in Westchester. Possibly more than Massie???? (Not that I would ever say that to her.)
No more puffy jackets.Warm weather, palm trees, beaches, and flip-flops all year round.
The fall is kind of nice. I like when the leaves change colors. I will miss that.
“Send in the delinquents,” squawked a familiar old lady's voice from behind the beveled glass door. “One. At. A. Time.”
At that moment, if someone had asked Claire which she would prefer: (a) to be a nonfamous nobody again or (b) to get mobbed by tons of fans and then have to ask Principal Burns for a late slip, she would have picked (a) in a second.
The revelation shocked her. She used to lie awake at night making arrangements with God, like that if he made the girls at OCD like her, she'd fold her clothes the way her mother asked instead of stuffing them behind her armoire. But now that Claire was front-page news, she surprised herself by wanting out of this divine deal and made a mental note to delete “I have fans in Westchester” from her 2 Move or Not 2 Move list. It was creepy watching people buy her clothes and boring spending her Sunday choosing crowd-pleasing outfits. She didn't want to strut to the beat of a slutty song. She didn't want to worry how her sweaty bangs might look in cell-phones pictures. And she
really
didn't want to be late for class.
“Ms. Block!” Principal Burns shouted. “Enter!”
Flashing her friends a she-so-doesn't-scare-me eye-roll, Massie rose. “Did you see how many people wanted our autographs?” she leaned in and whispered, like that somehow made it all worth it. “I think I saw a few eighth graders there too. Hopefully they'll tell Skye we—”
“Now!”
Snickering, Massie raced toward the principal's office, gently closing the door behind her.
Claire sat on her shaking hands, wondering how Massie handled it all—the attention, the pressure, the jacketless winters.…Or maybe the better questions was, why did she
want
to?
O CTAVIAN C OUNTRY D AY S CHOOL T HE C AFÉ , T ABLE I 8
8 Monday, April 5th
12:38 P.M.
The lunch crowd rubbernecked as they passed the Pretty Committee's prestigious windowside table—which thankfully had been roped off with purple ribbon, thanks to Allie-Rose's connection in the art department—hoping for a glimpse at OCD's first real-life celebrities.
“Hey, Claire,” Kaya Horner gushed as she strolled by, swinging an empty red tray. The petite, tights-obsessed brunette was dressed in a black cashmere turtleneck and a faded pair of tattered cut-off Sevens, which she wore over white-and-gray-striped Hues. Her legs looked like two gangly Slinkys. “I cannot
wait
to see your moo-vie.”
Lowering her spaghetti-covered fork for the third time that minute, Claire smiled and kindly said, “Awww, thanks.”
Massie rolled her eyes. “Gawd, can we puh-lease talk about you-know-what”—she mimed turning a key in a door—”without getting interrupted by LBR FOCs?”
“Welcome back, Massie,” waved Mindy Baum, head of the student council. As usual, she was wearing an extra-small ocd student body baby tee, this one in hot pink. “We missed you guys.”
“Thanks.” Massie cupped her chignon. “We ah-dore the colorful confetti on our table. That had to be you guys, right?”
“Totally.” Mindy blushed.
Dylan nestled her head in the C-shaped pillow that had been tied to the back of her orange plastic cafeteria chair. “Did you make these too?”
“I can't take all the credit.” Mindy motioned for five DIY-loving girls at table 14 to stand. “We had a little help from the Crafts Club.”
They climbed up on their chairs and bowed, each girl wearing the club's signature paisley smock over ultra-flared jeans and a vintage-inspired blouse.
“Thread-heads,” Massie murmured as she applauded their efforts with what looked, to the untrained eye, like absolute sincerity. Then she waved goodbye to Mindy, letting her know in no uncertain terms that it was time for her to
No more puffy jackets.Warm weather, palm trees, beaches, and flip-flops all year round.
The fall is kind of nice. I like when the leaves change colors. I will miss that.
“Send in the delinquents,” squawked a familiar old lady's voice from behind the beveled glass door. “One. At. A. Time.”
At that moment, if someone had asked Claire which she would prefer: (a) to be a nonfamous nobody again or (b) to get mobbed by tons of fans and then have to ask Principal Burns for a late slip, she would have picked (a) in a second.
The revelation shocked her. She used to lie awake at night making arrangements with God, like that if he made the girls at OCD like her, she'd fold her clothes the way her mother asked instead of stuffing them behind her armoire. But now that Claire was front-page news, she surprised herself by wanting out of this divine deal and made a mental note to delete “I have fans in Westchester” from her 2 Move or Not 2 Move list. It was creepy watching people buy her clothes and boring spending her Sunday choosing crowd-pleasing outfits. She didn't want to strut to the beat of a slutty song. She didn't want to worry how her sweaty bangs might look in cell-phones pictures. And she
really
didn't want to be late for class.
“Ms. Block!” Principal Burns shouted. “Enter!”
Flashing her friends a she-so-doesn't-scare-me eye-roll, Massie rose. “Did you see how many people wanted our autographs?” she leaned in and whispered, like that somehow made it all worth it. “I think I saw a few eighth graders there too. Hopefully they'll tell Skye we—”
“Now!”
Snickering, Massie raced toward the principal's office, gently closing the door behind her.
Claire sat on her shaking hands, wondering how Massie handled it all—the attention, the pressure, the jacketless winters.…Or maybe the better questions was, why did she
want
to?
O CTAVIAN C OUNTRY D AY S CHOOL T HE C AFÉ , T ABLE I 8
8 Monday, April 5th
12:38 P.M.
The lunch crowd rubbernecked as they passed the Pretty Committee's prestigious windowside table—which thankfully had been roped off with purple ribbon, thanks to Allie-Rose's connection in the art department—hoping for a glimpse at OCD's first real-life celebrities.
“Hey, Claire,” Kaya Horner gushed as she strolled by, swinging an empty red tray. The petite, tights-obsessed brunette was dressed in a black cashmere turtleneck and a faded pair of tattered cut-off Sevens, which she wore over white-and-gray-striped Hues. Her legs looked like two gangly Slinkys. “I cannot
wait
to see your moo-vie.”
Lowering her spaghetti-covered fork for the third time that minute, Claire smiled and kindly said, “Awww, thanks.”
Massie rolled her eyes. “Gawd, can we puh-lease talk about you-know-what”—she mimed turning a key in a door—”without getting interrupted by LBR FOCs?”
“Welcome back, Massie,” waved Mindy Baum, head of the student council. As usual, she was wearing an extra-small ocd student body baby tee, this one in hot pink. “We missed you guys.”
“Thanks.” Massie cupped her chignon. “We ah-dore the colorful confetti on our table. That had to be you guys, right?”
“Totally.” Mindy blushed.
Dylan nestled her head in the C-shaped pillow that had been tied to the back of her orange plastic cafeteria chair. “Did you make these too?”
“I can't take all the credit.” Mindy motioned for five DIY-loving girls at table 14 to stand. “We had a little help from the Crafts Club.”
They climbed up on their chairs and bowed, each girl wearing the club's signature paisley smock over ultra-flared jeans and a vintage-inspired blouse.
“Thread-heads,” Massie murmured as she applauded their efforts with what looked, to the untrained eye, like absolute sincerity. Then she waved goodbye to Mindy, letting her know in no uncertain terms that it was time for her to
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