Massie Block was a changed alpha. And not just on the inside. Her creamy-white cashmere Raw 7 sweater dress, delicate platinum accessories, and crackled metallic flats announced to the Block Estate and surrounding areas that she was cleansed. Purified of all her insecurities, fears, and doubts. Except the ones about lip-kissing ninth-grade boys. But she’d deal with those later. For now, she had more important Pretty Committee business to attend to. First stop: the guesthouse.
She pumped the shiny handle on the sunroom door once, and a fresh flood of chilly afternoon air surrounded her. The late afternoon light seemed almost transparent, highlighting her bronze-free cheekbones, iced pout, and shimmer-accented browbone like she was a rare jewel on display at the Smithsonian.
Stepping outside, Massie closed the sunroom door behind her and glided over the freshly trimmed lawn, not worrying the slightest bit about grass stains ruining her all-white ensemble.
Even her white D&G quilted leather Miss Glamorous bag felt lighter than usual. Inside, she’d packed only the necessities: her subliminal confidence CD (kindling for the friendship bonfire she’d scheduled later that night, to renew her bonds with the PC and start fresh with her crush), a new tube of Glossip Girl First Snow gloss, and a small bag of gummies as a peace offering for Claire.
I wanted you to upgrade ’cause I thought if you didn’t, it meant we weren’t friends anymore. But now I get why you don’t want to. For one thing, Cam’s pretty cute. More in a cheek-pinching kind of way than a lip-kissing kind of way, but still. Plus, high school boys can be kind of scary. Trust me, I get that now.
Massie paused mid-apology, practicing giving Claire time to respond. Then she continued.
Ehmagawd, forgiven! I missed you too! No more fighting or lies. Pinky-swear.
The lights were on in the living room, making the guesthouse glow. Inside, Claire was probably practicing her own apology in the mirror over the wing chair in the corner. Massie’s steps quickened, bringing her closer and closer to a reconciliation with her friend.
The grass seemed to be shaking with anticipation the closer Massie got to the guesthouse. Confused, she paused in her tracks. Tiny vibrations were shooting from the ground and through her flats, traveling to her heart. The delicate platinum hoops in her ears trembled, like a minor earthquake had struck the backyard of the Block Estate. And the faint sounds of deaf cats dying a slow, tortured death leaked from the guesthouse walls.
“Ehmagawd, Kuh-laire!” Massie plugged her ears and squinted toward the living room window. Then she picked up her pace, her heart fearing the worst. Nothing good could possibly be happening anywhere near that agonizing—
Finally getting a closer glimpse into the living room windows, Massie froze like she was a perfectly styled ice sculpture someone had accidentally left outside. She’d feared the worst, but nothing could have prepared her for what was happening inside. She darted the final few feet to the window and crouched in the bushes, temporarily forgetting her no-more-stalking rule.
If she hadn’t just finished a fresh mascara application—waterproof this time—she would have rubbed her eyes, to make sure she wasn’t seeing things.
On the other side of the chilled glass panes, Claire, Layne, and the ninth-grade girls from last night’s party were in the middle of the living room, each gripping a “microphone” with one hand and flailing wildly with the other. All the furniture had been moved to the edges of the room, and the karaoke machine by the fireplace flickered with lyrics to a song Massie couldn’t make out.
It had to be a show tune, though, because normal music didn’t call for this kind of epileptic fit. Leave it to Claire to be a ninth-grade LBR magnet. Massie leaned closer, pressing her palms against the chilled glass. Giggling and dancing to the music, Claire’s cheeks were flushed. And not in a cheek stain–induced way, but in a real way. Damp bangs matted to her forehead, she looked… happy. Like Massie and the Pretty Committee were the last things on her mind.
Massie’s insides hardened. So Claire hadn’t been apologizing to her mirror. Instead, she’d been cheating on her with Layne and two ninth-grade theater geeks.
Throat tightening, Massie’s palms slid down the dewy panes, leaving wet streaks that looked like tears. The heaviness she’d felt just hours ago came barreling back, seeming to bolt her to the ground outside the guesthouse. How could Claire have recast her this quickly? It was as if Massie had died, and Claire hadn’t even waited until after the funeral to find new friends.
Hot tears formed at the corners of Massie’s amber eyes. So this was what she meant to Claire. Nuh-thing. She’d been easier to replace than an old blush brush. And not the Shu Uemura kind, with the softer-than-soft mink bristles. The synthetic kind, from Duane Reade. The kind Claire would buy.
Finally, she couldn’t hold the tears back anymore, and they slid down her cheeks like tiny rivers of betrayal. Watching Claire and her upgrades laughing and dancing together was torture, like getting a full-body wax in slow motion. But somehow, Massie couldn’t bring herself to look away.