Bratfest at Tiffany's Read online

  “Who’s Dempsey Rosen?” shouted Dempsey from the back of the room.

  She ignored him and addressed the crowd. “Thank you. This is Alicia Rivera for BOCD saying, I heart you!”

  A bony hand reached for the microphone and ripped it from Alicia’s clammy hands.

  “What was that?” squawked Principal Burns.

  “Justice,” Alicia said with pride.

  “No,” she insisted. “Justice is suspending you for making up your own list of winners. Do you know how outraged the board members will be when they find out—”

  “How are they going to find out?” Alicia tore the list into tiny pieces. “And if they do, just explain that my list convinced my dad’s clients to drop the lawsuit they were filing against you.”

  “Me?”

  “Yeah!” Alicia practically fainted from dry mouth. “This whole trailer thing messed them up. They were about to sue you for billions of dollars in therapy. This new list convinced them to drop everything. You can thank me later.”

  Before the principal had a chance to respond, Alicia jumped off the platform and speed-walked to table eighteen. Her friends were waiting.

  BOCD

  THE NEW GREEN CAFÉ

  Friday, September 18th

  8:28 P.M.

  Massie inhaled the chocolate and citrus notes in Alicia’s Angel perfume as they merged with the crisp sophistication of her Chanel No. 19. The unforgettable scent of their friendship was back.

  Invisible apology waves passed between them as they sway-held each other in the middle of the emotionally charged New Green Café.

  Alicia pulled Massie closer; a silent I’m-sorry-for-choosing-my-crush-over-my-friends-and-lying-about-it.

  “S’okay,” Massie uttered, then squeezed Alicia a little harder, letting her know she had been too controlling.

  “S’okay,” Alicia said.

  Satisfied, Massie pulled away.

  After a round of welcome-back hugs from the other girls, they leaned against table eighteen and proudly admired the chaos they had orchestrated.

  Layne, Meena, and Heather were leading the new recruits in a celebratory conga line around the old-fashioned stagecoach-turned-Sub-Zero fridge, chanting, “Indie in!” The NLBRs were embracing each other, their parents, and the faculty. It was obvious they never wanted to mix with the Main Building crowd again, an arrangement that all sides seemed happy with. The sore losers were being led to the exits by their angry parents, who told anyone who would listen that this was far from over. And then there were the ex-crushes, who had trapped Dean Don against the silver BMW reverse vending machine. Their faces were red, their arms flailed, and their feet stomped, mosh-pit style. And Winkie and her camera were capturing it all.

  “Hey, Derrick,” Massie called.

  Derrington turned, his brown puppy-dog eyes filled with pit-bull rage.

  “Are you an actor?”

  The NPC giggled. Derrington stared back, his light brows crinkled in confusion.

  “I heard you were gonna be in a trailer!”

  The girls cracked up and exchanged high fives. This time, there was no question who got the last word. The defeated ex-crushes immediately turned away and continued begging Dean Don to do something.

  “Welcome back,” said an almost-cute girl with short amber braids when she passed.

  The NPC regained their composure, dropped their smiles, and assumed their bored-and-over-it expressions, the way the always did when people stopped by table eighteen to compliment them.

  “Yeah, we missed you guys,” said her friend with the head-phones and vanilla cupcake frosting on her upper lip.

  Massie thank-you grinned, but on the inside, she was running around in joyful circles. Everything was starting to feel right again, like sliding on her favorite pair of Hudsons after wearing Claire’s ill-fitting Gap slim-cuts for a week. (Not like that would ever really happen!)

  “You guys look great, by the way,” said Allie-Rose Singer as she approached their table, her emerald green cat-eyes wide with envy. “I’ve been meaning to tell you that since school started, but then you were in the trailers, and we toe-dally lost touch.”

  “You can tell us now.” Dylan spun, showing off her new tight red J Brand jeans.

  “It’s true, you look so cuh-yooot,” muttered Allie’s nasal friend Wendy. “And toe-dally skinny.”

  “S’true.” Allie-Rose let the tie-strap on her aubergine tank slide off her bony shoulder. “What’s your secret?”

  “We’re on a boyfast,” giggled Dylan.

