Dune, Jax, and Tyler. Kristen clapped her palms raw and didn’t stop until another text buzzed through to her phone.
Offer payback. Meet @ the CC 11 P.M. Tonight. Instructions will be with your doorman.
Kristen quickly deleted the message, then approached Dune.
“Wanna get them back?” she offered calmly as her baggy boy shorts flapped in the breeze.
Dune slowly nodded yes, as if still in shock. Seconds later the light in his eyes seemed to reappear, like a blackout that had suddenly ended. And under that light it didn’t matter if Kristen was wearing the same shorts as Bill Gates. She felt pretty again.
“Guys, listen to this.” He waved over his buddies, who surrounded Kristen like hungry sharks.
“Meet me at the country club service entrance at eleven o’clock tonight,” she whispered. “Make sure you’re not being followed. I have to go get ready.”
“What’s the plan?” Tyler asked. “How do we know it’s gonna work?”
“Do
you
have any ideas?” Dune challenged his buddy.
“Yeah, but most of them are illegal.” He snickered. “Is
yours
?”
“Probably,” Kristen said with fake nonchalance.
Dune put his arm on Kristen’s shoulder. Her back sweat returned.
“I’m not crazy about your clothes, but I love the way you think.”
Kristen half smiled. Because half of his declaration was a whole lot nicer than anything a hawt boy had ever said to her.
PINE STREET
WESTCHESTER, NY
Tuesday, July 21
7:07 P.M.
Every time Kristen pictured herself dressed in those horrible boy clothes, she pedaled her bike a little faster, as if she could somehow liquefy the embarrassing memory and sweat it out through her pores.
Not that her current outfit was much better.
There had been a lot of things she’d had to keep in mind when selecting that night’s ensemble. It had to be:
A)Dark and unassuming for her secret mission.
B)Flattering enough to make Dune forget he ever saw her kick it Cesario-style.
C)Conservative enough for her mother to believe she was rushing out to help Ripple cram for a math quiz.
D)Comfortable enough for her to crouch behind a bush for four hours while she: 1) Waited for everyone to show up. (Her mother would never let her go out at 11 p.m., so she’d had to leave at 7 p.m. and hide out.) 2) Figured out how to use the Witty Committee’s invention.
E)Something that had not yet received the OCDiva treatment (e.g., replacing cheap plastic with Chanel buttons).
F)Narrow enough to keep her pant legs from getting stuck in the bike chain.
G)Free of David Beckham fur. Nothing says
I smell like cat pee
like a girl covered in hair balls.
H)All of the above.
After intense analysis, Kristen had decided on a long black Juicy tunic hoodie (Massie hand-me-down) over gray denim capris (Old Navy, to be destroyed by “accidental pen explosion” one week before the Pretty Committee returned). Black ballet flats (Capezio sale bin—seven dollars!) completed the vandal-chic look she was going for. She’d considered wearing her Cleopatra wig, not only for the pop it gave her green eyes, but for its ability to conceal her blond hair. Ultimately, though, she’d decided against it. Because the only thing Kristen wanted more than to make Dune fall in love with her was to keep the Witty Committee secret. They could always cheer her up if she lost Dune, but
he
could never fill the void if she lost them. No one could. So tonight, her blond hair was stuffed under a Burton snowboard cap. As she urged her bike forward, she pedal-prayed the combination of extreme humidity and black wool would not make her forehead break out in the morning.
Kristen got off her bike three blocks away from the country club and locked it to a burned-out streetlight. She checked left, then right. Certain no one was watching, she lifted the flap on her leather saddlebag (a gift from her uncle Billy in Texas) and pulled out the clear backpack. The pink crystals inside made it too heavy to wear, so she carried it in
Offer payback. Meet @ the CC 11 P.M. Tonight. Instructions will be with your doorman.
Kristen quickly deleted the message, then approached Dune.
“Wanna get them back?” she offered calmly as her baggy boy shorts flapped in the breeze.
Dune slowly nodded yes, as if still in shock. Seconds later the light in his eyes seemed to reappear, like a blackout that had suddenly ended. And under that light it didn’t matter if Kristen was wearing the same shorts as Bill Gates. She felt pretty again.
“Guys, listen to this.” He waved over his buddies, who surrounded Kristen like hungry sharks.
“Meet me at the country club service entrance at eleven o’clock tonight,” she whispered. “Make sure you’re not being followed. I have to go get ready.”
“What’s the plan?” Tyler asked. “How do we know it’s gonna work?”
“Do
you
have any ideas?” Dune challenged his buddy.
“Yeah, but most of them are illegal.” He snickered. “Is
yours
?”
“Probably,” Kristen said with fake nonchalance.
Dune put his arm on Kristen’s shoulder. Her back sweat returned.
“I’m not crazy about your clothes, but I love the way you think.”
Kristen half smiled. Because half of his declaration was a whole lot nicer than anything a hawt boy had ever said to her.
PINE STREET
WESTCHESTER, NY
Tuesday, July 21
7:07 P.M.
Every time Kristen pictured herself dressed in those horrible boy clothes, she pedaled her bike a little faster, as if she could somehow liquefy the embarrassing memory and sweat it out through her pores.
Not that her current outfit was much better.
There had been a lot of things she’d had to keep in mind when selecting that night’s ensemble. It had to be:
A)Dark and unassuming for her secret mission.
B)Flattering enough to make Dune forget he ever saw her kick it Cesario-style.
C)Conservative enough for her mother to believe she was rushing out to help Ripple cram for a math quiz.
D)Comfortable enough for her to crouch behind a bush for four hours while she: 1) Waited for everyone to show up. (Her mother would never let her go out at 11 p.m., so she’d had to leave at 7 p.m. and hide out.) 2) Figured out how to use the Witty Committee’s invention.
E)Something that had not yet received the OCDiva treatment (e.g., replacing cheap plastic with Chanel buttons).
F)Narrow enough to keep her pant legs from getting stuck in the bike chain.
G)Free of David Beckham fur. Nothing says
I smell like cat pee
like a girl covered in hair balls.
H)All of the above.
After intense analysis, Kristen had decided on a long black Juicy tunic hoodie (Massie hand-me-down) over gray denim capris (Old Navy, to be destroyed by “accidental pen explosion” one week before the Pretty Committee returned). Black ballet flats (Capezio sale bin—seven dollars!) completed the vandal-chic look she was going for. She’d considered wearing her Cleopatra wig, not only for the pop it gave her green eyes, but for its ability to conceal her blond hair. Ultimately, though, she’d decided against it. Because the only thing Kristen wanted more than to make Dune fall in love with her was to keep the Witty Committee secret. They could always cheer her up if she lost Dune, but
he
could never fill the void if she lost them. No one could. So tonight, her blond hair was stuffed under a Burton snowboard cap. As she urged her bike forward, she pedal-prayed the combination of extreme humidity and black wool would not make her forehead break out in the morning.
Kristen got off her bike three blocks away from the country club and locked it to a burned-out streetlight. She checked left, then right. Certain no one was watching, she lifted the flap on her leather saddlebag (a gift from her uncle Billy in Texas) and pulled out the clear backpack. The pink crystals inside made it too heavy to wear, so she carried it in
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