Bratfest at Tiffany's

by Lisi Harrison

  “Wow, you must have a lot of favorites.” Winkie oversmiled. “Can we see some of them?”

  “Um …” Massie turned around and glanced at her friends, who were now giggling into their palms.

  Before she could dream up a good excuse, the cameraman crouched down on one knee, focusing on the trunk. Massie had no choice but to open it.

  She popped the gold hinges and lifted the heavy lid. Packed inside were six vanilla-scented candles, two bottles of Purell, three soft white glare-free lightbulbs, five glass bottles of L’Occitane Cherry Blossom room spray, eight Nutz Over Chocolate Luna Bars, and four old denim skirts she’d asked Inez to sew into window treatments. All of which were necessary if she planned on surviving in the stinky trailers without passing out … or being seen. Not that Winkie needed to know any of that.

  “Ehmagawd, my books!” she gasped. “I must have grabbed the wrong Louis when I left this morning.”

  The clouds turned black. Thunder roared. And suddenly, the sky dumped rain.

  “My hair!” Dylan shouted, struggling to pull her Chanel raincoat out from the side pocket of her suitcase. “It’s going to curl.”

  “Ehmagawd, my shirt is see-through!” Kristen threw her arms around Claire’s back in a desperate attempt to keep her white training bra off the nightly news.

  “Ew,” Claire wiggle-giggled. “You’re wet! Get offa me!”

  “I have mascara in my eyes!” screamed Big Mac. “It burns!” She rubbed the sleeve of her soaked jean jacket across her face, smudging MAC makeup all over her cheeks until it looked like she’d run headfirst into a wet oil painting.

  “Everyone inside!” Ms. Dunkel called from the open doorway. “Hurry!”

  “No way!” screeched Monkey Paws. “That thing’s gonna blow!”

  “My books! They’re gonna get soaked,” screeched Candy Corn, his yellow teeth chattering as he dragged his wheel-less suitcase under the trailer. Twizzler, Putty, Powder, Blond Lincoln, Braille Bait, Loofah, Great White, and Bag Hag immediately did the same.

  Layne, Heather, and Meena, shrouded in matching green trash bags, joined hands, spun in a gleeful circle, and sang “Singing in the Rain.”

  “So, these are my best friends.” Massie turned to yank Claire, Kristen, and Dylan in front of the camera, but they were gone.

  Winkie pity-grinned, then shouted above the teeming rain, “How about we take a look inside the real school and see how the others are coping.”

  The bald guy swiftly lowered his camera. Winkie flicked off her mic. Without a single goodbye or thank-you, they sprinted across the parking lot toward the regal stone building, as if their lives depended on it.

  BOCD

  MAIN BUILDING

  Thursday, September 10th

  8:44 A.M.

  The second-period bell rang, liberating Alicia and Kori from a pointless biology lesson on frog parts. It was Alicia’s only class without Josh and therefore a major waste of forty-five minutes. At least it gave her the chance to run to the first-floor bathroom to re-gloss and check the position of her pink NYY cap and—

  “Ehmagawd.” She grabbed Kori’s lanky arm and dragged her down the hall, a sudden gesture that shocked the bony girl into dropping her notebooks.

  “What? What’s happening?” Kori quickly scooped up her clear binders to prevent them from getting stomped on by the mad rush of ballet flats and Pumas.

  “That new teacher coming out of the bathroom looks exactly like the reporter on—”

  “You watch news?” Kori stood, wiping dust off the knees of her cropped straight-leg Sevens. Her red-and-white gingham blouse and short stumpy pigtails made her look like a farmhand—the cute kind you see in fashion magazines, not the real-life ones that actually feed pigs.

  “Of course I watch news.” Alicia tugged her sleek black ponytail, which swung from the opening in the back of her pink cap and made her feel like a preppy RL model. “Mostly with the volume down, but still. If I’m going to be a famous reporter one day, I have to see how the anchors dress and style their hair and what makeup they use and—”

  “Well, there is a cameraman with her, so maybe—”

  “Ehmagawd, it’s Winkie Porter!” Alicia whisper-shouted.

