P.S. I Loathe You, page 2
“If you wouldn’t mind excusing us”—Massie smirked at Cam, this time looking into his green eye, just to show she had no real preference—“we have some Pretty Committee business to take care of.”
“No prob.” Cam saluted, his wheels already angled toward the heated match between Josh and Kemp. “Going to the game tonight?” he asked, mostly to Claire, who was snapping her helmet around his handlebars.
“Soccer?”
He giggle-nodded in a “what else would I be talking about” sort of way. “We’re playing the Maverick School Groundhogs. And MSG plays hard.”
Claire turned to Massie, lifting her blond brows with hope.
“Opposite of yes.” Massie twirled her eighty-four-day-old purple hair streak. “We’re going to Dylan’s to do some online shopping.”
“Sounds fun!” Cam said sarcastically as he high-fived Claire and rode off to greet his friends.
“Shopping?” Claire stomped a red Converse All Star, unable to hide her disappointment. “Don’t you want to hang out with Dempsey after school?”
“He’s not into soccer.” Massie swiped her lips with devil’s food cake–flavored Glossip Girl. “He’s an actor,” she said with a trace of a British accent. “And he got a call back for the Wizard of Claus. For the Wizard.”
“So you’re still into Dempsey?” Kristen smacked a pine air-freshener.
Massie cocked her head to the side. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I dunno.” Kristen shrugged. She bit her thumbnail before pressing on. “So how much do you like him? You know, out of ten?”
“Ten,” Massie insisted. “Times ten.”
Just then Layne Abeley and her alt-to-a-fault friend Meena strolled by belting out the song “Popular” from Wicked. And for some reason Kristen kind of half smiled at Layne when she passed. It had to be pity, because she was singing about something she’d never experience . . . well, either that or gas.
“So basically you’d be upset if someone else liked him and he liked them back?”
Massie leaned closer, her amber eyes fixed and serious. “Have you heard something?”
“No,” Kristen blurted. “Why, have you?”
“No!”
“You know, she’s auditioning.” Kristen tilted her head toward Layne. “Doesn’t that tell you something about how un the play is?”
“What’s wrong with Layne?” Claire snapped.
“Nothing.” Kristen blushed. “It’s just that I . . . I thought maybe it would be cooler if you crushed on a guy who’s into sports, nawt middle-school theater.”
Massie squint-looked into Kristen’s green eyes as if trying to read something blurry. Since when had Kristen become so concerned with Massie’s public image? Kristen was her poor friend, not her PR friend. Who had suddenly given her permission to drop those two essential o’s?
“Um, are you saying actors are nawt hawt?” Massie hissed.
“Kinda.” Kristen lifted her blond brows in a “truth hurts” sort of way.
“Have you ever heard of Zac?”
“Yeah, but—”
“Hayden?”
“Yeah, b—”
“Hartnett?
“Ye—”
“Chace? Penn—”
“Okay!” Kristen held up her hand. “It’s just that you said we could like boys this week, so I assumed we’d be hanging at the game after school. Not shopping.”
“Point.” Alicia lifted her French-manicured finger as she watched Josh high-five Cam.
“We do like boys this week,” Massie insisted. “Just nawt soccer.”
Just then the boys began laugh-chanting her ex-crush’s name.
“Derr-ing-ton! Derr-ing-ton! Derr-ing-ton!”
Massie immediately blushed. The Pretty Committee was studying her, ah-bviously wondering if she had any last drops of crush left in her, like an upside-down can of Diet Coke that continued to drip soda even when it was empty.
“Ew, puh-lease!”Massie rolled her eyes and snorted like a sleepy piglet. “I’m over him times ten times twenty!”
“Good.” Alicia began walking. “Then let’s go see what that’s all about.”
“Hold!” Massie swiped more Glossip Girl across her lips, then licked. Sugary sweetness coated her tongue and instantly lifted her mood. “Focus! I have an announcement to make.”
The Pretty Committee formed a tight circle under the pine-scented maple, each girl resisting the urge to peek at the boys.
“Derr-ing-ton! Derr-ing-ton! Derr-ing-ton!”
