Massie (6 page)

THE BLOCKS’ SOUTHAMPTON ESTATE

THE DINING ROOM

Tuesday, June 16 9:07A.M.

“Truth is beauty.” Massie lifted the sterling silver orange juice pitcher and filled her crystal glass. “At Be Pretty Cosmetics, we believe that being true to one’s self
is
beautiful.” She had memorized the opening speech the night before, after finding the script at the bottom of the crate. And now, after practicing it so many times, she could
almost
say it with a straight face.

“Bravo.” William put down his
New York Times
and applauded. “Brains
and
beauty,” he gushed while spooning a heap of muesli. “How did I get so lucky?”

“You like my outfit?” Massie stood and twirled, showing off her violet BCBG shirtdress—cinched at the waist with a pink-and-green grosgrain belt—chunky white gold bangles, and Marc Jacobs kitten-heel sandals in cobalt blue. The semi-clash of the shoes and dress boldly stated, “I’m not afraid to experiment with color,” which, in her opinion, was a good message for a makeup professional to convey.

“It’s a nine,” William offered.

Massie’s stomach lurched. “
Why?
What’s wrong with it?”

Her father rubbed his bald head in confusion. “I thought you told me a nine was
great
.”

“It is, but I texted my outfit to the Pretty Committee this morning, and they all gave me tens.”

William shook his head and chuckled to himself. “I can’t win.”

“Isaac is waiting for you out front.” Kendra bounced in wearing her tennis whites.

Massie pushed aside her uneaten scone, blew kisses to her parents, and retrieved the Be Polished makeup caddy from under her chair. “Come say goodbye, Bean!” she called. The pug’s polished purple toenails tapped against the floor as she raced to wish Massie luck.

Outside, the sky was blue and the sun was bright—perfect for spotting people’s facial flaws.

“Ready?” Isaac called as he wiped glitter off the Range Rover windshield.

Massie lifted her purple caddy to show that she was. He opened the door and she slid onto the tan leather.

“So where are we headed?” Isaac asked, adjusting the rearview mirror after he climbed into the driver’s seat.

It didn’t take Massie long to remember Frizzy Lindsey from the Green Party.

“Foster Crossing. The Kearns estate.” Massie leaned forward and popped
her
version of a Be Inspired CD into the car’s player and stabbed at the buttons—enough of the pan-flute-alien music. She leaned back in her seat and began tapping her kitten heels to Fergie’s “Glamorous.”

“Flying first class, up in the sky
. . .
”
Massie sang along, cranking up the volume and ignoring Isaac’s pained expression.
“Poppin’ champagne, living my life in the fast lane
. . .
”

Isaac lowered the music.

“By the way . . .” Massie leaned forward, breathing in his minty aftershave. “. . . where’s your BE STRONG shirt?”

“What?” Isaac cranked up the volume. “I can’t hear you!”

Massie giggled, staring out the window at neat rows of grapevines and occasional glimpses of ocean. American flags blew from gray-shingled beach estates, and vintage Mercedes sat parked on their crushed shell driveways.

They pulled onto Foster Crossing and drove past the NO SOLICITORS sign. Then straight up the Kearns’s long—but not as long as the Blocks’—tree-lined driveway.

The long ranch house was made entirely of floor-to-ceiling windows. A wall of nine-foot manicured hedges surrounded their vast property to keep potential stalkers from seeing inside, but once you passed those, it felt like the Kearns were on display at some sort of futuristic people-zoo.

Isaac parked behind a hunter green Jaguar. Massie smoothed out her Theory shirtdress and grabbed her purple caddy.

“Wish me luck!” Massie skip-shuffled up the bluestone pathway and arrived at the smoky glass doors. She pressed the intercom button and announced herself.

Frizzy Lindsey answered wearing an athletic light blue tankini top and lace-front board shorts with a dizzying Hawaiian print. She’d wrestled her brittle blond hair into a frayed topknot and had stuck a soy sauce–stained wooden chopstick in it.

