These Boots Are Made for Stalking (13 page)

Danh shot Layne a look. Was that pity? Or curry-induced indigestion?

“So Bill,” Layne said, obviously trying to change the subject, “tell us what’s new with you.”

Dahn nodded. “Well, as we’re all aware, the Vista operating system has been found to have several irreparable design flaws.”
His dark eyes settled on Claire, waiting for her to contribute.

“Yeah. It’s really… too bad.” Claire dug her nail into her thigh, hating how the words sounded coming out of her mouth. Why
couldn’t they talk about something she actually had an opinion on, like the Maksim-Karina breakup or Serendipity’s new line
of gourmet-flavored gummies?

Dahn’s thick black eyebrows slanted in disappointment. “Anyway, it looks like Microsoft is going to have to say, ‘Hasta la…
VISTA’ to the old version.” He paused, fighting a smile.

While Danh and Layne cracked up, Claire checked the ring again. Still puke green. Maybe the ring was better at detecting her
mood than she’d thought.

By last period, the familiarity of the Pretty Committee was starting to feel as enticing as Cam’s extra-large Briarwood fleece.
Maybe the fit wasn’t perfect, but at least it was comfortable.

Luckily, Layne wasn’t in Claire’s last-period study hall, which gave Claire a fighting chance of getting out to the parking
lot undetected. So when Mr. Myner shoo-dismissed the class five minutes early, Claire jerked her backpack out of her locker
and made a break for it, trying to ignore the guilt itch creeping down her neck. Sure, Layne was only trying to help, but
how was wrist-dragging Claire down the hall, shoving the BFFinder in everyone’s face, actually helping? So far, Claire had
zero new friends and one rapidly developing case of carpal tunnel.

There had to be an easier way.

Golden afternoon sunlight poured through the open double doors at the end of the main building hallway, promising freedom,
a giant bowl of Cinammon Toast Crunch, and an afternoon bike ride with Cam. Just a few… more… steps…

Three feet from the doors, two hands clamped over her eyes.

“Ahhhhhhh!” Claire yelled, feeling a knot tighten at the back of her head. Her hands flew to her face, clawing at the synthetic
blindfold now squeezing her throbbing brain.

“Surpriiiiise!” Layne’s hot breath smelled like guacamole-flavored sours, her new favorite afternoon snack.

So close… Now Claire knew how Bean must have felt after a full day of trying on themed Halloween costumes for Massie: exhausted,
defeated, and too weak to fight back.

“What’s next?” Claire asked warily, ignoring a round of giggles that was obviously directed at her.

Layne gripped Claire by the arms and swung her around in a full 180-degree turn. “One more stop for the day. You’re gonna
love this one. Pinky-swear.” She shoved Claire forward.

Claire’s left shoulder collided into someone, knocking her counterclockwise.

“Careful, you two,” a gruff man’s voice warned. “No horseplay in the halls.” Claire tensed, the scent of chalk dust and stale
coffee overpowering her heightened sense of smell.

“Sorry, Mr. Myner. Sir.” Claire backed into Layne, almost tripping over her squeaking rain boots.

“Oops!” Layne whisper-giggled. “Myner oversight on my part.”

“Ha ha,” Claire snapped, rubbing her throbbing shoulder. Just to be safe, she extended her hands in front of her as a buffer.

“Almost there.” Layne guided Claire awkwardly through the halls like they were a pair of amateur figure skaters hitting the
ice for the first time together. The slam of locker doors, clicking of padlocks, and rustle of ballet flats swirled around
her in the wavy darkness.

Finally, Layne yanked back on the blindfold knot, jerking Claire to a halt.

Claire ripped off her sweaty blindfold, rubbing guacamole-scented tears out of her eyes. They were standing outside the OCD
art studio.

“You weren’t supposed to take off the blindfold till I said,” Layne pouted, loosening the knot on her striped tie belt and
securing it back around her hips. She gripped the smudged silver door handle and hip-bumped the door open. “Come on.”

Claire followed cautiously behind, finger-fluffing the blindfold crease in her hair.

“Ta-daaaaaaaa.” Layne stepped aside, spreading her arms wide like she was a model for
The Price Is Right
.

