Bratfest at Tiffany's (4 page)
“We’re getting close,” Massie reported. “I say we enter right after the new dean introduces himself.” Her amber eyes darted back and forth while she continued to eavesdrop. Suddenly she covered her glossy mouth to keep from laughing out loud. “I think she just said his name is Dean Don.”
Everyone palm-snickered except Claire. How could she, when Cam Fisher, the beyond-cute boy who’d broken her heart, was on the other side of the bio-friendly walls?
All summer long, Claire had wondered if Cam found a new girlfriend at camp. Wondered if he missed her, even a little bit. Wondered if he’d try to get her back once he saw how tanned she was. And today, finally, all of her questions would be answered. Not that it mattered anymore, since she’d just stupidly agreed to a boyfast.
“Okay, he’s at the mic.” Massie turned to her girls. “Quickly. Everyone check the person to your left. Look for latte stains, smeared mascara, flyaway hairs, loose threads—anything that might say LBR.”
Everyone turned left and speed-inspected their partner. Claire searched Alicia for signs of imperfection and came up with only one: impossibly pretty.
Massie searched Claire.
“Wipe those sweaty palms. Re-gloss. Pull the hair out from behind your ears. Roll back your shoulders. And for the love of Gawd, Kuh-laire, smile. We’re about to make an entrance, nawt a condolence call.”
Exhaling, Claire did what she was told, which wasn’t easy, since her heart felt all twisted and tangled.
“Okay, the song we’re walking to is ‘Here I Come,’ by Fergie,” announced Massie.
“What part?” Asked Dylan.
“‘Get ready ’cause here I come. Get ready ’cause here I come. …’”
Everyone nodded once.
“Good. I’ll count you in.” Massie gripped the handle. “Start silent-singing on six. I’ll open the door on seven. We walk to the beat on eight. ’Kay?”
They nodded again.
Claire fought a rush of dizziness with a long deep breath. Fainting in the middle of the New Green Café while the New Pretty Committee was making its entrance would be worse than awful.
“Here we go,” Massie mouthed. “A-five, a-six, a-five, six, se-vuhn, eight.”
They were
in
. Claire silently sang the lyrics while her feet stepped in time with the other girls’.
A thick mass of hot air enveloped her like a wool turtleneck in a heat wave. The New Green Café was at least ten degrees warmer than it had been when she’d snuck in to post the
RESERVED
sign.
Invisible clouds of floral perfumes, fruity hairsprays, powdery deodorants, and spicy colognes now eclipsed the earthy smell of fresh vegetables. And pressing down on that was a thick layer of hostility.
Every eyeball in the room suddenly glared at the Pretty Committee with
who-do-they-think-they-are?
resentment. Not one girl turned to her friends to envy-gush over their outfits! Not one boy slapped his buddy’s arm because five super-hot girls were slinking by! The only sound in the room came from five NPC charm bracelets that clinked and clanged in time with their swinging arms.
Suddenly, Claire didn’t feel like one of the cool kids who came late to the party because she had better things to do. She felt like an LBR who had been given the wrong address on purpose. Their magic had faded, which was exactly what Massie had said about her seventh-grade boots and handbags before donating them to the Briarwood fund-raiser auction.
Embarrassed and full of regret, Claire lost her place in the song. Suddenly, her left foot was going forward while everyone else’s was going back.
If the other girls were panicking, they showed no signs. Their gazes were fixed on table eighteen like runway models staring off into some distant paradise that only beautiful people had the ability to see.
But not Claire. She
had
to look. Had to scan the overcrowded bamboo tables to see if Cam was there. Watching her. With his one blue eye and his one green one. Oozing Drakkar Noir. And wondering why on earth she’d agreed to this embarrassing late-entrance thing.
Layne Abeley, however, captured her attention first. She was seated at the head of number three, the only all-girl table in the entire New Green Café. Locationwise it was a dud: right next to the swinging steel kitchen doors, in the heart of the LBR section. Not that Layne seemed to care. She was waving her arms, crossing her narrow green eyes, and wiggling her brows, happily trying to get Claire’s attention. Her mousy brown hair was knotted into two poofy buns, one above each ear, like Mickey Mouse. An assortment of pink and purple Hello Kitty pens jutted out from the left bun and three Chococat pencils from the right.
