These Boots Are Made for Stalking (17 page)

“Isn’t this kinda dressy for a dog park?” Layne reached for the mannequin.

“Don’t!” Massie yelped, squinting at Layne’s fingers for any hint of barbecue dust or crystallized sugar. Who knew where those
fingers had been?

“I’m just wearing jeans,” Layne announced, like Massie had asked.

You would,
Massie thought.

“What’s Claire wearing?” Massie pretended to examine the hem of the dress for rogue threads. She’d checked Claire’s Twitter
status four times since noon, but Claire hadn’t mentioned her plans for the night. Still, it just didn’t seem possible that
Claire would actually choose to spend her Saturday night without the Pretty Committee.

“Dunno.” Layne shifted in her jellies. “We haven’t talked about it.” She was obviously lying.

Massie glared at her. “Just show me the booties, Layne.”

“Chill, Phil.” Layne undid the sash on her trench and snapped it open. She held the bootie box under Massie’s nose, lifting
the top slowly.

Massie grabbed the box peered inside. “Ehmagawd.”

“I KNOW!” Layne lifted the fashion atrocities from their box. She had hot-glued every neon dyed feather, cheap plastic jewel,
and glitter bead in the tristate area to the chocolate suede booties. “They’re groundbreaking. You can’t even see the cameras.”

Massie’s mouth went completely dry. That kind of footwear did nawt belong in her bedroom. It belonged in the wardrobe department
of Fashion Disasters on Ice.

“Layne!” she screeched, finally finding her voice. “No self-respecting puppy would ever wear these!”

Layne stage-pouted, her lips twitching slightly. “Sorry. No refunds.”

Before Massie could protest, Layne flounced toward the door. “Later, gator,” she called over her shoulder, slamming the door
behind her.

Dumbfounded, Massie stared at the closed door. She should have known not to trust Layne.

Sensing that it was safe to reemerge, Bean appeared in the closet doorway, blinking curiously at the brown box in Massie’s
hand.

Massie swallowed, pasting a giant faux grin on her face.

“Heyyyy, Bean,” she cooed. “Ready to try on your new booties?” She knelt to the powder-scented carpet and inched slowly across
it toward her puppy, not even caring that she was wearing out the knees of her brand-new gray skinny Citizens.

When Bean caught sight of the booties, a low growl escaped her throat. She backed up a few steps, a wary glint in her wet
eyes.

“Puh-lease, Bean,” Massie begged. “Wear them for me.”

But the determination in Bean’s glowing black eyes said that not even the Dog Whisperer could make her change her mind.

Somewhere deep, deep, deep down, Massie was proud of her puppy for having such discriminating taste. Still, she wished Bean
would take a fashion hit for the team, just this once. Massie’s entire plan to find Ankle-Bird at Pup-A-Palooza depended on
it. Since the event was ahbviously pet-friendly, no one would think twice about Bean being there. And the “bootie cams,” as
Layne referred to them, would be at the perfect height to record the guests’ ankles. Plus, Layne and that LBR Candy Corn had
figured out a way to hack into the SnoopDawg Web site, so Massie could monitor the bootie cam feed from her iPhone. And once
she caught sight of that hummingbird tattoo, all bets were off.

The plan was nothing short of genius. But it, and the future of Massie and Landon’s relationship, depended entirely on Bean,
who had just scampered into Massie’s closet.

“Fine,” Massie called after her. “I guess I’ll just have to sit at home like an LBR and wait for Landon and Ankle-Bird’s wedding
announcement in the Sunday
Times
.”

Bean nudge-slammed the closet door behind her.

Massie did a face-plant into her carpet, moaning into the thick white fibers. Parenting was beyond stressful. No wonder Jon
and Kate had cracked under the pressure.

She allowed herself a full five seconds of self-pity before righting herself again. There just had to be another way to make
this work.

Bean barked indignantly from behind the closet door.

Bark!
Massie giggled at her flash of inspiration. If she could get Bark Obama to wear the booties and go to the auction, she could
still ankle-spy without Bean having to humiliate herself in public. She pulled her iPhone from her back pocket and leaned
against the foot of her bed, feeling renewed and back on track.

Massie:
Want me 2 pick up Bark? I can watch him if u have 2 go to dinner.

Landon:
Not sure Bark = healed enough to move…

Massie had to take a gloss break to shake that one off. Landon obviously hadn’t been worried about Ankle-Bird moving Bark.
So what was the problem? After she’d applied a triple coat of Glossip Girl Thin Mintspiration gloss, she returned to her phone.

Massie:
I’ll take xtra good care of him. Pinky-swear. B there in 10.

She powered off her iPhone before Landon could protest.

“Oops!” she giggle-pouted, tossing her cell onto the bed. “Battery died.”

Operation: Ankle-Bird or Bust was back on track. And tonight, coming up empty-ankled was nawt an option.

Claire had been to the dog park with her parents and Todd for tons of Sunday-afternoon walks, eating ice cream and watching
Westchester’s population of wrinkly old men cheat at chess and backgammon. But the lush green lawn, with its mosaic wishing
fountain and maple leaf canopy, had never looked like this before.

Colored Christmas lights were threaded through the changing leaves, making the treetops look like glowing galaxies. The picnic
tables that usually edged the park had been replaced with long, rustic wooden buffet tables piled high with sushi, cheese
plates, and desserts for the humans, and Kobe beef and frosted dog treats for the puppies. The fountain at the center of the
park had been transformed into a bubbling dog Jacuzzi. And behind the fountain stretched a spotlit main stage, where a guy
in ripped black jeans was doing a sound check.

