WESTCHESTER, NY THE FISHER HOUSE

Friday, April 9th

5:55 P.M.

The metal drawers on Cam's Pottery Barn locker desk were like his eyes, one green and one blue. They felt cold against Massie's bare legs. She leaned against them anyway, because they, like everything in his bedroom, were clean.

“Show us how to do that kick where you fall and score at the same time. Fans love that.”

“Maybe we should go out back for that.” Cam surveyed his crowded room.

Derrington was bouncing a soccer ball on his foot while Dylan slid across the hardwood floors on Cam's light blue desk chair. Alicia and Josh were perched on the edge of his bed, which doubled as a storage hutch. The bulky oak frame had six cubbyholes stacked above the headboard and overflowing with rows of folded T-shirts. Hundreds of CD booklets were neatly tacked to his navy-painted walls, their jewel cases converted into an intricate maze that twisted and turned along the wood floor in the far corner.

“I say we do it right here.” Massie emphasized each word, urging Dylan and Alicia to stick to the plan. “We can use the bed as a mat.”

“Ah-greed.” Alicia jumped to her feet and made a show of trying to pull the mattress onto the floor.

“Good idea.” Dylan raced over.

“I still think it would be better if we went outside,” Cam said, while casually sliding a framed a photo of Claire off his night table and into a tiny drawer. It was a close-up of her slurping an orange gummy worm like a piece of spaghetti. The sweet shot filled Massie with bitterness. Why wasn't Claire with them? Why hadn't she called to wish them luck? And why, why weren't there any ah-dorable pictures of Massie in Derrington's room?

“Outside is so far,” Alicia whined. “All we need is a little padding and we can stay right here.” She stepped away from the bed and stood behind Josh and Dylan. “Ready? One…two…three…pull!”

They yanked the mattress onto the floor with a thud.

Cam checked the jewel case maze, which miraculously remained intact.

As Massie had suspected, the key wasn't there. It was time for phase two of their plan.

“Kick-fall!” Derrington took a running dive toward Dylan and gave her a leg-sweep, knocking her face-first onto the mattress.

“Not with cleats!” pleaded Cam.

“Get! Off!” Dylan laughed as she fought her way out from under Derrington. “Your pits smell like sour cream and onion chips.”

Derrington lifted his arm and smeared his post-soccer practice stink in her nose.

“Ew!” Dylan squirmed frantically.

And then—”Baaaap“—she burped and blew it in his face.

Everyone laughed, including Derrington.

Even though the last thing Massie wanted was Derrington's sweaty BO near her T-zone, she found herself temporarily hating Dylan for flirting with him.

“Ehmagawd, did your back just crack?” Massie stood above them, showing no signs of amusement.

“What?” Dylan giggled. “No, I burp—”

“No, that crack.” Massie winked at Alicia.

“Yeah, I heard it too.”

“Oh yeah,” Dylan blurted, her face suddenly becoming serious. “I think I hurt my lumbar.” With a single buck she managed to throw Derrington off her. “We definitely need more padding.”

“Good call.” Massie perked up. “Let's get Harris's mattress and put it on top of this one.”

“Heart that!” Alicia clapped. “I'll help.”

“Me too.” Dylan smoothed her navy-and-yellow Sirens uniform.

“Hold it!” Cam held out his palm like a crossing guard.

“Come awn!” Massie led the charge. She slammed Cam's bedroom door on her way out, paying little mind to the sound of shattering plastic that must have been the domino effect ripping through his jewel-case maze.

The girls burst into Harris's room and locked the door.

Old movie posters of guys she didn't recognize hung in what smelled like a Scotch-tape factory.

“Open up!” Cam pounded.

“Ehmagawd!” Massie gasped. “Twin beds!”

Dylan cracked her knuckles. “No problem.”

Massie dashed to her side. “Ready?”

Alicia moved quickly (for Alicia) and grabbed a fistful of burgundy comforter.

“Okay,” Massie grunted. “Ready…set…go!”

After four shoves, the mattress slid onto the floor.

A crumpled magazine photo of Pamela Anderson in her red Baywatch swimsuit stared back at them, along with three strands of brown hair and an orange Tic Tac.

“Let me in!” Cam shouted.

“We're trying—the door is stuck.” Dylan jiggled the handle for effect.

“This is it.” Massie raced over to the bed by the window and dropped to her knees. With an adrenaline-charged push, she flipped the second mattress without any help.

Dylan and Alicia dashed to her side.

“Ehmagawd,” they all said, staring down at the white web of cotton that coated the box spring.

There, reflecting the last glimmer of golden light the day had to offer, was a shiny silver…dime.