The Clique: Charmed and Dangerous
CLIQUE novels by Lisi Harrison:
THE CLIQUE
BEST FRIENDS FOR NEVER
REVENGE OF THE WANNABES
INVASION OF THE BOY SNATCHERS
THE PRETTY COMMITTEE STRIKES BACK
DIAL L FOR LOSER
IT’S NOT EASY BEING MEAN
SEALED WITH A DISS
BRATFEST AT TIFFANY’S
THE CLIQUE SUMMER COLLECTION
P.S. I LOATHE YOU
BOYS R US
CHARMED AND DANGEROUS
Also by Lisi Harrison:
ALPHAS
Copyright
Copyright © 2009 by Alloy Entertainment
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
“What’s My Age Again?” by Thomas Delonge, Mark Hoppus. (EMI April Music, Inc., Fun With Goats). All rights reserved.
Poppy
Little, Brown and Company
Hachette Book Group
237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10017
Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com
www.twitter.com/littlebrown
First eBook Edition: October 2009
Poppy is an imprint of Little, Brown and Company.
The Poppy name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
CLIQUE® is a registered trademark of Alloy Media, LLC.
ISBN: 978-0-316-07171-0
Contents
CLIQUE novels by Lisi Harrison:
COPYRIGHT
WESTCHESTER, NY
WHITE PLAINS, NY
WESTCHESTER COUNTY AIRPORT
MERRI-LEE MARVIL’S NEW YEAR’S YVES PARTY
WESTCHESTER, NY
KISSIMMEE, FL
WESTCHESTER COUNTY AIRPORT
MERRI-LEE MARVIL’S NEW YEAR’S YVES PARTY
KISSIMMEE, FL
WESTCHESTER COUNTY AIRPORT
WESTCHESTER COUNTY AIRPORT
WESTCHESTER, NY
MERRI-LEE MARVIL’S NEW YEAR’S YVES PARTY
WESTCHESTER COUNTY AIRPORT
WESTCHESTER COUNTY AIRPORT
ORLANDO, FL
MERRI-LEE MARVIL’S NEW YEAR’S YVES PARTY
MERRI-LEE MARVIL’S NEW YEAR’S YVES PARTY
MERRI-LEE MARVIL’S NEW YEAR’S YVES PARTY
MERRI-LEE MARVIL’S NEW YEAR’S YVES PARTY
MERRI-LEE MARVIL’S NEW YEAR’S YVES PARTY
KISSIMMEE, FL
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
For the Clique fans who supported me along the way, even when I had type-os. I ah-dore you all.
WESTCHESTER, NY
THE BLOCK ESTATE
Friday, December 31st
6:01 P.M.
“Bonne annéeeeeee!” Kendra Block trilled into the phone with gushing enthusiasm.
“Happy New Year, darling!” Massie’s father added over swirling laughter, clinking champagne flutes, and strains of “Auld Lang Syne.” “We love you!”
“I love you tooooo!” Massie shouted back. But from the stillness of her crisp navy blue and white bedroom those words sounded hollow, lonely, forced; like whoo-hooing on a private riding trail after a blanketing snowfall.
She eyed the swamp green screen on her Motorola flip phone.
Was it really midnight in Paris?
It was like her mom and dad had ridden a time machine six hours into the future. Even though they were parents, Massie envied them. They already knew whether their night was magical: whether their outfits would inspire copycats… whether their jokes were LOL-worthy… whether their conversation topics were charming… whether their New Year’s Eve story had a happy ending… whether—
“Where are you?” Kendra asked, oozing giddiness.
“M’room.” Massie plopped onto the edge of her navy duvet and flexed her toes. Was silver polish fun or done? Class or crass? Mature or manure? Gawd, if only there was some kind of list that told girls what was in and what was out….
“Open your door.” Kendra giggled.
“Huh? Why?”
“Go!” Kendra insisted with mock frustration.
Massie slid off the edge of her bed, her gold silk kimono sparking and snapping with static electricity.
“Does she like it?” William asked in the background.
“Shhhhh,” Kendra hissed. “She hasn’t seen it yet.”
Massie squeaked with burst-at-the-seams impatience.
“Is the door open? Are you there yet?” Kendra asked.
