Massie (5 page)

THE BLOCKS’ SOUTHAMPTON ESTATE

POOLSIDE

Monday, June 15
10:47 A.M.

When life gave Massie lemons, she made lemon-mint spritzers. Or at least, she sipped them.

After a long, brain-numbing swig, she set the tall glass in the cup holder of the portable pedicure chair, powered off her white iPod, and wiggled her toes. It was a subtle “hurry up” hint, aimed at Rita, the famed “poolside polisher,” who, after an hour, was
just
starting to apply the first coat of Chanel’s Black Satin. With exactly five hours left to find a jobby before her mom forced her to work at the beach club, Massie was starting to panic.

Rita quickly lifted the tiny black brush off Massie’s big toe. “Stop squirming!”

Massie rolled her eyes at the drugstore blonde’s dark roots and then sighed.

“Gawd, you’re so lucky.”

Rita lifted her blue-colored-contact eyes. “How am
I
lucky?”

“You have a job you
love
.” Massie adjusted her white Tom Ford wrap sunglasses. “Did you always dream of doing people’s nails?”

“Oh yeah, sure. It’s a real
dream
job.” The chubby older woman clipped a stray cuticle from Massie’s toe, then snickered, revealing an uneven row of top teeth.

“Well, I need to find mine.” Massie checked the time on her iPhone.

“Any leads?” Rita dipped the brush in the square glass bottle.

“I don’t know where to look.” Massie pulled a black hardcover sketchbook and purple glitter pen from her white leather beach tote.

“Why don’t you make a list of things you enjoy, and then you can think of jobs that fit those things?”

“I did,” Massie opened her book and read her list to Rita.

THINGS I ♥	JOBBYS	PROS	CONS
Animals	• Vet • Dog clothing designer • Dog walker	• Save animals • A doggie fashion show would be ah-dorable • Toned legs	• Need education • Must wear lab coat • Sewing is boring • Scooping poop for a paycheck is highly un-alpha.
The Pretty Committee	Social-life planner	Comes naturally	They are away
Fashion	Wardrobe Stylist	Get to shop all day . . .	. . . for other people
Parties	Party planner	Get paid to go to parties	Have to work while I’m at parties
Being in charge	President	Private jet	Pantsuits

“Rita?” Massie reapplied her clear Glossip Girl SPF 30 lip conditioner and peered across the lawn. The gardener was driving some tractor-style lawn mower that filled the air with the earthy smell of fresh-cut grass. It seemed like everyone was tapping into their dream job but her. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course,” Rita said, applying a second coat of Black Satin. “Anything.”

Massie surveyed the list with a critical eye. “Can you grab my
Teen Vogue
? It’s right next to you on my chaise. I need a break.”

Rita’s knees cracked when she stood.

Massie began flipping through the glossy pages. Models, leaping through the surf dressed in bikinis and long chain necklaces, mocked her with their berry-stained smiles. Toward the back there was a story about a teen girl traveling Europe and blogging on international trends. And a profile on Whitney Port, the famous intern from
The Hills
. It seemed like everyone had a glam summer jobby but her.

After a few more minutes of envy-flipping, Massie’s eyes landed on a striking twentysomething with a precise jet-black bob; dark, almond-shaped eyes; and olive skin. She wore an ivory silk shift dress that had the word
be
handwritten across it in deep red lipstick. She was perched on a metallic purple Vespa, above the custom-made sidecar that carried her light gray dwarf pony, Muse.

Sometime around the holidays Massie had read about the limited-edition mini pet and tried her hardest to get one. But the dwarf-pony breeder had suggested she call back in 2011, when the waiting list opened up again.

“Listen to this.” Massie wriggled her ink-colored toenails. “‘Anastasia Brees, founder of Be Pretty Cosmetics, is out to make the world a more
be
-autiful place.’” Massie removed her white sunglasses. “I totally agree. I’ve always said ugly people should stay indoors.” She started reading again. “‘And in the process, this twenty-five-year-old makeup mogul has landed in
Forbes
’s Top 100.’”

Massie quickly scanned the rest of the article, devouring the stats as avidly as Isaac kept track of the Yankees. Anastasia Brees was the ultimate adult alpha. At twenty-five, she has a cosmetics empire, a private helicopter, and apartments in New York, Los Angeles, Rio, London, and Paris. She’d even placed one higher than Jessica Alba on
People
’s Most Beautiful list.

“Ehmagawd,” Massie squealed. “And her favorite color is purple because it’s the color of royalty. Same and same!” She ran her index finger down the page and continued reading. “‘Anastasia’s beauty philosophy sets her apart from all the rest. “I believe that people are most radiant when they let their inner beauty shine through,” she says.’”

“Clear polish!” Massie tapped Rita’s wrist with her toes. “Is it too late to switch?”

Rita sighed and reached for her glass jar of cotton balls.

The remover felt ice-cold against Massie’s skin, but she barely flinched. She was too fired up. “Listen to this! Anastasia is looking for girls to be a part of her exclusive Be Pretty Cosmetics sales team!”