  Thankfully, she’d ditched her blue-and-white striped Ella Moss T-dress when she heard the weather forecast and opted for baggy black Ralph Lauren Blue Label cargos, a wide silver belt, and a gray Vince ruffle tee. The colors said, “I’m serious about current events,” while the playful cuts and luxe fabrics said, “And I’ll deliver them in style.”

  Alicia decided she was at least a nine point three—it was time to make her move. She grabbed Kori’s wrist and pulled her through the crowded halls, not caring how many designer bags she bashed into along the way.

  The heady floral scent of Trésor perfume swirled around Alicia as she approached the sharply dressed and neatly coiffed reporter.

  “Hi, I’m Alicia Rivera, BOCD’s anchorwoman.” She extended her right hand. “I love your shoes. Are they Manolos?”

  Winkie smiled at her gray pumps. “Indeeeed they are.” Then she gave Alicia’s hand a firm shake. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Ech-hem.” Kori fake-cleared her throat.

  “I’m—” Winkie started.

  “Oh, I totally know who you are,” Alicia said, feeling her heart beat in her gums. “What are you doing here?”

  Kori coughed.

  “We’re doing a piece on how OCD and Briarwood have joined together.” She swiped a bloodred Shu Uemura lipstick across her mouth, then dabbed the excess on a silver Doublemint wrapper she had in the pocket of her cream-colored pantsuit.

  “I’ll take that.” Kori held out her hand, obviously desperate to find her way into the conversation.

  “Thank you,” Winkie muttered, while gazing at the mad rush of students flirt-rushing to their next class. “We better get started before we lose everyone.” She half-nodded at her cameraman, who immediately handed her a mic.

  “Rolling.”

  “Great.” Winkie conjured a wide smile. “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

  “Ehmagawd! Opposite of yes.” Alicia smiled for the long dark lens.

  Kori, having just returned from dumping the lipstick-covered gum wrapper in the trash, was freshly glossed. She stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Alicia as the passing students slowed to see what was going on.

  “I am standing in the dry halls of BOCD, surrounded by, the beautiful students who were lucky enough to hold on to their spots in the most prestigious learning institution on the East Coast. No trailers and rainstorms for them,” Winkie announced. “And here to tell us why these kids made the cut is BO’s very own anchorwoman, Ali—”

  “Hi, I’m Alicia Rivera,” She pulled the mic from Winkie’s hand and began strolling down the hall. The cameraman followed.

  “I can’t say for sure why some of us got to stay and others had to go. All I do know is that we really, really appreciate the sacrifice they made for us.” A cluster of kids gathered behind her, bobbing and weaving, vying for their big moment on camera. “You have no idea how cramped and crowded it was in here before. It got so bad, the lady at the organic coffee station in the New Green Café actually had to stop giving people foam on their lattes because the lines were so long. It was brutal.”

  Suddenly, Winkie appeared by Alicia’s side, gripping a second mic. “Do you think the overflowers feel discriminated against?”

  “No,” scoffed Alicia. “I heard from one of my sources that they think it’s super-cool.” She made air quotes around “super-cool” so everyone would know she was citing her source.

  “Why do they like it so much?” Winkie asked. “Do you think they enjoy the feeling of helping others?”

  “Whatevs. It’s nawt like they did it to help anyone. They were in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Alicia blurted, and then worried that she might have unintentionally blown some sort of press spin Massie had cooked up to make herself look like a hero.
>
  “Some of those students seemed really happy,” Winkie argued. “Three of them were literally wearing trash bags and singing in the rain.”

  This time, Alicia knew she couldn’t possibly be referring to the NPC.

  “I think they feel safe out there. No one can pick on them. It’s better for everyone.”

  “So those people were sent away because they’re less popular?” Winkie’s expression was a mix of shock and elation—like someone who grabbed the wrong handbag by accident and found it full of cash. “Is that what you’re saying?”

  Just then, someone snuck up behind Alicia and tugged her ponytail.

  She whipped around, ready to bark at whoever dared interrupt her during her interview, then saw her ah-dorable crush and giggled instead.

  Cam and Olivia were beside him, trying desperately to quell Kate’s latest tantrum.

  “And who is this?” Winkie gushed over the baby.

