Bratfest at Tiffany's Read online

  “Now no one will pick on them. It’s better for everyone.”

  Dylan swiveled around in her leather club chair and faced the couch, practically spitting out her strawberry tea.

  “What?” Massie jumped to her feet.

  “No one will pick on us?” Dylan’s cheeks turned red.

  “You make us sound like LBRs!” Kristen clenched her fists.

  “They twisted my words!” Alicia shouted at the screen, clearly too ashamed to make eye contact with anyone.

  “Do you think the boys are watching this?” Claire couldn’t help herself.

  “Uh-oh.” Alicia gripped her stomach and raced for the bathroom in the back of the spa. “Bad sushi!”

  Winkie’s expression on TV became serious. “Let’s see if these trailers are, indeed, better for everyone.”

  The shot cut to the parking lot. A bolt of lightning struck behind one of the trailers and everyone screamed.

  “Those things are death traps!” shouted Monkey Paws, her hands clenched in tight fists as she ran in circles. “That thing’s gonna blow!”

  The sky turned black. A crash of thunder sounded, then sheets of blinding rain fell.

  “My hair!” Dylan shouted.

  “Ehmagawd, my shirt is see-through!” Kristen rushed behind Claire for cover.

  “Ew, get offa me!” Claire wiggled away.

  “I have mascara in my eyes!” screamed Big Mac. “It burns.”

  Candy Corn, Twizzler, Putty, Blond Lincoln, Braille Bait, Great White, and Bag Hag were dragging their heavy suitcases in a mad panic that seemed to have been sped up by the editor to look even more frantic than it was.

  Then it cut to Massie. “These are my best friends.” She smiled proudly. A shot of Layne, Meena, and Heather, dressed in their matching green trash bags and bellowing “Singing in the Rain,” filled the screen.

  “WHAT?” Massie screamed so loud Bean jumped off the couch and hid under a StairMaster. “I so did nawt mean they were my best friends. Ehmag …” She fell back onto the leather couch and buried her face in her shaking hands. “… aaaaaawwwd!

  But Winkie wouldn’t stop.

  “Not exactly the best environment for kids with special needs. Not that the students in the main building seemed to care—”

  “Special needs!” everyone shouted at once.

  “For them, it was business as usual.”

  A shot of Cam and Olivia tending to baby Kate filled the screen.

  “Aren’t they ah-dorable?” Alicia gushed. “The cutest couple, don’t you think?”

  Claire slid to the edge of the couch. “Why would she say that?”

  “They are attractive,” Winkie had to agree.

  The room spun. Claire’s throat locked. Her stomach lurched.

  “But not as attractive as us.” Josh threw his arm around Alicia’s shoulders, then flicked the brim of her pink cap, which just so happened to match his blue one.

  The bell rang and everyone raced off to class. Winkie began strolling the empty halls.

  “What started as an uplifting story of brotherly love ended up a tragic exposé of what can happen when a society strives for physical and mental perfection. We tend to dismiss those who are different, afraid that they may shine a light on our own special needs and force us to face the ugliness that lives inside each and every one of us. But carting them off to trailers is not the solution. In fact, it’s the problem—a problem we cannot ignore. I’m Winkie Porter. Back to you in the studio, Greg.”

  “Different?” Massie clicked off the TV, then whipped the remote into the Jacuzzi. “Special needs?”

  “Do I look that fat in real life?” screeched Dylan.

  “Do surfers watch the news?” Kristen tugged her necklace.

  “Do you think Cam and Olivia really are the cutest couple?” Claire couldn’t help herself. It was bad enough that her ex-soul mate had moved on—and had a baby with a girl who was ten times prettier than she was. But did the entire county need to know about it? She had become the middle school version of Jennifer Aniston, without the good Pilates body.

  “Oh, is it over?” Alicia asked innocently as she reentered the room. Too jittery to sit, she rested her hands on the back of the couch and shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

  No one said a word.

  “So?” She tried smiling. “Wha’d I miss?”

  “You made us look like LBRs!” Massie hissed through gritted white teeth.

  “No, I didn’t!” Alicia pleaded. “They edited it to look that way. I swear! I would never—”

  “Did they also edit it to look like you said Cam and Olivia were the cutest couple?” Claire shouted, shocking not only herself with her unusual show of anger, but the others as well.

