The Clique_ Charmed And Dangerous_ The Clique Prequel Part 2

"Ohhhhhhhhhh." Andrea gripped her stomach, which seemed unusually bloated. "I have to go again. I'm not sure I can do this!"

A doughy man with a low ponytail, wearing a black Limp Bizkit concert tee, appeared in the open doorway. "What do you mean you can't do do this?" he barked, adjusting the headset to his walkie-talkie. "Aren't you one of the dancers?" this?" he barked, adjusting the headset to his walkie-talkie. "Aren't you one of the dancers?"

Andrea nodded yes, and then accidentally gave him a taste of her Egg Mcm.u.f.fin. "But I'm kinda getting stage fright."

"I can smell, I mean tell tell." He fanned the air.

Alicia and Brooke burst out laughing.

"Enough!" Mrs. Fossier snapped. "A dancer's body is beautiful no matter how toxic." She looked warmly at Andrea, whose brown eyes were now filling with tears. "You go ahead. The show won't go on without you."

"Maybe it should," Andrea squeaked. "I don't feel so well," she moaned and then sprinted down the hall toward the bathroom.

"It can't," insisted the stage manager. "The director camera-blocked the performance during rehearsal. It's too late to change it now. Either you have three dancers or the Canine Chorus will get to bark two verses of 'Auld Lang Syne' instead of one."

The stage manager consulted his clipboard and made some notes. "You have fifty-two minutes to figure out a solution."

"Done," Alicia blurted, refusing to let the biggest opportunity of her life go to the dogs.

MERRI-LEE MARVIL'S NEW YEAR'S YVES PARTYMERRI-LEE'S DRESSING ROOMFriday, December 31st8:26 P.M. P.M.

"Where are my girls?" Merri-Lee Marvil stormed into her dressing room and kicked off her five-inch YSL heels. "I need my girls girls." She slid into a pair of pink Ugg clogs and shuffled over to her daughters, snapping her fingers urgently, like their flight was about to board and they were stuck on line at the Starbucks kiosk.

"Over here!" Dylan leapt out from behind the white satin changing screen, thras.h.i.+ng around in spastic homage to the heavy metal song blasting from the stylist's boom box. In her low-rider leather pants, gold YSL wedges, black cashmere tank, and leopard faux-fur collar, she felt s.e.xier than Shakira. Oh yeah! She was ready for her close-up.

"I'm not coming out!" whined her fourteen-year-old sister, Ryan.

"Me either," added Jaime, the thirteen-year-old.

"Why not?" Merri-Lee shouted at the screen, finger-fluffing her red curls.

"They think they look fat." Dylan rolled her green eyes. She was so over her sisters' pathetic weight obsession. Partly because they looked malnourished to begin with, but mostly because it was boring. They never wanted to have giant cookie-baking contests or eat fast food or pound soda and squish the empties. They were too afraid of getting "carby." Not that they would. Dylan did those things all the time and she was still ramen-noodle thin.

"The whole eating-makes-you-fat thing is a lie," she explained for the billionth time. "Advertisers just say that to sell gym members.h.i.+ps and Lean Cuisine."

"If they think they're they're fat, I must be a Pig Newton." Merri-Lee checked the giant digital clock on the wall. The red LCD numbers indicated that she had four minutes and twenty-two seconds left in this commercial break. "I'm coming in," she announced. "Make room for the belly of the ball." fat, I must be a Pig Newton." Merri-Lee checked the giant digital clock on the wall. The red LCD numbers indicated that she had four minutes and twenty-two seconds left in this commercial break. "I'm coming in," she announced. "Make room for the belly of the ball."

