Bratfest at Tiffany's (9 page)

“This is awesome!” beamed Layne as she rocked back and forth excitedly in her new black MBT shoes. The revolutionary curved sole was said to improve posture and help burn calories, but knowing Layne, she’d bought them because they were ugly. “We’re like pioneers, starting a new society—”

“Puh-lease, we’re more like the tortured cast of
Kid Nation
,” Massie interrupted. “This can’t be right!” Her sparkly bangles clanged in protest. This was supposed to be her year to shine. To realize her full alpha potential. Not to get pushed aside by a group of egotistical boys and then sent to rot in a steel casket. This kind of thing happened to
other
people. Ugly people. Not her!

Just then, the gray sky started to mist, sending flecks of water that resembled beads of sweat onto the foreheads of all thirty-two overflow students (twenty-five girls, seven boys). But most of them didn’t seem to mind. They just stood there in a happy-go-lucky cluster facing their new classroom, graciously accepting the yellow-and-green Subway snack boxes that the incredibly short Mr. Hermann was handing out.

Dylan quickly pulled a sea-blue-and-yellow Hawaiian-print sarong from her quilted Chanel bag and wrapped it around her long straight red hair. “If this rain makes me curl, I’m suing.”

“I say we sue anyway,” Massie grumbled as she covered her head with an emerald green Swarovski crystal–covered army cap.

“Maybe we can get our tuition money back.” Kristen zipped her short-sleeved Roxy Hearts hoodie.

“At least it gets us away from the soccer boys,” Claire whispered.

Massie expected Alicia to raise her finger and say, “Point,” but then remembered she wasn’t there. Which was a whole other issue.

“So …” Ms. Dunkel rubbed her chalky hands together. “Why don’t we step inside and get started. Let’s have the seventh-graders in the Mobile Learning Vehicle to the left with Mr. Hermann, and the eighth-graders can follow me into the MLV on the right.”

Massie glanced behind her to make sure no one was hiding in the bushes, waiting to snap her picture and post it on some loser Web site called FreakyOverflowPeople.com or something. But who was she kidding? There were no lush bushes to hide in. The only thing surrounding them was a fleet of economy-class cars that weren’t worthy of the front lot. Oh, and a few dry brown weeds that even the rain refused to touch.

“Shall we?” Ms. Dunkel pivoted in her sensible fake-leather flats.

For the first time in her alpha life, Massie refused to lead. What was the rush? Instead she followed Claire, who teetered up the metal mesh steps in the wood platform Miu Miu sandals Massie had forced her to wear. But now that they were in trailers, Keds seemed more appropriate.

“Take a seat wherever you want,” Ms. Dunkel said, as if that were some big privilege.

The LBRs raced to claim the rickety wood desks at the front of the room, while Massie and the NPC dropped their designer bags on four seats in the back corner by the wall. It was crucial that they stay as far away from the windows as possible. Even though they were scratched and marred with dust, people could still see inside if they really tried.

Dylan swiveled around and rested her arm on Massie’s desk. “Smells like coffee breath in here.”

Kristen stretched her feet out toward Dylan’s desk and rested her green Puma slides in the loose metal book basket under her seat. “I bet it’s infested with mold.” She lifted her white sweatshirt over her nose. “And mold is the number-one cause of asthma.”

Claire bit into the organic chocolate fudge cookie that had come with their Subway lunches. “It’s so damp and chilly in here. We’re gonna freeze in the winter.”

Massie tossed her unopened snack box on Claire’s desk. “Puh-lease. Are we in a coma?”

“No, why?” Claire tugged the short sleeves on her blue-and-green striped American Eagle polo, as if that might actually warm her up.

“Then what makes you think we’re gonna take this lying down?”

The NPC cracked up.

“Attention back there.” Ms. Dunkel pushed her bifocals on top of her wiry cone head as if they were Dior.

The girls rolled their eyes, then faced forward.

“I’m sure you’ve noticed by now, there are no lockers in here. So for now, while Principal Burns and Dean Don are problem solving, I encourage you to store your books and other personal belongings in wheelie suitcases.”

Massie gasped. She loved her Louis, but
come awn!

