Part 1 (1/2)
Kristen.
by Lisi Harrison.
For you
THE BAXTERS' SUMMER RENTAL WESTCHESTER, NY.
Friday, July 17 11:43 A.M.
”Rate me.”
”No.”
”Come on, Ms. Gregory. Rate meeee.”
”No.”
”Kris-ten! Come on, pleeeease. You always rate Ma.s.sie.”
”That's different!”
”Just say a number.”
”Fine. Nine Nine.”
”Ehmagawd! I'm a nine!” Ripple Baxter hugged the sh.e.l.l-framed mirror on the living room wall of her father's sea-inspired Westchester summer rental. ”I knew this pink snakeskin headband was a must.” She petted her deep-fried blond hair.
”Correction.” Kristen Gregory sat on the wood-plank floor, then placed her over-sweetened lemonade on the nicked surfboard coffee table. ”It's not your score. It's your age age. You're nine nine. You have to be twelve or older to qualify for a rating.” Kristen leered at Ripple from across the musty furnished-by-garage-sale cottage. ”Speaking of nine, did you know it's the square root of eighty-one?”
Ignoring her, Ripple turned sideways and examined her new outfit. A long, pale pink hoodie, meant to cover the hips, practically swallowed the top two thirds of her short, muscular frame. Her knees could have easily been mistaken for extremely saggy b.o.o.bs, had her purple rhinestonecovered flip-flops not been so close.
”Ripple, your dad is paying me to teach you math and if you don't-”
”Ms. Gregory, he does not, not, not not care about care about math math.” Ripple fluffed the dark lashes around her light brown eyes. ”All he cares about are waves. He just wants someone to look after me so he can drive out to Long Island and surf. You're more like a tutor-sitter. Heavy on the 'sitter.'”
Funny. Lately Kristen felt heavy heavy on everything. How could she not? While she was sweating in a six-week summer school program, Ma.s.sie was in Southampton, Alicia was in Spain, and Dylan was in Hawaii. Even Claire had left town. True, she'd gone back to Orland- on everything. How could she not? While she was sweating in a six-week summer school program, Ma.s.sie was in Southampton, Alicia was in Spain, and Dylan was in Hawaii. Even Claire had left town. True, she'd gone back to Orland-ew, but it was better than tutor-sitting a bratty nine-year-old for eighth-grade wardrobe money. When would it be her her turn to make memories? And when would Ripple stop calling her- turn to make memories? And when would Ripple stop calling her- ”Ms. Gregory!” Ripple flipped up her pink hood and checked her reflection in the mirror again. ”The only thing you can teach me is how to be be Ma.s.sie Block.” Ma.s.sie Block.”
”You could start by lowering that hood,” Kristen blurted, then immediately hate-pinched her own leg for encouraging the little wannabe.
Ripple did as she was told, then reached into her Coach Heritage Stripe Swingpack knockoff and pulled out ten plastic purple bangles. Glued around them was a white price tag that said 5 FOR FOR $2. ”Left or right?” She lifted her wrists. ”WWMD?” $2. ”Left or right?” She lifted her wrists. ”WWMD?”
Kristen stood and shuffled across the uneven wood floor in Steve Madden cork wedges, her pleated Diesel denim mini swaying below her tight yellow Lacoste halter. ”Ma.s.sie wouldn't do either either!” She grabbed Ripple's soon-to-be-bangled wrists and pulled her back to the coffee table. ”They're H&M H&M!”
”Well, then, what would would she do?” Ripple widened her light brown eyes in antic.i.p.ation and propped her elbows on the surfboard table. she do?” Ripple widened her light brown eyes in antic.i.p.ation and propped her elbows on the surfboard table.
Kristen squeezed the gold Coach locket Ma.s.sie had sent her for her birthday-complete with a group photo of the Pretty Committee inside-and thought, What What would would Ma.s.sie do? Ma.s.sie do? But not being an alpha, Kristen wasn't completely sure. But not being an alpha, Kristen wasn't completely sure.
”She would do her homework, okay okay?” Kristen lied, flipping open Ripple's crisp, unused math textbook. ”Now, if a carton of eggs was one-fifty yesterday and is fifty percent off today, how much are the eggs? A, a dollar; B, two twenty-five; or C, seventy-five cents?”
Ripple plopped down on the green and blue Hawaiian printcovered futon, annoyed. ”Why won't you help help me?” me?”
”Because it's illegal to help a stalker.” Kristen ran her hand along her stubbly calf, thinking that the best part of her pathetic day might be the leg-shave bath she had scheduled before bed.
”I am not, not, not not a stalker!” Ripple whipped the purple bangles across the room. They bounced twice before settling into a cheap plastic heap. a stalker!” Ripple whipped the purple bangles across the room. They bounced twice before settling into a cheap plastic heap.
”Then focus and answer the question!” Kristen shouted, grateful that they were the only ones home.
”Wait, I have a better question.” Ripple sniffled. ”If your three-week crush told you surf chicks were 'cute 'n' all'”-she air-quoted-”but that some sophisticated older girl named Ma.s.sie Block was super hot, what would you you do?” She stood and paced. ”Would you A, want to figure out the price of eggs; B, stay true to your surfer roots; or C, ask your dad to hire you the summer math tutor who just happens to be Ma.s.sie's BFF?” do?” She stood and paced. ”Would you A, want to figure out the price of eggs; B, stay true to your surfer roots; or C, ask your dad to hire you the summer math tutor who just happens to be Ma.s.sie's BFF?”
Kristen's stomach lurched. ”You're using me for Ma.s.sie info?”
Ripple smeared glittery pink drugstore gloss on her droopy bottom lip. ”It's not using if you're paying.”
Kristen felt dizzy. In that very instant, her entire world had just been turned upside down and dumped like a giant handbag. Yes, she was getting paid, but that was supposed to be for her alpha mind, nawt her alpha friend. So what made her her special now? Once again, being Ma.s.sie's BFF was her only claim to fame. Her intelligence was meaningless. special now? Once again, being Ma.s.sie's BFF was her only claim to fame. Her intelligence was meaningless. Gawd! Gawd! If the game Rock, Paper, Scissors were real life, it would be called Brains, Beauty, Brawn. And Beauty would beat Brains and Brawn every time. If the game Rock, Paper, Scissors were real life, it would be called Brains, Beauty, Brawn. And Beauty would beat Brains and Brawn every time.
Someone kicked the front door open. ”h.e.l.lo? Anyone home?” A thick beam of sunlight seeped inside the dark cabin. There stood a s.h.i.+rtless boy. It was as if he'd been summoned by G.o.d and delivered by angels.
”Dune?” Ripple ran to greet her brother. ”What're ya doin' home?”
The thirteen-year-old surf star dropped his salty backpack and took off his white straw fedora. Blond hair the color of Baked Lays swung above his shoulders as he lovingly hugged his sister back.