Kristen, page 4
David Beckham scurried out from under the blue and green polka-dot duvet and Kristen pulled off her wig and stuffed it behind her pillow. “Hi, Mom.”
She turned to dismiss the Witty Committee, but they were already gone.
THE BAXTER HOUSE
ROOF
Monday, July 20
10:45 A.M.
Kristen shimmied her butt up the Baxters’ gritty sloping roof and repositioned herself in the center of her nubby coral beach towel. Ripple had suggested they spend their study session elevated so they could be closer to the sun’s tanning rays. And in the spirit of Oprah’s suggestion to compromise, Kristen had agreed. But her sizzling skin, which now matched her bright red bikini, had a different opinion.
Below, Brice was speed-loading his board on top of the Chevy. He’d just gotten a call that the waves on Fire Island were going off, and he was determined to catch the one-thirty ferry.
Dune was already at the skate park—at least, that was what Ripple had told Kristen. For all she knew he was sipping virgin coladas by the pool with alpha soon-to-be-ninth-grader Skye Hamilton, drawing coconut-scented Hawaiian Tropic hearts on her zitless back.
“Next question,” Kristen groaned, trying to stay focused, at least while her employer was still within earshot. “In fourteen hundred ninety-two—”
“Ms. Gregory, I do not, not, nawt care about fourteen hundred ninety-two. Massie wasn’t even alive then.” Ripple pursed her Vincent Longo Bronzella–coated lips and rolled over onto her flat belly. The 3-D daisy on the butt of her yellow bikini was flattened, and two of its petals were bent. Her fried hair had been over-brushed, causing her spilt ends to stick out like tiny worms trying to warm themselves after a chilly rainfall. “So unless you have a list of fourteen hundred ninety-two ways to become Massie, or fourteen hundred ninety-two ways to convince a crush that you’re as sophisticated as Massie, then thisss”—she pointed at Kristen, then at herself—“is over.”
Down in the driveway Brice shielded his eyes from the sun and looked up. “Be good,” he called. Then he waved goodbye and quickly jumped in his truck, like a boy desperate to escape before his mother saddled him with a list of chores.
Once the engine had started and the blue truck was reversing out of the cracked driveway, Kristen snapped the history book shut. “You’re totally right.” She rolled onto her stomach and turned to Ripple, ignoring the blue textbook as it slid toward the eave. “I was just trying to look professional until your dad left.”
“Really?” Ripple raised a blond brow.
“Pinky-swear.” Kristen held out her finger.
Ripple practically lunged for it.
“I was thinking… .” Kristen summoned Oprah’s plan. “The only way for you to truly understand Massie is if we go shopping.”
“Seriously?” Ripple beamed.
Kristen smiled back. “Yes.”
“No, no, no wayyyyyyyyyyy!” Ripple rolled onto her back and bicycled her blond hair–covered legs in the air.
“Who knows?” Kristen lowered the brim on the old brown Von Dutch trucker hat she’d found in the back of her closet, something she’d decided to wear BMB (behind Massie’s back) in case Dune was home. “Maybe you could put a fourth-grade Itty Bitty Pretty Committee together and be their alpha.”
Ripple kicked her legs harder.
“Iffff you do one thing for me …”
Ripple stopped pedaling and lowered her legs.
“What,” she said, like it wasn’t a question.
“You teach me how to dress to impress a skater, and I’ll teach you how to shop like Massie.”
“Why?” Ripple sat up; this time, her tone was unmistakably full of questions. “Who do you like?”
“No one.” Kristen fanned her cheeks. “I have a costume party next weekend and—”
“Is it Jax?” Ripple’s light brown eyes were full of insecurity, not cattiness. And for a split second, Kristen took pleasure in the idea that another girl might consider her a threat. Too bad that other girl wasn’t Skye.
“It’s not Jax.”
“Scooter?”
“No.”
“Tyler?”
“No.”
“Cam?”
“No.”
“Plovert?”
“No.”
“Josh?”
“Stop!” Kristen shouted. Getting interrogated by a nine-year-old was more humiliating than wearing an old head trend (in poo brown!) to impress a boy who wasn’t even home.
