THE HEMLINE! and SMUDGED LINER ADDS 6 MONTHS TO YOUNG-LOOKING EYES! scribbled in the margins. “I’ve been thinking about it, and I narrowed my look down to Leighton Meester, Camilla Belle,
or Natalie Portman.”
Claire’s denim-covered knees bounced uncontrollably underneath Table 18, making the tall stacks of Seventeen, Vogue (regular and España), and In Style on its surface quiver like a minor earthquake had struck the New Green Café.
“Claire.” Massie slapped her palm on the stack in front of her, pinning a scantily clad Sienna Miller to the bamboo table. “Are you Julianne Hough?”
“No.” Claire reached for her gummy stash to calm her nerves, but the sugar-smudged baggie in her lap was empty.
“Then quit shaking it.” The rest of the PC snorted at the pages of their style bibles while Massie swiped the latest issue of Vogue from Alicia’s pile. She flipped to the middle. “If I get Jakkob to do blunt bangs, do you think I’d look fifteen?” she mused into the glossy pages. “Or, like, eleven?”
“Could go either way,” Alicia mused, side-glancing at Claire’s bangs.
Dylan nodded, taking a long swig of her Blue Bubble Gum Jones Soda. “Risky.”
“Ah-greed,” Massie decided, tossing her side bangs past her decidedly bronzed cheekbones.
Claire’s eyes traveled nervously back and forth between the mini vegetable gardens on her left and the Borba-stocked stagecoach on her right. Olivia Ryan was giggling with Kori, Strawberry, and Meena at Table 4. Seventh-graders jostled between the bamboo tables, carrying trays of teriyaki tofu, steaming bowls of black bean chili loaded with soy cheese, and plates of crispy veggie samosas. But instead of soothing her, the warm, spicy aromas that filled the café were starting to make her sweat. Where was Layne? According to the clock over the frosted glass doors, she was a full four minutes late. Which meant that Operation Save the Males was not off to a good start.
After yesterday’s trip to ADD, Claire had to accept the truth: Unless she took action immediately, the PC would be spa-partying with a bunch of older guys by Friday. Hot tubs, dramatic breakups, strange new crushes: It would be like the Blocks’ spa had been transformed into the set of The Real World: Westchester. Starting in…
Claire checked the clock again.
“Three days and six hours.” Massie slapped her magazine closed, prompting the rest of the girls to do the same. “That’s how long we have till Landon and your new crushes show up at the spa.”
Alicia re-glossed.
Dylan sucked in her cheeks.
Kristen stretched her triceps.
And Claire gulped.
“Which means we’re running out of time to update our looks so they’re ninth-worthy.” Massie yanked at the hem of her eggplant-colored Design History sweater. “WHICH means all changes have to be approved by the end of lunch.”
“Lunch?” Dylan moaned, scavenging the table for food. But every square inch was covered with style mags.
“It’s a figure of speech.” Massie said.
“Oh.” Dylan leaned back in her chair, looking weak.
“Now remember,” Massie instructed the PC. “Nothing drastic. We’re just going for a look that’s us, only better. And a year older.” She paused, glancing at Claire’s black Gap turtleneck. “Or three. Whatevs.”
Claire rolled her eyes, sneaking another look at the clock. Now Layne was seven minutes late.
“I’ll start.” Alicia lifted an issue of People from her pile, opening to a dog-eared page that featured a spread on the cast of Gossip Girl. “I’m going Jessica Szohr,” she announced with a quick hair toss. “Shiny hair, boho fashion with a splash of Upper East Side.” She paused, as if waiting for applause.
“Isn’t that kind of your look already?” Kristen looked up from Sports Illustrated.
“Given,” Alicia grinned. “Only this’ll be sexier.”
“What makes it sexier?” Dylan drained the last of her soda.
“A bikini.”
“Now me,” Kristen piped up, tightening her ponytail like she meant business. She had to prop herself up on her knees to see over the listing pile of Sports Illustrated and Harper’s Bazaar in front of her. “It’s all about Hayden.” She held up a ripped Heroes promo ad. “I’m going with a laid-back surfer suit, natural makeup, and a center part.” She yanked the elastic out of her hair, releasing her straight blond tresses to her shoulders. “It makes you look way more mature.”
The girls’ hands flew self-consciously to their side-parts.
Massie nodded. “Dylan?”
Dylan lurched forward in her seat. “Ummm… I think I’m doing Nicole Kidman?” She pawed frantically through the crinkled pages in front of her. “Her hair’s looking really red these days.”
The Pretty Committee all stared at her.
“The point is to look like we’re nawt middle school,” Massie elbow-nudged her. “Or middle age.”
Dylan rolled her eyes. “Fine. Taylor Swift?”
“Good.” Massie straightened up, suddenly looking serious. “Now me.” She released her iPhone to the table and nodded at the
neat row of pages arranged in front of her. Sunlight from the large glass windows in the New Green Café illuminated reflective
shots of celebrities from Jessica (Biel, not Simpson) to Angelina. Different body parts, accessories, and wardrobe pieces
had been circled with Massie’s Smashbox Palm Beach lip liner, with notations like THE HEMLINE! and SMUDGED LINER ADDS 6 MONTHS TO YOUNG-LOOKING EYES! scribbled in the margins. “I’ve been thinking about it, and I narrowed my look down to Leighton Meester, Camilla Belle,
or Natalie Portman.”
