Bratfest at Tiffany's Page 11

  “Um, do you sell fertilizer?” Dempsey mumbled.

  “Pardon me?” asked Ms. Dunkel.

  “Nothing.” Dempsey snickered.

  Everyone burst out laughing again.

  Even Massie.

  Dempsey caught her eye and winked. Massie couldn’t help but smile back, then quickly lowered her head before the NPC noticed. She calmed her thumping heart by painting her name in purple nail polish on the corner of her desk. Unable to control her wandering eyes, she side-peeked at Dempsey.

  As if sensing her heat, he side-peeked back.

  Then, warning bells began sounding in the alpha parts of her brain.

  Reeee-oooooo, reeeee-ooooooooo, reeeee-ooooo. Intruder. Intruder. Intruder. He was an LBR! He might relapse. Don’t fall for it. You’re on a boyfast. He’s friends with Layne. He likes the trailers. He uses words like firecracker. Intruder. Intruder. Intruder. Reeee-ooooo, reeeee-oooooooo, reeeee-ooooo.

  Massie hit “snooze” on her mental alarm. This ah-dorable but off-limits intruder was actually … motivating. Not because of his work in the African slums. Ew. No! But because he’d shed his LBR skin in a single summer, without the help of a stylist or nutritionist. And everyone is inspired by a good comeback story.

  Even alphas.

  CURRENT STATE OF THE UNION

  IN

  OUT

  Leaking roofs

  Leaking gossip

  Digging Dempsey (on the DL)

  Despising Derrington

  Claire, Kristen, Dylan, Massie

  Alicia

  THE BLOCK ESTATE

  GLU HEADQUARTERS

  Friday, September 11th

  4:24 P.M.

  Inez vacuumed and dusted the furniture in the Blocks’ spa for the girls’ meeting. The two mocha-colored leather club chairs, matching love seat, zebra-print ottoman, sand-colored marble coffee table, and Bean’s violet cashmere dog bed looked Architectural Digest–ready. The fireplace flicker-crackled despite the sunny seventy-eight-degree weather. And the Baccarat crystal bowls were scrubbed clean of Mr. Block’s salty pistachios and filled with berries and crème fraîche for Massie, organic oat-pretzel bits for Dylan, Pirate’s Booty and Junior Mints for Kristen, chocolate-covered Twizzlers for Claire (sours and gummies were off limits ever since Cam dumped her), and fat-free strawberry fro-yo for Alicia, which, due to her absence, had melted into a Pepto Bismol-colored soup.

  Claire couldn’t help wondering if the others noticed the bowl of pink mush—and if the soggy reminder of their ex-friend made them feel sad too? If it did, they certainly didn’t show it. Massie’s mystery guest was all anyone could think about.

  “Come awn, just tell us!” Dylan frustration-smacked the thick armrest of the club chair. “I can’t guess anymore.” She scooped a handful of pretzel nuggets out of the crystal bowl that rested in her lap.

  Massie giggle-twirled her purple hair streak around her finger while shaking her head “no.”

  “Ewwwww, I got it!” Kristen speed-ran the zipper of her green-and-white Roxy star hoodie up and down the silver tracks. “Winkie is coming over to do follow-up interviews with us so we can prove we’re not special.” She air-quoted “special.”

  “Nope.” Massie swept her metallic sequin-covered scarf around her neck. After Isaac had dropped them off, she’d raced up to her room and swapped her shimmering gray tunic for a fitted double-breasted black BCBG vest, pairing it with the black leggings and silver ballet flats she’d been wearing all day. She was now a perfect mix of high style and hard business, a combination that confused her friends even more.

  “Is it a hypnotist?” Claire bit into a chocolate-covered Twizzler. “You know, to make us forget about boys forever?” She grin-shrugged as if joking, but deep down inside she hoped she might be right.

  “I bet it’s Jakkob and his new makeup artist, right? Am I right?” Dylan tugged her thick red Wendy’s braids. “Please say he’s bringing his flatiron.”

  “It’s nawt Jakkob.” Massie glanced at the stone sundial above the flickering fireplace. “You’ll know in six minutes.”

  “Or less,” purred a woman’s velvety voice.

  The girls whip-turned.

