These Boots Are Made for Stalking (8 page)

Claire relaxed back in her chair. It looked like
The Real World: Westchester
was being canceled before it even premiered. She resisted the urge to leap across the table and bear-hug Layne. The girl
deserved an Oscar.

Suddenly, Massie reached across the table, grabbing the journal.

“Hey!” Layne lunged for the journal, but Massie held it out of her reach. “That’s mi—I mean, my brother’s!”

Massie flipped the notebook open to the last page, her amber eyes sliding back and forth. Seconds later, she slammed the open
journal onto the table.

“‘October 31st. Dear diary. Halloween is, like, the best holiday there is. Me and my ninth-grade friends can’t wait to do
all kinds of dirty stuff to all the eighth-grade OCD girls in trampy costumes. Especially the ones dressed like vampires.’”

Alicia gasped.

“‘But not my awesome sister, Layne,’” Massie continued dryly.

Claire’s stomach heaved. Suddenly, the warm sunlight beaming through the skylights felt like one of those overhead interrogation
lights on
CSI
. Tiny beads of sweat formed underneath her bangs, threatening to drip pale rivers down her lightly bronzed forehead.

“‘She’s totally un-slutty. Actually she’s, like, the coolest, most original—’” Massie stopped reading and held up the diary.
The pages were covered in glitter-marker scrawl. “Could you be any more ahbv-ious?” She rolled her eyes. “This is a total
fake.”

“Layyyyne!” Kristen swatted Layne’s puffy white arm with a rolled-up magazine.

Massie leveled her glowing amber eyes at Claire, like she could read her innermost thoughts. “Take your dia-ryuhhh and leave,
Layne,” she snapped, without shifting her gaze from Claire.

“Fine.” Layne swiped the journal from Massie’s grip, shoved back her chair, and apology-shrugged at Claire before stalking
off in her puffy coat.

Claire clenched her jaw. Strike one. And now that Massie’s scheme-dar was up, saving the males was going to take more than
a doctored diary.

It was going to take a miracle.

Normally, the Zen-inspired dry section of the Blocks’ spa was a stressed alpha’s haven. The polished leather couches were
inviting, the limestone fountain soothing, and the crackling fireplace comforting. If the feng shui space could talk, it would
have whispered,
Relaaaaaaahhhhhhxx
to every visitor who stepped through the sliding wooden door.

Except for today. Today, the spa screamed,
Ehmagawd-ninth-gradeboysaregoingtobehereinTWODAYSandI’mnawteven-CLOSEtobeingready!

With countless swimsuit rejects slung over the furniture,
Glamour
“Don’t” lists papering the walls, and three Sephora bags full of waterproof makeup testers crowding the marble-topped coffee
table, the spa was the opposite of relaxing. Not even Massie’s
Sounds of the Rainforest
CD or Aquiesse Green Tea Pear candles were helping.

Massie stretched out in corpse pose, her tensed shoulders craving a deep-tissue massage. She and the Pretty Committee had
scheduled a 9:00 p.m. conference call. She dialed Dylan on her iPhone and pressed
SPEAKER
.

“Time to get started,” she barked, jamming a fresh pair of cucumber slices over her eyes. “Everybody there?”

“Present,” Dylan mumbled over a mouthful of something crunchy.

“
Tankinis are so sixth, right?” Alicia said.

“Ninety-niiiiiine, one-hundy!” Kristen groaned. “These boys better like six-packs.”

Then the line went silent.

“Kuh-laire?” Massie prompted, rubbing her bare feet over the zebra-print ottoman. The prickly calf hair tickled her soles,
making her giggle.

“Study date with Cam,” Kristen said uncertainly. “She just IM’d.”

“Shocker.” These days, if it didn’t involve Cam, Layne, eighth, or gummies, Claire wasn’t interested. “First things first.
Research.”

Massie sat upright and reached for the lavender legal pad on the coffee table. The lukewarm cucumber slices plopped to the
floor, and she nudged them under the couch with her big toe. She flipped to the survey she’d created, which she’d told her
friends to send out to at least three older guys.

