Bratfest at Tiffany's

by Lisi Harrison

  The rest of the NLBRs had decided to get the message across by handcuffing themselves to their Louis Vuittons. Their suitcases, covered in Tiffany’s robin’s egg blue wrapping paper, displayed their personal “before” and “after” pictures, while a sign tacked to the wall behind them pleaded, STOP THE MAKEOVER TAKEOVER!

  To their left, Massie and the NPC sat quietly behind a rectangular wood table. Their long faces revealed little other than, “We’re bored, weak, and over it.” It was their standard supermodel stare. Alicia knew it, used it, and loved it. Only tonight something was missing. The gleam in their eyes? Their devilish grins? The sense that there was a five-star after-party raging in their heads “and you aren’t invited”?

  Her ex-friends didn’t gloss for the camera. Or show off their suitcases. They simply looked bored, weak, and over it for real. Like subway riders.

  “Indie in! Mainstream out!”

  “Stop the Makeover Takeover!”

  “Indie in! Mainstream out!”

  “As you can see,” Winkie addressed the camera, “not everyone is happy with this sudden turn of events.”

  “Stop the Makeover Takeover!”

  “Indie in! Mainstream out!”

  “Stop the Makeover Takeover!”

  Alicia felt like she was on location for CNN, documenting hostiles in a refugee camp. Some of its downtrodden victims still had the will to speak out against their oppressors, while others were simply too numb to fight. It had never occurred to Alicia that Massie Block and the NPC would fall in the “too numb to fight” category.

  Normally, the alpha lived for power struggles. Thrived on conflict. Refused to lose. This new roll-over-and-die attitude was hard to witness. It was more unexpected than Paris Hilton serving time in jail. Or McDonald’s offering fourteen varieties of salad. And Alicia couldn’t help wondering if her betrayal had something to do with it.

  “Hey, Winkie,” she said loud enough for the NPC to hear. “Let me interview these girls. They’re the ones responsible for the incredible trailer makeover.”

  “Go for it.” Winkie handed off the mic.

  Alicia stepped over to the long table and smiled nervously at her old friends. As expected, they refused to make eye contact. They simply stared over the heads of the distant crowd, letting their open suitcases do the talking for them.

  Each case had a round, drugstore-quality mirror propped up inside. The instant Alicia peeked at her reflection, a recorded voice popped on that said, “Hey, loser! Get your own trailer!”

  Alicia jumped back in shock.

  The NPC snickered. Their mocking laughter twisted Alicia’s insides like a French braid. But she knew she deserved it, and forced herself to stay strong.

  “Indie in! Mainstream out!”

  “Stop the Makeover Takeover!”

  “Indie in! Mainstream out!”

  She looked into the camera.

  “Meet Massie Block, Dylan Marvil, Kristen Gregory, and Claire Lyons, the ah-mazing girls who created the ah-dorable Tiffany trailers that everyone is competing for here tonight. Tell us, how did you come up with such a cute idea?” Alicia turned to face the NPC.

  But … they were gone.

  She could hear their faint giggles rising up from under the table.

  “Uh,” Alicia stammered, “seems like they want the art to speak for itself.” Suddenly all four suitcases bleated, “Hey, loser!” over and over and over.

  The words were rocks, and she was standing in the town square getting pelted and publicly shamed. Tears pinched the backs of her eyes. And her tongue felt swollen. “Uh …”

  “Indie in! Mainstream out!”

  “Stop the Makeover Takeover!”

  “Indie in! Mainstream out!”

  “Cut!” called Winkie, sensing Alicia’s dismay.

  The light above the camera dimmed.

  “Sorry.”

  “Take a minute.” Winkie smiled kindly. “We’ll go set up in the New Green Café and meet you there in three. It’s almost time to announce the winners.”

  “’Kay, thanks,” Alicia mumbled, avoiding her mentor’s understanding brown eyes.

  But now what? She stood frozen in front of the NPC’s table, surrounded by protesting wannabe-Indians and shackled NLBRs, unsure of what to do next. All she knew was that she had to do something spectacular if she wanted her friends back. But what?

  “High-five!” Dempsey lifted his handcuffed hand and hurried over to the table, dragging his Louis like a ball and chain. “That was awesome!”

