My Little Phony - 13 (4 page)

“Prada!” said Alicia.

“Nada,” said Massie. “A little
too
sophisticated.”

Dylan held up a black sequined top. “Marc always knows what men like.”

“Maybe something French?” Alicia tried, slipping into a nude Lacroix heel.

Kristen’s green eyes widened. “Ehmagawd. What if Landon wants to kiss you…
en français
?”

“In French class?” Dylan asked.

“No, like THIS!” Alicia stuck out her tongue and waggled it around. Kristen exploded into laughter. Dylan made fake smooching sounds. Massie tried her very best not to melt into a puddle of Chanel No. 19–scented sweat.

What if Landon was into extreme lip-kissing? She had seen people do it in movies, and there seemed to be a lot of neck movement involved. But what was actually going on
inside
their mouth? It was like the tapered harem pants trend—totally baffling.

But the alpha couldn’t expose her jumpy nerves. Her betas expected her to know everything and to approach life with confidence and knowledge. Instinctively, Massie peeked out at the guesthouse again. Her subconscious guided her toward Claire, just as it always did during times of insecurity. But she was nowhere in sight. Massie would have to deal with this one alone.

Her iPhone
bwoop
ed again.

Landon:
Is that a yes?

“Someone’s hungry for some cake,” Alicia giggled.

“Too bad,” Massie declared authoritatively. “
No one’s
eating
cake
with all that H1N1 going around. It’s unsafe!”

“Puh-lease,” Alicia rolled her big brown eyes. “That’s so last year.”

Dylan took a swig of her Red Bull. “Swiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiine fluuuuuuuuuuu,” she burped.

Kristen laughed so hard, she snorted like a pig.

“See?” Massie pointed. “Kristen just got it!”

“Whatevs.” Alicia petted her faux-rabbit pillowcase. “I’d get the
swine
from someone that
fine
.” She grabbed Massie’s iPhone.

“Hey!” Massie lunged toward her like she was at a Tory Burch sample sale and Alicia was the last pair of gold-embellished T-strap wedge sandals. “Give that back!”

“I WANT UR LIPS TO LAND ON ME!” Alicia typed, her fingers flying over the keypad. “Get it?” she asked. “LAND-on.”

Massie grabbed Alicia’s arm, knocking the phone to the floor. She reached for it, but Kristen busted out some crazy soccer move and leg-swept it away. Then, lifting it with her toes, Kristen popped it into her hand.

“Impressive,” Dylan marveled.

Kristen smiled her thanks while she typed. “LET’S SWAP SWINE!”

Dylan grabbed the phone. “I’ve got it: HAVE YOUR CAKE AND EAT IT TOO… OFF MY LIPS.”

“Hand that over, or I’m going to give you the Todd Cut while you’re sleeping!” Massie growled.

Dylan tossed her the phone. Massie caught it in her right hand, her thumb grazing the screen.

Bwoooooop!

Oh no.

No.

No no no no noooo.

The snow outside seemed to stop swirling. Dylan froze mid-laugh. Alicia paused mid-gloss. Kristen’s mouth fixed in a round
O
. Bean rolled over and played dead. Massie wished she would die for real.

“Eh-ma-killmenow!” she wailed. “That message just got sent!”

After a quick exchange of nervous glances, the girls snapped into emergency advice mode.

“Maybe he lost his phone,” Dylan said quietly.

“Maybe he went blind,” Kristen offered.

“Maybe Bark chewed his phone,” Alicia tried.

“Yeah,” Dylan added. “Like an iBone.”

“Opposite of funny!” Massie wailed.

Just then she heard the tune from “You Belong with Me”—Landon’s exclusive ringtone.

Landon:
U read my mind.

“Ehmagawd,” Massie gasped. “He thinks I sent those! Now what?”

Alicia tossed Massie her dented tube of Clarins lip balm. “Start moisturizing, that’s what.”

A yogurt-cover pretzel began inching its way back up Massie’s throat. It was obviously freaking out, too, and eager to escape. If only it could take her with it.

Claire grinned and tugged on the tassels of her new blue hat. Life was good.

When she’d first learned of Massie’s Friday-night sleep-overs, she’d envisioned late nights full of bedazzling, crafting friendship bracelets and gum-wrapper chains,
Gilmore Girls
marathons, and pajama dance parties. And then she’d actually attended one and her vision was scared away, leaving behind a dust cloud of shattered dreams and an overnight bag filled with unstrung beads and fishing wire.

But now, after a yearlong absence, those sleepover visions had finally returned. Only this time, they were real. And even better than she had imagined.

Claire and her mom had transformed their cozy living room into a veritable Candy Land. Overflowing bowls of marshmallows, graham crackers, Hershey’s chocolate bars, gummy feet, and jelly beans tempted her guests to indulge their sweet teeth and fatten their funny bones. Sugar substitutes and the dreaded
f
-words—“fat” and “free”—were not invited.

