It's Not Easy Being Mean (4 page)

“Alicia, let's start with you.”

“Yayyy.” She hugged herself, stepped forward, and then twirled.

Massie held an imaginary microphone in front of her mouth, then began. “Alicia is looking lovely in a denim, vintage-inspired, shrunken Polo blazer with a navy silk tank and a faded Hudson jean skirt over navy stretch pants. A chocolate-brown belt and matching suede ankle boots complete the look. Her hair, which was ahb-viously blown dry with a diffuser, is looking full and extra bouncy. Congratulations: you are a nine point five.”

Everyone golf-clapped while Alicia curtsied.

“Dylan?” Massie signaled the redhead to step forward.

“Here.” She burped, and then twirled the way Todd would if he were imitating a ballerina.

“As usual, you look comfy-cool in a black Ella Moss tie-back sleeveless jumpsuit with gold cowboy boots and a thick gold waist belt. Your hair has been straightened and deep-conditioned to perfection. But something is missing….

Hmmm…” She tapped her lower lip. “I know! A touch of rosy blush.”

“Done.” Dylan reached into her denim makeup case and pulled out a gold YSL compact.

“Congratulations: you are a nine point three.”

Dylan bowed while the girls giggle-clapped with pride.

Much to Claire's relief, Kristen automatically stepped forward and spun, her arms splayed out to the side.

“Looking sporty-chic in a blousy orange-and-white-striped rugby tee and black short shorts is Kristen Gregory. She gets extra points for ditching that mom-approved, floor-length peasant skirt in the back of my Range Rover. And extra, extra points for the ah-dorable side braid. Congratulations, you are a nine point four.”

Kristen high-fived Alicia and Dylan.

Claire, knowing she was nowhere near a nine, examined the silver zipper on her jacket pocket, hoping Massie would forget about her, just this once.

“Kuh-laire?”

“Yeah.” She lifted her eyes.

“Are you a zit?”

“No.”

“Then why are you all covered up?”

Everyone giggled.

“I'm cold.” She bounced on the toes of her denim Keds for effect. “You can skip over me.”

“That would mean an automatic two,” Massie warned.

The girls gasped.

“S'okay,” Claire assured her, preferring the low rating to a round of Old Navy jokes.

“You know that anything lower than a seven means you have to walk three paces behind us all day,” Alicia was quick to add.

She didn't.

“You may wanna change your mind,” Kristen urged.

Claire started weighing the pros and cons. Walking beside them on the first day back would definitely take some of the edge off. But what if they laughed at her pink-and-purple floral waffle shirt? Would she even
want
to walk beside them? Or would she run to the nearest bathroom, sob, and spend the rest of the day wishing she'd worn the stylish but itchy maroon V-necked sweater dress Massie had lent her?

“Too late!” Dylan tapped her green quartz ToyWatch.

“But—”

Massie held out her palm until Claire closed her mouth. Then she stepped and twirled. “I'm wearing a gray Geren Ford V-necked kimono dress with a super-chunky black suede belt that hangs diagonally across my hips. A pair of black leggings are peeking out the bottom, while red patent leather flats add a burst of color at my ankles. My hair is in a low side chignon and fastened with two red chopsticks.” She placed her hands on her hips and grinned. “Feedback?”

“Nine point six,” Alicia offered immediately.

“Ah-greed,” Dylan and Kristen confirmed.

Claire nodded.

“What would make me a nine point
eight
?” Massie spun again while the girls studied her.

“A touch more gloss,” Alicia blurted with total certainty.

“Ah-greed,” echoed the others.

“Okay.” Massie coated her lips with Rice Krispy Treat Glossip Girl. “On the count of three, everyone sing the chorus of ‘Don't Cha’ by the Pussycat Dolls in your head. That way we'll all be walking to the same beat. Oh, Kuh-laire, you should start three seconds later, since you'll be behind us.”

“But—”

“Ready?” Massie wrapped her hand around the silver pump handle on the lacquered wood door and mouthed,
“One…two…three…Don't cha wish your girlfriend was hot like me?”
Once the others were whisper-singing along, she pushed the handle and burst into the hall, Alicia on her right, Dylan and Kristen on her left.

Claire inhaled deeply, fighting the pinch behind her eyes, as she watched her friends take off without her. Maybe Hollywood was the right place for her after all.

After counting to three, she entered the building to the sultry beat in her head.
“Don't cha wish your girlfriend was hot like me? Don't cha wish your girlfriend was a freak like me?”

Once inside, the scent of bitter coffee and Xerox chemicals ambushed Claire, making her momentarily lose her place in the song. She'd forgotten how different the hall smelled on the teachers' side and relished the familiarity of it all.

With every synchronized step Claire took, the louder the pre-morning bell sounds became; overlapping conversations, explosions of laughter, boot heels squeaking, slamming metal locker doors. The moment of truth was upon them.

