A Tale of Two Pretties Read online

  Andrea wobble-stood and stomp-marched over to Kristen. The other girls stepped out of the way and formed a tight circle around them. Coach Blake took a passive step back. Was he seriously going to let nature take its course? Because things die in nature all the time?

  “Gregory?” Andrea’s voice boomed.

  Kristen checked the roof for her mother. She wasn’t there.

  Andrea’s blue eyes widened as she approached. She held out her hand and Kristen braced herself for a punch. Instead she got a slap on the back. A… friendly one. “Nice kick!”

  “Really?” Kristen said, relaxing her shoulders.

  “With Kristen, there’s no way we can lose this season!” Jennifer shouted, and a cheer rose up. Even Coach Blake joined in. After a group hug, the coach demanded everyone get back to work.

  The sharp wind bit at Kristen’s nose. Coach’s shrill whistle poked her eardrums like someone was stabbing her with an icicle. And her body was trembling with hunger.

  Yet Kristen had never felt better.

  THE BLOCK ESTATE

  MASSIE’S BEDROOM

  Sunday, December 26th

  3:49 P.M.

  Massie surveyed her bedroom, trying to remember what it looked like before it was littered with half-filled boxes, messy piles of tunics, and last season’s skinny jeans. She squinted, ignoring Kendra’s wrinkle-prevention mantra—“a squint at thirteen makes a grown woman scream”— but it was no use. No matter how much she tried to trick her eyes, she couldn’t block out the events of the past two weeks. The destruction of her life stood before her like the torn-apart Macy’s juniors section during its Day-After-Christmas Sale.

  Bean was comfortably perched in a Barneys boot box awaiting the big move across the backyard. She was wearing a festive red-and-silver outfit that Landon’s pug, Bark Obama, had sent her as a Christmas gift.

  “Should we bring the Massiequin: yea or nay?”

  Bean barked once, and Massie nodded. “Ah-greed. We both know Kuh-laire could use her more than I could.” Massie made a check mark on the Smart Board she’d rolled in from her father’s office, which she was using to organize her move. So far, all it said was Winter and Resort Wear and Stuff to Spruce Up Kuh-laire and Massie’s Bedroom.

  The sounds of Ke$ha’s latest song rang out from somewhere on Massie’s bed, and she rifled through a pile of scarves to find her iPhone. Dylan had programmed in the ringtone, declaring that Ke$ha was the only musician on today’s scene who “got” her energy. Massie thought all Ke$ha “got” was bad makeup advice.

  “Mass! Where have you been? You haven’t picked up in days!”

  “How was your trip? Was it ah-mazing?” Massie asked. As soon as the words were out, she regretted them. Because now Dylan would have to ask a similar question in return—and Massie did nawt want to tell Dylan how her Christmas was going. In fact, she would need years of sessions with therapists and Scarlett Johansson’s acting coach before she’d be able to talk about this Christmas without crying.

  “It was good. I lost major water weight and mostly hung by the beach. You?”

  “Same,” Massie managed. “Without the beach part.”

  They were both silent. Massie searched for something to say but couldn’t think of a single topic. Everything on her mind was off-limits to everyone but Claire.

  “Question,” Dylan finally said. “Have you ever had a huh-yuge secret that you wanted to tell but couldn’t?”

  Massie felt like she’d swallowed a candy cane sideways. Had Dylan heard about her financial fallout? Were people talking about it? Did Merri-Lee want to run a riches-to-rags story on the Blocks?!

  “… Sometimes your family’s not enough. You need to talk about it with your friends, right?…”

  Dylan was still chattering on about secrets and lies but Massie could barely hear her anymore.

  “… What if someone accidentally blabs and word gets out…”

  “Hullo?” Massie blurted. “Dylan, can you hear me? Hullo?”

  “Yeah, I can hear you,” Dylan said. “Can you hear me?”

  “Hullo? Dyl? Are you there?”

  “Massie! I can hear you. Can you hear me?”

  “Dyl?”

  “Mass?”

  “Dyl?”

  “Mass!”

  “Ugh, AT&T.” Massie groaned and then hung up. Dylan had left her no choice. She was getting too close, no doubt searching for a confession.

