It's Not Easy Being Mean (16 page)

“Open up!” Derrington, Josh, and Cam smacked the roof, giving Harris even more of a Nick Lachey moment than the one he'd experienced earlier.

Finally, the locks clicked and the boys piled in. Cam raced to the front seat while Derrington conquered the back.

“What's up, soccer sistas?” He wiggled his butt, then dove across the girls, landing with his head on Massie's lap. There was a time where it would have been funny, even romantic. But all Massie could think of now was his crumb-covered carpet and musty towels.

Gazing up at her, eyebrows raised, mouth in a barely there pout, Derrington seemed to be silently asking Massie with kind brown eyes why she tore out of his house the other day. Guiltily, she turned her attention to the others, as if they were up to something utterly fascinating that she simply could not miss.

“Ow, get offa me,” Alicia whined when Dylan mashed up against her thigh.

“It's Josh's fault, not mine.”

“Yeah, right.” Josh giggled, his round brown eyes crinkling.

A slapping fight broke out among Dylan, Josh, and Alicia, spreading a dry-sweat-meets-grass smell throughout

the car. Harris turned up the stereo even louder and backed out of the lot.

You only get one shot, do not miss your chance to blow
—

“Who's ready for some soccer lessons?” Cam asked from the front seat.

Everyone cheered.

Dylan burped.

Massie lifted her wrist to her nose and inhaled deeply. She
would
survive this loud, stinky car ride thanks to three things:

1. Determination

2. Hope

3. Chanel No. 5

W
ESTCHESTER
, NY T
HE
F
ISHER
H
OUSE

Friday, April 9th

5:55
P.M.

The metal drawers on Cam's Pottery Barn locker desk were like his eyes, one green and one blue. They felt cold against Massie's bare legs. She leaned against them anyway, because they, like everything in his bedroom, were clean.

“Show us how to do that kick where you fall and score at the same time. Fans love that.”

“Maybe we should go out back for that.” Cam surveyed his crowded room.

Derrington was bouncing a soccer ball on his foot while Dylan slid across the hardwood floors on Cam's light blue desk chair. Alicia and Josh were perched on the edge of his bed, which doubled as a storage hutch. The bulky oak frame had six cubbyholes stacked above the headboard and overflowing with rows of folded T-shirts. Hundreds of CD booklets were neatly tacked to his navy-painted walls, their jewel cases converted into an intricate maze that twisted and turned along the wood floor in the far corner.

“I say we do it right here.” Massie emphasized each word, urging Dylan and Alicia to stick to the plan. “We can use the bed as a mat.”

“Ah-greed.” Alicia jumped to her feet and made a show of trying to pull the mattress onto the floor.

“Good idea.” Dylan raced over.

“I still think it would be better if we went outside,” Cam said, while casually sliding a framed a photo of Claire off his night table and into a tiny drawer. It was a close-up of her slurping an orange gummy worm like a piece of spaghetti. The sweet shot filled Massie with bitterness. Why wasn't Claire with them? Why hadn't she called to wish them luck? And why, why weren't there any ah-dorable pictures of Massie in Derrington's room?

“Outside is
so far
,” Alicia whined. “All we need is a little padding and we can stay right here.” She stepped away from the bed and stood behind Josh and Dylan. “Ready? One…two…three…pull!”

They yanked the mattress onto the floor with a thud.

Cam checked the jewel case maze, which miraculously remained intact.

As Massie had suspected, the key wasn't there. It was time for phase two of their plan.

“Kick-fall!” Derrington took a running dive toward Dylan and gave her a leg-sweep, knocking her face-first onto the mattress.

“Not with cleats!” pleaded Cam.

“Get! Off!” Dylan laughed as she fought her way out from under Derrington. “Your pits smell like sour cream and onion chips.”

Derrington lifted his arm and smeared his post-soccer practice stink in her nose.

“Ew!” Dylan squirmed frantically.

And then—”
Baaaap
“—she burped and blew it in his face.

Everyone laughed, including Derrington.

Even though the last thing Massie wanted was Derrington's sweaty BO near her T-zone, she found herself temporarily hating Dylan for flirting with him.

“Ehmagawd, did your back just crack?” Massie stood above them, showing no signs of amusement.

“What?” Dylan giggled. “No, I burp—”

“No, that
crack
.” Massie winked at Alicia.