Claire rapid-blinked until her eyes adjusted to the white light that filled the airy studio, her heart fluttering slightly
at the sight of it. She had avoided the studio at all costs since last year, when Alicia had ruined Claire’s first day at
OCD by painting her white pants with red paint period stain. Claire hadn’t been back to the studio since, for fear of a panic-flashback.

The studio had been renovated at some point since Claire’s fateful first day. Long slate tables had replaced the rows of easels
and stools, and the walls and skylighted ceilings had all been painted a pristine white. At the front of the room a model
in all black was hunched over his balled fist, frozen like a Rodin sculpture, while a kid in jeans and a worn gray T-shirt
bobbed around him, taking his picture.

“What’re we doing here?” Claire murmured, her eyes falling on a group of kids sitting cross-legged on the table in the back
row. Some were sketching in spiral notebooks, and some were just hanging out, laughing and talking. A blond girl with fuchsia-dyed
ends—Claire recognized her from study hall—was scowling into her iPhone camera, snapping a self-portrait.

Layne nodded at the SMART Board across the studio, where a boy with shoulder-length brown hair was scribbling something in
shiny black marker:

When I take a picture, I take 10 percent of what I see.

“Annie Leibovitz!” Claire blurted, then slapped her palm to her Blistex-buffed lips.

The guy turned around and grinned. “How’d you know?” He slipped a pair of retro black frames from his nose and cleaned the
lenses on his T-shirt, which read
TAKE YOUR BEST SHOT
.

Claire flushed. “One of my favorites. It’s on my Facebook profile.”

“No way! Mine too.”

“Claire, this is Iain,” Layne announced proudly, licking sour crystals from her fingers. “He’s the president of the Briarwood-OCD
PC.”

“The PC?” Claire muttered from the corner of her mouth.

“The Photography Club,” Layne whispered back.

“Hey.” Iain capped his marker and wiped his palms on his jeans.

The kids sitting cross-legged on the tables waved. Even the statue-still model at the front of the room cracked a smile.

Claire lifted her palm, wondering what Massie would say if she knew there was another PC at OCD. “Hey.” Out of the corner
of her eye, she noticed a collection of cameras on the table next to the door. There were tiny digital cameras, long-lens
contraptions, and even an old-school pinhole camera. She hovered over them like they were velvet-cushioned diamonds in the
display window at Cartier. Was that… No. It couldn’t possibly be…

“The Nikon D90,” Iain said behind her, reading her thoughts.

“OMG. I’ve never actually seen one in person!” she admitted.

“Wanna try it?” Iain grabbed the camera and planted it in Claire’s hand. It felt solid and light at the same time, and the
cool silver casing slid perfectly in her palm. “We bought a bunch of them. This one’s an extra.”

“An extra?” Claire choked, stroking the camera lovingly. “Don’t these things cost a fortune?” She’d wanted to ask for one
for Christmas, but when she’d Googled the price, she’d given up hope. That camera was worth more than Todd’s life.

Iain shrugged. “The PC’s got some pretty famous alumni that give money. Plus, we get to go to some of their gallery openings
in the city and stuff.”

“Food sucks, but the pictures are pretty good,” laughed the girl with pink-tipped ends. “I’m Anya. Cool jeans.” She slid off
the table and joined Iain, Claire, and Layne at the back.

Claire glanced down at her faded Gap boot-cuts. “Seriously?” she said skeptically. Massie had docked her two whole points
this morning for the hole in the left knee. It had brought her outfit rating down to a 7.6, which, as Massie had explained,
was one-tenth of a point away from a mandatory bad sushi day.

But this PC was a different kind of PC. There wasn’t a designer piece of clothing in sight, and no one had insulted her bangs,
given her a once-over, or suggested she switch to the Sugar Busters diet to repair the damage she’d done on Halloween.

Was it possible that here she could just be… Claire—holey jeans, sweet tooth, and all? The thought alone made the knots in
her shoulders start to dissolve.

“I thought you guys would… click,” Layne joked, looking thrilled with herself.

