These Boots Are Made for Stalking (23 page)

“Meh.” Layne didn’t look enthused.

Claire checked her phone again.

“Girls!” Syd hurried out from behind the curtain and eased onto the stage, swinging her legs over the edge and depositing
an armful of bouquets next to her. “So… ?” Her baby blue eyes sparkled with excitement.

“Inspired,” Layne decided grandly.

“Couldn’t have been cuter.” Cara fanned herself with a folded program.

“Totally.” Claire nodded, wishing Massie wasn’t hogging all her attention from somewhere across town.

Syd bowed dramatically. When she swung upright again, she pushed a brunette lock behind her ear and looked at Claire.

“So whadja think?” she prompted with a kind smile.

I think I’ve had enough drama to last me a lifetime.
Claire used her palm as a visor to shield her eyes from the beaming stage lights. “About… ?”

“
Little Shop
auditions! You in?”

“I’m definitely thinking about it.” Claire sideswiped her bangs.

“I still have to find a song,” Cara announced. “I’ll probably do ‘Suddenly Seymour.’” She tilted her head back, closed her
eyes, and broke into song in the middle of the crowded theater. In seconds, Layne and Cara joined in. Even Claire sang along,
relaxing into her chair a little: “Suddenly Seymour! Is standing beside you! You don’t need no makeup! Don’t have to preteeeeeeend!”

“You know it!” Cara grinned. “Cool.”

Claire nodded. “It’s one of the songs on my show tunes karaoke mach—” She cut herself off, hoping the parents’ chatter and
the slapping of little-kid feet up and down the aisles had drowned her out.

But Syd and Cara didn’t roll their eyes at her or shoot her down with a snappy comeback. Instead, they leaned forward in excitement,
chattering at the same time.

“You have a karaoke machine!” Cara gasped. “No way! I’ve always wanted one of those!”

“Can we go try it out?” Syd plucked her lapel mic from her collar. “Like, now?”

“I call first song!” Layne smacked the stage with her palm.

Claire burst into relieved laughter. This was definitely not the reception she’d been expecting. She’d only mentioned singing
karaoke to the PC one time since moving to Westchester, and it had been her last. The Pretty Committee had shot it down with
the speed and precision of a highly trained firing squad. Massie pinky-swore up and down that the word
karaoke
was Japanese for
LBR
. Alicia said if anybody at OCD ever found out Claire even brought it up, she’d be forced to move to Spain to live with her
cousins, as part of the Westchester Protection Program. Kristen said she’d rather be playing soccer, and Dylan had come down
with bad sushi poisoning.

“CLAIRE!” Layne, Cara, and Syd yelled, bringing her back. “Let’s go!”

Syd jumped off the stage, landing with a thud next to Claire. “I can have my stuff together in five. Meet you outside.” She
hurried off to the dressing rooms, belting the second verse to “Suddenly Seymour” at the top of her lungs.

“’Kay.” Claire laughed, feeling the girls’ enthusiasm start to wash away her bad mood.

Layne grabbed Claire’s wrist and jerked her to standing. “Hurry it up, Chuck!”

“Coming!” Claire followed Layne and Cara down the theater aisle toward the exit. Maybe now she could finally leave the drama
behind.

Massie Block was a changed alpha. And not just on the inside. Her creamy-white cashmere Raw 7 sweater dress, delicate platinum
accessories, and crackled metallic flats announced to the Block Estate and surrounding areas that she was cleansed. Purified
of all her insecurities, fears, and doubts. Except the ones about lip-kissing ninth-grade boys. But she’d deal with those
later. For now, she had more important Pretty Committee business to attend to. First stop: the guesthouse.

She pumped the shiny handle on the sunroom door once, and a fresh flood of chilly afternoon air surrounded her. The late afternoon
light seemed almost transparent, highlighting her bronze-free cheekbones, iced pout, and shimmer-accented browbone like she
was a rare jewel on display at the Smithsonian.

Stepping outside, Massie closed the sunroom door behind her and glided over the freshly trimmed lawn, not worrying the slightest
bit about grass stains ruining her all-white ensemble.

Even her white D&G quilted leather Miss Glamorous bag felt lighter than usual. Inside, she’d packed only the necessities:
her subliminal confidence CD (kindling for the friendship bonfire she’d scheduled later that night, to renew her bonds with
the PC and start fresh with her crush), a new tube of Glossip Girl First Snow gloss, and a small bag of gummies as a peace
offering for Claire.