Massie cleared her throat, even though it was already clear. “Last week I declared a boyfast and it almost tore us apart.” Her voice was somber.
The girls nodded in agreement.
“And you know why it didn’t work?”
“Because Alicia hung out with Josh behind our backs?” Dylan blurted.
“Go flush yourself, Cottonelle!” Alicia snapped.
Dylan folded her arms across her brown-stained henley and huff-turned to face the boys.
“Derr-ing-ton! Derr-ing-ton! Derr-ing-ton!”
Everyone else turned too, except Massie. Her ex was ah-bviously doing something silly to get her attention, and she refused to fall for the childish trick.
“The maaaain reason boyfast didn’t work,” she half yelled to recapture her friends’ attention, “is because we’re hawt times ten! We have ah-mazing personalities! And most of us have incredible style!” She lifted her eyebrow at Claire, who looked at her primary-red sneakers in shame. “And it was wrong for me to think that boys could resist us. They’re only human, after all.”
The girls nodded in agreement once again.
“So I have prepared a pledge poem that will put us back on the right path.” She reached into her winter white Juicy tote and pulled out five platinum Coach key chains. Each one had five purple patent-leather letters dangling off the end: BFFWC. Massie thumbed open the dog-leash clip and hooked it onto the strap of her bag, then handed them out, waiting while everyone else did the same.
“I know I promised you bracelets, but I saw Strawberry and Kori at the mall buying you-know-whats. So I switched it up at the last minute.” She smirked, then tapped the screen of her new iPhone 3G. “Now check your texts.”
The girls quickly reached inside their bags, their BFFWC charms swinging about.
“Does everyone have the new pledge poem?”
They consulted their in-boxes and nodded.
“Good.” Massie grinned. “Then grab your charms and let’s recite together in three . . . two . . . one . . .”
The girls began:
We swore off boys for ten whole days,
But it didn’t work so well.
We acted like backstabbing clichés—
Ehmagawd! Boyfast was hell.
But we forgave one another;
Now we’re back in the groove.
Sisters, lock up your brothers,
Because we’re on the move!
This time we’ll do it right:
Our friendships come first.
PC support, day or night,
Or that member will be cursed.
So I hereby decree,
As my open heart gushes,
We are now BFFWC,
Best Friends Forever With Crushes!
“Yayyyyyyyy!” the girls giggle-shouted, then exchanged a round of hugs, with Massie in the center.
Everything felt right again. Their bond was Teflon-strong.
“Derr-ing-ton! Derr-ing-ton! Derr-ing-ton!”
“Who’s ready to find out what all the chanting is about?”
“Meeeee!” Five hands shot into the pine-scented air.
Massie smiled proudly, ready to introduce her new leather leggings to the opposite sex.
This time the Pretty Committee would do it right. This time they would have it all.
BOCD
SOCCER TRAILERS
Monday, September 21st
8:19 A.M.
“Derr-ing-ton! Derr-ing-ton! Derr-ing-ton!”
Like a supermodel bursting onto a runway amid a cloud of dry ice, Massie led the girls toward the chanting, as if it were all for them. She stepped over Cam’s bike, which lay, wheel still spinning, on a clump of discarded backpacks. All she needed was a snappy one-liner to announce their arrival.
Hmmm . . . Something about going to school in a trailer park . . . or how they’ll need a can opener to get into their new classrooms.
Nope. She didn’t quite have it yet.
“Derr-ing-ton! Derr-ing-ton! Derr-ing-ton!”
Luckily, the boys were so drawn to the maple tree on their right, they didn’t notice the Pretty Committee standing—
“Ehma—butt!” Massie smacked Alicia’s shoulder. “Look!”
Dylan burst out laughing.
Derrington was perched six feet off the ground, squatting on a branch like an ape, with his Volcom jeans around his knees. He was shaking his Paul Frank boxer briefs in front of the projector lens and casting a butt-shaped shadow on Trailer No. 1. The leaves of the maple shook and his friends acted like amused monkeys.
The LBRs who shared the trailers with the soccer boys ignored him. Instead, they mounted the metal steps to their portable classrooms like court-bound celebrities determined to escape the swarming press.
