Bratfest at Tiffany's

by Lisi Harrison

  “Tomorrow night, we will hold a schoolwide competition. Students will be charged with decorating their lockers using the same spirited style and manner displayed in our—”

  “Speak English!” someone shouted from the middle of the room.

  The entire school cracked up.

  “It means we’re having a Pimp My Locker contest!” Dean Don shouted, his stylishly stubbled face scratched up against the mic. “Who’s with me?” He punched the air and everyone whooped and hollered. “You make over your lockers and local residents pick their favorites. The winners will spend the next semester in the overflow trailers.” He paused for more whooping. “The contest is tomorrow night, so get busy. Classes will be shortened so you have time to create.”

  Everyone jumped to their feet and cheered. The only ones still sitting were the ex-crushes, the NLBRs, Layne, Meena, and Heather.

  And, of course, the NPC.

  “This is worse than being robbed.” Massie lowered her face into her palms. She felt violated and used. “It’s like having your brain and heart stolen.”

  “Kind of how I felt when you copied my math test last year and did better than me,” Monkey Paws huffed.

  “You went to OCD last year?” Massie mumbled, her face still hidden in her hands.

  “Yeah! I was in all your class—”

  “Oh, one more thing.” The dean swatted a mass of shaggy black hair away from his dark eyes. “Suitcases are welcome to enter.” He winked at the back row.

  The NLBRs hopped up and joined the merriment.

  “No! Wait!” Massie kicked the seat in front of her. “Sit down! This isn’t fair!” She kicked it again. “We built them! You can’t take them away!” Her vision blurred. Her ears buzzed. Her voice sounded tinny and hollow. Was she falling or fainting or both? “We need a new lawyer!” she shouted at the NPC, who were too stunned to do anything but nod.

  Dempsey leaned across Claire and placed a warm hand on Massie’s shoulder. “We’ll get through this,” he promised, the sincerity in his green eyes backing him up.

  Massie turned her back on his kindness. It was too soon to treat the wound. She had to stop the bleeding first.

  “Why is this happening to me?” she wanted to ask Bean. “Did my alpha card expire?” The pug would offer her sympathetic black eyes, and Massie would see her reflection in them.

  Normally, that would have been enough to motivate her. But this was different. Her sold-out comeback tour had just been cancelled. And a girl could only reinvent herself so many times.

  Now what? Dylan texted.

  Can they do this? Claire sent.

  Guess we sold the dream. Kristen wrote.

  And got the nightmare!! Massie typed, her thumbs heavy with defeat.

  BOCD

  MAIN BUILDING

  Friday, September 18th

  1:11 P.M.

  The halls in Main Building smelled like tape, glue, and fierce competition. Glitter-dusted floors dotted with scraps of crepe paper, streamers, and dented coffee cups gave off a post-parade vibe, even though the main event was still six hours away.

  “Your locker is beyond being beyond,” Kori envy-gushed.

  “You think?” Alicia asked, knowing full well her vision was ah-dorable times a hundred. She’d cut out the lining of every pre-2008 designer bag she owned and reattached the material to the cold metal walls, making the inside of the locker appear as though it were the inside of a massive handbag. She’d even had Scooter, the family electrician, install a little refrigerator light that would go on every time she opened the metal door. Massie would have loved it.

  “You’re totally gonna win a spot in those trailers,” Kori said, cutting into a roll of mauve Laura Ashley Blossom wallpaper.

  “Hope so,” Alicia muttered, knowing the NPC would have to forgive her eventually if they were in the same class. Wouldn’t they?

  “All done!” Olivia called.

  Alicia and Kori hurried to her side.

  Proudly, she swung open the door of her locker, revealing a tiny nursery. The walls were covered in soft pink cashmere, and a duckie ’n’ bunny mobile dangled crookedly from the ceiling. Mother/daughter photos were taped everywhere, and Kate was in the center of it all, her head poking out the top of Olivia’s book-filled Kate Spade tote. She was crying hysterically.

  “Shhhh, it’s okay,” Olivia cooed as she cranked the dial on the mobile. But all that did was launch a round of hard plastic animals into the baby’s skull.

