her parchment.
“Two. Layne can go to one sleepover per month, not two. And we
will
make fun of her, only if she insists on working with clay, re-creating unforgettable scenes from Tony Award–winning Broadway shows, or making masks.”
Claire giggled.
Layne opened her mouth, but Massie cut her off. “And yes, she can put her sleeping bag beside Claire's—so long as Claire is
there
. That's a given.”
Layne lowered her head and wrote.
“Three. Unlimited access to the room has been denied. Permission to store poster board and other sign-making materials has been granted, so long as they are kept in a suitcase made by Louis Vuitton or Coach.
“Four. We cannot and will not promise to pretend we like you in public.”
Layne slammed down her quill.
“If we like you, we will act like it. If we don't, we won't.”
“Fine.” Layne resumed writing.
Alicia stood. “That's our offer. Take it or leave it.”
She sat.
“I have one more thing,” Claire said. “No more eyebrow jokes.”
Layne bit down on her locket.
“You mean we can't refer to them as the Bush twins any-more?” Massie snickered.
“No!”
“Hmmmm.” Massie rubbed her chin like she was mulling it over. “On one condition.” She glared at Layne. “Is the picture of Tricky still inside that locket?”
Layne spit it out of her mouth and nodded.
“Wipe it off and give it to me.”
The way Alicia, Dylan, and Kristen looked at her, Massie might as well have borrowed Claire's Keds.
“Why do you want
this
?” Layne clutched the gold necklace.
Massie wiggled her fingers. “Deal or no deal?”
“Will you stop making fun of my clothes?” Layne asked.
“I'll try.”
“No deal.” Layne popped it back in her mouth.
“Okay, fine. Deal.”
“And you'll compliment me in public?” she pressed, slowly removing the heart-shaped locket from between her wet lips.
“Fine, fine, whatevs.” Massie held out her hand and wiggled her fingers. “Just give it to me before your saliva burns a hole though it.”
Carefully, Layne lifted the tarnished gold chain over her wig and slid it across the table.
Ignoring her friends' puzzled glares, Massie picked it up with a piece of legal paper, disenfected it with Evian, and then dropped it in her clutch. “Looks like we're all done here.”
“One more thing.” Alicia walked a stapled document over to Layne. “This confidentiality agreement was created by my father, Len Rivera, a
lawyer
.” Alicia folded her arms across her chest. “You and Claire need to sign it.”
“What is it?”
“It says you will never, ever, ever tell another human being, dead or alive, that you found the key before we did. This fact—which we are about to erase from the history books—should never appear in print, code, tattoos, foreign languages, or journals, or on handheld or desk-based electronic devices, billboards, or T-shirts, or engraved on jewelry or anything else we haven't thought of.”
Layne dipped her quill and scrawled her name at the bottom of the document.
“Kuh-laire.” Alicia blew Layne's signature dry. “Massie will bring this over for you to sign later this afternoon.”
“’Kay.”
“Great. Then are we done?” Layne unclipped her cape.
“Not quite.”
“Oh.” Layne untied the black bow that held the low ponytail in her wig and dangled it above Massie's palm. A tiny key hung off the end. “Will you unlock me?” She held out her wrist, which was still handcuffed to the metal safe.
“Given.” Massie unlocked Layne's handcuffs and then grabbed the box that held the key to her future.
Saturday, April 10th
4:26
P.M.
“Signature, please.” Massie thrust a piece of paper and a black Montblanc fountain pen in Claire's face the instant she opened the guesthouse door.
“Hey!” She folded her arms across her mint green J. Crew oxford. In her denim Gap miniskirt and pineapple-covered Keds, Claire looked like a sweet suburban schoolgirl. It was her attempt to remind the lawyers she wasn't a gorilla, even though she resembled one from the neck up.
“Where were you?” Massie pushed past her and entered the Lyonses' house like she owned it, which technically she did. “I've been calling. I thought you were supposed to be home all day planning your big Hollywood
career.
“ She said
career
like most people would say
snot.
Embarrassed by the mess of coffee mugs and stacks of crumb-filled plates the lawyers had left behind on the dining room table, Claire guided Massie toward the stairs.
“They left an hour ago, so my mom took me to CVS. We just got back.” Claire swung the crinkly drugstore bag like a limited-edition Chanel.
“Whatevs.” Massie shrugged. “As soon as you sign this confidentiality agreement, I'll be out of your
hair.
“
“Hey! No eyebrow jokes. You promised.”
“Ooops, sorry.” She quickly covered her mouth. “I forgot.”
“Well, then, I'm not signing.” Throwing the CVS bag over her shoulder, Claire turned and stomped up the creaky wood stairs. An afternoon with cutthroat Hollywood lawyers had inspired her to hold her ground and stick up for herself.
“Okay, wait.” Massie raced toward the staircase.