“Hey, Frizzy.” Massie flashed her best Be Glossy grin.

“It’s
Lindsey,
” she snapped, her bloodshot green eyes narrowing to a hateful squint.

Massie cleared her throat and began reciting the script.

“Truth is beauty. At Be Pretty Cosmetics, we believe that being true to one’s self
is
beautiful. Let Be Pretty Cosmetics help you find the woman you were meant—”

Frizzy Lindsey held her ocean-pruned palm up to Massie’s face. “Are you trying to
sell
me something?” A vindictive smile formed at the corners of Lindsey’s zinc-streaked lips. “What is this, like, a summer job?”

Massie clenched her fists, determined to stay professional. “Inner beauty is more important than outer beauty,” Massie told her, but the words tasted wrong in her mouth, like a latte made with whole milk and real sugar.

She pushed past Lindsey and entered the ultra-modern sun-drenched home. If she could just find a place to set up, the products would speak for themselves. She spotted a white plastic coffee table in the living room and hurried toward it. “At Be Pretty Cosmetics, we’re not trying to cover you up with abrasive, animal-tested products. Quite the opposite. We want the world to discover the real you—”

“Enuff, dude.” Lindsey flip-flopped across the espresso-colored wood floors, following Massie into the living room. “What about all that stuff you said? You know, like how summer jobs are for
losers
?”

“Um, first of all,” Massie said, flicking open her makeup caddy, “I’m
nawt
a
dude
. And second of all, I’m
nawt
trying to sell you something. I’m just trying to help you discover your inner beauty.” She swallowed hard.

“The sign out front says NO SOLICITORS.” Lindsey smirked.

Massie’s stomach lurched. More than anything, she wanted to barf a mouthful of insults all over the surfer’s peeling skin. But the training DVD devoted three whole minutes to leaving a “no go” with grace. So she held back. For Anastasia.

“In that case”—Massie closed her caddy and headed for the door—“thanks for your time, and enjoy your beauty.”

Without another word, Massie smiled, turned on her blue kitten heel, and tried hard to walk, not run, back to the Range Rover.

“Any luck?” Isaac asked gently as Massie slammed the passenger door.

“The Riordan-Buccolas’ on Murray Lane,” Massie told him as she crossed Lindsey’s name off her Be Home visit log with purple eyeliner.

Kelsey Riordan-Buccola was related to either Dolce or Gabbana through her mother’s third marriage to a Sicilian exporter. But her real father must have been a total wannabe, because Kelsey’s blood type was LBR positive. Unfortunately, all the couture in the world couldn’t make up for Kelsey’s patchy skin, close-set eyes, and unibrow. However, a Be Pretty transfusion and some tips from a seasoned alpha
could.

They were greeted at the gate by a security guard who patrolled the grounds in a bulletproof golf cart. Once cleared for entry, they drove down the Riordan-Buccolas’ half-mile-long driveway and parked beside an angel fountain that peed moldy water.

“Truth is beauty,” Massie repeated to herself, hoping that at some point the feel-good philosophy would actually start to make sense. Because come awn, since when had
truth
ever landed anyone a modeling contract?

“
Be
good.” Isaac smiled as he opened her door.

Massie tightened the grosgrain belt on her shirtdress, gripped her case, and climbed the slate steps to the Riordan-Buccolas’ front door.

The enormous gray stone manor was more Hogwarts than Hamptons, but Massie silenced her inner critic. Anastasia had earned her place on the Most Beautiful People list by finding the beauty in people with bad taste and worse skin, and so would she.

Ding, dong, ding, dong
. . .

The doorbell sounded like the Riordan-Buccolas had hired the New York Philharmonic to play every time someone came to visit. Massie looked around, half expecting to see the orchestra camouflaged in the rosebushes.

. . . ding, dong, ding, dong
. . .

