Claire (10 page)
Minutes after the limo pulled away, SAS appeared on Claire’s doorstep. They were dressed in identical black-and-blue Orlando Magic tank tops and tight black short shorts.
“What are you wearing?” Claire giggle-asked as she pulled them inside and quickly shut the door.
“Our Halloween costumes.” Sarah slapped her hands on her hips like a cheerleader, but somehow the gesture looked more angry teacher. “You told us to come in disguise.”
“I meant be discreet so no one would notice you,” she teased, leading the way up the peach-carpeted stairs. “This is a little obvious, don’tcha think?”
“Don’t worry,” Sari began. “Denver dropped us three blocks away like you asked. You know, right on the corner of Brooks and Carriage Lane. Next to the big house with the sunflowers and that cute porch swing. You guys should get a porch swing. No, wait—you’re moving. Gosh! I can’t believe you’re moving. For good this time, too. It’s so—”
“Where’s Massie?” Amandy interrupted as they entered Claire’s room.
“Shopping. I told her I wanted to spend the day alone with you guys.”
“And she was fine with that?” Amandy said to the purple Scandia Down duvet on Claire’s bed.
“Yeah. Of course.” Claire sat on her own green comforter, which had been moved to the AeroBed blow-up mattress against the wall. The air mattress popped up on either side like a giant
U
when Sari sat beside her.
“What’s that?” Amandy pointed to the round purple velvet pillow that had been clamped to the side of the bed. It looked like a motorcycle’s sidecar.
“It’s for the dog.” Claire snickered, knowing how ridiculous it all must have seemed.
“Aren’t you allergic?” Sarah asked.
Claire’s belly filled with warmth. She remembered.
“I got a prescription.” Claire sniffled.
Amandy slid into the middle of Massie’s puffed-up bed, leaving a trail of blue wrist glitter in her wake. She rolled over to the side table and spritzed the lavender sheet spray, then put the satin sleep mask over her eyes and folded her hands over her chest like a corpse. “Ahhhhh.” She kicked her white flip-flops to the floor, introducing her bare feet to the joy of high thread-count sheets. “Is this silk?”
“I wanna feel.” Sarah dove on top of Amandy. Orange glitter fell off her wrists and mingled with the blue.
“Uh, Rihanna, anyone?” Claire hurried to her computer and cranked up “Don’t Stop the Music.” If that didn’t get them off Massie’s bed, nothing would.
Seconds later the girls were dancing and singing like a regular bunch of friends who weren’t days away from competing for the biggest prize of their lives.
Do you know what you started?
I just came here to party.
During a half spin, Claire caught Sari hovering over her desk, flipping through the Miss Kiss Judges’ binder. Her butt was shaking to the beat while her head hung over the pages.
“What are you doing?” Claire grabbed the binder. “That’s illegal.”
That same feeling of betrayal she’d had at Saks welled up inside her again—although this time it was mixed with the feeling of being taken advantage of.
“I bet Massie’s seen it,” Sari snapped, pulling at the elastic waistband of her skirt.
“She has
not
,” Claire insisted, finally telling the truth.
Amandy lowered the music. “And we’re supposed to believe that?”
“You can believe anything you want.” Claire tossed the binder in her underwear drawer and slammed it shut.
“I believe her,” Sarah said with a peculiar glare. A glare that seemed to remind Sari and Amandy of an earlier discussion. A glare that said,
Stay on track and don’t mess this up.
“Sorry.” Amandy stepped forward and placed a chilly hand on the shoulder of Claire’s red T-Odd Jobs tee. “We don’t want you to do anything that makes you uncomfortable, Claire-Bear.”
“She’s right,” Sari admitted, biting her thin lower lip. “You’re already doing so much to help us. And I bet you’ll do even more when it comes time to vote, so—”
Amandy elbowed her in the rib. Hard. Sari pretended it didn’t hurt.
Claire didn’t need a brain to know she was being used. The sudden I’ll-never-be-able-to-swallow-food-again feeling would have told her. But could she blame them? If she had never moved to Westchester and had never been asked to judge, would she be like SAS and do anything to win the Miss Kiss?
With that in mind, Claire highlight-deleted the last five minutes from her mind and decided to start fresh.
“Let’s get started,” she announced.
The girls lined up in front of her like obedient soldiers. But instead of screaming like a drill sergeant, Claire whispered like an informant.
