Crouched behind the worn, mustard-colored couch in the living room, Claire gripped her cordless flat iron and giggle-bounced in perfect sync with her backup singers, waiting for her cue.
“Uh-FIVE, SIX, SEVEN, EIGHT!” Layne screeched into the mic she’d rigged to the guesthouse surround-sound system. She was standing in the middle of the living room, directly in front of the shadeless brass floor lamp by the window that served as her spotlight.
Propped up on a blue side table in the corner, Claire’s old portable karaoke machine came to life, blasting the opening beats of the intro to Little Shop of Horrors from the living room to the bedrooms upstairs.
Syd nudged Claire with a curling iron, and the three girls shot up, each holding their hair appliances–slash-mics to their lips.
“Little Shop! Little Shop of Horrors!” Claire bellowed into her flat iron. “Little Shop! Little Shop of Terrors!”
Shimmying around the couch, Claire, Syd, and Cara joined Layne at the karaoke mic, singing at the top of their lungs to their reflections in the living room window. Claire closed her eyes and threw her hands over her head, feeling the kind of freedom that comes with not worrying about pit stains, being on key, or what anybody else is thinking. She hadn’t felt this free since… well, since moving to Westchester.
Claire looped her arms around the ninth-grade girls, pulling them in for the final verse. She didn’t even bother fiddling with her bangs, which were sweat-laminated to her forehead. With every note, she released some of the tension that had been building up inside of her ever since Massie had first mentioned the upgrade. Slowly, her shoulders were starting to inch from her CZ-adorned ears back to their normal position.
“Little Shop! Little Shop of Horrors! No, no, no, no, no, noooooooooooo!” Claire belted.
“CLLLLLLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIRRRRRRRRE!” From upstairs, Todd’s whine rose over the sound of the music. “TURN THAT OFF OR I’M TELLLLLLIIINNNG!”
Claire side-glanced at the other girls, and they all dissolved in laughter. Layne gyrated over to the karaoke machine, cranking up the volume even louder.
“WE CAN’T HEEAAAR YOOOUUU!” she screamed, wiggling her hips.
As Cara threw her head back and harmonized into a travel hair dryer, her loose blond waves swinging around her shoulders, Claire caught Layne’s eye.
Layne winked, saying, Do you love ’em, or do you love ’em?
Claire nodded. Spending time with ninth-grade girls was pretty much the same as hanging with girls in eighth, only with more cleavage and public lip-kissing. And that was kind of… okay.
As the song wound down, Layne programmed an ensemble number from Shrek: The Musical into the machine. Whipping a cashmere throw from the wing chair in the corner, she threw it around her shoulders and free-danced around the living room like she was possessed.
Claire’s stomach ached from laughing so hard. It was a signal to her brain that she’d finally found her niche. Friends who were her perfect match, even if they were older. Ashton and Demi had had it right all along: Age really was nothing but a num—
“AHHHHHHHHHHHH!” Claire screamed, suddenly catching a glimpse of a figure dressed in all white, hovering outside the frosty living room window. Her heart leapt into her throat, and she staggered backwards, slamming into an oak console table.
Massie.
“AHHHHHHHHHHHH!” echo-sang Layne, Syd, and Cara, thinking Claire was ad-libbing. They threw their arms open wide and planted their bare feet hip’s width apart.
Squinting from underneath her dampened bangs, Claire watched her friend. Massie seemed to be staring right through her, like she was made of clear lip gloss. A sharp gust of wind swished through the trees in the yard, making Massie’s cream sweater dress float around her knees. Suddenly, a single, shining tear tumbled down Massie’s cheek. And then another. And another.
Claire’s throat tightened as she watched Massie crying, softly at first, then harder. Soon, her thin shoulders had started to shake. Seeing Massie Block cry reminded Claire of the time she’d seen her dad cry at Grampa Lyons’s funeral. Before that moment, Claire hadn’t actually believed that her dad really ever cried, except that one time during the Super Bowl. Which wasn’t really the same, since those were tears of joy.
“Has anybody seen my shoes?” she yelled over the music, dropping to her knees on the carpet. But the girls didn’t hear her. Claire swallowed the guilt boulder lodged in her throat. She’d only meant to branch out a little with new friends, not hurt the old ones. She was allowed to do that, wasn’t she? And it wasn’t like she could have invited Massie anyway, since she hadn’t responded to any of Claire’s texts.
Finally, she found her shoes wedged underneath the couch. She shoved her feet into them, the tongues bunched around her toes, and ran to the window.
Massie was still standing where Claire had left her. Only up close, she didn’t actually look sad. Her face was turning a deeper and deeper shade of scarlet, and her hands were clenched at her sides. Her tear-filled amber eyes seared straight into Claire’s.
Claire took a step back, almost tripping over her laces. Massie wasn’t devastated. She was fuming.
On the other side of the glass, Massie’s iridescent-glossed lips were moving slowly. Sending Claire a message. Claire leaned toward the window, glad there was a pane of glass between them and wondering if it was heel-proof. She stage-shrugged at Massie, to show she didn’t understand.
In one smooth movement, Massie reached into her bag and produced her iPhone. Without taking her burning gaze from Claire for a second, her fingers flew over the keys. Claire’s Motorola buzzed in her pocket.
Massie: This. Is. War.
Claire balked at the screen, feeling like someone had just taken a blowtorch to her insides. A declaration of war? For trying to find friends that made her happy?
Tearing her eyes from Massie’s, Claire whipped around and reached for her flat iron. Her heart was thumping almost as loud as the beat of the music. But it wasn’t from fear, like it usually was with Massie. It was from anger.
Suddenly, the spotlight in the living room seemed brighter, the music louder. Layne’s choreographed flailing seemed ten times more carefree, and Syd and Cara’s smiles seemed even more genuine.
No way was Claire going to let Massie tell her who she could and couldn’t be friends with. No way was she going to suffer just to make Massie feel more in charge. More alpha. Not anymore.
The girls giggle-waved Claire over to the mic. “It’s the FINALE!”
Quickly, Claire composed a text of her own.
Claire: Bring. It. On.
Without even looking out the window, Claire powered off her cell and joined the group. Wedging between her two new friends, Claire felt safe. Protected. And ready to pull the curtain on Massie Block’s reign of terror.
She took a deep breath and prepared to belt out the last note of the song. But for Claire, this didn’t feel like a finale. It felt like her grand debut.