OCD
THE MAC ACTOR TRAILER
Tuesday, October 20th
3:45 P.M.
Massie crossed her arms over her black silk tank and tapped her foot rapidly on the red-carpeted floor. “Lah-ane!”
“For the last time, I don’t know anything!” Layne jabbed at the air with her empty Powerade bottle for emphasis. Blue liquid dribbled down her wrist. “All Peace said was that she’s sending one of her top clients.” She launched the bottle toward the white plastic trash can next to the door. It dropped neatly into the can.
“Score!” Kaitlyn pouted as her makeup artist, a wiry redhead with smoky eyes and a slicked-back ponytail, hovered over her with a lip brush. Each of the MAC girls was perched in her makeup chair, going through a hair and makeup dry run so Massie could approve or reject possible runway looks before the big show.
“Close ’em,” the makeup artist instructed. Kaitlyn pursed her lips dutifully.
“One of her top clients?” Massie settled into the director’s chair next to Layne’s.
Layne threw her arms in the air. She had a hole in the pit of her SAVE A TREE, EAT A BEAVER T-shirt. “One of her top clients, her top client—what’s the difference?”
Massie glared at Layne in disbelief. The difference was beyond obvious. Having the very best models strut her runway on Friday night would mean two things: one, that she’d pulled off yet another amazing event, and two, that she’d outdone Alicia. The party had to be over-the-top, which was why she’d decided on a circus theme.
“Anyway, I have no idea who it is. Swearsville.” Layne wiped her sticky Mountain Blast fingers on her camo leggings. “But if my aunt is handpicking her, she’ll be good.”
“Your aunt picked Mia, re-mem-ber?” Massie reminded her. “And look how that turned out.”
“You picked Mia,” Layne snorted good-naturedly. “Re-mem-ber?”
Opening the chunky script in her lap, Massie flipped to the last pages and pretended she hadn’t heard Layne. She hated when LBRs were right. She cranked up her lip pencil and held it menacingly over the page. Cruella was the perfect shade of crimson for last-minute script revisions, like axing the “Layne and Dempsey slo-mo reconcile montage” Layne had sneaked into Massie’s rewrite during lunch.
“If I were you, I wouldn’t worry about the new girl,” Layne advised. She pulled a tube of Hello Kitty gloss from her pocket. Slathering the wand recklessly, she left two shiny magenta stripes where her mouth had been. “We’ve got a bigger prob, Bob.”
“Like your lips?” Massie mutter-asked. The neon purple was less flattering than Jessica Simpson’s high-waisted jeans.
“Like the fact that you told Alicia we’d have high school boys at the party Friday night,” Layne retorted, adjusting the volume on her director’s bullhorn.
“How is that a problem?” Massie asked. “Isn’t Chris Abeley in high school?”
“Chris Abeley, like, my brother Chris Abeley?” Layne wrinkled her nose.
Massie speed-nodded.
“Yeah, but—”
“Butts are for slapping,” Massie interrupted. “Make Chris bring his hawtest friends. Make sure they know they’ll be walking the runway. So no shorties.”
“Ninth-grade boys?” Kaitlyn whipped around in her chair, flashing a devious smile. Her gray eyes glowed under thick, dark lashes. “This is seriously the best job ever.” Her stylist click-snapped her flatiron together three times like lobster claws, but Kaitlyn ignored her. Instead, she rested her chin on the silk back of her chair, beaming at Massie.
“I’m five nine,” breathed Lilah, smiling close-lipped at Massie and Layne in her mirror while her hairstylist finger-combed shine serum through her dark, boy-short locks. “I’ll need a model over six feet.”
“Done.” Massie nodded.
“But—” Layne started.
“Thanks!” Lilah beamed at Massie. “This is going to be awesome.”
“Given.” Massie smiled back, her heart skipping a beat. Finally—girls who appreciated her.
Jasmin coughed. “Um, isn’t it almost time for our break?” she asked. “We’ve been on for like six hours, and I promised my friends back home I’d check in after school.”
Massie’s stomach clenched at the reminder that the MAC girls had other lives. Other friends. She tried to block the thought from her mind, but it kept creeping back in. Before she could tell Tampax Sport that if she wanted a break, she could take a permanent one, the trailer door flew open.
“Sorry I’m late,” breathed the silhouette standing in the doorway.
Kaitlyn squinted at the door. Lilah and Jasmin swivel-whipped around in their chairs, shooing away the fluffy brushes hovering around their faces like pesky mosquitoes. Layne gnawed at her magenta lower lip. Massie leaned forward in her chair. Sunlight poured in behind the stranger and shaded her face, making it impossible to see her.