“Yeah, I heard it too.”

“Oh yeah,” Dylan blurted, her face suddenly becoming serious. “I think I hurt my lumbar.” With a single buck she managed to throw Derrington off her. “We definitely need more padding.”

“Good call.” Massie perked up. “Let's get Harris's mattress and put it on top of this one.”

“Heart that!” Alicia clapped. “I'll help.”

“Me too.” Dylan smoothed her navy-and-yellow Sirens uniform.

“Hold it!” Cam held out his palm like a crossing guard.

“Come awn!” Massie led the charge. She slammed Cam's bedroom door on her way out, paying little mind to the sound of shattering plastic that must have been the domino effect ripping through his jewel-case maze.

The girls burst into Harris's room and locked the door.

Old movie posters of guys she didn't recognize hung in what smelled like a Scotch-tape factory.

“Open up!” Cam pounded.

“Ehmagawd!” Massie gasped. “Twin beds!”

Dylan cracked her knuckles. “No problem.”

Massie dashed to her side. “Ready?”

Alicia moved quickly (for Alicia) and grabbed a fistful of burgundy comforter.

“Okay,” Massie grunted. “Ready…set…go!”

After four shoves, the mattress slid onto the floor.

A crumpled magazine photo of Pamela Anderson in her red
Baywatch
swimsuit stared back at them, along with three strands of brown hair and an orange Tic Tac.

“Let me in!” Cam shouted.

“We're trying—the door is stuck.” Dylan jiggled the handle for effect.

“This is it.” Massie raced over to the bed by the window and dropped to her knees. With an adrenaline-charged push, she flipped the second mattress without any help.

Dylan and Alicia dashed to her side.

“Ehmagawd,” they all said, staring down at the white web of cotton that coated the box spring.

There, reflecting the last glimmer of golden light the day had to offer, was a shiny silver…dime.

W
ESTCHESTER
, NY T
HE
A
BELEY
H
OUSE

Friday, April 9th

7:12
P.M.

“Whoa! What happened?” gasped Layne when she opened her front door and saw Claire on her porch, alone in the cold, starless night. Tears streamed from beneath her oversize glasses, blazing salty trails through the beige foundation on her cheeks.

“Are you in trouble with the law?” Layne's tongue was Crystal Light purple.

Sobbing, Claire turned and waved, letting her mother know it was okay to leave.

The headlights on the Lyonses' bronze Ford Taurus lit the front of the Abeleys' redbrick house as Judi backed out of the driveway, illuminating their WOW,
Nice Underwear
straw doormat.

“Is it the audition?” Layne twirled one of the seven braids in her hair. “Was Bernard Sinrod mean to you? Did he beat you?” She made a move to pull off her best friend's glasses, but Claire jumped back.

“He punched you in the eye, didn't he?”

Claire shook her head no. It felt puffy and full. She sniffed back the snot bubble that grew and shrank every time she blubbered.

“Don't worry. Rejection is part of the biz.” Layne placed

a well-meaning hand on Claire's shoulder, which was bare and cold thanks to the tattered black tube top Miles had suggested she wear. “Wait till your movie comes out next month. You'll be turning down more scripts than Lindsay.”

It was funny getting career advice from someone in Chococat baby-doll pajamas and headgear, but Claire couldn't bring herself to smile.

“Come inside. My brother is upstairs listening to Ne-Yo's ‘So Sick’ on repeat. He can cry about Fawn and you can cry about not getting the part and—”

“I
did
get it.” Claire sniffed. “The lawyers will be at my house tomorrow to look over the contract.”

“Brava!” Layne unclipped her headgear and tossed it in the air like a graduation cap. “When do you start shooting?”

“Summer.”

“Did you meet Cole Sprouse?”

“Next week, when we read the script.”

“Is Bernard nice?”

“Totally.” Claire sighed. “He gave me roses. My mom has them.” Her vision blurred all over again and the backs of her eyes pinched.

“Then what is it?” Layne picked her headgear off the Oriental carpet and clipped it around her neck. The two spiked ends pointed straight at her jugular and gave Claire an uneasy feeling.

