These Boots Are Made for Stalking (12 page)

Above the ankles, a pair of bleach-stained jeans were rolled up to mid-calf. Below the cuffs were low, gray suede booties.
It was a riskier fashion choice than Fergie’s harem pants. But somehow, like the harem pants, it worked.

Leaning closer, Massie could make out the outline of a tiny pink hummingbird floating above a daisy, just above the ankle
bone. Her jaw dropped. A tattoo? Did that make the mystery girl tacky, trashy, or edgy? Massie had no idea how to tell.

The gray booties stepped back from the camera. Bean growled as Bark leapt into Ankle-Bird’s arms. She was wearing a fitted
boyfriend blazer over a white ribbed tank, with a tangle of long necklaces swinging from her neck. Her hands were freshly
manicured, and she wore a sparkly vintage cocktail ring on her left middle finger.

“Show. Me. Your. Face!” Massie demanded, tiny beads of sweat forming along her temple. How could she tell whether the girl
was a threat if she couldn’t rate her hair?

Bean bared her teeth at the screen as Bark licked Ankle-Bird’s hand happily. Massie wanted to soothe her puppy, but how could
she when she needed soothing herself? She closed her eyes, desperate to regain control.

“You are strong. You are confident,” she said, repeating her confidence mantra. “And no one can take your strength away from
you….”

Opening her eyes, she snuck another peek. Watching Landon with another girl was like watching
The Biggest Loser:
It hurt, but she just couldn’t help herself.

Next to Landon, Ankle-Bird produced an envelope from the green Diesel messenger bag slung across her torso. Then she handed
it to him.

Was it a bill? A note? A love letter?

Landon tore it open, obviously curious. At the top of the page, an ink paw print was followed by a date and time that were
too blurry to make out.

An invitation to a high school party.

Massie took a slow, deep breath that turned into a heaving, rasping choke.

Because instead of handing Ankle-Bird a note that said,
I
MASSIE BLOCK AND WOULD SOONER WEAR GENERIC-BRAND DENIM THAN ATTEND A PARTY WITHOUT HER
, Landon folded it carefully and slipped it into his back pocket.

He may as well have stabbed Massie in the heart with Ankle-Bird’s gray suede heel.

Ankle-Bird lifted Bark from the floor and stood up. Landon followed, and soon, all Massie could see was his empty room. Suddenly,
the John Mayer poster seemed cliché, the Pradas outdated. Massie hadn’t noticed before, but those were definitely two seasons
old. At least.

Swiping her emergency sample vial of Chanel No. 19 from under her pillow, Massie speed-spritzed it and sucked in the flowery
scent of jasmine and ylang-ylang, like the vial was an inhaler and she was a band geek in the throes of a debilitating asthma
attack. The familiar scent slowed her breathing slightly.

Who was she kidding? Landon was still perfect for her, John Mayer and outdated Pradas aside.

Screwing her eyes shut, Massie tried her confidence mantra again.

“You are strong. You are confident. And no one can take your strength away from you.”

She wanted to believe it was true. But the words felt more fake than those ninth-grade girls’ spray tans on Halloween night.
She slapped her laptop screen shut and curled up in a terry cloth–covered ball, waiting for the tears to come. But instead
of sadness, all she felt was anger.

There was no way she was going to have another crush stolen from her. Not again. Landon Crane was the most alpha ninth-grade
crush a girl could ask for, and Massie was his plus-one. Together, they scored a perfect ten. If Massie had to fight to keep
Ankle-Bird out of the equation, she’d fight. But first, she had to find the tattooed crush-stealer.

Those gray suede booties could run, but they couldn’t hide.

Claire had made the trip from her locker to the New Green Café so many times before, she could have done it blindfolded. But
today, everything about her usual route felt different. The cast of musical theater kids belting the entire score of
Wicked
outside the auditorium seemed free-spirited instead of off-key. The PETA Club papering the lockers with enough
I’D RATHER GO NAKED
flyers to wipe out the rain forest seemed progressive instead of self-righteous. Even the girl in seventh who spent every
lunch period reading
The Lord of the Rings
on a picnic blanket next to her locker seemed like a mysterious, brooding intellectual instead of just a speed bump along
the way to the café.

