Sealed with a Diss (15 page)

“Wait!” Massie gripped the black leather hand rest. “You’re in the ninth grade, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Then how can you drive?”

“It’s easy.” He smiled softly, exposing an ah-dorable white fang at the side of his mouth. “I hit the gas when I want to go and brake when I want to stop. The rest of the time I pray I don’t hit anyone.”

“Aw-nestly?” Massie’s heart revved.

“Yeah, why?” He turned to her, practically searing her lashes with his fiery blue eyes.

“Ummmm.” Massie stalled while considering her next move. If she seemed afraid, he wouldn’t think she was cool. If she seemed shocked, he wouldn’t think she was cool. If she did anything other than high-five him for being such an outlaw, he wouldn’t think she was cool.

“I love it!” She lifted her palm.

He lifted his.

They met and slapped. Electric currents shot up her arm.

He tilted his head back and cracked up. “You’re cool for a girl.”

“What’s
that
supposed to mean?” She tried not to sound like she was shopping for compliments, even though she was.

“It means, when I told Fawn I drove illegally she practically jumped out of the car.”

“Why would she do that?” Massie dug her nails into the bottom of her seat. “It seems like you know what you’re doing.”

“I do.” He grinned.

“How?”

“I have my license.”

Massie searched his face for an explanation. He revealed nothing.

“How?”
She giggle-insisted.

“I was held back a year for causing trouble. That’s why I got shipped off to boarding school in London.” He side-glanced at her, then quickly turned his attention back to the road. “Satisfied?”

She felt herself smile. “You don’t seem like a troublemaker.”

“You don’t seem like a kidnapper.”

“You’re funny,” Massie accidentally giggle-blurted, then blushed. She turned to the window to hide her cheeks and focused on a blond skateboarder rumbling down the rain-slicked sidewalk. He looked a little like Derrington.

She thought about her supposed boyfriend—a goofy, makes-you-wanna-laugh-out-loud kind of guy—and suddenly wondered if she had been selling herself short. After all, Chris was clever, Abercrombie hot, a licensed driver, and all around more mature. Massie was about to ask herself which one made a more “suitable” crush for the eighth grade. But the answer was ah-bvious.

“Now will you please tell me where we’re going?”

“Just drive.”

He snickered.

“See, girls aren’t so bad,” she told him.

“You’re not like most girls.”

“Puh-lease. There are tons of girls like me out there,” Massie lied.

“Yeah, maybe.”

“Really?”
she screeched. But she quickly remembered her mission: Skye… secure the room… ESP access… rule eighth grade… become boy expert… Massie forcibly put her ego aside. “You mean you think you can, you know, move on?”

He cupped her shoulder. “It’s very possible.” He squeezed.

A panic-bolt zipped through Massie’s entire body. Could he sense her terror? Did he realize he was dealing with an inexperienced lip-kisser? Or was he too smitten to care? What about Derrington? And
Skye
?

Massie leaned toward the radio, giving Chris and his electromagnetic love-palm the slip. An invisible handprint, hot and alive, lingered on her back long after he returned his hand to the wheel.

“Let’s have some fun!” She cranked up the volume.

Chris lowered his window.

They banged their heads to the final chorus of the Fray’s “How to Save a Life”
and kept on singing while the DJ announced the next block of songs. “But first”—he deepened his already deep voice—“here’s a little blast from the past for all you fools in luvvvv.”

They lowered their heads in preparation, and Massie couldn’t help giggling into her A-cups. Doubling on Derrington’s bike was so out.

Suddenly, a heartbroken pop star’s nasally lament whined through the speakers.

JoJo.

Ohh, no.

Come with me, stay the night

You say the words but boy it don’t feel right

Massie’s insides froze. Her nervous system flashed code red. A C-list DJ was ruining her plan!

Now what? Kill the volume? Start screaming? Fake barf?

Without a word, Chris poked the LCD screen on the dash and pressed OFF. His expression was similar to Bean’s when Massie left for school every morning—pitiful and forlorn. On one hand, his show of emotion was sweet. Derrington would never have the confidence to reveal his softer side. But on the other, it was disturbing. Chris was ah-bviously far from cured.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nuthin’.”

Massie immediately considered getting her jaw wired shut. How could she have been so stupid? According to ESP, guys
hated
that question.

He didn’t make another sound until they arrived at Jakkob’s salon.

“Here we are.” Massie tried to sound upbeat. “Park right in front.”

