THE RIVERA ESTATE MR. RIVERA'S HOME OFFICE

Saturday, April 10th

1:32 P.M.

“She's late!” Massie barked at the heavy oak doors of Mr. Rivera's grand, dimly lit study.

“Relax, it's a common negotiating strategy.” Alicia, who was nestled in her father's high-back Italian cowhide desk chair, stuck another Ticonderoga No. 2 in the automatic sharpener. “She's trying to heighten your feelings of desperation.”

“Huh?” Dylan burped.

“Makes sense.” Kristen slid the tall wooden ladder along the towering bookshelves.

“How do you know?” Massie hated when the girls acted like they knew things she didn't, especially when they did.

“Psychology for Dummies.“ She ran a finger along a row of dusty encyclopedias and unfun legal journals. “If Layne's late, you'll worry she's changed her mind. And that will make you panic. Then when she does show up, you'll be so relieved you'll give in to her list of demands.” She snapped. “Like that.”

“Point!” Crossing the leather-scented room, Alicia gathered her tweezer-sharp pencils and set them on the cherry-wood conference table. Fresh yellow legal pads, an emerald green banker's lamp, and a bottle of chilled Evian had been placed in front of every cushy seat. Assorted fruit and cheese platters doubled as centerpieces, while an intercom shaped like a miniature black spacecraft waited patiently at the head of the table in case someone needed to be conferenced in. The only thing missing was the key.

Boop.

A red light appeared on the side of the spacecraft. “Alicia, your one-thirty is here,” said the Riveras' house-keeper.

“Thanks, Joyce. Send her—”

“Have her wait,” Massie interrupted. She checked her reflection in the silver wine goblets by the minibar. Her hair, pulled into a tight chignon, gave an air of seriousness, which her cropped navy blazer and matching mini echoed. Knee-high argyle socks peeked out of the tops of her leather riding boots, adding a necessary dash of color.

All of a sudden, Layne burst through the double French doors looking like a combination of George Washington and Batman. “I didn't come he-ah to wait.”

A gray barrister's wig covered her stringy beige hair. The helmet of tight curls framed her face, then ended in a low ponytail that had been fastened with a black cloth bow. A cape-type gown was draped over her shoulders and tied at her collarbone. Round, lensless wire frames were perched on the bridge of her nose, and a silver lockbox was handcuffed to her wrist.

One-liners popped into Massie's mind with IM swiftness, each one making fun of Layne's costume, her fake British accent, and her overall LBR-ishness. But they would have to wait until the key was dangling from the Coach key chain that was waiting—rather impatiently—in Massie's red quilted Chanel clutch.

“Since Cla-h is in contract nego-si-ations of heh own, I will be representing both of us.” She helped herself to a seat at the head of the table.

“Very well, milord.” Massie gave a sharp nod to Alicia, signaling that it was time to begin.

She stood, smoothing her winter-white RL blazer, which she'd paired with dark-wash skinny Citizens and brown suede Marc Jacobs flats. “I hereby declare this key meeting now in session. Please rise.”

Everyone did.

“You may now take your seats.”

“State your terms.” Massie gripped her pencil.

After taking a minute to adjust her specs, Layne unrolled a long white sheet of parchment.

“Ech, hem.” She cleared her already clear throat. “Cl-ah Lyons and Layne Abeley dema-hnd the following in exchange for this key.” She shook the lockbox. The clang made Massie's fingers tingle.

“One. Clah would like to be reinstated into the Pretty Committee.

“Two. Layne would like access to two sleepovers peh month and a guaranteed spoht for hur sleeping bag beside Clah. And she can be in charge of one of thah activities, which might include working with clay, re-creating unfahgettable scenes from Tony Award-winning Broadway shows, or mask making.”

Dylan pushed back a sleeve of her dark green velvet blazer and reached for a pineapple slice, dribbling juice from the platter to her chin.

Layne twirled her heart-shaped locket, waiting for Dylan to finish chewing.

“Three. We would like unlimited access to thah ‘room.’“ She used her pinky fingers to make air quotes as her hands were working to keep the parchment open. “With peh-mission to store poster board, wood, and oth-ah protest-sign materials in said ‘room.’

“Foh. In public, you have to pretend you like Heather, Meena, and me.”

Answer me, Layne…. Answer me, Layne… squawked her personalized parrot ringtone.

“I have to take this,” she said, momentarily forgetting her accent.

Answer me, Layne…. Answer me, Layne….

“Hey! What's up?” asked Layne, as she jammed the cell under her wig, in search of her ear. “Why are you whispering?…Well, why are you hiding in the bathroom?…How can it be boring when they're talking about all the money they're going to pay you to star in a movie with…Yeah, it's going good.…I just read number four.…Okay, hold on.” Layne looked at the intercom. “Claire wants to go on speaker.”

“Tell her to call my dad's office. It's the same as our home number with a nine on the end instead of an eight.” Alicia instructed.