  Massie collapsed on a Lanvin batwing cardigan that still had tags dangling from the label. She refused to look at the price. It would only make her cry.

  Kendra knocked on the open door.

  “If you’re not coming to shoot me, go away.”

  “Massie, I’d like you to meet Tamara Hardwood.”

  “Who?” Massie sat up.

  “Our realtor.” Kendra smiled apologetically at a well-preserved brunette in a fitted black blazer and matching skirt. “She was kind enough to stop by on the holiday weekend. Isn’t that so great of her?”

  Realtor?

  “It’s no biggie.” Tamara waved away the praise. “I’m Jewish.”

  Massie stood. The room seemed to tighten along with her throat. “Isn’t today the Sabbath?”

  “Oh, it’s okay. I’m not observant,” Tamara smiled widely.

  “Uh, clearly,” Massie murmur-muttered. If she was, she would have known Massie was talking about religion, not some random character trait.

  “I’m showing Tamara around the estate,” Kendra explained. Her eyes roamed across Massie’s room, landing on the boxes and clothes and stray boots littering every surface.

  “It’s such a spectacular home,” Tamara added. “And this room? Gorge.” Suddenly she was all business. “Before we list I’ll stage it, of course. Something in a warmer palette. White doesn’t exactly scream cozy.” She winked at Massie. And then to Kendra she said, “Don’t worry. A few coats of paint and the place will sell itself. Even in this bear economy.”

  Sell?

  Kendra sigh-nodded.

  Tamara turned to Massie and pasting a big smile on her unevenly lined lips. “I know one girl who’s ready to say good-bye to this room.”

  “’Scuse me?”

  Tamara gestured to the boxes and tapped on the Smart Board. “It looks like you’re excited about the big move!”

  “Big move?” Massie asked, heart pounding. “You mean to Claire’s?”

  “Tamara, why don’t I show you the rest of the house,” Kendra suggested, steering the realtor toward the hall.

  As Tamara inspected the doorframe, Massie glared at her mother. She felt like Bristol Palin while Levi Johnston was pitching reality shows in Hollywood: totally left in the cold.

  THE MARVIL HOUSE

  MERRI-LEE’S BATHROOM

  Sunday, December 26th

  4:17 P.M.

  Dylan tried blinking but it was impossible. Her eyes wouldn’t budge. She struggled to sit up, but that, too, proved futile. A pair of strong arms held her against the massage table in Merri-Lee’s spa bathroom. She was stuck.

  Nicolette, the network’s aesthetician, playfully swatted at Dylan’s arm. At least, Dylan thought it was a playful swat. But with her eyes taped shut, she couldn’t be sure.

  She was sure of one thing, though: Attaching eyelash extensions took longer than growing them from scratch.

  “Stop moving,” Nicolette demanded, her Tic-Tac-scented breath slithering up Dylan’s nostrils and cooling her brain.

  Dylan felt something dangerously sharp touching down on her lid and then a gentle tugging of her upper lash line. Blindness was so not fun. She flashed back to a history class about the various methods of torture enacted upon prisoners during the Middle Ages. She’d be willing to bet her hefty Marvilous Marvils paychecks that remaining still while getting eyelash extensions topped the list.

  “Can I at least make another phone call?”

  “If it keeps you from complaining, I’ll dial the numbers myself,” Nicolette said gamely.

&
nbsp; “How about someone with Sprint this time. AT&T to AT&T drops more than Beyoncé drops singles. Try Alicia.”

  Alicia’s dad was a hotshot lawyer. Maybe he’d be able to help her sidestep the confidentiality situation.

  Nicolette held the phone against Dylan’s ear.

  “Heyyy,” Alicia said, after two rings. “Merry Christmas! How are you? Are you back? How was the Caribbean?”

  “Caribbean-y…” she joked, not wanting to talk about her ten-day cleanse, but rather the fastest way to cleanse her soul of the secret she was carrying. “So, Leesh, question: What would you do if you were sworn to secrecy about something but wanted to tell?”