  Gliding toward them, stealthy as a Lexus SC, was a tall, curvy woman dressed in tight black everything, like a character in The Matrix. Her ash-blond hair was swept back into a high ponytail and swung like the tail of a prizewinning horse. She wore high black boots and a stylish tangle of pink-gold, white-gold, and gold-gold bangles around her wrists. She was high fashion at its finest—even Claire knew that. Which may be why the crumpled brown paper grocery bag she carried in place of a purse seemed out of place.

  “Effie?” Dylan jumped to her feet. A flurry of pretzel crumbs fell onto the white sheepskin rug. Bean lifted her ears, shook off sleep, and hurried over to lick them up.

  “Dylan?” The woman squinted suspiciously, trapping her narrow navy blue eyes behind a thick wall of interlaced lashes.

  “What are you doing here? Is she okay?” Dylan asked her mother’s seasoned image consultant.

  “Yes, she’s fi—”

  “I called her.” Massie extended her right arm, grinning as the silver charm bracelet careened toward her hand. “Thanks for coming.”

  Effie rounded the mocha-colored couch and glanced at the half-eaten snacks on the marble coffee table. She quickly turned her head, as if simply looking at the food was enough to make her bust out of her size 0 leggings. “Pleasure.”

  She reached into her brown paper bag and pulled out a black can of Rockstar energy drink. “You girls are still in school, right?”

  They nodded.

  “Thought so.” She popped the top with the side of her thumb and forced two orange Airborne tablets inside the sharp metal mouth. They fizzed on contact. “Students spread germs faster than rats,” she announced, then took a long, hard swig of her bubbling concoction.

  “Ahhhh-Choooo,” Massie fake-sneezed, announcing that Effie’s black knee-high stiletto boots were the latest Jimmy Choos.

  “Thanks,” Claire mouthed, not really sure why she needed to know this.

  “Not you,” Massie whisper-hissed. “I was telling her!” She cocked her head toward Bean, who immediately abandoned the pretzel crumbs and bolted over to Effie’s feet. She sniffed the pointy leather toes on the boots, then circled back to take a whiff of her heels. Once satisfied, she darted over to Massie and nodded her little black head “yes.”

  “They’re real,” Massie mouthed with glee.

  Claire and Kristen giggled.

  “So, what are you doing here?” Dylan asked the instant Effie placed her empty can on the coffee table.

  “Ask your friend.” Effie popped open another Rockstar and jammed in two more tablets.

  Dylan pulled her red-and-brown cowboy shirtdress out from her butt crack while flashing Massie a head-tilted, eyebrows-raised silent plea for an explanation.

  The alpha clasped her hands behind her back, sauntered over to the fireplace, and turned to face her befuddled audience.

  “As some of you know, Effie is the image consultant on The Daily Grind.”

  Dylan golf-clapped at the mention of her mother’s hit morning talk show.

  “For those of you who may not know—Kuh-laire—Merri-Lee got her start announcing winning lotto numbers on the six o’clock news. But thanks to Effie, who hired a hair and makeup team, a camera crew, and a speech therapist, and got her $275,000 worth of plastic surgery, she’s a superstar.”

  “Two hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars?” Kristen crinkled her blond eyebrows in confusion.

  Claire and Kristen exchanged a shocked glace.

  “That’s nothing compared to what she’s making now.” Effie rested her bony butt on the armrest of Dylan’s chair, then crossed her long, spidery legs.

  Claire panic-glanced at Massie, letting her know that plastic surgery, even at half that price, was not an option.

  Massie rolled her amber eyes as if to say, “Ah
-bviously,” then continued. “Once the whole newscast thing happened, I realized we needed something hawtter than hair extensions and more ah-dorable than accessories if we were going to fix our image. So I hired Effie.” She twirled her purple hair chunk with delight. “Because if anyone can turn the NPC around, it’s her.”

  The girls applauded.

  “So without further ado, I welcome Miss Effie James to Girls Like Us headquarters.” Massie led a second round of applause, as she switched places with their new image consultant.

  “How great is this bag, by the way?” Effie rubbed her wrinkled brown paper sack as if it were made of kitten fur. “The natural color goes with everything and it fits way more than a Birkin. It’s going to be huge this spring.”

  “Who makes it?” Dylan asked, silver Tiffany pen in hand.

  “Yorgin,” she blurted, as if it should have been obvious. “You know, that albino Dutch designer?”

