My Little Phony - 13 (14 page)

The second she saw her living room, she stopped short.

Layne slammed into her back. “Woah, Nelly!” She grabbed Claire’s shoulders to steady herself.

“Um, Massie?” Claire said, taking in the transformed state of her living room. “What’s going on in here?”

Massie, wearing what looked like ripped silk boxers, stood in the center of the living room, sorting through a stack of DVDs. The lights were turned down low, and pillows from every room in the house—Claire’s
ORLAN-D
’
OH
! Simpsons pillow, her parents’ lacy shams, even Todd’s old SpongeBob novelty pillow—were strewn around the coffee table. All of her mother’s best candles were piled on the table next to a stack of old
Vogue
s. Bean was off to the side, snoozing on a pile of
Lucky
s.

Massie blinked in mock confusion. “What I do every Friday night. Host the PC’s sleepover.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Claire blinked back, showing that she wasn’t going to let Massie push her around. She crossed her arms and tilted her chin. “I forgot you had your weekly sleep-overs in the living room of
my
house.”

“Technically, it’s
mine,
” Massie answered, as if that explained everything.

“You’re unbelievable,” Claire muttered, gathering up the candles and putting them back in their boxes. Yes, technically the guesthouse belonged to the Blocks, but it was Claire’s
home
. That had to count for something, didn’t it?

Massie unpacked the candles again and placed a thick silver one on the table with a
bang
. “Wherever I am, the sleepover is. So, if I am forced to live in”—she looked around her, as if the room were a Salvation Army warehouse filled with coffee-stained furniture—“these conditions, this is where the sleepover will be.” She picked up a bottle of Crabtree & Evelyn Clean Cotton Room Spray and spritzed madly, like she was a firing squad executing smelly prisoners.

“Do you even still have friends? Or have you Lycra’d them out of your life?” Claire said, sneezing as a waft of cotton smell settled over her.

“Good job!” Layne said, smacking Claire on the back.

“I guess you’ll never know,” Massie shrugged, ignoring Layne. “Because you’re
nawt
invited.”

“Like we care. Layne and I already have plans for tonight. And they don’t involve lip-kissing our magazines.” She motioned to an old copy of
Vanity Fair
with Robert Pattinson on the cover.

Layne pulled a bag of mini carrots from her pockets and nibbled on one like it was a piece of corn. “Wait, who has big plans? We do?”

“Yes,” Claire said through gritted teeth. “Remember?”

“Oh. Right. Big plans.” Layne turned to Massie and put her hands on her black jeans–clad hips. “Huge plans. We can’t even talk about them because they’re so top secret.”

Massie rolled her eyes. “Well, I hope they don’t involve makeovers of any kind. The world can’t handle another follicle-challenged Lyons.”

Claire gasped.

Layne bit off the top of a carrot.

“Watch out, Block,” Claire snarled. “Karma’s real. And what goes around, comes around.”

Massie cocked a perfectly plucked brow. “Oh, you mean like my house getting infested with bugs?”

Claire blushed. Massie cocked her other brow as if to say
gotcha.

But Layne just picked up one of the candles and held it above her head. “No, I mean you won’t always be on top. What goes up, must come down.” She dropped it on the floor, where it cracked in half.

Claire grinned. She loved how smart her best friend was. “It’s a basic rule of gravity,” she added.

Massie nudged the candle remains with her bare foot. Claire was surprised to note that the big toenail was chipped, indicating that Massie was at least three days past pedicure prime. “Kuh-laire and Layme, do I look like a bowl of egg whites?”

“No,” Claire and Layne sighed in unison.

“Then why do you think you can beat me?” Massie said, picking up the candle pieces and crushing them in her hands.
“Just remember: Gravity doesn’t work in reverse—two LBRs like you will never rise to the top.”

Claire gasped. “Come on, Layne.” She stomped toward the stairs. Whenever she thought Massie’s meanness had reached its peak, the alpha would make another trek up Mean Everest.

As they reached the top step, Claire’s phone buzzed—“Somebody” by Kings of Leon, Cam’s signature ringtone. Four texts arrived, one after another:

Cam:
Reading about Joan of Arc 4 history class.

Cam:
Led French army by herself.

Cam:
Reminds me of u.

The final text was a picture of Cam giving a thumbs-up sign to a page of his textbook. Under a photo of the French warrior girl decked out in her armor and shield, he’d stuck a little Post-it that read:
CLAIRE OF ARC
.

Claire smiled. Cam was a better ego boost than a thinning mirror. And his smile was like an eraser, wiping away the overwhelming sense of anger and helplessness she’d just felt. His green eye reminded her that she
was
powerful and strong, and his blue eye, which was narrowed in a half wink, told her she was just the girl to overthrow Massie’s reign of bully-dom.

“That’s it!” she declared as she and Layne reached her room. So what if Massie had more money and better comebacks? Claire had Layne and Cam and her mom and dad. She
had a down-to-earth, affordable fashion sense and a new pair of lime green Keds that she had found ON SALE. And with those weapons at her disposal, she would usher in a new era of kindness and consideration, where it wasn’t which designer name was on the sole of your shoes that mattered, but the actual quality of your soul.

Claire closed the door and booted up her iTunes. The room was instantly filled with the notes of a Snow Patrol song, the first track of the
Wintry Mix
CD that Cam had made her for Thanksgiving. After checking outside, she pulled the shades down on her windows.

“Are we being spied on?” Layne hissed, glancing around furtively. “Do we need disguises? I just bought a new edible mustache at Spencer’s.”

Claire shook her head and began pacing back and forth, holding her hands behind her back, like a general getting ready for battle. Or like Claire of Arc preparing to storm the fortress of snobbery.