  Dylan, Kristen, and Massie held their bracelet-covered arms in the air, reminding Claire to be strong. The show of support was comforting, but not comforting enough. She felt humiliated and betrayed. By Cam, by Alicia, and even by Winkie Porter.

  Massie stuffed her hands in the side pockets of her skinny Hudson jeans and ambled pointedly around to the back of the couch like a cowgirl. “And what was with that hat?”

  “Um, it was a dare.” Alicia took a few steps back. “Kori found it in the lost and found and—”

  “Stop lying!” Massie shouted. Her voice cracked like she might actually cry.

  Claire focused on the white sheepskin area rugs on the dark-stained floors. If Massie was going to tear up, she really didn’t want to see it. Witnessing that degree of emotional vulnerability in her alpha was like catching her parents doing it. Deep down inside she knew it happened (ew!), but it was easier to pretend it didn’t.

  “I had a feeling you Alicia-ed your way into the main building to be with Josh. But I didn’t want to believe it.” Massie’s voice was calm again, almost soothing.

  “Wait! You don’t understand!” Alicia ran her silver-ringed hand through her hair, the charms on her NPC bracelet bashing together.

  “Actually, I do understand.” Massie stepped closer until they were practically nose-to-nose behind the couch. She held out her palm.

  “You don’t!” Alicia’s voice shook. “All my life, boys always liked me. They thought I was super-pretty or that my body was hawt or that I had good style. But for the first time ever, Josh likes me for me. And I like him. I’ve never liked a guy back, and now that I finally do, you make up this boyfast thing and—”

  Massie opened her palm and wiggled her fingers.

  Alicia looked at her open palm with tear-soaked eyes.

  Massie wiggled her fingers again.

  “Come awn!” Alicia stomped her foot. “It’s so nawt fair! You all had a shot at love. It’s not my fault you messed—” She stopped herself just in time. “All I’m saying is that I finally had a chance to be happy, and I didn’t want to choose between—”

  “But you did,” Massie said flatly. “You did choose. And you chose him. Now hand it over.”

  Alicia cried as she unhooked the bracelet from her wrist and slapped it into Massie’s open hand.

  The rest of the NPC lowered their gazes.

  “Everyone please remove your A charms,” Massie said flatly, “and throw them into the fire.”

  “You guys…” Alicia held out her arms and sobbed as she tried to appeal to Claire, Dylan, and Kristen for help.

  But the girls did what they were told. One by one they pulled off their A’s and threw them into the angry orange flames.

  Even Claire, who had once sympathized with Alicia, no longer did. Her comments about Cam and Olivia made it impossible.

  “Now get out!”

  “Come awn, you guys,” she pleaded.

  No one looked at her.

  “Fine!” Alicia wiped her tears on the back of her hand and scooped up her black Balenciaga. “Dylan, you can forget about my dad finding a loophole in that confidentiality agreement.” She jammed the pink baseball cap on her head and bolted toward the barn doors.

  “I already
did!” Dylan yelled after her.

  Alicia paused, her hand on the doorknob, hoping for one last chance. “I can’t believe you guys are doing this.”

  “You can’t?” Massie sounded genuinely shocked. “Puhlease! First you switch tables, then you make us look like LBRs on the news, and now you’re wearing Josh’s stupid baseball cap!” Massie shouted. “One, two, three strikes, YOU’RE OUT!”

  Alicia threw open the doors and took off into the foggy, humid night.

  BOCD

  OVERFLOW TRAILERS

  Friday, September 11th

  8:01 A.M.

  Sometime between last night’s six o’clock news and Friday morning’s first-period bell, a group of students from the main building t.p.’ed the outside of the eighth-grade trailer and plastered it with signs that said DON’T FEED THE CHALLENGED.

  Inside, the overflow trailer was thick with hair-frizzing humidity and ripe with the smell of pencil erasers and sweaty bologna. The LBRs were seated, biology books cracked, and binders opened to last night’s homework while they waited for Ms. Dunkel to arrive. The NPC, however, scurried about spraying L’Occitane Cherry Blossom room spray in every musty corner of the trailer while pressing vanilla-scented candles to their nostrils.