“The good news is all of our classes will take place in here so you won’t have to drag them around all day.” She pressed her hands together in thanks and glanced toward the heavens.

“That’s
good
news?” Massie mumbled. “We’re like inmates.”

“Inmates,” burped Dylan.

The NPC cracked up.

Claire raised her hand.

“Yes, um—”

“Claire. Claire Lyons.”

“Yes, Claire.” Ms. Dunkel squeezed her eyes shut, sealing the word into her cone brain.

“Does this mean all of the classes we were taking before are over?”

“That’s right. I will be teaching you everything.”

“Even
Health
?”

“Everything.”

Claire sighed with relief.

“But fear not.” Ms. Dunkel wheeled a portable blackboard away from the window, centering it for all to see. “I am fully qualified. Feel free to log on to my Web site and check my credentials. It’s www …” She paused, then ran her fingers along the dusty wood slats below the board. “Hmmmm, no chalk. I’ll be right back.” She wiped her hands on her brown poly-blend skirt, leaving two white patches on the sides of her thighs.

“Poor Alicia,” Massie sighed once she heard Ms. Dunkel’s flats against the metal stairs—a delicate tap that some-how managed to shake the entire trailer. “She’s missing all the fun.” Pausing to see if anyone would take the bait, she spritzed her desk area with Chanel No. 19. But no one dared say a word. They were ah-bviously waiting for her reaction first. “So, do you think she did it on purpose?”

Dylan and Kristen exchanged side-glances.

“Do
you
?” Dylan finger-combed her hair.

Massie shrugged. “It
is
a little strange that she didn’t try to come after us or switch into overflow.”

The girls nodded in agreement as the trailer shook once again.

Ms. Dunkel returned, holding a fresh white stick of chalk above her head. “Mission accomplished,” she panted, then turned to write her Web address on the board.

Massie scanned the classroom. “Who are all these new LBRs in our grade?” She whispered in Dylan’s ear.

Dylan’s shoulders shook with laughter. “They’re not
new
. They were all in our grade last year.”

“All of them?”

“Yes,” Dylan whisper-giggled.

“I’ve never noticed them before in my life.” Massie pulled a purple grape-scented pen from her turquoise Pucci pencil case and ripped a sheet of paper from her Claire Fontaine notebook. While Ms. Dunkel blathered on about her years of experience in the Midwest, Massie created nicknames for the LBRs in her class. Learning their real names was pointless.

She skipped over Layne and her two alt.com friends Meena and Heather, whom she had the displeasure of knowing thanks to Claire, and started with the girl behind them, fourth desk from the front, window side.

Ms. Dunkel left the trailer again, this time to get an eraser. Massie passed her list to Claire. Claire cracked up and passed it to Kristen, who cracked up and passed it to Dylan. Seconds later the NPC were laughing so hard they couldn’t breathe.

Until Layne climbed up on her desk, dressed in a red satin blazer, a denim skort, red kneesocks, and her MBT sneakers. She lifted her fist in the air and shouted, “O-ver-flow! O-ver-flow! O-ver-flow!”

Heather, Meena, Great White, and Twizzler joined her solidarity chant, but the rest of the LBRs just watched in utter amusement.

“Come on everyone!” she shouted. “We have the chance to start something really great in here. Who’s with me? O-ver-flow! O-ver-flow! O-ver-flow!”

Moments later almost everyone was standing on their desks, rocking the trailer with LBR spirit.

Massie grabbed her bag, “Let’s get out of here before we catch something.”

The NPC hurried to their feet.

“Where are you guys going?” asked Big Mac.

“Yeah, you can’t leave,” insisted Blond Lincoln. “We’re in this together.”

“You’re, like, one of
us
now.” Loofah beamed.

Those were the last words Massie heard before she blacked out.

BOCD
THE INDOOR POOL

Wednesday, September 9th
2:02
P.M.

Sitting on the moist aluminum bench, thigh-to-thigh with Strawberry, who was thigh-to-thigh with Kori, who was thigh-to-thigh with Olivia, who was thigh-to-thigh with Cam, who was thigh-to-thigh with Josh, was stressing Alicia out big-time. She tried taking a deep, relaxing breath but ended up with a nose full of chlorine fumes that rose off the pool like latte steam.