“Did you hear that?” Layne asked into the phone. “’Kay, bye.”

Five seconds later Claire's voice was coming out of the little black spaceship. “How's it going?”

“It's going good.” Layne was the only one who answered. “How's it going over there?”

“Boring,” Claire mumbled, her mouth obviously pressed against the speaker. “For the last hour everyone's been arguing about foreign DVD sales. And the food is all sugar-free and low fat. It burns my tongue.”

“Poor Princess Nobody.” Massie rolled her eyes. “Now can we puh-lease get on with it?” She tapped her pencil.

“Roi-t, roi-t.” Layne snapped back into barrister mode and picked up her parchment.

Kristen giggled.

Joyce knocked lightly on the French doors. “Alicia, your sundaes are ready.”

“Yay!” Alicia air-clapped.

“You guys are having sundaes?” Claire asked.

“Not everyone has to eat Snackwells.” Massie grinned, loving the envy in Claire's voice.

“Ehmagawd!” Dylan stood. “They're make-your-own.”

Joyce wheeled in a gold-plated cart filled with an assortment of syrups, sprinkles, ice creams, and crumbled Oreos. A battery-powered blender was on the bottom tier should anyone want to whip her sundae into a blizzard.

“Are those Reese's peanut-butter cups?” Dylan's hands met in prayer position.

“Yes.” Joyce lowered her head as if to say, “You're welcome.” Her buttery blond bun was the same color as the cupcakes on the cookie platter. She gave each girl a bone china bowl and a long-stemmed silver spoon. “Will that be all?”

“Yup, thanks, J.” Alicia smiled warmly at the woman who'd helped raise her since she was three days old.

“Very well.” Joyce looked pleased, revealing deep-set crow's-feet in the corners of her kind blue eyes. “Enjoy.”

Layne removed her pink retainer, placed it on her legal pad, and pushed back her crimson upholstered wing chair.

“Not so fast.” Massie snapped her fingers. Dylan, Kristen, and Alicia hurried to block the cart.

“Why?” Layne eyed the mountain of melting ice cream behind them.

“Not until you're done with the dem-ahhhh-nds.”

“I'm done.”

“Completely done?”

“Done.” Layne licked her lips.

Massie nodded her head once and the girls stepped away.

“Wait!” Claire's voice reverberated from the spaceship. “What about five through ten?”

“We're good.” Layne dropped a handful of M&M's in her mouth. The lockbox swung into a platter of peeled bananas, sending them crashing to the ground. “Looks like those bananas split.” She burst out laughing. Everyone else glared.

“What kind of sundaes are you having?” Claire asked, ignoring the person in the background knocking on her bathroom door.

“Sweetie, you okay in there?”

“Yeah. Be right out, Mom!”

Everyone snickered.

“Hurry, Ira is about to explain the how the actors' union works.”

Claire moaned. “Coming.”

“Are those chocolate-covered gummy bears?” Massie said louder than she needed to. “Mmmm.”

“They make those?”

“Good luck with your meeting, Claire. See ya.” Massie switched off the intercom. “How about a recess?” She took a long sip of her Evian.

“Oops, sorry.” Layne covered her mouth, the lockbox dangling from her wrist. “I just ate the last one.”

“No.” Massie slammed her bottle of water on the table. “I'm saying we need a break. From you. We have to discuss the terms.”

Layne straightened her wire frames and tucked the lock-box under her armpit. “Of course.”

She scooped three helpings of colorful sprinkles onto her strawberry ice cream and hurried out the door.

Kristen unbuttoned her denim A&F blazer and flung it over the back of her chair. “Are we seriously going to give in to all four of those demands?”

“’Course nawt.” Alicia dropped a stack of dusty legal books on the table. “We're gonna counter.”

Dylan licked her spoon. “Meaning?”

“Meaning we argue her list and come back with a new one of our own.” Massie nibbled her thumbnail for the first time in years.

“What if she doesn't like our list?” Kristen asked. “What if Layne insists on all or nothing? Then what?”

“Then we'll be making masks on Friday nights and protesting on Sundays.” Dylan sighed.

“Point.”

“Wrong!” Massie snapped. “We can't compromise the Pretty Committee like that. I'd rather lose the room than sacrifice the things that are important to us.”

“Really?” squeaked Alicia.

“Really.” Massie exhaled the tsunami of stress that had been wreaking havoc on her insides for the last six days. “What good is a shoe if it doesn't have a sole?”

“Huh?” Dylan seemed to ask for all of them.

“Um, I have a question.” Alicia raised her hand. “What if the shoe has a sole but no one wants to wear it?”

Massie grinned. “I'll find a way to make people want to wear it. That's what alphas do.”

Ten minutes later, Alicia stood. “Layne we've heard your terms. Now hear ours.”

She sat.

“Can I get Clah back on the phone?”

Massie nodded at the black spaceship.

Completely unaware of the Oreo chunk dangling from the side of her wig, Layne dialed.

