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you’re pretty cool.”
    “It’s a rather uninspired prank if you ask me.” Bill removed his glasses and dabbed his forehead with the gray felt usually used to clean computer screens. “But chilling gallons of sugary water in July will be a fun challenge.” He put his glasses back on. “And something
he
obviously couldn’t manage on his own.”
    “Honnnn-eyyyy, I’m home!” Marsha Gregory called from across the condo. “Costco was a madhouse and I forgot to bring my own bags.”
    David Beckham scurried out from under the blue and green polka-dot duvet and Kristen pulled off her wig and stuffed it behind her pillow. “Hi, Mom.”
    She turned to dismiss the Witty Committee, but they were already gone.

THE BAXTER HOUSE
    ROOF
    Monday, July 20
    10:45 A.M.
    Kristen shimmied her butt up the Baxters’ gritty sloping roof and repositioned herself in the center of her nubby coral beach towel. Ripple had suggested they spend their study session elevated so they could be closer to the sun’s tanning rays. And in the spirit of Oprah’s suggestion to compromise, Kristen had agreed. But her sizzling skin, which now matched her bright red bikini, had a different opinion.
    Below, Brice was speed-loading his board on top of the Chevy. He’d just gotten a call that the waves on Fire Island were going off, and he was determined to catch the one-thirty ferry.
    Dune was already at the skate park—at least, that was what Ripple had told Kristen. For all she knew he was sipping virgin coladas by the pool with alpha soon-to-be-ninth-grader Skye Hamilton, drawing coconut-scented Hawaiian Tropic hearts on her zitless back.
    “Next question,” Kristen groaned, trying to stay focused, at least while her employer was still within earshot. “In fourteen hundred ninety-two—”
    “Ms. Gregory, I do not, not,
nawt
care about fourteen hundred ninety-two. Massie wasn’t even
alive
then.” Ripple pursed her Vincent Longo Bronzella–coated lips and rolled over onto her flat belly. The 3-D daisy on the butt of her yellow bikini was flattened, and two of its petals were bent. Her fried hair had been over-brushed, causing her spilt ends to stick out like tiny worms trying to warm themselves after a chilly rainfall. “So unless you have a list of fourteen hundred ninety-two ways to become Massie, or fourteen hundred ninety-two ways to convince a crush that you’re as
sophisticated
as Massie, then
thisss
”—she pointed at Kristen, then at herself—“is over.”
    Down in the driveway Brice shielded his eyes from the sun and looked up. “Be good,” he called. Then he waved goodbye and quickly jumped in his truck, like a boy desperate to escape before his mother saddled him with a list of chores.
    Once the engine had started and the blue truck was reversing out of the cracked driveway, Kristen snapped the history book shut. “You’re totally right.” She rolled onto her stomach and turned to Ripple, ignoring the blue textbook as it slid toward the eave. “I was just trying to look professional until your dad left.”
    “Really?” Ripple raised a blond brow.
    “Pinky-swear.” Kristen held out her finger.
    Ripple practically lunged for it.
    “I was thinking. . . .” Kristen summoned Oprah’s plan. “The only way for you to truly understand Massie is if we go shopping.”
    “Seriously?” Ripple beamed.
    Kristen smiled back. “Yes.”
    “No, no, no wayyyyyyyyyyy!” Ripple rolled onto her back and bicycled her blond hair–covered legs in the air.
    “Who knows?” Kristen lowered the brim on the old brown Von Dutch trucker hat she’d found in the back of her closet, something she’d decided to wear BMB (behind Massie’s back) in case Dune was home. “Maybe you could put a fourth-grade Itty Bitty Pretty Committee together and be their alpha.”
    Ripple kicked her legs harder.
    “
Iffff
you do one thing for me . . .”
    Ripple stopped pedaling and lowered her legs.
    “What,” she said, like it wasn’t a