“Magawd, he’ll do anything to get my attention,” Massie muttered to herself. “What did I ever see in him?”
Alicia shook her ponytail from side to side like she had no idea.
“Thank Gawd I like Dempsey now. Double thank Gawd that he’ll be in the main building with us. And triple thank Gawd that he’s not into soccer.”
“You hardly even know Dempsey.” Kristen kicked a rock with her black moccasin.
“Hey, Claire!” Layne called from an open window in Trailer No. 1. “Look!” She stuck out a red fingerless–gloved hand and pinched Derrington’s butt-shadow. Claire and Dylan cracked up while Massie searched Kristen’s green eyes for an explanation—something that might explain why she was so anti-Dempsey. But Kristen’s lashes fluttered innocently, revealing nothing.
Massie was the first to break. “Um, are you the OCD Sirens’ goalie?”
“No! I’m the captain,” Kristen snapped.
“Then why are you trying to block my shot?”
“I’m nawt.” Kristen side-glanced at Layne, who was now spanking Derrington’s butt-shadow. “It’s just that Dempsey used to be an LBR.”
“So was Leighton Meester.” Massie shrugged. “She was born in jail.”
“He’s friends with Layne,” Kristen tried again.
“So is Kuh-laire.”
“You called him Humpty Dempsey for an entire year. Re-mem-ber?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Massie waved the argument away like the smell of burnt microwave popcorn. “But he was cured of his LBR-thritis.” Her body purred recalling the day she had first beheld Dempsey 2.0.
He had just returned from summering in Africa. Rugged safari-colored clothes clung to his new muscles like a hug, each crease on his distressed leather messenger bag probably representing an orphan he had read to. And confidence seeped from his tanned skin like two thousand–dollar Clive Christian cologne. His caramel blond highlights were natural. His army green eyes were supernatural. And she could feel his smile as if it were inside her belly. Dempsey Solomon was the ultimate comeback story. She was his ultimate comeback prize. And if Kristen had a problem with—
“You always told us LBR-thritis couldn’t be cured, only treated,” Kristen hissed.
“Um, are you forgetting the J.T. clause?” Massie hissed back.
Kristen folded her arms across her gray sweater, turned toward Trailer No. 2, and sighed. “Guess so,” she huffed.
Alicia, Dylan, and Claire were starting to inch toward the boys. A few more seconds and they’d be mingle-flirting without her. This conversation had to end. Now.
“TheJ.T.clauseistheJustinTimberlakeclauseremember?”
Kristen shrugged.
Massie took a deep breath, held it for five seconds, then exhaled slowly. “We never thought Justin was hot until Cameron dated him. And we never thought he was a ten until he dumped her. And now he’s an alpha male for life.”
“So you’re Cameron? Is that what you’re saying?”Kristen folded her arms across her chest.
Massie shrugged in a “you said it, I didn’t” sort of way.
“Derr-ing-ton! Derr-ing-ton! Derr-ing-ton!”
And then it hit her. “He put you up to this, didn’t he? He’s jealous of Dempsey and scared he’ll never get me back and—”
“Dylan! Dylan! Dylannn!”
Massie whip-turned toward the shouting.
Dylan was standing below the maple, poking Massie’s ex-crush’s butt with a stick, like a marshmallow over a campfire. Everyone was laughing, but no one found it funnier than Derrington. Massie searched for Claire and Alicia, wondering why they didn’t have the good sense to stop Dylan. But they were with Cam and Josh, playing some soccer video game on Trailer No. 2, pretending to care about their scores.
“Dylan, stop!” Massie shout-ran toward the stick in Dylan’s hand. “We don’t like him anymore.”
“Ms. Marvil, what are you doing?” shouted an angry female voice that wasn’t Massie’s.
“Getting the stick out of his butt.” Dylan snickered at Derrington’s boxers, ah-bviously not realizing who she was talking to.
The boys burst out laughing while Derrington yanked up his Volcoms.
“Excuse me?” the voice screeched.