“Hey,” giggle-mouthed Claire as she passed her only friend outside the NPC.
“Hey,” Layne mouthed back with that warm, familiar smile that never failed to cheer Claire up. Even in times like these.
Just then, Principal Burns sighed impatiently into the microphone. It sounded like Darth Vader with bad cell reception and was enough to make the NPC pick up their pace.
They quickly took their seats around their locally hand-crafted table and studied its scuff-free mustard-colored surface. Each girl searched for her marking. Splatters from Massie’s Purple Envy nail polish, hardened chunks of Dylan’s chewed watermelon Bubblicious, Kristen’s and David Beckham’s initials written in orange Sharpie, the
NO LBRS
sticker Alicia had custom-ordered off the Internet, and Claire’s fingerprints, added the day she was officially accepted into the Pretty Committee—all had vanished. Their memories stolen, destined to fade with their tans. Everything familiar was gone.
Principal Burns tucked the side of her chin-length wiry gray bob behind her ear, then fixed her black beady crow eyes on the NPC. The girls fidgeted with their purses and hems and hairstyles, until finally she cleared her throat and began explaining how the bathrooms and locker rooms would be divided.
Claire’s rhinestone-covered Motorola vibrated, sending a rush of prickly heat from her heart straight to her feet. Was it Cam? Was he ready to forgive her for spying? But what if he was? Would talking to him violate the boyfast? She was too excited to think about such technicalities and lowered her phone under the table. Quickly, Claire thumb-flipped it open and checked her text messages.
Massie:
What’s wth evry 1? Not into us at all!?!?!
Alicia:
Prob jealous.
Kristen:
Doesn’t feel like it.
Alicia:
Point.
Dylan:
They r boy cra-z.
Massie:
Puh-thetic.
Massie:
NPC rules.
Alicia:
Point.
After several attempts to join in the conversation, Claire gave up. Her fingers had never been fast enough to keep up with them, and this exchange seemed to be moving at IM speeds. Instead, she read with one eye and scanned the New Café with the other. Determined to see through the crowd and spot …
Dylan:
OMG there they r.
Kristen:
??????
Claire knew right away who “they” were. And her racing heart and sweaty palms confirmed it.
Dylan:
The ex-ez. C Kemp Hurley? Majr summer-afro.
Alicia:
OMG check out his T. Sayz “you’ve got male.”
Kristen:
Plovert’s wearing the same 1.
Massie:
Tak-eeee.
Pretending to care deeply about the boys’ summer hair and perv shirts, Claire craned her neck to get a better look. They were sitting in the front, near Layne’s table.
Hundreds of heads obstructed her view, but she was able to spot the back of Derrington’s unmistakable shaggy dark blond hair. He kept turning to the side to whisper to some girl with long wavy blond hair. Claire strained to get a better look. The girl was sitting on some other boy’s lap, but she was leaning forward to hear what Derrington had to say. Suddenly, her bare, narrow shoulders shook with laughter. She lowered her head to hide her giggles, giving Claire a better view of the boy whose lap she was sitting on. He had golden brown hair that covered most of his ears and was wearing a brown leather jacket and—OMG!
Dylan:
Who’s on his lap?
Claire wanted nothing more than to ask the same thing. But her hands were too shaky to type, and her stomach was threatening to spray jealousy-barf all over their new bamboo table.
Cam had
replaced
her. And judging from the girl’s Hollywood hair, he’d traded up.
Massie:
Looks like Ash Simpson.
Another quake of j-barf.
Alicia:
Close. Olivia Ryan w/ an A.S. Nose job + x-tensions.
Kristen:
2nd nose job?
Alicia:
3rd.
Dylan:
OMG! Josh Hotz sitting btwn Strawberry & Kori!
Alicia’s cheeks turned bright red as she craned to verify her crush’s location. Her brown eyes darkened with I’m-gonna-scratch-their-lips-off rage. If Claire hadn’t known better, she’d have sworn Josh and Alicia were still hanging out. The possibility made her heart sting with envy. But then again, Alicia would never put her status in the NPC at risk by breaking the boyfast bond. Not even for a Josh Hartnett look-alike who loved Ralph Lauren and maid service.