“It's complicated.” Claire stepped into the small square receiving room, just beyond the front door. The walls on either side of her were covered in mirrors, creating the illusion of a thousand Claires. There was “friend Claire” and “actress Claire” and “Cam's Claire” and “Pretty Committee Claire” and “sister Claire” and “daughter Claire” and “student Claire” and “Orlando Claire” and “Westchester Claire.” They went on and on.

Most days, each one was a part of her, making her whole. But tonight the Claires felt like strangers with different sets of plans.

Without thinking, Claire removed her sunglasses and tossed her hat onto the black lacquer table beside the Oriental screen.

Layne squinted. Her thin, light brows arched above her narrow green eyes. “Wha—?”

“Oh.” Claire suddenly realized what she had done but decided to go with it. She was an actress. And with that came sacrifices. Sooner or later, everyone would have to accept it. Herself included. “I had to do this for my audition.”

“Well, can you tell me why you're crying?” Layne sighed. “Or are you too
bushed
?” She tried to contain her laughter, then snorted instead.

“Sounds like you've been hanging around Massie.”

“Ehmagawd, rea-lly?” Layne gushed, offering her best Pretty Committee impersonation.

Claire couldn't help smiling as she followed her one-of-a-kind friend up the ruby-red-carpeted staircase.

“So what
happened
?” Layne asked again from the top of the stairs.

Claire took a deep breath.

“I went to Cam's after the audition because everyone was going there after school to look for the—” She caught herself just in time. “Uh, to look for soccer tips. And Mrs. Fisher told me she sent Massie, Alicia, and Dylan home because they destroyed Cam's and Harris's bedrooms. When I asked to see Cam she told me I couldn't ‘cause he was grounded for letting them do that to her house.”

“Wow, poor Cam. I wonder why they did that.” Layne kicked the blowup pit bull away from her bedroom door, ignoring the terrifying bark and growl recording that played every time someone moved it from its guard post. “And
that's
why you were crying?”

“No.” Claire instinctively grabbed Layne's elbow when they entered her famous glow-in-the-dark bedroom, allowing herself to be led through the pitch-black labyrinth filled with all things luminescent: oozing lava lamps, posters of big-headed martians, and fiery-haired trolls. Finally they reached her bed, the duvet a massive canvas of neon orange, yellow, and hot pink splattered paints. Above it, the solar system in sticker form clung to her ceiling, the stars and planets shining in a radioactive shade of green.

“I was crying because when I called Massie to tell her I was on my way to her sleepover she freaked out on me.”

“Why? Because you got the part and she didn't?”

“She didn't even audition.”

“So, I'm sure she still expected to get the part.”

Claire giggled, tickled by how well Layne had Massie figured out. “She
uninvited
me to the sleepover and kicked me out of the Pretty Committee. Forever.”

“Why?”

The tears returned.

“She thinks I stood in the way of her and the—” Claire stopped. A flood of prickly heat itched her palms, reminding her how dangerously close she had come to breaking Skye's number-one rule.

“Her and the
what
?”

“Nothing.”

“What?”

“Nothing!” Then Claire felt a tugging on her arm. “Layne, what are you—?”

Suddenly, she was being gagged with a glow-in-the-dark Hello Kitty scarf.

“Mmmmmmm,” she called. The black room, with all its brightly colored inhabitants, made Claire feel like she had been beamed to an animated planet. “Mmmmmm!”

A blast of electronica music drowned out Claire's pleas, turning her fear into panic. Suddenly, someone plopped down beside her. The smell of artificial grape flavoring got stronger and stronger until Claire felt hot breath against her cheek.

“I know,” whispered Layne.

“Mmmmm?” She grunted as loud as she could, hoping to be heard above the pulsating music. “Mmmm!”

“I know about the keyyyy.” Layne whispered again.

Claire ripped the scarf off, wondering why she hadn't tried that sooner. “You do?”

Layne's hand smacked against her mouth. “Shhhhhh, she might be listening.”

Claire nodded, taking Layne's hand for a ride.

“I'm going to show you something. But don't speak.”

Layne turned on the lights.

A bouquet of helium balloons, each with a different message and a guy's name on them bobbed against the ceiling. They said,
Josh Is Number
1,
Get Well
,
Jake
, and
Best Wishes
,
Luis
—obviously her way in to boys' houses.

So Alicia was right. Heather
had
gotten a CD-ROM, and she'd recruited Layne and Meena to help.