My Little Phony - 13 (17 page)

Judi sighed wearily as Massie put some kibble in a bowl for Bean. The dog gave it a hesitant sniff. “I’m sorry, Bean,” she whispered, “but they don’t have au jus in this house.”

“Massie, sweetie, what kind of eggs do you want?” Mrs. Lyons asked, standing up.

Massie shrugged.

“Well, then it’ll just have to be a surprise!”

Mrs. Lyons wandered off, and Massie sat down at the table next to Todd. He was staring at her. She poured a bowl
of cereal and (
ugh!
) whole milk. When she looked up, he was still staring at her.

“WHAT?!”
Massie spat.

“You look like a spy in those glasses,” Todd said.

“You look like a cherry Tootsie Pop,” Massie replied.

Judi shot Massie a
be nice
frown.

“I thought you liked my baldness.”

“I bet you believe Santa Claus is real too,” Massie scoffed.

“What?” Todd swung around to face his mom, then turned back to Massie, his pointy jaw slack. From the kitchen, Judi made a slashing movement across her throat.

“Sorry.” Massie shrugged. “I thought he knew.”

Todd’s jaw dropped and his eyes went wide, like he’d been mortally wounded. When Mrs. Lyons came back into the room with a plate of eggs sunny-side up, Todd skulked out, mumbling an excuse about having to get ready for school.

Mrs. Lyons had a worried expression on her face.

“He had to find out some time. Have you seen my clothes?” Massie asked, ignoring the Santa drama. “They’ve gone missing.”

Mrs. Lyons frowned. “You’ve worn them for four days straight. I put them in the wash.”

“What?” Massie’s elbow slipped off the table in shock. “But they’re the only clothes I have!”

“Try Claire’s closet,” Mrs. Lyons said, hurrying after her son.

Wear Claire’s clothes!?
Massie could feel a lifetime of
alphaness unraveling like a sweater from Forever 21. But maybe, just maybe, there would be something of her own in Claire’s closet. She had given Claire hand-me-downs at times over the last year—maybe there was
something
salvageable.

The door to Claire’s bedroom was open. Her lemon-yellow CD locker stood at the far wall, and a now-worn sheepskin carpet was at the foot of the bed. Her Simpsons ORLAN-D’OH! pillow was on the floor. Massie stood in front of the closet and steeled herself.

She opened the silver-handled door and gasped.

It was emptier than Barney’s after the end-of-season sale. In fact, there were only two things hanging in there. A pair of OshKoshB’gosh overalls—the very same pair Claire had worn when she’d arrived in Westchester—and a very wrinkly powder pink T-shirt.

She had hidden
everything,
even her ironic Sesame Street tee. If Massie had still been friends with Claire, she’d have given twenty gossip points for this move.

But now…

“KUH-LAIRE!”

But the only response was a car door slamming. Massie ran to the window to see Mr. Lyonses’ beige Ford Taurus, with Claire in the front passenger seat, reversing out of the driveway. Exhaust billowed from the tailpipe like a poltergeist in the frigid air.

“She had to leave early,” Mrs. Lyons called, from downstairs. “Some school project.”

Massie stared at the overalls and the T-shirt. There was only one option now.

Massie clutched her stomach. “Judi!” she yelled, barely faking the agony in her voice. “I think I ate some bad sushi!”

Then she wrapped herself up in the rough sheets like a giant loser hand roll and stuck her tongue out at the elves. They seemed to be laughing at her.

“Kuh-laire,” Layne said in her best Massie voice as she surveyed the scene from the entrance to the New Green Café. Three eighth-graders walked by in slouchy blue, red, and green sweatpants. “Did I
authorize
a sweatpants parade?”

The girls flashed the
C
peace sign as they passed.

Claire giggled and led Layne to a table in the middle of the café. Even though she’d gotten almost no sleep the night before—Todd’s newts had clawed around in the gravel all night—she felt like she’d downed an entire case of 5-Hour Energy.

She knew her rally had been a success, but she also knew there was a big difference between what people would say in a parking lot and what they’d actually do when they got back inside the walls of OCD. But a lot of girls had chosen comfort over couture today, making Claire happier than when she was getting a whiff of Cam’s Drakkar Noir. It was the make-under of the century: At least thirty girls had put on sweatpants, stuffed their athletic-socked feet in fUggs, and traded in their contacts for chunky glasses.

But of all the changes at OCD today, the most surprising one was what had happened to Table 18. Since the beginning of time, or at least since before Claire moved to Westchester,
Table 18 had belonged to Massie and the PC. No one else would even dare walk too close to it, let alone try to sit there.

But today, on a cold Monday in December, Kori, Strawberry, Heather, and Meena had joined Claire and Layne at the table.

“And then we took the ostrich eggs and turned them into lamps,” Kori said. She was telling a story about visiting her grandmother’s ostrich farm in Texas.

“Will you pass the paisley paper?” Meena asked Heather, who passed her a stack of yellow and blue paper. The girls were folding hundreds of small, silky pieces of paper into cranes. Kori had told Claire that cranes were meant to bring a sick person good health, and the girls were planning to send them to a sick child in Westchester whom they had read about in the newspaper.

“Claire-a!” A seventh-grade girl in an extra-large
I
NEW YORK
T-shirt fist-bumped Claire and Layne as she walked by, her tray piled high with crème brulee
and
French fries.

