Massie (10 page)

MAIN STREET

SOUTHAMPTON

Monday, June 29
10:58 A.M.

Massie strolled down Main Street with her mother and openly applied two generous coats of Vanilla Espresso Bean–flavored Glossip Girl to her lips. Finally! No more hiding. The days of pretending Be Shiny lip gloss was more moisturizing were over.

“I’m ready.” Massie tightened the knot on her silk Pucci hair wrap and checked her Marc by Marc Jacobs orange wide-strap watch for the millionth time that morning. “Two minutes before they open.”

“Okay.” Kendra pulled a vellum envelope out of her navy Chanel clutch. “Here you go.”

Massie tore it open, desperate for what was inside. “Yes!” she shouted, and then gave the silver Visa a big glossy kiss. “Mwah! Welcome home.”

Kendra pushed back the sleeves on her white Catherine Malandrino shirtdress with a pleased smile. “You deserve it. Your father and I are very proud of you.”

The compliments were nice, but all Massie really wanted to hear was, “Come on in,” from the manager at Intermix. And she would, in exactly fifty-eight seconds, when the trendy store opened.

“I never imagined you’d be able to pay us back for Galwaugh in a week.” Kendra finger-swatted her blowout away from her face. “We are so impressed with—”

The glass door clicked open, allowing a gust of chilly air to rush out of the all-white store and blow by Massie’s face like a floral-scented burp.

“Thanks, Mom, I’ll meet you at Savory’s for lunch in forty-five minutes,” Massie said to a jewel toned dress–wearing mannequin in the window.

“Sounds great—have fun.” Kendra
click-clack
ed off to buy a new tennis outfit.

Massie checked her reflection in the window, knowing she was about to make a very big impression on some very small people. She’d paired a turquoise Thread Social mini dress with flat gold Prada thong sandals and white drop earrings.

“Ten,” she said to herself with a giddy giggle, and then entered.

With an eye on the blond pixie working the register, Massie marched past the tidy silver racks of Chloé, Mint, Ella Moss, and Theory. She had all summer for those. All she needed now were her sunglasses. The kind Nicole Richie wore by the pool in Vegas over Memorial Day weekend. The kind everyone tried to get after they saw her picture in
US Weekly.
The kind that Massie tried to get before Galwaugh.

The kind that had a list.

“Can I help you?” asked the salesgirl without looking up from her article on Brad and Angelina’s latest adoptee.

“A pair of gold-framed oversize gold D&G sunglasses, please. Style code c-71—”

“Don’t bother.” The girl slid a clipboard across the counter. A stack of coffee-stained pages were sloppily attached.

“Enteryournameemailaddresscellphonenumber.We’ll-callyouwhenwegetmore.” She clicked a pink Intermix pen and slammed it down on the stack.

“I’m already on the list,” Massie informed her.

“Then we’ll call you if they come in.” The girl flipped a page in
US Weekly
and yawned.

“You don’t understand.” Massie pushed the clipboard aside. “You can take me off the list and just give me the glasses. And don’t bother with a bag. I’ll be wearing them home.”

The salesgirl finally looked up. “You’re looking at a five-year wait. I couldn’t get you those glasses even if my name was Ivanka.” She gave Massie a searing once-over.

Just then, a skinny blond salesguy burst through the front door of the store like he was making his Broadway debut and quickly put on a headset. “Sorry I’m laaaaaate. Mandy Moore was on Martha talking about how comfortable she is being a size eight and you know what a sucker I am for a good comedy.”

“You wanna laugh even harder?” the girl asked.

The salesguy, whose name tag read
STEVEN
, nodded as he lifted his
FASHION IS EASY . . . JUST LIKE YOU
T-shirt until it revealed a tuft of blond stomach hair just above his jeans. Ew.

“This girl thinks she’s walking out of here with a pair of gold D&Gs.”

He burst out laughing while assessing his tiny butt in the slimming wall mirror.