Please complete this top secret, ah-nonymous government survey and text back to sender NO LATER than Friday at 12 p.m. Participants
must be male and graduated from eighth. Anyone who does not meet these qualifications will be disqualified ay-sap. (This means
Cam, Kuh-laire.)

1. If I were attending a hot spa party hosted by even hotter alphas, I’d…

a) Snack on:_________________________

(insert fave snacks here)

b) Listen to: _________________________

(insert fave tunes/bands here)

c) Talk about: _________________________

(insert fave conversation topics here)

d) Play: _________________________

(insert fave party/video games here)

2. Cover-ups: Marisa Miller–hawt or Ugly Betty–nawt?

3. One pieces: Sexy mama or grandmama?

4. Spa treatments for boys are…

a) A must. How do you think Clooney’s T-zone stays so taut?

b) Not a deal breaker. But puh-lease, no girly-scented moisturizers.

c) A reason to RVSP
NO WAY
.

“So tell me your results,” Massie said. Hopefully, the other girls’ data would be enough to guide the party planning, since
she hadn’t had time to find any acceptable older boys to survey. It wasn’t that she didn’t know any. It was just that the
ones she did know were Landon Crane and Chris Abeley. And they already had her number in their phones, so what would be anonymous
about that? “Results? D, you first.”

The line went quiet again. The only sound in the spa was the croak of a rainforest tree frog and Dylan’s chewing.

“I’m waaaaaiting.” Massie dunked her hand in the nearest Sephora bag, retrieving a sample tube of Urban Decay Big Fatty waterproof
mascara. Should she go for thickening or lengthening? Blue-black or kohl? Waterproof or resistant? The number of decisions
she had to make before Friday was starting to feel overwhelming.

“Um… mymomtookawaymyphoneforgoingovermytext-limit.”

“You got your cell taken away.” Massie pinched a shimmering emerald Shoshanna bikini top between her toes and flung it across
the spa. It sailed over the coffee table and landed on one of the leather club chairs. “The cell you’re on right now.”

“What?” The crinkle of fabric against the receiver crackled in Massie’s ears. If she had to guess, it was a raincoat, probably
last year’s Burberry. “You’re breaking up!” Dylan yelled.

Massie selected a tube of indigo Nars and coated each of her lashes twice. “Kristen?”

Kristen swallowed. “Sorry. My mom made me swear not to text till after I finished my homework, and—”

“Am I the only one taking this upgrade seriously?” Massie snapped, layering on another coat of mascara. Her body was starting
to feel as heavy as her lashes. How was she supposed to pull off a spa party worthy of high school crushes with no menu, playlist,
party games, or conversation topics? “May I remind you that I already have an older crush?”

“I’ve got a survey,” Alicia piped up.

Given
. Massie should have known Alicia would come through for her when it came to all things crush-related. She scooted across
the floor and leaned against the foot of the leather sofa, allowing herself to relax a little. “Let’s hear it.”

Alicia cleared her throat, the way she always did before she used her best professional TV journalist voice. “If I were attending
a hot spa party hosted by even hotter alphas,” she crooned, “I would—”

“Snack on?” Massie prompted eagerly.

“Beluga caviar and a glass of Côte du Rhône.”

Huh?

“Listen to?”

“Mozart’s Concerto No. 13 in F Major.”

The back of Massie’s neck was starting to dampen. Were ninth-grade boys notorious for having horrible taste in music? Was
she supposed to know that already? Why weren’t Dylan and Kristen saying anything?

“Talk about?” she said, hoping her voice wasn’t trembling.

“Current trends in international law.”

Massie dropped the tube of mascara. “LEESH!” she screeched. “You did nawt survey your dad!”

“He’s an older man!” Alicia giggled.

“He’s FIFTY!” Massie groaned.

Dylan and Kristen cackled into the receiver.

“You know what?” Massie decided, stomping her bare foot on the carpet. “Never mind. I’ll plan it all myself.”

“Mass!” Alicia protested. “I was only joking!”

“Exactly,” Massie snapped. “And this upgrade is no joking matter. Do you want to be stuck with immature crushes for the rest
of your lives?”

