“Massie?” Kendra Block’s voice came over the intercom next to Massie’s bedroom door, interrupting the low, soothing sounds of her confidence CD on loop. “Layne’s here to see you.”
“Can you hear me now?” Layne’s breathy cackle sounded like she was just millimeters from Massie’s ear.
“Send her up.” Jamming her thumb into the PAUSE button, Massie leapt off her bed and hurried to the door, feeling like it was Christmas morning and Layne was Santa Claus. Because Layne wasn’t just delivering bootie cams. She was delivering a way for Massie to spy on every ankle at Pup-A-Palooza, guaranteeing an Ankle-Bird capture by the end of the night. Layne was delivering hope for Massie’s future with Landon. And that was priceless.
When Massie opened the door, Layne bulldozed past, wearing a faded black trench coat, rainbow-striped tights, and glitter-flecked jellies. In the middle of Massie’s pristine all-white bedroom, she looked like a deranged mental patient in the isolation ward.
“Special deliiiiiiiiiivery,” Layne announced, a wide, orange gloss–stained grin lighting up her face.
At the sound of voices, Bean padded out from Massie’s closet, took one look at Layne, and yelp-scampered back into hiding.
“You’re late.” Massie eyed the alarm clock on her bedside table.
“I was busy adding a little extra flair.” Layne made a weird gurgling sound, almost like she was swallowing a laugh. “Free of charge. But if you don’t want ’em…”
“I didn’t say that.” Massie said, as casually as possible. “So let’s see.” She crossed her arms over her black Design History sweater tunic to keep herself from bouncing with curiosity.
“In a minute.” Layne slid up to the Massie and Bean mannequins in the middle of the bedroom. Massie’s mannequin was wearing a satin olive-green cocktail dress accessorized with strappy metallic Manolos and tasteful Kenneth Jay Lane chandelier earrings. Bean’s mannequin was naked, since Massie was holding out on the puppy.
“Isn’t this kinda dressy for a dog park?” Layne reached for the mannequin.
“Don’t!” Massie yelped, squinting at Layne’s fingers for any hint of barbecue dust or crystallized sugar. Who knew where those fingers had been?
“I’m just wearing jeans,” Layne announced, like Massie had asked.
You would, Massie thought.
“What’s Claire wearing?” Massie pretended to examine the hem of the dress for rogue threads. She’d checked Claire’s Twitter status four times since noon, but Claire hadn’t mentioned her plans for the night. Still, it just didn’t seem possible that Claire would actually choose to spend her Saturday night without the Pretty Committee.
“Dunno.” Layne shifted in her jellies. “We haven’t talked about it.” She was obviously lying.
Massie glared at her. “Just show me the booties, Layne.”
“Chill, Phil.” Layne undid the sash on her trench and snapped it open. She held the bootie box under Massie’s nose, lifting the top slowly.
Massie grabbed the box peered inside. “Ehmagawd.”
“I KNOW!” Layne lifted the fashion atrocities from their box. She had hot-glued every neon dyed feather, cheap plastic jewel, and glitter bead in the tristate area to the chocolate suede booties. “They’re groundbreaking. You can’t even see the cameras.”
Massie’s mouth went completely dry. That kind of footwear did nawt belong in her bedroom. It belonged in the wardrobe department of Fashion Disasters on Ice.
“Layne!” she screeched, finally finding her voice. “No self-respecting puppy would ever wear these!”
Layne stage-pouted, her lips twitching slightly. “Sorry. No refunds.”
Before Massie could protest, Layne flounced toward the door. “Later, gator,” she called over her shoulder, slamming the door behind her.
Dumbfounded, Massie stared at the closed door. She should have known not to trust Layne.
Sensing that it was safe to reemerge, Bean appeared in the closet doorway, blinking curiously at the brown box in Massie’s hand.
Massie swallowed, pasting a giant faux grin on her face.
“Heyyyy, Bean,” she cooed. “Ready to try on your new booties?” She knelt to the powder-scented carpet and inched slowly across it toward her puppy, not even caring that she was wearing out the knees of her brand-new gray skinny Citizens.
When Bean caught sight of the booties, a low growl escaped her throat. She backed up a few steps, a wary glint in her wet eyes.
“Puh-lease, Bean,” Massie begged. “Wear them for me.”
But the determination in Bean’s glowing black eyes said that not even the Dog Whisperer could make her change her mind.
Somewhere deep, deep, deep down, Massie was proud of her puppy for having such discriminating taste. Still, she wished Bean would take a fashion hit for the team, just this once. Massie’s entire plan to find Ankle-Bird at Pup-A-Palooza depended on it. Since the event was ahbviously pet-friendly, no one would think twice about Bean being there. And the “bootie cams,” as Layne referred to them, would be at the perfect height to record the guests’ ankles. Plus, Layne and that LBR Candy Corn had figured out a way to hack into the SnoopDawg Web site, so Massie could monitor the bootie cam feed from her iPhone. And once she caught sight of that hummingbird tattoo, all bets were off.
The plan was nothing short of genius. But it, and the future of Massie and Landon’s relationship, depended entirely on Bean, who had just scampered into Massie’s closet.
“Fine,” Massie called after her. “I guess I’ll just have to sit at home like an LBR and wait for Landon and Ankle-Bird’s wedding announcement in the Sunday Times.”
Bean nudge-slammed the closet door behind her.
Massie did a face-plant into her carpet, moaning into the thick white fibers. Parenting was beyond stressful. No wonder Jon and Kate had cracked under the pressure.
She allowed herself a full five seconds of self-pity before righting herself again. There just had to be another way to make this work.
Bean barked indignantly from behind the closet door.
Bark! Massie giggled at her flash of inspiration. If she could get Bark Obama to wear the booties and go to the auction, she could still ankle-spy without Bean having to humiliate herself in public. She pulled her iPhone from her back pocket and leaned against the foot of her bed, feeling renewed and back on track.
Massie: Want me 2 pick up Bark? I can watch him if u have 2 go to dinner.
Landon: Not sure Bark = healed enough to move…
Massie had to take a gloss break to shake that one off. Landon obviously hadn’t been worried about Ankle-Bird moving Bark. So what was the problem? After she’d applied a triple coat of Glossip Girl Thin Mintspiration gloss, she returned to her phone.
Massie: I’ll take xtra good care of him. Pinky-swear. B there in 10.
She powered off her iPhone before Landon could protest.
“Oops!” she giggle-pouted, tossing her cell onto the bed. “Battery died.”
Operation: Ankle-Bird or Bust was back on track. And tonight, coming up empty-ankled was nawt an option.
| CURRENT STATE OF THE UNION | |
|---|---|
| IN | OUT |
| Bootie cams | Cam Fisher |
| Ankle-Birds | Ankle boots |
| Spying-eye dogs | Seeing-eye dogs |