desperate need of guidance.
She tiptoed to the front door to avoid catching her heel in the weed-infested cracks in the pavement. The potted geraniums on either side of the porch were wilting in the heat. And Massie knew exactly how they felt. She pinched the brass knocker, pulled it back, and dropped it as if it were made of rayon.
“Yeah?” A girl Massie’s age dressed in an oversize New York Knicks basketball jersey opened up and peered suspiciously at the Range Rover. Her burgundy-from-a-box shoulder-length hair was stringy, and her poo-brown eyes bulged more than Bean’s. Massie was grateful she was wearing her dark Ferragamos, because the girl’s unsightly smattering of upper-lip hair was making Massie’s eyes water.
“Beauty is truth,” Massie began, rattling off the speech with ease. “At Be Pretty Cosmetics—”
“Who’s there, Cora?” a woman called, then coughed violently.
“Just some girl selling makeup,” the girl shouted back.
Just some girl!?
Massie parted her hairless lips, preparing to point out that she was special and superior and far from just some
anyone
when the woman yelled, “Tell her we’re an Avon family and come finish cleaning up this puzzle.”
Cora shrugged like there was nothing more she could do. Without another word she gave the screen a push and padded down the narrow pea green–carpeted hall. Massie stood there in shock as the door slowly wobbled its way shut.
She looked down at her flawless outfit, just to make sure she wasn’t wearing her Cosabella boy shorts on the outside of her skinny jeans, which she wasn’t. So what, then? Were people threatened by her trendsetting style? Her timeless beauty? Her unstoppable alpha energy? Whatever it was, Massie was determined to turn her luck around. If she didn’t, she’d never see her pride—or her poor Visa—again.
THE BLOCKS’ SOUTHAMPTON ESTATE
SITTING ROOM
Wednesday, June 17
1:51 P.M.
Massie collapsed onto the navy-and-cream Italian silk sofa in the Blocks’ guests-only living room. She slipped off her Tory Burch flats and twirled her platinum necklace around her index finger until her finger looked white and strangled. “This must be how Isabella Rossellini felt when she got dumped by Lancôme.”
Bean took a running leap and landed on the matching ottoman. She nudged the latest copy of
Vogue
toward Massie with her wet nose.
“No, thanks.” Massie turned away. Not even seven hundred pages of bored and hungry models could cheer her up. Bean whimpered and collapsed in a ball on top of
US Weekly
, covering Rumer Willis’s ample head.
Just two days ago, Massie’s future had been bright. Bright purple, to be exact. She’d imagined leading the Pretty Committee into every three-star Michelin-rated restaurant in Manhattan, with the latest impossible-to-get bag by MJ, Prada, or Gucci slung over her tanned shoulder. One flash of her purple streak and the hostess would instantly show Massie to the best table, even if it meant asking some It chick to leave. Now things looked very different.
“Massie Block!”
Bean sprang off the guests-only ottoman at the sound of Kendra’s voice echoing through the foyer.
“I’m in here!” Massie stood and quickly smoothed the crater in the down pillow before it ratted her out for sitting on it.
Kendra pushed open the French doors and
click-clack
ed across the hardwood floors. She stopped in front of Massie and placed both hands on the waist of her camel Escada Sport stretch pants. A rose-colored Bottega Veneta tote dangled from one wrist, a Bliss Spa bag from the other. She looked like a mannequin in the window at Saks.
“What is it?” Massie sighed. Bean cowered behind her legs, peeking out every few seconds.
“I just spent the afternoon with Trini Neufeld,” Kendra said angrily, as if there was a bigger point to the story than just that. “And it seems as though—” She paused and tilted her head to the right, sensing the slight dent in one of the couch
She tiptoed to the front door to avoid catching her heel in the weed-infested cracks in the pavement. The potted geraniums on either side of the porch were wilting in the heat. And Massie knew exactly how they felt. She pinched the brass knocker, pulled it back, and dropped it as if it were made of rayon.
“Yeah?” A girl Massie’s age dressed in an oversize New York Knicks basketball jersey opened up and peered suspiciously at the Range Rover. Her burgundy-from-a-box shoulder-length hair was stringy, and her poo-brown eyes bulged more than Bean’s. Massie was grateful she was wearing her dark Ferragamos, because the girl’s unsightly smattering of upper-lip hair was making Massie’s eyes water.
“Beauty is truth,” Massie began, rattling off the speech with ease. “At Be Pretty Cosmetics—”
“Who’s there, Cora?” a woman called, then coughed violently.
“Just some girl selling makeup,” the girl shouted back.
Just some girl!?
Massie parted her hairless lips, preparing to point out that she was special and superior and far from just some
anyone
when the woman yelled, “Tell her we’re an Avon family and come finish cleaning up this puzzle.”
Cora shrugged like there was nothing more she could do. Without another word she gave the screen a push and padded down the narrow pea green–carpeted hall. Massie stood there in shock as the door slowly wobbled its way shut.
She looked down at her flawless outfit, just to make sure she wasn’t wearing her Cosabella boy shorts on the outside of her skinny jeans, which she wasn’t. So what, then? Were people threatened by her trendsetting style? Her timeless beauty? Her unstoppable alpha energy? Whatever it was, Massie was determined to turn her luck around. If she didn’t, she’d never see her pride—or her poor Visa—again.
THE BLOCKS’ SOUTHAMPTON ESTATE
SITTING ROOM
Wednesday, June 17
1:51 P.M.
Massie collapsed onto the navy-and-cream Italian silk sofa in the Blocks’ guests-only living room. She slipped off her Tory Burch flats and twirled her platinum necklace around her index finger until her finger looked white and strangled. “This must be how Isabella Rossellini felt when she got dumped by Lancôme.”
Bean took a running leap and landed on the matching ottoman. She nudged the latest copy of
Vogue
toward Massie with her wet nose.
“No, thanks.” Massie turned away. Not even seven hundred pages of bored and hungry models could cheer her up. Bean whimpered and collapsed in a ball on top of
US Weekly
, covering Rumer Willis’s ample head.
Just two days ago, Massie’s future had been bright. Bright purple, to be exact. She’d imagined leading the Pretty Committee into every three-star Michelin-rated restaurant in Manhattan, with the latest impossible-to-get bag by MJ, Prada, or Gucci slung over her tanned shoulder. One flash of her purple streak and the hostess would instantly show Massie to the best table, even if it meant asking some It chick to leave. Now things looked very different.
“Massie Block!”
Bean sprang off the guests-only ottoman at the sound of Kendra’s voice echoing through the foyer.
“I’m in here!” Massie stood and quickly smoothed the crater in the down pillow before it ratted her out for sitting on it.
Kendra pushed open the French doors and
click-clack
ed across the hardwood floors. She stopped in front of Massie and placed both hands on the waist of her camel Escada Sport stretch pants. A rose-colored Bottega Veneta tote dangled from one wrist, a Bliss Spa bag from the other. She looked like a mannequin in the window at Saks.
“What is it?” Massie sighed. Bean cowered behind her legs, peeking out every few seconds.
“I just spent the afternoon with Trini Neufeld,” Kendra said angrily, as if there was a bigger point to the story than just that. “And it seems as though—” She paused and tilted her head to the right, sensing the slight dent in one of the couch
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