  Given, Claire practically heard Alicia saying, and, for a brief moment, felt bad that she was missing this. It was exactly the kind of thing Alicia lived for—new designer bags, and mystery guests who promised to make them more popular than they already were.

  “You should see how many people at Fashion Week stopped me, wanting to know where I got it.” She carefully set her Yorgin on the marble mantel, away from the hungry fire. “But I said somewhere in Europe.” Effie snickered. “Let Gisele and Tyra get on the waiting list like the rest of the world. I only leak to clients. And now, you girls are my clients.” She pulled her blond ponytail over her shoulder and stroked the ends.

  “Yay!” They air-clapped.

  Without hesitation, they jotted “Yorgin” on white-and-navy embossed Block Estate napkins, with intentions of pre-ordering as soon as this meeting was over. Claire knew she’d never be able to afford the Dutch designer and had to admit that the design was a little awkward for a high-end tote, but she wrote his name down anyway. That way, in two years, when the knockoffs hit H&M, she’d remember to pick one up.

  “Enough about bags.” Effie cracked open yet another Rockstar, her gold bangles clanging as she lifted the can to her ruby red-stained lips. “It’s time for business.”

  The girls straightened up and faced their new guru.

  “This game we are about to play is all about perception.” She paused, allowing this to sink in. “It’s about making people want what you have, even if what you have is no better than a wrinkled old bag from Whole Foods.” She gripped her Yorgin and shook it in front of their faces in a gotcha! sort of way.

  They gasped.

  “That’s right.” Effie dumped out three more cans of Rock-star, then tossed the empty bag into the fire. “See how easy it was to make you think a two-cent piece of paper was the hottest thing ever?”

  The girls remained speechless as the flames gobbled up the precious Yorgin.

  Massie crumpled her napkin. “I knew,” she mouthed.

  “Me too.” Dylan winked back.

  “Same,” Kristen whispered.

  Claire picked her cuticles.

  “It’s how you represent. Or, re-present, as I like to say. We have to make those snots in the main building think your dumpy overflow trailers are it! It’s Extreme Home Makeover to the extreme.” Effie tilted back her head and gulped down, another Rockstar. “If we do our jobs right, which”—she curtsied—“we will. Everyone will fight to be in those trailers. But they will belong to you.” She lifted her overtweezed brows, silently asking if they understood.

  The NPC nodded, assuring her that they did.

  Effie continued. “And that is where the power lies. Those snots will want what you have. They will want to be you. But since they can’t be you, they’ll want to be around you. And that, my friends, is called having ‘it.’”

  The girls applauded.

  “Now, let’s get to work.” Effie hurried to the door and rescued her hidden black Fendi tote from behind a wide terracotta floor vase. She raced back and handed each girl a brand-new hardcover orange Rhodia sketchpad and a tin box of twenty-four Derwent color pencils.

  “For the next half hour, I want each of you to sketch your overflow fantasy. Don’t hold back. When you’re all done, I’ll take the sketches to my team, and by Monday, we will re-present those tin crates to the world as the new must-haves for fall/winter.”

  Without hesitation, Massie, Dylan, and Kristen lowered their heads and began speed-sketching with glee.

  Claire, on the other hand, reached for her red pencil and began covering the pages with hearts. Some big, some tiny, most medium.

  If what Effie said was true, Claire could re-present herself to Cam as someone who had moved on to something better. That way he’d want her again.

  All she had to do was:

  1. Find a cute boy.

  2. Make him like her.

  3. Somehow leak the news to Cam.

  4. Prove that she has “it.”

  5. (Figure out what “it” is, and make sure not to lose “it.”)

  6. Watch Cam sweat.

  Of course she would have to find a way to pull off steps one through six without:

  1. Breaking boyfast rules.

  2. Getting kicked out of the NPC.

  OLIVIA RYAN’S HOUSE

  FRONT YARD

  Friday, September 11th

  5:17 P.M.

  Olivia’s modest ivy-covered four-bedroom Tudor provided a quaint backdrop for the boys as they whizzed and rumbled up and down the U-shaped ramp on their skateboards. Her white-blond brother Andy’s rickety plywood monstrosity took up most of the front yard, reminding Alicia of those huge sunglasses Nicole Richie and Mary-Kate Olsen wore on their doll-size faces. It was a whole lot of accessory for such a small space.

