The Karma Club (9 page)

A few minutes ago, Angie witnessed Heather storming away from the computers in the library and heading in the direction of Mason’s locker, after which she immediately texted me to say
that Phase One had been a success and that she would wait for my signal to launch into Phase Two.

I then grabbed Jade, and we hightailed it down to Mason’s locker, a place that I once visited with staggering frequency but that was now like a foreign country to me. One of those places U.S. citizens aren’t even allowed to visit.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mason replies to Heather with a slight chill in his voice. “But I think you should keep your voice down.”

“Don’t tell me to keep my voice down!” she screams back. “I want to know who this chick is that you’ve been e-mailing!”

But Mason simply shakes his head with a quiet frustration. “Heather, I haven’t been e-mailing anyone. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She clearly is not satisfied with this response because she purses her lips tightly and glowers at him like she’s attempting to burn a hole through his face with invisible laser beams implanted in her irises. “I can’t believe you’re just going to stand there and
lie
to me.”

He stares into his locker, almost as if he’s trying to intentionally block out the sound of Heather’s piercing voice. This, of course, infuriates her even more. “I’m not lying to you,” he says, attempting to remain calm. “I told you, I haven’t been e-mailing anyone.”

“Uh-huh. Right.” Heather crosses her arms over her chest and stands defiantly in front of him. “So that would explain why there’s an entire chain of e-mails between the two of you in your account.”

“And how would you know that?” Mason throws the question
back at her like a loaded water balloon, ready to burst open and soak both of them.

Heather rolls her eyes and pouts. “You left your e-mail open on my computer last night. I thought it was
my
account until I started reading some of the e-mails and realized that it was yours.”

Mason studies her with great interest, seemingly trying to decide if he is going to buy this explanation or not.

Of course, it’s a blatant lie.

“Well, I don’t know what you
think
you saw,” he says to her, “but I don’t know anyone named Catherine whatever.”

I turn to Jade and raise my eyebrows questioningly at her. She nods back, and I quickly take my cell phone out of my pocket and type the words “Phase Two go” into a text message and send it to Angie.

“Yeah, like I’m supposed to believe that,” Heather replies, turning and leaning against a locker.

Mason takes a deep breath, closes his locker, and faces her. “Heather,” he begins, a bit more softly, reaching out to touch her hair. “I’m telling you the truth. Why would I need anyone else when I have you?”

And there they were. The exact words Mason had used on me only three weeks ago. And I had believed them. Wholeheartedly. Like a total idiot.

Part of me wants to throw up right there in the hallway. Another part of me wants to break down into tears and run the other way. Because as preoccupied and distracted as I’ve been with setting up this little charade, the very sight of Mason and Heather together still wrecks my insides. You can’t be with someone for two years and just erase them from your heart in a matter of a couple weeks.
No matter what kind of Karmic retribution you have in store for them. It simply doesn’t work that way.

But just as the vomit is rising in my throat and the tears are starting to well up in my eyes, a beeping sound disrupts my thoughts and I’m suddenly thrown right back into the moment. Mason reaches into his pocket and pulls out his familiar black cell phone. Before he even has a chance to look at the screen, Heather grabs it from his hands and takes it upon herself to look instead.

Then, upon reading the text message on the screen, she throws the phone directly at Mason’s face. He raises his hands to block the projectile object, causing it to bounce off his palms, fall to the floor, and break into two pieces.

Then she stalks off, leaving Mason with nothing but a pained expression and a broken cell phone.

Jade and I don’t need to see the now-busted screen to know what the text message said. Because we wrote it ourselves. And Angie just sent it from a computer terminal in the library, using a Web site that sends free anonymous text messages to any phone number you enter.

Although this particular text message wasn’t exactly anonymous.

It was signed “Catie” (short for Catherine). And it was right on time.

