Bratfest at Tiffany's (7 page)
“Hey, I know!” Olivia beamed. “Why don’t we call her Kate? After my tote.”
“Hmmmm.” Cam closed his green eye and his blue eye. “Kate, clean up your room. Kate, time for bed. Kate, turn off the video games,” he ordered with a playful smile, then opened his eyes. “Works for me.”
“Yippeeee!” Olivia offered her palm.
They high-fived again.
“Um, hey.” Claire stuffed her hands in the pockets of her khaki cargos to keep them from shaking.
The happy couple looked up as if she had woken them from a beautiful dream.
“Um, Gina told me to join your family and be the stepmom or something.”
“What?” Olivia swung her yellow bag back and forth like a wrecking ball, attempting to soothe the crying baby.
“I’m the stepmom.”
Claire side-peeked at Cam, who was watching the swaying bag in horror.
“Lemme try.” Claire reached for the baby and lifted her out of the canvas tote. “There you go. It’s okay. See? Everything is going to be fine,” Claire cooed, more to herself than the baby. Kate stopped crying.
“How’d you do that?” Olivia asked in a hushed tone.
Claire shrugged the way a modest person would. But on the inside she was dancing circles around Olivia chanting,
I’m a better mother than you. I’m a better mother than you. …
And then Kate threw up a cottage cheese-like substance all over Claire’s back-to-school blouse.
Cam and Olivia burst out laughing, finally giving Claire the perfect excuse to run to the bathroom and sob.
Tuesday, September 8th
3:50
P.M.
It didn’t matter one bit that Massie was older and wiser and in the eighth grade. The cold, dimly lit metal staircase that led down to BOCD’s boiler room freaked her out as much as it had in the seventh grade. And the smell of wet cardboard made her head throb. But, like a true alpha, she smiled through her pain.
“Hurry up,” she called to the NPC, who, fused together in a cluster that resembled a well-dressed granola chunk, took each step with extreme caution.
“What are you so ’fraid of?”
“Murderers,” Claire chattered.
“Ghosts,” Alicia whispered.
“BO.” Dylan fanned her sweat-drenched underarms.
“Burns.” Kristen pointed at the low black ceiling, reminding everyone that the principal’s office was directly above them.
“Puh-lease.” Massie waved away their concerns. “We snuck down here all the time last year.”
“It seems scarier today.” Alicia’s searched their dank surroundings, her dark brown eyes glistening with fear.
“So do your boots.” Dylan burst out laughing.
Everyone cracked up, even Alicia, who looked down at her exposed toes and giggled.
It was as if the Spain spell had finally worn off and she was back in fashion reality. Her return was a sign that filled Massie with hope. Maybe by tomorrow everything would be back to normal.
“How awesome will it be to have our own secret room on campus?” Massie tugged the rusty door marked
CAUTION! DO NOT ENTER
. “No boys, no LBRs, no teachers. Just us. Just the New Pretty Committee!” she shouted, knowing that the clanging and steaming cylinders would drown out their screams. “To the NPC!” Massie lifted her arm and shook her shiny bracelet.
“To the NPC!” they echoed back.
Propelled by renewed excitement, they fearlessly dashed toward the boiler room, clutched the wobbly thin black railing, and made their descent into the school’s bomb shelter. Correction:
their
bomb shelter. The one that had been handed down to them by Skye Hamilton, last year’s eighth-grade alpha. And the one that they would hand down to the next generation of exceptional girls when they graduated. That is, if there
were
any exceptional seventh-graders.
“We’re here,” Massie trilled, searching her Be & D silver-and-black bowler bag for the key. Everyone crowded around her, blocking her light. But it hardly mattered. She knew exactly where the keyhole was. She’d imagined this moment at least a billion times over the summer.
“Do you think those racks of designer clothes will still be here?” Kristen asked, bouncing in her red platform Havaianas. “And what about the Starbucks machine Skye left for us?”
“And all of her Hard Candy makeup?” Alicia finger-combed her thick black hair.
“Get me to that buttered-popcorn maker.” Dylan licked her lips.
Everyone glared at her with various expressions of mock doubt.
“What? It’s low-fat.”
“Um, buttered popcorn is to low-fat as Kristen’s shark-tooth necklace is to valuable,” chided Alicia.