Ripple was silent while she considered the other possibilities. “Who else do you know who skates?” And then she slapped her hand against her goopy lips. “Noooo!”
Kristen nodded shyly.
“Massie’s crush? Derek Harrington?” Ripple widened her narrow eyes as much as she possibly could.
“Gawd, no! It’s Dune!” Kristen accidentally blurted. It was all she could do to keep the little wannabe from thinking she’d ever, in a billion years, steal her alpha’s crush.
“My brother?” Ripple screeched, as if they had been talking about Shrek.
“Yeah.” Kristen peeked down at the driveway to make sure no one had been listening. “Now will you help me?”
“Yeah,” Ripple said as she eyed Kristen’s pasty legs. “Someone’s got to.”
ROXY/QUIKSILVER
WESTCHESTER, NY
Monday, July 20
11:58 A.M.
The twenty-seven dollars Kristen spent on the cab ride to the new Roxy/Quiksilver store was almost half of what she’d made during her short career as a tutor-sitter. But as she saw it, the money was an investment in her future. A future she could no longer imagine without her CLAM crush.
After a quick sweat swipe with the nubby coral towel, both girls decided their new “thems” couldn’t wait for a shower and wardrobe change. They wanted to be transformed immediately. So off they went covered in little more than sarongs and SPF 30.
“Are you sure this is the best place?” Kristen asked Ripple as she clutched the mini-surfboard door handle and stepped inside the Hawaiian-themed boutique. The blast of air-conditioning rendered her red and orange wrap useless and made the blond hair on her arms stand up.
“Trust me.” Ripple led her to the back of the store where giant colorful posters of sunny girls with cute braids and sea-sprayed bangs charged giant waves in bright bikinis. Their simple lifestyles suddenly made the pads, cleats, and unflattering kneesocks of soccer seem stinky and un-cute.
“May I help you?” asked a glitter-dusted Asian girl with a perky grin and a pricing gun. She wore faded denim short shorts, a yellow tube top, and a pink lei around her neck, which suddenly seemed ten times more creative and alluring than Kristen’s conservative Coach locket. Brightly colored cotton in fun, girly prints swirled all around her, the fabrics looking as light and giddy as the girls they were designed for. And suddenly Kristen longed to be one of them. She longed to be satisfied by a beautiful day at the beach. To be tickled by her whimsical wardrobe. To be riding in a beat-up old car with no AC, her sand-covered, home-polished toes sticking out the windows. She longed to be free. She longed to be Roxy.
“Can you show us your baggy cargo shorts and—”
Kristen snapped back to reality at the sound of Ripple’s pinched voice and grabbed her by the wrist. “We’re okay, thanks,” she told the salesgirl.
“Kewl,” said the girl as she gladly punched a SALE sticker on a pair of silver skull–covered board shorts.
“Rule number one,” Kristen hissed. “If you want to shop like Massie, never ask for help. Make them think you’re the expert.”
Ripple hyper-nodded. “What else?”
Kristen pulled her down onto a bright blue leather couch by the dressing room and leaned in. She was about to reveal Massie’s trade secrets and couldn’t risk being overheard. Not even by the nearby mannequin in the rainbow-striped bikini.
“Rule number two. Never check price tags. Act like you have endless amounts of cash.”
“What if you don’t?” Ripple squeaked.
Kristen fought the urge to hug the girl, who at that moment could have been a younger version of herself.
“Peek at the price in the dressing room,” Kristen whisper-advised. “If it’s too expensive, ask for it in a color you know they don’t make.”
“I thought we weren’t supposed to ask for help.” Ripple’s narrow eyes were wide again.
“That’s outside the dressing room. Once you’re inside, you should ask for help all the time. Make them work for you.”
Ripple nodded like she was finally starting to catch on.
“When deciding between two sizes, always try the bigger one on first. That way you get to parade through the store in something that’s too big, asking for a smaller size. The fat people will be totally jealous.”
Ripple licked her lips, eating it all up.
“Oh, and skin is in.” Kristen suddenly recalled the last thing Massie had e-mailed the Pretty Committee before leaving for riding camp. “The more you show, the better.”
