Sealed with a Diss (21 page)

7:18
P.M.

Skye Hamilton’s house had very little curb appeal. The yellow-and-white A-frame had a well-maintained garden and projected a cheery vibe, but no one was speed-dialing
Architectural Digest
. Typically, Sunday drivers tossed out words like
cozy
and
charming
when they passed. But tonight, traffic stopped.

The Pretty Committee, along with the other guests, entered on a red carpet that started at the foot of the short driveway, snaked through the narrow front hall, and led all the way to the recently renovated basement. The outside portion was roped off with gold stanchions, and Skye’s parents, dressed as old-school journalists, snapped away as the eighth-grade celebrity couples entered.

Most of the girls had chosen costumes that required blond wigs, heavy eye makeup, tight tops, and micro-miniskirts, while the boys had opted for baggy jeans, gold chains, and slicked-back hair. Skye was one of the few girls in a dark wig, making her striking looks stand out even more.

Dressed as Angelina Jolie, she wore a tight black tank dress, to show off her henna tattoos, and black flip-flops. She carried four different colored dolls. Her big blue eyes appeared gray against the dark hair that framed her face, and her gawd-given puffy lips were perfect as they were. If her effortless beauty didn’t make Chris fall for her, nothing would.

That was, if he decided to show up.

Guests made their way down the red-carpeted stairs and headed straight for the long snack table. They hovered around it, treating it like home base, while they dipped their chips and worked to steady their wobbling arms as they poured the punch. The lights were dim and the crowd was still thin, but the iPod DJ’s purple laser-light show kept the energy level up—that and his club remix of Avril Lavigne’s “Girlfriend.”

Massie had been at the party for fifteen minutes and had managed to avoid Skye (so far) by pretending to be immersed in a life-or-death conversation with the Pretty Committee.

“Are you
sure
these Juliet angel wings don’t look stupid over my top?” Massie grappled with the back of her tight white LaRok.

Like Victoria Beckham, she wore the crisp low-cut blouse with a black tie, a tipped fedora, gold satin short shorts, and knee-high Christian Louboutin platform boots.

“You look ah-mazing,” Alicia assured her, for the nine hundredth time.

Massie had heard the same thing from Skye’s parents, her friends, and some random girls at the party. Still, she tried to look utterly shocked to keep Skye from butting in. But there was only so long an old trick like that could fool an eighth-grade alpha. And the
clock
was ticking.

7:18… 7:19… 7:20…

“Look who it is!” shrieked a DSL Dater dressed as a midriff-exposing Gwen Stefani (pre-baby). A rather plain guy with a slight wave to his hair, holding a small doll in a L.A.M.B. shopping bag linked his arm through hers—ah-bviously Gavin Rossdale and their son, Kingston.

“As usual, five girls and no guys. I wonder why?” She smacked her matte red lips together, then eyed Kristen, who was horrifying as the Bride of Chucky. “Hmmmm.” She stared at Kristen’s black motorcycle jacket, bloody scars, and pineapple-shaped matted blond wig.

“What?” Kristen snapped. “Not all of us use costume parties as an excuse to look like strippers.”

“Well, you
should
.”

“We
have
dates, you know,” blurted Alicia who, as Ricky Lauren, wore a white cashmere beret and a matching floor-length sweater dress with a navy polo horse above her left boob. Even though Ralph’s wife was blond, she’d decided to pass on the wig, because her shiny dark hair looked better with the outfit. And she was right. She looked like an RL model, not an RL wife.

“Actually…” Kristen zeroed in on the lone sand-colored beanbag stashed in the only corner of the room that wasn’t occupied by clusters of shy party-phobes. “There’s my Chucky now.”

Griffin sat alone, reading. His thin torso curved like a parenthesis, and his face was even more scarred and bloodied than Kristen’s.

“See ya!” She waved goodbye in a cocky eat-your-heart-out sort of way, which Massie hoped was intended for the DSL Dater and not her.

“You know”—Dylan put her arm around Massie—“some of us have
two
dates.”

The DSL Dater searched the crowd. “You mean her and her?” A smile spread across her overly powdered face as she pointed to Alicia and Claire, then burst out laughing. Gavin Rossdale snickered, even though he probably had no clue what she was talking about. “Strut like you mean it, come on, come on,” she sang as she pulled her date toward the dance floor.

“Where is
heeee
?” Massie wiggle-whined like she was holding in pee.