From the Official Notebook of the Karma Club

Karmic Beneficiary #2

Name:
Heather Campbell

Background:
New girlfriend of Karmic Beneficiary #1. Beautiful, popular, and completely insufferable. Known hobbies: Gossiping about people behind their backs

Universal Imbalance:
Seduced and stole club member’s boyfriend after his social status was elevated through successful magazine placement

Valued Possession:
Her flawless skin

The bell rings
at the end of the day, and I make my way to the counseling office to pick up my tutoring schedule from Mr. Wilson, the guidance counselor, who manages all of the student tutors. But when I pop my head inside his office, I find that it’s empty. I quickly look around the office for him, and I eventually spot him standing with his back to me at the copy machine.

I walk over and tap him gently on the shoulder. “Excuse me, Mr. Wilson, I’m here to pick up my check for the last—”

But when he turns around, I see that it’s not Mr. Wilson. It’s actually Spencer Cooper, of all people. Also known as Jenna LeRoux’s current boyfriend, or the guy whose parents own the Loft—a place that I’ve recently decided I no longer care for.

I nearly gasp when I see his face. Which honestly is really lame. Who gasps at the sight of someone as good-looking as Spencer Cooper? Granted, he’s not the nicest, most gentlemanly person in the world, but that still doesn’t take away from the fact that he has
a near perfect face. With creamy skin, large hazel eyes, and a nose that’s just slightly crooked. But in a good way.

“Hi,” he says pleasantly.

“You’re not Mr. Wilson,” I reply immediately.

He chuckles. “Can’t argue with you there.”

Instantly, I feel totally stupid.

“Although,” he continues, “I’m not sure how thrilled I am about being mistaken for a forty-year-old guidance counselor.”

“Oh,” I stammer, looking at my feet, as if they might provide me with a viable excuse. “It’s just that . . . you know, you have the same hair color. And, um . . . you’re about the same height. You know . . .” I eventually give up on trying to come up with a coherent sentence and simply ask him flat out, “What are you doing in here?”

Of course this is another incredibly stupid thing to say. Because I don’t actually have a say on who is officially allowed or not allowed inside the counseling office. Not like some people I know who require a guest list to get into one of their stupid parties.

“Just making some copies,” he says, pointing at the copier.

Well, that much is pretty obvious. What I really want to ask is “Don’t you have a personal assistant to do this kind of stuff for you? Or doesn’t your dad own a copy store somewhere?” But the only thing that comes out is “Oh, right.”

Then I stand there, not sure what to say or do next, so I stare down at my feet again.

“Mind if I finish?” he asks, clearly mocking me.

“Oh . . . um . . . yeah. I mean, of course. Whatever,” I mumble as I turn and walk back to the waiting area, where I take a seat on the couch to wait for the
real
Mr. Wilson to return from wherever
he has magically disappeared to. But all I can think about is how stupid I must have sounded to Spencer Cooper and how he must think I’m such a total loser.

And then I wonder why I even care.

Particularly when I have so many other more important things on my plate. Like tonight’s mission at Heather Campbell’s house, which is sure to turn her life in a very different direction.

So whatever Spencer Cooper happens to think or not think about me doesn’t mean anything in the grand scheme of things. It’s not like I’m expecting an invitation back to the Loft anytime soon. Not that I would go anyway.

I arrive at Jade’s house at six on the dot, dressed in what she calls “night camouflage.” Basically it’s just a fancy way of saying all black. Black pants, a black, long-sleeve T-shirt, and black socks and sneakers. Despite my protests, Jade insisted on the ensemble because of a scene she saw once in an old movie where some guy was sneaking around outside in the dark and the black helped hide him from view.

As soon as I reach the top of the stairs, I can see that Angie is already waiting anxiously in Jade’s bedroom. She is perched on the edge of the bed, holding tightly to a plastic supermarket bag full of “ingredients” for tonight’s assignment. From the ruthless way she’s clutching the bag, you would think she’s guarding top-secret documents for the president.

When I sit down next to Angie, I attempt to peek inside the bag, but she is quick to whisk it out from under me. Then she stands up and flashes Jade and me a wry smile. “Ready to play pharmacist?” she asks with a quick raise of her eyebrows.

The three of us pile into Jade’s bathroom, Jade and I both keeping our eyes locked obsessively on the plastic bag in Angie’s hand. As the official pharmacy employee, Angie assured us that she would handle all the “arrangements” for tonight’s assignment, and every time we badgered her for details, she would interrupt us by coolly raising her palm in the air and saying, “I told you I would handle it.” So even though I knew the objective of tonight’s mission and the general outline of its execution, I was still mostly in the dark when it came to the specifics.