  “Seriously?” Wendy honked. “We should try that.”

  The NPC laughed.

  “Love to.” Allie circled her long finger around the edges of her chocolate cupcake, then popped it in her mouth. “See you Monday.” She smile-waved goodbye.

  “Whatevs,” Massie uttered under her breath, exuding alpha bad-itude, as if it never left.

  Seconds later the NLBRs formed a semicircle around table eighteen, their faces longer than usual.

  “How did we win and you didn’t?” Big Mac swiped a black mascara-filled tear out from under her otherwise makeup-free eye. “It’s not fair.”

  “No crying!” Massie insisted. “Or you’ll go right back to looking haggard and raccoon-y.”

  Big Mac bit her bottom lip and nodded as if to say she’d do her best.

  “She’s right.” Braille Bait rubbed her forehead.

  “Stop that!” Massie slapped her lightly. “Do you know how much oil is in those palms of yours? If you want to avoid flare-ups, stop touching.”

  “Will you come and visit?” Great White pouted.

  “Probably nawt,” Massie admitted with a trace of sadness. “But try to smile anyway. Pouting brings out your sharkiness.”

  “She’s right.” Dempsey rested a hand on Great White’s shoulder but kept his eyes on Massie. Their intense greenness burned her retinas like expired Visine.

  “Are you mad you didn’t win?” Massie asked, pinching Alicia’s leg.

  “No.” Dempsey quickly lifted his hand from Great White’s shoulder. “You?”

  “Ummm.” Massie felt everyone watching her.

  They were probably expecting her to tear up, make a speech about how far they’d come, how many hardships they’d overcome, and how two very, very, very different groups of people had looked past their differences and joined forces to become one.

  Like that would ever happen.

  But she couldn’t tell the truth, either. How could she explain to a herd of NLBRs, who just had the best week of their social lives, that the Tiffany boxes and makeovers had been part of an alpha strategy, a big-picture plan to make people envy her again. And that she never wanted to be part of the overflow, no matter how ah-dorable she made them look.

  Instead, she waved goodbye to her protégés and simply said, “It was fun. But Massie Block is Main Building. Always has been. Always will be. And I can’t change who I am.”

  A cloud of NLBR sadness gathered above their heads. Some looked down. Others picked their cuticles. But no one fussed with their hair or tooth-scraped their gloss. And for that reason alone, Massie knew she had made a real difference in their lives.

  “Hey, who wants to go put their suitcases back in the trailer?” Powder broke the silence, his cheeks aglow with self-tanner.

  “Me!” responded the NLBRs.

  They waved back at their beloved alpha and hurried off to collect their Vuittons.

  Dempsey remained.

  “I can’t wait to see what you do to improve Main Building. Maybe pad the chairs? Those spa massagers were sweet.”

  Massie wanted to run her finger along the grooves in his dimpled cheeks, like scraping cookie dough from a mixing bowl. So tacky but so tempting.

  Bzzzzzzzz. Bzzzzzzzz.

  “Someone’s vibrating,” Kristen announced.

  Everyone checked their phones.

  “It’s me.” Claire waved her rhinestone-encrusted Motorola.

  “Who is it?�
�� Massie asked, knowing all of Claire’s friends and family were in the Café.

  “No one.” Claire snapped her cell shut. “Just a stupid text.”

  “Lemme see.” Massie held out her hand.

  Claire’s cheeks turned red. Massie wiggled her fingers. Dylan, Kristen, and Alicia stepped closer.

  “Seriously, it’s no one.”

  With serpent’s-tongue speed, Massie snatched the phone from Claire’s fist and read the message aloud:

  Dumpd O. Wrst mom. U r the only 1 4 me. Let’s talk. XOX C

  The NPC gasped. Massie held out her hand again.

  “What?” Claire asked, her voice shaking.

  “Your bracelet.”

  The NPC gasped again.

  “What? No!”

  “The bracelet!”

  “I swear I had nothing to do with—”

  “Uh, my parents made reservations at the club tonight, so I better go.” Dempsey smiled awkwardly.

  “Which club?” Massie asked, her fingers still wiggling under Claire’s chin.

  “High Hills.”

  “Ehmagawd, we go there!”