Silence.

“I didn’t think so. Just be here Friday at six. And leave Mozart at home.” Before her friends could answer, Massie tapped
her iPhone screen, ending the call. Then she curled up into a ball at the foot of the sofa, wondering if she could fake bad
sushi for the rest of the week.

By Thursday afternoon, the only miracle Claire had witnessed was watching her brother, Todd, finish the rest of his Halloween
candy at breakfast without barfing it up on the way to school. So when Layne had texted Claire to meet in the basement bathroom
after sixth period to start Phase Two of Operation Save the Males, Claire had agreed. What choice did she have? She was more
desperate than the housewives of Orange County, New York, and Atlanta combined.

By the time she found the basement bathroom, which had been roped off and plastered with Layne’s handmade sign that read
OUT OF ORDER—IT’S PRETTY GROSS IN HERE
, Layne was already there, dressed in a long black trench coat, a black fedora, and giant bug-eye sunglasses.

“Thanks for meeting me here, Agent C,” she said in a low, serious voice. “Were you followed?” She led Claire across the checkered
tile and pushed open the beige door of the handicapped stall, motioning for Claire to go inside.

Claire giggle-rolled her eyes. “This is serious, Layne,” she said earnestly, ducking inside the stall and sitting on the closed
toilet lid.

“I knooooow.” Layne slammed the door shut behind her and slid the metal latch into place. “But do you love this coat, or do
you love this coat? I got it at the Salvation Army and it has hooks for all your stuff.” Layne undid the frayed sash on her
trench and whipped it open. Highlighters, Slim Jims, and Tootsie Pops lined the inside of her coat like she was a fake Rolex
vendor on the streets of Manhattan.

“Love it,” Claire said hurriedly. “Now can we get started?”

Layne whipped off her sunglasses and pulled her MacBook from her backpack. Then she crouched in the corner, using her bag
as a seat cushion, and fired up her computer. “Okay. Got your list?”

Claire reached inside her teal Mossimo triple-handle tote and pulled out her world history notebook. Instead of spending last
period taking notes on the decline of the Roman empire, she’d been jotting down ways to convince Massie that upgrading would
mean something way worse than Brutus stabbing Caesar: It would mean the complete and total ruin of the Pretty Committee.

Those last few selling points were more for Claire than Massie. But hopefully the other points would be enough.

Claire scribbled another heart in the margin next to
green eye
. “Ready?” Layne’s idea was to craft fake e-mails about the wonders of eighth, which would “accidentally” be sent to Massie.
And it had to work. Because Phase Three was… well, Phase Three was nonexistent.

“Just call me Hemingway.” Layne’s neon green painted fingertips hovered over the glowing keyboard. “Now shoot.”

“Ummmmm… ‘Dear Layne.’” Claire tapped the eraser end of her pencil against her teeth.

“Wrong.” Layne shook her head, her fingers still hovering in midair. “You never start your e-mails that way. You always just
start with… L.”

“Okay, fine,” Claire sighed, hugging her knees to her chest. “‘L.’”

Layne lowered her right index finger to the keyboard. “Done.”

“‘How are you? I was just thinking about how ah-mazing it is to be in eighth—’”

“Wrong,” Layne said again. “Sounds fake.”

“Layne! It
is
fake!” Claire huffed, exasperated. She would have taken a deep breath to calm herself down, but the sharp smell of Lysol
mixed with the sugary scent of Layne’s Hershey’s Genuine Chocolate Flavored Bubble Yum lip balm made her want to gag.

Layne lifted her palms in surrender. “Don’t shoot the e-mailer,” she said, lifting her fedora and scratching the top of her
head. “I’m just trying to make sure it sounds natural.”

“Right,” Claire snorted. “Natural, like your brother’s diary?” She air-quoted
your brother’s diary,
but instantly regretted it. It wasn’t Layne’s fault Massie could sniff out a fake entry faster than a Frauda.

Layne snorted. “Fair enough.”

Claire rested her chin on her knees. “Okay. ‘L. Found some pics of us in seventh the other day. Beyond funny. Can you believe
we’re almost halfway through eighth?’”