Angie continues to hold tight to the handles of the shopping bag as I strain to see through the thick white plastic. But my attempts are to no avail. Apparently, Angie had enough foresight to request a double bagging job at the store. She’s just that good.

“Okay,” Angie begins, bringing both my and Jade’s focus from the bag to her face. “We all know why we’re here.” She reaches into the bag and pulls out a pamphlet. She places it on the countertop with a purposeful tap, and Jade and I scurry closer to get a better look. It’s a trifold, glossy brochure covered in colorful photographs and purple text. The word
MYZACLIN
is printed in bold letters across the top.

“This is a brochure for maximum-strength Myzaclin,” she explains informatively. “Distributed to pharmacies and drugstores across the country, including where I work.”

Jade and I nod our heads eagerly but remain silent.

“As I explained to you last week,” Angie goes on, eyeing us with a serious expression, “maximum-strength Myzaclin is prescribed by dermatologists to treat severe acne and other unwanted skin blemishes.” She pauses to take an extended breath. “Our very own queen, Heather Campbell, despite what she might like us to believe, is one of those said prescription holders.”

Thanks to Angie’s quarter-time job at Miller’s Drug Store, she knows what kinds of drugs most of the people in our town are on. And every time Heather’s mom comes in to refill her daughter’s prescription, Angie catches sight of the information sheet stapled to the side of the pharmacy bag when she rings up the purchase. This is how we know that Heather Campbell’s staggering, model-worthy good looks, not to mention her permanent position at the top of the Colonial High social ladder, were not achieved entirely on her own. Heather actually owes most of her beauty queen status to a little white and purple jar of acne cream. The same one that is pictured on the inside of the brochure that Angie has now flipped open and is pointing to with smooth, fluid movements, like a poised and elegant flight attendant pointing out the emergency exits. Very
un
-Angie, to be honest.

But she seems to be taking great satisfaction in exhibiting the various aspects of the brochure as she eloquently explains, “Myzaclin is a very strong medication. Basically, it’s what you get prescribed when your face looks like the view from space of a snowcapped mountain range.”

A snorted giggle escapes my lips as the grin on my face continues to grow larger. Jade looks over at me and playfully bumps my shoulder.

“But tonight,” Angie continues passionately with one finger raised in the air, “we are going to replace it with something even . . .
stronger
.” She waits for a moment before reaching into the bag again. I can feel Jade’s body stiffen next to mine. We both follow Angie’s hand with our eyes as she rustles around in the shopping bag and finally pulls out a large, heavy object and plops it down on the countertop next to the brochure.

I stare questioningly at the blue and white metal canister that is now sitting in Jade’s bathroom, looking terribly out of place next to her ceramic flat iron and various shades of eye shadow.

“Crisco?” I ask, looking expectantly at Angie for an explanation. “You made us wait all this time for Crisco?”

Jade seems to have caught on much faster than I did; suddenly she breaks out into loud, hysterical laughter. “Oh my God!” she exclaims. “It’s genius.”

I look frantically from her to Angie. “Wait . . . what? Why is Crisco genius?”

Angie quickly pops the top off the canister and tilts it toward me. “As you can see, it’s white and creamy in consistency and it’s made of one hundred percent vegetable
oil
.”

“Which should never be applied to your skin,” I state with instant realization.

“Well,” Jade muses. “Unless, of course, you want your face to look like a snowcapped mountain range.”

The three of us break into laughter that lasts for a good two minutes. Once we’ve finally calmed down and gotten past our fit of giggles, Angie reaches back into the bag and pulls out a small Tupperware bowl and a plastic spoon. She pops the lid off the bowl and starts to spoon huge, buttery gobs of Crisco into it. Jade and I watch gleefully as she stirs up the Crisco with the spoon. “The consistency has to be
just
right so that it resembles the acne cream in the photograph,” Angie says, motioning toward the brochure and then reaching back into the shopping bag and this time pulling out a small tube of leave-in hair conditioner.