“Almost.” Massie padded across the white wool rug, heart revving. Was it the tiny black pug she had been begging for? Oh, puh-leaase make it the tiny black pug she had been begging for! With a big red bow atop her mini head and a diamond anklet with a bone charm. That would semi-make up for her mother’s holiday “surprise” where she’d transformed Massie’s three-shades-of-pink boudoir into a showroom for Tommy Hilfiger. Blue, red, and white everything. It put the nawt in nautical. But she decided to put up with it because the decorator assured her it was “fresh” and Massie’s best friends agreed.
“Okay, I’m here.” She gripped the brass anchor–shaped doorknob.
“Yayyyyyyyyy!” screeched Kendra. “Openit! Openit! Openit!”
Turning the anchor slowly, so as not to startle the pup, Massie cracked the door and peered out. Expecting a nose full of new-puppy smell, she inhaled deeply. All she got was the sharp floral scent of Crabtree & Evelyn’s Spring Rain home spray, her mom’s favorite.
Massie lowered her gaze, ready to make contact with a pair of moist black eyes. Eyes that would pulsate hearts for her new master and—
“Ew!” she blurted at the sudden appearance of a woman’s bare feet. Size nine. Calloused. Dry. Neglected.
A plaid flannel nightgown skimmed the woman’s ankles and tented her stocky body. Strands of long black hair, freed from their tight bun but contorted from hours of captivity, clung to the glistening Pond’s cold cream slathered on the side of her face.
“Inez?”
“Happy New Year.” She held a Tiffany box in her palm and smiled warmly.
Ignoring the housekeeper, Massie peered left, then right. Was the pug hiding? Was she part two of her parents’ guilt gift? Was the blue box a red herring?
But, as usual, nothing in the hallway seemed out of place. The only panting came from Inez, who must have been instructed to run up the winding staircase before Massie opened the door.
“Do you love it?” her mother asked.
“Does she love it?” her father echoed.
Sensing Massie’s paralyzing disappointment, Inez opened the box for her. “Beauuuutiful.” The housekeeper dangled the glistening gold charm bracelet under Massie’s jutting chin.
“It has all of your favorite things on it,” Kendra explained. “A high-heeled shoe, a dollar sign, a horse, a diamond-encrusted bell—for the diamonds, obviously, not the bell—and a pig.”
“A pig?”
“Yes, you wanted one for Christmas, only we’ve had the hardest time finding housebroken breeds so we—”
“Mohhhm, I wanted a pug, nawt a pig.”
Kendra gasped in horror. “William,” she called into the party noise. “She wanted a pug, not a pig!… I know… huge relief!” Her lips returned to the mouthpiece. “Those are so much easier to find, darling. We’ll get one as soon as we return to the États-Unis.”
“Y
ay!” Massie pinched the bracelet off Inez’s finger and slid it on. It was a little loose, but nothing she couldn’t have Mr. Novick, the family jeweler, fix after the holidays. She examined her wrist from all angles, studying the way the light reflected off the chain. Aside from the mistaken-bacon it was actually kinda cute. And no one else had one… yet.
Fireworks soared and popped on the other end of the call. Massie felt like exploding right along with them. She was finally going to get a puppy! A confidant. A real best friend. A sibling.
“Oh, and we got you a tiny gold Eiffel Tower. It’s ab-so-lutely chaaarming.” Kendra giggled at her corny pun.
Massie’s phone beeped.
The swamp green screen flashed AHNNA.
Her palms began to sweat.
One last firecracker whistled in the background, then fizzled out.
The phone beeped again.
Ignoring the call would mean violating Ahnna’s strict “talk or walk” policy, an offense that would put Massie in social solitary for an entire weekend. No phone calls, e-mails, IMs, or gossip alerts. She had to act.
Now.
“SoundsgreatMomIcan’twaitHappyNewYearIloveyouseeyoutomorrownightbyeee.”
Click.
“Hullo?” Massie answered quickly. She wave-thanked Inez, then shut the bedroom door.
“Vicky and Sheldon’ll be pulling up in five,” barked the girl on the other end.
The line went dead.
