A Tale of Two Pretties Page 3

  “Sign those. And if you’re under eighteen your mom needs to sign, too.”

  “No need. I’m twenty-one.”

  “Cool,” he said, unfazed.

  “Wait! You actually believe I’m twenty-one?”

  He shrugged. “I’ve been working on reality shows for three years. I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

  Deflated, Dylan glanced at the papers. The header said CONFIDENTIALITY CONTRACT in all-caps. She winced at the memories of the last time she had needed to sign a confidentiality clause, when Merri-Lee had interviewed the (former) world champion tennis star Svetlana Slootskyia in Hawaii.

  “Do I have to?” Dylan asked.

  “Yes,” Merri-Lee insisted, butting in. “And this is serious. You can’t even tell your friends. They’ll have to hear about it like everyone else, during my live New Year’s Yves party!”

  The pale guy added, “It’s a legally binding document that will hold up in a court of law. If you violate it, the repercussions are severe.”

  “How severe?” Dylan wondered aloud. “Lindsay Lohan severe, or rest of the country severe?”

  “Rest of the country,” he assured her. “For starters you’ll have to reimburse us for the cost of the show. Two million plus,” he said before she had time to ask. “So be honest: Can you keep this secret?”

  Dylan grabbed her phone from his hand. “Puh-lease!”

  She managed to conceal six cheats during a ten-day juice fast. How much harder could this be?

  NEW YORK CITY

  THE 21 CLUB

  Saturday, December 25th

  12:07 P.M.

  “You know why his name is Bernie Madoff?” asked a silver-haired man in a blue suit and a crisp red tie.

  Alicia took a small sip of sparkling water and waited for the punch line.

  “Because he made off with everyone’s money.”

  Her parents, Len and Nadia, seemed as amused as the other guests at their table. Alicia’s laugh was faker than the Hills finale, but thankfully no one noticed.

  This lunch was important. She had carefully selected a sophisticated, simple outfit for The 21 Club’s annual Christmas lunch—a dark gray Ralph Lauren sweater that downplayed her C-cups and played up her pencil skirt. But judging by the flouncy cocktail dresses in the dining room, she’d made a mistake. She felt like one of the darts she’d thrown in Josh Hotz’s game room: totally off the mark.

  Every Christmas Day, Alicia and Nadia joined Len for a luncheon with his lawyer colleagues. It was a candlelit snoozefest, but Alicia was always rewarded for her attendance with an extra-special present afterward. Today, as they dined deep in the heart of Manhattan, their table and bellies stuffed with heavy meats and risotto, Alicia was hoping for some cardio-shopping on Fifth Avenue.

  While Len began talking about his latest trial, Alicia fished her phone out of her Twelfth St. by Cynthia Vincent studded bag and checked to see if Massie had written her back. She’d texted the alpha when she’d arrived at The 21 Club with a 911 about whether her outfit was the right call. Massie had yet to respond.

  Alicia thumbed through the rest of her inbox as talk of tort reform built around her. A message from Hermia, a name she hadn’t seen in ages, stood out.

  New Year, New Guidance! said the subject line. In the body of the message, surrounded by stars and moons, was text that read: Let your celestial guru guide you on your journey into the new year with an e-reading. Limited-time cost of $75.

  Ever since she’d met the psychic at Merri-Lee’s New Year’s Yves party a few years ago, Alicia had been on Hermia’s mailing list. Normally she would ew-schew psychics, but Hermia did predict the forming of the Pretty Committee. She even knew Claire would join them long before she moved to Westchester. If that wasn’t worthy of an e-mail subscription, what was?

  After a quick glance around the table and another perfunctory laugh, Alicia slouched in her velvet seat so that her hands—and her phone—were hidden under the white tablecloth. She connected to Hermia’s site and scheduled an e-reading for ay-sap. It wasn’t curiosity that drove her to withdraw seventy-five dollars from her PayPal account. It was boredom. A trip to the future was her only way out.

  A chat box with an image of Hermia’s serious gray eyes and grandma-white hair popped up.

  You’ve done a good deal of traveling this year, Alicia. I see that it’s taught you some valuable life lessons.

