Bratfest at Tiffany's (20 page)
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.
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!”
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—