The silhouette shut the trailer door and stood proudly before them. The newest MAC girl had thick dark chocolate locks that fell just below her shoulders and glistened under the trailer’s track lights. The golden flecks in her hazel eyes matched the sheen of her dusted cheekbones. And her outfit was pure fashinspiration: a pomegranate boyfriend cardigan-turned-minidress cinched with a tangle of skinny metallic foil belts, worn over herringbone tights and slate gray over-the-knee suede boots.
Nine point two.
Massie gripped the smooth wooden armrests of her chair and casually crossed her dark denim–slicked legs. She wished she had been wearing sunglasses so she could stare.
Nine Point Two dropped her slouchy shoulder bag on one of the slate board desks. “I’m Cassidy. Your new actress.”
“I’m Massie. Your new best bend.”
Cassidy crinkled her thin brows in confusion. “Best bend?”
“Boss-friend,” Jasmin explained patiently, as if being a paid BFF was completely legit, like a career in sales or marketing.
Massie hugged her script to her chest. “Just don’t screw up your lines like the last girl did, and you’ll be fine.” She nodded toward the empty makeup chair at the end of the row, next to Kaitlyn. “Have a seat.”
“Great boots,” Kaitlyn remarked as Cassidy settled in next to her. Jakkob rubbed his scruff thoughtfully as he stared at his new client. Then he looked to Massie, waiting for instruction.
“We’re going platinum,” Massie decided quickly. “And short. Don’t be afraid to experiment.”
“Awesome.” Jakkob began rifling through the contents of the shelves in front of him, whipping bottles, combs, and bowls from the shelf.
“Woah,” Layne muttered. “Risky.”
“Totally.” Lilah stared at her reflection in the mirror, looking jealous.
Cassidy turned around, her elbow hanging over the back of her chair. “Platinum?” she asked skeptically, patting her dark locks. “Um, I’ve read the script and I’m pretty sure my character wouldn’t go platinum. What’s my motivation?”
“Let’s see.” Massie tapped her chin lightly, breathing through the irritation churning in the pit of her stomach. “Your character is a D-level actress. She is out of work and desperately needs a job, especially since the economy is tanking and unemployment is at an all-time high. She finally lands a well-paying gig in Westchester, where all she has to do is learn a few lines and act like a friend. If she wants to keep said job, she will listen to her new bend and dye her hair. If she doesn’t, she is free to hop the Metro-North back to Grand Central and admire her natural hair color in the reflection of the train window.”
“Oh,” Cassidy said, turning around in her seat. “That motivation. Right.” She stared longingly in the mirror at her hair, as if she was saying goodbye to a crush she knew she’d never see again.
“Now. On to business.” Massie hopped off her director’s chair and crossed the trailer, pacing behind the row of makeup chairs. “We have exactly three days to get you ready for the fashion show.”
“Peace told you I don’t do dresses, right?” Lilah asked, turning around again in her chair. “Girly doesn’t really go with my look.”
“Amen, sister,” Layne called through the bullhorn.
Massie lifted her palm, silencing Layne. “That means,” she continued, “that we’re all gonna be working overtime.”
Jasmin raised her hand. “But our contract says we only work for eight hours a day.”
Kaitlyn nodded. Her hairstylist firmly grabbed her head. “Stop moving!” she hissed, running another strand through the flatiron.
“Your contract also says you won’t screw up a scene in front of the entire school. And you’ve already done that. Twice,” Massie retorted. A knot formed in her stomach that felt suspiciously like loneliness. She’d supplied makeup, killer clothes, and money, but the MAC girls were approaching their kick-butt jobbies like it was MACDonald’s and she was forcing them to ask, Would you like fries with that? What was wrong with them? “Any more questions?” she sigh-asked.
The MAC girls were silent.
“Good.” She tossed a script to Cassidy, who had her eyes squeezed shut as Jakkob painted bluish-white streaks into her hair. The script smacked her in the thigh. “I have some calls to make. Run lines for five. When I get back, we’ll start the table read.”
“TAKE FIVE, PEOPLE,” Layne squawked into the bullhorn.
The girls opened their scripts.
“Time to party plan.” Massie turned back to Layne, whose camo leggings–clad legs were slung over the armrest of her director’s chair.
“You haven’t done that yet?” Layne’s magenta lips dropped open. Her tongue was tinged blue from the sports drink. “The party is Friday!”