Seconds later, the usual, "You're so thin, no you're you're so thin, no so thin, no you you are, I wish, no are, I wish, no I I wish..." wafted from behind the changing screen like the fresh-baked smell of sugar-free, low-fat brownies. Dylan ignored her size-two mother and her size-zero sisters and hopped up into the makeup chair so Kali could tame her long red curls. She was about to make her first TV appearance ever. Frizz was not an option. wish..." wafted from behind the changing screen like the fresh-baked smell of sugar-free, low-fat brownies. Dylan ignored her size-two mother and her size-zero sisters and hopped up into the makeup chair so Kali could tame her long red curls. She was about to make her first TV appearance ever. Frizz was not an option.

Facing the mirror, she crossed her legs and-pop. The b.u.t.ton on her leather pants snapped open. A stomach tsunami surged toward her lap. Gucci pants should not malfunction like this, Gucci pants should not malfunction like this, she thought before quickly b.u.t.toning them back up. she thought before quickly b.u.t.toning them back up.

"Stop moving." Kali lifted the flatiron away from Dylan's head.

"Sorry." Dylan exhaled.

Pop!

The tsunami surged again.

"Yazzz-min!" she managed without moving.

Merri-Lee's longtime stylist stuck her head over the white screen, clutching four safety pins between her lips. "Hmmmm."

"I think you gave me the wrong pants."

"Hmmmm?" Yasmine hummed.

"These are kinda tight." Dylan lifted her pelvis and sucked in her stomach, trying to create s.p.a.ce between the digging b.u.t.ton and her flesh.

Yasmine spit the pins into her hand and sighed, "The pants are the right size. They look great. You all all look great. Now stop stressing and finish dressing or you're going to miss your segment." look great. Now stop stressing and finish dressing or you're going to miss your segment."

"She's right," Kali muttered, pressing a chunk of Dylan's hair between the hot clay plates. A puff of steam billowed around her head.

"I'm keeping my whale b.u.t.t right here where it's safe!" Ryan called. "I don't want to get harpooned."

"Ugggggh," Yasmine groaned, marching toward the full-length mirror, the heels of her black boots click-clacking years of frustration in ways her mouth wouldn't dare. She rolled the mirror toward the girls and huffed, "Look!"

The three Marvils inched out from behind their silky cover.

"See?" Yasmine positioned the mirror in front of them. "You're twigs." She rubbed the messy blond hair-bun on top of her head, rolled up her white sleeves, then stuffed her quaking hands in the deep pockets of her black trousers. Yasmine always rocked the hot-woman-in-men's-clothing look. On her, it was s.e.xy. Whenever Dylan tried it she felt like a bar-mitzvah boy.

Merri-Lee c.o.c.ked her head and examined her reflection. "Hmmm, must be hormones." She c.o.c.ked to the other side. "I look loads thinner than I feel."

"Me too." Ryan sighed her relief, a strawberry blond tendril twirling in the updraft.

"Same." Jaime shrugged, dismissing her freak-out with the wave of a hand.

"Good." Yasmine wheeled the mirror away, never bothering to put it in front of Dylan, an oversight Dylan took as a compliment. b.u.t.ton-pop or not, the stylist knew the youngest Marvil wasn't a weight watcher. And even though Dylan was slightly curious about the tight Guccis, she refused to let on. Because that would make her like them them-boring as low-sodium rice crackers.

"Merri-Lee, you're back in a minute thirty," crackled a male voice over the dressing room walkie.

"Blus.h.!.+" Merri-Lee snapped her fingers.

Kali tossed the flatiron on the makeup-filled table and raced to her boss's side.

"Girls, gather 'round." Merri-Lee sucked in her cheeks for Kali while reaching for her daughters. "Hold." Merri-Lee offered her hands. Jaime grabbed one and Ryan took the other. Dylan forced herself between her sisters like a ring-around-the-rosy reject.

"I want you three to know how proud I am. Not because I host the highest-rated morning talk show in the nation. Or because I landed on my feet after divorcing a man whose fragile ego couldn't cope with a wife that People People magazine named the thirty-sixth most beautiful woman in Hollywood. But because you are my daughters." magazine named the thirty-sixth most beautiful woman in Hollywood. But because you are my daughters."

"Awwww," the girls cooed.