Massie read the details aloud, the excitement frothing up inside her like Bumble and Bumble shampoo lather. The more she read, the more enthralled she was. Each time one of the Be Pretty Cosmetics salesgirls broke the current sales record, Anastasia applied a purple streak to the high seller’s hair. Flash the streak to
anyone, anywhere
in the world and it meant no wait lists necessary. No reservations required. No lines ever. It was an all-access pass to the five-star lifestyle. And it was priceless.

“I found my jobby!” She tossed her notebook on the freshly swept limestone deck.

Massie reread the article—to herself, this time— skipping the boring part about the importance of
inner
beauty. If she was going to become the top-selling Be Pretty Cosmetics girl, she didn’t have time to waste on feel-good philosophies. Everyone knew that “inner beauty” was code for “good personality but not so hot on the outside.”

After reading the article a third time, Massie dialed the Be Pretty Cosmetics headquarters in Manhattan.

“Be Pretty,” answered a smooth female voice.

“Anastasia Brees, please,” Massie blurted.

Rita giggled at the rhyme.

“I’m sorry, but Miss Brees is unavailable,” the girl purred. “Can I help you?”

“I need that get-started package sent to my house priority overnight.”

“I’ll need a credit card to cover the shipping costs,” the voice explained.

Massie reached for her bag, then stopped herself. Her entire body blushed. She kicked her foot to get Rita’s attention, then mouthed, “Do you have a credit card?”

Rita shook her head no.

Massie rolled her eyes and sighed.

“Um, I don’t trust FedEx. Can I pick it up?”

“Sure, we’re on Spring Street in SoHo. Open till six.” The receptionist hurried, as several phone lines rang in the background. “Will that be all?”

“Yup, I’ll be right there.”

Massie jumped off the chair and pulled the blue foam wedges out from between her toes. “Rita, I gotta find Isaac. I have a meeting in Manhattan. Can you come back tonight after dinner and finish up?”

Rita rubbed her tired eyes. “How about tomorrow?”

“I can’t tomorrow. I have a jobby!” She beamed, and then waddled away on her heels. “See you at seven!”

THE BLOCKS’ SOUTHAMPTON ESTATE

DRIVEWAY

Monday, June 15
6:19 P.M.

Traffic was bumper-to-bumper all the way into the city. But after the five-hour round-trip, Massie and Isaac were back in Southampton, with a huge royal purple glitter–covered crate packed with beauty products, motivational CDs, and sales tips.

“What do you think?” Massie jumped out of the car and hurried across the gravel to the back of the silver Range Rover. She held a purple metallic BE PRETTY bumper sticker against the rear window, sliding it left. “Here?” she asked. Then right. “Or here?”

Isaac folded his arms across his chest. “Are you sure your mother will approve of this?”

“Puh-lease.” She smoothed the sticker into place above the left taillight. “This whole job thing was
her
idea, remember?”

“It’s crooked.” Isaac sighed.

“And
please
unfold your arms. Otherwise no one can see your T-shirt.”

He dropped his hands to his sides, revealing a purple muscle T-shirt with BE STRONG scrawled across the chest in gold glitter script. “That was the whole idea.”

Massie wielded a spray tube of Be Glitzy like an eager Saks perfume girl and misted gold sparkles all over the Range Rover. She stepped back to admire her work.

The silver SUV sparkled under the setting evening sun. It reminded Massie of Brownie and his game-day glitter. If it hadn’t been for the bounty of new beauty products waiting to be unwrapped, she would have teared up at the memory.

“What have you done to
Rover
?” Kendra called from the gleaming white doorway, her hands on the waist of her cream-colored slacks.

“Mom.” Massie pushed back the bell sleeves of her colorful knit Missoni wrap dress. “I’m a Be Pretty Cosmetics girl now. And all of this is part of the job—a job
you
wanted me to get, remember?” She pulled the heavy crate out of the car, hurried toward her mother, and dropped it by her fresh pedicure.

Massie sat down cross-legged in the foyer, removed her leopard-print Manolo slides, and used one kitten heel to pry open the wood flap. “You’re nawt going to believe what’s inside,” she said, tossing handfuls of gold packing peanuts over her shoulder onto the black-and-white checkerboard floor.

“Inez!” Kendra shouted.

The Blocks’ longtime housekeeper burst through the swinging kitchen door clutching a trash bag. She dropped to her bare knees and began scooping up the mess.

“Do you know how to use all of this?” Kendra tapped an acrylic fingernail against her ultra-white teeth.

“Given.” Massie rolled her eyes. “I watched the instructional DVD on the ride home. But it was mostly about the company’s philosophy.”

“Which is . . .” Kendra lifted an opalescent glass jar of Be Young wrinkle filler and scanned the directions.

“Just a bunch of stuff about
real
beauty being on the inside and how makeup should enhance what we were born with, not try to cover it up.” Massie clipped the purple satin brush holster around her hips and admired her new professional self in the round hallway mirror.