  “Olivia, turn that off!” Cam raced to Kate’s rescue.

  “Oh, so now you care,” she snapped.

  “What?” Cam lifted the naked baby out of the canvas bag. A torn piece of graph paper covered in unsolved math equations had been stapled around her butt in lieu of a diaper. He held her to his worn leather jacket and rocked stiffly, like his feet were stuck in gum.

  “I don’t see any pictures of her in your locker.” Olivia’s blue eyes darkened.

  “It’s not like I’m trying to win,” Cam whispered to keep from scaring Kate. “None of us are.” He tilted his head toward the ex-crushes. They were sitting on the trash-covered floor, hovering over Plovert and his silver Game Boy.

  Olivia tucked her blond waves behind her tiny ears. “Don’t you think our family should stay together?”

  Cam shrugged. “You’ll just be outside.”

  “Still …” Olivia pouted. “The least you could do is hang a few family photos. It makes us look bad if you don’t.”

  Alicia quickly turned back to her locker. She couldn’t watch this for one more second. It was like she was trapped inside some lame public service announcement called “Kids Having Kids,” about bad choices and suffering the consequences. She wanted her old life back. The one where she had friends. Cool ones.

  Suddenly, Alicia felt something poke into her shoulder. She whipped around and came nose-to-beak with Principal Burns, who smelled like orange peels.

  “Cawwww, cawwwww,” squawked Kemp when he saw the crow-lady. The boys cracked up. Alicia tried not to.

  “Here’s the schedule for tonight,” she said, deaf to their jabs.

  Alicia beamed, grabbing the sheet of paper from her talons.

  “Remember, you’ll be announcing the winners, so dress appropriately.” The principal examined Alicia’s tight cream-colored knit ultramini with a scowl. “The local news will be here.”

  The tip was hard to take from a gray-haired bird-lady in a poo-colored tweed pantsuit, but Alicia nodded like a pro.

  “What are you going to wear?” asked Strawberry, her fingers stained pink with finger paint.

  “I dunno,” Alicia admitted. “Any ideas? It needs to say ‘journalist’ and ‘supermodel’ at the same time.”

  “You should totally borrow the navy blazer and skirt I wore to my bat mitzvah,” Kori offered. “My bubbe said I looked darling.”

  “Hmmmm.” Alicia pretended to consider the nonoption.

  “Or that cute black dress you wore yesterday,” Strawberry suggested.

  “But I wore it yesterday,” Alicia snapped, wishing more than anything for a minute of Massie time. She’d have had fifteen options ironed and pressed by sundown.

  Maybe it wasn’t too late.

  “Be right back.” Alicia hurried down the hall and out to the parking lot before anyone had a chance to question her. She heard Josh call after her but ignored him. He was ah-dorable, but sharing every single class with him was a little overkill, no? The magic would fizzle by Thanksgiving.

  Puffy white clouds hung in the clear blue sky. Alicia imagined they had been sent to watch over her. There to soften the blow should her plan backfire.

  Gripping the banister, she tiptoed up the trailer stairs, removed a gold hoop earring, and mashed her ear against the blue door.

  Audible snippets of conversation rose above the chatter like oil in low-fat salad dressing. Alicia held her breath.

  “Pass the feathers,” insisted an angry girl.

  Layne.

/>   “I thought you were against the new trailers,” Claire teased.

  “I am.”

  “So why are you decorating your suitcase?”

  “This is a political display.”

  “What is it?” screeched a male NLBR.

  “A tribute to the Native American Indian.”

  Kristen cackled. Others snickered.

  “It’s not funny,” Layne practically whined. “This kind of thing happens all the time. As soon as the little people make something of themselves, the white man comes along and takes it.”

  A round of high-five slaps followed.

  She continued. “Where was everyone during the thunderstorm? Back when we had nothing?” No one said a word. “I’ll tell you where they were! They were filing their nails in their-dry coed classrooms, looking out their windows and laughing at the soggy geeks in overflow.”

  “Good point,” said a girl. Meena? Heather?

  Alicia, being one of the nail-filers, decided this might not be the best time to barge in. Even though she was the furthest thing from a white man, she had a feeling the others might not see it that way.