  Alicia rolled her eyes. Dealing with her Spanish cousins and winning a spot in an ¡i! video last summer had only reinforced what she already knew: that she was hawt.

  You are very good with physicality and movement. If you are not a dancer, become one, Hermia typed.

  It didn’t take a psychic to know she was the best student at the prestigious Body Alive Dance Studio.

  “Tell me something I don’t know,” Alicia typed back.

  An animated icon of Hermia began spinning. Please wait while I decipher my vision of your future.

  Alicia returned to the present, where the conversation was still more Law & Order than Alice + Olivia.

  Alicia, your prediction for the New Year is…

  She held her breath.

  You are going to rise up and become the leader of your group. Don’t be afraid. It’s time.

  Ehma-huh? A shiver ran down Alicia’s spine. What did that mean?

  She thumbed a frustrated “????” to Hermia, but the psychic’s icon had a bright red bar flashing diagonally across it. You can hear more for another $75.

  Alicia was about to accept the terms and conditions when Nadia’s Caliente Coral–clad fingers wrapped around Alicia’s wrist like the Elizabeth and James tusk-link bracelet she had her eye on.

  “Put the phone away,” Nadia smile-demanded, making sure the other guests never lost sight of her Rembrandt-enhanced teeth.

  Alicia felt like her tongue had swollen to twice its normal size. She gathered up her shiny black hair and tried to discreetly fan the back of her neck, but Hermia’s words were screaming on repeat in her head. You’re going to become the leader… leader… leader…

  “Denise, David,” Nadia called across the table to Len’s colleagues, “Did you know my daughter is an expert arguer? Perhaps we have a future lawyer on our hands!” They nodded and looked interested, but when it came to their conversation, Alicia felt like Angie and Brad. She just couldn’t engage.

  Instead, she tried to decipher what Hermia meant by leader of the group—maybe she meant dance group? But Alicia had been the leader of that ever since Skye Hamilton left for Alpha Academy.

  Alicia fanned her pits. Past Alicia would have ah-dored a prediction like this. She spent so much of her life competing with Massie for alpha status. But Present Alicia didn’t want it anymore. And she was pretty certain Future Alicia wouldn’t either.

  She shuddered, thinking back to when she had created the SoulM8s, OCD’s first ever girl-boy clique, after the Pretty Committee had disbanded. It had been so much work being alpha—organizing, planning, brainstorming, and making sure everyone else was happy and having fun. It was nawt Alicia’s idea of a good time. And it had almost cost her everything. No, Alicia hearted being Massie’s beta. It gave her all the prestige and none of the headaches.

  If Hermia had been right about anything, it was that Alicia had learned a lot of valuable life lessons this year. The most valuable of all being: She would never be a social alpha again. No matter what some psychic thought her future held.

  SOMEWHERE IN WESTCHESTER

  THE LYONSES’ CAR

  Saturday, December 25th

  3:15 P.M.

  “If you don’t tell me where were going, I’ll never change my underwear again,” Todd Lyons said.

  “Any excuse to stay in those lucky Buzz Lightyear briefs,” teased Judi Lyons from the front seat of the family Ford Taurus.

  “But Mommmm,” he whined, kicking the back of her seat.

  “Patience, son,” Jay admonished from behind the wheel. “We’re almost there.”


  Claire tried to tune out her younger brother by savoring the chocolaty taste of love inside every one of her C&Cs—she’d rationed a small bag to take on the drive. While Todd continued to beg for clues, Claire inhaled the sugar-coated plastic smell of her candy pouch to mask the stench of the Old Spice body spray Todd had received in his Christmas stocking. It didn’t work. She cracked the window, hoping a sliver of cold wind would suck out the fumes. But they had embedded themselves in the tan upholstery and held on tight. Mold Spice would have been a more accurate name.

  Ping!

  Claire checked her text messages.

  Massie: Officially changing the name of this hell-i-day to ChristMISS because it sooo missed being fun. Can I crash at your house? I’m about to start carb-loading for warmth.

  Claire: Sure. It’s ur house

  Massie: Thx. Gonna start packing.

  Claire wrinkled her brow. Packing? For one night?

  Massie: BTW where R U?

  Claire: No clue.

  Claire giggled as the Taurus made a sharp turn down a familiar block. Her father pulled the car over to the side of the road, and her mother turned around with a giddy gleam in her eye.

