My Little Phony - 13 (18 page)

Claire’s stomach clenched. She leaped up. “NOT YET!” she shouted.

But it was too late. Kori spritzed it at Dylan’s soft pink fingernails.

“What the…?” Dylan jumped back. She looked down at her nails and sniffed. “Nail polish remover?” She dropped to the floor and dumped out her purse, searching through a collection of Essie, Chanel, and OPI nail polish containers.

Kristen’s gaze bounced like a bobblehead between Table 18 and Dylan.

“Help me!” Dylan cried. After a beat, Kristen knelt down in her BDG skinnys and shifted through Dylan’s possessions, until she held up the powder pink one that matched her friend’s rapidly deteriorating manicure.

“Hey!” Kori and Strawberry yelled in unison.

Claire watched, speechless, as Alicia lifted Kori and Strawberry’s wooden food trays off the table and dumped them in the trash. She shot them an
I dare you to retaliate
glare. The entire cafeteria felt silent, watching the spectacle at Table 18 like it was the season finale of
American Idol
.

As if triggered by some silent cue, Kori, Strawberry, Meena, Heather, and Olivia pulled vials of Jovan Musk out of their handbags.

“Three… two… one!” Strawberry shouted.

Alicia’s mouth parted in horror as a cloud of musk enveloped her white cashmere sweater. She immediately started hacking.

“My eyes!” Dylan shrieked, shutting her eyes and groping to put her polish back in her bag.

“My nostrils!” Kristen yelled.

“Retreat!” Alicia shoved Dylan and Kristen toward the exit. The three girls ran out of the cafeteria, pulling out their cells as they went.

The entire café exploded into applause. And just like that, every single girl in the cafeteria, even the ones still wearing uncomfortable heels and constricting jeans, rushed Table 18.

“Wow,” Layne whispered. “This must have been what our parents felt like when they watched the moon landing.”

“I know.” Claire had never thought she would see the day either. But Kori and the girls had stood their ground.

Layne scrambled onto her chair and took a bow.

Claire applauded along with the others, her pulse skipping through her veins. She couldn’t believe what she’d started.

“Hey, Claire of Arc,” Layne looked down from her chair. “Are you going to join me? You did start this entire movement, after all.”

After another quick glance around for Principal Burns or a teacher, Claire threw caution to the wind and climbed on top of her chair. She made a
C,
then a muscle, then a peace sign.

“Claire-a, Claire-a,” chanted the girls.

“Take back LBR!” yelled Layne. “Let’s Be Real!”

“Let’s Be Real!” answered the girls. “Let’s Be Real! Let’s Be Real!”

“Let’s Be Real!” Claire yelled along with them. Sally
Richards put on her glasses, Allie Rose smiled through her braces. And Kori—aka “The Croissant” because of her curved posture—stood up straight for the very first time.

Claire was on top of the world. Or at least on top of OCD—right where she was determined to stay.

Alone at the Lyonses’ house, Massie flipped through the channels on their small-screen TV and wondered how anyone could live with a television this tiny. “How do they even read the captions on
The Hills
on Telemundo?” she asked Bean.

Bean whimpered in response.

“I know you need a walk, but I can’t go outside like
this
.” Massie pulled the Lyonses’ burnt-orange, handmade afghan around the overalls she’d been forced to wear. She prayed that whatever lived inside the stinky old yarn was asleep.

She checked her phone for the 137th time and sighed. No new texts. Yes, she’d Lycra-ed her friends out of the sleepover, but still. Why weren’t they worried about her? Why weren’t they sending her e-cards or ginseng smoothies?

On
All My Children,
a well-dressed older woman was plotting to gain control of a multimillion-dollar company. She enlisted the help of a sidekick whose idea of high fashion was gold lamé stockings with Converse sneakers. Massie grimaced. What these people needed were makeovers, not company takeovers.

Click.

A family sitcom came on that Massie had never seen. The
oldest son was apparently obsessed with a girl from school whom the rest of the family hated. She had long blond hair that she kept in a perfectly maintained ponytail, and she traipsed around school telling people why they were in or out of style.
She seems ah-mazing,
Massie thought. But then a boy with dark curly hair and bluer-than-blue eyes came on screen, reminding her of Landon. Her heart constricted like a too-tight bra.

