Bratfest at Tiffany's (23 page)

“What was your excuse last week?” Massie marched out of her stall and straight into Selma’s. “Or the week before?” The calm, confident leader act was done. She lifted her Diors and glared into Selma’s heavy-lidded mud-brown eyes. “Thanks to your
ear,
my six-year winning streak is in major jeopardy.” Her voice trembled. A vision of the highly decorated “Wins Wall” in her bedroom—between the bay window and the walk-in closet—flashed before her. It had just enough room for one last ribbon and a framed cover of
Horse and Rider
. And the thought of that space staying empty filled her amber eyes with salty pre-tears. Not only for her. Or the Galwaugh Goddesses. But for Brownie and his elegant hairstyle and all of his hard practicing.

Glancing out the window, Massie tried to distract herself. But the sight of junior campers, staff members, parents, and local reporters making their way to the dirt-paved arena only upset her more. The only thing worse than losing was losing in public. And thanks to Selma, she was minutes away from both.

The familiar smell of Jacqueline’s citrus-scented gum and Whitney’s flowery freesia hoof ’n’ nail cream enveloped her. Her girls were standing beside her now in solidarity, shooting how-could-you-be-so-lame rays at Selma and Latte—her carrot-farting steed.

Whitney scraped her riding crop against the scrubbed concrete. “How
did
you qualify for our team anyway?”

“Not the point.” Selma took her pink fleshy hand off her cocoa horse’s buttock and placed it on her own lumpy hip. “I thought the whole point of riding was to have fun.”

“No Sel-muh.” Massie kicked a haystack with her black Hermes riding boots. “The whole point of riding is to win. The
fun
part is laughing at the losers.”

Selma opened her heart-shaped mouth to respond but was cut off by Alessandro, their award-winning horse-groomer.

“A good luck gift for youuuu,” he announced in his sing-songy European accent.

Everyone turned to face the tall forty-something man bounding toward them in an ivory linen suit and Gucci loafers. No socks. He had four enormous silver gift bags swinging from the mini-biceps on his hooked fingers.

“Enjoyyyy.” Alessandro smiled proudly, deepening the Botox-thirsty smile lines that jutted out from the sides of his dark eyes. He offered each girl her bag then stepped back to witness the joy.

Massie offered Alessandro a courteous pre-thank you smile. But it was a fake. Unless the bag contained the secret to keeping Selma on her saddle during the competition, its contents were meaningless.

“Toooo cuh-yoot.” Jacqueline held up a delicious caramel-leather saddle with a big J hand-stitched in scarlet thread across the seat. Its dangling stirrups were studded with tiny red horseshoes for luck.

“I second that.” Whitney kissed her scarlet W, leaving behind a soft pink glossy lip print.

“Third.” Jacqueline giggled into the big yellow bubble she was blowing. It popped against her wide smile.

Massie rolled her eyes as Selma fought to position her new saddle on Latte, the pink elastic band on her cotton underwear oozing out the top of her jodhpurs as she struggled with her straddle-mount.

“Hey, Elizabeth Hassel-buuut,” Massie snickered. “Stop torturing us with
The View
!”

“Whoa!” Whitney blurted, just like she always did when someone said something most people would simply laugh at.

Jacqueline giggled into the big yellow bubble she was blowing. It popped against her wide smile.

“Latte’s skin is oily,” Selma said, defensively. Her shifty eyes bore into the groomer, filling him with blame. “He wasn’t greasy
before
camp started.”

Alessandro grabbed his long salt-’n’-pepper-colored pony-tail. “With all due respect Ms. Gallman, I have been show-grooming for twenty-seven years, and I have never been accused of
oily animal
. Not even during my stint with the seal theater at Sea World.” He took off his linen jacket and folded it across one arm, smoothing out the heat-creased sleeves with intense concentration. “Now open your gift,” he urged Massie.

“Why?” She flattened the saddlebags on her olive jodhpurs. “I know what it is.”

“Yes, my dear captain.” He playfully flicked the metallic bag with his buffed fingernail. “But yours is special.”

Special?
Massie felt her lips curl into a soft grin. She was a sucker for that word.

She lifted the silver tissue paper out of the bag and stuffed it in a hanging copper bucket marked GUM RAPPERS that had been incorrectly spelled by Jacqueline in Paint-the-Town-Red nail polish.

“What’s this?” Massie pulled out the caramel-leather saddle and examined the gold arm fixed to the left of the cantle. She pushed the button at its base and out popped a gleaming round side view mirror.

“To check the competition?” Whitney wrinkled her freckle-dusted nose in confusion.

“No.” Alessandro beamed. “The gloss.”

“Whoa!” Whitney cupped the tightly wound blond hair-bun on the back of her head.

Massie stood on her tiptoes and threw her arms around him. Her vision fogged—a mix of joy-tears and a reaction to the pungent smell of his spicy deodorant.

“Now these.” Jacqueline hurried to her stall and quickly returned with an armful of velvet helmets. “I had our team name inscribed on the back.”

Massie reached for hers. Funny how ah-dorable accessories had a way of lightening even the darkest of times. …

“Wait.” She winced, staring at the swirling red letters that spelled
Galwaugh Girls
. “What is
this?
”

“Aren’t they sweet?” Jacqueline asked as she happily handed out the rest.