It was go time. Massie loosened the knot on her hair wrap, letting her glossy layers tumble to her shoulders. She stepped under a track light and tilted her head to the left, revealing an unmistakable purple streak.

The girl’s angular jaw dropped.

Steven gasped.

“Code purple,”
he whisper-shouted into his headset. “Repeat,
code purple
.” He kept his eyes fixed on Massie’s streak. “It
means
, Mark, that we’ve got a purple streak in the store, and she wants a pair of the gold-framed D&Gs. Now
move
!” He nodded apologetically at Massie. “It’ll just take a second. In fact, I’m sure Moira would be happy to run back there and speed things up a little.”

“Happy to.” Moira scurried to the back of the store, her red skinny jeans revealing the pink lace on her Cosabellas.

“Thaaanks, Moira,” Massie giggle-called after her.

“Party Like a Rock Star” throbbed over the speakers as Steven sashayed across the store and flipped the lock on the front door. “So you can shop in peace,” he explained to Massie. “Can I get you anything, Miss . . . ?”

“Block. Massie Block.”

“Cappuccino?”

Massie crossed the store. “That’s all for now, thank you.”

She stood smiling at her own ingenuity. All it had taken was a sympathetic eyelash bat, one hug from Anastasia, and some quick fingers. And like in that old game Operation, Massie had lifted that purple pen out of its holster with extreme precision and dropped it in her bag.

“Here we are. Our very last pair.” Moira returned from the back clutching a metallic bronze D&G sunglasses case. She held it out to Massie. “Is this what you wanted, miss?”

“Exactly.” Massie smiled, clicking open the smooth metallic box.

She peered down at the magnificent gold-framed glasses nestled in the velvet-lined case and beamed. She lifted them out and slid them on. They felt heavy. Solid. And very, very exclusive. Massie slapped down her Visa and turned to admire herself in the round countertop accessories mirror. Her hair was swept over one shoulder and gleamed as brightly as her new frames.

Purple and gold were a winning combination—one that suited her perfectly.

CURRENT STATE OF THE UNION

IN	OUT
Glossip Girl	Be Pretty
Summer breezes	Anastasia Brees
Me

Now that you know the secret of the streak, you’re one step closer to being
IN
. In the know, that is. . . .

Five girls. Five stories. One ah-mazing summer.

THE CLIQUE

SUMMER COLLECTION

BY LISI HARRISON

Turn the page for a sneak peek of Dylan’s story. . . .

THE CLIQUE

SUMMER COLLECTION

DYLAN

DAILY GRIND
PRIVATE JET

35,000 FEET

Monday, June 29
9:55 A.M.

Dylan Marvil sat across from her famous mother on the
Daily Grind
’s private jet en route to a spa in Hawaii, wondering why anyone in their right mind would
choose
to fly commercial. The luxe cabin was papered with interlocking
D
’s and
G
’s; the seats were made of butter-soft tan leather; and the in-flight movie was anything she wanted it to be. The only thing missing was a silver spoon for her fat-free triple chocolate banana spilt. Thank Gawd the petite brunette in the cute navy mini dress was rushing one right over.

Dylan gratefully took the spoon and swallowed a mouthful of cold, creamy deliciousness. “Ahhh! Brain-freeze!” she shouted as the icy coldness shot straight up to her scarlet roots.

Without lifting her emerald green eyes, Merri-Lee Marvil tossed a snowy white cashmere throw on her daughter’s lap and returned to her thick file on Svetlana Slootskyia, the teen tennis phenom and current
Maxim
cover girl. She reclined in her seat, tucked her burgundy blowout behind her ears, and began flipping through the research material her assistant, Cassidy Wolfe, had prepared for her upcoming interview.

Until Svetlana, the only thing tennis-related Dylan had ever noticed was the sparkling diamond bracelet glinting on her mother’s wrist. But these days, “Tennis the Menace” was impossible to ignore.

