By Thursday afternoon, the only miracle Claire had witnessed was watching her brother, Todd, finish the rest of his Halloween candy at breakfast without barfing it up on the way to school. So when Layne had texted Claire to meet in the basement bathroom after sixth period to start Phase Two of Operation Save the Males, Claire had agreed. What choice did she have? She was more desperate than the housewives of Orange County, New York, and Atlanta combined.
By the time she found the basement bathroom, which had been roped off and plastered with Layne’s handmade sign that read OUT OF ORDER—IT’S PRETTY GROSS IN HERE, Layne was already there, dressed in a long black trench coat, a black fedora, and giant bug-eye sunglasses.
“Thanks for meeting me here, Agent C,” she said in a low, serious voice. “Were you followed?” She led Claire across the checkered tile and pushed open the beige door of the handicapped stall, motioning for Claire to go inside.
Claire giggle-rolled her eyes. “This is serious, Layne,” she said earnestly, ducking inside the stall and sitting on the closed toilet lid.
“I knooooow.” Layne slammed the door shut behind her and slid the metal latch into place. “But do you love this coat, or do you love this coat? I got it at the Salvation Army and it has hooks for all your stuff.” Layne undid the frayed sash on her trench and whipped it open. Highlighters, Slim Jims, and Tootsie Pops lined the inside of her coat like she was a fake Rolex vendor on the streets of Manhattan.
“Love it,” Claire said hurriedly. “Now can we get started?”
Layne whipped off her sunglasses and pulled her MacBook from her backpack. Then she crouched in the corner, using her bag as a seat cushion, and fired up her computer. “Okay. Got your list?”
Claire reached inside her teal Mossimo triple-handle tote and pulled out her world history notebook. Instead of spending last period taking notes on the decline of the Roman empire, she’d been jotting down ways to convince Massie that upgrading would mean something way worse than Brutus stabbing Caesar: It would mean the complete and total ruin of the Pretty Committee.
| WHAT’S GREAT ABOUT EIGHTH | WHAT BITES ABOUT NINTH |
|---|---|
| Eighth-grade alphas = head of the entire school = ULTIMATE ALPHA EXPERIENCE. | Freshmen = bottom of the heap = AUTOMATIC LBRs. |
| Briarwood crushes! Everybody knows them. | Landon… who???? |
| Normal, skin-colored foundation. | Over-bronzing causes cancer. It’s true. |
| Cam Fisher. | NO CAM FISHER!!!!!! |
| Cam Fisher’s one blue eye. | |
| Cam Fisher’s one green eye. | |
| Cam Fisher’s Drakkar Noir cologne. | |
| Cam Fisher’s ah-dorable smile. |
Those last few selling points were more for Claire than Massie. But hopefully the other points would be enough.
Claire scribbled another heart in the margin next to green eye. “Ready?” Layne’s idea was to craft fake e-mails about the wonders of eighth, which would “accidentally” be sent to Massie. And it had to work. Because Phase Three was… well, Phase Three was nonexistent.
“Just call me Hemingway.” Layne’s neon green painted fingertips hovered over the glowing keyboard. “Now shoot.”
“Ummmmm… ‘Dear Layne.’” Claire tapped the eraser end of her pencil against her teeth.
“Wrong.” Layne shook her head, her fingers still hovering in midair. “You never start your e-mails that way. You always just start with… L.”
“Okay, fine,” Claire sighed, hugging her knees to her chest. “‘L.’”
Layne lowered her right index finger to the keyboard. “Done.”
“‘How are you? I was just thinking about how ah-mazing it is to be in eighth—’”
“Wrong,” Layne said again. “Sounds fake.”
“Layne! It is fake!” Claire huffed, exasperated. She would have taken a deep breath to calm herself down, but the sharp smell of Lysol mixed with the sugary scent of Layne’s Hershey’s Genuine Chocolate Flavored Bubble Yum lip balm made her want to gag.
Layne lifted her palms in surrender. “Don’t shoot the e-mailer,” she said, lifting her fedora and scratching the top of her head. “I’m just trying to make sure it sounds natural.”
“Right,” Claire snorted. “Natural, like your brother’s diary?” She air-quoted your brother’s diary, but instantly regretted it. It wasn’t Layne’s fault Massie could sniff out a fake entry faster than a Frauda.
Layne snorted. “Fair enough.”
