My Little Phony - 13 Page 10

Layne bit off the top of a carrot.

  “Watch out, Block,” Claire snarled. “Karma’s real. And what goes around, comes around.”

  Massie cocked a perfectly plucked brow. “Oh, you mean like my house getting infested with bugs?”

  Claire blushed. Massie cocked her other brow as if to say gotcha.

  But Layne just picked up one of the candles and held it above her head. “No, I mean you won’t always be on top. What goes up, must come down.” She dropped it on the floor, where it cracked in half.

  Claire grinned. She loved how smart her best friend was. “It’s a basic rule of gravity,” she added.

  Massie nudged the candle remains with her bare foot. Claire was surprised to note that the big toenail was chipped, indicating that Massie was at least three days past pedicure prime. “Kuh-laire and Layme, do I look like a bowl of egg whites?”

  “No,” Claire and Layne sighed in unison.

  “Then why do you think you can beat me?” Massie said, picking up the candle pieces and crushing them in her hands. “Just remember: Gravity doesn’t work in reverse—two LBRs like you will never rise to the top.”

  Claire gasped. “Come on, Layne.” She stomped toward the stairs. Whenever she thought Massie’s meanness had reached its peak, the alpha would make another trek up Mean Everest.

  As they reached the top step, Claire’s phone buzzed—“Somebody” by Kings of Leon, Cam’s signature ringtone. Four texts arrived, one after another:

  Cam: Reading about Joan of Arc 4 history class.

  Cam: Led French army by herself.

  Cam: Reminds me of u.

  The final text was a picture of Cam giving a thumbs-up sign to a page of his textbook. Under a photo of the French warrior girl decked out in her armor and shield, he’d stuck a little Post-it that read: CLAIRE OF ARC.

  Claire smiled. Cam was a better ego boost than a thinning mirror. And his smile was like an eraser, wiping away the overwhelming sense of anger and helplessness she’d just felt. His green eye reminded her that she was powerful and strong, and his blue eye, which was narrowed in a half wink, told her she was just the girl to overthrow Massie’s reign of bully-dom.

  “That’s it!” she declared as she and Layne reached her room. So what if Massie had more money and better comebacks? Claire had Layne and Cam and her mom and dad. She had a down-to-earth, affordable fashion sense and a new pair of lime green Keds that she had found ON SALE. And with those weapons at her disposal, she would usher in a new era of kindness and consideration, where it wasn’t which designer name was on the sole of your shoes that mattered, but the actual quality of your soul.

  Claire closed the door and booted up her iTunes. The room was instantly filled with the notes of a Snow Patrol song, the first track of the Wintry Mix CD that Cam had made her for Thanksgiving. After checking outside, she pulled the shades down on her windows.

  “Are we being spied on?” Layne hissed, glancing around furtively. “Do we need disguises? I just bought a new edible mustache at Spencer’s.”

  Claire shook her head and began pacing back and forth, holding her hands behind her back, like a general getting ready for battle. Or like Claire of Arc preparing to storm the fortress of snobbery.

  “Layne!” she said, punching the air with her fist. “The current administration has had us under its thumb for too long.”

  “Obama?” Layne said. “But I like him.”

  “Think smaller, Layne.”

  Layne scratched her head with the carrot she’d just pulled out of her canvas bag. “Principal Burns?”

  “Smaller,” Claire sighed. “Think of the girl who is, as we speak, unrolling designer sleeping bags in my living room.”

  “Ah,” Layne said. “Got it. The ole Blockade.”

  “Don’t you think it’s time for a change?”

  “Down with the Massarchy!” Layne cried.

  “No more head shavings of poor, defenseless little brothers. No more snide comments about affordable footwear. No more lice storms. No more efforts to control the hearts, minds, and crushes of the common eighth-grader,” Claire said defiantly.

  Layne jumped off the bed, pulled the light green shade from a lamp, putting on her head like a helmet, and began marching. “Let’s Dolce their Gabbanas!”

  Claire giggled. She had no idea what it meant, but she liked it. “Let’s kick them in their Guccis!”

  “Drop poos on their Choos!”

  “And sneeze on their silk tees.”

  “And wham bam them in the L.A.M.B.”

  “But there’s one more thing.” Claire paused and clasped her hands over her heart, a stance she had seen on the text Cam had sent. “We need to get the message to the people.”

