to
be
.”
“I agree,” Kelsey said, satisfied that the butterfly was gone. She tucked her glossy hair behind one ear to reveal the same Harry Winston chandelier earrings Massie had gotten for Christmas. Only Kelsey’s were bigger. Massie decided she loathed the girl more than she had loathed last year’s leg-warmers-and-heels trend. “But I only use Nars and Stila.” She gave Massie’s purple caddy a dismissive glance.
“But Be Pretty products are—”
“Sorry, Massie,” Kelsey interrupted, her smile patronizing. “Ever since I heard that Sienna Miller only uses Nars foundation, I swore I’d never use anything else. And now everyone tells me I look like her. In fact,” she said, peering at Massie, “you could probably use a little yourself. Your cheeks are starting to look a little ruddy.”
Massie stared at Kelsey, her mouth agape. Six months ago, Kelsey Riordan-Buccola had probably had her eye sockets surgically removed from the sides of her nose and had holed up in her family’s tacky faux-castle to recover. Who was
she
to—
The red Samsung in Kelsey’s hand started playing Kanye West’s “Stronger” and she waved it at Massie. “Gotta take this.” She stood and hurried inside. “Good luck, you,” she shouted just before closing the carved wood door in Massie’s face.
Who did Kelsey Riordan-Buccola think she was
?
Her beauty was new—just like her money.
Massie stomped down the stairs, scraping the tacky imported slate with every grinding step. Nobody tossed Massie Block out like last season’s It bag.
Nobody.
Lindsey Kearns and Kelsey Riordan-Buccola were going to
be s
orry.
THE BLOCKS’ SOUTHAMPTON ESTATE
THE BACK PATIO
Wednesday, June 17
11:08 A.M.
The warm onshore breeze did things to Massie’s naturally wavy hair that Galwaugh’s dry forest gusts could only dream of. It added curl and bounce and a flirty playfulness that said, “Lip-kissed by nature and loving it.” But secretly, Massie would have given anything to be back at horse camp. There, she was a winner. But here, the whole
jobby
thing was making her feel like a total L—
Massie shook the thought from her head. It was a new day. There was still hope.
On the back patio, she set her tiny cappuccino cup down on the marble-and-wrought-iron table with a clink. She pushed her dark Ferragamo sunglasses up her nose, unfolded a laminated map of Southampton, and examined it like a general planning the invasion of a small, wealthy country.
“This is serious, Bean.”
The pug paced at Massie bare feet.
“Yesterday was a disaster.” Massie sharpened a Be Defined lip pencil, releasing eggplant purple shavings into the bright, salt-scented air. She drew
X
’s over Frizzy Lindsey’s and Kelsey’s streets. “So we’re going to have to try another tactic.” She circled Herrick Road, where the less-fortunate year-rounders lived.
Bean let out an anxiety sneeze.
“I know! But it’s our only chance.” Hopes of her purple streak were disappearing faster than marked-down Zac Posen at a Barneys sale. “No one loves inner beauty more than unattractive wannabes. They’ll be all over this stuff.”
Massie scooped Bean up with renewed determination. Nothing made her feel more streakworthy than her mother’s vintage Pucci halter dress, which she’d paired with white skinny Citizens, emerald green Tory Burch flats, and wood bangles from Calypso. Massie knew one thing: If she could pull off skinny white jeans, she could pull off anything.
“Isaac!” she called, heading for the driveway. “To the year-rounders on Herrick Road!”
“Are you sure about this?” Isaac turned onto Herrick Road and parked the Range Rover in front of the first house on the street.
“Ew
.
”
Massie peered over her sunglasses at the small, cottage-style house with pink flowered curtains in the window. A green flag with appliquéd flowers hung from a pole above the screen door. If the décor was any indication, whoever lived here was in
be
.”
“I agree,” Kelsey said, satisfied that the butterfly was gone. She tucked her glossy hair behind one ear to reveal the same Harry Winston chandelier earrings Massie had gotten for Christmas. Only Kelsey’s were bigger. Massie decided she loathed the girl more than she had loathed last year’s leg-warmers-and-heels trend. “But I only use Nars and Stila.” She gave Massie’s purple caddy a dismissive glance.
“But Be Pretty products are—”
“Sorry, Massie,” Kelsey interrupted, her smile patronizing. “Ever since I heard that Sienna Miller only uses Nars foundation, I swore I’d never use anything else. And now everyone tells me I look like her. In fact,” she said, peering at Massie, “you could probably use a little yourself. Your cheeks are starting to look a little ruddy.”
Massie stared at Kelsey, her mouth agape. Six months ago, Kelsey Riordan-Buccola had probably had her eye sockets surgically removed from the sides of her nose and had holed up in her family’s tacky faux-castle to recover. Who was
she
to—
The red Samsung in Kelsey’s hand started playing Kanye West’s “Stronger” and she waved it at Massie. “Gotta take this.” She stood and hurried inside. “Good luck, you,” she shouted just before closing the carved wood door in Massie’s face.
Who did Kelsey Riordan-Buccola think she was
?
Her beauty was new—just like her money.
Massie stomped down the stairs, scraping the tacky imported slate with every grinding step. Nobody tossed Massie Block out like last season’s It bag.
Nobody.
Lindsey Kearns and Kelsey Riordan-Buccola were going to
be s
orry.
THE BLOCKS’ SOUTHAMPTON ESTATE
THE BACK PATIO
Wednesday, June 17
11:08 A.M.
The warm onshore breeze did things to Massie’s naturally wavy hair that Galwaugh’s dry forest gusts could only dream of. It added curl and bounce and a flirty playfulness that said, “Lip-kissed by nature and loving it.” But secretly, Massie would have given anything to be back at horse camp. There, she was a winner. But here, the whole
jobby
thing was making her feel like a total L—
Massie shook the thought from her head. It was a new day. There was still hope.
On the back patio, she set her tiny cappuccino cup down on the marble-and-wrought-iron table with a clink. She pushed her dark Ferragamo sunglasses up her nose, unfolded a laminated map of Southampton, and examined it like a general planning the invasion of a small, wealthy country.
“This is serious, Bean.”
The pug paced at Massie bare feet.
“Yesterday was a disaster.” Massie sharpened a Be Defined lip pencil, releasing eggplant purple shavings into the bright, salt-scented air. She drew
X
’s over Frizzy Lindsey’s and Kelsey’s streets. “So we’re going to have to try another tactic.” She circled Herrick Road, where the less-fortunate year-rounders lived.
Bean let out an anxiety sneeze.
“I know! But it’s our only chance.” Hopes of her purple streak were disappearing faster than marked-down Zac Posen at a Barneys sale. “No one loves inner beauty more than unattractive wannabes. They’ll be all over this stuff.”
Massie scooped Bean up with renewed determination. Nothing made her feel more streakworthy than her mother’s vintage Pucci halter dress, which she’d paired with white skinny Citizens, emerald green Tory Burch flats, and wood bangles from Calypso. Massie knew one thing: If she could pull off skinny white jeans, she could pull off anything.
“Isaac!” she called, heading for the driveway. “To the year-rounders on Herrick Road!”
“Are you sure about this?” Isaac turned onto Herrick Road and parked the Range Rover in front of the first house on the street.
“Ew
.
”
Massie peered over her sunglasses at the small, cottage-style house with pink flowered curtains in the window. A green flag with appliquéd flowers hung from a pole above the screen door. If the décor was any indication, whoever lived here was in
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