  “You know, you should really check with everyone before you spray that stuff,” Braille Bait mumbled, her bumpy face buried deep inside her peach-colored hoodie. “My skin is sensitive to perfumes and dyes.”

  “Well, my nose is sensitive to the smell of dead animal.” Massie spritzed one last time before turning on the heel of her silver Tod’s ballet flat and marching to the back of the room. “We have much bigger problems than your rosacea.”

  The drip … drip … drip sound of yesterday’s rain seeping through the rusted roof backed her up.

  Sensing an outburst, the NPC stopped fumigating at once. They lowered their nose-candles and joined Massie in the middle of the room.

  “Bigger problems?” squeaked Braille Bait.

  “Um, yeah! Didn’t any of you watch the news last night?” Massie shouted in Braille Bait’s face, causing her cheeks to gradate from fuchsia to deep burgundy. “Or see the outside of this trailer?”

  The LBRs smile-nodded.

  “Can you believe how much attention we’re getting?” Great White beamed, the lids above her wide-set black eyes fluttering with joy.

  “I know, it’s soooo cool.” Monkey Paws clapped.

  “Your clips were sooo funny,” snorted Loofah. “My whole family was dying when you were running around in circles screaming about the lightning.”

  “Mine too!” grinned Candy Corn, revealing a crooked row of slimy yellow teeth. “My au pair thinks you should get your own reality show.”

  “Thanks.” Monkey Paws stood and bowed. “But the real stars were Layne, Meena, and Heather.” She turned to the three girls, who were wearing matching homemade yellow GO WITH THE OVERFLOW T-shirts. “You looked so cute singing in the—”

  “Ehmagawd, you people actually liked that news story?” Massie, overcome by another dizzying low blood sugar moment, wobbled like a seasick, stiletto-wearing Versace model out for a high-seas romp on Donatella’s yacht. She bit into a Nutz Over Chocolate Luna Bar and willed the vertigo to pass. At some point Dylan, Kristen, and Claire started rubbing her back in gentle circles. Or were those angels? Airlifting her dead body to heaven?

  Drip … drip … drip …

  Massie took a few more bites of her energy bar. And then, finally, the trailer stopped spinning. She raised her head slowly and found a room full of LBRs staring at her, their expressions a mix of mild concern and extreme fascination.

  “You okay?” Kristen asked while fanning Massie’s cheeks with her Roxy cowboy hat.

  Drip … drip … drip …

  “Do I look okay?” Dylan tugged her frizzy curls like a frustrated “before” in need of some vitamin-enriched conditioner. “That rain turned me into Carrot Top. And if someone doesn’t stop that leaking roof, I’m gonna—”

  “Nawt you,” giggle-cackled Kristen. “I was talking to Massie.”

  Claire giggled into her palm.

  “Yeah, I’m fine.” Massie rubbed her burning eyeballs, which were the same hue as her quilted Marc Jacobs Banana hobo bag—bloodred. At least the bag added a burst of color to her outfit—a shimmering gray tunic-tank, which she wore over black leggings. Her eyes, on the other had, told the world she’d spent the night in agony, tossing and turning over the Alicia Incident.

  Or maybe she should call it the Alicia Back-Stab Scandal.

  Or the Alicia Chooses a Boy Over Her Friends Fiasco.

  No matter what stupid name she invented, it all meant the same thing. She was losing control over her life. Her friends. Her enemies. Her beauty. And now her blood sugar. She felt like last year’s boot-cut True Religion jeans … tucked away in the back of a closet and left to fade.

  Drip … drip … drip …

  Without another word, she raced to the back of the trailer and paced the row of wheelie suitcases parked against the empty wall. This leak had to stop.

  She finger-tapped her chin, scrutinizing the luggage as if pondering which suitcase to roll down the red carpet at the Oscars. She passed over Kristen’s red-and-white heart-covered Roxy, Claire’s sticker-infested boy bag, Dylan’s Louis Vuitton wheelie, and her own Louis Vuitton steamer trunk, knowing they weren’t options. Neither was the sporty orange-and-black Tumi T3 Ducati, the cartoonish Tokidoki LeSportsac, or the three bubble-gum pink Hello Kittys (belonging to Layne, Meena, and Heather, of course). But the black scratched hard-shell Samsonite was perfect. She crouched down and unfastened the metal buckle. It popped open with ease as if to say, “Thanks for choosing me.”