“Cam’s not here either.” Claire adjusted her leaf-covered bikini and repositioned the rubber python on her bare shoulder with a frustrated grunt, because it kept slipping onto her right boob. The Pretty Committee had persuaded her to dress as a sexy Eve so Cam would forget all about Nikki, at least for the night. And she’d decided she was desperate enough to go for it. “Not that it matters. I can’t look at him without thinking of
her
.”

“Ugh.”
Massie stomped her foot, totally ignoring Claire’s comment. She glanced at the monitor, wondering if Chris had arrived, but all she saw were Dune Baxter and his surfing buddies walking the red carpet in nothing but board shorts and body oil. Skye and the DSL Daters greeted them with massive hug-squeals.

“He
needs
to be here.” Massie peeked at the watch again, “Ehmagawd, two minutes.”

“Don’t take it personally. Guys are always late.” Alicia sighed.

“Too true,” added Dylan who was wearing a long black Demi Moore wig, big silver-framed sunglasses, and a white Armani pantsuit. “I’m still waiting for my Bruce Willis and Ashton Kutcher, and those two wouldn’t blow me off if they were giving out free Nintendo Wii’s next door.” She sighed dreamily. “It’s so great being the object of someone’s obsession, isn’t it? Especially when it’s two someones.” She nudged Massie’s elbow as if she were the only other person on earth who could relate to such a rare dating phenomenon.

Massie made little effort to smile.

“Ehmagawd, here they are, coming down the steps.” Dylan caught their attention with a frantic wave. Kemp was wearing a bald wig, and Plovert’s dark hair was combed forward, grazing the top of his big aviators. “Hey, guys!” she burped, and raced over to greet them.

“Ew, what a turnoff!” Alicia winced just as Josh Hotz joined their tight circle.

“Hey.” He nodded politely. A cloud of baby powder puffed off his head.

“Ehmagawd, you made your hair gray like Ralph’s,” Alicia gushed.

“And look.” He pointed to his eyes. “Blue contacts.”

“I heart that!” She scanned his costume: a navy blazer over a worn denim shirt, dark RL jeans, and cowboy boots. “Perfect.”

“Hey, Ricky, wanna have our pictures taken?” he asked.

“Given.” Alicia followed him upstairs.

“What if we
are
like the Cheetah Girls?” Claire asked Massie once the two of them were left behind, standing alone.

Her words cut like long Victoria Beckham nails.

Massie grabbed her cell phone and texted Chris a row of angry question marks. She hit
SEND
just as Cam and Derrington showed up.

The girls stiffened and
filed,
looking about as natural as Tara Reid’s first boob job.

“Claire, can I talk to you for a minute?” Cam—whose Adam was more Tarzan, thanks to his tattered jean shorts and the clumps of grass shooting out from the pockets—clutched Claire’s bronzed arm and pulled her toward the stairs.

“Can’t you do it here?” She resisted. “They’re gonna judge the costumes soon.” He ignored her pleas and kept tugging.

Claire looked back at Massie, her blue eyes begging for help. But Massie was checking her messages instead.

Zero.

She sent more question marks to Chris and then lifted her eyes. Only it was too late. Claire was gone. And Derrington had taken her place.

There they stood. Alone. No friends to hide behind, no first-crush giddiness to fuel them, no honesty. Just an invisible pile of secrets and lies that weighed so heavily on Massie’s heart, it was hard for her to breathe. And the added pressure to keep her mouth shut and
file
made standing there with Derrington, face-to-face, amid the flashing laser lights and thumping music, more painful than a footful of new-shoe blisters.

“I got you something.” He opened his fist and revealed two black-and-white soccer-ball earrings. They were amusement-park quality, and the posts weren’t real silver. Still, Massie knew she should probably thank him anyway. But the earrings blurred into what looked like two melted bonbons as she stared and wondered why Chris was standing her up. Even though she needed him there for Skye, it was hard not to take his absence personally.

Derrington inched toward her and wiggled his butt like a happy bunny. “Cahn a wohld famous footballa get a thank-you kiss from his wife?” he asked in a terrible British accent.

“Thanks.” Massie smacked his back like one of his soccer buddies would. If thoughts of the “issue” made making eye contact with Derrington unbearable, lip kissing was so not an option.

Derrington’s puckered lips unpuckered, then wilted to a frown. “You’ve been kinda avoiding me all week. What’s up?”

“Huh?” Massie checked the stairs for signs of Chris. If he was on his way down, she couldn’t tell, because a dance train, led by a whooping Cleopatra, blocked her view.