“What I’m about to tell you is classified information. It may be painful at times, but it’s for your own good. So listen up.”
They nodded silently, communicating that they were ready to do whatever was necessary to beat the competition—and one another.
“Let’s start with the Beauty round,” Claire said. “The judges will be looking for fresh, girly, and fun. Sarah, that means the only thing in your hair should be deep conditioner. No good luck charms, no gum. If anything accidentally falls out, it could be devastating to your score.”
Sarah wrote everything on her hand.
“Oh, and make sure your wash that off,” Claire insisted.
“Do me!” Sari clapped.
Claire inhaled for strength. “I suggest buying some lip plumper. This
is
Miss Kiss and you
will
get judged on your cement lip print. If we only see lower lip and teeth, it will work against you. You have to get that top lip to show up. Got it?”
“I do! I’ll get that Lip Venom stuff and I’ll rub pepper on it, because I heard that swells lips. Maybe if I rub my bottom teeth against it for, like, the next few days it will get swollen and—”
“Sounds like a plan.” Claire smiled. “Now Amandy.” She sighed, knowing this wasn’t going to be easy.
“I know, I know, dry my hair.” Amandy twirled a damp dark strand around her pale finger. “Don’t worry, I’m getting a blowout Friday night and I’m going to sleep sitting up.”
“I’m hoping that will help us see your eyes more,” Claire eased into it. “They are so expressive and that goes a long way with judges.”
“Really?” Amandy’s face lit up.
“Yeah, I’m just trying to think of how we could get an even better look at them. Maybe some mascara, or shadow.” Claire tapped her index finger against her lip.
“How about an eyebrow wax!” Sarah blurted.
Sari burst out laughing.
“What’s wrong with my eyebrows?” Amandy petted them like lost kittens.
“Nothing if your name’s Bert and you live on Sesame Street,” Sarah joked.
“My whole family has these brows,” Amandy whined.
“Well, my whole family has
this
.” Sarah pointed to the mall bump on the bridge of her nose. “But I’m still getting rid of it the day I turn twenty-one.”
Amandy glared at Claire with moist eyes, silently asking if this was valid. With compassion and kindness, Claire slowly nodded. “The salon has an aesthetician. Make an appointment when you get the blowout. You won’t regret it.”
“Fine.” Amandy leaned her head forward so that her hair fell over her face.
“I know how you feel.” Claire reached for her friend’s hand. “Believe me.”
Amandy pulled away and folded her hairy arms across her chest. Claire decided to hold back on the arm wax suggestion for now. Maybe later in the week she’d suggest a cute gown with long sleeves.
For the next hour Claire tried to teach Sari how to get to the point when answering the Speed round questions by pinching her. With every passing second she’d tighten her grip, forcing Sari to answer quickly. After several tries and many tiny bruises on the back of her arm, she was able to sum up her biggest fear in three words: “My mother’s thighs.”
The Interpretative Dance round started smoothly. Amandy did a great job of showing the effects of global warming by prancing gaily like a deer in love. Then, as her medley of classical songs took a dark and stormy turn, she began stomping like acid rain, thrashing like tidal waves, and choking like the earth’s innocent inhabitants. Then she spiraled to her death like she was sliding down a giant corkscrew. It was an eightworthy EW.
Next, Sari tackled celebrity teen drug and alcohol addiction, set to a medley of Britney Spears songs. It started with “Stronger,” peaked at “Oops, I Did It Again,” and ended with “Toxic.” The routine was loaded with several of Britney’s signature dance moves and might have come off as more of an extended music video. But if you really focused on the lyrics, it made a major statement about the sad state of chemical dependency among the overprivileged.
Finally, Sarah stepped onto the white shag rug. “Flight of the Bumblebee” by Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov buzzed from Claire’s iPod dock while Sarah ran around the room in circles flapping her arms. After a few laps she started to get dizzy and began wobbling into the furniture. Then she lifted up on her tippytoes and raised her arms above her head, the way a little girl in a ballet recital would play a blooming flower. But she lost her balance and crashed into the AeroBed.
Claire turned off the music.
“What are you doing?”
Sarah steadied herself on the headboard. “I’m interpreting the whole bee crisis. They’re dying off, you know. And that will totally affect our food and flower supply.”
“Um, I think the scientists solved that,” Claire fibbed.
