WESTCHESTER, NY THE ABELEY HOUSE

Friday, April 9th

7:12 P.M.

“Whoa! What happened?” gasped Layne when she opened her front door and saw Claire on her porch, alone in the cold, starless night. Tears streamed from beneath her oversize glasses, blazing salty trails through the beige foundation on her cheeks.

“Are you in trouble with the law?” Layne's tongue was Crystal Light purple.

Sobbing, Claire turned and waved, letting her mother know it was okay to leave.

The headlights on the Lyonses' bronze Ford Taurus lit the front of the Abeleys' redbrick house as Judi backed out of the driveway, illuminating their WOW, Nice Underwear straw doormat.

“Is it the audition?” Layne twirled one of the seven braids in her hair. “Was Bernard Sinrod mean to you? Did he beat you?” She made a move to pull off her best friend's glasses, but Claire jumped back.

“He punched you in the eye, didn't he?”

Claire shook her head no. It felt puffy and full. She sniffed back the snot bubble that grew and shrank every time she blubbered.

“Don't worry. Rejection is part of the biz.” Layne placed

a well-meaning hand on Claire's shoulder, which was bare and cold thanks to the tattered black tube top Miles had suggested she wear. “Wait till your movie comes out next month. You'll be turning down more scripts than Lindsay.”

It was funny getting career advice from someone in Chococat baby-doll pajamas and headgear, but Claire couldn't bring herself to smile.

“Come inside. My brother is upstairs listening to Ne-Yo's ‘So Sick’ on repeat. He can cry about Fawn and you can cry about not getting the part and—”

“I did get it.” Claire sniffed. “The lawyers will be at my house tomorrow to look over the contract.”

“Brava!” Layne unclipped her headgear and tossed it in the air like a graduation cap. “When do you start shooting?”

“Summer.”

“Did you meet Cole Sprouse?”

“Next week, when we read the script.”

“Is Bernard nice?”

“Totally.” Claire sighed. “He gave me roses. My mom has them.” Her vision blurred all over again and the backs of her eyes pinched.

“Then what is it?” Layne picked her headgear off the Oriental carpet and clipped it around her neck. The two spiked ends pointed straight at her jugular and gave Claire an uneasy feeling.

“It's complicated.” Claire stepped into the small square receiving room, just beyond the front door. The walls on either side of her were covered in mirrors, creating the illusion of a thousand Claires. There was “friend Claire” and “actress Claire” and “Cam's Claire” and “Pretty Committee Claire” and “sister Claire” and “daughter Claire” and “student Claire” and “Orlando Claire” and “Westchester Claire.” They went on and on.

Most days, each one was a part of her, making her whole. But tonight the Claires felt like strangers with different sets of plans.

Without thinking, Claire removed her sunglasses and tossed her hat onto the black lacquer table beside the Oriental screen.

Layne squinted. Her thin, light brows arched above her narrow green eyes. “Wha—?”

“Oh.” Claire suddenly realized what she had done but decided to go with it. She was an actress. And with that came sacrifices. Sooner or later, everyone would have to accept it. Herself included. “I had to do this for my audition.”

“Well, can you tell me why you're crying?” Layne sighed. “Or are you too bushed?” She tried to contain her laughter, then snorted instead.

“Sounds like you've been hanging around Massie.”

“Ehmagawd, rea-lly?” Layne gushed, offering her best Pretty Committee impersonation.

Claire couldn't help smiling as she followed her one-of-a-kind friend up the ruby-red-carpeted staircase.

“So what happened?” Layne asked again from the top of the stairs.

Claire took a deep breath.

“I went to Cam's after the audition because everyone was going there after school to look for the—” She caught herself just in time. “Uh, to look for soccer tips. And Mrs. Fisher told me she sent Massie, Alicia, and Dylan home because they destroyed Cam's and Harris's bedrooms. When I asked to see Cam she told me I couldn't ‘cause he was grounded for letting them do that to her house.”

