Sealed with a Diss (23 page)

She finally caught up with him in Skye’s spacious yellow-and-white country-style kitchen. The oval maple table was covered in leftover chicken wings and Hershey’s Kisses, which Plovert and Kemp were helping themselves to.

An eighth-grade K-Fed, who was wearing a FedEx T-shirt, was describing Skye’s bathroom to three of his buddies. They were whispering around a barrel filled with ice and cans of Red Bull but decided to leave when Cam barged in.

“I’m outta here,” he announced, reaching for his leather jacket, which had been draped over one of the breakfast chairs.

“You seem bummed.” Plovert popped an almond Kiss in his mouth. “I’ll go with you.”

“Me too,” said Kemp, standing over the wings platter.

“S’cool guys,” Cam tried smiling, to show Claire how good he could be at ignoring her. “Stay and have fun.”

“But we don’t
wanna
stay.” Plovert looked over his shoulder. “Dylan is raiding the pantry as we speak, looking for ginger ale. She says the bubbles are great for burp contests.”

“We can’t take all the eating and burping and fart jokes anymore.” Kemp waved the air. “It’s like hanging out with Shrek.”

“Cam,” Claire said from the doorway, tired of feeling invisible, “can we just
talk
?”

He kept his back to her.

“Ugh!” Claire pretended to storm off by pounding her bare feet on the floor and then crouched behind the cooking island in the center of the kitchen and tried to steady her breathing.

“Can we get a ride?” Plovert whispered, his voice barely audible above the take-it-off chants and bouts of laughter wafting up from the basement.

Cam nodded.

“Me too?” Griffin crawled out from under the round breakfast table.

“How long have you been under there?” asked Kemp, pulling off his Bruce Willis bald wig and fluffing his shaggy curls.

“Twenty minutes,” he whispered. “I’m hiding from Kristen. She keeps trying to make me talk about chick flicks like
The Notebook
. It’s like she wants to bring out my sensitive side or something.”

The boys burst out in hysterics.

“Did you tell her you don’t have one?” Cam slapped his back.

“I told her I’m into the macabre and dark arts but for some reason, she’s not buying it.” Griffin pulled a fake Chucky scar off his cheek and flicked it onto a plate of brownies.

“She’s almost as gullible as Dr. Loni.” Plovert stuffed his Ashton Kutcher shades in his side pocket.

“Seriously, dude.” Kemp snickered. “If he knew you fake-read romance novels to get an A in his class, he’d have an emotional breakdown.”

“Well, let’s hope he never finds out.” Griffin opened the fridge, took a swig of Coke from the bottle, then jammed it back in. “It’s the only class I’m not failing.” He burped.

Claire’s heart thumped along to the beat of “Glamorous,” by Fergie, which was blasting downstairs. She wanted to grab Dylan and Kristen and tell them what she’d just heard before they humiliated themselves even more. But she was trapped, once again, with the burden of illegally obtained information, not to mention secretly crouched behind a cooking island.

All of a sudden, Massie appeared in the wood-paneled doorway, looking desperate and relieved at the same time, like she’d been running after a school bus and just made it. She noticed Claire immediately and gasp-giggled. Quickly, Claire lifted a finger to her lips, silently begging her not to give her away.

Massie zipped her lip and threw the invisible key over her crumpled angel wings. Then, probably to avoid temptation, she helped herself to a seat at the table and re-glossed.

“Dude, eighth-grade chicks are awesome!” Derrington hurried in. “You guys have to come downstairs and hang. “They’re totally easygoing. No head games. No random mood swings. No inside jokes. They’re so much more ma—”

He stopped speaking when Kemp tilted his head toward Massie.

“So much more
what
?” Massie asked, pushing away the plate of wings like someone who had had enough. “So much more
what
?” She stood and placed her hands on her hips.

“Tell her, D.” Kemp snickered.

“Yeah, tell her,” echoed Plovert.

Derrington ran a hand through his bushy blond hair and blurted, “Mature, okay? They’re so much more
mature
. There.” He wiggled his butt. “I said it.”

Claire silent-gasped, wishing she could see the expression on Massie’s face.

“Um, excuse me.” Massie cleared her throat, her voice steady and remarkably calm. “Are you a confused woman?”

“What? No, why?”

“Sorry, you look exactly like someone I know named Miss Taken.” Massie tossed her hair.

