THE BLOCK ESTATE

POOL

Friday, October 9th
8:49 P.M.

Lying flat on her back against the hard, scratchy surface of the diving board, Massie imagined she was in a glass coffin. Her Pucci head scarf had unraveled slightly, and dark hair fanned out around her head like Sleeping Beauty’s. Only this tale would not end with a handsome prince. Or a kiss. Or a happily-ever-after. It was forty-nine minutes too late for that. No one had come to her sleepover. She was already dead.

The stars, elegant crystal beads on a boundless black dress, were no longer something to behold. They were something to envy. Surrounded by others . . . looking down on the world . . . admired; how she used to be.

At 7:55 P.M., she had made a list of possible reasons why the universe had heralded Massie Block the victim for this unprecedented and mighty social eclipse. By 8:02 P.M. she had completed the list . . . and more.

REASON FOR ECLIPSE	SOLUTION	STATUS
Gawd wants me to suffer so I can rise from the ashes to teach people how to overcome.	Through prayer, remind Gawd that he already gave that job to Oprah. And that she’s doing a great job.	Completed at 8:13 P.M. Bean Block was a witness. See smoothie paw print.
Possible cell service outages kept Kristen, Claire, and Alicia from getting my text invite.	Call all service providers and investigate outages in tri-state area over last 24 hours.	Completed at 8:28 P.M. Bean Block was a witness. See smoothie paw print.
I never got pigeon-pooped. Maybe it really is good luck?	Place a spicy tuna roll on my shoulder to attract a pigeon, then hope for poop.	Completed at 8:33 P.M. Removed roll when realized there are no pigeons at night. Only bats. Bean Block was a witness. See smoothie paw print.
The soccer fans put a curse on me when they called me “the Curse.”	Ask housekeeper Inez how to remove it. (She’s ah-mazing with stains.) Then curse them back times ten.	Must wait until next soccer game.
I really am Lycra, and now everyone is mad at me.	Become an elastic waistband and give a little.	No.

Massie squeezed her eyes shut, pouted, and then moaned. The tiny voice in her head sounded like a hungry kitten’s sorry meow. But no tears came. So she tried again. And again, certain that people who lost their friends were expected to sob uncontrollably and that if she did, the PC would sense her despair and stampede toward her with open arms.

But no matter how many times she pictured Bean getting hit by an SUV, her eyes refused to cooperate.

It wasn’t like Massie didn’t feel heartbroken over her social expiration. She did. Her heart felt like a lone helium balloon, drifting endlessly with nothing to anchor it. And it wasn’t like she didn’t want to be a good friend. She did. It was the most important role in her life. She just didn’t want to change who she was to do it. And who she was was controlling. And for years the girls had wanted that. They’d needed it. They’d looked to her for it. She’d given them structure. Confidence. Wardrobe guidelines. Social counseling. A place to belong and people to belong to. And up until now, no one had complained.

Sure, Massie could have let Alicia choreograph the Socc-Hers, but then it wouldn’t have been her team. She could have released Derrington earlier, but then she wouldn’t have had a fallback guy if Dempsey chose Layme. She could have been nicer to Kristen about her friendship with the LBR, but then everyone would have thought it was okay to keep secrets from her. And a good leader had to set boundaries.

And then there was Claire. The only person she didn’t Lycra. Maybe that was because Claire had made it clear from the very beginning that she couldn’t be controlled, especially when it came to her extra-Cam-rricular activities. So why bother, especially when there were so many others who required her services?

Massie tried to cry again. But that was soooo last night, this morning, and this afternoon. Now she felt angry, taken for granted, and used. She sat up and twirled her purple hair streak. Maybe it could buy her some new, better friends. . . .

“Hey,” said a kind voice.

Massie turned. Claire and Cam were standing by the shallow end.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d still be here.” Claire helped herself to a smoothie and sipped. “We were just at my house playing Jenga.” She shrugged, slightly embarrassed. “Family game night.”

“I crashed.” Cam smiled.

“Literally.” Claire giggled.

“Hey.” He nudged her. “That was Todd’s fault, not mine. He sucks at Jenga.”

“No, you do.”

“No, you do.”

“No, you do!”

“Truce?”

“Truce.”

They giggle-bumped fists.

Massie rolled her eyes.

“Where is everyone?” Cam lifted the hood of his green sweatshirt and jammed his hands in the side pockets. “I thought this was a party.”

Claire lowered her head and wiggled her bare feet nervously.

“Girls only,” Massie snapped, not wanting to explain the poor turnout.

“Um, okay.” Cam surveyed the empty pool. “So where are the g—”

“Isn’t your brother coming to get you soon anyway?” Claire butted in.

Cam nodded, returning his wilted smoothie to the floating tray.

“It’s okay, he can stay,” Massie managed, trying to be an elastic waistband. “Everyone already left, so I can open it up to boys now.”

“Nah, Harris is probably waiting for me. I should go.”

Claire nodded in agreement, then lifted her fist for a farewell knock. “Text you later.”

“’Kay.” He grinned, his blue eye and green eye scanning her face like it was the horoscope page.

“’Bye Massie.” He lifted his palm.

Massie smiled back, feeling the freedom that comes with being open. It felt like falling down a dark shaft. It was nawt for her.

Once they were alone, Claire walked toward her slowly, as if she might bite.

“You okay?” Her blond eyelashes fluttered with concern.

“Given.” Massie tightened her head scarf. “Why?”

“Well . . .” Claire lifted her eyebrows at the table of untouched party snacks.

“Never better,” Massie lied.

“Cool.”

“Cool.”

They grinned at each other the way people who are lying and know they’re lying grin, their sheepish expressions communicating what their mouths were too embarrassed to say.

“How’s the water?” Claire asked.

Massie half smiled. “You tell me,” she blurted, then shoved Claire into the steaming pool.

Claire’s ill-fitting Tomahawks sweatshirt parachuted around her. “You’re dead!”

Ignoring the sad truth of that statement, Massie giggle-ran to the other side of the pool.

Claire hurried up the ladder, the sleeves of her sweatshirt drip-hanging to her knees like ape arms.

Here Massie was, being cackle-chased by her only friend—a girl in an ill-fitting sweatshirt with unkempt toenails—and she couldn’t have felt more proud. She wasn’t about to compromise her standards to be liked, not even for popularity. After all, wasn’t that what Alicia, Kristen, and Dylan had been doing all these years? And look at how unhappy it had made them.

Instead, Massie untied her robe, whipped it playfully at Claire, and then jumped in the pool.

“What are you doing?” Claire asked, still laughing.

“Removing the hold on myself.”

Massie lifted her arms like the wings of a phoenix and shot down to the bottom of the pool. Everything was silent except for the muted grumble of the pool filter and her bubble-filled vow to “move on” and “start fresh.”

After all, she’d be picking a new Clique on Monday.

CURRENT STATE OF THE UNION