Free Messy by Heather Cocks, Jessica Morgan

neck over the crowd. “I can’t see her.”
    As if on cue, the place went dark. “Thanks for coming, everyone,” Moxie Stilts’s voice said from the vicinity of the sky. “I’ve got a treat for you.”
    As the moody piano strains from Moxie’s hit song “Metaphor” played—it was a ballad about growing up that, ironically (and possibly unintentionally), was composed entirely of similes—a spotlight popped on and illuminated a swing hanging from the ceiling. Perched atop it was Moxie Stilts, wearing a bustier, fishnets, platform stilettos, and hair extensions so robust it looked like she’d scalped Ke$ha.
    “Whoa. She’s gone full
Burlesque
,” Max breathed.
    “I’m like a sapling busting open and trying to take roooooot,” Moxie crooned, wriggling coyly as the swing began to descend to the floor.
    “Boring,” Brooke said, yawning.
    Molly and Max exchanged grins.
    “What?” Brooke said. “If you’ve seen one repressed kiddie-TV starlet crack under pressure, you’ve seen them all.”
    “Well,
I
haven’t seen it yet,” Max said, as the backing track kicked into a club remix of “Metaphor.” Moxie landed on the floor and slinked over to the stripper pole. “Not in person, anyway. What is she
thinking
?”
    “Probably that she’s not going to get a whole lot of work when she’s twenty-five, if all she’s ever known for is playing a teen clothing designer with a talking sewing machine,” Brooke said, as Moxie bent over and swung her butt from side to side in time to the music. The crowd went nuts.
    “Oh, my God, I can’t look, but I can’t
not
look.” Molly grimaced.
    “Fresh as a dewdrop, like a lie turning true, I am finding my meaning, baby, and the metaphor is you,” Moxie panted.
She really should’ve lip-synched
, Max thought with uncharitable glee. As if in agreement, one of Moxie’s stockings snapped in half across her thigh.
    “Take it off!” shouted a guy Max was pretty sure had a daughter with one of the Pussycat Dolls.
    Brooke looked pointedly at the part of her arm where awatch would live, if she ever cared whether she was on time to anything. “How long is this going to go on?” she complained. “Downward spirals are so passé.”
    As if on cue, Moxie’s music faded out and the latest hit from Justin Timberlake’s new album came bursting over the speakers. Moxie took a distracted, sweaty bow.
    “Finally!” Brooke said. “Okay, I see a guy from
The Wolf Pack
who almost certainly deserves to meet me. Don’t forget to come find me, Max. Remember, this is work.” And with that, she disappeared into the crowd.
    “I don’t know how she can see anything in here except a bunch of civil misdemeanors,” Max said, gesturing at the writhing crowd. “I can’t believe this is your life.”
    Molly pulled a face. “
This
isn’t my life,” she said. “I mean, I guess tangentially, because of Brooke and Brick, but not really. My actual life is, like, school and my family and you and Teddy and worrying about getting into college and stuff. Thank God you’re here, or else Brooke would be forcing me to talk to that actor’s grody wingman.”
    Max watched, a tad lost, as a clutch of revelers passed around a tray of brightly colored shots. Even at Colby-Randall, where Max belonged about as much as those thirtysomething pervs did at this party, she had never felt this out of her depth. High school was just something everyone did for a few years until their real lives started. But this madness
was
some people’s real lives. How was she supposed to relate to this the way Brooke did? Brooke grew up with a pony, for Pete’s sake. The only pony Maxever owned was Dallas, Barbie’s Palomino, who eventually perished in a tragic weed-eater incident.
    A good writer ought to be able to inhabit anyone else’s brain
, Teddy had told her earlier. The only problem was, Brooke’s brain was across the room trying to get digits from a guy who’d just spent five episodes in a