With quaking thumbs, Massie set the stopwatch on her Motorola, then tossed it on her bed. Thankfully, her dark, glossy hair had been professionally twisted into a loose chignon hours ago. Cheeks were tinted to a flirty blush. Lips shimmered with rose-scented gloss. And the faceless mannequin in the corner of her bedroom looked festive times ten in an Agnès B. dress, with a shiny black ticket lodged between her thin porcelain fingers.
Massie slid the gold charm bracelet onto her model’s stiff white arm and stepped back to evaluate. Head cocked, she finger-tapped her chin.
“Hmmmmmmm.” She sighed. “Something is awf. Not awful, just awf.”
The black minidress stamped with silver metallic triangles hung like couture. Gunmetal gray Prada wedges and black cashmere kneesocks would add just the right amount of funk to the function. And the coveted ticket to famed talk-show host Merri-Lee Marvil’s celebrity-studded New Year’s Yves broadcast—where a one-of-a-kind Yves Saint Laurent beaded clutch would drop at midnight like the Times Square ball—was the perfect accessory.
Soooooo… chin-tap… chin-tap… chin-tap… What was it? What was putting the “out” in her outfit?
The soft yellow light from her bedside lantern reflected off the charm bracelet and winked at her. The new kid was trying to tell her something.
Ehmagawd, GOLD!
The gold charm bracelet clashed with the silver triangles on the dress and gunmetal gray shoes. It was like chewing mint gum and drinking Diet Coke. It was a bitter combination. And the last thing she needed was for people in India or Cairo (or wherever) to be watching Merri-Lee Marvil’s celebrity-studded New Year’s Yves broadcast and saying that some American was mixing metals. And if they noticed, Ahnna would definitely notice.
Massie glanced at her phone—00:02:16:23.
Ehmagawd! Only two minutes, sixteen seconds, and twenty-three whatevers left!
She could ditch the bracelet, but it was new. And gold. And totally enviable. It could start trends or, at the very least, conversations. But rethink the Agnès B.? At this hour? Impossible.
Anxiety ravaged her flesh like razor burn.
Whattodo? Whattodo? Whattodo?
And then, in a stroke of brilliance, Massie pinned her gold M brooch to one sock, and a gold B to the other. The initial pins were a perfect way to tie the whole thing together. After a quick digital picture of the outfit—to avoid duplication in the future—Massie tore the clothes off her body double and speed-dressed. Just as she was sliding the bracelet up her thin wrist, BMW tires crunched the gravel on her driveway.
Her alarm beeped—00:00:00:00.
Inez’s voice came over the white intercom on her nightstand. “The Pinchers are here.”
Massie smoothed her dress. “Nine-seven,” she rated herself out of ten, docking point three for her pale December skin. Satisfied, she turned away from her otherwise flawless reflection.
Racing down the stairs Massie blinked back the cyclone of questions twisting through her brain. Would Ahnna approve of her clothes or turn up her nose? Would she make memories or enemies? Would mixed metals set trends or disgust friends?
Ahhhh, to be in France and already have all the answers.
WHITE PLAINS, NY
WESTCHESTER COUNTY AIRPORT
Friday, December 31st
7:56 P.M.
“Stop!” Ahnna shouted.
“What?” Mr. Pincher slammed on the brakes.
Ahnna, Lana, Shauna, Brianna, and Massie lurched forward. They slammed into the tan leather seats and then busted out laughing.
“What happened?” Mr. Pincher turned to face Ahnna, his white cashmere scarf swaddling his cleft chin. “Is everyone okay?”
A stunned Mrs. Pincher gripped her pearl choker and glared out the windshield.
“Okay? Uv’korse we’re oh-kay.” Ahnna lowered her window. Bitter cold wind blew her butterscotch blond curls around like the fur of a goldendoodle on an air-sniffing joy ride. “This is gonna be the coolest party evv.”
Massie nodded in agreement while massaging her cramped calf. Squeezing into the back of a Beemer with three other girls hardly said New Year’s Eve; more like hitchhiking to the nearest town for gas. She’d offered Isaac, her driver, and their new Lexus LX 470 with the stocked fridge, killer speakers, and heated seats (to keep dresses from wrinkling). But Ahnna had flat-out refused.
No shock there. When Massie suggested it, Ahnna turned it down.