“But we’re the Galwaugh
Goddesses!
And we have been for six summers.” Massie picked at the thread to see if it was removable.

It wasn’t.

Jacqueline pulled one of her tight black curls, then released,
boing
-ing it back into place above her shoulder “I couldn’t fit Goddesses on the back,” she explained. “It was too long.”

“So is this day.” Massie tucked a glossy strand of chestnut hair into the unsightly mandatory hair net, and fastened the leather strap on her helmet with an angry snap.

Just then Lill, the Head Equestrian, spoke over the camp loud speaker in her shaky old lady voice. “Galwaugh Farms’ fifty-seventh annual JACC is about to commence. Spectators, take your seats. Riders, mount your horses.”

The Galwaugh Girls squealed with nervous delight while Massie prayed.

Instead of thanking Gawd for the usual—her ah-mazing teammates, their trusted horses, and their guaranteed spot in the winner’s circle—she looked up at the dark wood rafters and stuck out her tongue. Thanks
ah-lot
.

“It’s showtime.” Alessandro clapped. “Everyone in formation—Whitney, Selma, Jacqueline, then Captain Massie in the rear.”

“Massie in the
rear,
” Whitney, Jacqueline, and Massie all repeated in a fit of laughter, just like they did every year their groomer called their precession order.

Selma rolled her droopy eyes.

“Chip chip!” Alessandro barked his Euro-version of “chop-chop” while swatting at a circling fly.

Without another word the girls speed-glossed, buttoned their black velvet blazers and reached for the brown suede reigns on their gold-dusted horses.

Once outside, they climbed up on their new saddles and joined the silent ceremonial parade of sixteen riders down the lush tree-lined path toward the arena.

The collective clip-clopping of horseshoes against the gravel synched with the rhythm of Massie’s speeding heart-beat, delivering a hint of harmony to a situation that had been stressing her out for days. She took deep cleansing breaths. … In through the nose … and … out through the mouth. …

The fresh leafy smell of a new summer and the familiar bobbing of her A-cups calmed her. Casually, she snuck a peek at the competition in her side-mirror. None of the other girls had coordinated helmets or saddles. Some had pimped their rides, but the yellow tulip tiara on Aspen’s oversized white head or a pink polka-dot mane-bow in Lightfoot’s tangled locks was no challenge for Massie and her sparkling Galwaugh Girls. A confidant half-smile worked its way up the left side of her tanned face. They would clean up in the style category. And surly her score would elevate Selma’s and—

A round of flashbulbs went off when they entered the holding ring—a circular pen with a sliding metal gate that led to the hurdle-filled arena. Local reporters and family members surrounded the rails, shouting good luck wishes to their favorite riders.

“Over here!” called a chubby red-headed woman wearing a white visor with the iconic
Horse and Rider
Clydesdale printed on the brim. Massie offered her a winning grin. But before the reporter could remove the lens cap from her Nikon, Brownie stopped suddenly, jerking Massie forward and ruining her photo op.

“Whoa!” Whitney hollered, slapping her white-gloved hand over her glossy mouth. “Check her out!” She pointed at the ground with her free hand.

Massie gasped.

Selma was rolling across the dusty ring like a wayward clump of tumbleweed stuffed in tight, oat-colored jodhpurs.

A team of medics raced toward her crumpled form.

Cameras clicked. Spectators stood. The Mane Mamas, the Giddy-Ups and the Hot 2 Trots snickered. Massie squeezed her suede reigns until her knuckles turned white.

“We’re so done,” she muttered, angling her body so the reporter couldn’t document her panic sweat-slicked forehead.

“I know what she needs.” Jacqueline’s wide brown eyes flickered with mischief as she spit a wad of yellow gum into her glove and tossed it on Selma’s saddle. “Maybe that’ll hold her for a while.”

“Very funny.” Selma flicked the gum to the dirt as two over-denim-ed female stable hands lifted her back onto her saddle.

Whitney and Jacqueline smiled into their white-gloved hands.

Massie wanted to giggle with the rest of her teammates but couldn’t. There was no time. Her reputation, her ribbon, and her magazine cover were about to ride off into the sunset and leave her in the dirt. Just like Jacqueline’s chewed-up sticky wad of Forever Fruit Stride.

Unless …

“I forgot Brownie’s face mist,” Massie announced as she leaned left and tugged on the reigns. “Be right back!”

Her gold-dusted horse quickly charged the exit. Coaches and counselors urged her to stop but Massie refused. Seconds later she was tearing down the deserted trail; butt lifted, knees bent and abs tight. Two words propelling her forward—the same two words that gave her life meaning.

They were
NUMBER
and
ONE
.

In that order.

Find out what Massie does to get knocked off her high horse in …

THE CLIQUE SUMMER COLLECTION

MASSIE

BY LISI HARRISON

After getting kicked out of her ultra-exclusive riding camp, Massie’s parents force her to do the unthinkable—find a summer job. She becomes a sales rep for BE PRETTY cosmetics and quickly learns that transforming LBRs into glam-girls takes more than a swish of her mascara-wand. …

Coming April 2008