Normally, the Zen-inspired dry section of the Blocks’ spa was a stressed alpha’s haven. The polished leather couches were inviting, the limestone fountain soothing, and the crackling fireplace comforting. If the feng shui space could talk, it would have whispered, Relaaaaaaahhhhhhxx to every visitor who stepped through the sliding wooden door.
Except for today. Today, the spa screamed, Ehmagawd-ninth-gradeboysaregoingtobehereinTWODAYSandI’mnawteven-CLOSEtobeingready!
With countless swimsuit rejects slung over the furniture, Glamour “Don’t” lists papering the walls, and three Sephora bags full of waterproof makeup testers crowding the marble-topped coffee table, the spa was the opposite of relaxing. Not even Massie’s Sounds of the Rainforest CD or Aquiesse Green Tea Pear candles were helping.
Massie stretched out in corpse pose, her tensed shoulders craving a deep-tissue massage. She and the Pretty Committee had scheduled a 9:00 p.m. conference call. She dialed Dylan on her iPhone and pressed SPEAKER.
“Time to get started,” she barked, jamming a fresh pair of cucumber slices over her eyes. “Everybody there?”
“Present,” Dylan mumbled over a mouthful of something crunchy.
“Tankinis are so sixth, right?” Alicia said.
“Ninety-niiiiiine, one-hundy!” Kristen groaned. “These boys better like six-packs.”
Then the line went silent.
“Kuh-laire?” Massie prompted, rubbing her bare feet over the zebra-print ottoman. The prickly calf hair tickled her soles, making her giggle.
“Study date with Cam,” Kristen said uncertainly. “She just IM’d.”
“Shocker.” These days, if it didn’t involve Cam, Layne, eighth, or gummies, Claire wasn’t interested. “First things first. Research.”
Massie sat upright and reached for the lavender legal pad on the coffee table. The lukewarm cucumber slices plopped to the floor, and she nudged them under the couch with her big toe. She flipped to the survey she’d created, which she’d told her friends to send out to at least three older guys.
Please complete this top secret, ah-nonymous government survey and text back to sender NO LATER than Friday at 12 p.m. Participants must be male and graduated from eighth. Anyone who does not meet these qualifications will be disqualified ay-sap. (This means Cam, Kuh-laire.)
1. If I were attending a hot spa party hosted by even hotter alphas, I’d…
a) Snack on:_________________________
(insert fave snacks here)
b) Listen to: _________________________
(insert fave tunes/bands here)
c) Talk about: _________________________
(insert fave conversation topics here)
d) Play: _________________________
(insert fave party/video games here)
2. Cover-ups: Marisa Miller–hawt or Ugly Betty–nawt?
3. One pieces: Sexy mama or grandmama?
4. Spa treatments for boys are…
a) A must. How do you think Clooney’s T-zone stays so taut?
b) Not a deal breaker. But puh-lease, no girly-scented moisturizers.
c) A reason to RVSP NO WAY.
“So tell me your results,” Massie said. Hopefully, the other girls’ data would be enough to guide the party planning, since she hadn’t had time to find any acceptable older boys to survey. It wasn’t that she didn’t know any. It was just that the ones she did know were Landon Crane and Chris Abeley. And they already had her number in their phones, so what would be anonymous about that? “Results? D, you first.”
The line went quiet again. The only sound in the spa was the croak of a rainforest tree frog and Dylan’s chewing.
“I’m waaaaaiting.” Massie dunked her hand in the nearest Sephora bag, retrieving a sample tube of Urban Decay Big Fatty waterproof mascara. Should she go for thickening or lengthening? Blue-black or kohl? Waterproof or resistant? The number of decisions she had to make before Friday was starting to feel overwhelming.
“Um… mymomtookawaymyphoneforgoingovermytext-limit.”
“You got your cell taken away.” Massie pinched a shimmering emerald Shoshanna bikini top between her toes and flung it across the spa. It sailed over the coffee table and landed on one of the leather club chairs. “The cell you’re on right now.”
“What?” The crinkle of fabric against the receiver crackled in Massie’s ears. If she had to guess, it was a raincoat, probably last year’s Burberry. “You’re breaking up!” Dylan yelled.
Massie selected a tube of indigo Nars and coated each of her lashes twice. “Kristen?”
Kristen swallowed. “Sorry. My mom made me swear not to text till after I finished my homework, and—”
“Am I the only one taking this upgrade seriously?” Massie snapped, layering on another coat of mascara. Her body was starting to feel as heavy as her lashes. How was she supposed to pull off a spa party worthy of high school crushes with no menu, playlist, party games, or conversation topics? “May I remind you that I already have an older crush?”
“I’ve got a survey,” Alicia piped up.
Given. Massie should have known Alicia would come through for her when it came to all things crush-related. She scooted across the floor and leaned against the foot of the leather sofa, allowing herself to relax a little. “Let’s hear it.”
Alicia cleared her throat, the way she always did before she used her best professional TV journalist voice. “If I were attending a hot spa party hosted by even hotter alphas,” she crooned, “I would—”
“Snack on?” Massie prompted eagerly.
“Beluga caviar and a glass of Côte du Rhône.”
Huh?
“Listen to?”
“Mozart’s Concerto No. 13 in F Major.”
The back of Massie’s neck was starting to dampen. Were ninth-grade boys notorious for having horrible taste in music? Was she supposed to know that already? Why weren’t Dylan and Kristen saying anything?
“Talk about?” she said, hoping her voice wasn’t trembling.
“Current trends in international law.”
Massie dropped the tube of mascara. “LEESH!” she screeched. “You did nawt survey your dad!”
“He’s an older man!” Alicia giggled.
“He’s FIFTY!” Massie groaned.
Dylan and Kristen cackled into the receiver.
“You know what?” Massie decided, stomping her bare foot on the carpet. “Never mind. I’ll plan it all myself.”
“Mass!” Alicia protested. “I was only joking!”
“Exactly,” Massie snapped. “And this upgrade is no joking matter. Do you want to be stuck with immature crushes for the rest of your lives?”
Silence.
“I didn’t think so. Just be here Friday at six. And leave Mozart at home.” Before her friends could answer, Massie tapped her iPhone screen, ending the call. Then she curled up into a ball at the foot of the sofa, wondering if she could fake bad sushi for the rest of the week.