“Layne!” she said, punching the air with her fist. “The current administration has had us under its thumb for too long.”

“Obama?” Layne said. “But I like him.”

“Think smaller, Layne.”

Layne scratched her head with the carrot she’d just pulled out of her canvas bag. “Principal Burns?”

“Smaller,” Claire sighed. “Think of the girl who is, as we speak, unrolling designer sleeping bags in my living room.”

“Ah,” Layne said. “Got it. The ole Blockade.”

“Don’t you think it’s time for a change?”

“Down with the Massarchy!” Layne cried.

“No more head shavings of poor, defenseless little brothers. No more snide comments about affordable footwear. No more lice storms. No more efforts to control the hearts, minds, and crushes of the common eighth-grader,” Claire said defiantly.

Layne jumped off the bed, pulled the light green shade from a lamp, putting on her head like a helmet, and began marching. “Let’s Dolce their Gabbanas!”

Claire giggled. She had no idea what it meant, but she liked it. “Let’s kick them in their Guccis!”

“Drop poos on their Choos!”

“And sneeze on their silk tees.”

“And wham bam them in the L.A.M.B.”

“But there’s one more thing.” Claire paused and clasped her hands over her heart, a stance she had seen on the text Cam had sent. “We need to get the message to the people.”

“Done.” Layne pulled out her iPhone. “I’ll get Danh Bondak to help set up a rally, and I’ll Facebook every girl I know.”

Claire tapped her nose. “Perfect. But we’ll need a slogan. No great campaign is successful without one.”

“‘Kindness: Melts your heart, not your hands’?” Layne suggested, still typing intently on her iPhone.

Claire tugged her bangs. “What about ‘The Block stops here’?”

“Lacks pizzazz. Maybe something with
your
name.” Layne screwed her face up, like a baby getting ready to take a poo. “I’VE GOT IT!” she shouted a second later. “‘Dawn of a new Claire-a.’ Get it? Claire-era, but pronounced
Clara
.”

Claire clapped her hands. “Ohhh, I like it! You don’t think it’s too me-centric, though?”

“It’s you-centric in a good way. You embody all the qualities of our cause: down-to-earth, nice, on a budget.” Layne bent over Claire’s computer and changed the song to “Defying Gravity,” from the
Wicked
soundtrack.

Claire placed her hand on Layne’s shoulder. “Layne, will you be my second in command?”

Layne frowned. “I have a pretty full schedule of wax-lip bracelet making, and cyber-stalking Art from the lizard store. What exactly would this position entail?”

Claire sat down at her desk and opened up a new document. The little black cursor blinked back at her. “We need a manifesto.”

A squeal sounded from downstairs. Claire peeked out the window to see Alicia and Kristen waltzing in after Dylan. The scent of Angel wafted up the stairs, and Claire could hear air kisses down below.

“Sorry, we have to have the sleepover in this war zone…” Massie was shouting.

“Ohhh, SNAP!” Layne said.

“Commandment One!” Claire said, stabbing the keyboard with vigor. “Thou shalt put the ‘end’ in ‘bad friend.’”

“Good one!” Layne said, sitting up on her heels. “Thou shalt not drink the last of the rice milk eggnog without buying a suitable replacement!”

Claire giggled. “Or spray smelly
parfum
in other peoples’ houses.”

“Or call you insulting names that sound similar to your name but aren’t! Like
Layme
.”

“Or shave someone’s little brother bald!”

“Or mock your glue-gunning skillzzzz.”

“Or think friendship bracelets are for people without friends.”

“Or mock you for having an exotic palate.”

Claire typed with Beth Orton–esque passion. An hour later their masterpiece was done:

THE DAWN OF A NEW CLAIRE-A

Thou shalt put the “end” in “bad friend.”

Thou shalt not interfere with my friendships by spreading lice rumors or anything of the kind.

Thou shalt not say my name in vain.

Thou shalt uphold comfort over couture!

Thou shalt not think less of me for being middle-class.

Thou shalt not judge me on the amount of my allowance.

Thou shalt not tell me where I can sit at lunch. Freedom to graze must be granted.

Thou shalt not turn my friends against me during a fight.

Thou shalt not covet my crush.

Thou shalt not roll your eyes and talk about empty calories when sugar is being imbibed.

“Good work,” said Claire, reading over the list. “Now, we should probably take an oath and promise to forever live by and uphold these ideals.”

Layne held out her hand.

“Friends forever,” Claire said.

“Enemies never,” Layne said.

“No matter the weather,” Claire said.

“Always together!” Layne said.

“No matter what you wear-a,” Claire giggled.

“I will always… be… there-a?” Layne answered.

“We will live by these rules…”

“In and out of middle school!”

Claire could barely finish rhyming she was laughing so hard. “The dawn of a new…”

“Claire-a!” they finished together.

“Go, Mario, go!” Todd pumped one fist in the air as his Mario Kart racer shot across the finish line in first place. “Suck it, Bowser!” Todd jumped up. “Bald-head high-five!” He gave the side of his bald head a slap. The force of it knocked him backward, and he stumbled into the coffee table, knocking over the candles.

“Todd, will you PUH-LEASE turn that DOWN!” Massie yelled for the fourth time. “I am ON the PHONE!”

Actually she was on hold, listening to a jazzy instrumental version of “The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow” as she had been for the last fifteen minutes, waiting to speak to a supervisor. She had, it seemed, spent the entire
day
on the phone, waiting for people’s supervisors. And when she hadn’t been on hold with the credit card companies, she was on hold with the assistants to the high-profile personal shoppers who were checking to see if their bosses would consider lending Massie some clothes until her parents got back. But all day long, no matter to whom she’d been talking, the answer had been the same:
Sorry, there’s nothing we can do.