Bratfest at Tiffany's (19 page)

Dylan stepped forward. Massie scanned her, but it was mostly for show, since they’d had extensive wardrobe meetings the night before. “The electric blue halter looks great with your red curls. Love the super-faded jeans. Next.”

Kristen stepped forward. “Love the yellow hooded Capri jumpsuit. Very bold and sporty. Totally you. Next!”

“Kuh-laire, my denim Citizens minidress looks great on you. Don’t scuff the orange MJ flats. I just got them. Next!”

“Monkey Paws, what did I say about wearing apelike clothing? Take off that brown angora cardigan and go white tank only. Nice job on the shaved legs, though. Next!”

“Great White, a touch more lip liner and you’re good. The green miniskirt is doing wonders for your calves. Great improvement. Next!”

“Braille Bait, ehmagawd! Never, ever tuck in a flowy top, especially an empire cut. Next!”

Massie tingled with pride as Dempsey cleaned up the boys. Side by side, they prepared Team Overflow for their first post-newscast entrance. They shared a passion and skill for makeovers that was unmatched. And it made Massie want to stand closer to him … strictly on a professional level, of course.

“Blond Lincoln, unzip your hoodie. All that green makes you look edamame-ish. Next!”

“Bag Hag, your short hair is cute but flat. Mess it up a little. You look like a Fisher-Price doll. Next!”

“Big Mac, a little more gloss wouldn’t hurt. Those matte lipsticks robbed you of all your moisture. One smile and your face will shatter. Stay lubricated.”

Massie sighed with relief. Her team was ready. She was ready.

“Done?” Dempsey asked.

“Done and done.”

“Can we
please
go in now?” whined Candy Corn.

“Yes,” Massie assured him. “It’s time.”

The NLBRs mashed up against the double oak doors.

“One more thing.” Massie grabbed the handles. “We’re walking to Ciara’s ‘Like a Boy.’ It starts with ‘
Ladies, I think it’s time to switch roles
.’ Ready? A-five, a-six, a-five, six, se-vuhn, eigh—”

“What’s that?” blurted Great White.

The NLBRs nodded, sharing her confusion.

Massie exchanged an eye-roll with the NPC.

“Okay, how about, ummmmm, okay, Gwen Stefani’s ‘Hollaback Girl’?”

“Is that a song?” asked Powder.

“Isn’t the Hollaback a type of whale?” Twizzler screeched.

“You seriously don’t know that song?” Dempsey ran a tanned hand through his silky blond hair. “Even the tribesmen I visited knew it.”

“Does everyone know ‘Happy Birthday’?”

They nodded yes.

“Great. We’ll go with that. Now remember, don’t look excited. Don’t fuss with your hair. And Sell. The. Dream. Here we go. A-five, a-six, a-five, six, se-vuhn, eight.” Massie threw open the doors. Before they took their first steps, hundreds of heads whipped around. Envy-filled whispers hissed to the top of the domed stained-glass ceiling like steam from a whistling teakettle.

Happy birthday to you

Happy birthday to you …

Focusing on the purple-and-yellow BOCD PRIDE banner that hung across the stage, Massie avoided eye contact with the gawkers, whose stares warmed her skin like a familiar cashmere blanket.

“Please take your seats.” Principal Burns exhaled sharply into the mic.

The overflowers quickly grabbed an empty row in the back. Massie would have preferred something more central but thought it best to sit with her protégés. She was about to slide in next to Dempsey, but Claire pushed past her and stole her seat.

“What are you
doing
?” Massie whisper-snapped, yanking Claire’s blond fuzz-covered arm.

“Nothing.” Claire’s cheeks reddened. “I thought you said you didn’t like him.”

“I don’t,” she mouthed. “Why? Do
you
?”

“No!” Massie barked as loud as someone can when an auditorium full of people are waiting for you to sit. She squatted above an armrest. “How about we both don’t sit next to him?” she challenged.

“Huh?” Claire quickly sat. “Sorry, what did you say?”

“Ehmagawd, you did nawt just—”

Another gale of nose wind blew through the speakers. Massie sat beside Claire and boiled.

“As I was saying,” squawked the gray-bobbed principal, “it has been brought to my attention by several
concerned
parents …” She rolled her beady black eyes. “… that the overflow trailers are unfair.”

Massie looked down the row and flashed a thumbs-up to her people. Her plan was working. Everyone was jealous. They had major “it.”

“So we’re going to give some other students a chance to experience our fun new facility.”

Cheers and applause filled the auditorium.

“She’s joking, right?” Massie’s heart, temples, and head panic-thumped. The NLBRs and the NPC looked to her for some kind of explanation. But she was just as shocked as they were. And had nothing encouraging to say. She lowered her eyes in confusion and shame.

“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.