BOCD
ROOM G-16
Wednesday, October 14th
11:59 A.M.
“Et maintenant, le subjonctif,” Madame Vallon wheezed from the front of the classroom, gripping the sides of the wooden podium like it was a walker. Massie took a break from the Teen Vogue quiz on her desk to indulge in a quick wrist sniff. The Bengay-slash-mothballs-slash-stale-peppermint smell that hovered within a ten-foot radius of OCD’s ancient French department head was making her feel light-headed.
Or maybe it was the faint combination of spicy chocolate, crisp green apple, fresh grapefruit, and cheap drugstore vanilla that was making her ill. Reminding her that Alicia, Kristin, Dylan, and Claire were all sitting in the back row, speed-texting, while her iPhone sat eerily cold and silent in her lap.
“We’ll begin with the verb avoir,” Madame Vallon trilled, sending her face wrinkles into vibrating spasms. She pressed her giant putty-colored hearing aid into her left ear, then turned to the board, leaving her deaf ear exposed to the class.
“To haaaaave,” Dylan burped from the back of the room. The class exploded into giggles. Massie pinched the skin between her index finger and thumb until it hurt.
“Répétez: que j’ai, que tu aies, qu’il/elle ait.” Madame Vallon turned back toward the class, oblivious. The wrinkly neckskin that spilled over the top button of her shapeless oatmeal cardigan swung slowly back and forth as she spoke.
While the rest of the class chanted in monotone voices that suggested hypnosis by neck fat, Massie pulled her Nutella gloss from the pocket of her charcoal wide-leg Yaya Aflalo trousers. Nutella was the newest flavor from Glossip Girl’s international collection, and the rich chocolate gloss tinged with hints of hazelnut and espresso made her feel like she was somewhere way more exotic than room G-16 of Octavian Country Day. Somewhere she could start fresh. Where she’d be appreciated for her fashion-forward style, her ability to move in a four-inch-plus heel, and most of all, her talent for taking charge. Paris, peut-être.
“… que nous ayons, que vous ayez, qu’ils/elles aient,” Madame Vallon continued.
Realistically speaking, Paris was out of the question, especially given Massie’s strict policy against horizontal stripes and simple carbs.
Usually, when she needed a change, she made a beeline for Jakkob’s salon. But the kind of change she needed now was bigger than fresh highlights and a bang trim. It was bigger than a new wardrobe from Barneys or a day at the spa. She was going to have to start from scratch. With a whole new group of friends.
Wasn’t Kendra always telling her to quote-unquote “learn from her mistakes”? Well, the only mistake she’d made recently was in whom she hung out with. She was done, done, and done with alpha-wannabes, food-obsessed ex-snatchers with an excess of gas, sporty crush-stealers, and neutral Switzerlands. Her new friends had to be more alpha than her old ones, in every way.
Staring at the mag quiz in front of her, Massie nibbled her lower lip. The chocolaty flavor sent a sugar rush through her veins. It cleared her head and renewed her confidence, giving her an idea that was beyond genius.
Flipping open her notebook, she got to work on a quiz of her own.
ARE YOU MAC MATERIAL?
1. You leave the house looking hawter than hawt in your new black lace Miu Miu cami and BCBG wide-leg pants. You open the door of the Range Rover. Massie is wearing the exact same cami! EHMAGAWD! No worries, you know exactly what to do. You:
A. Do nuh-thing. You know you look hawt, so why should it matter?
B. Take a bad sushi day. The cami was ah-bviously Massie’s idea first.
C. Trick question! You would cuh-learly never buy anything without consulting with your alpha beforehand.
D. Trick question! Underwear-as-outerwear is so last year. You’d sooner wear acid-wash denim.
Answer: C & D. Obv. art
2. An ah-dorable Briarwood boy moves into your building. He’s mature, stylish, and tanned. You just know he’d be perfect for Massie. Even though she needs zero help with boys, you offer to see if he’s into her. What’s your first move?