At first she made headlines for her blond hotness. But then she TMZ’ed her way onto Dylan’s radar when she whipped her racquet at a ball girl’s teeth after losing some majorly important match. And this was only four days after she smashed her boyfriend in the mouth with a yellow Dunlop because he smile-thanked the soda girl for his Pepsi. After twelve weeks of anger management therapy, she emerged to scores of paparazzi, all of them hoping to snap
her
when she snapped again.

Now, every entertainment journalist from Maria Menounos to Nancy O’Dell was tripping over her Manolos to get a post-rehab interview with Svetlana. But it was more impossible to land than Chanel’s Black Tulip nail polish, since Merri-Lee had bought the rights to the Slootskyia story the second Svetlana’s Wilson KFactor collided with Ali Chipley’s incisors.

“Ha! I’ll show
her,
” Merri-Lee blurted, scribbling something on her yellow legal pad.

“Who?” Dylan licked the silver dessert spoon and dropped it in the fat-free chocolate soup that was starting to congeal on the bottom of her crystal bowl.

“Barbara Walters. She’s not the only one willing to go
there
.”

It was the interview of the season, and Merri-Lee was determined to deliver high drama. But to Dylan, Svetlana was little more than a first-class ticket to five-star fat camp.

She was a celebrity-style opportunity to drop the four pounds she’d gained while trying to show Kemp Hurley and Chris Plovert that she wasn’t a prissy girly girl who fussed over calories. Even though she was.

After a short snooze and a steaming lavender-scented face towel, Dylan threw the blanket off her emerald green Juicy puff-sleeved hoodie and, out of pure boredom, reached for a stack of Merri-Lee’s research materials. She scanned the headlines next to various photographs of Svetlana petting her thick side-braid.
BLOND BOMBSHELL EXPLODES . . . BALL GIRL’S TEETH SOLD ON EBAY . . . NIKE SWOOSHES TO SVETLANA’S RESCUE WITH AN ENDORSEMENT DEAL. . . .

Dylan flipped through dozens of pictures and then sighed hopelessly. Every picture showed Svetlana in some bland white dress and athletic sneakers. Suhhh-noooozer!

“Mom, do you think there will be anyone my age who’s
not
into tennis?”

“Cass!” Merri-Lee called back to her assistant, ignoring her daughter. “Are we confirmed on all of Svetlana’s must-haves?”

Cassidy unbuckled her gold
DG
-stamped seat belt and appeared between Merri-Lee and Dylan on the brocade-carpeted aisle. Her auburn curls were pinch-clamped to the back of her head by a clear Scunci jaw clip.

“Spirulina detox smoothies, all the recent tabloids with all photos of Paris Hilton removed, thirty packs of orange Tic Tacs, Tocca candles in lemon verbena, unscented baby wipes instead of toilet paper, and a gray kitty cat with haunting blue eyes.” She tapped her pad with the tip of her pencil.

“We’re all set.”

“Fan-tastic.”

Cassidy turned on her ivory espadrilles and wobble-bounced back to her seat.

Suddenly, the plane dipped. It quickly recovered, but the sinking feeling in Dylan’s stomach remained. Was she doomed to spend her spa vacation watching her mother kiss some blond Russian’s ultra-toned butt? Gawd! Just because
she
wasn’t famous or blond or toned or violent didn’t mean she deserved to be ignored.

“Aloha. We will now begin our initial descent into Honolulu. They had quite a thunderstorm last night, so everything will be beautiful and fresh for your arrival. . . .” The pilot’s smooth voice sent an anxious ripple through Dylan’s undefined abs.

Ehmagawd! Fresh!
It was time to make a fresh start.

No more comparing herself to Svetlana, or
anyone
. The next three weeks would be all about
Dylan
learning to love Dylan
.
No more super-skinny Westchester girls to compete with. No more alphas to obey. No more pretending to be someone she wasn’t. No more crushing on boys who didn’t crush back. Starting now, Dylan’s raison d’être would be about making summer goals and reaching them. Her days of feeling inadequate were over.

And if anyone wanted to witness a real temper tantrum, all they had to do was stand in her way.