If she’d known the soccer boys were going to be in her swim class, she never would have gone through with Josh’s plan. What if they made fun of her big boobs? What if her mascara ran? What if she got a water booger? What if—

Strawberry pinched the bell sleeve of Alicia’s floaty white cover-up, rubbing the fresh linen between her thumb and index finger. “Is this caw-tton?” she whispered while Miss Kuznick took attendance.

“Spanish linen,” Alicia explained, not knowing for sure if there was such a thing.

“I wish I’d worn something cute over my tankini.” Strawberry poked the freckly roll of flesh that oozed from her red suit, where the
tank
met the
ini
. “I feel like a cherry tomato, and you look like a total movie star.”

“Thanks.” Alicia crossed her legs, allowing one black Prada flip-flop to casually dangle from her toe cleavage. “I got it at the Lindo Hotel in the Costa del Sol. Their gift shop has the most ah-dorable stuff.”

“Same place you got those awesome boots you wore the other day?”

Alicia gazed into Strawberry’s emerald green eyes and nodded yes. Finally,
someone
appreciated her Euro-flair.

Kori leaned forward, her curved spine rippling under her hunter green one-piece. “I like your hair. It looks cool all slicked back like that.”

Alicia ran a silver ring–clad hand over the hardening comb tracks on her head.

“I deep-conditioned before class.”

“How smart is she?” Strawberry asked Kori.

“Majorly.”

Alicia side-peeked at Josh, hoping he was listening. But he was too busy snicker-dropping a wet Band-Aid down the back of Derrington’s gaping blue board shorts.

“Want some?” She held out a gold metallic tube of orange-scented Hydronectar Ultra Nourishing Oil Serum. “It will totally save your ends.”

“Sure.” Strawberry opened her palm, then finger-combed a dime-size dollop through her dark pink–dyed hair.

“Kori?” Alicia leaned forward, offering the goods.

“Thanks.” Kori straightened up, sending her bony spine back into hiding.

Puuuuuuuuuurpppp
. Miss Kuznick’s whistle echoed off the moist BriteSmile-white tile walls.

“Everyone in!” She tightened the pointless red visor that sat perched atop her short black-and-gray hair, then unzipped her white warm-up jacket and tossed it by the bench, revealing a sleek black one-piece that accentuated her Jessica Biel shoulders. “We’re gonna warm up with ten minutes of power-treading.”

Puuuuuuuuuurpppp. Puuuuuuuuuurpppp
.

“Yeaaaaah,” whooped Kemp, the notorious perv, as he dive-bombed into the pool. He quickly surfaced, wiped the mass of dark curly waves away from his close-set brown eyes, and shouted, “Come on, girls, show us what you’ve got!”

“Ew!” giggled Strawberry, Kori, and Olivia. Alicia’s cheeks burned. How was she going to take off her cover-up and get in the water without the soccer boys staring at her C-cups?

“Whoooooo!” shouted Chris Plovert during his front-flip entry. “Come on in!” He splashed the girls, who were trying to buy time, fiddling with their waterproof watches and over-tightening their ponytails.

Six more boys hurried in. Thankfully, Josh was not one of them. He sat patiently on his end of the bench, occasionally side-glancing at Alicia as if waiting to escort her.

Puuuuuuuuuurpppp
.
Puuuuuuuuuurpppp
.

“Evv-rryone in!” Miss Kuznick shouted from the silver lifeguard tower.

Cam and Olivia, who were blowing up a pair of tiny pink water wings, held up their fingers to show the teacher that they would be in as soon as they could. Besides, it wasn’t like Olivia had any reason to stall. Her lemon yellow Juicy one-piece popped against her buttery brown skin. And her legs had been freshly shaved and slicked with glitter-infused body oil. Her boobs were A’s and her butt was an A+ … and she stood with the carefree confidence of someone who knew it.

Not that Alicia was worried that her body was worse than Olivia’s.
Hardly!
It was that she knew it was better. More moisturized. More tanned. More cleavage. And
that
was the problem. She didn’t
want
the attention, not when it came to her boobs. And especially not without Massie, who had always been there in the past to fire off a round of protective comebacks on her behalf.