  “Done.” Layne pulled out her iPhone. “I’ll get Danh Bondak to help set up a rally, and I’ll Facebook every girl I know.”

  Claire tapped her nose. “Perfect. But we’ll need a slogan. No great campaign is successful without one.”

  “‘Kindness: Melts your heart, not your hands’?” Layne suggested, still typing intently on her iPhone.

  Claire tugged her bangs. “What about ‘The Block stops here’?”

  “Lacks pizzazz. Maybe something with your name.” Layne screwed her face up, like a baby getting ready to take a poo. “I’VE GOT IT!” she shouted a second later. “‘Dawn of a new Claire-a.’ Get it? Claire-era, but pronounced Clara.”

  Claire clapped her hands. “Ohhh, I like it! You don’t think it’s too me-centric, though?”

  “It’s you-centric in a good way. You embody all the qualities of our cause: down-to-earth, nice, on a budget.” Layne bent over Claire’s computer and changed the song to “Defying Gravity,” from the Wicked soundtrack.

  Claire placed her hand on Layne’s shoulder. “Layne, will you be my second in command?”

  Layne frowned. “I have a pretty full schedule of wax-lip bracelet making, and cyber-stalking Art from the lizard store. What exactly would this position entail?”

  Claire sat down at her desk and opened up a new document. The little black cursor blinked back at her. “We need a manifesto.”

  A squeal sounded from downstairs. Claire peeked out the window to see Alicia and Kristen waltzing in after Dylan. The scent of Angel wafted up the stairs, and Claire could hear air kisses down below.

  “Sorry, we have to have the sleepover in this war zone…” Massie was shouting.

  “Ohhh, SNAP!” Layne said.

  “Commandment One!” Claire said, stabbing the keyboard with vigor. “Thou shalt put the ‘end’ in ‘bad friend.’”

  “Good one!” Layne said, sitting up on her heels. “Thou shalt not drink the last of the rice milk eggnog without buying a suitable replacement!”

  Claire giggled. “Or spray smelly parfum in other peoples’ houses.”

  “Or call you insulting names that sound similar to your name but aren’t! Like Layme.”

  “Or shave someone’s little brother bald!”

  “Or mock your glue-gunning skillzzzz.”

  “Or think friendship bracelets are for people without friends.”

  “Or mock you for having an exotic palate.”

  Claire typed with Beth Orton–esque passion. An hour later their masterpiece was done:

  THE DAWN OF A NEW CLAIRE-A

  Thou shalt put the “end” in “bad friend.”

  Thou shalt not interfere with my friendships by spreading lice rumors or anything of the kind.

  Thou shalt not say my name in vain.

  Thou shalt uphold comfort over couture!

  Thou shalt not think less of me for being middle-class.

  Thou shalt not judge me on the amount of my allowance.

  Thou shalt not tell me where I can sit at lunch. Freedom to graze must be granted.

  Thou shalt not turn my friends against me during a fight.

  Thou shalt not covet my crush.

  Thou shalt not roll your eyes and talk about empty calories when sugar is being imbibed.

&n
bsp; “Good work,” said Claire, reading over the list. “Now, we should probably take an oath and promise to forever live by and uphold these ideals.”

  Layne held out her hand.

  “Friends forever,” Claire said.

  “Enemies never,” Layne said.

  “No matter the weather,” Claire said.

  “Always together!” Layne said.

  “No matter what you wear-a,” Claire giggled.

  “I will always… be… there-a?” Layne answered.

  “We will live by these rules…”

  “In and out of middle school!”

  Claire could barely finish rhyming she was laughing so hard. “The dawn of a new…”

  “Claire-a!” they finished together.

  THE GUESTHOUSE

  THE LIVING ROOM

  Friday, December 12th

  7:07 P.M.

  “Go, Mario, go!” Todd pumped one fist in the air as his Mario Kart racer shot across the finish line in first place. “Suck it, Bowser!” Todd jumped up. “Baldhead high-five!” He gave the side of his bald head a slap. The force of it knocked him backward, and he stumbled into the coffee table, knocking over the candles.

  “Todd, will you PUH-LEASE turn that DOWN!” Massie yelled for the fourth time. “I am ON the PHONE!”

