LANDON CRANEWrapped in a fluffy white spa robe, Massie was trying hard to concentrate on the open algebra text propped against her knees. But not even the steaming mug of ginkgo biloba–infused pomegranate tea on her nightstand could help her focus on slope-intercept equations. Not when the sweet smell of Landon Crane’s cologne still lingered on her robe. Burying her nose in her shoulder, she took a long, deep breath. The soft cotton fibers smelled like true love. The rare kind that existed between Ellen and Portia. Penn and Blake. Kanye and himself.
And now, Landon and Massie.
Bean, who was napping on an overstuffed sham at the foot of the bed, let out a satisfied sigh, her tiny pink tongue hanging happily from the corner of her mouth. Massie wondered if Bean was dreaming about her crush too.
Focus. She turned her attention back to her workbook and read the first problem: Find the equation of the straight line that has slope m = 4 and passes through the point (-1, -6).
Out of the corner of her eye, Massie’s sleeping MacBook was blinking. Inviting her to check the SnoopDawg Web site for a quick Landon fix. A white, glowing beacon, the slowly pulsing battery light seemed to call out to her:
Lan-don. Lan-don. Lan-don.
At her feet, Bean’s rhythmic sighs seemed to whisper:
Cuh-rane. Cuh-rane. Cuh-rane.
And on the bedside table next to her, the second hand on her white, round-faced alarm clock ticked:
Snoop. Dawg. Snoop. Dawg. Snoop. Dawg.
It was official: The universe was dying for her to catch a glimpse of her crush. Probably because the universe understood the agony that came with a Landon-free weekend. It seemed like years since the spa party, since she’d watched his dimple deepen every time he laughed at her jokes. And even though he’d sent an adorable thank-you text quote-unquote “from Bark” on Saturday morning, going forty-eight hours without actually seeing him just didn’t feel right. It was like eating sushi without wasabi. Watching television without TiVo. Wearing Dolce without Gabbana.
Ugh! It was time for a distraction. She flipped her math notebook to a blank page and grabbed her favorite glittery purple gel pen.
TOP 10 REASONS I LANDON CRANE
10. The way his one dimple deepens when he laughs at all my comebacks. Bonus points for sense of humor.
9. He’s in ninth, which means he’s nine times more mature than ex-crushes Derrington and Dempsey.
8. His ah-mazing blue-green eyes, which change colors depending on what I’m wearing, so we’ll never clash.
7. He never wears shorts in the winter like Derrington. Or wiggles his butt when he’s happy. Or ditches me just because he has to quote-unquote “go to soccer practice” or he’ll quote-unquote “get kicked off the team.” Puh-lease.
6. He’s not into theater like Dempsey. Or Africa. Or volunteering.
5. Bark Jacobs, his mom’s posh pet spa–slash–boutique. Automatic wardrobe upgrade for Bean!!!
4. Bark Obama, his ah-dorable pug. Automatic crush for Bean!!!
3. His wardrobe is almost as good as mine. Plus, he looked amazing on the runway at my Ho Ho Homeless benefit, without stealing the focus. He’s ahbviously confident enough to let his crush shine.
2. The way his name sounds when I say it out loud: Landon Crane. Landon Crane. Landon Crane.
1. HE’S IN NINTH! Having an older crush = ALPHA & BEYOND.
Massie put down the pen and sighed. All those facts were true, but they didn’t tell her what Landon was doing right now. And the sleep light on her Mac was blinking almost hypnotically now.
Lan-don. Lan-don. Lan-don.
Finally, she couldn’t take the torture anymore. She reached for her laptop, flipped it open, and typed the SnoopDawg URL into the Web browser. Immediately, a puppy in a Sherlock Holmes outfit with a magnifying glass in its paw sniffed its way across the screen, signaling that the site was loading. The anticipation made her stomach churn like Jacuzzi jets on full blast, and she felt giddier than Claire did before a study date with Cam.
