“No, not that.” Gina waved away the ridiculous thought. “I know you already know about that. I’m talking about what happens next.”
Everyone was silent. For the second time that morning, Claire’s mind was not on Cam. All she could think about was the brutally uncomfortable sex talk her parents had had with her, seconds after she’d downed her third slice of Baskin-Robbins mint chocolate-chip ice-cream cake on her ninth birthday. They cornered her at the picnic table once all the guests had left and asked her if she understood the dirty jokes her older cousin Debbie had been telling. She shook her head and stuffed handfuls of jelly beans in her mouth while they went into disgusting detail about what happens when two people love each other. Minutes after they were done, Claire puked green in her new sandbox and still, to this day, had no idea if it was the ice cream cake or her father saying “penis” that had made her so nauseated.
“This is what happens.” Gina reached under her shirt and pulled out a freakishly real-looking nude baby doll.
Everyone gasped and exchanged shocked glances while the teacher hurried into the hall and returned with a playpen filled with crying toy babies. She gently placed hers inside the pen. She smoothed out her shirt, which clung to her now-flat Alba-abs. “Since I am assuming you all know how babies are made …”
A few of the boys exchanged high fives.
“… I am going to spend this semester teaching you how to take care of them,” she announced over the mounting hysterics coming from the playpen. “Which is no fun at all, trust me. Especially when your husband and au pair leave you with the twins so they can go diving in Fiji.”
Gina twisted open her half-liter bottle of Poland Spring water and took a long, cleansing sip. “Lucky for you, these babies are synthetic. But other than that, they will look, act, sound, and smell like the real thing. They cry, go to the bathroom, sleep, and eat. They need to be held, changed, clothed, burped, and loved.” She shook a baby bottle filled with crumpled-up pieces of paper. “Each doll has been implanted with a microchip that not only makes the baby act like a baby, it sends data to my computer, telling me how you are responding to its needs. We will spend each class learning how to care for your children. The good news is, there will be no tests. I will know how you’re doing by logging onto my Mac.”
A sigh of relief blew through the room.
“The bad news is you will have to care for this baby all semester.”
Murmurs and moans came from every corner. But Claire welcomed the challenge. The project would definitely take her mind off—
The classroom door clicked open. Think of the devil!
Cam mouthed, “Sorry,” to Gina and hurried to the back of the class. Olivia Ryan entered behind him; the ivory cashmere hood on her tight, sleeveless sweaterdress was pulled down over her head like it might make her invisible and keep her from getting in trouble. She grabbed the empty seat beside Cam.
Claire could sense Layne glaring at her with pity. And suddenly it felt like the entire class was watching her, waiting for her to start bawling. Which she easily could have.
The temptation to turn around made Claire’s skin itch. She was desperate to study him. Study Olivia. Study them together. Desperate to know if the heat on the back of her neck meant he was eyeing her. Or maybe it simply meant she remembered how it felt when he did. But she wouldn’t dare look. Massie would have been proud.
Still, the possibility of being watched by Cam at this very second was creepy. It made Claire feel vulnerable and exposed and pathetic. Like naked Eve. But worse. Like naked Eve if naked Adam left her, alone and bare at the front of the room, so he could go hang with another, prettier mannequin.
Claire gripped her charm bracelet, begging it to give her strength.
“Names?” Gina demanded once the latecomers were seated.
Everyone turned around but Claire.
“Cam Fisher.”
His voice sounded different. Harder. Colder. Weighted with experiences she knew nothing about. More like a hotel, less like home.
“Annnnnnd?” Gina asked.
“Olivia Ryan.” She giggled nervously.
“Great.” Gina smiled. “Cam Fisher and Olivia Ryan, I expect to see you both here tomorrow morning at seven a.m. for detention.”
Layne looked at Claire as if they had just won a major lawsuit. But Claire hardly saw Cam and Olivia’s punishment as a victory. All the detention meant was that her ex-crush and his new crush would be alone in a room covered with naked pictures and pamphlets on sex. Um, who was really getting punished here?
Gina click-clacked up and down the rows. “Each girl will reach inside this bottle and pick out a piece of paper. Her partner’s name and baby’s gender will be on that piece of paper. And both will be yours to deal with for the rest of the semester. No trading. Believe me, if I could have traded partners, I would’ve. But unfortunately, life doesn’t work that way.”