Massie lifted her bronzed arm in the air and snapped twice.

It was time.

They made a sharp right and merged flawlessly with the heavy flow of student traffic.

A mix of flowery perfume, fruity hair products, and sweet bubble gum replaced the stale church smell that hovered around the teachers' section. The water fountains seemed lower and the halls narrower than Claire remembered. But other than that, girls were whizzing and whirling in a mad rush to make it to class on time, just like they always had. Claire took in the scene and sigh-smiled. Everything was more or less exactly how she'd left it.

“You guys! They're back!” shouted Allie-Rose Singer, who towered a good foot over every other girl in the seventh grade. The black-haired green-eyed beauty was far too tall to be in the Pretty Committee, according to Massie, which was a shame, since her wardrobe was filled with all of the desirables—cashmere cowl-neck sweaters, dark skinny jeans, silk tunics, sweater dresses, and shiny Marc Jacobs flats in every color. But everything was too long to share, rendering Allie-Rose and her fabulous wardrobe useless.

“Welcome!” She dropped the stack of textbooks she had been clutching, smoothed her navy button-down shirtdress, and clapped.

All of a sudden, everyone in the halls noticed them and joined in the applause.

Like a school of colorful sunfish, the Pretty Committee stopped at the exact same time. Claire, who was still walking to “Don't Cha,” stepped on the back of Massie's red leather flat, causing her heel to slip out. She felt her cheeks flush in anticipation of the stretch-limo-size verbal slap she would undoubtedly get. But like a true professional, Massie slipped her foot back inside without so much as a wobble while waving to her devoted public with the grace of a prom queen.

Technically, starting the day greeted by hordes of stylish, adoring fans was a good thing. But for some reason, Claire found the attention overwhelming. What was she supposed to do with her hands? Let them dangle at her sides? Wave? Applaud
them
for applauding
her?
And what about her expression? Should she appear shocked and humbled? Or deserving and proud? The only thing Claire knew for sure was that all of this hooting and hollering made her cheeks burn and her head all light and tingly. Her face felt like a giant red helium balloon and her body a flimsy string.

All she could do was take advantage of her position in the back row and take cover behind the girls.

“Ta-da!” Allie-Rose yanked a string above her head. Dozens of purple balloons fell from a net above her locker.

“Ehmagawd, purple's my favorite color,” Massie gushed, like it was some sort of coincidence.

“We know,” beamed Penelope Rothman, whose dimples dented her freckled cheeks like giant fingernail marks. She pointed to the purple-glitter-soaked “GR8 2 C U” banners with the grace of a seasoned flight attendant.

“Ooooh,” squealed Alicia, once she saw the life-size cardboard cutouts of her and Massie, taken straight from the glossy pages of
Us Weekly
. “I heart
those!”

Pictures of them swimming with Conner Foley in his Malibu Beach pool were plastered on the outside of the girls' lockers alongside blown-up shots of Dylan and her talk-show-host mother Merri-Lee Marvil, taken from an old article from
Vanity Fair
about celebrities and their daughters.

“Hurry, before the bell rings,” announced Paige Winman, who managed to get away with her too-short-even-for-a-boy cut because she was the best abstract painter at OCD. She was leading a swarm of girls armed with Sharpie minis and cell-phone cameras. She forced her way between Dylan and Kristen, red-rover style, waving a color copy of the not-yet-released
Dial L for Loser
movie poster. “Claire will you
please
sign this? I've had it pressed in my atlas for days, waiting for you to get back.”

Claire giggled when she saw her flawless, airbrushed face. She was posed on a lunch table, legs crossed, in a crowded cafeteria, wearing a skimpy private school uniform and holding a crystal-covered cell phone to her ear, winking in a shhh-don't-tell sort of way. In the background, Conner Foley was kissing Abby Boyd but looking at Claire, longingly. It was perfect.

“How did you get this?”

“I found it on the Internet and made copies,” she boasted.

“We all have one,” said Erica Lunsky, gesturing to the snaking line of starstruck girls forming behind her. “Will you sign them before class?”

Claire didn't want to let her fans down, but she also knew not to be late on her first day back. “Um, sure.” She checked her pink Baby G-Shock watch. “If we hurry.”

One by one, Claire worked her way through the line, each time signing her name a little differently. She signed Kami Kauffman's like this:

and Dara Sammet's like this:

and Payton Lawrie's like this:

until, finally, she came up with what was sure to be an eBay-worthy autograph:

The five-minute warning bell rang and Claire's heart quickened. She hadn't even taken off her jacket yet, let alone fumbled with her lock and fished out her American history book. Beads of light sweat gathered on her forehead as she forced her hand to sign faster. But the faster she signed, the more she sweated. And the more she sweated, the stringier her bangs became.