"And I can't wait to show the world how gorgeous you are and to thank you in public for bringing Merri Merri to my name. Without you, I would simply be Lee. I love you." to my name. Without you, I would simply be Lee. I love you."

"We love youuuuuuu youuuuuuu," they purred, coming together for a four-way hug.

"Thirty seconds," crackled the voice.

"Gotta jump." Merri-Lee ripped herself away and scampered for her YSL heels. She slid them on and hurried back to the cameras. "See you out there!"

"Kali, can you give me an updo?" Ryan wobbled over to the makeup chair in her gold wedges.

"No, me first." Jaime clomped behind her, her green thong underwear peeking out the back of her leather pants. "I want my hair super-straight and that takes longer."

"What about me?" Dylan screeched, tugging on her half-straight, half-curly hair. "I'm not even done yet."

"You look fine." Ryan jumped into the chair.

"No, she doesn't," said a girl's voice.

Everyone turned.

A dark-haired beauty in a black and silver dress, black kneesocks, and gray Prada wedges stood in the doorway. Hands resting on her narrow hips, she shook her head disapprovingly.

"What?" Dylan snapped, not sure if she should hate the intruder for her nerve, or love her for that perfect chignon. "Who are you?"

"Ma.s.sie Blo-"

"This is a private dressing room!" Yasmine marched toward the door. "You're not allowed back here."

"Sorry. I kinda got lost looking for my friends and then I saw-"

Yasmine was about to slam the door in the girl's face when Dylan stopped her. "Whaddaya mean I don't look fine fine?"

"Those pants are a little..." She pursed her s.h.i.+ny lips and tapped her chin. Her amber eyes darted, then rested on Dylan's face. Dylan returned the gaze. They connected for a split second, like two parts of a seat belt that clicked together.

"You know when you squeeze a tube of lip gloss too hard? And some oozes over the top? That's kind of what those pants look like on you. The oozing part."

Ryan and Jaime gasped.

"That's enough!" Yasmine insisted.

"Wait." Dylan held up her palm. "Can I see the mirror?"

Yasmine sighed, then wheeled it over.

After a deep breath of courage, Dylan peeked. She was as long and lean as ever, her leather-clad legs looking like two delicious sticks of black licorice.

"The only thing oozing oozing is your jealousy," Dylan told the opinionated stranger. is your jealousy," Dylan told the opinionated stranger.

Her sisters giggled.

"And your your..." Dylan walked straight up to the girl and examined her from top to bottom, searching for the ultimate insult. But couldn't find a single thing wrong with her. So she slammed the door in her annoyingly perfect face, then b.u.t.toned her leather pants when no one was looking.

She was so tired of girls envy-hating her because she was almost famous. So tired, in fact, that she ate two chocolate brownies, hoping the caffeine in the cocoa might perk her up before showtime.

Pop!

WESTCHESTER, NYTHE COLEMAN RESIDENCE3748 BREAKWATER CIRCLE BREAKWATER CIRCLEFriday, December 31st8:32 P.M. P.M.

After an hour and thirty-two minutes of breathing through her mouth, Kristen Gregory lost it.

"Does it always smell like beef stew in here?" Her pert nose crinkled in disgust.

"Prob'ly," Ali, her fifteen-year-old cousin, muttered. "I think Mr. Coleman hunts. But I've been babysitting here for so long I'm used to it." She settled into the beige corduroy couch balancing a DVD, a giant gla.s.s of c.o.ke, and a bag of mini marshmallows. Without offering Kristen a single thing, she emptied the bag into the soda, pausing while they fizzed in protest.

Kristen stretched out her legs on the gla.s.s coffee table and anger-flipped through her math textbook. The only thing worse than being a babysitter's a.s.sistant on New Year's Eve was being treated treated like one. like one.

"Shhhhhhhhhh," Ali hissed. "Could you be turning those pages any louder?"

"Huh?" Kristen looked up, shocked.