  But what had she hoped to hear? Kristen preaching the joys of forgiveness? Dylan admitting that things hadn’t been the same without her? Massie sob-shouting Alicia’s name?

  Maybe Massie wasn’t in there. After all, she hadn’t said a single word about Layne’s tribute suitcase. And it wasn’t like her to let something so ripe for ridicule slide by without a jab or two.

  Slowly, quietly, gently, Alicia turned the sparkly knob and cracked the door just enough to peek inside. Even though there were paper scraps and art supplies strewn all over the red velvet rug, the room was spectacular. The mirrored desks glistened ten times more in person than they did on TV. And the white fluffy walls gave the illusion of being inside a real jewelry box. Imagine feeling like a diamond every single day! GPAs would shoot right up because self-esteem would be so high. Gawd! It was brilliant! Massie was brilliant. And soon Alicia would be part of it.

  Massie was at her desk in the back of the room, dressed all in white, with her head down. It was the International Alpha’s Sign of Surrender (IASS). And it was tragic.

  Kristen, Dylan, and Claire stood above their fallen leader exchanging helpless glances while stroking her back. It brought a tear to Alicia’s brown eyes. Yes, Massie had kicked her out of the NPC. But she had deserved it. She’d made a pact and then refused to honor it. She’d betrayed them. And it was time she faced them head-on and—

  Massie lifted her head and sniffed the vanilla-scented air. “Do you smell that?”

  The girls sniffed too, then shook their heads up and down.

  “What is it?” Dylan asked.

  “Angel perfume.”

  Alicia’s heart dropped to her tanned knees.

  “And it’s coming from the door.” Massie stood slowly, like someone sneaking up on a pesky fly. “And the only person I know who wears Angel is … the devil.”

  Alicia gasped. She slammed the door, jumped down the steps, and raced for cover behind a thin tree on the outskirts of the parking lot. She flattened herself against the back and sucked in her abs. Massie poked her head out and searched the grounds. After about three minutes, she finally gave up. Alicia exhaled.

  It was time to come up with a better plan. Something that would prove how sorry she was. If she couldn’t, Alicia feared she’d be spending the rest of the eighth grade with girls who thought navy bat mitzvah suits made good television.

  And that was not an option.

  BOCD

  MAIN BUILDING

  Friday, September 18th

  7:18 P.M.

  BOCD’s halls were packed with Westchester’s finest. They strolled past open lockers, their well-preserved fingers pinching the stems of crystal wineglasses, whisper-commenting on the Pimp My Locker exhibit like seasoned art collectors contemplating their next big investment.

  Hot white lights topped the news crew’s roving cameras, heating the mix of fruity fall perfumes and Elmer’s glue into a nauseating blend that made Alicia’s stomach churn. Or was that nerves? Either way, the combination of sweet and toxic was a poetic way of describing this impromptu contest, which was bound to end much better for some than for others.

  Alicia stepped up to the podium outside the New Green Café, grabbed the mic, and addressed the crowd. The long black lens of the camera hovered four feet from her bronzed face.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, can I have your attention please?” Her delivery was part Miss Teen USA, part journalist, just like her new navy minidress with the white lace-up rope ties. “We will be closing the ballot boxes in five minutes, so please have one last look around and then join us in our New Green Café for dessert and coffee, courtesy of Magnolia Bakery, and for the results of tonight’s cutthroat competition. See you there. I heart you.”

  The camera swung around to capture the sudden swirl of chaos, which reminded Alicia of the sixth-grade field trip her class had taken to the New York Stock Exchange.

  “Great job,” Winkie mouthed.

  “Thanks,” Alicia said with a humble bat of her thick black eyelashes. She knew she was a natural on camera and that she had a knack for memorizing her lines at the last minute. Reporting had always come naturally to her. It was like gossiping, without the whole annoying don’t-get-caught part. But still, every time she glanced down the hall and saw her ex-friends huddled around a fleet of decorated suitcases, she felt like puking.

  It came from the NPC side-eyeing her. From their matching bracelets. From the fun memories they shared and a future they no longer wanted her to be part of.