But the biggest difference was the people. Instead of being surrounded by ninety-year-olds and their chess boards, Claire
was surrounded by ninth-graders and their puppies. And she was starting to wish she’d texted in sick. After all the time she’d
spend talking up eighth, how could she have let Layne talk her into this?

“So this is Mrs. Potts and Dancing Dish Number Three.” Layne slung her arms around the two girls on either side of her, looking
more relaxed than Massie and Kendra after a ninety-minute couple’s shiatsu. “We met at theater camp last year.” The plate
of dog bone–shaped sushi rolls in Layne’s left hand was tilting dangerously toward the grass, like the
Titanic
in the final seconds before it went vertical. “Guys, this is Claire. She’s in eighth with me.”

“You can call me Syd for short,” Mrs. Potts—a petite brunette in torn boyfriend jeans, vintage peep-toe wedges, and a low-cut
emerald sweater—smile-nodded at Claire. “At least till opening night anyway.” She was cradling a tiny white maltipoo in a
black sweater tunic and puppy Uggs, or PUggs, as Massie called them.

“Cara,” said the other girl, a willowy blonde in an eggplant-colored jacket, a low-cut tank top, and cowboy boots. She unhooked
her thumbs from the belt loops of her jeans and grabbed a passing guy with an electric bass guitar slung across his chest.
“And this is my boyfriend, Doug.” She pulled the boy in and lip-kissed him, right there in front of everybody.

Mrs. Potts didn’t even bat a lash.

Boyfriend? Not crush? Claire raised her barkarita glass to her lips and fake-sipped, not knowing whether to stare at the ground
or watch Cara and Doug make out like it was no big deal.

“Hey. What’s up?” Doug finally pulled away.

“Hey. Nothing.” Claire fought the urge to finger-comb her bangs. How was Layne acting so… natural around an entire park full
of lip-kissing high-schoolers?

The pressure of needing to find new friends ASAP was starting to tighten around Claire’s midsection like a cinched leather
belt after a gummy binge. Layne’s ninth-grade Westchester Community Theater friends were her last hope. If she blew this,
she’d be more than an LBR. She’d be a BFFLLBR (BFF-less Loser Beyond Repair). And that was way, way worse.

“So I gotta run.” Doug tossed his suspiciously sun-kissed, potentially highlighted bangs away from his forehead before they
settled back over his eyes. “We’re on in five.”

“Doug’s band is opening tonight,” Cara explained proudly. “Before the auction.”

“Awesome.” Layne dipped a sushi roll in mustard and crammed it in her mouth.

“Smells Like Uncle Hugh.” Doug looked at Claire.

“Huh?” Claire froze. Had she forgotten deodorant again? There wasn’t even a way to sneak a quick pit sniff.

“Smells Like Uncle Hugh,” Doug repeated. “My band. We’re like a mix between Radiohead and Shinedown, you know?”

“Totally,” Claire nodded, even though she didn’t.

While Doug and Cara lip-kissed goodbye like he was shipping off on a six-month deployment, Claire scoped out the park, looking
for the PC. This event was practically the opposite of one of Massie’s parties. Instead of stuffy tuxedoed waiters carrying
sterling silver trays of catered mini-food, there were two buffet tables—one at human height and one at puppy height—and guests
helped themselves. Instead of a DJ, there were a bunch of ninth-grade bands. And instead of designer gowns, everybody wore
jeans. Girls and their cru—their boyfriends were actually talking to each other, instead of faking like they’d never met.
Plus, there wasn’t a parent in sight. Claire pulled out her phone, wondering if Cam could get out of spending the night at
Josh’s.

Claire:
What r u up 2? Wanna hang @ a high-skl party?

Claire held her breath.

Cam:
Already at Josh’s.

Cam:
P.S. Don’t fall for any 9th gradrs.

Claire blushed, even though no one was reading the text over her shoulder.

Claire:
Not 2 worry. Wanna go downtown 2morrow? Gourmet Au Lait?

Cam:
Def.

An opening guitar chord echoed over the mic, and the entire dog park erupted in cheers and barks. Claire could feel the vibrations
from the music and the crowd inching their way from her Keds all the way up her body.

“MythighgoesnumbwhenIpoo!” Syd yelled to Claire over the music, releasing her puppy to the grass.

Claire almost giggle-spat her drink. “What?” she yelled back, leaning closer.

“I said, the guy on drums is so cute!” Syd glanced down at the black lace bra that peeked out from beneath her slouchy sweater.
But instead of yanking up her V-neck in embarrassment, the way Alicia would have done, she inched it down a little further.

Claire looked up at the stage, shielding her eyes from the bright, swinging spotlights. The blonde on drums looked weirdly
familiar. How did she know that guy?

And then it hit her. It was Luke, Dylan’s new and supposedly improved crush. The upgrade reminder made Claire’s stomach churn.

Cara closed her eyes and rocked out on air drums to the beat of the music, not seeming to care if anybody was watching.

“Niiiice,” Syd laughed. “Looks like all those hours in front of the mirror paid off.”

“Please.” Cara opened her eyes and grinned. “Like you don’t do the same thing.” She waved at a guy in skater shorts who was
leading a Great Dane across the lawn.

“Nope.” Syd shook her head. “I’m on lead vocals.” She raised her glass to her lips like a microphone and pressed her index
finger into her left ear. “Except usually, my mic is my flat iron.”