“Wow, poor Cam. I wonder why they did that.” Layne kicked the blowup pit bull away from her bedroom door, ignoring the terrifying bark and growl recording that played every time someone moved it from its guard post. “And that's why you were crying?”

“No.” Claire instinctively grabbed Layne's elbow when they entered her famous glow-in-the-dark bedroom, allowing herself to be led through the pitch-black labyrinth filled with all things luminescent: oozing lava lamps, posters of big-headed martians, and fiery-haired trolls. Finally they reached her bed, the duvet a massive canvas of neon orange, yellow, and hot pink splattered paints. Above it, the solar system in sticker form clung to her ceiling, the stars and planets shining in a radioactive shade of green.

“I was crying because when I called Massie to tell her I was on my way to her sleepover she freaked out on me.”

“Why? Because you got the part and she didn't?”

“She didn't even audition.”

“So, I'm sure she still expected to get the part.”

Claire giggled, tickled by how well Layne had Massie figured out. “She uninvited me to the sleepover and kicked me out of the Pretty Committee. Forever.”

“Why?”

The tears returned.

“She thinks I stood in the way of her and the—” Claire stopped. A flood of prickly heat itched her palms, reminding her how dangerously close she had come to breaking Skye's number-one rule.

“Her and the what?”

“Nothing.”

“What?”

“Nothing!” Then Claire felt a tugging on her arm. “Layne, what are you—?”

Suddenly, she was being gagged with a glow-in-the-dark Hello Kitty scarf.

“Mmmmmmm,” she called. The black room, with all its brightly colored inhabitants, made Claire feel like she had been beamed to an animated planet. “Mmmmmm!”

A blast of electronica music drowned out Claire's pleas, turning her fear into panic. Suddenly, someone plopped down beside her. The smell of artificial grape flavoring got stronger and stronger until Claire felt hot breath against her cheek.

“I know,” whispered Layne.

“Mmmmm?” She grunted as loud as she could, hoping to be heard above the pulsating music. “Mmmm!”

“I know about the keyyyy.” Layne whispered again.

Claire ripped the scarf off, wondering why she hadn't tried that sooner. “You do?”

Layne's hand smacked against her mouth. “Shhhhhh, she might be listening.”

Claire nodded, taking Layne's hand for a ride.

“I'm going to show you something. But don't speak.”

Layne turned on the lights.

A bouquet of helium balloons, each with a different message and a guy's name on them bobbed against the ceiling. They said, Josh Is Number 1, Get Well, Jake, and Best Wishes, Luis—obviously her way in to boys' houses.

So Alicia was right. Heather had gotten a CD-ROM, and she'd recruited Layne and Meena to help.

“Did you find any—?”

“Ouija?” Layne instantly cut her off. She reached behind her pillow and pulled out the creepy game used to contact the dead. She crossed her legs and balanced the game board on her knees. Claire wiggled into position so that the other side of the board rested on her.

The alphabet, written in sinister black font, was laid out before them. Without asking the Ouija board a question, Layne placed her fingertips on the oval slab of wood and moved it over certain letters.

Suddenly Claire understood. Layne wasn't using the board to get help from beyond. She was using it to communicate her thoughts. It was like text messaging without the technology trail.

A-N-Y-L-E-A-D-S, she spelled.

N-O-A-N-D-M-A-S-S-I-E-I-S-F-R-E-A-K-I-N-G-T-H-E-R-E-H-A-S-T-O-B-E-S-O-M-E-O-N-E-W-E-R-E-N-O-T-T-H-I-N-K-I-N-G-O-F

W-H-O

D-I-D-U-C-H-E-C-K-E-V-E-R-Y-O-N-E-S-K-Y-E-K-I-S-S-E-D

Layne reached for the slab.

Y-E-A-H-Y-O-U

D-O-H-E-R-S-H-E-Y-S-C-O-U-N-T

“Huh?” Claire said out loud.

H-E-R-S-H-E-Y-S-K-I-S-S-E-S

Layne snickered, then cupped her hands around her heart-shaped mouth.

“Just kidding.”

“What?” Claire asked.