  The NPC lifted themselves out from under the table, giggling triumphantly. Massie raced to meet Dempsey’s palm but missed. They cracked up and tried again.

  “Sorry, I can’t high-five with my left hand.” Dempsey blushed sweetly.

  “Use your right.” Massie blushed back, her palm drawn and ready.

  OMG! Were they flirting?

  Dempsey raised his arm. Suitcase swinging, his hand finally met hers with a bold slap. They cracked up all over again.

  What about the boyfast? Was this legal? Was this FAIR?

  “Gawd, I’m sorry, okay?” Alicia blurted. “I want to be friends again. What do you want me to do? Just tell me and I’ll do it!”

  “Indie in! Mainstream out!”

  “Stop the Makeover Takeover!”

  “Indie in! Mainstream out!”

  The girls stared back at her, grinning, ah-bviously getting pleasure from her trembling voice and shaking hands. But Alicia refused to move. Refused to dry the tear snaking down her cheek. Maybe if Massie knew how upset she was, they’d take pity on her and—

  Suddenly, something landed on her head.

  She whipped around and came face-to-face with Josh.

  “Someone found it in the bushes outside,” he muttered, his thick dark brows knit with suspicion.

  “Really?” Alicia removed the pink New York Yankees cap and adjusted her hair. “Um, it must have blown off on the way in here,” she lied. But come awn! Did he seriously expect her to wear that thing on camera? In front of the NPC? On a Friday night?

  Alicia bit her bottom lip and side-glanced at Massie. In the old days, they would have cracked up if she got busted for a hat ditch. But these days no one was laughing. And Alicia was starting to wonder if this was truly a lost cause.

  “Hey, Hotz,” Derrington called from the middle of the crowded hall.

  “Yeah,” Josh answered, his sweet brown eyes still on Alicia.

  “Get back here before they make you over!” he shouted, and then butt-wiggled.

  Josh chuckled like a guy who just couldn’t help himself.

  “Hurry,” called Kemp, “or they’ll give you highlights.”

  “And paint you light blue!” Plovert yelled.

  Josh side-smiled unwittingly. “I better go.”

  With a single nod, Alicia granted him permission to leave.

  “Wanna know what you can do?”

  It took Alicia a second to realize Massie was speaking to her.

  “What?” Alicia faced her ex-BFF with renewed hope. “Tell me! I’ll do anything.”

  The NPC stepped closer, obviously equally anxious to know where Massie was going with this.

  “Indie in! Mainstream out!”

  “Stop the Makeover Takeover!”

  “Indie in! Mainstream out!”

  “Get rid of the boys.”

  “Huh?” Alicia cocked her head, not sure if she heard right.

  The lights in the hall flashed off and on, the way they do on Broadway when the show is about to start. Everyone began making their way into the New Green Café. It was time to announce the winner.

  “Get rid of them.” Massie snapped her suitcase shut.

  “What do you mean get rid of them?” Alicia asked, glancing at her watch. “How am I supposed to—”

  “Your problem.” Massie clapped her hands twice. The NLBRs formed a single line behind her, their Vuittons dragging across the floor like limbless dogs. “Ever since they got here, nuh-th
ing has been the same. And I want it to be the same.”

  “Me too, but—”

  “Then make it happen.” Massie whip-turned and stormed down the hall.

  Alicia opened her mouth, then quickly closed it. It was time to push her words aside and give her actions a chance to speak.

  BOCD

  MAIN BUILDING

  Friday, September 18th

  7:33 P.M.

  The current of bodies pushing and shoving their way into the New Green Café swept Claire along, creating an ever-widening gap between her and the NPC. Or was she subconsciously willing the separation? Searching for a chance to break away from the negativity that had clogged the pores of her social circle and infected them like nasty blackheads?

  Being treated like worthless pawns by the school, the parents, and the kids in Main Building had been humiliating. Frustrating. And insulting. But watching Massie Block fall into a deep depression over it had been unbearable. She was their rock. Their leader. The one who always pushed them to keep going. Without her passion they were lost orphans who—

  A sudden cyclone of lavender, citrus, spicy berries, and sandalwood swirled around Claire, derailing her train of thought.

  She couldn’t move.