"I just got Max to sleep." She clicked the video monitor as proof. A black-and-white image of a crib with a lump inside filled the tiny screen.

"He's all the way upstairs." Kristen rolled her eyes. "He can't hear pages turning."

"Don't talk back." Ali tossed the video monitor on the gla.s.s coffee table. It landed with a loud smash. "Or I'll dock your pay."

"What-ever," Kristen mouthed, and then reached for her green glitter binder.

Ali stared at her for an uncomfortable second. "Oh, I I know what you're smelling." She scooped up a marshmallow with her tongue and mashed it against the roof of her wide mouth. know what you're smelling." She scooped up a marshmallow with her tongue and mashed it against the roof of her wide mouth.

"What?" Kristen thumbed through her colored divider tabs.

"All that brown brown in your nose." in your nose."

"Whaddaya mean?"

"I mean mean, who does math homework on New Year's Eve?" she asked, like Jerry Seinfeld doing stand-up.

"People on scholars.h.i.+ps scholars.h.i.+ps who need to keep their grades up." Kristen folded her arms across her red Juicy Couture hoodie, the only Christmas gift her parents could afford this year. Not that she'd ever admit who need to keep their grades up." Kristen folded her arms across her red Juicy Couture hoodie, the only Christmas gift her parents could afford this year. Not that she'd ever admit that that to Ali, who only babysat Friday nights to build a resume for her Ivy League applications. The money was a bonus, a useless prize at the bottom of a cereal box. Her father owned the second-biggest BMW dealers.h.i.+p in the tristate area. He hadn't lost his fortune in an art deal gone wrong like Kristen's dad. to Ali, who only babysat Friday nights to build a resume for her Ivy League applications. The money was a bonus, a useless prize at the bottom of a cereal box. Her father owned the second-biggest BMW dealers.h.i.+p in the tristate area. He hadn't lost his fortune in an art deal gone wrong like Kristen's dad. She She wasn't living report card to report card, struggling to survive at the most prestigious private school in the county. Hardly. Ali was homeschooled with three other kids from her gated community. They'd have to set her estate on fire to be kicked out. wasn't living report card to report card, struggling to survive at the most prestigious private school in the county. Hardly. Ali was homeschooled with three other kids from her gated community. They'd have to set her estate on fire to be kicked out.

Ali handed her the Blockbuster box. "Can you please please try to have some fun?" She tilted her head toward the DVD player, telling Kristen to start the movie. "Besides, cla.s.ses at OCD don't start for three more weeks." try to have some fun?" She tilted her head toward the DVD player, telling Kristen to start the movie. "Besides, cla.s.ses at OCD don't start for three more weeks."

Kristen looked down at her first pedicure-a holiday gift from her aunt Ginny-and sighed. Would her Baby's Breath Pink toenails still be intact when fourth grade started up again? And if so, would people make fun of her for wearing flip-flops in January? If they even noticed.

It wasn't like she was a loser at Octavian Country Day or anything. In fact, she was the most popular girl on the soccer team. But off the field, when she was in cla.s.s, Kristen felt like a guest in someone else's home. A very expensive, very exclusive home. A home where no one ate lunch, they did did lunch. Where Apples were for students, not teachers. Where the letter lunch. Where Apples were for students, not teachers. Where the letter A A had more to do with a guest list than a grade. Where Religions were jeans, not beliefs. Where there was no "hip" in had more to do with a guest list than a grade. Where Religions were jeans, not beliefs. Where there was no "hip" in scholars.h.i.+p scholars.h.i.+p.

"Start the movie." Ali nudged Kristen's leg. "Before the Colemans get home. If they open the door while we're watching Ghost s.h.i.+p Ghost s.h.i.+p, we might scream and wake Max."

"Only if you pay me six dollars instead of five," Kristen tried. Not that this job was completely completely about the money. But why not let Ali think that? It was better than the truth: that she didn't have anything better to do. about the money. But why not let Ali think that? It was better than the truth: that she didn't have anything better to do.