A shiny-haired brunette around Massie’s age, wearing an impossible-to-get beige Stella McCartney slip dress, opened the castlelike door. The girl had the Riordan-Buccolas’ signature ski-slope nose but otherwise she looked wholly unfamiliar. Maybe Kelsey’s stepcousins from the old country were visiting?

“Is Kelsey Riordan—”

. . . ding . . .

Massie tried again. “Is Kelsey—”

. . . dong . . . ding . . .

Massie threw her hands on her hips and waited.

. . . dong.

“Okay,
now
it’s done.” The girl grinned. “Massie? Is that you?” She flashed an even-toothed smile.

“Ehmagawd,
Kelsey
?” Massie looked deep into the girl’s sapphire blue eyes. “You look ah-mazing.”

Kelsey smiled appreciatively. “Thanks.”

Speechless, Massie shook her head in disbelief while she awe-admired Kelsey’s stunning metamorphosis. Her expertly placed chestnut highlights framed her suddenly flawless skin, and the neutral-colored slip dress made her tan pop. “I hardly recognized you without the—”

Pimples? Braces? Hairy man-legs?

“Glasses,” Kelsey finished with a knowing smile. “Lasik eye surgery. Now I can actually see the price tags on this season’s wardrobe. Not that they matter, of course.” She stepped outside and sat on the wide slate steps.

Kelsey shielded her blue eyes from the afternoon sun and peered at Massie. “So, what are you doing here? Did Becki Rogan blab about the boxes I just got from D&G? Because I am so not opening them until my birthday, which isn’t till July.”

“Puh-lease.” Massie tried not to sound insulted as she took a seat next to the new-and-obviously-surgically-improved Kelsey. But come awn! Even if her credit cards were canceled for the next ten years she wouldn’t act all envy-impressed by Kelsey’s connections. At least not in public. “I came to show you some
ah
-mazing new beauty products I discovered.”

Massie popped open her makeup caddy and leaned back so as not to cast a shadow on her treasure.

Kelsey quickly turned to shoo a yellow butterfly that had begun fluttering around her glistening hair.

“At Be Pretty Cosmetics,” Massie started, “we believe that truth is beauty.”

Kelsey was still shooing, so Massie fast-forwarded to the end of her speech. “Let Be Pretty Cosmetics help you become the woman you were meant to
be
.”

“I agree,” Kelsey said, satisfied that the butterfly was gone. She tucked her glossy hair behind one ear to reveal the same Harry Winston chandelier earrings Massie had gotten for Christmas. Only Kelsey’s were bigger. Massie decided she loathed the girl more than she had loathed last year’s leg-warmers-and-heels trend. “But I only use Nars and Stila.” She gave Massie’s purple caddy a dismissive glance.

“But Be Pretty products are—”

“Sorry, Massie,” Kelsey interrupted, her smile patronizing. “Ever since I heard that Sienna Miller only uses Nars foundation, I swore I’d never use anything else. And now everyone tells me I look like her. In fact,” she said, peering at Massie, “you could probably use a little yourself. Your cheeks are starting to look a little ruddy.”

Massie stared at Kelsey, her mouth agape. Six months ago, Kelsey Riordan-Buccola had probably had her eye sockets surgically removed from the sides of her nose and had holed up in her family’s tacky faux-castle to recover. Who was
she
to—

The red Samsung in Kelsey’s hand started playing Kanye West’s “Stronger” and she waved it at Massie. “Gotta take this.” She stood and hurried inside. “Good luck, you,” she shouted just before closing the carved wood door in Massie’s face.

Who did Kelsey Riordan-Buccola think she was
?
Her beauty was new—just like her money.

Massie stomped down the stairs, scraping the tacky imported slate with every grinding step. Nobody tossed Massie Block out like last season’s It bag.

Nobody.

Lindsey Kearns and Kelsey Riordan-Buccola were going to
be s
orry.