Click.

On a local station, a news reporter with thick eyebrows was interviewing people at the Westchester Mall. Apparently, the mall was suffering record-breaking lulls in sales.

Probably because they keep declining my credit card!

Click.

She felt her eyes fill with tears and threw down the remote.

Bean looked up. She had refused to sleep in, on, or around any of the Lyonses’ afghans or blankets, so she was perched awkwardly on the white coffee table.

“Poor thing,” Massie said. “You must be freezing.”

Bean whimpered and reached her paw for the door. But Massie just took the dog in her lap and petted her, trying to think of what she should do next. It was a free day, after all. Maybe she could go through Claire’s makeup and give herself a manicure and pedicure. Through the window, she could see the exterminators starting to dismantle the striped canvas tent. Thank Gawd. If Massie had to live at the Lyons’ one
more day, she’d go crazier than Lindsay after a run-in with the paparazzi.

Her phone exploded with incoming texts.

“Ehmagheddon!” Massie shrieked. She looked down at her texts and read them one after another, a smile spreading across her face. Her friends missed her!

Dylan:
Sorry we fought… School n-sane!

Alicia:
Forgive & forget? Got sprayed with Jovan Musk. I smell like cus!

Kristen:
Sorry ’bout r fight. LBRs R sitting @ 18!

“Woof!”

“I’m sorry Bean, you will just have to hold it,” Massie said distractedly. She could feel her malaise lifting like teased hair. Her friends needed her—just like always. Mini rebellion aside, they recognized her as their forever-alpha.

Then her phone buzzed with a new message from Dylan: a video of Claire and Layne standing on a table in the middle of the New Green Café, pumping their fists and jumping up and down. All around them, LBRs were doing some sort of weird arm and hand signals, like a bunch of queerleaders.

Then, the audio clicked in and Massie heard what they were chanting: LET’S BE REAL!

LET’S BE REAL! LET’S BE REAL! LET’S BE REAL!

Massie’s emotions swirled like a Pucci scarf. This was unheard of—and the opposite of acceptable. LBRs at
Table 18? Claire and Layne on a table, chanting ridiculous things that didn’t even rhyme? Totally unfashionable people trying to take over the school? One absence, and her empire crumbled. She opened a group text to all her friends.

Massie:
How could you let this happen?

No one responded. Massie rolled her eyes and sighed. This was no time to push her friends away. If anything, she needed them more than ever. Massie texted again.

Massie:
Claire is bread in the oven: about to be toast!

Her phone immediately pinged.

Kristen:

Dylan:

Alicia:
Point!!!

Massie felt a sudden burst of energy—something that felt almost like happiness. Let Claire enjoy her little coup now. Let her and Layne think running a school was as easy as scooping raisins onto their Cheerios. Let them hop up and down in their Keds. When Massie’s house was bug-free and she was reunited with her wardrobe, she would remind these losers what LBR
really
stood for.

Bean let out a long, high-pitched whimper.

She sighed. “Okay, okay. Come on. But we’re only going to the end of the driveway!”

Throwing the afghan over the overalls, Massie grabbed Bean’s leash and walked to the front. The second she opened it, though, Bean was overcome by her own burst of energy. She ran forward, barking loudly, tugging Massie forward, down the driveway and around the corner.

“Bean!” Massie said. “Slow down!”

But Bean wouldn’t listen. It was warmer today than it had been recently, but a cold wind bit at Massie’s cheeks and her feet slipped over the icy sidewalk.

“Slow down!” They whizzed past the Keatings’ Spanish-style mansion, then tore through the Vanderwoudes’ snowy front yard. The afghan caught on the spindly branch of a barren crab apple tree—and stayed there. All Massie could do was look back as it hung forlornly from the branch like an orange ghost.

Cars honked, and a blue-outfitted USPS worker laughed at her. But still Bean didn’t slow down. Massie’s lungs burned and her eyes watered as she sprinted after her puppy, down Mayfair Street, then around another corner… where she led Massie straight into the leash of another dog.