“You haven’t returned any of my texts, and tonight you’re acting like you want to stop hanging out.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to make you think that,” Massie told him.

And she didn’t, exactly. Somewhere in the back of her mind, Massie had noticed how ah-dorable Derrington looked with his spiked blond hair, fake beard scruff, and silky navy-and-white Adidas Predator Beckham shorts with matching jersey. It was just that her mind was so occupied with the “issue,” and Skye and Chris and the alarm on that stupid digital watch that she couldn’t—

Rrrrrriiiiinnnnggggg
.

Massie gasped. Prickly sweat stung her underarms. Her limbs froze with dread. And her lips begged for gloss.

“What’s wrong?”

Derrington’s voice sounded too distant to merit a response.

Massie searched for Skye. But all she noticed were people dancing, laughing, and enjoying their fabulous lives—three things she would probably never do again.

Rrrrrriiiiinnnnggggg
.

Certain that by now Skye would be behind her, Massie checked over her shoulder.

But Skye wasn’t there. Chris was.

And he was holding his ringing cell phone.

“I just got your texts.” He tried to smile but appeared too sad to pull it off. “Is everything okay?”

“Ehmagawd!” Massie threw her arms around him, paying no mind to the fake blood on his Romeo shirt and how that might stain her white LaRok. “I’m so glad you’re here!” She pulled away and smiled.

“‘Ehmagawd, I’m so glad you’re here’?”
Derrington squealed. “I’m not gonna stand here while you try to make me jealous.” He jammed the soccer-ball earrings down the back of his pocketless shorts. One of them fell down his leg and landed on the floor. Derrington crushed it with his cleat. “I want a divorce!” He stomped off.

“Wait!” she shouted, and then made the snap decision to let him go. There would be plenty of time to patch things up with him later, if she even wanted to, but the clock was ticking on—

Bip, bip, bip, bip, bip, bip…

“What’s that?” Chris rolled up the sleeves of his unbuttoned white Brooks Brothers oxford.

“Um, it’s a special alarm.” Massie fumbled around inside her clutch, feeling for the
OFF
button on the watch. “It beeps whenever a new clothing delivery has been made to Saks. It was a gift. From Saks, of course.” She shrugged, as if owning such a gadget were no big deal.

“Cool,” he said to the Roman sandals that crisscrossed up his mildly hairy calf.

“What’s wrong?” Massie asked, momentarily forgetting what ESP had taught her about asking that question.

Chris tried to smile back but could only pull off a slight lip-twitch. His skin was pale, his fabulous Zac Efron hair was now flat, and his shoulders curved. The light behind his deep blue eyes was gone, like a dimmer switch had been turned too low. “Nothing. It’s just weird being out again after…” He sighed, releasing whatever was bothering him in Skye’s fruity-hair-spray-scented basement.

“Why don’t you go say hi to the hostess?” suggested Massie.

“Not without my Juliet.” Chris put his arm around her shoulder, accidentally jamming the wire from the wings into the back of her neck.

Massie wiggled free as fast as she could. Skye was bound to be looking for them now. And it would be best if they weren’t touching when she found them.

“Hey, I made a cool playlist.” Chris tapped the back pocket of his jeans, letting her know he’d brought it with him. “Maybe she’ll let me plug it in.”

“I’m
sure
she will,” Massie trilled. “What’s on it?” she asked, searching the crowd for Skye.

“Mostly ballads,” he ho-hummed. “Perfect for slow dances.”

“Sounds great.” Massie turned away and rolled her eyes. Where
was
she? Where were her friends? Where was
anyone
who could save her from getting thrown from the top of the social ladder in the next ten seconds? The only familiar face she saw was Derrington’s, and his toothy grin suggested he was getting on just fine without her.

He was by the DJ booth (a card table covered in a collage of glossy tabloid photos) surrounded by three eighth-grade pre-breakdown Britneys who were laughing their blond heads off, gripping their exposed stomachs, and swatting him playfully on the arm. One was even wearing the remaining soccer-ball earring, which slammed against her jaw like a wrecking ball every time he cracked her up.

Hmmmm.
They didn’t seem to think he was immature, and they were older. Massie couldn’t help but wonder if she had been too quick to judge Derrington. After all,
CosmoGIRL!
ranked sense of humor as the number-one quality girls wanted in their mates. And
CosmoGIRL!
never lied.