After four rings, Claire picked up. “Mom, I'm going to get some water,” she announced. “Be right back.”

“I'll have some,” said a deep-voiced man.

“Me too,” another chimed in. “Make mine with ice.”

Claire sighed.

“How's it going?” Layne asked. “How much are they going to pay you?”

“Don't know yet. We're still trying to decide if I should go to summer school or night school.”

“Ew to both!” Alicia winced.

“I know.”

“Won't you be back here in the fall?” Layne asked.

Massie wrote her name in bubble letters on the card-board back of her legal pad, pretending not to care.

“No, the final act is being shot in Bhutan. Then in January they want me to go to Japan to do press junkets. You know, so I'll have experience when it's time to do them here.”

“Sayonara.” Massie waved to the spaceship, placing all her hope in reverse psychology. “Now can we puh-lease move on?”

“Ugh! I hate my hair,” Claire whispered.

“No argument here.” Massie flipped through her notes. “We hate your hair too.”

Alicia, Dylan, and Kristen snickered.

“I said,” Claire whisper-shouted, “I hate that I'm not there.“

“Don't worry, it will grow back eventually.” Massie lifted her legal pad. “Here are the terms set forth by the Pretty Committee.”

Layne pulled a feathered quill and a tiny jar of red ink out of her wool kneesock and set them on the table.

“One. Claire may be reinstated into the Pretty Committee.”

Claire squeaked with joy.

“As long,“ Massie continued, “as she apologizes for lying about Cam's uncle and—”

“I'm sorry.” Claire sounded choked up. “I will never ever do anything like—”

“Forgiven,” Massie interrupted. “And as long as she remains in Westchester. If she moves, she's out.”

Layne dipped her quill, then scribbled on her parchment.

“Two. Layne can go to one sleepover per month, not two. And we will make fun of her, only if she insists on working with clay, re-creating unforgettable scenes from Tony Award–winning Broadway shows, or making masks.”

Claire giggled.

Layne opened her mouth, but Massie cut her off. “And yes, she can put her sleeping bag beside Claire's—so long as Claire is there. That's a given.”

Layne lowered her head and wrote.

“Three. Unlimited access to the room has been denied. Permission to store poster board and other sign-making materials has been granted, so long as they are kept in a suitcase made by Louis Vuitton or Coach.

“Four. We cannot and will not promise to pretend we like you in public.”

Layne slammed down her quill.

“If we like you, we will act like it. If we don't, we won't.”

“Fine.” Layne resumed writing.

Alicia stood. “That's our offer. Take it or leave it.”

She sat.

“I have one more thing,” Claire said. “No more eyebrow jokes.”

Layne bit down on her locket.

“You mean we can't refer to them as the Bush twins any-more?” Massie snickered.

“No!”

“Hmmmm.” Massie rubbed her chin like she was mulling it over. “On one condition.” She glared at Layne. “Is the picture of Tricky still inside that locket?”

Layne spit it out of her mouth and nodded.

“Wipe it off and give it to me.”

The way Alicia, Dylan, and Kristen looked at her, Massie might as well have borrowed Claire's Keds.

“Why do you want this?” Layne clutched the gold necklace.

Massie wiggled her fingers. “Deal or no deal?”

“Will you stop making fun of my clothes?” Layne asked.

“I'll try.”

“No deal.” Layne popped it back in her mouth.

“Okay, fine. Deal.”

“And you'll compliment me in public?” she pressed, slowly removing the heart-shaped locket from between her wet lips.

“Fine, fine, whatevs.” Massie held out her hand and wiggled her fingers. “Just give it to me before your saliva burns a hole though it.”

Carefully, Layne lifted the tarnished gold chain over her wig and slid it across the table.

Ignoring her friends' puzzled glares, Massie picked it up with a piece of legal paper, disenfected it with Evian, and then dropped it in her clutch. “Looks like we're all done here.”

“One more thing.” Alicia walked a stapled document over to Layne. “This confidentiality agreement was created by my father, Len Rivera, a lawyer.” Alicia folded her arms across her chest. “You and Claire need to sign it.”

“What is it?”

“It says you will never, ever, ever tell another human being, dead or alive, that you found the key before we did. This fact—which we are about to erase from the history books—should never appear in print, code, tattoos, foreign languages, or journals, or on handheld or desk-based electronic devices, billboards, or T-shirts, or engraved on jewelry or anything else we haven't thought of.”

Layne dipped her quill and scrawled her name at the bottom of the document.

“Kuh-laire.” Alicia blew Layne's signature dry. “Massie will bring this over for you to sign later this afternoon.”

“’Kay.”

“Great. Then are we done?” Layne unclipped her cape.

“Not quite.”

“Oh.” Layne untied the black bow that held the low ponytail in her wig and dangled it above Massie's palm. A tiny key hung off the end. “Will you unlock me?” She held out her wrist, which was still handcuffed to the metal safe.

“Given.” Massie unlocked Layne's handcuffs and then grabbed the box that held the key to her future.