  While Winkie and her crew were discussing their next shot, Alicia slipped away and started making her way down the crowded hall. There was no question Massie had a plan to win her trailers back, and when she did, Alicia wanted to be right there with her.

  “Alicia?” Winkie’s smooth, breezy voice rose above the desperate plea for votes. “Wait up.”

  Gawd! Did they nawt realize she was in this contest too? And that her entire social life would be determined by its results? Results that she would be forced to read minutes from now? But the nightly news was her future too. And last time she checked it was the only future that seemed to want her. So she waited.

  “We hear there’s going to be a protest on Suitcase Row,” Winkie blurted, gripping Alicia’s arm and dragging her toward the NPC’s long foldout table by the bathrooms. “Let’s move!”

  “Slow down,” Alicia begged. The only thing worse than running toward her enemy was running. And she was being forced into both.

  “Winkie, over here, I got something!” called her cameraman, who was grapevining down the row of lockers, capturing a sweeping shot of the competition.

  “This better be good,” sighed the reporter, doubling back. “What is it?”

  Alicia stopped to smooth her already smooth hair.

  “These guys refuse to enter,” he said with a snicker. “I think we should show the other side.”

  “Hmmm.” Winkie popped out her shiny red lip wand and glossed up. “I like where you’re going with this.” She pushed back the cuffs on her poofy black blouse and tossed Alicia the mic. “Coming to you in three … two … and …” She wagged her finger.

  Alicia turned her back on the NPC and began. “Not everyone is psyched about this contest.” She motioned for the boys to stand up and join her. “Like the soccer stars of the Tomahawks.”

  Winkie nudged Derrington in front of the lens. Kemp, Plovert, and Josh squeezed in beside him and waved stiffly. They looked like a special-ed class photo.

  “So tell us, why aren’t you trying to win? Is it the fear of losing that’s holding you back?” Alicia asked, trying to ignore Winkie’s off-camera thumbs-up.

  “No, it’s our fear of winning!” Derrington trumpeted. The guys cracked up. “We don’t want to be seen in those girly boxes.”

  “And why not?” Alicia held the mic in front of Josh’s naturally red
lips, knowing he’d give her a serious, newsworthy answer.

  “It’s not exactly good for the team’s image, you know?” He smiled in a way that was meant just for her.

  Alicia looked down, refusing to blush on the air. “Does the whole team feel this way?” she asked Kemp.

  He pointed at Cam, who was crouched in front of his locker. “He doesn’t.”

  The boys cracked up.

  Cam whipped a pink plastic baby rattle into their circle, then continued decorating his locker with family photos.

  “And why are you interested in the girly boxes?” Alicia air-quoted Derrington’s term.

  Cam looked down at his worn black Chucks, then lifted his blue eye and green eye, opened his mouth, but said nothing. The leather jacket, worn Diesels, and blue Killers tee gave him an air of coolness that his hangdog expression instantly negated.

  Olivia stepped forward. She was wearing a black knit cap, skinny jeans, and a loose black sweater-jacket. Baby Kate had on a black knit bikini top (made from leftover scraps of Olivia’s cap?) and a real diaper that had been decoratively covered in pink glitter and dangling threads of multicolored yarn. “Cam wants to win so our cute little family can stay together.” She pressed Kate’s nose right up to the camera’s lens.

  “Ew, is that poo?” Alicia fanned her nose.

  Olivia sniffed Kate’s butt. “Gawd, what’s with her? I made this cute diaper after lunch, and she promised to keep it clean until the judging was over!”

  “She actually promised?” Cam snickered.

  “Yes! In her own way.” Olivia stormed off.

  “Where are you going?”

  “How ’bout we check in on that protest down the hall,” Winkie jumped in. “I hear things are really heating up.”

  “Sounds great.” Alicia fake-smiled as they hurried toward the NPC. Her palms moistened and her mouth dried as they approached Suitcase Row.

  “Start rolling,” Winkie whisper-insisted when she saw Layne, Meena, and Heather fighting for Indian rights. Dressed in feather-filled headdresses, moccasins, and Pocahontas braids, they were rain dancing in a circle around a fake fire made of orange and red tissue paper. Their protest signs poked the heavens as they chanted, “Indie in! Mainstream out!”