  “Really?”

  “Swear!!” Massie beamed. And then she noticed the NPC glaring at her.

  “Boyfast!” Dylan sneezed.

  Massie’s smiled quickly faded.

  Everyone giggled except Claire.

  “Well, have fun.” Massie waved goodbye. “Say hi to Rodney for me. And tell him I loved the cinnamon rolls he dropped off at the house on Labor Day.”

  “Aren’t those the best?” Dempsey lingered.

  “Yup. Have fun. See ya.” Massie said quickly.

  “Uh, okay.” He left in a bewildered huff.

  She hated dismissing him like the LBR that he once was, but knew she’d e-mail him later with some kind of apology and he’d forgive her.

  “Now give me that bracelet!” Massie snarled, her patience waning.

  “I can’t believe this.” Claire slid the platinum chain off her wrist and smacked it into Massie’s palm.

  Alicia’s brown eyes widened. Dylan tied her curly red hair in knots. And Kristen grabbed her shark-tooth necklace.

  “Now you,” Massie said to Kristen.

  “What? What did I do? Is it this necklace? Okay, fine, it’s from Dune. But we haven’t talked since the boyfast. Not even a single text. He’s on an island in the middle of the Pacific with no cell service. And he won’t be back until next week. And I can prove it. If you don’t believe me—”

  Massie rolled her eyes impatiently. “Give it.”

  Kristen did what she was told, then exchanged a horror-filled what’s-going-awn glance with Claire.

  “Next!”

  “Why me?” Dylan screeched. “The only guys I’ve had contact with have been Mike and Ike. And that only happened once. During an extreme sugar craving.”

  “Just do it,” Massie sighed.

  Dylan unclasped her bracelet and tossed it onto the bamboo table. It slid onto the floor, yet no one bothered to pick it up.

  “As of this moment”—Massie shimmied the Tiffany’s bracelet off her wrist—“the boyfast is officially over.”

  “What?” The girls smiled.

  “How can we be alphas if we’re not breaking hearts our last year of middle school?”

  “Point!” Alicia lifted her finger.

  “I’ll get new bracelets tomorrow,” Massie promised, then got scooped up in a group hug. “Let the eighth grade begin!” she shouted from inside their tight circle.

  “Let the eighth grade begin!” they shouted back, living for Monday.

  CURRENT STATE OF THE UNION

  IN

  OUT

  PC

  NPC

  Dempsey

  Derrington

  Boyfest!!!

  Boyfast

  ME

  Want to be IN and find out what really happened last summer?

  SUMMER STATE OF THE UNION

  IN

  OUT

  Purple hair streaks

  Summer secrets

  Confidentiality contracts

  Euro pop stars

  Shark-tooth necklaces

  Massie & Claire in Orlando

  Five girls. Five stories. One ah-mazing summer.

  THE CLIQUE SUMMER COLLECTION

  Coming April, May, June, July, & August.

  Turn the page for a sneak peek of Massie’s story. …

  THE CLIQUE SUMMER COLLECTION

  MASSIE

  BY LISI HARRISON

  GALWAUGH FARMS SLEEP-AWAY RIDING CAMP

  HORSE STALL A

  Monday, June 10th

  8:15 AM

  The morning sun felt like a spotlight. It cast a thick yellow beam through the window in Brownie’s humid hay-filled stall, illuminating the white horse and blinding his owner. But Massie Block didn’t mind one bit. She craved it. Chased it. Dressed for it. She was used to the glare of the spotlight. Basking in its warmth kept her alive. Yet today, the spotlight was threatening to shine on someone else. And Massie wanted to die.

  She lowered her tortoiseshell Dior glasses and snapped the purple glitter hair elastic around the bottom of Brownie’s last mane-braid. His intricate hairstyle, aubergine satin blinders, and gold glitter mascara were sure to impress the judges of the Galwaugh Farms’ JACC—Jump and Cantor Competition—and more importantly, the editor of Horse and Rider. For the first time in the equestrian magazine’s history, the winning captain of the Galwaugh Farms’ JACC would be featured on the glossy cover of its September issue. And what better way to kick off eighth grade at OCD than with a beautifully air-brushed alpha-portrait?