Gina stuck an Avent bottle in front of Krista’s face. Trembling, Krista reached her silver-manicured fingers inside and pinched out a piece of paper. Slowly, she leaned back and opened it in front of her friend Mara, a stringy-haired brunette with a face full of freckles. They tittered with delight.
“As soon as you pick a name, please join your partner and select the appropriate baby from the playpen. From that moment on, you will sit together.”
Hands reached into the bottle, unions were formed, and babies were selected. One minute Claire prayed she’d pick Cam, and the next she prayed she wouldn’t. The thought of him raising a baby with someone else made her feel like puking green all over again. But raising a baby together would be too difficult. What if they rekindled their love? What if they didn’t? Either way, it would be impossible to get over him if they had to spend every second together. And that would jeopardize her place in the NPC, not to mention her sleep, her grades, and her entire digestive system. The best she could hope for was that Layne picked him. That way Claire could rest knowing he wasn’t falling for his partner. Nothing against Layne, but if Dempsey Solomon was her idea of cool, she’d never like Cam Fisher. He wasn’t nearly ew enough.
“Yes!” Olivia blurted. “Wha$$$[MS PAGE NO 55]$$$ssup, my baby daddy?” The unmistakable slap of a high five forced Claire to turn.
Cam and Olivia were palm to palm, gushing like perfect valentines. They strolled to the front of the class and hovered over the playpen, in search of the perfect baby girl.
Layne slapped Claire’s arm. “Don’t stare.”
“Next.” Gina waved the bottle in front of Layne’s face.
Claire stood, desperate for a secluded bathroom stall and a tube of waterproof mascara. “I have to get out of here.”
“Not now!” Layne whisper-begged. “Don’t you want to see who I get?”
Claire wiped her stinging eyes and sat while Layne fished out a name.
“Pete Ehrlich?” She searched the room until she spotted the only guy left in his seat. His dirty blond shoulder length hair was parted down the middle, framing the sides of his oily face like soiled motel curtains. Layne mimed barfing in her mouth and then flipped the paper. “What does ‘T’ mean?”
“Twins.” Gina snickered. “G’luck with that.”
“But—” Layne tried to protest, but Gina had already moved on to Claire.
Gina held out the bottle, her liquid brown eyes fixed on the back of the room, where Olivia and Cam were cracking each other up with baby-name suggestions.
“How about we call her the Pied Pooper?” Olivia suggested as she fanned the air.
Cam laughed, even though a silly joke like that was beneath him. At least it used to be.
Claire returned her attention to the bottle, which Gina was waving under her chin. “Um, Gina? It’s empty.”
“Huh?” The teacher’s gaze remained fixed on Cam and Olivia.
“There aren’t any names left.”
“I know!” Layne called from halfway across the room. She was balancing two crying babies on her lap while Pete pic
ked a patch of dry skin off his droopy lower lip. “She can help us. We need it.”
“I’d rather you join those two in the back.” Gina tilted her head toward Cam and Olivia, who were in the middle of jamming their crying daughter into Olivia’s yellow Kate Spade tote. They twisted and turned the baby until her chin rested on the lip of the bag like a teacup Chihuahua’s. “They need help staying focused. Go be the stepmom.”
“But—”
“That’s not fair!” Layne shouted. “We have twins.”
“Don’t you ever use the F-word in my classroom,” Gina snapped. “As far as I’m concerned there’s no such thing.”
“Why don’t I become a single mother?” Claire tried, desperate for a way out.
“Cute.” Gina rubbed her ringless wedding finger. “Now go.” She pointed to the back of the room. “I have a few announcements to make before the bell rings.”
Claire’s forehead began sweating; her mouth went dry and her vision blurred. The sound of her thumping heart beat out her steps like a metronome. Leftright … leftright … leftright …
Without its steady tempo guiding her forward, Claire’s legs would have noodled, and she would have collapsed.
Cam and Olivia didn’t even look up when she approached. They were too busy marveling at how cute their baby looked with her bald head poking out of the bag.
“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.
BOCD
THE BOMB SHELTER
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.”
Bratfest at Tiffany's Page 5