I wanted you to upgrade ’cause I thought if you didn’t, it meant we weren’t friends anymore. But now I get why you don’t want
to. For one thing, Cam’s pretty cute. More in a cheek-pinching kind of way than a lip-kissing kind of way, but still. Plus,
high school boys can be kind of scary. Trust me, I get that now.

Massie paused mid-apology, practicing giving Claire time to respond. Then she continued.

Ehmagawd, forgiven! I missed you too! No more fighting or lies. Pinky-swear.

The lights were on in the living room, making the guesthouse glow. Inside, Claire was probably practicing her own apology
in the mirror over the wing chair in the corner. Massie’s steps quickened, bringing her closer and closer to a reconciliation
with her friend.

The grass seemed to be shaking with anticipation the closer Massie got to the guesthouse. Confused, she paused in her tracks.
Tiny vibrations were shooting from the ground and through her flats, traveling to her heart. The delicate platinum hoops in
her ears trembled, like a minor earthquake had struck the backyard of the Block Estate. And the faint sounds of deaf cats
dying a slow, tortured death leaked from the guesthouse walls.

“Ehmagawd, Kuh-laire!” Massie plugged her ears and squinted toward the living room window. Then she picked up her pace, her
heart fearing the worst. Nothing good could possibly be happening anywhere near that agonizing—

Finally getting a closer glimpse into the living room windows, Massie froze like she was a perfectly styled ice sculpture
someone had accidentally left outside. She’d feared the worst, but nothing could have prepared her for what was happening
inside. She darted the final few feet to the window and crouched in the bushes, temporarily forgetting her no-more-stalking
rule.

If she hadn’t just finished a fresh mascara application—waterproof this time—she would have rubbed her eyes, to make sure
she wasn’t seeing things.

On the other side of the chilled glass panes, Claire, Layne, and the ninth-grade girls from last night’s party were in the
middle of the living room, each gripping a “microphone” with one hand and flailing wildly with the other. All the furniture
had been moved to the edges of the room, and the karaoke machine by the fireplace flickered with lyrics to a song Massie couldn’t
make out.

It had to be a show tune, though, because normal music didn’t call for this kind of epileptic fit. Leave it to Claire to be
a ninth-grade LBR magnet. Massie leaned closer, pressing her palms against the chilled glass. Giggling and dancing to the
music, Claire’s cheeks were flushed. And not in a cheek stain–induced way, but in a real way. Damp bangs matted to her forehead,
she looked… happy. Like Massie and the Pretty Committee were the last things on her mind.

Massie’s insides hardened. So Claire hadn’t been apologizing to her mirror. Instead, she’d been cheating on her with Layne
and two ninth-grade theater geeks.

Throat tightening, Massie’s palms slid down the dewy panes, leaving wet streaks that looked like tears. The heaviness she’d
felt just hours ago came barreling back, seeming to bolt her to the ground outside the guesthouse. How could Claire have recast
her this quickly? It was as if Massie had died, and Claire hadn’t even waited until after the funeral to find new friends.

Hot tears formed at the corners of Massie’s amber eyes. So this was what she meant to Claire. Nuh-thing. She’d been easier
to replace than an old blush brush. And not the Shu Uemura kind, with the softer-than-soft mink bristles. The synthetic kind,
from Duane Reade. The kind Claire would buy.

Finally, she couldn’t hold the tears back anymore, and they slid down her cheeks like tiny rivers of betrayal. Watching Claire
and her upgrades laughing and dancing together was torture, like getting a full-body wax in slow motion. But somehow, Massie
couldn’t bring herself to look away.

Crouched behind the worn, mustard-colored couch in the living room, Claire gripped her cordless flat iron and giggle-bounced
in perfect sync with her backup singers, waiting for her cue.

“Uh-FIVE, SIX, SEVEN, EIGHT!” Layne screeched into the mic she’d rigged to the guesthouse surround-sound system. She was standing
in the middle of the living room, directly in front of the shadeless brass floor lamp by the window that served as her spotlight.

Propped up on a blue side table in the corner, Claire’s old portable karaoke machine came to life, blasting the opening beats
of the intro to
Little Shop of Horrors
from the living room to the bedrooms upstairs.