A. Give Massie 72 hours notice, then plan an “accidental run-in” with Massie and Briarwood Boy. Follow up with a *casual* text to determine Briarwood boy’s level of interest. Make sure there’s nothing in the text to make the boy like you instead of Massie. Also, make sure there’s nothing that would make him think *you* like him. Double-check before sending.
B. First move? You have a jillion ideas, and they’re all fantastic. So you prepare a short PowerPoint presentation and let Massie choose. After all, who knows more about anything than she does?
C. Plan an “accidental run-in” with Massie and Briarwood boy. Forget to warn her.
D. Plot ways to get him to like you instead. Then, when she least expects it, tell her he’s just not that into you. Pretend to be sorry.
Answer: A & B are both acceptable options. Check in with Massie and proceed accordingly. art
3. If you were a celebrity, you’d be:
A. Angelina Jolie. You and your C-cups are nawt to be trusted.
B. Oprah. Fine, everybody likes you. But you’ve got major eating issues and seriously? We’re all sick of hearing about it.
C. Hayden Panettiere. So you’re sporty, have a hawt bod, and can hang with the guys. Big. Deal.
D. Anne Hathaway. You’re a sweetheart who’s come a long way, fashion-wise. But your super-sugary ways are starting to rot my smile.
Answer: EW-ma-gawd! None of the above! If I were a celeb, I’d be: art
As Madame Vallon switched to the conjugation of être, Massie folded the quiz and dropped it into her purple metallic Rebecca Minkoff bag, satisfied. She’d distribute it to people at school who showed potential and use it as a screening device for new friends. She’d have a hawt new crew in no time.
Massie scanned the room for quiz-worthy girls. But everyone around her had at least one major flaw. Mascara boogers, mismatched fabrics, unbleached teeth… it was like a parade of Glamour “don’ts” had invaded G-16. Massie felt her heart sinking fast. Was it possible that Alicia, Dylan, Kristen, and Claire were the best OCD had to offer?
“And now, the verb faire.” Madame Vallon turned back toward the board.
“Pssssssst.”
Massie smelled corn. She swiveled around slowly.
Layne Abeley was leaning over the desk behind her, handing her a folded piece of Chococat notepaper.
Massie tilted her head toward the iPhone on her desk, indicating that she only accepted texts. Then she quickly turned back around, resisting the urge to stare down Kristen, who was whispering to Alicia behind her Allons-y! workbook. Were they talking about her? Or did Kristen have gossip? And if so, would Alicia know how many points to give? The uncertainty made Massie’s head throb.
The bell rang, and Madame Vallon spit-muttered something about copying conjugations for homework, but the sound of scraping chairs and screeching backpack zippers drowned her out.
“Remember the look on Estée’s face?” Alicia said loudly from her seat across the room.
“I know, right?” Dylan giggled. The girls got up and started to make their way to the door.
Massie sniffed her wrist again, this time for courage. The girls would be passing her desk in seconds. They couldn’t know she hadn’t found new friends yet. Pretending to be engrossed in her iPhone, she laughed out loud as Alicia, Dylan, Kristen, and Claire slid by.
“Ehmagawd, too funny,” she murmured to herself, staring at her text message inbox.
It read 0 MSGS.
It might as well have read 1 LBR.
When she heard her exes disappear down the hall, she slung her bag over her shoulder and headed for the door.
“Hey.” Layne grabbed Massie’s arm the second she hit the hallway. “I hafta talk to you.”
Massie rolled her eyes but slowed so Layne could catch up with her. Secretly, she was glad to have the company. But she’d rather have box-dyed her hair than told Layne that.
“About what?” She sighed, even though she already knew.
“You know…” Layne said with a meaningful nod. Flecks of orange glitter from her obviously homemade headband went flying everywhere. “Revenge.”
Massie pinch-plucked a piece of glitter from the shoulder of her Lela Rose cropped shrug, feeling like she was caught in a tacky snow globe. Stopping in front of her locker, she reached for the padlock.