“Like, how much skin?” Ripple slid her hands under her butt. Her sweaty palms rubbed against the leather seat of the couch and made a low farting sound that neither of them acknowledged. The moment was too serious.
“As much as you can afford, I guess.”
Ripple crinkled her brows in confusion.
“Snakeskin,” Kristen clarified. “Nawt Ripple-skin. Now me. What does Dune like?” She stood and flip-flopped over to a rack of breezy feminine dresses full of fresh colors, playful patterns, and fetching adornments like heart-shaped buttons and braided straps. “What about this one?” She pulled an orange T-shirt dress off the rack that had white dandelions stitched across the bottom. In the poster on the far wall it had been paired with chunky turquoise beaded bracelets. The sight alone would have given Massie a rash. But it filled Kristen with the buzz of springtime. And springtime filled everyone with love—even surfers.
“Dune likes gray,” Ripple said flatly. Her announcement felt like the arrival of storm clouds at a Fourth of July barbecue. Ripple held up a pair of knee-length cargoes covered in more pockets than a Kipling backpack. “I would put it with one of these.” She offered a dull beige racer-back tank and a faded red short-sleeve hoodie.
“Really?” Kristen asked, letting go of the dress. It swung back into place on the bar with the other girly dresses to the teasing schoolyard tune neh-neh-neh-neh-nehhhh, you ca-ann’t-have-meeeee. After a few more mocking swings, Kristen finally punched it.
With little enthusiasm, she tried on the shorts and the red hoodie (at least it had some color) and found that, unfortunately, they fit.
“He’s gonna love them.” Ripple clapped her hands together like an overly zealous wardrobe stylist. “Now, let’s go buy some skin.”
“Sounds good.” Kristen did her best to sound upbeat. She even managed to smile when she handed the cashier the last of her tutor-sitting money—a move that would have been a lot less painful had she bought the cute orange dress.
But it was too late.
She was now the proud owner of a baggy outfit in drab winter colors that made her look more like Cesario than Viola. And, according to the receipt in her clammy hand, all sales were final.
THE PINEWOOD
KRISTEN’S BEDROOM
Tuesday, July 21
1:07 P.M.
Kristen was already seven minutes late for GAS Park when the backside of her silver Guess Carousel watch beeped.
Ugh!
She locked her bedroom door, pulled her laptop out of David Beckham’s kitty litter, stuck in the code key, and quickly slapped on her Cleopatra wig. There was no time for a wardrobe change, so instead of wearing the white Greek goddess dress, she tilted the computer’s camera up, hoping no one would notice her baggy gray cargo shorts and faded red hoodie.
The screen came to life. And the members of the Witty Committee stared back at their alpha.
EINSTEIN (Layne Abeley) BILL GATES (Danh Bondok)
Disguise: tweed coat, bushy mustache, wiry gray wig Disguise: glasses, light blue button-down, dark blue blazer
Expertise: physics Expertise: technology
OPRAH (Rachel Walker) SHAKESPEARE (Aimee Snyder)
Disguise: wavy black wig, gold hoop earrings, pumpkin orange blouse Disguise: gray bald-in-the-front, curly-in-the-back wig, mustache, white collar sticking out of a black cloak
Expertise: anthropology (the study of humankind, not the cute and affordable shabby-chic store) Expertise: affairs of the heart and the Romance languages
“What do we stand for?” Kristen asked, never tiring of the routine.
“BOB,” they answered.
“And what does BOB stand for?”
“Brains over beauty!”
She smiled, her stress melting like Creamsicle-flavored Glossip Girl in the sun. Nothing validated her more than the WC, not even David Beckham’s loving neck licks.
“State the reason for this meeting,” Kristen insisted in her best robot-meets-no-nonsense-CEO voice.
“We’ve been waiting for a progress report and never got one.” Oprah fiddled nervously with one gold hoop earring. “Did you take my advice? Did you and Ripple help each other?”
“Looks like it,” Einstein snickered, straining to see beyond the camera’s reach. “What are you wearing?”
“Hey, are those shorts from Quiksilver?” Bill Gates asked, nudging his round glasses a little farther up his shiny nose. “I have the same pair.”