Chris pulled the key out of the ignition. “What are we doing at a hairdresser’s?” he practically spat. The smoldering light behind his blue eyes was fading fast.

Massie hurried out of the car and opened the door to Jak-kob’s salon. “There is nothing, and I mean nuh-
thing
, a new haircut won’t fix. Once you see your new look, you’ll have the confidence to move on and hang out with new—”

“I’m not a chick.” Chris sat firm, refusing to betray his manhood by leaving the car.

“Tell that to your hair,” she tease-shouted, eyeing the cute, chestnut-colored wings poking out from the side of his head.

“That bad?”

Massie discreetly crossed her fingers. “Worse.”

Chris lowered his head, stepped of the car, and followed her inside.

“Mahh-ssie.” Jakkob padded across the black marble floor of his moody salon in gray Gucci loafers, spreading his arms wider with each step, making it clear he expected a big hug. His dark McDreamy hair had recently been dyed Donatella-blond, making his ice-blue eyes and dark airbrushed skin pop.

“Jah-kk.” Massie shuffle-ran straight into his embrace.

His familiar smell—fruity conditioner, chemicals, and CK One—made her think of prepping for black-tie soirees, birthday parties, and any other event that called for a professional.

“Is that heem?” he muttered, his tightly trimmed goatee tickling her earlobe.

“Yup.”

When they broke apart, Jakkob oversmiled at Chris.

“Hull-uh, I’m Jah-kkob.” He extended a St. Tropez–tanned hand, which looked extra brown against the cuffs of his crisp lilac Thomas Pink button-down.

“Hey.” Chris shook politely, even though his darting eyes made it obvious he was searching for a way out.

Regardless, Massie bubbled with pride. She’d gotten Chris there on a moment’s notice and convinced Jakkob to clear his schedule. So they’d had a minor musical setback. Now that they were at the salon, everything was going to work out. A makeover would give Chris enough confidence to sweep Skye off her super-arched feet, and the Pretty Committee’s social status would be locked like an LV steamer trunk at curbside check-in.

“Come.” Jakkob put an arm around Chris and escorted him to the black marble styling station in the rear, where the only shot of color came from the bright red hair dryer hanging alongside the mirror. Massie trailed behind with delight.

“So, whaddaya say we make you ze best
you
poss-hible?” He raised the black velvet seat with a few pumps of his foot.

“Whatever.” Chris shrugged, avoiding the stylist’s eyes in the oval mirror.

Jakkob shot Massie a did-he-just-say-what-I-think-he-said look.

“What-
ever
?” Massie stood behind Chris, addressing his reflection. “Wrong answer.”

Jakkob nodded in agreement as he swung a red cape over Chris’s torso with the grace of a matador.

“What do you
want
me to say?”

Both Massie and Jakkob placed their hands on their hips, cocked their heads, and looked at him disapprovingly.

“What?”

“This cut is about so much more than a few highlights and a snip,” Massie insisted.

“Highlights?”
Chris’s face turned seasick green. “I’m a
guy
!”

“She’s right,” Jakkob continued. “Etz about taking cuhn-trol and making changez. And that meanz be-hing man enough to try zomething new. Even if your friendz aren’t doing eet.”

Massie’s tone softened. “Chris, I think what he means is, in life there are passengers and there are drivers. Be the driver, Chris. BTD.”

“Mmmm.”
Jakkob forced his hands through Chris’s tangled dark hair. “You need to drive.”

“Fine.” He sighed. “I’ll drive.”

They spent the next thirty minutes sipping lattes from gold china mugs and leafing through celebrity hairstyle magazines. Finally, they all agreed that Zac Efron’s cut and color would complement both Chris’s bone structure and skin tone. And they were right.

Two hours later, the light behind Chris’s eyes was illuminated once again, and his jawline looked sharp enough to file acrylics.

“I hate to braahhhg, but he looks incredi-bull,” Jakkob said to his reflection while Chris was in the bathroom.

“You’re a genius.” Massie slapped her Visa in his palm.

“It’s nice to zee you with han older boyfriend,” Jakkob mused as he walked the plastic card to his Aguilera-blond receptionist. “Derrin-tun was cute, but this one zeems better for you. Moh ma-ture. And your children? Zoopa-models foh sure.”

“He’s nawt my boyfriend,” Massie said unconvincingly. “I’m setting him up with a friend.”

“S’cuse me?” Jakkob slapped his heart in shock. “Would you just
give
Alicia those fahntaztik red motorcycle boots of yoh-rz?”