“So?” Dylan bounced in her seat. “What’s it gonna be?”
The Pretty Committee leaned forwardly expectantly.
“None of the above,” Massie said, swiping the pages from the space in front of her like her bangle-covered forearm was a giant, Chanel-spritzed windshield wiper. “The look I’m going for is… Massie Block,” she finished coyly. “If it’s working, why change it?”
Just as Claire was about to roll her eyes, she caught a glimpse of Layne charging through the glass doors on the other side of the café. She was dressed in a black terry cloth track suit, a white puffy coat, and two army green scarves, and her face was bright red. Stage-winking at Claire, she held up an Evian bottle and doused herself with “sweat.”
Claire bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing.
“Comin’ through!” Layne bellowed, making a beeline for the Pretty Committee like she was a marathon runner and Table 18 was the finish line.
A pained looked settled over Massie’s tanned face.
“You. Are. Not. Gonna. Buh. Lieve. This,” Layne wheezed, doubling over the table.
Massie wrinkled her nose as two drops of Evian sweat dripped from Layne’s nose onto Charlize Theron’s thigh. “Layne, are you a decimal system?” she asked, scooting her chair a few inches to the left.
“No.” Layne coughed, planting her wet forehead on a stack of Us Weeklys.
“Then why are you so Dewey?” Massie cracked.
“Point!” Alicia flip-tousled her hair for volume.
Layne whipped a thick black notebook from underneath her puffy coat and tossed it in the center of the table. It was covered in Fall Out Boy and Metro Station bumper stickers.
Claire crossed her fingers under the table as Massie eyed the worn notebook, clearly trying not to look curious.
“It’s my brother’s journal,” Layne heaved, looking like she might give in to heatstroke at any second.
“Chris Abeley keeps a journal?” Massie looked impressed.
Layne bobbed her head up and down. “Anyhoo, I stole it this morning. And it’s all about how dirty high school boys are and how they like to use middle school girls. Especially private school ones.”
Dylan’s jaw dropped. “For what?”
“You know,” Layne said vaguely. “Dirty… stuff.”
“Ewwwwwww.” Alicia looked half grossed out, half curious.
“Are you serious?” Kristen bit her lower lip.
Claire pinched her thigh to keep from laughing.
Layne nodded. “And I’m pretty sure somebody found out I took the journal, ’cause I was definitely being followed on the way here. But I had to tell you guys, ’cause I know you’ve been hanging out with Landon and stuff.” She glanced meaningfully at Massie.
“Landon’s nawt dirty,” Massie decided, although she looked uncertain. She reached into her hobo and pulled out a fresh tube of Glossip Girl, gripping it like it was a weapon.
“Oh yeah?” Layne challenged. “Then how come he gave Bean that charm collar with the camera in it?” She didn’t skip a beat. “Probably so he can spy on you when you’re changing and taking a shower and stuff.”
Alicia gasped, crossing her arms over her C-cups. “Opposite of possible.”
Layne shrugged. “Says you,” she said, wiping her dripping forehead.
An uneasy silence settled over Table 18, making the sounds around them of clinking silverware, lunchtime gossip, and scraping bamboo chairs seem ten times louder than before. Claire side-glanced at Massie, who was speed-glossing with the ferocity of a snapping shark.
Claire relaxed back in her chair. It looked like The Real World: Westchester was being canceled before it even premiered. She resisted the urge to leap across the table and bear-hug Layne. The girl deserved an Oscar.
Suddenly, Massie reached across the table, grabbing the journal.
“Hey!” Layne lunged for the journal, but Massie held it out of her reach. “That’s mi—I mean, my brother’s!”
Massie flipped the notebook open to the last page, her amber eyes sliding back and forth. Seconds later, she slammed the open journal onto the table.
“‘October 31st. Dear diary. Halloween is, like, the best holiday there is. Me and my ninth-grade friends can’t wait to do all kinds of dirty stuff to all the eighth-grade OCD girls in trampy costumes. Especially the ones dressed like vampires.’”
Alicia gasped.
“‘But not my awesome sister, Layne,’” Massie continued dryly.
Claire’s stomach heaved. Suddenly, the warm sunlight beaming through the skylights felt like one of those overhead interrogation lights on CSI. Tiny beads of sweat formed underneath her bangs, threatening to drip pale rivers down her lightly bronzed forehead.
“‘She’s totally un-slutty. Actually she’s, like, the coolest, most original—’” Massie stopped reading and held up the diary. The pages were covered in glitter-marker scrawl. “Could you be any more ahbv-ious?” She rolled her eyes. “This is a total fake.”
“Layyyyne!” Kristen swatted Layne’s puffy white arm with a rolled-up magazine.
Massie leveled her glowing amber eyes at Claire, like she could read her innermost thoughts. “Take your dia-ryuhhh and leave, Layne,” she snapped, without shifting her gaze from Claire.
“Fine.” Layne swiped the journal from Massie’s grip, shoved back her chair, and apology-shrugged at Claire before stalking off in her puffy coat.
Claire clenched her jaw. Strike one. And now that Massie’s scheme-dar was up, saving the males was going to take more than a doctored diary.
It was going to take a miracle.