  Pop!

  Massie jumped. The sound of her teammate Jacqueline Dyer popping Forever Fruit Stride gum between her overbleached teeth was unnerving.

  “J, can you puh-lease stop that!” Massie hissed at the dark brown wood stall-wall between them. “You’re scaring Brownie.”

  “Sah-rreee,” Jacqueline called, her nasal voice slightly higher than usual. “It’s a nervous thing.”

  “What are you so nervous about?” Massie asked, already knowing the answer. She tucked her black-and-gold Hermès cravat into the sharp V of her velvet riding vest even though it was perfectly tucked already. It was all she could do to keep from stress-biting the black tips off her not-so-French French manicure. “Those blue ribbons have Galwaugh Goddesses written all over them.”

  “Unless the Mane Mamas take first,” Whitney Bennett chimed in from behind the opposite wall.

  “Impossible!” Massie barked at her summer best friends. “We win JACC every year.” As team captain it was her job to keep everyone positive, even when things seemed utterly hopeless.

  “Yeah, but we never had Fall-a Abdul on our team,” Jacqueline set off a round of gum pops that made Brownie’s gold lashes flutter in panic.

  “Stop calling me that,” Selma Gallman whined from the far end of the stable. “I told you, I got an inner ear infection from swimming in the lake yesterday. And that’s why I keep falling. My balance is off.”

  “What was your excuse last week?” Massie marched out of her stall and straight into Selma’s. “Or the week before?” The calm, confident leader act was done. She lifted her Diors and glared into Selma’s heavy-lidded mud-brown eyes. “Thanks to your ear, my six-year winning streak is in major jeopardy.” Her voice trembled. A vision of the highly decorated “Wins Wall” in her bedroom—between the bay window and the walk-in closet—flashed before her. It had just enough room for one last ribbon and a framed cover of Horse and Rider. And the thought of that space staying empty filled her amber eyes with salty pre-tears. Not only for her. Or the Galwaugh Goddesses. But for Brownie and his elegant hairstyle and all of his hard practicing.

  Glancing out the window, Massie tried to distract herself. But the sight of junior campers, staff members, parents, and local reporters making their way to the dirt-paved arena only upset her more. The only thing worse than losing was losing in public. And
thanks to Selma, she was minutes away from both.

  The familiar smell of Jacqueline’s citrus-scented gum and Whitney’s flowery freesia hoof ’n’ nail cream enveloped her. Her girls were standing beside her now in solidarity, shooting how-could-you-be-so-lame rays at Selma and Latte—her carrot-farting steed.

  Whitney scraped her riding crop against the scrubbed concrete. “How did you qualify for our team anyway?”

  “Not the point.” Selma took her pink fleshy hand off her cocoa horse’s buttock and placed it on her own lumpy hip. “I thought the whole point of riding was to have fun.”

  “No Sel-muh.” Massie kicked a haystack with her black Hermes riding boots. “The whole point of riding is to win. The fun part is laughing at the losers.”

  Selma opened her heart-shaped mouth to respond but was cut off by Alessandro, their award-winning horse-groomer.

  “A good luck gift for youuuu,” he announced in his sing-songy European accent.

  Everyone turned to face the tall forty-something man bounding toward them in an ivory linen suit and Gucci loafers. No socks. He had four enormous silver gift bags swinging from the mini-biceps on his hooked fingers.

  “Enjoyyyy.” Alessandro smiled proudly, deepening the Botox-thirsty smile lines that jutted out from the sides of his dark eyes. He offered each girl her bag then stepped back to witness the joy.

  Massie offered Alessandro a courteous pre-thank you smile. But it was a fake. Unless the bag contained the secret to keeping Selma on her saddle during the competition, its contents were meaningless.

  “Toooo cuh-yoot.” Jacqueline held up a delicious caramel-leather saddle with a big J hand-stitched in scarlet thread across the seat. Its dangling stirrups were studded with tiny red horseshoes for luck.

  “I second that.” Whitney kissed her scarlet W, leaving behind a soft pink glossy lip print.

  “Third.” Jacqueline giggled into the big yellow bubble she was blowing. It popped against her wide smile.