  Actually she was on hold, listening to a jazzy instrumental version of “The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow” as she had been for the last fifteen minutes, waiting to speak to a supervisor. She had, it seemed, spent the entire day on the phone, waiting for people’s supervisors. And when she hadn’t been on hold with the credit card companies, she was on hold with the assistants to the high-profile personal shoppers who were checking to see if their bosses would consider lending Massie some clothes until her parents got back. But all day long, no matter to whom she’d been talking, the answer had been the same: Sorry, there’s nothing we can do.

  The whole thing was more frustrating than conjugating irregular French verbs. Even the knowledge that her sleepover was about to begin didn’t cheer her up at all. With her luck, it was bound to be a disaster.

  Not only was Todd there, but the snacks were terrible. She couldn’t order personal thin-crust whole-wheat pizzas with tropical fruit parfaits because of the credit debacle. Inez had the week off, and Judi Lyons’s idea of gourmet was a basket of deflated Cheetos, a half-popped bag of microwave popcorn, and celery sticks with peanut butter and raisins (aka ants on a log, which, due to Massie’s recent infestation, she did nawt appreciate).

  The only possible bright spot was that she’d asked her friends to bring back all the clothes she’d lent them in the past year. There had to be something she could salvage. She was counting on it.

  “Heck yeah!” Todd whooped.

  “TODD!” Massie cried. “BE QUIET!”

  “Owner’s rights!” Todd called back, not taking his eyes off the screen.

  “The Pretty Committee is getting here in ten minutes,” she hissed.

  Todd pressed PAUSE and turned to wink at Massie. “Don’t worry. You don’t need to be jealous of all the other babes.” He turned back to the game. He and his virtual self crashed and screamed through virtual landscapes, and Massie was thisclose to nonvirtually killing him.

  Bean wandered over, sniffed at a celery stick, and then lay back down. She was wearing one of her ah-dorable Prada parkas, but Massie could tell her pup’s heart wasn’t in it. She missed Bark Obama and snoozing on his doggy bed.

  “I hear you, Bean,” Massie said, rubbing under her pup’s chin. “But this is our life now.” She slumped down onto the blue-and-white-slipcovered couch and leaned her head on her fist, just as the hold-music feature started to replay the Annie soundtrack. She shook her head and finally hung up. Maybe she should try her parents again.

  Suddenly her phone vibrated with a picture text. It was from Landon, and the picture was of Bark, who’d buried his nose in his paws and was looking at the camera with round, wet eyes.

  She pressed IGNORE, and Bean shot her a disappointed look.

  “I know, I know,” Massie said. “But I can’t let him see me like this.” Massie motioned to her current outfit: she’d cut the arms off the shrug to make leg warmers and turned the pencil skirt into a tube top. She’d repurposed the blouse into a pair of silky, day-to-evening boxer shorts, which she wore over the same tights she’d been wearing since her parents had left the previous afternoon. She had gotten so desperate that she’d yanked a strand of translucent beads that Mrs. Lyons used as curtain tiebacks in the kitchen and tripled them to make a necklace. She didn’t know whether she looked fabulous or was one fingerless glove away from looking like a runaway, but she had a whole new respect for the whiny contestants on Project Runway.

  Furthermore, she had a blister on her thumb thanks to the stupid hot glue gun, and her hands were cramped from sewing, and the Lyonses’ Febreze-scented living room was making her throat seize.

  “I’m on FI-YAH!” Todd shouted, high-fiving his head again. The sudden sound broke Massie out of her reverie.

  “You have fifteen more seconds, then I am unplugging that box,” Massie yelled, getting ready to throw one of the couch cushions at him.

  “So you can have me all to yourself?” Todd asked. “Don’t worry, Princess Peach is no competition for you, baby.”

  “We’re heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeerrrrrreee,” Dylan yelled, bursting into the living room.

  “Finally!” Massie snapped as Alicia and Kristen filed in after her. Snowflakes dusted Alicia’s long black lashes. The tip of Kristen’s nose was pink from the cold.

  The three of them dropped their sleeping bags, overnight bags, and suitcases (full of her old clothes, she hoped) on the floor.

  Alicia eyed Massie’s outfit and the glue gun on the coffee table. “Oh, are we having arts and crafts night?”