Would she?
Alicia:
? Is JH doing with those LBRs?
Dylan:
Y r they allowed at the soccer table?
Massie:
Y do u care?
She lifted her charm bracelet and shook it as a reminder. But the texts kept flying.
Kristen:
S & K became BFF with Olivia at sum school. O’s older bro Andy has a sk8 ramp. The boys rode it all summer and K, S, and O would watch. So ah-nnoying. Stalker much?
Alicia:
Why didn’t u tell us?
Kristen:
NPC rules. Aren’t we over them?
Massie:
Yes! We! R!
Dylan:
OMG! Is Derrington wearing jeans?
Massie shot out of her eco-seat, then quickly caught herself and sat. She had spent most of her Derrington days praying he’d get over his shorts obsession and get some cute jeans. And now that they were over, he had. It was
totally
unfair.
It was obvious from the alpha’s flushed cheeks and hanging jaw that she was both hurt and angered by the sudden change—and probably wondering what, or
who
, inspired it. But she shrugged it off with an eye-roll and one final text.
Massie:
Whatevs! Boyfast or bust!
Done, done, and done.
There was nothing left to say. And everyone knew it.
They’d made a promise and had the bracelets to prove it. And that promise was a good thing. After all, one look at Cam with Olivia, and Claire’s stomach knotted up like an Auntie Anne’s pretzel. It was unhealthy.
Boys
were unhealthy. It was time to cleanse.
The rest of the NPC must have thought the same thing, because they dropped their phones in their bags and fake-listened to Principal Burns while she thanked BMW for donating five silver “reverse vending machines” to their New Green Café.
“… they will replace the smelly trash bins and give you a sleek place to deposit your empties.” She cackled over the mic. “Once the machine is full, it will crush your recyclables and a lovely young British woman’s voice, which I believe belongs to Keira Knightley, will announce how many UCBs the machine collected.”
Everyone cheered like they knew what UCBs were and why it was so important for a machine to collect them. Or was it the stacks of pancakes being hand-delivered to everyone’s tables by the teachers that excited them? Either way, Olivia Ryan’s
look-at-me-and-Cam
“whoooooo” was unmistakable.
It was hard for Claire to imagine the skinny airhead feeling passionate about UCBs or breakfast, so she snuck another peek at the soccer table.
Cam was chewing and laughing with what had to be a mouthful of pancake. Then, in what looked like a flirty revenge plot, he grabbed a palmful of organic whipped cream and smeared it all over Olivia’s glowing cheeks. Everyone seated at the soccer table cracked up and joined in. It wasn’t long before the entire school was looking on with envy as BOCD’s hottest boys marked their new love interests with the day’s farm-fresh selection.
A faint jingle woke Claire out of her trance. She turned to find Massie and the rest of the NPC waving their bracelets around her ears. The clanging charms served as a reminder (or was it a warning?) of their new pact. She smiled appreciatively.
“Thanks,” she managed, suddenly realizing it would take way more than platinum jewelry from Tiffany & Co. to help her get over the past. Way more.
Tuesday, September 8th
12:05
P.M.
“Oh five. Oh five. Oh five,” Alicia mumbled while entering the code that unlocked the heavy steel door of the radio booth at the LBR end of the hall. The combination was the birthday of Principal Burns’s fat orange tabby, Carrots—and a sworn secret, shared only with Alicia, the school’s trusted anchorwoman.
Shockingly, she had been able to keep the combo to herself for almost a year now, but only because it had to do with her dream of becoming a TV journalist. Otherwise she would have spread it across BOCD faster than the story of Pee-Pee Perri Dorfman and her soggy sleeping bag.
The door made a kissing noise when it clicked open, and Alicia hurried inside. She craved the booth’s soundproof walls and dim lights with the same intensity that she craved TSE’s cashmere cowl-necks in February. Both made her feel warm and protected from the outside world—a world that was constantly telling her how to act, who to hang out with, and what boots to wear. And now, when to boyfast.
Alicia searched her black Balenciaga motorcycle bag for her ice blue bottle of Angel perfume. After a few sprays, the stale airplane smell was gone and the booth felt like home again.
“Nice boots!” She heard a boy cough.