  Couldn’t swallow.

  Couldn’t breathe.

  The cyclone grabbed hold of her chest and squeezed. It itched the backs of her kneecaps and sent a burst of prickly sweat to her armpits. Cam Fisher was near.

  But where? To her left? Her right? Behind her? She didn’t know which way to run. Or if she even wanted to.

  “Hey,” he mumbled shyly.

  He was beside her on the right, the sleeve of his leather jacket rubbing against the side of her Gap denim sundress. Did he realize they were kind of touching? Did he care?

  “Hey,” Claire managed, accidentally making direct contact with his blue eye and green eye. Their magnetic grip held her like it always had, only this time she felt trapped, not admired. Like she had been busted for trespassing on private property. Property that belonged to an Ashlee Simpson wannabe who was smart enough not to spy on him and accuse him of liking another girl.

  Every day she convinced herself that she was better off without him. Because if he could like a girl like Olivia, he didn’t deserve her anyway. Besides, his hair needed a trim. His friends were immature. His one blue eye and one green eye were distracting. His Drakkar Noir was bad for the environment. And his leather jacket smelled like sushi.

  But at this very moment, as the crowd squeezed by, it didn’t matter what Claire told herself. None of it was true. The truth was in the invisible waves passing between them. And those waves said, “I miss you.”

  The tears came. Fast and hot.

  Without a single word, Claire turned and fought her way through the crowd. She ran down the halls and didn’t stop until she was completely alone.

  Barely aware of the cold metal against her back, she slid down a wall of lockers and surrendered to her erupting emotions. Snot-filled sobs heaved out of her. Her vision blurred and her temples throbbed as she cried for herself and Cam and Alicia and Josh and Massie and Derrington and the NLBRs and Layne and the trailers and the bomb shelter and the at-one-time-fabulous Pretty Committee. All the things the eighth grade was supposed to be. And all the things it wasn’t.

  Once all salt had been drained from her heaving body, Claire felt limp.

  She dried her eyes on the hem of her dress. But the crying didn’t stop. Loud, muffled shrieks echoed through the empty halls. Claire pushed herself up to stand.

  Her rubber-soled red Keds squeaked and echoed as she raced down the empty halls. The crying got louder. More desperate. Claire sped up, forgetting her own sadness, and followed high-pitched shrieks straight to locker fourteen.

  She lifted the metal latch without hesitation and threw open the steely gray metal door. Inside, tangled under a fallen duckie ’n’ bunny mobile was baby Kate, covered in doll-poo and glitter.

  “Oh noooo, what happened?” Claire cooed. “It’s okay. You’re gonna be okay,” she sang as she tossed the mobile over her shoulder and gently laid Kate down.

  The instant Claire ripped off the heavy diaper, the weeping stopped. “I understand how you feel, Kate.” She tore strips of pink cashmere off the locker walls and wiped the baby’s plastic butt clean. “Better?”

  The plastic baby gurgled.

  Claire used the remaining cashmere scraps and a stapler to make a cute new diaper. “I know what it’s like when someone you love tosses you aside.”

  Kate gurgled again.

  “It’s true, I do. But from now on I’m going to walk away from the people who make me sad. For real this time. And when you’re old enough, you can too. You can even come and live with me if you want. Because I dunno if your parents told you this, but I’m your stepmom and—”

  The smell was back. And not the poo smell.

  Claire leaned forward and sniffed Kate’s hair. Did Cam’s Drakkar Noir cling to the doll like it clung to her?

  “I’ll take her.” His voice was caring and kind.

  Claire turned around.

  And there was Cam. His eyes filled with warmth. His naturally red lips curled into a gentle smile. His leather jacket unzipped. His heart on his sleeve.

  Operation Jealousy must have worked. Cam had seen her on TV flirting with Dempsey and wanted her back. But now that he was standing there, Claire decided she didn’t want him back. At least not like this. If he was going to return, it would have to be because he loved her, not because he thought someone else did. Because getting back together with Cam would mean getting tossed from the New Pretty Committee, and she would only consider doing that for the real thing.

  “Here you go.” Claire handed him the baby. “I heard her crying, so I checked in on her.”