  Quickly, she removed the Game Boy, iPod Nano, drink box of calcium-enriched soy milk, stack of graphic novels, swim goggles, and rubber nose-plugs—ew!—then dragged the open case across the dusty floor and positioned it three feet behind her desk, where the roof was still leaking from yesterday’s storm.

  “Hey, that’s mine!” screeched the boy with the short light hair and pale pink skin. “Where’s all my stuff?” He blinked and then wiped his forehead with the bottom of his extra-long New York Knicks basketball jersey.

  “Relax, Putty.” Massie rolled her eyes. “Your nose plugs are perfectly safe back there. No one will touch them. I promise.”

  Kristen, Dylan, and Claire giggled from across the room.

  The boy raced to the back wall and began collecting his things. “Why’ja just call me Putty? My name is—”

  “Whatevs.” Massie held out her palm to stop him from wasting her time. “If my shoes get wet, they’ll be done. D-O-N-E, ruined! You can have your suitcase back as soon as this leak stops.”

  “Gee, thanks,” he grumbled, as he struggled to carry his ditched belongings back to his seat without dropping them.

  Just then, the trailer shook as someone climbed up the rickety steps.

  “Shhhh, it’s Ms. Dunkel!” whisper-warned Big Mac as she snapped her scratched silver compact shut and dropped it in the pocket of her ill-fitting black American Apparel smock dress.

  Putty raced for his seat as if competing in a cutthroat game of musical chairs. The NPC concealed their spray bottles and raced to their desks.

  The plywood door squeaked open.

  “Is this the eighth-grade trailer?” asked a caramel-blond boy with army green eyes and the kind of deep, rich tan that requires a passport. His loose safari shirt fell across the top of his charmingly wrinkled Dockers, and his biceps flexed when he adjusted the distressed mocha satchel slung across his chest. If Bindi the Jungle Girl had invented an imaginary boyfriend, he would be this guy.

  Every girl stared. Every boy shifted in his chair.

  Massie turned away for fear he’d melt her mascara.

  “Dempsey-doo?” Layne shouted.

  “Laynie-poo?” Dimples sliced his cheeks like the blade of a hatchet. He raced over to give his old friend a warm hug.

&n
bsp; “Eh. Ma. Gawd.” Massie sprayed her face with Evian mist.

  “Is that Humpty Dempsey?” Claire whisper-gasped.

  “Im-pbss!” Dylan reached over her desk, swiped Kristen’s straw cowboy hat off her head, and fanned her beading forehead.

  “Give it back!” Kristen giggle-grabbed.

  “Ech-hem!” Massie shook her charm bracelet.

  They quickly composed themselves.

  Massie studied the boy as he admired Layne’s spirited T-shirt and light blue 1950s poodle skirt. He must be a new guy named Dempsey, she thought. One who also knew Layne. Because the other one was roly and poly and smelled like Cheetos and—

  “You were so right,” he gushed when they broke apart. “This place is awesome.”

  “What?” Massie snapped. “What is wrong with you people? Maybe you’re used to living in slums but I’m—”

  “Slums?” Dempsey dropped his bag on the empty seat beside Layne, the one she had obviously been saving for him. “No, firecracker. These are not slums. I just spent nine weeks in real slums, working with my parents in Africa, rebuilding—”

  “Um, excuse me.” Massie stood and placed a hand on her hip. “Do I sell fertilizer?”

  “What?” He glanced over his shoulder at Layne, hoping she might be able to explain. But Layne just rolled her narrow green eyes as if to say, “Go with it, and it will all be over soon.”

  Massie placed a hand on her hip and tapped her foot impatiently.

  “Why would I think you sell fertilizer?”

  “Because you ah-bviously think I give a crap.”

  Everyone burst out laughing. Even Dempsey. And it wasn’t a ha-ha-very-funny kind of sarcastic laugh. It was genuine.

  “Sorry I’m late,” huffed Ms. Dunkel, landing in the classroom like someone had drop-kicked her through the door. She took off her untailored green poly blazer and draped it over the back of her white plastic foldout chair. Then she removed her large glasses and wiped them on the bottom of her cream-colored blouse. She put them back on and smile-sighed. “With these trailers in the lot, it’s impossible to find parking.”