  “Hey! This is Layne’s street!” Claire said.

  Todd bounced up and down in his seat. “Is this it? Are we getting our surprise here?”

  Judi dangled two sleep masks in front of them. “Not just yet. You have to put these on first!”

  “No way! They say most kidnappings are done by the parents!” Todd exclaimed.

  “That’s a chance you’ll just have to take,” Judi said, sliding the mask over her son’s red hair.

  “Did Layne put you up to this?” Claire asked, lowering the cold black silk over her eyes.

  “Nope. Now zip it,” Jay said, putting on his blinker and easing back into the street. Claire felt like Jenna from Pretty Little Liars: She couldn’t see a thing.

  “I think we’re going to get shot,” Todd whispered.

  “If anyone shoots you, it’s gonna be me,” Claire whispered back.

  The Taurus slowed to a stop.

  “No peeking,” Judi warned, helping her children out of the car. Claire stepped onto a patch of frozen grass, her Target boots making a crunching noise. Though the sun was bright, it wasn’t enough to counter the icy wind that whipped through her hair and bit her earlobes. Shivering, she wished she had on Todd’s puffy jacket instead of the thin white satin–lined peacoat Massie handed down to Claire.

  Claire tried to get her bearings. It sounded like kids were playing nearby. Someone was starting their car. A bike bell rang. Smells like wood burning fireplaces and Christmas turkey swirled around her. Claire inhaled them straight to her stomach. Scents and sounds like those, unless they were coming directly from the Blocks’ house, didn’t exist in the Blocks’ neighborhood—the houses were too far apart. Her insides suddenly warmed.

  Judi gripped Claire’s shoulders and angled her left. “Ready?”

  “Ready,” Claire said, having absolutely no idea what to expect. She hadn’t asked for anything special this Christmas.

  “Surprise!” her parents shouted at the same time.

  Claire and Todd removed their sleep masks.

  Huh?

  She was looking at a regular house. It was two stories with yellow siding and deep, country red doors and shutters. A two-car garage sat off to the right. The small front yard was covered in snow, but the tops of bushes stood proudly underneath the front windows. It wasn’t big; it wasn’t wrapped in blinking lights; and unless Claire was mistaken, it didn’t belong to Mark Salling from Glee, and he wasn’t inviting her over for a sing-along. So what was the big deal? Todd looked from one parent to the next, then settled on Claire with an expression of utter incomprehension.

  “Surprise! It’s our new house!” Judi and Jay said simultaneously, their faces bright with excitement, or maybe just the cold. “Merry Christmas!”

  Shutthefrontdoor!

  “Seriously?” Claire screamed like she had just met a Jonas brother and then threw her arms around her parents.

  “Can we go in?” Todd asked, racing up the three steps to the porch.

  “Not yet. We take possession Thursday,” Jay explained. “Wait until you see the basement, though. There’s enough room for a pool table and air hockey.”

  “What about a wrestling ring?” Todd jumped up and down in the snow. His jeans sagged, revealing the green elastic band of his lucky undies. Claire made a silent apology for doubting the briefs’ powers. Who knew? Maybe they had something to do with this.

  Claire couldn’t help it; she screamed again. Their own house! Their own adorable house. On the same street as Layne! Close enough for Claire to ride her bike to OCD and the high school! A place where they could finally hang the “Lyons Live Here” sign that had been collecting dust in a still-unpacked box since they moved! A house that belonged to the Lyonses, instead of the Blocks.

  The Blocks.

  Claire’s stomach jumped to its death as she thought about leaving Massie. Living in the guest house made her part of the PC. What was going to happen when Claire didn’t live within text-me-and-I’ll-be-there-in-sixty-seconds distance from her alpha? Would she still be invited to Friday night sleepovers? Could she still be a GLU if she was also a PASTE (Previously Allowed Someone who was Then Exiled)? And what about Massie? How could Claire abandon her on this hell-i-day?

  Todd was already claiming the cluster of trees by the side yard so he and Tiny Nathan could build a fort. Jay and Judi were talking about a porch swing. Claire had never seen everyone in her family so happy at the same time. She wished she could bottle up that cheer and then give it to Massie like it was a Vitamin Water Zero.