The boys burst out laughing while Claire quickly covered her mouth and giggled into her clammy palm.

“
You
are the most immature guy I’ve ever met. You wiggle your butt to express your feelings, you wear shorts in the winter, you—”

“Whatever.” Derrington swiveled his head to check out an eighth-grade Barbie doll who was returning a Bic pen and a pink sticky pad to the right of the cordless phone. Once she was gone, he turned back to Massie. “Go back to that
girl,
I mean
guy
with the highlights. I’m into older women now.”

“Great.” Massie tried to sound relieved. “I hope they like—”

“Are you okay?” Alicia burst into the kitchen. Josh was right behind her. “I saw you take off and run upstairs and I was worried something—”

“I’m fine times ten.” Massie turned her back to the boys. “Never better.”

“You coming?” Cam asked Josh.

“Depends,” Josh said, releasing another Ralph Lauren baby powder puff into the tension-filled atmosphere. “Where’s everyone going?”

“Away from these girls.” Griffin shuddered. “I’ve never been more scared in my entire life.”

Josh looked at Alicia with his blue contacts and smiled. “I think I’ll stay and hang out for a while.”

“Opposite of cool.” Alicia stepped away from Josh and draped her arm over Massie’s shoulder.

“Why?” Josh blanched.

“Puh-lease, I don’t want to be the only one with a date.”

“But—”

“Don’t worry.” She smiled a smile that was just for him. “I’ll e-mail you as soon as I get home.”

“’Kay.” He snickered.

“’Kay.” She giggled.

“Let’s go.” Cam led the angry boys out of the kitchen. “By the way,” he called from the front door, “I see you behind that island, Claire. Are you ever gonna grow up and stop sneaking around?”

Claire’s spine stiffened. Her cheeks flushed. She wanted to move back to Orlando. She had gone too far. There would be no turning him around now. And she hated herself more than she’d ever thought possible.

After the boys had left, Claire stood slowly and looked at Massie and Alicia in utter shame, regret, and embarrassment.

“Buuurrrrp!” Dylan emerged from the walk-in pantry holding a half-empty bottle of Canada Dry. She looked around the kitchen. “Where did everyone go?”

Kristen hurried into the kitchen carrying two champagne flutes. “Has anyone seen Griffin?”

“He’s gone.” Alicia squirted some MAC Lipglass on her finger, then spread it across her lips. “They’re all gone.”

Kristen and Dylan looked at each other in confusion.

“I told you not to act like a dude.” Alicia rubbed her shiny lips together. “Your burp contest threw them over the edge.”

“Wimps,” Dylan burped.

“What about Griffin?” Kristen asked, placing the champagne flutes on the island. “Why did he leave?”

“His sensitive side was a scam to get a good grade in ESP,” Claire explained.

“What?”

“The day he reads
The Notebook
is the day I read
Eragon
,” Massie said.

“Gawd.” Kristen ripped off her Chucky wig and tossed it into the plate-filled sink. “Never trust a guy in skinny jeans.”

“Looks like it’s just us girls again.” Massie slid down the side of the natural-wood-colored island and slumped to the floor. Everyone joined her.

More bursts of laughter rose up from the basement, reminding the girls that the party was in full swing and that they were missing out.

After a moment of heavy silence, Massie cleared her throat and sang, “‘Strut like you mean it, come on, come on.’”

The girls began to snicker. Then laugh. Then they doubled over in hysterics. They smacked one another’s backs, gripped their aching stomachs, and wiped the giggle-tears off each other’s cheeks.

Sure, they could have wasted the rest of the night analyzing their crushes and plotting ways to get them back. But come awn—that was so last week.

T
HE
B
LOCK
E
STATE
T
HE
G
UESTHOUSE

Sunday, May 2nd

12:07
P.M.

Claire leaned over the side of her bed and reached for her old Polaroid camera. Gripping it by the black strap, she hoisted it onto her tissue-covered lap. Then she sobbed a little more.

Once she was able to manipulate her pout back into a frown (slightly more flattering), she held the camera in front of her face and snapped. Seconds later a photo of herself, all puffy and snotty, rolled out. She labeled it post-party depression, then tossed it on the floor next to her leaf-covered bikini costume from the night before. Like Eve, she had given into temptation. And like Eve, she was doomed to pay the price.