“Look.” Layne jumped between Massie and the locker. “Are we gonna do this or what?” She sounded shady, like they were a couple’a street thugs meeting in a dark alley.
“Did you come up with a plan?” Massie tapped her foot, wondering if she actually needed Layne to pull off Massie and Crew. Did she really want her right-hand woman to be a glitter headband–wearing thrift store junkie with barbecue breath? Then again, they were bonded in revenge, and Massie had to admit, Layne wanted to burn Kristen as badly as Massie wanted to burn the ex-NPC. And with Layne at her side, at least Massie wouldn’t have to stage a comeback on her own.
“Eh. Not really.” Layne shrugged. “We’ll come up with something.” She pulled a half-empty bag of barbecue Corn Nuts from her backpack and shook the dusty pellets into her cupped hand. “We just have to find the perfect scenario.” She slapped her palm to her mouth and tilted back her head.
Massie inhaled sharply as an eighth grader wearing a too-tight Cheetah Girls T-shirt and tapered jeans sidled up to a locker nearby. “Well, we’re not gonna find perfection within a five-mile radius of that shirt.”
Layne’s eyes followed Massie’s. She stared at the ensemble with a mixture of admiration and disgust. “That outfit takes some serious bawls.” She nod-approved.
“Focus, Layne,” Massie snapped. Suddenly, the hallway seemed packed with ill-fitting jeans, dull hair, and Lohan-orange foundation. “I need alphas. And there obviously aren’t any here.”
Layne shoveled another handful of Corn Nuts into her mouth, staring into space. “See, this is why I love the thea-tahhhh,” she said. A nut was stuck on her eyetooth. “You can create a whole new world, and everything goes exactly the way you want it to. Same with Sims.”
Massie shuddered at the word theater. It reminded her of Dempsey. “I’m so done with actors.”
Layne’s head snapped back to position. Nuts clattered to the ground as she gripped Massie’s shoulders with both hands.
“Ow!” Massie yelped.
“Actors!” Layne said excitedly. She released her grip, tiny bits of red salt clinging to Massie’s shrug like colorful dandruff. “Gimme your iPhone.”
“No way.” Massie took a cautious step back. Layne’s eyes looked wild. It was probably the cheap glitter liner, but Massie wasn’t taking any chances.
“Come awn,” Layne begged. “My aunt runs a talent agency in the city. We could borrow some of her actors and use them to get back at that Dempsey-stealing dirtbag.” She glanced meaningfully at the iPhone in Massie’s hand. “Just take a look at some of the headshots.”
Massie hesitated, the idea blooming in her mind. If she hired actors, she could get them to be whatever she wanted them to be. And what she wanted them to be was pure alpha. She felt an instant surge of hope.
“Fine,” she whispered to Layne. “But not here.” She speed-scanned the hall, searching for signs that Layne had been overheard. If anyone found out she was considering hiring best friends, she’d have to transfer to another hemisphere.
Layne’s eyes flashed with excitement. “So where?”
Massie nodded sharply, signaling for Layne to follow her. It was lunchtime, and the crowds in the hall were starting to thin. “In here.” She ducked back into the now-empty G-16 and shut the door behind them.
“What’s the name?” Massie asked, unlocking her iPhone.
“Shooting Stars Talent Agency,” Layne whispered.
Massie connected to the Web site. The headshots page was filled with black-and-white thumbnails. Massie clicked on the slide show setting, waiting for the girl parade to begin.
“Lemme see.” Layne loomed over the iPhone, fogging up the screen with her hot nut breath.
“Layne!” Massie barked, wiping the screen with the back of her arm. “Two steps back.” She held the phone at arm’s length, the way Kendra did when she was trying to read the New York Times Sunday Style section without glasses. As pictures began fading from one to another, she surveyed the girls for flyaways, chapped lips, or recklessly applied highlighter. But each was more perfect than the next.
“She looks good.” Layne pointed to a shot of a willowy girl with flawless, translucent skin and an edgy dark pixie cut. Her large, light blue eyes were the only pop of color in the photograph. She stared directly into the camera, like she was daring Massie to pass on her. “Check her stats.”