“This might be the best day ever,” Claire declared as she finished a metallic red crane. Her toes were comfortable in her gray-and-baby-blue Skechers. She felt loose and un-Lycra’d in her zip-up hoodie. And her cheeks hurt from the grin that had been plastered on her face since she’d arrived at school and seen Meena and Heather in hemp pants.

“One of the lunch ladies told me they can’t keep up with the dessert orders!” Layne said, slurping down her avocado smoothie.

“The rice pudding is amazing!” Olivia exclaimed, eating a large spoonful.

Claire’s smile broadened even further. She reached up and pushed her cheeks toward her lips. If she wasn’t careful, she’d end up looking like the Joker.

A girl named Nancy Sims stopped by the table. “Layne, if I live near Five Corners, which bus should I take?”

Layne pulled out her clipboard. “The W24.”

“Thanks!” Nancy said, flashing a
C
before skipping off.

“Nicely done!” Claire high-fived her friend.

Layne tipped her clipboard toward Claire. “I have fifty ‘I’m on a Bus’ signatures.” In honor of the new Claire-a, Layne had launched an “Eco over Ego” campaign to reduce OCD’s carbon footprint. She wanted to revamp the whole bus experience by promising to provide top-100 mixes to be played during the ride; she was going to petition the school board to map out newly planned bus routes that would take them past the boys’ school. “A lot of the girls said they were going to take public transportation on the weekends, too, so their parents won’t have to drive as much. And Danh Bondak told me he’s going to see if the country club will rent out golf carts to underage drivers, to promote electric cars.”

Becca Wilder and Rachel Walker approached, wearing matching OCD sweatshirts.

“OMG, Claire, you’ve changed my life!” Becca gushed. “I’ve been pretending to not understand algebra all year, because Massie once said that algebras are for algeboobs and who needs math when you have an iPhone. But this morning, I finally admitted that I’m a math genius. I aced my exam!”

“THANK YOU!” Rachel exclaimed, her auburn hair flying forward as she took Claire by the shoulders. She stuck a foot in the air—on it was a bright purple bunny slipper. “Thank you for making it safe to wear comfortable shoes for the first time in my entire life. Alicia said I looked like a deranged school mascot, but I didn’t even care!”

“No problem,” Claire said, waving her own sneakers at Rachel. “Happy to help.”

BAM!

The sound of a door banging open and hitting the wall cut through the air, and the entire café went silent.

“Uh-oh.” Layne pointed. “Here comes trouble.”

In the doorway stood Kristen, Dylan, and Alicia, looking as stunned as Taylor Swift during the 2009 VMAs when Kanye stole her acceptance speech. Kristen put her hands on her skinny-jeaned hips. Alicia crossed her arms over her C-cups.

“Chaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaos,” Dylan burped, tugging on the ends of her red hair.

“I think… I may faint,” Alicia said, breathing into a paper bag.

Kristen reached out a hand to steady her friend. “It’s okay,” she said. “We’re obviously dreaming. In a second we’ll wake up and everything will be back to normal.”

“I don’t think this is a dream,” Dylan said, gawking at the trays of two girls walking past, laden with French fries and chocolate cheesecake.

One by one, the girls took out their phones and started
dialing, no doubt sending an SOS to Massie, who—as Claire had expected—was a no-show. She was probably still standing in front of the closet, staring at the lone pair of overalls. In retrospect, Claire felt a teeny bit bad about leaving her ex-friend nothing to wear. But this was war, and Massie had stolen her room first.

Alicia’s knees started to buckle, and she grabbed onto Kristen for support. “Look,” she yelled, pointing at Kori and the cranes. “There are LBRs at our table.”

Kristen’s mouth fell open. Dylan gasped.

Layne let out a little giggle. “I’m so glad they started selling chocolate-covered popcorn, because I’m going to need it to watch this show.”

The three girls crossed to what had always been their table with the caution of a bunch of lab-coated scientists approaching a family of gorillas. When they got to Table 18, it took Alicia several
echem
s before anyone took notice of them.

“Oh, hello!” Strawberry said brightly, when she finally looked up from folding a crane. “How are you?”

“Um,” Alicia said, her voice cracking. “I’m going to have to have Rosette, my cleaning woman, come disinfect this table. If you get up right now, I won’t bill you for the case of Lysol.”

The girls at the table looked at one another. Claire widened her eyes at Layne, telling her telepathically to give the others a chance to stand up for themselves first.

Then Kori said, “Well, we’re already making great
headway into our crane project, and we can’t really move everything now. Why don’t you join in and help?”

“Yes,” Claire agreed, motioning to an empty chair. “Come sit.”

“I don’t want to make a bunch of weird birds out of garbage,” Alicia said, ignoring Claire.

“They’re not weird birds,” Kori explained. “They’re paper cranes.”

“Well, maybe some of your little cranes can lift you up and fly you somewhere else. This is our table, and you’re sitting at it,” Alicia said. Her hands were on her hips and her glossed lips were pursed.

“There’s plenty of room, why don’t you just sit with us?” Strawberry said. A few of the girls moved their things to make room for the PC.

“We could show you how to make them,” Meena said. “And you could have some of my sweet potato fries.”

Dylan started to reach out to take a couple, but Alicia smacked her hand away. “We don’t sit with losers,” she hissed.

“Yeah, we sit
on
them,” said Dylan, managing to snag a fry.

A moment passed.

“You’re going to sit on us?” Strawberry bit her lip, clearly trying not to laugh.

“Ouch,” said Kori. “That would probably hurt.”

Dylan whipped the fry at Kori.

Kori took out a spray bottle.