  “Same thing I always do: run a gossip points cost-benefit analysis. If the gossip points are bigger than the trouble I might get in for telling, I risk it. If not, I don’t.”

  Dylan pressed the phone to her lips and whispered, “This is more serious than gossip points. People could go to jail for telling.”

  Alicia was quiet.

  “Hullo?” Dylan said, shaking her phone. “Not again. Gawd, I hate AT&T. Leesh, are you there?”

  “Yeah, I’m here. Sorry, I was just thinking.”

  “And?”

  “And this is a question for an alpha. Not me. Ask Massie.”

  “I’m thought you could help because your dad—”

  “Hold on, Dylan,” Alicia said. “What, Mom?” she called. “Dinner?”

  Now? Dylan couldn’t open her taped eyes to check the time but the trace of balsamic in her burps meant only one thing: Lunch was still digesting.

  “I have to go,” Alicia said. “Mom freaks when the paella is cold.”

  “But—”

  The line went dead.

  When did Alicia start choosing carbs over gossip?

  “Nicolette?” Dylan said, lifting her phone over her head. It smashed up against something hard.

  “Ouch! My chin!”

  “Sorry. Would you please dial Kristen?”

  The aesthetician jammed the ringing phone against Dylan’s ear so hard the post of Dylan’s diamond stud almost shattered her skull. She was about to scream when—

  “Okay, how tan are you on a scale from Claire to Alicia?”

  “I’m about a Kristen after a full day at Massie’s pool, SPF four.”

  “Nice.” She giggled.

  “Listen, Kristen, I need some advice and my battery’s about to die so…”

  “Sure, what’s up?”

  “What would you do if you had a big secret—like, really huh-yuge—but you were obligated to keep it quiet even though you were dying to tell someone?”

  “Ahem,” a male voice said over her, his breath smelling like salsa. “I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation just now.”

  “Who is that?” Kristen asked. “Are you visiting your dad?”

  Dylan thumbed around for the END button and disconnected the call.

  “I hope you’re not in breach of the confidentiality contract.” Dylan recognized the voice. It was the mysterious producer who always shouted “Back to one” and “Let’s try that again!” over the PA system. Dylan fought to catch a glimpse of him, but her lids were no match for the super-stick grip of Nicolette’s tape.

  “Who, me?” Dylan asked, wondering how one feigned shock without the use of her eyes. “No. I was running lines with my drama partner. We’re doing Secret Life of Bees and, um, I play the bee with the secret.”

  “Well, in the end, I hope your bee decides to keep the secret, or the whole hive will come crashing down on her,” he said with a final blast of salsa.

  “Don’t worry.” Dylan forced a smile.

  Of course, if the hive didn’t crush her, the weight of this secret surely would.

  THE GUESTHOUSE

  CLAIRE’S ROOM

  Sunday, December 26th

  5:27 P.M.

  Claire’s room had become a “before” scene in an episode of Hoarders. Claire brushed aside her bangs, opened her closet door, and began pulling clothes. There was already a big lump of “donate before the PC finds out I wore these,” a small mound of “could wear while studying,” and a midsized pile of “new house–worthy.” But there was still so much to do. How was she supposed to get it all packed and organized in less than a week?

  Massie burst into Claire’s room with a box of her own. Her amber eyes, red and watery, took in the chaos. “Kuh-laire, it’s so ah-dorable of you to get rid of your ugly things to make room for my cute ones.” She kicked aside a PowerPuff Girls nightgown. “Just for that I grant you complete wardrobe access. It’s a good thing I’m moving in.”

  “Moving in?” Claire screeched. “I thought you were just sleeping over. You know, tonight.”

  “Puh-lease. Look outside.” Massie led her to the window. A baggage claim’s worth of luggage sat on the lawn outside the guesthouse. “Would I bring all of that for one night?”

  Claire managed to smile. “Probably.”

  “Isn’t that why you’re cleaning out your closets?”

  “Of course,” Claire lied, nervously tugging on the zipper of her light blue hoodie. “Why else would I be doing all of this?”

  How could she possibly tell Massie she’d be abandoning her in her greatest moment of need? The girl looked more fragile than those wide-eyed Precious Moments figurines Grandma Lyons collected.

