WESTCHESTER, NY
Monday, July 20
11:58 A.M.
The twenty-seven dollars Kristen spent on the cab ride to the new Roxy/Quiksilver store was almost half of what she’d made during her short career as a tutor-sitter. But as she saw it, the money was an investment in her future. A future she could no longer imagine without her CLAM crush.
After a quick sweat swipe with the nubby coral towel, both girls decided their new “thems” couldn’t wait for a shower and wardrobe change. They wanted to be transformed immediately. So off they went covered in little more than sarongs and SPF 30.
“Are you sure this is the best place?” Kristen asked Ripple as she clutched the mini-surfboard door handle and stepped inside the Hawaiian-themed boutique. The blast of air-conditioning rendered her red and orange wrap useless and made the blond hair on her arms stand up.
“Trust me.” Ripple led her to the back of the store where giant colorful posters of sunny girls with cute braids and sea-sprayed bangs charged giant waves in bright bikinis. Their simple lifestyles suddenly made the pads, cleats, and unflattering kneesocks of soccer seem stinky and un-cute.
“May I help you?” asked a glitter-dusted Asian girl with a perky grin and a pricing gun. She wore faded denim short shorts, a yellow tube top, and a pink lei around her neck, which suddenly seemed ten times more creative and alluring than Kristen’s conservative Coach locket. Brightly colored cotton in fun, girly prints swirled all around her, the fabrics looking as light and giddy as the girls they were designed for. And suddenly Kristen longed to be one of them. She longed to be satisfied by a beautiful day at the beach. To be tickled by her whimsical wardrobe. To be riding in a beat-up old car with no AC, her sand-covered, home-polished toes sticking out the windows. She longed to be free. She longed to be Roxy.
“Can you show us your baggy cargo shorts and—”
Kristen snapped back to reality at the sound of Ripple’s pinched voice and grabbed her by the wrist. “We’re okay, thanks,” she told the salesgirl.
“Kewl,” said the girl as she gladly punched a SALE sticker on a pair of silver skull–covered board shorts.
“Rule number one,” Kristen hissed. “If you want to shop like Massie, never ask for help. Make them think you’re the expert.”
Ripple hyper-nodded. “What else?”
Kristen pulled her down onto a bright blue leather couch by the dressing room and leaned in. She was about to reveal Massie’s trade secrets and couldn’t risk being overheard. Not even by the nearby mannequin in the rainbow-striped bikini.
“Rule number two. Never check price tags. Act like you have endless amounts of cash.”
“What if you don’t?” Ripple squeaked.
Kristen fought the urge to hug the girl, who at that moment could have been a younger version of herself.
“Peek at the price in the dressing room,” Kristen whisper-advised. “If it’s too expensive, ask for it in a color you know they don’t make.”
“I thought we weren’t supposed to ask for help.” Ripple’s narrow eyes were wide again.
“That’s outside the dressing room. Once you’re inside, you should ask for help all the time. Make them work for you.”
Ripple nodded like she was finally starting to catch on.
“When deciding between two sizes, always try the bigger one on first. That way you get to parade through the store in something that’s too big, asking for a smaller size. The fat people will be totally jealous.”
Ripple licked her lips, eating it all up.
“Oh, and skin is in.” Kristen suddenly recalled the last thing Massie had e-mailed the Pretty Committee before leaving for riding camp. “The more you show, the better.”
“Like, how much skin?” Ripple slid her hands under her butt. Her sweaty palms rubbed against the leather seat of the couch and made a low farting sound that neither of them acknowledged. The moment was too serious.
“As much as you can afford, I guess.”
Ripple crinkled her brows in confusion.
“Snakeskin,” Kristen clarified. “Nawt Ripple-skin. Now me. What does Dune like?” She stood and flip-flopped over to a rack of breezy feminine dresses full of fresh colors, playful patterns, and fetching adornments like heart-shaped buttons and braided straps. “What about this one?” She pulled an orange T-shirt dress off the rack that had white dandelions stitched across the bottom. In the poster on the far wall it had been paired with chunky turquoise beaded bracelets. The sight alone would have given Massie a rash. But it filled Kristen with the buzz of springtime. And springtime filled everyone with love—even surfers.
“Dune likes gray,” Ripple said flatly. Her announcement felt like the arrival of storm clouds at a Fourth of July barbecue. Ripple held up a pair of knee-length cargoes covered in more pockets than a Kipling backpack. “I would put it with one of these.” She offered a dull beige racer-back tank and a faded red short-sleeve hoodie.
“Really?” Kristen asked, letting go of the dress. It swung back into place on the bar with the other girly dresses to the teasing schoolyard tune neh-neh-neh-neh-nehhhh, you ca-ann’t-have-meeeee. After a few more mocking swings, Kristen finally punched it.
With little enthusiasm, she tried on the shorts and the red hoodie (at least it had some color) and found that, unfortunately, they fit.
“He’s gonna love them.” Ripple clapped her hands together like an overly zealous wardrobe stylist. “Now, let’s go buy some skin.”
“Sounds good.” Kristen did her best to sound upbeat. She even managed to smile when she handed the cashier the last of her tutor-sitting money—a move that would have been a lot less painful had she bought the cute orange dress.
But it was too late.
She was now the proud owner of a baggy outfit in drab winter colors that made her look more like Cesario than Viola. And, according to the receipt in her clammy hand, all sales were final.