“Is to Alicia’s boots are cool,” responded Kristen.
“Is to Claire is happy,” Dylan joked.
“Is to Dylan’s straight hair is natural,” Claire managed.
Everyone cracked up.
Massie stuck her key into the foreboding black door to the bomb shelter.
In no time they’d be pledging their allegiance to the
New
Pretty Committee and swapping decorating suggestions for their exclusive new lair. They’d spend hours gossiping. Days laughing hysterically over nicknames they’d create for the boys. And months concocting rumors about the LBRs. Carpenters would custom build closets to store their magazines, which they’d pore over every Monday. Outfits would be pre-ordered on Tuesdays. Accessory trades would be ongoing. Anything was possible now that the NPC had a place all their own. And nothing filled Massie with more of a joyful buzz than that. Not fat-free lattes, not Glossip Girl deliveries—not even the new-car smell of a Marc Jacobs bag.
Massie turned the key. The door clicked open.
“We’re in!” she announced.
The stale odor of sweat mixed with duct tape flooded their nostrils.
“Ew! What is that?” Alicia pinched her little ski-jump of a nose.
“Did we forget to clean out the coffee machine before the summer?” Kristen twirled one of her honey-blond braids. Massie kicked the floor switch and the lights popped on. “What hap-pened in here?” Kristen whimpered, while the rest of them stood at the doorway, jaws hanging open, breathing in mouthfuls of thick, sticky air.
A wall of slightly dented steely gray lockers had replaced the racks of designer clothing. The brass Starbucks machine was now a giant Poland Spring water dispenser. All of the Hard Candy makeup had been removed, and in its place was a stack of semi-crumpled sports magazines haphazardly jammed in the faux-wood IKEA shelves. Their pink fuzzy director’s chairs were now aluminum benches that faced a white board covered in X’s and O’s and arrows. And their beloved disco ball was covered with five yellowing jock-straps.
“What
is
this?” Dylan wrapped her long red hair around her neck like a noose.
Everyone’s eyes were on Massie, waiting for her to fix things. But for once, she had no idea how. This was too much to handle. Even for her.
Feeling faint, she wandered over to the benches just in case. Everyone shuffled lifelessly behind her.
“We should complain.” Dylan straddle-sat on the aluminum slab.
“To who?” Kristen plunked down beside her. “We’re not supposed to be in here, remember?”
“I bet my dad could find a way to sue.” Alicia stood, massaging Massie’s narrow shoulders.
Claire lingered at the white play board and traced her finger over one of the X’s. She sighed, hemorrhaging hope.
Unable to offer a decent solution, Massie felt like her powers had been stripped away. Like Dorothy without her ruby red slippers. Paris Hilton without the paparazzi. Jessica Simpson with dark hair. All she could think about was switching schools. But her friends needed her. And what kind of leader would she be if she bailed?
Gripping the purple Swarovski crystal-covered crown on her charm bracelet, Massie recharged her alpha battery. Seconds later, she was on her feet, ready to take charge.
“I’m guessing Skye came back for all her stuff.” Massie paced alongside the bench. “Which is fine with me. The clothes would be outdated by now anyway, and Starbucks is so seventh grade. I propose a Pinkberry fro-yo dispenser.”
“I heart that!” Alicia jumped up and air-clapped. “That store is in
US Weekly
more than Lindsay.”
“What about a hair salon station?” Dylan joined her. “We can get a big mirror and a chair with a foot pump. And Jakkob can stop by twice a week for blowouts and straightening sessions.”
“I want a Puma sneaker vending machine,” Kristen added.
“That takes gum wrappers instead of money,” Claire chimed in.
Massie quickly jotted everything down on her iPhone. “I’ll get Inez in here first thing tomorrow to disinfect.”
“Joyce will help,” offered Alicia. “It’s her day off on Wednesdays, so she’s available. She’d love it.”
“You think?” Kristen asked in disbelief.
“Given. Why else would she pick
cleaning
for her career? Because she
hates
it?”
“Sounds puuurrrrfect.” Massie beamed. “Brody from RL Home will be here with a notepad and a tape measure by lunchtime tomorrow.”
“Yayyyy,” they cheered.
Even Claire.