Really, she was everything a Be Pretty Cosmetics high seller should be: stylish, sophisticated, and ready to make over the world, one brassy highlight at a time. And Southampton in the summer was teeming with potential customers. Sunburned lips, dry hair, oily complexions, and last year’s eye shadow were as common as crab cakes.

But not for long.

“Massie!” Ellie Neufeld appeared in the open doorway wearing an XL SOUTHAMPTON KIDZ KLUB T-shirt that fell over her bulky B-cups and skimmed her scraped knees.

“Surprise!” Trini sauntered in with a toss of her stiff orange hair. She dropped her orange Fendi on the marble credenza and spread her arms, inviting the blasting air-conditioning to cool her underarms. “Who wants to see my new Burberry—” Her wide green eyes stopped dead on the crate of makeup. “Hold. I thought Saks was tomorrow afternoon.” She pouted. “Did you and Mona sneak off without me?”

“Of course not.” Kendra stood and smoothed her navy silk Elie Tahari blouse. “My daughter just became a Be girl,” she said proudly. “Massie, why don’t you take Ellie up to your

room while Trini and I visit?”

“But I have so much work to do.”

“I’m sure Ellie will find your new job very fascinating.”

Kendra shot her an and-that’s-an-order smile. To which Massie responded with an eye roll and a foot stomp. But until she got her Visa back, Massie was a slave to her mother’s infuriating demands.

“Can I help do your job?” Ellie asked as she followed Massie and her crate into her bedroom.

“How can you possibly help? Your style is worse than . . .” Massie paused, her amber eyes zeroing in on Ellie’s chapped, cracked lips. Then her watery blue eyes. Then her dull complexion, her limp red hair, and her thin brows. “Of course you can help.”

Massie reached into the crate and pulled out a purple makeup caddy. It was fully stocked with towers of purple boxes filled with lipstick, eye shadow, blush, gloss, and eyeliner. The she popped the Be Motivated CD into her Bang & Olufsen player and turned up the volume. It sounded New Age-y—like a female alien singing, “Be, be, be,” while a pan flute whistle-moaned in the background.

“Do you want me to do your makeup?” Massie hurried to her apple green chaise by the window, where the natural light was best, and wave-invited Ellie to join her.

“Could you make me as pretty as you?” Ellie asked.

“I’m a makeup artist, nawt a plastic surgeon.” Massie orangey-red bangs from the crime scene, and took a long hard look.

She unscrewed the cap of Be Clear and squeezed a dime-size ivory dot onto the back of her hand. “I’m going to start with some foundation. It will balance out your uneven skin tone.”

Ellie nodded solemnly and let Massie get to work.

“Now for some Be Rosy cheek stain to keep the morgue from hauling you away.”

“Do I really look
that
pale?” Ellie touched her face.

“Stay still,” Massie insisted. “And close your eyes.” She brushed some smoky gray Be Sultry eye shadow on Ellie’s fluttering lids. “This will totally cover those gross red veins. And this . . .” She penciled in her sparse brows with Be There brow pencil in chestnut brown. “. . . will keep you from looking like an extraterrestrial.”

“Can I see now?” Ellie bobbed up and down on the chaise.

“Freeze! I still have to apply the Be Bold eyeliner.” Massie rubbed the sharp tip over her wrist to check the color.

“What are you doing now?”

“Stay still.” Massie tilted Ellie’s head toward the light, then began lining her lids with dark blue pencil. “This will make your eyes look a lot less . . . missing.”

After two coats of Be Dramatic mascara, Massie took a step back to admire her work.

“Perfect!” She beamed. “I am so good at my jobby.”

“Let me see,” Ellie begged.

“Almost done.” Massie dusted Ellie’s cheeks with translucent powder, added a touch of cheek shimmer to highlight her low cheekbones, and topped it all off with a thin coat of clear gloss over her flaming red chapped lips.

“Owwww, it stings!” Ellie whined.

“Breathe through it.” Massie tossed the probably infected wand straight into the trash. “All done.” She proudly handed Ellie the Be Reflective hand mirror.

Ellie grabbed it. Her blue eyes sparkled and her even skin radiated a healthy blush. She couldn’t get enough of herself.

“You look good for you.” Massie lifted her iPhone and snapped a picture of her first client. “I would actually be seen with you now.”

“So would I!” Ellie beamed. “Thank you so much!”

“Of course, you’ll need to keep this look up every day if you want to lose your LBR status.”

Ellie lowered the mirror. “How do I do that?”

“Easy. Just buy the products I used.”

“Then what?” She removed the headband and finger-fluffed her limp red hair.

“I’ll e-mail you this ‘after’ picture so you can copy what I did. No charge. Just get your mother’s credit card and—”

“Visa. Number four two three eight . . .” Ellie rattled off Trini’s digits as if she had been reciting her own cell number. Massie quickly scrawled them down on her order pad and then calculated the total on her iPhone. “Two hundred and eighty-seven dollars,” she announced, and then forwarded the number to the Be Paid address.

Done. Done. And done.

Then she lifted the mirror and checked her own reflection, trying to decide where, exactly, her purple streak should go.