“Seriously?” Sarah stood, her shoulders hung forward in defeat. “How am I going to learn a new routine by Saturday?”
Claire looked at her ceiling fan like she was thinking, even though the solution to this problem had come to her at four in the morning. “I know!” She looked at Sarah with renewed hope. “Why don’t you interpret the recent study that claims California will get hit by a major earthquake in the next thirty years.”
“How would I do that?” Sarah pulled a pen out of her hair and held it above her open palm.
“It’s easy.” Claire took the pen and tossed it over her shoulder. “Just shake and jiggle and crash into things.”
“In other words,” Amandy hissed, “be yourself.”
“Easy, Bert!”
“Stop calling me that!” Amandy jumped off Massie’s bed, ready to fight.
Kuh-laire . . . Kuh-laire . . . Kuh-laire . . .
Claire flipped open her cell phone.
Massie: Five minutes away. Ah-mazing store! Spent $300 on Euro fashion mags. U back yet?
Had it been four hours already?
Claire: Yup.
She snapped her cell shut. “Everyone out! Lorna Crowley Brown is down the street and wants to stop by.”
“Why?” Amandy peered outside.
“She, um, wants to add some pages to my binder.”
“What about my new routine?” Sarah pouted.
“You’ll be fine. We have all week to practice. You’re a natural.”
“You can say that again,” Amandy snickered.
“Why, are you
deaf
?” Sarah snapped. “Did your eyebrows grow into your ears?”
“Stop!” Sari shouted.
“That’s the shortest thing you’ve ever said,” Sarah blurted.
Sari opened her mouth to respond, but Claire slapped her hand over it.
“Trying to give me a fat lip?” she mumbled.
“What? No!” Claire insisted. “I’m trying to keep you guys from killing each other. It’s only a contest. It’s not worth it.”
Sari pulled Claire’s hand away. “Then why are you kicking us out?”
Claire sighed, wishing she had a speedy answer. But Massie was minutes away and the truth would have taken too long. So she held her door open and hugged her friends goodbye as if nothing between them had changed.
Saturday, August 15 11:51 A.M.
Outside, in the center of Toho Square, the pulsating theme song to
American Idol
started playing in Claire’s head the second Lorna escorted her to the pink judges’ table. Claire was seated on the far left—or Randy Jackson’s side, as she liked to think of it. Vonda Tillman, the tall and tanned editor of the local paper, had Paula’s famed middle seat, and stocky Mayor Reggie Hammond was on the far right, Simon style. Like on the TV show, the judges had been placed at the foot of the stage. They sat with pink pens poised, ready to shatter dreams, while spirited audience members waved banners behind them and a string quartet played soothing classics from the Baby Einstein CDs.
But despite the musicians’ attempts to ease the mounting tension, Claire could hear the frantic clack of the contestants’ unsensible shoes scuttling against the wood as they scurried behind the bloodred velvet curtain, trying to perfect themselves during these last few minutes before showtime. The press, which was clustered to Claire’s right, was only adding to the pageant frenzy. She could feel the anticipation drip off their bodies as they cocked their cameras, ready to click away in case a catfight erupted.
Or was it sweat?
At sunrise the temperature had already hit eighty-seven degrees. Now that it was noon, it must have been over one hundred. Claire couldn’t imagine spending the morning with a flatiron or hot curlers, trying to put makeup on a slick, flushed face, or squeezing swollen feet into stiff leather stilettos. Nor could she imagine pacing backstage, trying not to bite her nails, knowing that she was minutes away from competing against her best friends.
So what if she never got to fulfill her fantasy of becoming Miss Kiss? Judgeship was far better. She was wearing a white cotton sundress and Keds, her hair was in a high pony, and she had nothing on her face but SPF 30 and peach lip gloss. Best of all, she was sitting beside a turbo-industrial fan with the cool, relaxing knowledge that at the end of the day she’d be five hundred dollars richer.
“Five minutes,” Lorna Crowley Brown announced from a podium on the far left of the stage. The quartet began one last tea-party favorite while the crowd roared as if gearing up for a jousting match.
“Please take your seats so we can begin.” Lorna beamed with excitement. Today, the bottom of her black bob had been curled away from her jaw like the letter
J
; it bounced around her chin as she hurried to gush-greet Brenda and Billy, the local news’s anchor team.