Massie beamed. Leave it to Jakkob to notice her boots. “
Nev
-er.”

Jakkob pursed his lips in a well-that’s-exactly-what-you’re-about-to-do-with-Chris-if-you-give-him-away sort of manner.

“It’s a long story,” Massie blurted, desperate for a subject change.

“Well, let’s ope it az a appy ending.” Jakkob oversmiled again as Chris joined their circle.

“Ah-greed.” Massie snickered at the enormous understatement.

“Thanks again, man.” Chris slapped Jakkob’s bicep.

“Pleasure.” He winked and then handed Massie her card. Massie winked back and followed Chris back to the Lexus, considering Jakkob’s advice. A hawt older guy with a driver’s license wouldn’t be the worst thing for her eighth-grade persona. It would be much more enviable than a perma-shorts-wearing soccer goalie.

Hmmmmm.

Shaking the dangerously impure thoughts from her head, Massie saved the ”Derrington vs. Chris” file as a “draft,” with plans to reopen it after Skye’s party.

“So?” she asked once they were zooming down Main Street.

“So what?” Chris gripped the wheel tighter than he needed to.

“Do you love it or do you luhhh-ve it?”

“It’s just a haircut.”

Massie felt her heart collapse like a crumpled love letter.

“Too many people think making changes on the outside will help them on the inside. But that’s not how life works.” He paused. “At least not mine.”

Massie shifted her body toward the window, wondering if the heavy sadness spreading inside of her was what LBRs often referred to as “failure”?

“Until now.”

“Huh?”

“I said, that’s not how my life worked until
now
.” He smiled peacefully at the yellow traffic light ahead and gently stepped on the brake. “You’re special, Massie.”

She continued to face the window. Only this time she felt light and buoyant, like “failure” had just been painted yellow and filled with helium. And despite Derrington and Skye and the bomb shelter and ESP, she couldn’t control her overwhelming need to return the compliment.

“I like your shirt.”

“I like
you
.”

They waited out the rest of the red light in awkward silence. Massie’s thoughts collided in her brain like smelly rock boys in a mosh pit. Temptation smashed into Guilt which crashed into Insecurity and bashed into Loyalty. It was impossible to isolate a single one and reason with it. They were moving too quickly and with more force than she could possibly harness.

“You remind me of Tricky,” Chris continued, once they were moving again.

Massie turned to him, her crinkled brows asking if that was a compliment or an insult.

“It’s a compliment,” he said, reading her mind. “You’re both sensitive. You’re both strong. And”—his navy eyes moved across her cheeks—“you’re both really well proportioned.”

Massie’s burning cheeks betrayed her again. She lifted her mint-green bag to her face and rummaged among tubes of Glossip Girl, purple ink pens, her Motorola Razr, her PalmPilot, her iPod, a YSL key chain, a black quilted Chanel makeup bag, and a mini photo album of Bean and Brownie, pretending to search for something incredibly important.

But then she saw the pulses of flashing blue light thumping inside like an alien’s heartbeat. It was the bell icon on Skye’s cheap digital watch.

And she turned red again, this time out of frustration and rage. She had three days left to convince Chris that
Skye
was the horse, not her. A possibility he didn’t seem the least bit open to.

Not that she blamed him.

B
RIARWOOD
A
CADEMY
W
AVE
P
OOL
D
EDICATION
C
EREMONY

Wednesday, April 28th

6:23
P.M.

“Clam diiiip,” burped Dylan.

Kemp Hurley and Chris Plovert laughed so hard they practically shot sea-foam-flavored seltzer from their nostrils.

“Try to remember you’re in public,” Alicia hissed loudly, probably hoping Josh Hotz might hear. But he was buried deep within the sushi-popping crowd with Derrington and Cam, dropping shrimp tails in women’s open handbags, killing time before the dedication ceremony.

The evening’s guest of honor—an enormous empty wave pool—spanned most of the roof atop Briarwood Academy’s main building. Any free spaces around its edges were filled with anxious wannabe surfers, proud donors, and the women who loved them. A clear plastic bubble overhead, the kind Claire first saw over the courts at the Blocks’ tennis club, kept everyone warm, while playing into the fish-tank motif the party planners seemed to be going for. Sexy mermaids glided through the pearl-clad crowd, offering oysters, steamed conch fritters, and lobster tails in low-fat butter sauce. And a string quartet dressed as penguins promised the crowd a night full of water-themed songs. “Octopus’s Garden” by the Beatles was the current selection.