  He smiled. Not in a polite, thank-you-very-much-for-helping way. More like he used to. Like he couldn’t help it. “I heard what you said to Kate.”

  Claire felt her cheeks burn.

  “It was nice.” Cam adjusted the pink cashmere diaper. “She needs someone like you in her life.”

  Kate cooed happily.

  Hot tears rushed to Claire’s bloodshot eyes.

  “So do I.” Cam continued.

  But Claire, determined to set a good example for her stepdaughter, forced her legs to turn and walk away.

  BOCD

  THE NEW GREEN CAFÉ

  Friday, September 18th

  8:02 P.M.

  Alicia was used to people staring at her. But this was different.

  Tonight, the BOCD kids and their meddling parents had little interest in her beauty, her wardrobe, or her C-cups. All they wanted were the results of the Pimp My Locker contest. And she had them. Sealed in the red vellum envelope clutched in her shaking hand.

  It wasn’t a fear of public speaking that made her nervous. Puh-lease! A cafeteria filled with locals picking at complimentary cupcakes and blowing on lattes was hardly nerve-racking.

  Trying to win back Massie Block was.

  Alicia leaned into the mic on the podium at the front of the Café and swallowed twice. It did nothing. Her throat was an emery board, dry and scratchy. “And now, the moment you’ve all been waiting for,” she said with measured enthusiasm. A chorus of creaks and squeaks erupted as everyone shifted in their bamboo chairs.

  “The new school jewels, who will spend the rest of the year in those wonderful Tiffany’s boxes, designed by Massie Block, Kristen Gregory, Dylan Ma—”

  “Just tell us who won!” shouted a mom wearing a black Hermès head scarf and gold oversized square-framed Dior sunglasses.

  While the other parents laughed, Alicia peeked at the NPC. They were holding court in the back of the room at table eighteen. As usual, Massie was at the head, with a view of the entire room. Her nose slightly upturned, arms folded across her white sequined tunic, she exuded pure alpha.

  From that distance, it was hard to know for sure if Massie knew Alicia was looking at her. And th
en her spine ignited like a wick on dynamite. Massie knew. They were still connected.

  Alicia sent a telepathic IM back to table eighteen that said, Pay attention. This one’s for you! Then, with renewed purpose, she ripped open the envelope and scanned the winning names. Surprisingly, the NPC and the NLBRs were on the list, along with a few new names she had never heard. People must have voted with their consciences after all. But returning Massie to the place she’d started from would hardly be enough. The alpha wanted more. She wanted her school back. She wanted her dignity. She wanted revenge!

  “And the Tiffany’s boxes go to Derrick Harrington, Josh Hotz, Chris Plovert, Kemp Hurley, Cam Fisher, Dempsey Solomon …”

  “What?” Principal Burns squawked. “Impossible!”

  Alicia trembled, avoided her beady stare, and kept reading the rest of the NLBRs’ names.

  Gasps, screams, fist poundings, and demands for a recount rose above the jubilation expressed by the victorious NLBRs and their parents.

  When she reached the bottom of the list, a lavender flash of light caught her eye. Was she being marked by a sniper? Going blind for lying? Waking from a coma?

  The beam was now on her hand. Her wood platform sandal. Her … She lifted her head and saw Massie, standing off to the side by the frosted glass doors. She was tilting the purple Swarovski crystal–covered crown on her charm bracelet, scooping up the light and reflecting it back to Alicia.

  “What?” Alicia giggle-mouthed, then quickly read off another name.

  Massie held up her forearm. DEMP IN MB was written in smeared mascara.

  Alicia nodded once. And Massie hurried back to eighteen.

  “So congratulations to everyone, especially Dempsey, uh, Rosen. You got a lot of votes.” Alicia smiled sweetly. “What?” she asked a fake person in the crowd. “Say that again. I can’t hear you.” She paused, counted to three, put her hand on her heart, and conjured up a look of great shock. “Oh, I am so sorry. I always get Dempsey Solomon and Dempsey Rosen mixed up. Just to clarify, Dempsey Solomon is in the main building, and Dempsey Rosen will be in the trailers.”

  Massie was smiling. Alicia could feel it. The ex-crushes and the NLBRs would be spending the next year together stuffed in two metal Tiffany’s boxes. Victory!