“Lilah Poole. Five-seven, black hair, blue eyes,” Massie read aloud. “Broadway debut in Chicago… plus a couple of indie films… and a guest appearance on Law and Order.” Massie fought the smile starting to twitch at the corners of her mouth.
“So?” Layne tugged at her faded I art ME T-shirt. “Whaddaya think?”
“I think,” Massie said slowly, “whoever I hire has to be the complete opposite of the Pretty Committee.”
“So… you want girls who’re… nice,” Layne said drily.
Massie didn’t really care about defending the PC anymore, so she chose to ignore the jab. “I’d need at least four,” she said decisively, twirling her purple hair streak around her index finger. She felt excitement starting to bubble up inside of her like fizzy bath salts. “Let’s make the call.”
“No deal, Lucille. I’ll call my aunt, but only if I’m in the crew too.”
Massie’s hyper-glossed lips dropped open. “You?”
“Yeah,” Layne said brandishing her cell like a weapon. “If I make the call, you let me in. That means sleepovers, parties, and a guaranteed lunch table spot. No tricks.”
“But you hate cliques, re-mem-ber?” Massie tried to steady her voice. Adding Layne to her new crew was a guaranteed way to drag the alpha average lower than the rise on a pair of J Brand Boyfriend jeans. “And how will it help you get back at Kristen?”
“I’m not sure yet,” Layne admitted. “And even though I hate cliques, I like a good ensemble cast, and I love revenge.” She extended her right pinky. “Deal?”
Suddenly, the PA system crackled to life.
“Good afternoon, OCD, I’m Alicia Rivera and this is your lunchtime update.”
Massie’s stomach clenched at the sound of Alicia’s voice. Her polished, peppy newscaster voice used to make Massie proud to be friends with Alicia. But now it just felt fake. Like their friendship must have been.
“Great,” she muttered to Layne. “It’s Meredith Vi-ew-a.”
Layne snorted.
“Just a reminder that this Friday is the Briarwood boys’ last day,” Alicia chirped.
“Yeaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh!” The boys could be heard all the way from the New Café.
“So let’s spend the rest of the week making them all sorry they have to leave.” The sound of rustling papers echoed over the speakers.
“And now for a new segment I like to call Couples Update.” A brief pause was followed by a prolonged kissing sound. “Which Briarwood thespian is now playing opposite OCD’s cutest soccer star? And are rumors of a steamy all-night textathon really true?”
Massie clenched her iPhone in her fist. This was a total abuse of journalistic power.
“Plus, which four alphas and their crushes were spotted in a white limo yesterday afternoon? And is it true things really got hot when AR and JH”—Alicia giggle-paused—“got a couples foot massage together? Tune in next time to find out. Till then, this is Alicia Rivera for OCD saying, I heart you.”
Layne made a gagging sound. “I don’t know how you ever hung out with her,” she said, shaking her head.
Massie closed her eyes, the sound of Alicia’s voice pounding inside her brain. She swallowed the growing lump in her throat, recalling the one piece of useful information she’d learned in world history last year: In times of war, people did unthinkable things. It was unthinkable to let Alicia think she had what it took to be an alpha. Unthinkable to let Kristen think she could steal Dempsey. Unthinkable for Dylan and Derrington to be so ah-nnoyingly perfect for each other. Unthinkable for Claire to think she didn’t have to choose sides. Unthinkable for Massie to conspire with Layne. Unthinkable for them to hire actresses as friends. The only thing more unthinkable than any of that was to sit around and do nothing.
Opening her eyes, Massie linked pinkies with her new partner in crime and shook.
“To the Fraud-Squad,” Layne whisper-giggled.
“To the Fraud-Squad,” Massie allowed herself to whisper-giggle back.
CURRENT STATE OF THE UNION
IN OUT
Headshots Latte shots
Actress Drama
Hiring friends Firing friends