BOCD
SECOND-FLOOR BATHROOM
Tuesday, October 13th
3:30 P.M.
Kuh-laire. Kuh-laire.
Claire’s Massie ringtone reverberated inside the beige metal walls of the fourth stall, where Claire had been hiding since the last bell. Trying to divide her time equally between Massie and the Soul-M8s all day had left her feeling more worn than the magnetic strip on Massie’s Glossip Girl Frequent Glosser card. She’d done lunch with the Soul-M8s, then sat next to Massie during study hall, and was supposed to meet the Soul-M8s for mani-pedis in less than five. Was this what kids with divorced parents felt like all the time? It was so exhausting, she’d ducked into the second-floor bathroom to get some peace.
Kuh-laire. Kuh-laire.
Which was obviously not an option in the second-floor bathroom, or any other place with decent cell reception.
“Okay, okay.” She clawed through the contents of her Anya Hindmarch for Target python satchel, bypassing a spiral notebook, an emergency sours stash, and an almost-empty tube of Sephora Sugar Cookie gloss before she found her rhinestone-encrusted Motorola.
Massie: Smoothie. Isaac can be here in 5.
Hola, chica! Hola, chica! Her phone sounded Alicia’s custom ring.
Alicia: Where r u??? Etd 4 soul-m8s mani-pedi = 5 mins.
Claire closed her eyes and pressed her forehead to the cool metal of the stall door, strangling her buzzing Motorola with her sweaty grip. Why did it have to be like this? Why did she have to choose? Last year, she would have been psyched to be so in demand. But now, she felt like the old yellowed undershirts her dad used to wear when he did repairs around the house in Orlando: torn and stretched too thin.
Hola, chica! Hola, chica!
“Kuh-laire.”
Claire’s eyes snapped open. A pair of tan wedges tapped impatiently under her stall door.
“Massie?” The overpowering scent of sandalwood and ylang-ylang invaded her tiny sanctuary.
“Um, question for you,” Massie hissed.
Claire peeked through the side-crack of the door. Massie’s arms were folded across her eggplant-colored tunic, her fingertips pressed into the muslin sleeves.
“Am I piece of lint-covered cashmere?”
“No.” Claire sighed, bracing her stomach for the inevitable punch.
“Then why are you brushing me off?” Massie was blocking Claire’s exit, hands now glued to her hips.
“I’m not,” Claire protested. “It’s just… I sort of… have plans.” Her fist tightened, squeezing the life out of the synthetic snakeskin handle of her satchel.
“Plans?” Massie took a step back. “With them?” She narrowed her eyes accusingly, as if she’d just caught Claire wearing white Keds with black socks.
With a deep breath, Claire unlatched the metal lock and threw the door open. “Yes,” she affirmed reluctantly. “But maybe we can do something tomorrow?” she said, making a break for the sinks. She turned on the faucet to drown out her thumping heart. A rush of hot water scalded her hand. Ignoring the burn, she continued like nothing was wrong. “You know, go shopping or something. I’d love to get something new.”
“Like what?” Massie jammed the slanted tip of her Glossip Girl tube against her lips. “A spine?”
Claire chewed at the inside of her cheek, speed-pumping the soap dispenser. She’d have given up sugar for a year if it meant the Pretty Committee would get back together. But in the absence of a reunion, it seemed like being friends with both Massie and the Soul-M8s was the right thing to do—not the cowardly option.
“And I said, Romeo, take me somewhere we can be alone I’ll be waiting, all there’s left to do is run.”
Claire’s phone was ringing again. But this was a call she wanted to take. She rinsed her hands and reached for her phone.
“Hey, Cam,” Claire whispered into the receiver, as though saying his name softly would make their relationship less threatening to Massie.
Massie rolled her eyes.
“Hey! We’re in the Riveras’ limo! Out front!” Cam’s voice was barely audible above Dylan’s shrieking laughter and the beat of a Kanye West song thumping from the speakers. “You coming?”
Claire mashed the phone against her ear, blocking the sound of fun from Massie. She stared at the floor, not wanting to have to see the hurt on Massie’s face.
“Yeah. Um, okay. I—I’ll be right there,” Claire blurted with the urgency of an EMT. Maybe if Massie thought someone was hurt she wouldn’t feel so—
The bathroom door slammed shut. Claire looked up at the now empty bathroom. A trace of Chanel No. 19 lingered, the only proof that this whole situation was real, and not just some horrible nightmare.
When Claire reached the limo, Dylan’s head popped through the open sunroof, her long red locks whipping wildly in the breeze.
“Get in!” she yelled. Then she dropped back inside the limo like a reverse jack-in-the-box.
The second Claire opened the door, Derrington bolted from the limo like a prisoner making his escape.
“Go! Go! Go!” Josh yelled.
“Save yourself!” Dempsey added, his smile curving into his dimpled cheeks.
“Ohhhhh, no you don’t!” Dylan shot out after Derrington. In seconds, she’d caught up with him and was dragging him back to his cell. “If I have to sit through soccer practice, you have to get a mani-pedi.”
“Awww, man.” Derrington rubbed the back of his neck, diving into the seat between Cam and Dempsey.
“Good effort.” Cam elbowed him.
Claire ducked inside the limo and shut the door behind her.
“Finally!” Alicia tossed a chilled bottle of cran-grapefruit Vitamin Water in Claire’s direction. “What took you so long?”
Claire eyed the tiny patch of vacant leather next to Cam. She wanted to squeeze in, but Alicia was already directing her to the spot between Dylan and Kristen.
“Sorry.” Claire shrugged, without bothering to answer. After all, the question was the equivalent of “Is that what you’re wearing?” It didn’t actually require an answer.
Cam side-glanced at his friends, who were busy sucker-punching one another, then nudged Claire’s ballet flat with his Puma. “Hey.”
“Hey.” Claire nudged him back. Alicia rapped on the glass divider behind her and the limo lunged forward. “These little piggies are going Chanel,” she decided, rolling up the hem of her olive satin cargo pants and planting her black patent peep-toes on the edge of the leather bench across from her. “Vendetta.”
“Oooh.” Dylan nodded. “Good one.” She took a gulp of Skinny Water and wiped her mouth with the back of her arm.
“Not me.” Dempsey grinned. “Shanghai Red, all the way, baby.”
“Duuuude.” Derrington shook his head slowly.
Kristen looked horrified. “How do you even know that’s a color?”
Dempsey’s chin dropped to his 100 percent recycled IT’S NOT EASY BEING GREEN cotton tee. “My mom likes it.”
“Sure she does,” Josh snorted.
“You okay?” Cam asked Claire quietly, from his seat across from her.
“Yeah. Just tired.” She sighed.
Cam reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out a fresh bag of sours.
“Thanks.” Claire smiled, letting the stress of the day melt away like the sugar on her tongue. The vibrations from the speakers transformed the creamy leather seats into massage chairs.
“So seriously.” Derrington crossed his arms over his chest, glaring out the window. “If you guys tell anybody about this—”
“Re-laaaax,” Dylan said. “We won’t.”
“Swear,” Josh insisted. “If this ever got out—”
“Pinky-swear,” Alicia assured him. Claire caught Cam’s green eye and smirked. Once she’d drawn a little heart on his big toe with her red Sharpie. He widened his blue eye, as if embarrassed at the memory. But Claire knew for a fact that he’d worn the heart on his toe for over a week. She turned to nudge Massie, the only person she’d told about the Sharpie session, then remembered the alpha was too far away—in all senses of the word—for an inside joke.
All around her the limo was full of life and giggles and chatter. But for some reason, Claire just felt empty.