It was as if Claire had gone through her entire life at OCD with blinders on, and now she was seeing everyone her school had
to offer with Lasik-sharpened vision. How could she have been so worried about finding new friends? The social options at
OCD were endless. All she had to do was choose.

The traffic in the halls was rush-hour slow, and it took Claire a full three minutes to cover the ground between her locker
and the girl’s bathroom. Eyes on the café’s frosted glass doors, she elbowed her way through an obstacle course of messenger
bags and bleating cell phones, getting more impatient by the second.

Ducking past a Burberry plaid–covered shoulder, she sighed at the insistent beeping that seemed to follow her all the way
to the café. This was exactly what was wrong with Westchester. Back in Orlando, only a few of her friends had cell phones.
But here, phones were a necessity, as indispensable as underwear. It was so annoy—

“Hey.” A girl from Claire’s last-period class arched her eyebrow at the patchwork leather bag slung over Claire’s shoulder.
“Your cell is giving me a migraine.”

“Oh. Thanks.”
Whoops.
Claire unearthed her cell from the bottom of her bag.

Layne:
Where u b, C? Surprise waiting 4 u in the café. Meet inside the doors ASAP.

Layne:
P.S. Like ur new ringtone? I programmed while u weren’t looking. ;)

Claire shoved her phone back in her bag, hurrying toward the café as fast as her Uggs, and the student-clogged hallway, would
allow. As usual, Layne was being super-secretive about her plans. But that made Claire’s friend upgrade seem more exciting
than a parent-free study date with Cam.

When Claire finally made it into the café, Layne was waiting by the Smartwater dispenser inside the doors, balancing a rainbow
glitter–covered velvet ring box on her nose like a trained seal.

“Hey! Ten seconds,” she bragged, wobbling back and forth with zero regard for the line forming behind her for the vending
machine. The brass medals clinging to the shoulder of her six-sizes-too-big camo jacket jangled as she moved. “Eleven. Twel—”

“My surprise?” Claire swiped the box and popped it open. Inside was a silver-plated ring featuring a large black center stone.

“My best invention yet,” Layne said proudly, yanking the ring from its velvet nest. “I call it the BFFinder. You put it on,
and the stone turns red when you’re getting close to somebody cool. It turns black when you’re around people you’re not compatible
with. Patent pending.”

“Huh,” Claire sniffed, accidentally inhaling some of the glitter on the box. When she sneezed, a few specks of silver glitter
shot from her nostrils and fell to the floor. It felt like a sign. From this moment on, Claire Lyons was totally free of all
things glitz and glamour—free of all the superficial trappings she’d acquired since her arrival in Westchester. She was getting
a fresh new start. And there was nothing wrong with that… right? She resisted the urge to sneak a peek at Table 18.

“Allow me to demonstrate.” Layne jammed the ring on her finger and dragged Claire through the bamboo table labyrinth, stopping
at a random table of all-black–wearing sixth-graders. Layne thwacked the nearest one with the ring.

“Ow!” The girl rubbed her shoulder through her World of Warcraft tee.

“See?” Layne lifted her finger. The stone was still black. “Not compatible.” She clapped the sixth-grader on the back and
bounded for her regular lunch table.

Sorry,
Claire mouthed before stepping over a dried blob of soy cheese on the floor to follow her friend. The striped tie Layne had
looped around her jeans as a makeshift belt fluttered behind her like the streamers on Claire’s old bike. Thinking of her
bike made her think of Cam, which made her think of the spa party the week before, which made her want to check on Massie
all over again. Was she angry at Claire for switching lunch tables? Or worse, hurt? Claire’s stomach seized at the thought.

“Wanna try it?” Layne careened into the side of Table 23 and sat. Three neatly folded copies of the
New York Times
had been placed at the head of the table. “See if it fits.” Layne wrenched the ring over her knuckle with a groan.