THE BLOCKS’ SOUTHAMPTON ESTATE

THE BACK PATIO

Wednesday, June 17
11:08 A.M.

The warm onshore breeze did things to Massie’s naturally wavy hair that Galwaugh’s dry forest gusts could only dream of. It added curl and bounce and a flirty playfulness that said, “Lip-kissed by nature and loving it.” But secretly, Massie would have given anything to be back at horse camp. There, she was a winner. But here, the whole
jobby
thing was making her feel like a total L—

Massie shook the thought from her head. It was a new day. There was still hope.

On the back patio, she set her tiny cappuccino cup down on the marble-and-wrought-iron table with a clink. She pushed her dark Ferragamo sunglasses up her nose, unfolded a laminated map of Southampton, and examined it like a general planning the invasion of a small, wealthy country.

“This is serious, Bean.”

The pug paced at Massie bare feet.

“Yesterday was a disaster.” Massie sharpened a Be Defined lip pencil, releasing eggplant purple shavings into the bright, salt-scented air. She drew
X
’s over Frizzy Lindsey’s and Kelsey’s streets. “So we’re going to have to try another tactic.” She circled Herrick Road, where the less-fortunate year-rounders lived.

Bean let out an anxiety sneeze.

“I know! But it’s our only chance.” Hopes of her purple streak were disappearing faster than marked-down Zac Posen at a Barneys sale. “No one loves inner beauty more than unattractive wannabes. They’ll be all over this stuff.”

Massie scooped Bean up with renewed determination. Nothing made her feel more streakworthy than her mother’s vintage Pucci halter dress, which she’d paired with white skinny Citizens, emerald green Tory Burch flats, and wood bangles from Calypso. Massie knew one thing: If she could pull off skinny white jeans, she could pull off anything.

“Isaac!” she called, heading for the driveway. “To the year-rounders on Herrick Road!”

“Are you sure about this?” Isaac turned onto Herrick Road and parked the Range Rover in front of the first house on the street.

“Ew
.
”
Massie peered over her sunglasses at the small, cottage-style house with pink flowered curtains in the window. A green flag with appliquéd flowers hung from a pole above the screen door. If the décor was any indication, whoever lived here was in desperate need of guidance.

She tiptoed to the front door to avoid catching her heel in the weed-infested cracks in the pavement. The potted geraniums on either side of the porch were wilting in the heat. And Massie knew exactly how they felt. She pinched the brass knocker, pulled it back, and dropped it as if it were made of rayon.

“Yeah?” A girl Massie’s age dressed in an oversize New York Knicks basketball jersey opened up and peered suspiciously at the Range Rover. Her burgundy-from-a-box shoulder-length hair was stringy, and her poo-brown eyes bulged more than Bean’s. Massie was grateful she was wearing her dark Ferragamos, because the girl’s unsightly smattering of upper-lip hair was making Massie’s eyes water.

“Beauty is truth,” Massie began, rattling off the speech with ease. “At Be Pretty Cosmetics—”

“Who’s there, Cora?” a woman called, then coughed violently.

“Just some girl selling makeup,” the girl shouted back.

Just some girl!?

Massie parted her hairless lips, preparing to point out that she was special and superior and far from just some
anyone
when the woman yelled, “Tell her we’re an Avon family and come finish cleaning up this puzzle.”

Cora shrugged like there was nothing more she could do. Without another word she gave the screen a push and padded down the narrow pea green–carpeted hall. Massie stood there in shock as the door slowly wobbled its way shut.

She looked down at her flawless outfit, just to make sure she wasn’t wearing her Cosabella boy shorts on the outside of her skinny jeans, which she wasn’t. So what, then? Were people threatened by her trendsetting style? Her timeless beauty? Her unstoppable alpha energy? Whatever it was, Massie was determined to turn her luck around. If she didn’t, she’d never see her pride—or her poor Visa—again.