Thoughts of her crush were suddenly replaced with thoughts of Claire, who had ditched the sleepover to do Gawd knew what else. She’d claimed bad gummies, but that was obviously code for I’ve got something better to do. Only, what plans could Claire possibly have that didn’t involve the Pretty Committee? Not knowing exactly what Claire was up to made Massie feel more uneasy than the time at the mall she’d gotten distracted on her cell and accidentally wandered into the Dress Barn instead of BCBG. It was strange and unfamiliar territory, and no self-respecting alpha belonged there.
When the site loaded, a herd of cartoon puppies flounced into view, yap-prompting Massie to enter Bark’s ID number in the doghouse graphic in the middle of the screen. Bean’s eyelids fluttered open, and she scampered across the duvet, collapsing in an excited heap in the crook of Massie’s arm.
“It’s not that Claire doesn’t want to hang out with us anymore, Bean.” With her right hand, Massie typed in the ID number and password that had come with the charm, while she scratched behind Bean’s ears with her left. If she’d had an extra set of fingers, she would have crossed them that Landon hadn’t changed Bark’s password yet. “It’s just that she’s obviously not ready to upgrade. She’s kind of young for thirteen.”
Bean wrinkled her pug nose, obviously sympathetic.
“I know. It’s beyond frustrating,” Massie nodded, feeling slightly better that she wasn’t the only one to notice Claire’s immaturity. “But if we’re really her friends, we can’t control what she does. We just have to give her time to mature and realize that…”
She clicked ENTER and screwed her eyes shut. Slowly, she opened her left eye a crack.
The cartoon puppies trotted into the doghouse, and the screen went black. Then a grainy, dim image of a puppy paw invaded the screen.
She was in.
“Yesssss!” Massie leaned forward, squinting at the screen like Kendra squinted at Vogue when she misplaced her reading glasses. Fuzzy claws scraped and scratched at the camera lens, completely obstructing Massie’s view of anything Landon-related.
“Baaaaark,” Massie moaned. “Quit messing with your collar!”
Bean lapped at the screen, leaving behind a trail of drool.
“Ewwwww,” Massie giggle-chided her puppy as she swiped the drool away with the sleeve of her robe.
Seconds later, the camera dropped to the floor, leaving Massie with the same view of Landon’s room she’d have if she were in downward-facing dog position in yoga class. She leaned closer, the tip of her nose almost smudging the screen. Unexpectedly, she was drenched with a fresh wave of adoration for her crush. Landon’s room confirmed what she already knew: that he was meant for her. The John Mayer Trio poster over his bed proved he was poetic. The olive-green duvet and 600 thread-count (give or take) sheets said he was stylish enough to care about home decor, but the chocolate brown throw pillows strewn haphazardly across the bed said he didn’t care too much. And the Prada sneakers peeking out from under his bed screamed style, style, style.
Then the screen went black.
“Ehmagawd!” Massie gripped the sides of her laptop screen and shook it like an Etch A Sketch. A drool-slicked pink tongue and a mouthful of tartar-stained teeth appeared as the camera twisted and turned, making Massie feel queasy.
“Bark!” she screeched at the screen. Bean shot to the foot of the bed, chasing her tiny tail in frantic circles. “Do NAWT eat the SnoopDawg! Bad puppy! Bad!”
As if he could hear her desperation, Bark spat out the camera, and the drool-soaked lens bounced and rolled into the middle of Landon’s room. Massie fell back onto her pillows, exhausted. A chilly breeze from her cracked bedroom window wafted past her lavender curtains and over her bed. She burrowed deeper beneath her duvet, keeping her eyes on the screen.
A pair of Puma Black Labels and dark-wash denim–covered ankles crossed in front of the camera. Massie shot upright again.
“Landon!” she squealed, her heart revving beneath her ribs as the camera teased her with a tiny taste of her crush. From the expertly faded wash around the hem of his jeans, Massie could tell Landon was wearing Paper Denim & Cloth. It was the perfect choice for a crisp fall Sunday.