  Because like it or not, Claire and the Lyons family were moving out of the guest house and into the new house—and soon. Claire bit her lip and reached for another C&C, only to find her stash was gone.

  Along with any hope that Massie could count on Claire.

  THE PINEWOOD

  THE ROOFTOP

  Sunday, December 26th

  2:39 P.M.

  Kristen stood shivering under a gray sky, surrounded by red-and-navy-clad all-stars. Inhaling the sharp biting air, she buried her fingers in the cuffs of her new red-and-navy Soccer Sisters windbreaker and braced herself for some rooftop drills. She, with some major help from her mom, had volunteered to host the Soccer Sisters’ “Cleat & Greet” party that afternoon. But she hadn’t been able to swallow a single pizza roll. Her insides seized up the minute they realized the strongest players in Westchester County were packed in her teeny living room.

  Kristen shuffled her legs, then leaned down to adjust her shin guards. Hunched over, she raised her eyes and peeked at her new teammates.

  Andrea Hart stood over to her left, stretching her hamstrings and popping orange gum. She was at least six feet tall, with leg muscles that looked more like wads than quads. Rumor was she had Survivor-like skills: She could outwit, outplay, and outlast every girl in the state.

  To her right, a small group of girls were running drills. Jennifer Scholaski was French-braiding her hair while kicking a ball from one foot to the other. Kristen worried that the pizza rolls she hadn’t eaten would still manage to find their way back up her throat if she watched Jennifer juggle for one more second. Jen was an all-star striker, and rumor had it that Division I schools were already scouting her. The two girls beside her were equally impressive with their unmistakable STARS bodies—Strong, Talented, Athletic, and Ready to Score.

  Shake it off. No fear. Focus. Kristen straightened up and braced herself for another whistle. Like her coach and Ayn Rand always said: Intimidation is a confession of intellectual impotence.

  “Soccer Sisters!” a gruff, hoarse yell came bubbling from the throat of Coach Blake. Short and squat, he had rhino leg muscles, a bald head, and a baby face.

  “Line up for drills!” he called, and Kristen followed her sisters into formation.

  You can do this, she told h
erself. She was used to drills. She could do them in heels and still beat the rest of her OCD teammates. But she wasn’t standing beside her OCD teammates. She was standing under the Soccer Sisters—by at least three inches. She wasn’t with the rest of her OCD teammates anymore—she was with the Soccer Sisters. Suddenly she felt very much like she imagined Justin Long had when he dated Drew Barrymore: totally out of her league.

  “Trap, dribble, kick,! Trap, dribble, kick!” As Coach Blake barked out orders and the girls in front of her in line attacked the ball, Kristen surrendered. Maybe she would never have to break the news to the Pretty Committee. Maybe she wouldn’t last past the Cleat & Greet. Maybe she was meant to be the big fish in the small OCD pond, rather than a small fish who was about to be gobbled up by a killer shark named Andrea.

  Peep! Peeeeep!

  Coach Blake’s whistle pierced through the air again. “Gregory!”

  It was her turn. As she faced Andrea, who stood in the makeshift goal, Kristen’s brain shut down and her body took over, doing what it had been trained to do for the last nine years. As the black-and-white soccer ball left Coach Blake’s hands and arced through the air, her green eyes narrowed. Time slowed. The honks of passing cars on the street below muted. The whoosh of the ball and the thump of her heartbeat were all she heard. Somebody blot my face because it’s time to shine!

  Her foot met the ball at the perfect angle, with just the right amount of strength, and sent it sailing across the rooftop. Her ponytail swished out behind her, her Soccer Sisters windbreaker crinkled, her skin buzzed. Kristen kept her eyes on the ball, anticipating the applause her teammates would give her when the ball shot into the net.

  WHACK.

  A collective gasp filled the rooftop.

  Uh-oh.

  Andrea gripped the ball against her stomach and doubled over. She fell to her knees. A sound more piercing that the coach’s whistle rang through Kristen’s ears. Now what? Remove her shin guards? Fold up her windbreaker? Pray that Andrea didn’t buy into the whole eye-for-an-eye thing? No matter how risky, an apology was definitely in order.