They drove under a NEW YEAR’S YVES sign made of silver and gold Swarovski crystals and entered the packed parking lot. Normally reserved for private planes and helicopters, the tarmac had been transformed into what looked like a luxury car showroom.
Rows of just-washed luxury sedans glistened with pride, awaiting their drivers’ return. Or were they glistening with sweat? Sweat from knowing that with a new year comes a new model, and they were days away from being traded in?
Massie’s insides sank under the weight of her sympathy. She knew that you-could-be-replaced-in-a-heartbeat feeling all too well.
“Stawp!” Brianna smacked Shauna’s arm. “Check out the license plate on that Bentley.”
Shauna repositioned her cherry red Moschino glasses. “It says J-Lo!”
“Stawp!” Lana squealed.
“M’gawsh!” Ahnna clenched her fists.
“When did ‘stop’ stop meaning stop?” Mr. Pincher tapped the gas and inched toward the valet attendant.
“I hear it’s even better on the inside,” Mrs. Pincher told them as they pulled past the snaking line of ticketless wannabes hoping to convince the bouncers to let them in.
“Eeeeeeeeeeee!” Ahnna, Shauna, Lana, and Brianna shook their hands as if drying manicures. They did it every time they were excited times ten. Massie, however, refused. It didn’t look hot—it looked like they were on fire.
“You guys should really calm down,” Massie whispered from the side of her glossy mouth. “You’re acting like you’ve never been to a TV event before.”
Ahnna pulled her head inside the car, her windblown curls now a wild mane. “And you have?”
“No,” Massie mouthed, eyeing the sprawling airplane hangar, which by now probably contained half of America’s A-list, and most of Britain’s. “But they don’t know that.” She waved her hand toward the wannabes and—“Oops!”—her bracelet accidentally slid off her wrist, landing on the car carpet with a jingle-thud.
“What was that?” Shauna thumb-pressed her red glasses against her nose and scanned the floor.
“My new Tiffany charm bracelet.” Massie scooped i
t up and slid it back on.
Lana, Shauna, and Brianna looked at Ahnna, their eyes filled with the longing of a child silent-begging Mom for a slice of chocolate cake.
Yes! They liked it!
“Whatevs.” Ahnna rolled her eyes. “I used to have one of those in the second grade.”
“You did?” Mrs. Pincher turned around to face her daughter, her thin eyebrows arched in genuine surprise. “I don’t remember that.”
Ahnna’s cheeks reddened.
Respectfully, Lana, Shauna, and Brianna pretended not to notice. Massie turned toward the window with smug satisfaction.
Sticking it to Ahnna felt better than proving a teacher wrong or buying an outfit before it showed up in Us Weekly. Yet, in the spaces behind her rapidly beating heart, where everything was quiet and true, Massie knew it wasn’t right.
She should want the best for her best friend; have her back, not stab it. But Ahnna made that so hard, especially when she vetoed all of Massie’s good ideas—even the ones that would up their social standing at Presbyterian Elementary and Middle School (or PMS, as everyone called it because its students were so moody) to alpha- and beta-fy PMS’s super-popular LMNOP (Lysa, Madison, Nylah, Opal, and Peyton).
Lately it had been so bad, Massie had started keeping a list. It detailed all of the suggestions she made and the reasons Ahnna knocked them down, just in case she ever wanted to sue for “obstruction of popularity,” aka “pop-blocking.”
DATE MASSIE’S SUGGESTION AHNNA’S RESPONSE WHAT SHE REALLY MEANS
12.1 I am going to Paris with my parents for New Year’s. They said I could bring you guys. Wanna go? I can’t. I already have tickets for Merri-Lee Marvil’s New Year’s Yves party. My dad can get tickets for all of you. He’s the director of her daily talk show so it shouldn’t be a problem. I will do whatever it takes to make sure you don’t go with Shauna, Brianna, and Lana while I’m stuck here. Even if it means inviting you to a party I was going to use to make you jealous. Besides, I want to shop-block you and keep you from the incredible stores on Avenue Champs-Élysées. If I have to buy my Chanel at Saks, so should everyone. Oh, and have I mentioned in the last eight seconds that my dad is the director of The Daily Grind? I have? Oops. My bad.