Bratfest At Tiffany's

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.
“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.”
“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