“Ms. Dunkel?” Dylan’s cheeks turned so purple they clashed with her red hair. The matronly trailer teacher finger-pushed her big round glasses against the bridge of her nose. Tapping one square-toed, square-heeled pump, she folded her arms across her wheat-colored cardigan and nostril-sighed.
Quickly, the boys began gathering their backpacks. The Pretty Committee raced to Massie’s side. And while Ms. Dunkel’s head was turned, Dylan giggle-poked Derrington one last time. Then . . .
Crack.
Snap.
Thud.
The branch suddenly broke, and Derrington plummeted six feet, landing ankle-first on the yellowing grass. Like in a CSI chalk drawing, his left leg was bent and his right was straight.
Everyone gathered around.
“Give him room!” Ms. Dunkel pleaded.
The concern-furrow in her brow became an anger-furrow. The dent in her forehead was deep enough to store loose change.
“Dylan and Derrick.” The teacher stood, wiping her knees. “You know what else starts with D?” She tapped her chin reflectively.
“Dunkel?” Derrington peeped from the ground.
Dylan cracked up.
“De-tention!” she barked. “Meet me in the faculty parking lot after school for a very special assignment.” The corners of her mouth curled with delight. “Now, the rest of you, get to class.” She checked her silver-plated Fossil watch. “The bell is about to ring.”
The crowd dispersed, and the Pretty Committee made their way back to the main building like famished, blistered supermodels after New York’s Fashion Week.
“Looks like shopping at Dylan’s after school is canceled,” Massie groaned. The Coach BFFWC key chains knocked against the girls’ handbags as they hurried to keep up with Massie’s agitated pace.
Dylan sighed. “I’m so sorry, you guys. I didn’t mean to—”
“Does this mean we get to go to the soccer game?” Claire’s blue eyes widened with hope.
“Opposite of yes,” Massie snapped.
“You can come to my place,” Kristen offered.
“Why?” Massie raised her right eyebrow. “Did you just get five computers?”
“No.” Kristen shifted her weight from one moccasin to the other. “But we can share. It’ll be fun.”
“Cher is something my mom works out to, and it doesn’t look like fun.”
Massie picked up her pace even more as they entered the bird-infested parking lot.
“You never come to my house,” Kristen whined.
“Because it’s nawt a house,” Massie insisted. “It’s a condo.”
Just then another load of fly-arrhea fell from the sky.
“My sleeve!” Kristen gripped her soiled gray sweater.
The girls giggled in spite of themselves.
“Why so sad? Pigeon poo is good luck, right?” Massie smirked.
Kristen lifted her chin and forced a smile. “Right.”
“Good.” Massie triple-patted her on the back. “Maybe that means you’ll get a house soon.”
Kristen gasped. Alicia, Claire, and Dylan glared at Massie like she had gone too far. But so what if she had? All morning, she’d felt her alpha-grip slipping. And when that happened, the only thing to do was force it back into place.
CURRENT STATE OF THE UNION
INOUT
Dempsey Derrington
The Pooey Committee The Pretty Committee
Alpha-slip Alpha-grip
BOCD
FACULTY PARKING LOT
Monday, September 21st
3:56 P.M.
Despite everyone’s best efforts to get her to stay for the soccer game, Massie convinced them to go to Pinkberry. And that meant Dylan would be missing the day’s gossip download and Cap’n Crunch–covered fro-yo.
But once the rest of the Pretty Committee pulled away in the Blocks’ Range Rover, a teensy part of Dylan felt free. After all, it wasn’t every day she had a date with a boy in the faculty parking lot.
So what if the “boy” was Massie’s ex-crush? Double so what if their “date” was really a detention. And triple so what if Ms. Dunkel would be there too? C-minuses can’t be choosers.
Derrington was sitting on the hood of a cherry red Subaru Forester listening to his black iPod nano when Dylan arrived. The laces on his left sneaker were untied and the tongue had been lifted, like a CEO who loosens his tie after a stressful day at the office. The guy was so hawt he made a foot injury look cool.
“Is Dunkel here yet?” she whispered, just in case.
Derrington shook his head and drummed on his thigh. An ah-dorable mess of dirty blond hair flopped against the green frames of his Ray-Bans.