  If the boys caught too much air and fell to the right, they’d crash into Mrs. Ryan’s black Lexus hybrid SUV. If they fell to the left, they’d land in the prickly rosebushes. But no one seemed the least bit concerned. Not the soccer boys in their baggy shorts, fat sneakers, and scuffed helmets, or the girls who were snapping their pictures like proud parents.

  “Suh-noooozer,” Alicia sighed, hoping Strawberry or Kori or Olivia would admit that they were just as bored as she was.

  But they didn’t.

  The sun was starting to set, drenching the yard in magical orange light, the kind that made Alicia’s brown eyes twinkle and her skin glow. Instead of admiring her beauty, Josh climbed to the top of the ramp, clutching a green skateboard under his arm.

  Alicia forced a smile, trying not to regret having chosen him over the NPC. Besides, what was Massie doing now that was so much better? Getting a mani-pedi? Laughing with the girls over fro-yo? Gossiping in the Blocks’ Jacuzzi? Fine, maybe those things were better. But that didn’t mean she’d never have them again. She would. With a little effort and a ton of patience.

  “Cute butterfly hoodie.” Alicia pinched Kori’s pink terry sweatshirt, trying desperately to take the focus away from skateboarding and put it on something that actually mattered. “It’s Juicy, right?”

  “Yessssss!” Kori jumped up and down. “S, did you hear that?”

  Strawberry lowered her digital camera. “What?”

  “Alicia asked if my sweatshirt was Juicy.” She beamed.

  “No way!” She raced over and high-fived Kori. “Hey, O, you gotta hear this.”

  Olivia was sitting on the Lexus, rocking little Kate. “What?” she called, immediately waking the baby. “I can’t hear you!” she shouted over the rumbling skateboard wheels.

  Kori and Strawberry gestured for her to come closer.

  Without another thought, Olivia left her screaming plastic baby on the black hood and hurried closer. Her white linen dress and bare feet were backlit by yellow beams of sun, making her look like a corn-fed model in a commercial for fabric softener.

  “What did you guys say?” she asked, joining their circle at the foot of the ramp.

  “I saaaaid …” Kori stomped her flip-flopped foot in mock frustration. “…
Alicia asked if my sweatshirt was Juicy!”

  “No way!” Olivia high-fived her friends, oblivious as Kate slid off the car and landed face-first on the gravel driveway.

  “Olivia!” Cam jumped off the ramp and raced over to his fake daughter, paying little mind to his sagging black shorts and lopsided helmet.

  “What? I don’t get it. Why is it high-fiveable that I thought your sweatshirt was Juicy?” Alicia asked, all too aware of feeling like the new girl. The one who had to pretend taking pictures of skateboarding boys was fun. The one who didn’t understand their inside jokes. The one who had to shout, “I don’t get it!”

  “Be-cause …” Kori grinned. “… I DIY’ed this sweatshirt. I copied a Juicy, and these guys said no one would ever fall for it. But you did!”

  “Great,” Alicia grumbled.

  “Hey, Strawberry, get this,” Derrington called from the top of the ramp.

  “Hold on.” She propped her camera and raced closer. “Okay. Ready!”

  With that, Derrington pulled down his olive green cargo shorts and dropped in with them wrapped around his ankles. He was wearing goofy X-Men boxers and shook his butt as he rode.

  Everyone doubled over laughing while Kori and Olivia raced to get the shot. Alicia thought Derrington’s butt-flash was funny … for a second. But mostly because she pictured Massie standing there looking embarrassed. She imagined catching Massie’s eye while she was trying to look all mature and serious, and making her crack up. Soon Dylan and Kristen and Claire would be laughing too. And then, after like ten minutes of ab-splitting hysterics, they’d grip their stomachs and ask each other what had been so funny in the first place. None of them would know. And that would make them crack up all over again. Before long, the boys would be staring at them, half chuckling, half wondering what was wrong with them. And their interest would make them feel beautiful.

  But then Alicia remembered that Derrington was now Massie’s ex-crush. And Massie was now Alicia’s ex-friend. So were Dylan, Kristen, and Claire. So there was really no point in thinking about any of it. Right?

  “Hey, why don’t we go do something different for a change?” Alicia offered with over-the-top enthusiasm.