Claire stopped.
“It's just that—” Massie fake-sobbed. “It's just that I'm gonna miss those jokes.” She giggled.
“We're done.” Claire hurried into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.
The soles of Massie's riding boots beating against the wooden stairs as she climbed to the top, sounded like a fierce game of Ping-Pong.
“I'm sorry, okay?” she called. “Open up.”
Claire paused and examined herself in the mirrored medicine cabinet. Coarse black hair and two wiry black strips above her eyes stared back. A mosaic of honey yellow tiles filled the background. The towels that hung on the silver rod behind her were also yellow, as was the shag bath mat and the matching toilet-seat cover. She felt like a fuzzy bumblebee in a Pine-Sol–scented hive.
“Kuh-laire, come awn!” Massie shook the silver door handle.
“Only if you promise not to make fun of me anymore.”
“Done.”
“I don't believe you.”
“Pinky-swear.”
Claire turned the lock and opened the door, just enough to sick out her pinky. Massie reached for it and shook.
“Now sign.” Massie slapped the confidentiality agreement on the white marble countertop. Placing the pen on top of it, she pointed the gold nib to the exact spot Claire needed to sign.
“I'll need a minute to vet this.” Claire used her lawyer's word for
examine
like it was a term they tossed around on IM twenty times a day.
“Given.”
Massie sat on the toilet-seat cover. She unbuttoned her burgundy blazer and pulled a platinum chain out of her barely there cleavage, giving way to a clumpy awkward necklace. A cluster of pastel-colored enamel handbags hung alongside a red leather tag, stamped with the boxy Coach logo. It was exactly what Skye had asked for in her video, right down to the dangling gold key. “Next year is going to be so ah-mazing. This room is gonna mean automatic A-list in high school.”
Claire ignored her attempts to provoke jealousy, pretending to vet the agreement.
“Remember that tunnel you were talking about?”
Claire kept moving her eyes across the words (twelve-point Courier, bold, and all caps), with grave intensity, the way her lawyer had done with her studio contract. “Well, we're already working on plans to build it, you know, so Cam can sneak in during lunch.”
“Mmmm.” Claire flipped the page.
“It's too bad you won't be here.” Massie stood. “We have tons of plans. We were gonna get a gummy bear dispenser. But now that you're leaving, there's kinda no point.”
Claire tried to steady the corners of her mouth. It was obvious Massie was upset she was leaving. And it was making her smile.
“Looks good to me.” She scribbled her name under Layne's and snapped the black cap back on the weighty pen. “Congratulations. It sounds like the room is gonna be cool.” She reached into the plastic bag and pulled out a box of Revlon's Frost & Glow blonding kit.
“
Cool?”
Massie looked her in the eye for the first time since the eyebrow extensions.
“Yeah.” Claire tore open the package and snapped on the protective gloves. “It sounds like you'll have a fun year.”
“Doesn't that bum you out at
all?”
“No.” She mixed the blonding powder with the blonding cream. “Why should it?”
“’Cause you're not going to be part of it.”
Claire tied a yellow towel around her shoulders like a cape. “Send pictures.” She painted a thick band of white paste over her scalp.
Massie's glossy mouth hung open. “That's it?
Send pictures?
That's all you have to say?” She shut her eyes for a split second and gently shook her head no in a this-can't-be-happening sort of way. “What about Cam?”
“What
about
him?” Twisting and contorting, Claire struggled to reach the back of her head. A glob of dye landed between her collarbones, missing her hair entirely.
“Doesn't he want you to stay?” Massie grabbed the dye brush from Claire's hands and dipped it in the mix.
“Yeah.” Claire turned, surrendering to Massie. “But he's the only one.” She pulled off the gloves and handed them over.
“You mean if other people wanted you to stay, you would?” Massie gathered a handful of black hair and covered it with dye. Then, she massaged it into the hair, making sure the color was evenly distributed.
“I dunno.” Claire bit her lower lip. “Maybe.”
“I bet your family'll miss you.”
“Why? They'd go with me.”
“Oh.” Massie massaged harder. “Well, what about Layne?”
“She'll visit.” Claire pulled a pair of little silver scissors from her bag and ripped off the cardboard wrapper.
“What about Kristen and Alicia and Dylan? I heard them say they want you to stay.” Massie snapped a shower cap on Claire's head.
“Yeah, right.” Claire leaned in toward the mirror. “When you kicked me out of the Pretty Committee, they didn't care one bit.” Raising the silver scissors, she snipped the thin black thread that had been woven into her brows. A flurry of coarse black hair fell past her blond lashes. Then—
snip, snip, snip
—more hair dusted the rim of the white porcelain sink.
Fussing with the tangle of handbag charms around her neck, Massie murmured, “Well, I'd prob'ly miss you.”