“Thanks.” Claire’s gaze swooped over to Table 18, like there was a magnetic force between her and the PC that was impossible
to fight. The girls were leaning together in an airtight huddle over untouched plates of vegan mac ’n’ cheese and seitan skewers
with peanut sauce. Were they gossiping about their new crushes? Worse, were they gossiping about her, thinking she’d ditched
them?

Claire had the sudden urge to compose a quick text-planation so the PC would understand. Although maybe they wouldn’t care
as much as she’d thought they would. When she’d broken the news to Massie that she was having lunch with Layne to meet a few
new friends, Massie hadn’t batted a lash. She hadn’t threatened Claire with PC dismissal or revoked Range Rover privileges
for the week. In fact, she’d kind of seemed to understand. Claire’s ruby angora hoodie was starting to feel itchy all over.
If all she was doing was broadening her horizons a little, why was she starting to feel like more of a player than Beckham?

The PC’s huddle loosened, and Massie caught Claire’s eye from the head of the table. Claire lifted her hand in a wave. Massie
blinked coolly but half smiled back. She was obviously trying hard to be flexible. Less controlling. And Claire knew her well
enough to know that being less Lycra required more effort than her annual pre-bikini season carb fast. Had Massie really changed
since the PC’s big fight? Was Claire the one being unfair, by not giving Massie a chance to show her true colors?

“Claire.” Layne flicked the ring in Claire’s direction, and it skittered across the table. “You gonna try it on, or what?”

Not wanting to hurt Layne’s feelings, Claire slid the ring over her middle finger. The stone instantly turned puke green.

“So we’re having lunch with Bill Gates,” Layne announced. “I tried to get Oprah and Shakespeare, but they couldn’t make it
on such short notice.”

“Huh?” The ring felt weighty on Claire’s finger. She dropped her hand casually to her lap, secretly tilting it toward the
Pretty Committee’s table. Was she close enough to get a read? According to the BFFinder, were she and the PC compatible? She
forced herself to look. But the stone was still puke-colored. Not realizing she’d been holding her breath, she exhaled.

“You know,” Layne was saying impatiently, “from the Witty Committee. Just to see if you guys get along.”

“Oh. Right.” Layne and Kristen’s Witty Committee was a group of super-smart OCD’ers who got together to… actually, Claire
had no idea what the Witty Committee did.

“But this is just to road test the ring,” Layne qualified, snapping open her copy of the
Times
. “You can’t actually join the Witty Committee unless you’re, like, a genius.” She smiled into the World News section.

Before Claire had the chance to bristle, Bill Gates appeared across from her.

“Greetings.”

Danh Bondok was a tech genius–slash–exchange student Massie had christened “Candy Corn” because of his yellow teeth. He was
smiling and holding a sweating brown bag that smelled like coconut curry.

Claire forced a smile. “Hey, Cand—” She caught herself just in time. “I mean, Danh.”

“Call me Bill.” Danh-slash-Bill-slash–Candy Corn deposited his lunch on the table and hitched up his already ankle-skimming
Dockers, revealing hairy, pencil-thin ankles. He sat down across from Claire and grinned nervously.

“’Kay… Bill,” Claire said uncertainly.

“Check the ring,” Layne hissed excitedly.

Claire checked. “What’s green mean again?”

Layne shrugged. “I’m still working out the kinks.”

“Claire,” Bill Gates said politely, poking the bridge of his glasses until they skidded up his nose, “Layne tells me you’re
into photography.” He tore open his brown bag and pulled out a plastic container of noodles, popping the top and digging in.

“Um, yeah.” Claire nodded, temporarily ravaged by the spicy-sweet scent of curry.

“I’m a bit of an Ansel Adams buff myself,” Danh said. “His use of sharp focus and heightened contrast is pretty genius, don’t
you think?”

Layne nodded, like Danh had been speaking English the whole time. “Totally.”

“Uhhhhhh.” Claire scratched the back of her neck, which was damp with sweat. “Sure.”