Claire rested her chin on her knees. “Okay. ‘L. Found some pics of us in seventh the other day. Beyond funny. Can you believe we’re almost halfway through eighth?’”
“Better.” Layne said, typing Claire’s words as she spoke.
“‘Being in eighth is waaaaaaaaay cooler than being in seventh.’” Claire consulted her list. “‘In eighth, you’re the alphas of the whole school.’”
Layne grinned. “Take it slow, Mo.”
But Claire was on a roll. “‘Plus, crushing on eighth-grade boy alphas is like being alpha squared. So when you’re the alphas of the alpha grade, with alpha crushes, it’s like the ultimate alpha experience.’”
“Say ‘alpha’ one more time,” Layne deadpanned to her laptop screen.
“It’s fine. Massie’s fluent in alpha,” Claire said. “‘That’s why I’m so bummed about eventually moving on to ninth,’” she continued, the words automatically rolling off her tongue. “‘In ninth, you’re at the bottom of the heap again. Which is the opposite of alpha.’”
“Yeaaaah!” Layne’s cheer echoed in the deserted bathroom. “Sing it, sister!”
“‘I mean, I’m glad Massie has a cute high school crush and all, but to be honest? I’m kinda worried. If she spends all her time with guys in ninth, she’ll miss out on the best alpha year of her life! Which would be beyond depressing.’”
“Ayyyy-men!” Layne’s fingers flew over the keys.
“And then just sign it ‘XO, C,’ and send.” Claire breathed in Layne’s excitement like it was an aromatherapy candle. The letter was Pulitzer worthy. Maybe, just maybe, they’d be able to pull this off after all. And once again, Claire would be responsible for keeping together the Pretty Committee and their crushes.
A nagging thought buzzed at the back of her mind, cutting through her tingles of triumph. Why was it always up to her to keep her friends from falling apart? If she wasn’t saving them from the perils of upgrading, she was reminding them how much they loved one another. She was like a matchmaker for alphas, only without her own show on Bravo.
“Okay, it’s sent.” Layne nodded. “And now for my reply,” she murmured, her face glowing blue in the light of the laptop screen. She opened up a new e-mail and started typing. “‘C,’” she read aloud, “‘For reals. But I’m sure M knows the deal. Ninth-grade crushes = social death. XO, L.’”
Claire burst out laughing. “Perfect.”
“Almost done…” The keys clicked beneath Layne’s fingers. Suddenly, she stopped and glanced up at Claire with a look of mock horror on her face.
“Ohhhhhhh nooooooo!” With dramatic flair, Layne pressed the back of her hand against her forehead and collapsed against the beige metal wall behind her for support. “I accidentally sent the e-mail to Massie instead of you!” she wailed.
“Ohhhh nooooooooo!” Claire giggle-echoed, lifting her palm to high-five her friend. This plan was a little bit genius and a whole lot foolproof. Massie would read the e-mail, realize what a terrible idea the crush upgrade was, and somehow find a way to convince the Pretty Committee that ninth-grade crushes were more out than Lance Bass.
“Ecc-hem!” A cough sounded in the next stall.
Claire’s head snapped toward Layne in disbelief. Layne stared back, her fuchsia-lined eyes wide. But before Claire could say a word, the toilet flushed, and the stall door next to theirs flew open.
“Gig’s up, Kuh-laire.” Massie’s voice sounded on the other side of the door.
“Massie?” Claire slapped her hand against her forehead. Strike two. “What are you doing in the basement bathroom?” Then she turned to Agent L. “Layne!” she hissed. “You didn’t check the stalls first?”
Layne pushed herself to her feet, looking sheepish. Sorry, she mouthed.
Claire reached for her tote and dragged herself out of the stall.
“Nice try, girls.” Massie was standing in front of the sinks, her iPhone in her jeans pocket.
“Huh?” Claire crinkled her nose in a last-ditch attempt, her desperation skyrocketing. “I don’t know what you’re—”
Yap! Yap! Ya—
“Is that the SnoopDawg Web site?” Claire demanded.
Massie jammed her thumb into her iPhone to silence the barking, but it was too late. Her face went paler than her cream cowl-neck sweater.
The girls stared at one another, their blown cover stories hanging heavy around them in the Lysoled air. After a few beats of silence, Layne snorted. Massie side-glanced at Claire, her glossy lips twitching. Finally, they all cracked up. But even though she was laughing, part of Claire wanted to go back in the stall, lock the door, and cry.