  “This is Kate.” Olivia gripped the screaming baby behind the neck and waved her in front of the camera. “Isn’t she cute? I named her after Kate Spade because she loves sleeping in my purse.” The doll cried harder.

  Winkie crinkled her penciled-on eyebrows in confusion.

  “Where’s that pacifier?” Cam searched the pockets of his Hurleys.

  “How about this?” Olivia forced a pink lip gloss-stained straw into Kate’s mouth and tried to coax her into sipping some Diet Coke.

  The final bell rang.

  Two couples hurried by, whisking their screaming babies off to health class.

  “What’s going on here?” Winkie gripped her abdomen.

  “Oh,” Alicia snickered, finally catching on. “The babies are fake. It’s for health class. You know, to teach us responsibility.”

  “I see it’s really working.” Winkie rolled her eyes for the camera as Olivia yanked the straw from Kate’s mouth and then tossed her at Cam, who managed to catch her just before she slammed into a Hello Kitty sticker-covered locker.

  “Aren’t they ah-dorable together?” Alicia asked, anxious to know whether Winkie approved of her new friends. Whether she thought they passed for alphas. Whether she thought Alicia was talented enough to be mistaken for their leader. “I totally approve. They are the best parents. I swear. And the cutest couple, don’t you think?”

  “They are attractive,” Winkie gushed for the camera.

  Alicia grinned with delight.

  “But not as attractive as us.” Josh threw his arm around Alicia’s shoulders, then flicked the brim of her hat. He raced off to class before Alicia could swat him back.

  “Well, you better get going,” Winkie said as the hall emptied out.

  “Yeah,” Alicia sighed.

  “I can stay,” Kori offered.

  “That’s okay.” Winkie half nodded to her cameraman, who then lowered the camera and wiped his beading forehead with the bottom of his black denim shirt. “We got what we need.” She smirked.

  Alicia scribbled her e-mail address on a sheet of vanilla-scented notebook paper and handed it to the anchorwoman. “If you need a follow-up interview or even want a co-anchor or field correspondent, let me know.”

  “Will do.” Winkie sounded impressed as she carefully folded the paper and slipped it in the side pocket of her pants. “And don’t forget to watch tonight. Six o’clock.” She slipped on her mirrored Dior wraparound glasses.

  “I won’t.” Alicia offered her hand for one last shake, then caught her reflection in the lenses.

  OMG!

  Suddenly, instead of fantasizing about the countless agents and network executives who would beg her to drop out of school to become the youngest, prettiest anchor in television history, she broke out in a cold sweat.

  She had been wearing Josh’s NYY cap. On TV!

  Her armpits, the backs of her knees, and her forehead were suddenly drenched in beads of liquid panic. It was a dead giveaway to anyone who’d known her for more than an hour that she was in severe crush mode. Why else would she wear something so athletic and pink on her head?

  All Alicia could do was thank Gawd Winkie didn’t work for 60 Minutes or CNN. At least she was on the local news. And who watched that?

  THE BLOCK ESTATE

  GLU HEADQUARTERS/THE SPA

  Thursday, September 10th

  6:19 P.M.

  Most nights, while her mother was cooking dinner and Todd was playing video games, Claire would curl up beside her dad on the tan corduroy couch and watch the six o’clock news. Even though they only spoke during commercials or those pointless stories about old people’s birthdays, she associated the evening broadcasts with feelings of security and love.

  But not tonight.

  Tonight she was in the Blocks’ spa, on a brown leather couch, sandwiched between Massie and Alicia, staring at a high-definition image of Winkie Porter, who was reporting on the rising tensions in the Middle East. And for the first time ever, Claire understood exactly what “rising tensions” felt like.

  The only words Massie had uttered since school ended that day were, “Isaac, drop everyone at my house.”

  “Why?” Alicia had asked nervously, twisting and twirling her silver rings.

  “Screening party.” Massie leaned her head against the window of the silver Range Rover, as if a party were the last thing on her mind.

  “For what?”

  “We’re on the evening news,” Massie snapped. “Re-mem-ber? Or are you people in Main Building too important to care about what goes on in overflow?”

  Kristen twirled her shark-tooth necklace. Dylan checked her damp, frizzy hair for split ends. And Claire examined her swollen, red cuticles.