  Massie self-consciously hugged the pillow to her chest, covering her outfit. For a brief moment, she remembered how it felt to be friends with her old crew, the Ahnnabees, who’d laughed at her for thinking charm bracelets were stylish.

  Dylan picked up an ant on the log and sniffed it suspiciously before dropping it back on the plate. “It looks like poo-berries on a log!”

  Kristen snorted.

  “SCOOOOOOOORE!” Todd yelled.

  Massie’s skin sizzled. “THAT’S IT!” She crossed the room in five steps and unplugged the Wii.

  “Heyyyyy! I was about to beat my fastest time!”

  Mrs. Lyons, who was knitting in the kitchen, popped her head into the living room. “Todd, please let the girls have their sleepover. You can come help me make cookies if you want.”

  But Todd just glared at his mom and stormed up the stairs. Mrs. Lyons let out a loud sigh and retreated back into the kitchen.

  Massie settled back onto the couch. Her friends were still eyeing the room warily, unsure of where they should sit. Massie’s stomach knotted like one of the mini pretzels in the bowl Mrs. Lyons had put on the table.

  “Luckily I raided a gift basket Brangelina sent my mom,” Dylan said. From her leather hobo she pulled a cellophane clump filled with peppermint bark, dark chocolate pretzels, and salted caramels. She promptly dug in.

  “I stopped at the magazine store,” Alicia said, spreading out US Weekly, People, Star, and Star UK. She eyed the selection on the coffee table. “These ones are current. Don’t worry. My treat.”

  Massie’s cheeks burned. She turned her attention to the suitcases, dumping out the contents of Kristen’s Adidas duffle, Dylan’s LV trunk, and Alicia’s Ralph wheelie. Neon yellow tube tops, slanted stripe sweaters, horseshoe-print blouses, high-waisted jeans, and satin camis tumbled out, rolling together like laundry on a spin cycle.

  “Oh my gawd.” Massie held up a slouchy-shouldered poof dress in lime green sateen. “This is so 1982!”

  “Actually,” Kristen corrected her. “It was 2009, when we all decided to dress like it was 1982.”

  Massie pulled out a pair of pointy-toed, knee-high boots while Kris
ten put on a pair of chunky gold hoop earrings.

  “Look! I’m the ghost of Christmas Fashions Past,” Dylan intoned in a low voice, draping a lavender pashmina over her head.

  “And I’m Captain Jack Sparrow!” Kristen said, thrusting her arm through a ruffly white top.

  “Point!” Alicia said, trying on a pair of square-toed Ferragamos.

  “Gross,” Massie said, holding up a pair of yoga pants. “I can’t wear these. They’re way too stretched out!”

  Dylan paused, a big piece of peppermint bark halfway to her mouth. She sucked in her stomach. “Hey!”

  “Ugh.” Massie held up a beige sweater. “No wonder I lent this to you, Kristen. It works well on boxy, boyish figures.”

  “Excuse me!” Kristen squeezed her sides in an attempt to form an hourglass figure.

  “Um, Leesh,” Massie said, throwing the sweater onto her reject pile and picking up a Theory bra tee. “Why don’t you look into a minimizer? Your boobs left saggy imprints in this shirt.”

  Kristen narrowed her eyes. Dylan pinched a piece of popcorn until it shattered.

  Alicia crossed her arms over her C-cups. “If I wanted to be put through torture, I’d hit the Coach outlet on the Sunday before Christmas.”

  “Maybe you should, so you can stop borrowing my clothes and turning them into camel covers.” Massie heard how mean the words were, and she registered the anger on her friends’ faces. But it felt like she was a shaken can of Coke Zero—her anger tab had been popped open, and there was no stopping the spray of insults. “Dylan, if you’re worried about the junk in your trunk, stop eating junk food. And Kristen, if you want to look like a girl, for Gawd’s sake, get some highlights and stop wearing sneakers!”

  “That’s it.” Alicia grabbed her magazines. “I’m out of here.”

  “Same!” Kristen shouted.

  “Guys like my junk!” Dylan snarled, balling up the bag of popcorn in her hands.

  As though watching an episode of The Hills where Audrina and Heidi have yet another falling out, Massie watched, oddly detached, as the three girls gathered up their things and marched through the door. A chill filled the room that had nothing to do with the temperature outside.