Syd nudged Claire with a curling iron, and the three girls shot up, each holding their hair appliances–slash-mics to their
lips.

“Little Shop! Little Shop of Horrors!” Claire bellowed into her flat iron. “Little Shop! Little Shop of Terrors!”

Shimmying around the couch, Claire, Syd, and Cara joined Layne at the karaoke mic, singing at the top of their lungs to their
reflections in the living room window. Claire closed her eyes and threw her hands over her head, feeling the kind of freedom
that comes with not worrying about pit stains, being on key, or what anybody else is thinking. She hadn’t felt this free since…
well, since moving to Westchester.

Claire looped her arms around the ninth-grade girls, pulling them in for the final verse. She didn’t even bother fiddling
with her bangs, which were sweat-laminated to her forehead. With every note, she released some of the tension that had been
building up inside of her ever since Massie had first mentioned the upgrade. Slowly, her shoulders were starting to inch from
her CZ-adorned ears back to their normal position.

“Little Shop! Little Shop of Horrors! No, no, no, no, no, noooooooooooo!” Claire belted.

“CLLLLLLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIRRRRRRRRE!” From upstairs, Todd’s whine rose over the sound of the music. “TURN THAT OFF
OR I’M TELLLLLLIIINNNG!”

Claire side-glanced at the other girls, and they all dissolved in laughter. Layne gyrated over to the karaoke machine, cranking
up the volume even louder.

“WE CAN’T HEEAAAR YOOOUUU!” she screamed, wiggling her hips.

As Cara threw her head back and harmonized into a travel hair dryer, her loose blond waves swinging around her shoulders,
Claire caught Layne’s eye.

Layne winked, saying,
Do you love ’em, or do you love ’em?

Claire nodded. Spending time with ninth-grade girls was pretty much the same as hanging with girls in eighth, only with more
cleavage and public lip-kissing. And that was kind of… okay.

As the song wound down, Layne programmed an ensemble number from
Shrek: The Musical
into the machine. Whipping a cashmere throw from the wing chair in the corner, she threw it around her shoulders and free-danced
around the living room like she was possessed.

Claire’s stomach ached from laughing so hard. It was a signal to her brain that she’d finally found her niche. Friends who
were her perfect match, even if they were older. Ashton and Demi had had it right all along: Age really was nothing but a
num—

“AHHHHHHHHHHHH!” Claire screamed, suddenly catching a glimpse of a figure dressed in all white, hovering outside the frosty
living room window. Her heart leapt into her throat, and she staggered backwards, slamming into an oak console table.

Massie.

“AHHHHHHHHHHHH!” echo-sang Layne, Syd, and Cara, thinking Claire was ad-libbing. They threw their arms open wide and planted
their bare feet hip’s width apart.

Squinting from underneath her dampened bangs, Claire watched her friend. Massie seemed to be staring right through her, like
she was made of clear lip gloss. A sharp gust of wind swished through the trees in the yard, making Massie’s cream sweater
dress float around her knees. Suddenly, a single, shining tear tumbled down Massie’s cheek. And then another. And another.

Claire’s throat tightened as she watched Massie crying, softly at first, then harder. Soon, her thin shoulders had started
to shake. Seeing Massie Block cry reminded Claire of the time she’d seen her dad cry at Grampa Lyons’s funeral. Before that
moment, Claire hadn’t actually believed that her dad really ever cried, except that one time during the Super Bowl. Which
wasn’t really the same, since those were tears of joy.

“Has anybody seen my shoes?” she yelled over the music, dropping to her knees on the carpet. But the girls didn’t hear her.
Claire swallowed the guilt boulder lodged in her throat. She’d only meant to branch out a little with new friends, not hurt
the old ones. She was allowed to do that, wasn’t she? And it wasn’t like she could have invited Massie anyway, since she hadn’t
responded to any of Claire’s texts.

Finally, she found her shoes wedged underneath the couch. She shoved her feet into them, the tongues bunched around her toes,
and ran to the window.

Massie was still standing where Claire had left her. Only up close, she didn’t actually look sad. Her face was turning a deeper
and deeper shade of scarlet, and her hands were clenched at her sides. Her tear-filled amber eyes seared straight into Claire’s.

Claire took a step back, almost tripping over her laces. Massie wasn’t devastated. She was fuming.