  “I wasn’t saying that. I was just—”

  “Whatevs.” Massie rested her head against the tan leather seat and closed her eyes.

  After that, no one said another word. They followed Massie across the Block Estate’s soaked lawn to the old horse shed-turned-spa, then dipped their cold, wet toes in the bubbling Jacuzzi while Inez raced to fill the room with ambience and snacks. Once the dutiful maid saw herself out, the NPC made themselves comfortable on the leather furniture and silently traded copies of Us Weekly, OK!, and Teen Vogue until 6 p.m.

  But despite the soothing sound of water trickling from the limestone Zen fountain, the dimmed lights, the periodic blasts of lavender that misted from tiny holes in the ceiling, the crackling fire that cast a warm glow below the flat-screen TV, the strawberry-flavored iced tea, the humid earthy smell of passing rain that lingered after the storm, and Massie’s ah-dorable black pug, Bean, who snored between them, Claire found it impossible to relax.

  All she could think about was Cam and Olivia. Were they really a couple? What did they talk about? Why were they always laughing? Did he think Olivia was prettier than she was? Did he give her gummy worms and sours? Did he wear Drakkar Noir when he was with her? Did she smell it all the time, even when they weren’t together? And did he miss Claire at all? Even a little bit? It took all of her strength not to come right out and beg Alicia for the gossip.

  But the room was too silent for forbidden questions.

  “How much longer till we’re on?” Dylan stuck her pinky finger in the melted wax that pooled at the top of one of the vanilla candles, then shook it while it cooled.

  “You know, it may not be good idea to watch this,” Alicia offered. “Fact: A lot of celebrities don’t watch themselves ever. They think they look bad, and it depresses them. That’s why so many actors become directors. They’re too embarrassed to go on camera again after they’ve seen themselves.”

  Kristen cackled. “That’s not true!”

  “It is!” Alicia lifted her palm as if swearing in a court of law.

  “Shhhhhhh!” Massie slapped the thick brown armrest. “Here we go.” She turned up the volume, then hugged her knees to her chest.

  A shot of the darkening parking lot filled the screen. Soda cans and empty chip bags blew across the frame. The lens pulled back, revealing Winkie Porter—hair
slicked, makeup matte, and BriteSmile smile gleaming. Her cream-colored slacks whipped against her toned calves, revealing the shiny points on her gray pumps. The scene looked like a storm update from the Midwest.

  And then, Winkie, leaning against the dirty white trailer, began shouting above the whistling wind. …

  “Winkie Porter here to bring you a heartwarming story of sacrifice, generosity, and love. It all started when Briarwood Academy crumbled to the ground last May, leaving hundreds of students stranded without a school. That is, until Octavian Country Day opened its doors and hearts and took them in. But for many, that’s when the real problems began.”

  The shot cut to the main building. The halls were crowded with students racing from one class to the other. But Alicia, who was strolling at a window-shopper’s pace, seemed to have all the time in the world.

  “It got so bad, the lady at the organic coffee station in the New Green Café stopped giving people foam on their lattes because the lines were so long.”

  Massie smacked the armrest on the leather couch. “Ehmagawd, you’re in this?”

  “I guess.” Alicia peeled a layer of Matador Red polish off her thumbnail.

  “What’s up with that hat?” asked Kristen. “You hate sports.”

  “And pink,” Dylan added suspiciously.

  “And sports!” Kristen giggled.

  “Where’d you get it?” Massie huffed. “And don’t say Spain. Even they know better.”

  Alicia bit her bottom lip and shrugged.

  Everyone turned back to the flat-screen.

  “So what was the school’s solution?” Winkie addressed the camera. “Trailers. Used trailers. In the parking lot.” She paused to let that sink in with the home audience.

  Kristen and Dylan cheered. But Claire was all too aware of the mounting tension between Alicia and Massie to join them. An angry invisible force was spiraling around them, building and strengthening, like a tornado. And Claire was trapped in the middle.

  Winkie continued. “One can’t help but wonder how the faculty decided who stays and who goes. What criteria did they use to make their decision? And was that decision fair? Or was it a convenient way to rid the school of its special-needs students? Alicia Rivera, BOCD’s anchorwoman, had some insights.”