“Now, who’s ready to pledge?” Massie stepped up on the bench and held out her wrist, shaking the bracelet so it chimed.
Alicia and Claire stepped up beside her, while Dylan and Kristen took the opposite bench.
“Everyone please join wrists.” Massie held out her arms. Her best friends’ initials glistened, even in the darkest of times. “Now close your eyes. And repeat after me.”
“And repeat after me,” Dylan burped.
Everyone cracked up.
Once they stopped, Massie began the pledge-poem she had spent all of geography and half of Spanish memorizing.
“From this moment awn,” she began.
“From this moment awn,” they all repeated.
Massie smiled with satisfaction and recited the rest of the poem, the New Pretty Committee echoing each line after her.
I pledge the following to you
.
To rid my thoughts of boys
Done and done, they are through
.
I’ll focus on fashion
Study new trends in beauty
Strengthen my friendships
And tighten my booty
.
You won’t find me flirting
Or talking to guys
No texting, IMing
No batting my eyes
.
I’m above that now
Been there done that
Time for the LBRs
To have their turn at bat
Let them wear tight clothes
And watch boring soccer (no offense, Kristen!)
Let them laugh at fart jokes
Let them be the stalkers!
It’s BFF time
No boys, not ever
.
Because BFF has a new meaning
And that’s Boyfast Forever!
“You may open your eyes.,” Massie purred with post-yoga calmness.
Alicia hopped off the bench, and the girls released their wrist-grips.
“We’re nawt finished yet,” snapped Massie.
“Oops, sorry.” Alicia stepped up. “Go awn.”
Massie held out her arms again, only this time she kept her eyes wide open.
“Fail the fast and fail the group. Fail the group and lose the bracelet. Lose the bracelet and lose your membership to the NPC.”
“I am so ready for this!” Dylan air-clapped.
The others gasped.
“Does that mean we can’t even
talk
to a boy?” Alicia sounded more afraid than curious.
Claire bit her thumbnail. Kristen squeezed the shark tooth around her neck.
“Put it this way: Treat the boys like you would treat your brother. You can ask for help or favors or money, but no flirting, crushing, texting, or dressing to impress. Done?”
“Done!” Dylan bellowed.
She was the only one.
“
Done?
” Massie asked a second time.
“Done,” everyone replied.
“Good. Now, to start things off I figured we would—”
Massie was interrupted by the click of the door. They dropped each other’s wrists and jumped off the benches.
“You were right, Mass,” Kristen muttered. “We
are
done.”
Tuesday, September 8th
4:03
P.M.
A rush of boys dressed in burgundy shorts and green shirts hurried in. Massie stiffened.
The soccer team?!
Derrington in
her
bomb shelter was too much to process. Her palms flooded. Her pits prickled. And her personality was MIA. All she could do was stare at his muddy, grass-stained knees and hate herself for thinking the boy who’d dumped her at an eighth-grade party looked kinda cute.
“Look, it’s more girls.” Derrington ran a hand through his sweaty, dirty blond post–soccer practice hair. “Everywhere we go we have fans.” He turned around and wiggled his butt.
“Ehmagawd, I should have known!” Alicia fanned her cheeks and paced in a tight circle. “I made the announcement at lunch!”
What announcement?
Massie asked with crinkled brows.
“The Tomahawks soccer meeting will be held in room sub-C5 at four this afternoon,”
she air quoted. “I had no
idea
sub-C5 was—”
“We’re like Beckham.” Kemp Hurley high-fived the guys.
Massie twirled her purple hair streak tightly around her finger until the digit throbbed.
“So, what brings you here?” Derrington strutted over to the benches and glared at Massie. “Autographs?”
The guys snickered, forming a tight half-circle behind their star goalie.
“No.” Massie struggled to keep her shaking knees from knocking. “We’re not signing today. Sorry.”
She exchanged a triumphant round of high fives with the NPC.
“Then why are you here?” Derrington pressed. “To apologize for spying and beg for our forgiveness?”
The Tomahawks laughed and moved in closer. Cam was the only one who didn’t join them. Instead he camped out by the Poland Spring cooler, nervously filling, gulping, and refilling a tiny waxed-paper cup with water.
Massie dialed up her inner alpha and pleaded for something fabulous to say. But the call went straight to voice mail.