The PC groaned. Anya pelted Layne with an empty film canister.

Claire giggled, a fresh burst of energy renewing her like a third helping of pomegranate Pinkberry. How could she have been
at OCD for so long and not found these cool, artsy people who didn’t care about clothes or ninth-graders? She swivel-turned
toward Layne, lifting the camera. “Say cheeeese.”

Layne stuck out her tongue.

Claire snapped the picture. “You’re the best.”

“I know,” Layne beamed. “So I’ve got a Tween Inventors meeting in the auditorium in five. But wanna meet in the parking lot
in an hour? My mom can give you a—”

Iain’s iPhone buzzed in his back pocket. He checked the screen.

“Kelsey Morgan’s walking the second floor with toilet paper on her shoe!” he yelled, stuffing his cell back in his pocket.
“Time to move, people!”

The studio erupted into chaos. The rest of the PC leapt off the table, sprinting for the table of cameras next to Claire.
She flattened herself against the back wall next to Layne.

“What’s going on?” she yelled to no one in particular.

“A shot of the student body president with toilet paper on her shoe?” Anya slung a long-lens camera over her chest like she
was a
National Geographic
photographer headed for the Serengeti on assignment. “That’s gold, man.”

“But…” Claire wrinkled her nose. Shooting girls with toilet paper on their shoes wasn’t artistic. It was just… gross. “Why
would the Photography Club—”

“Not the
Photography
Club,” Anya clarified. “We’re the Paparazzi Club! You coming?”

“Ummmm…” Claire took a step back. What was happening to the artsy, creative kids she’d just met? Were they just as shallow
as the rest of OCD? Had she totally misjudged them?

“GO! GO! GO!” Iain boomed, tromping out the door behind the PC without giving Claire a second look. The sound of the PC’s
footsteps faded down the hall.

Claire turned toward Layne, dumbfounded. Just minutes ago she’d had an image of a new OCD, an OCD full of fresh promise and
possibility. But that image had blurred faster than an overexposed negative, leaving her feeling emptier than an old film
canister.

Massie consulted the itinerary on her iPhone for the ninth time since the Range Rover had left OCD property. As long as Isaac
didn’t hit lunch-hour traffic or make any unauthorized stops, the PC were right on time. Even so, Massie refused to let herself
relax. Her schedule that day was Botox-tight.

Itinerary: Ankle-Bird or Bust!!!

6:30 a.m.–6:42 a.m.
Deep condition (Ouidad 12 Minute Deep Treatment Intensive Repair). No alpha should head into battle with stressed tresses.

6:42 a.m.–6:44 a.m.
Text-remind Kristen to forge excused absence notes w/Layne’s electronic Counter-Forge-It parent note signer.

6:42 a.m.–7:30 a.m.
Blowout/makeup by Jakkob. Wardrobe: Alexander Wang leggings, Elizabeth and James Laurent shirt, Marc Jacobs snakeskin flats.
(Note for PC: Nothing above a kitten heel, in case of need for speedy on-foot departure.)

7:30 a.m.–7:34 a.m.
Range Rover, en route to Dylan’s. GLOSS!!! (Glossip Girl Sweet Revenge Lip Stain)

7:34 a.m.–7:44 a.m.
Meet PC in Couture Cemetery. Pick disguises so upgrades don’t detect PC. SOMETHING SHINY to lure Ankle-Bird out of hiding
(birds
shiny things).

7:44 a.m.–7:52 a.m.
Range Rover, en route to OCD. Review itinerary w/PC. Rate disguises. Hydrate/energize (Red Bull Sugarfree).

7:52 a.m.–7:59 a.m.
Give forged notes to Principal Burns. If she looks skeptical, compliment her hair on looking extra triangular today. Do NAWT
laugh while saying it.

8:00 a.m.–12:20 p.m.
Class. Whatevs.

12:20 p.m.–12:28 p.m.
Range Rover, en route to ADD for “campus tour.” Re-gloss as needed.

12:28 p.m.–1:02 p.m.
HUNT DOWN ANKLE-BIRD!!!!!

1:10 p.m.
Back to OCD. If time permits, victory lattes before 5th period.