Then a second pair of ankles filled the screen next to Landon’s. Only these ankles weren’t boy ankles. They were bronzed, freshly shaved, and slender.
Massie swallowed hard. These were girl ankles. Maybe even alpha-girl ankles.
She reached for the oversize mug on her bedside table and took a gulp. The steaming tea scorched her tongue. But she barely even noticed the pain over the tidal wave of jealousy surging inside her.
Above the ankles, a pair of bleach-stained jeans were rolled up to mid-calf. Below the cuffs were low, gray suede booties. It was a riskier fashion choice than Fergie’s harem pants. But somehow, like the harem pants, it worked.
Leaning closer, Massie could make out the outline of a tiny pink hummingbird floating above a daisy, just above the ankle bone. Her jaw dropped. A tattoo? Did that make the mystery girl tacky, trashy, or edgy? Massie had no idea how to tell.
The gray booties stepped back from the camera. Bean growled as Bark leapt into Ankle-Bird’s arms. She was wearing a fitted boyfriend blazer over a white ribbed tank, with a tangle of long necklaces swinging from her neck. Her hands were freshly manicured, and she wore a sparkly vintage cocktail ring on her left middle finger.
“Show. Me. Your. Face!” Massie demanded, tiny beads of sweat forming along her temple. How could she tell whether the girl was a threat if she couldn’t rate her hair?
Bean bared her teeth at the screen as Bark licked Ankle-Bird’s hand happily. Massie wanted to soothe her puppy, but how could she when she needed soothing herself? She closed her eyes, desperate to regain control.
“You are strong. You are confident,” she said, repeating her confidence mantra. “And no one can take your strength away from you….”
Opening her eyes, she snuck another peek. Watching Landon with another girl was like watching The Biggest Loser: It hurt, but she just couldn’t help herself.
Next to Landon, Ankle-Bird produced an envelope from the green Diesel messenger bag slung across her torso. Then she handed it to him.
Was it a bill? A note? A love letter?
Landon tore it open, obviously curious. At the top of the page, an ink paw print was followed by a date and time that were too blurry to make out.
An invitation to a high school party.
Massie took a slow, deep breath that turned into a heaving, rasping choke.
Because instead of handing Ankle-Bird a note that said, I MASSIE BLOCK AND WOULD SOONER WEAR GENERIC-BRAND DENIM THAN ATTEND A PARTY WITHOUT HER, Landon folded it carefully and slipped it into his back pocket.
He may as well have stabbed Massie in the heart with Ankle-Bird’s gray suede heel.
Ankle-Bird lifted Bark from the floor and stood up. Landon followed, and soon, all Massie could see was his empty room. Suddenly, the John Mayer poster seemed cliché, the Pradas outdated. Massie hadn’t noticed before, but those were definitely two seasons old. At least.
Swiping her emergency sample vial of Chanel No. 19 from under her pillow, Massie speed-spritzed it and sucked in the flowery scent of jasmine and ylang-ylang, like the vial was an inhaler and she was a band geek in the throes of a debilitating asthma attack. The familiar scent slowed her breathing slightly.
Who was she kidding? Landon was still perfect for her, John Mayer and outdated Pradas aside.
Screwing her eyes shut, Massie tried her confidence mantra again.
“You are strong. You are confident. And no one can take your strength away from you.”
She wanted to believe it was true. But the words felt more fake than those ninth-grade girls’ spray tans on Halloween night. She slapped her laptop screen shut and curled up in a terry cloth–covered ball, waiting for the tears to come. But instead of sadness, all she felt was anger.
There was no way she was going to have another crush stolen from her. Not again. Landon Crane was the most alpha ninth-grade crush a girl could ask for, and Massie was his plus-one. Together, they scored a perfect ten. If Massie had to fight to keep Ankle-Bird out of the equation, she’d fight. But first, she had to find the tattooed crush-stealer.
Those gray suede booties could run, but they couldn’t hide.