Layne whispered, “She gave Chris a bag of Hershey's Kisses last month when he drove her home.”

“Seriously?” Claire asked at full volume.

“Shhhhh!” Layne fanned her mouth like she'd just taken a bite of burning-hot pizza. “Unless Skye works for the CIA and you're wanted, the room is probably safe.”

Layne giggled, then tossed the Ouija board on the floor.

“Skye gives Hershey's Kisses to every guy who gives her a ride. It's her thing.”

“Did you check—?” Claire stiffened with regret.

A subtle twitch on the side of Layne's jaw told Claire they were thinking the same thing.

“Outta my way.” Layne rolled off the bed, command style, and bolted out of her bedroom door.

Claire raced after her, thinking more about Massie than the key. This was her chance to redeem herself in the eyes of the Pretty Committee…for life.

In an act of total desperation, she shoved Layne into a freaky decorative totem pole outside the bathroom and squeezed past her.

The muffled sound of Ne-Yo told Claire that Chris's bedroom was at the end of the short hall. Slipping on the narrow Oriental rug, she quickly regained her balance and reached for the brass doorknob like it was a life preserver. Layne was right behind her, giggle-panting.

Claire jiggled the handle.

It was locked.

“Chris, let me in, code red!” Layne pounded.

Claire joined in. She even shouted, “Code red,” figuring it would sound redder if two people were screaming it.

“Chill.” Chris let them in, then dove back onto his bed and spooned a navy quilted throw pillow.

“Sorry to brother you—”

“Whoa, who's the dude?” he asked, lifting his head.

“It's me. Claire.” She covered her eyebrows and smiled shyly. “It's for a movie.”

“Whatever.” He tossed a stuffed deer at the ceiling, then caught it. Then did it again. And again. And again.

“What are you doing to Lil' Fawn?” Layne asked, as if the doe-eyed Gund were alive.

“It's not Lil' Fawn anymore,” he mumbled. “It's just a stupid deer.” He whipped it across the room, knocking over the mini-cologne menagerie on his black dresser. The bottles scattered onto the hardwood floor, but he didn't seem to notice.

Feeling sorry for him, Claire dropped to her knees and started gathering them. A burgundy Clarins bottle shot toward the wall covered in pictures of his friends from boarding school and Tricky, his beloved black horse. A little bottle of Fahrenheit Summer landed near a heap of dirty jeans and torn T-shirts by the closet, and the Rive Gauche lay beneath his glass desk, near the silver mesh trash can. Inside was a heap of torn photographs of a pretty blonde with a wide toothy smile. And suddenly Claire knew.

Chris's bedroom was Skye's poem. The cologne samples meant he was a mini lover, and there was no question how he felt about “all creatures, big and small,” especially horses. And ever since Fawn had dumped him, his clothes had been stained, ripped, or both, something even Claire knew was “Glamour-don't” style.

“Maybe you should get off the bed and get some fresh air.” Claire tried her best to sound constructive.

Chris rolled onto his side.

“What was the code red?” he mumbled.

“Um, nothing. We were just worried about you.” Layne twirled her horse-locket necklace around her stained index finger.

Claire scanned the room, desperate for inspiration. She found it in the half-empty bottle of Mike's Hard Lemonade beside his Dell. After a quick pantomime, where she demonstrated throwing the drink on Chris, Claire handed it to Layne. They both bit their lower lips, which trembled with a combination of guilt and giggles.

And then…

“Ah-ah-ah-choooo!” Layne dumped the leftover lemonade on Chris's neck.

“What the?!” He jumped to his feet.

“Claire, why do you always push me when I sneeze?”

“Um, s-sorry, Chris,” was all she could think to say.

“Sorry. We'll change your sheets while you clean up,” Layne insisted.

“Girls, man!” Chris grumbled as he stormed off to the bathroom. “I am so going back to boarding school.”

“Help me lift.” Layne squatted.

Without hesitation, Claire slid her hands into position. “Ready? One…two…three…”

With a single hoist, they flipped the mattress off the bed. And there it was.