  “Question for you,” Massie began, gripping Claire with the intensity of her glare. “Any chance you told Dylan about my…” She hesitated, as if her next words might detonate and trigger an explosion. “… my secret?”

  “No!” Claire crossed her fingers over her heart, twice. “I swear.”

  Massie cocked her head.

  “Swear on your life?”

  Claire lifted her palm. “Swear on my life.”

  “Your mom’s life?”

  “Swear.”

  “Dad’s?”

  “Swear.”

  “Todd’s?”

  “Easy. Swear,” she joked, but Massie still wasn’t convinced.

  “What about…” Massie tapped her chin, looked up, and then swooped her glare back down for what she obviously assumed was the billion-dollar question. “What about Cam’s?”

  “Swear.”

  “Say it.”

  “I swear.”

  “All of it.”

  “I swear on Cam’s life I did not tell Dylan, or anyone, about your secret.”

  “The money one.”

  “The money one.” Claire sat on the edge of her bed. “I’m almost offended that you think I would tell.”

  “Um, are you a busboy?”

  “No,” Claire said.

  “Then why are you turning the tables?” Massie asked.

  “I—”

  “That was about me not you. But I believe you now, so let’s move on.”

  Claire sighed. She wanted to be there for Massie like Selena was there for Demi, but it was hard when she had her own secret to keep.

  “Hey, Mass…” Claire wondered aloud. “Do you think we’d still be friends if we didn’t live on the same estate?”

  Massie did a belly-first dive onto Claire’s bed, knocking the “maybe” pile of clothes onto the floor. “Oh, you don’t have to worry about that, Kuh-laire!”

  Claire felt the knot in her stomach unravel a little.

  “Your family will never leave. Which is actually perfect because if mine does—not that they are, but they might… someday—I’ll move in with you, keep the same address, and no one will know the difference!” she declared, her eyes brightening. “It’ll be our secret.”

  Another one?

  Claire knew she had to tell Massie the truth and ask point-blank if they’d still be friends once they didn’t live together. And even if Massie pulled a Simon Cowell and left, at least Claire would know the truth and all the secrets would be over.

  “This is cute for you,” Massie said to a gray Alexander Wang tee shirt. “Keep this one.”

  “You gave it to me,” Claire
admitted.

  “Oh.” Massie giggled. “Ooops.” Her smile was endearing, a mix of warmth and vulnerability. It stuck with Claire like a sad movie.

  “Maybe you should tell them,” Claire tried. “See what happens.”

  “Opposite of great idea,” Massie said, picking through Claire’s old blouses. “ ‘See what happens’ is for ordering jeans online, not for telling your friends you’re poor.” She reached for her necklace and dragged the black diamond along the chain.

  “Did you get that for Christmas?” Claire asked innocently.

  Massie nodded yes.

  “Then you’re not poor.”

  “Tell that to the frozen fish tank in my dad’s study. We’re selling it to a sushi chef from Ichi San.”

  Claire crossed the room and joined Massie on her bed, gently moving the “for keeps” clothes to her desk chair. “The point is, friends are there for each other no matter what. Did you bail on Kristen when you found out she wasn’t rich?”

  Massie paused to consider this. “Interesting point. Run with it.”

  Empowered, Claire sat taller. “It’s just that you’ve been there for them so many times…”

  “Name ten,” Massie said, as if the alpha’s greatest hits just slipped her mind. “Not including the one you just said.”

  “Okay, ten…” Claire thought hard. “Keep in mind I’ve only been here a year.”

  “Ten.”

  She stood and began pacing. “One. You helped Alicia buy her first minimizing bra. Two, you supply Kristen with new outfits every morning before school. Three, you designed their dirty devils Halloween costumes. Four, you had Jakob fix my bangs after Layne butchered them when I was trying to be Old-Claire for Cam. Four, you helped Dylan when Mr. Myner was dating her mom. Five, you formed the NPC after OCD became BOCD! Six, you started an underground clinic to teach lip virgins how to kiss. Um…” She searched the sticky corners of her mind for more. “Okay seven.”