A sharp triple knock on her bedroom door rose above the depressing R&B song on the radio about some girl who had done her man wrong and now it was too late for lovin’.

“Go away, Todd!” Claire yanked her blue star–covered duvet over her head.

“Relax,” huffed Layne, letting herself in. “It’s me.”

Claire peeked out from her down-filled cave.

“I pedaled as fast as I could.” She unfastened her sparkling green bike helmet, removed a pair of orange-tinted snow-boarding goggles, and unrolled the rainbow-striped socks off the bottoms of her plaid pajama bottoms. “You’re not gonna believe this.” She unwrapped a Slim Jim, gripped it between her teeth, and hurried toward the Mac.

The sound of Layne’s fingers scuttling across the keyboard reminded Claire of rain on the roof of a car. Which, for some random reason, made her cry all over again.

“Dry your tears, big ears, and come see this.” Layne poked the enter key with gusto and folded her arms across her chest, the Slim Jim hanging from her lips like a cheap cigar.

“Just tell me,” Claire moaned from her undercover cave. “I can’t move.”

Layne wheeled herself over to the clock radio that was still blaring the weepy song and hit
OFF
. “Not even to see Nikki’s page on MySpace?”

“What?” Claire threw off her covers and shot up. A rush of dizziness forced her back down. Her head felt ten times heavier than usual despite all the stored water weight it had recently shed.

“Up, up, up,” clapped Layne.

Claire stood, slowly this time, and realized she had to pee really badly. But that would have to wait. She shuffled stiffly toward her desk, hiding her fists in the sleeves of her lemon-yellow, gumdrop-covered flannel nightgown—the one she’d been wearing for the last fifteen hours.

“What are you talking about?” She leaned apprehensively over Layne’s shoulder, catching a whiff of spicy beef.

“The other day I typed in ‘Nikki.’ Just ‘Nikki.’” Layne blocked the screen with her oily, meat-scented palms. “But look what happens when I enter ‘Nikki and Cam.’” She lifted her hands, revealing a picture of a girl with straight black hair and thick blunt bangs. She was either sultry/alluring or witchy/scary. It was hard to tell from the low-resolution photo. But one thing was very clear from her profile. This was the Nikki.

For starters, there was a Photoshopped image of a massive pine tree with two tiny heads nesting side by side in a nest on one of its branches. Written on the trunk in red cursive it said,
Nikki and Cam sitting in a tree.
To the left, typed over a navy background of twinkling stars and cricket noises, were all the answers she needed blogged out before her.

NAME:
Nikki
wannabe
Fisher but
havetobe
Dalton.

AGE:
12

STATUS:
Heartbroken

DATE:
March 31st

TITLE: ***Final Entry***

I surrender.

I’ve rented every romance that Netflix has, like twice, and have tried evey trick ever put on DVD. And nothing has worked. I even got a part in our school musical, hoping he’d quit soccer, transfer to Alvin Middle, and sing with me (luv u, Zac Efron!) But he didn’t. I sent cinnamon hearts for Valentine’s Day, gummy bears on Fridays, and a case of Jones Soda with a picture of us printed right on the label. (Remember the cute one I posted after the summer of us on the camp canoe docks, almost touching shoulders?)

Anyway, the flavor was ‘crushed melon’ since he crushed me. But he didn’t get it. The joke, I mean. He got the case, because I had the tracking number and tracked it, and someone named Harris Fisher signed for it, and I know that’s his brother because I paid this online service to research his family tree. It was going to be his gift for Arbor Day. But I’m not doing that anymore. I’m not doing anything anymore. The crushed melon was the last thing I’ll ever send him.

A week after Harris signed for the soda, Cam sent me an e-mail telling me “for the last time” to stop sending him things. He wants to be friends at camp, but he only wants one girlfriend and that’s Cla---. (I can’t type her name; it’s too painful.) He told me he l--ed her (can’t type the word; it hurts like mad). Then he said I have to respect that. And I have. Because love is all about respect. And I love him. So I have not sent another thing. Not even an IM.

Yes, of course I still check his horoscope (Taurus) and when I go under a bridge, I hold my breath and pray he’ll have a crush on me this summer. But that’s it.

Proud of me or what?

I will write again when I find a love who loves me back.

Broken + Heart = Nikki

Under her sad signature was a live counter that tallied the number of days she had gone without contacting Cam. And today, it said thirty-two.