dresses.
“I knew she had to be cool if you were friends with her.” Amandy tried to tilt-position a yellow knit beret over her damp brown hair, but it kept sliding off.
“Claire-Bear, you should totally take pictures of us in the clothes so we can e-mail them to her.”
“Best idea ever! Even better than the time we decided to BeDazzle all our shoes and purses and belts and pants and pretty much everything.” Sari pushed over the box like a raccoon digging through a trash can so she could get at the stuff on the bottom. She and Amandy jumped off the bed to greet it when it landed. “We can do our makeup and hair for the pictures, and—”
“We can shoot it at Publix so it looks like a real pageant!” Amandy said, crawling inside the box. “She’ll love it!”
Claire’s heart started to pound as she imagined Massie receiving a series of jpegs that featured SAS parading across a fish-scented loading dock in the clothes she’d sent just for Claire.
“Gotta pee.” She casually grabbed her cell phone off the bed and raced out of the room.
Once inside the navy, nautical-themed bathroom, Claire speed-dialed Massie, knowing her questions were far too elaborate for a text. But the call went straight to voice mail. She tried again. And again. And—
Suddenly, “Pocketful of Sunshine” by Natasha Bedingfield blasted from her room. The call would have to wait.
Claire burst through the door. Then she gasped.
Amandy, Sarah, and Sari had piled on layer upon layer of clothes over their bodies. And now they were peeling them off and swing-tossing them around her room. Three-hundred-dollar cashmere tank tops were getting snagged on the corners of picture frames, delicate knit dresses were being broiled on lampshades, and a beautiful slip dress glided into Claire’s metal mesh trash can. Claire’s first instinct was to shut it all down and send everyone home. But the silly striptease
was
actually kind of funny. And whipping a tank top that cost more than an airline ticket across her room was something she’d never again have the chance to do. So Claire grabbed a stack of jeans out of the box and began giggle-pulling them on under her dress.
After the third pair—William Rast, dark wash—Claire began walking like the Tin Man. “Hey, guys, watch this!” But as she reached for a metallic gold scarf that was hanging off her desk chair, she lost her balance and crashed into Amandy.
“Ahhhhh!” The two toppled to the ground in fits of hysterics.
“Look out below!” Sarah and Sari began piling heaps of clothes on top of them like kindling on a bonfire.
“Man down! I’m trapped!” Claire’s stomach ached as she lay beneath Amandy, laughing hysterically, her face smashed between the white shag rug and a Pucci tank. After several minutes of trying to wiggle free, Claire finally managed to extract herself from the Chanel-scented couture cave.
Right when she popped her head out, Sarah and Sari stopped giggling and “Pocketful of Sunshine” ended abruptly in the middle of the third chorus. Just like the frogs in the creek behind Claire’s house stopped croaking when a larger animal was approaching, SAS became eerily silent.
“What’s going on?” Claire turned her head and found herself face-to-leg with a pair of tanned, stubble-free, oil-slicked shins that were practically pressed up against her blond lashes. Suddenly, Claire’s mouth tasted like pennies.
It was the Wicked Witch of Westchester. And her little dog too.
But judging by the burning rage behind Massie’s amber eyes, this house call was about more than a stolen pair of ruby slippers.
CLAIRE’S BEDROOM
KISSIMMEE, FL
Saturday, August 8 4:18 P.M.
Aside from the flared nostrils and hate-filled squint, Massie looked incredible. Dressed in silver lamé shorts, a skinny red crocodile belt, and a blousy ivory silk tank, she looked like a magazine cutout come to life. She was glossier than the rest of the girls in the room. Her coloring was
“I knew she had to be cool if you were friends with her.” Amandy tried to tilt-position a yellow knit beret over her damp brown hair, but it kept sliding off.
“Claire-Bear, you should totally take pictures of us in the clothes so we can e-mail them to her.”
“Best idea ever! Even better than the time we decided to BeDazzle all our shoes and purses and belts and pants and pretty much everything.” Sari pushed over the box like a raccoon digging through a trash can so she could get at the stuff on the bottom. She and Amandy jumped off the bed to greet it when it landed. “We can do our makeup and hair for the pictures, and—”
“We can shoot it at Publix so it looks like a real pageant!” Amandy said, crawling inside the box. “She’ll love it!”
Claire’s heart started to pound as she imagined Massie receiving a series of jpegs that featured SAS parading across a fish-scented loading dock in the clothes she’d sent just for Claire.
“Gotta pee.” She casually grabbed her cell phone off the bed and raced out of the room.
Once inside the navy, nautical-themed bathroom, Claire speed-dialed Massie, knowing her questions were far too elaborate for a text. But the call went straight to voice mail. She tried again. And again. And—
Suddenly, “Pocketful of Sunshine” by Natasha Bedingfield blasted from her room. The call would have to wait.
Claire burst through the door. Then she gasped.
Amandy, Sarah, and Sari had piled on layer upon layer of clothes over their bodies. And now they were peeling them off and swing-tossing them around her room. Three-hundred-dollar cashmere tank tops were getting snagged on the corners of picture frames, delicate knit dresses were being broiled on lampshades, and a beautiful slip dress glided into Claire’s metal mesh trash can. Claire’s first instinct was to shut it all down and send everyone home. But the silly striptease
was
actually kind of funny. And whipping a tank top that cost more than an airline ticket across her room was something she’d never again have the chance to do. So Claire grabbed a stack of jeans out of the box and began giggle-pulling them on under her dress.
After the third pair—William Rast, dark wash—Claire began walking like the Tin Man. “Hey, guys, watch this!” But as she reached for a metallic gold scarf that was hanging off her desk chair, she lost her balance and crashed into Amandy.
“Ahhhhh!” The two toppled to the ground in fits of hysterics.
“Look out below!” Sarah and Sari began piling heaps of clothes on top of them like kindling on a bonfire.
“Man down! I’m trapped!” Claire’s stomach ached as she lay beneath Amandy, laughing hysterically, her face smashed between the white shag rug and a Pucci tank. After several minutes of trying to wiggle free, Claire finally managed to extract herself from the Chanel-scented couture cave.
Right when she popped her head out, Sarah and Sari stopped giggling and “Pocketful of Sunshine” ended abruptly in the middle of the third chorus. Just like the frogs in the creek behind Claire’s house stopped croaking when a larger animal was approaching, SAS became eerily silent.
“What’s going on?” Claire turned her head and found herself face-to-leg with a pair of tanned, stubble-free, oil-slicked shins that were practically pressed up against her blond lashes. Suddenly, Claire’s mouth tasted like pennies.
It was the Wicked Witch of Westchester. And her little dog too.
But judging by the burning rage behind Massie’s amber eyes, this house call was about more than a stolen pair of ruby slippers.
CLAIRE’S BEDROOM
KISSIMMEE, FL
Saturday, August 8 4:18 P.M.
Aside from the flared nostrils and hate-filled squint, Massie looked incredible. Dressed in silver lamé shorts, a skinny red crocodile belt, and a blousy ivory silk tank, she looked like a magazine cutout come to life. She was glossier than the rest of the girls in the room. Her coloring was
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