“Beep… beep… beep,” Layne said, impersonating a truck while she backed a triple-decker s’more into her mouth. Her nostrils flared as she attempted to chew the wide
load. Claire gagged a little as Layne’s green eyes began to water.

“Ahhhhh.” Layne finally swallowed. “Those remind me of Girl Scouts.”

“You were a Girl Scout?” Cara asked while sideswiping her bangs.

“No.” Layne lay back on the sage-colored carpet and rubbed her protruding belly. “I’m talking about the cookies. If they gave out badges for eating those things, I’d look like a patchwork quilt.”

“You’re going to look like a duvet if you don’t ease up,” Claire joked.

Layne lifted her head and shot her friend a pained glance. It stung like a slap on the cheek.

Claire quickly apologized. Not so much because she’d insulted Layne, but because her comment had sounded judgmental and controlling. In fact, it bordered on fat-phobic. It was a Massie comment. Like a cough that lingers after the cold is gone, Claire still had traces of the alpha in her system. For that she truly was truly sorry, and she popped two marshmallows in her mouth to prove it.

Layne showed her that all was forgiven with a soft smile and the renewed desire to decorate her toenails with mini rhinestones.

Syd sat cross-legged at the wooden coffee table, sewing soda-can tabs onto a sustainable metallic clutch, the tip of her tongue sticking out between her gold-glossed lips. Cara was making an eco-friendly makeup brush holder out of recycled Popsicle sticks.

“Do you think I should make a separate one for eyeliner or just put them all in the same holder?” Cara asked.

“What leaves a smaller carbon footprint?” Syd replied, with a sewing needle between her lips.

“Smaller carbon feet,” Layne offered.

The girls burst out laughing.

“Like these?” Claire wiggled her toes inside her fuzzy, googley-eyed frog socks, and the girls laughed even harder.

Massie would have thought Layne’s joke was lame times ten—and that Claire’s socks were an insult to amphibians. But Claire quickly reminded herself that Massie’s opinions no longer mattered. Sure, the hat was a nice gesture. But it wasn’t enough to make Claire turn against her new friends. Nothing was—or would ever be again.

“Hey, Syd,” Layne said, waving her rhinestones dry. “Do ninth-grade boys like independent women?”

Syd pushed her clutch aside and contemplated the question. She obviously took great pride in being the only girl at the sleepover with a high school boyfriend. And she clearly wanted to give her impressionable students sound advice. “I think it depends on the guy.” She sat up on her knees and folded her hands on the coffee table. “Like Doug, for example. He’s glad I have plans with you guys tonight, but that’s only because he doesn’t have band practice. If he had practice, he’d definitely want me there.” She glanced at the home screen on her phone. It was a picture of Doug and his reggae band, Smells Like Uncle Hugh, standing in front of a Bob Marley poster at Spencer Gifts. “So I guess it’s all about balance and communication.”

Cara nodded in agreement.

“So which musicians make the best boyfriends?” Claire asked.

The girls looked at her with devilish curiosity.

“No,” Claire giggled nervously. “It’s not like that. I was just wondering. I swear. Cam and I are great.” Her cheeks burned.

“Well”—Syd leaned forward on her elbows—“if you’re ever looking for an upgrade, I’d say go for the drummer.”

They asked her why.

“He’s all the way in the back,” she explained. “He gets no attention whatsoever, so his ego is typically smaller—”

“And you know what they say about drummers with small egos,” Cara snickered.

Layne and Claire exchanged confused glances.

“Big sticks!” the ninth graders shouted together.

Layne, her feet stretched out in front of her, speed-scooted her butt closer to the coffee table. “What else?”

“Dictation!” Syd insisted.

Claire and Layne cracked the spines of their newly purchased recycled notebooks, their matching scented glow-in-the-dark candy cane pens hovering above the wood-flecked paper. They were ready for their daily dose of high school wisdom.

“Syd and Cara’s Guy-dlines,” Syd announced.

Claire copied down the title and underlined it twice.

“Number one,” Cara began. “Guys who listen, we’ll be kissin’.”

“If his style is lame, he’s got no game,” Syd continued.

One by one, the girls took turns reciting their Guy-dlines while Claire and Layne wrote at a fat-burning pace.

If he uses too much mousse, cut him loose.

If he’s mean, he’s off the scene.

If he’s a flirt, make him hurt.

If he loves your pet, you’re all set.

If he calls you fat, block him on G-chat.

If he has BO, the answer is
no.

If he doesn’t own soap, the answer is
nope
.

If bikini babes are on his walls, screen his calls.

If he makes good jokes, return his Facebook pokes.

Acting like a mute is
so
not cute.

If he won’t admit to crying, he’s heartless or lying!

T-zone too slick? Make a new pick.

If he ignores you at school, the guy’s a fool.