“You shop in the girls’ section?” Kristen asked.
“No, you shop in the boys’,” he countered. “B-but they look good on you. I mean, you know, you can totally pull them off.”
“You wish,” Shakespeare muttered.
Einstein and Oprah giggled.
Bill Gates turned red.
“Wait!” he screeched. “I didn’t mean it like that. I meant—”
“It’s okay.” Kristen hurried him along, angling the computer even farther up. “I know what you meant. And thanks for checking in, but I’m fine… . Actually, I’m late. Dune is at GAS Park right now, so I better go.”
“Question.” Oprah’s round dark eyes seized Kristen, refusing to let her go. “Is that what you’re wearing?”
Kristen nodded yes.
“Then we’ll get moving on plan B right away,” Oprah announced.
“What’s plan B?” Kristen asked. “Why are we moving to it? I never approved it.”
“Because I’m not so sure plan A is working.”
Kristen, about to protest, looked down at her outfit and sighed. She couldn’t argue with that. But Ripple had sworn by the dude-duds. And when it came to Dune, she was smarter than any of them… .
Right?
GAS PARK
HALF-PIPE
Tuesday, July 21
1:41 P.M.
The way Kristen threw her leg over her bike, with uninhibited force, gave her pause. Usually she slid back on the gold banana seat, lifted on to her left toes, and swung her leg over with grace and modesty. Then she’d lower down and roll back her shoulders with the posture of a world-class gymnast. But something about the long, baggy shorts, formless sweatshirt, and fat black DC sneakers made her feel more lad and less lady. And she ambled into GAS Park with the side-to-side swagger to prove it.
Skaters greeted her with respectful head-nods when she passed. Not because she was hawt, but because she was nawt. She was no longer a pretty blonde who could knock them off their boards with a suggestive half smile or a whiff of her citrus-scented body oil. Kristen was suddenly a girl they could hang around without feeling conscious of their back zits (bacne) or their mid-afternoon BO.
She was a buddy, not a beauty.
The realization was enough to make her want to hop back on her bike and pedal to the nearest Bebe. But she had no money, and even less time. Skye and the DSL Daters were all over Dune like SPF 50.
Kristen hiked up her shorts and hurried over to greet them. They were in the juniors’ area, surrounded by young boys in helmets who were rolling down little asphalt hills with their tongues sticking out of their mouths. Despite the cramped course, no one dared complain. Because for the first time ever, GAS had been invaded by hawt blondes in bikinis. For the first time, they were getting a taste of what was missing in their lives.
“Hey.” Kristen greeted Dune, Tyler, and Jax with a confident smile, ignoring the fact that they were in the middle of helping the wobbly-on-purpose DSL Daters balance on their new pink boards. Scooter, however, was zipping past the little skater guys with roller-derby determination. Ripple was there too, and she seemed particularly interested in tips from Jax, even though the pictures in her bedroom showed her charging the half-pipe without protective gear. No one stopped to say hi, except—
“Hey, Kristen.” Dune turned to face her, and suddenly the unnerving rumble of wheels scraping along the pavement faded into the background. His navy T-shirt was off—stuffed down the back of his red checked surf trunks—and his feet were bare and golden brown.
“What are you doing here?” He stepped away from his friends so he could welcome-touch her shoulder. It was either a flirty gesture or a subtle attempt to see if she was really wearing a sweatshirt in the middle of July.
“Tutoring.” Kristen chin-pointed at Ripple, who was comparing tan lines with the short DSL Dater in the white string bikini and black mesh cover-up.
“In what?” Dune rolled his eyes behind his sister’s back. “Selling out and acting like a different person to impress a guy?”
Kristen felt herself blush. Was he accusing her of doing the same thing or just annoyed by his new and un-improved sister? Either way, Kristen didn’t have an answer for him. At least not one that didn’t make her seem like a skater-stalker. So she ignored his question and went to greet her “student.”
“Ready to hit the books?” Kristen slapped Ripple on the butt, aware of how dorky her entrance was. It was the first time she’d ever butt-slapped anyone or said “hit the books.” But her heart was all aflutter and sending unreliable information to her brain.
