Robin Wasserman - Envy

And when you looked at it that way, she was doing Adam a favor. Just helping a good friend see the light.

Miranda had snuck into her house as quietly as she could.

It wasn’t quietly enough.

At the sound of the door her mother came clattering down the stairs and, after a horrified tirade on the state of Miranda’s head, let loose with the bad news: She needed some peace and quiet. Which meant she was sending Miranda’s little sister, Stacy, to the Frontier Festival-in care of Miranda.

And she wouldn’t take “No way in hell am I leaving the house like this” for an answer.

The festival turned out to be just as bad as she’d expected. Hokey and crowded, it would have been punishment enough on its own-but with green hair? It was torture. Everywhere they went, Miranda felt like people were staring at her (perhaps because Stacy kept pointing at her head and shouting, “My sister has green hair!”). They might as well put me in the freak show , she thought drily. Come one, come all, see the Amazing Human Chia Pet.

“Hey, it’s the mean, green, fighting machine!” One of the barkers suddenly called out. “Where are you going?”

She looked around. The screechy voice booming from the megaphone could only be coming from the tall, gawky boy manning a dunk booth-and it could only be directed toward Miranda.

She shook it off. Just keep walking , she told herself.

“Come on, show us your stuff, Incredible Hulk style!” he called. “Three throws for a dollar-I dare you.”

“Randa, he’s talking to you,” Stacy pointed out, eyes wide. As if she hadn’t noticed.

“Forget it, Stacy. We’re leaving.”

“But-”

“What are you, scared? Where are you hiding your wings, chicken?” When he started clucking, that was it. Enough was enough. Miranda heaved a huge sigh and turned her sister back around.

“Come on, Stacy, it’s time to dunk a dunce.”

The annoying barker-a tall, skinny teen with glasses and a striped T-shirt that made him look like a live action Where’s Waldo-grinned and collected their money, then scrambled up onto a wooden bench that hovered precariously over the tank of water. He waved cheerfully.

“Worried?” Miranda asked as her sister readied herself to take a throw at the bull’s-eye target.

“Nah-how about you?” He snickered. “You’re looking a little green in the gills there.”

As the loser cackled to himself, Miranda leaned down to Stacy and encouraged her.

“Throw hard, sweetie-as hard as you can.”

Ball one.

Miss!

“Nice try, ladies. I’m shaking in my moccasins.”

Moccasins. She should have figured. This guy had loser written all over him.

Ball two.

Miss!

“One more shot-but you’re winners either way.”

“You’ll give her a prize even if she doesn’t hit the target?” Miranda asked, pleasantly surprised.

“No, of course not-but don’t you feel like you’ve won just by meeting me?”

“Won what?”

“The game of life, of course.”

“Only if you’re the booby prize,” Miranda muttered. She grabbed the last ball from Stacy’s hands. “Let me take this one, Stace.”

Ball three.

Crack!

Splash!

Miranda and Stacy burst into uncontrollable laughter as the annoying loser flailed wildly in the shallow water, finally popping up for air.

“You think that’s funny, do you?”

“Hilarious,” Miranda agreed.

“Well, just remember you said that.”

Before Miranda could figure out what he was talking about, he climbed out, soaking wet, and slammed his palm into a bright red panel by the tank.

“Better hold your nose,” he suggested cheerfully.

Too late.

A bucket overturned over Miranda’s head, unleashing a flood of icy water.

“What the hell!” she screamed, looking down at herself, post-tidal wave. Her clothes were soaked and sticking to her body, marred by a few light green streaks-apparently her hair was still water soluble.

“Language, language,” water boy cautioned her with a smirk, pointing toward Stacy. “There are children here, you know.” He grabbed a giant stuffed bear off the rack and handed it to the girl.

“Here you go, sweetie. Good job.” He turned to Miranda. “And you.”

“I get a prize too?” she asked, holding her arms out from her sides in a pathetic attempt to air dry. “I think you’ve already given me enough.”

“You get the best prize of all.” He scrawled something on a piece of paper and handed it to her.

She uncrumpled it and looked uncomprehendingly at what he’d written: “Greg-555-6733.”

“My phone number,” he explained, a bright red blush spreading across his face and out to the tips of his oversize ears.

“Wha-?”

“I think your hair’s cute,” he spit out, eyes darting away in embarrassment. “And so are you.”

Kaia shut off the TV in frustration. There were only so many hours of nothing on that she could take. But what else was she supposed to do? She’d read a book, read the latest issue of InStyle -twice-even done her homework (truly a move of last resort). And it was still only Saturday night. She’d pretty much burned her bridges for what passed as A list social life around here, and she didn’t have much interest in palling around with social climbers who thought that hanging with someone who used to be at the top of a social ladder was the next best thing to ever being there themselves. And what did that leave? Kaia, alone and bored in her father’s palatial monstrosity of a midlife crisis (complete with pool table, hot tub, giant flat screen TV). After a few weeks trapped in small-town hell, even the luxury oasis wasn’t cutting it.

She wondered what was going on back at the home front. Kaia got an e-mail or two a week from members of her old crowd (even, once in a while, a note from her mother, complaining about the decorator’s incompetence or her dermatologist’s too frequent vacations). But that was about it.

Principle dictated that she wait for them to call her and describe how empty life was without Kaia. Boredom dictated that she call them and torture herself with the knowledge of the life she should be living.

Boredom-and masochism-won out.

“Kaia, we miss you so much!” Alexa fawned. (They had all fawned over her, back in New York, jockeying for favor as if hoping her light would shine down on them and redeem their pitiful lives. It was a horrible way to think about your friends-but then, Alexa and the rest weren’t really friends, were they? So what did it matter?) “K, you missed the sale of the season yesterday. Bergdorf’s-you would not believe the scene.”

“Oh, I can imagine.”

“I should have snagged you something, but it was just too crazy.”

“Well, not much call for Marc Jacobs out here in the sticks, anyway,” Kaia admitted.

“Oh, that’s right,” Alexa said, her voice dripping with pity. “Burlap sack is maybe more your speed these days, right?” A beat. “Just kidding, of course.”

“Of course,” Kaia said drily.

“How are the hotties out there? You climbed into bed with any cowboys yet?”

“A few. It’s slim pickings, though. Like Presley Prep on a Monday morning.” Showing up in homeroom at eight a.m. on a Monday, sans hangover, was basically admitting to the world that you’d spent the weekend poring over your stamp collection. Or, Kaia thought, looking around in self-pity, forming a permanent body-size lump in your couch, flipping aimlessly through the TV channels 24/7.

“Tell me about it,” Alexa drawled. “But by Tuesday-totally yummy. Tyler was getting so jealous the other day when-”

“Tyler?” Her Tyler? Six-feet-two Kenneth Cole addict with a nasty sense of humor and a silver Ferrari?