Massie twirled her purple hair steak. The exclusive all-access pass was like shopping with limit-free plastic. Nothing was off limits. “Three days is more than enough time. Just get me the high school hawties, okay?”
“Fine.” Layne sighed. She slid out of the chair and headed for the leather couch in the middle of the trailer and collapsed into it. She laid a hand over her eyes, like her life was too much to handle.
Massie finger-searched her iPhone for the necessary cell numbers. Justin Timberlake would get the crowd pumped for the fashion show. The p-ssycat Dolls would be the main event, followed by the Jonas Brothers to wind things down.
It was the perfect lineup. Massie giggled to herself, thinking of the dizzying salsa music the Riveras always played at dinner parties. Poor Claire. Someday she’d realize that neutral was a nail polish color, nawt a way of life.
Massie composed a quick text for Justin’s manager.
Massie: JT—ASAP. Block Estate by 7 this Friday ready to perform for charity. P.S. Leave 7th Heaven at home.
After writing drafts to the Dolls and JBros, Massie reglossed and held her iPhone out at arm’s length. Making sure her purple streak was visible, she smiled at the camera and took the shot.
“Done, done, and done.” She attached the photo to the texts and sent them.
Massie’s iPhone buzzed back instantly.
She opened the text with one hand and stroke-thanked her streak with the other. Ever since Massie had, ahem, borrowed the purple streaking pen from Anastasia Brees, founder of Be Pretty cosmetics, as a reward for all her hard work selling cosmetics to LBRs over the summer, she’d been more VIP than the entire cast of Gossip Girl combined.
Massie opened the text. A single word glowed on the screen.
Expired.
Her stomach plummeted to the floor. “Expired?” she said out loud. It was a mistake. It had to be. Anastasia Brees hadn’t said anything about an expiration date for the purple streak. Massie read the text again.
Expired.
Her phone buzzed twice more.
Expired.
Expired.
Layne was saying something, but Massie couldn’t hear over the sound of her world crashing down around her. Her iPhone slipped from her sweaty hands and fell to the floor. Losing her streak meant losing her power. Without it, she was like Diane von Furstenberg without the wrap dress. Scientology without Tom Cruise. Tyra without her forehead.
The MAC girls blurred into one well-styled blob, and she couldn’t feel her toes in her maroon riding boots. Beneath her tank, her heart beat out a staccato rhythm and her ears whirled like the ocean inside a conch shell. Was this what dying felt like?
“MASSIE!” Layne had turned the bullhorn up to maximum volume. It sliced her through thoughts like an ax through sashimi.
“E-nuff!” Massie yanked the bullhorn away from Layne’s mouth and pitched it across the trailer.
The MAC girls gasped, but Massie didn’t care. Maybe now they’d get that this wasn’t just another gig. This was the performance of a lifetime. A public statement. A lesson in biting the manicured hand that feeds you. It was MAC versus the Soul-M8s. And there was no way she would to lose to a bunch of crush stealing ex-friends with a wannabe vanity license plate name.
“You work with the actresses. I’ll get the boys and the band,” Layne said calmly, as though she were talking to a young child mid-tantrum.
Massie swallowed the panic lump in her throat, hating how Layne tried to take over at every turn. She was starting to act just like the ex-PC. Like she didn’t think Massie could handle the situation on her own. Massie promised herself that as soon as her social stock was on the rise, she’d drop Layne faster than an online dater in a wireless dead zone.
“I’ll take care of it,” Massie insisted, even though she had no idea how.
“You don’t trust me?” Layne blinked, looking hurt.
The truth was, Massie didn’t trust Layne’s taste in boys. The only girls whose cute guy–dar she trusted were the ex-PC.
But they were gone, and Layne was all she had. “Fine.” She sighed. Admitting that she needed Layne’s help made her feel lamer than a three-legged dog. But what else was she supposed to do?”
“Really?” Layne’s hazel eyes widened in disbelief.
“As long as you book the opposite of what you like,” Massie clarified. “Which means no boys with eyeliner and no bands with car show experience.”
“Promise, Thomas.” Layne grinned.
“And no confirming until I ah-pprove.”
Layne nodded her consent. “Don’t worry, I’ll deliver like Domino’s.”
“You better, or I’ll fry you like KFC.” Massie narrowed her amber eyes, insisting she meant it. Which she did.
Because if Layne screwed this up, Massie’s alpha status would end up like her purple streak.
Expired.