Bratfest At Tiffany's

WESTCHESTER, NY
RIVERA ESTATE

Wednesday, September 16th
6:14 P.M.

Alicia’s scalp itched.
It had started on Josh’s bike, when he doubled her home from school. More than anything, she wanted to take off her pink New York Yankees cap and air out her hair, because it was ah-bviously thirsting for oxygen. But what if there was a bigger problem? Like dandruff? The Soccer Stalkers and excrushes were biking behind them, and she didn’t want them caught in a flurry of white flakes. Besides, if even one speck landed on her black cotton Diane von Furstenberg minidress, she’d be done.
So the hat stayed.
And now all she could do was press her head into the back of Josh’s gray corduroy blazer and rub it against his spine—a gesture he mistook for affection. Which was obvious, once they entered the Riveras’ twenty-two-person state-of-the-art screening room. While Strawberry, Kori, Kemp, Plovert, Derrington, Cam, and Olivia raced to claim their own love seats, Josh didn’t hesitate to share Alicia’s.
“Here it comes!” Kori shouted at the giant screen, kicking her long, thin legs in the air like a circus dog juggling a ball.
Strawberry and Olivia squealed with delight. Alicia, on the other hand, channeled her inner Massie and acted like appearing on the local news was something that happened to her every day.
As soon as the story about a stolen baseball card collection ended, Colton Hedges, a romance novel cover model turned soap star turned local news anchor, addressed the viewers with a dashing brow-lift. “After the break, Winkie Porter will join us with a real”—he chuckled—“jewel of a story about change, transformation, and new beginnings. Stay with us.” He wink-nodded as the show’s fast-paced key-clacking theme music boomed in THX surround sound. A wide shot of Colton shuffling papers about who knew what, considering everything he said was written on the teleprompter, dissolved to an ad for a pill that stopped allergies but caused diarrhea.
“Ew!” Alicia finger-tapped MUTE on the touch-screen panel. “Does anyone want another sundae?” Her silver stacked ring–covered index finger wiggled above the intercom button marked MAIN KITCHEN.
“All fullllll,” burped Derrington, who was sprawled out on the puce-colored suede couch directly in front of her, his muddy Adidas dangling off the armrest.
“Very nice.” Josh leaned forward and smacked his buddy’s head. He apologized to Alicia with an eye-roll on behalf of his snickering friend.
“S’okay,” she mouthed and meant it. Which was weird, considering Dylan’s whole word-burping thing had been one of her pet peeves since forever. But it was different now. Now it reminded her of the things she missed.
Not quite sure how to please her new friends, Alicia asked about the sundaes again. They rubbed their full bellies and groaned.
With the NPC she never had to ask. Never had to wonder what they wanted. Never had to question her role. She just knew. The uncertainty made Alicia crave her old friends. But what could she do about it? Like a mosquito bite, her longing left behind an itch she was forbidden to scratch.
“Nothing? Not even a fro-yo float?” she pressed, desperate to make them happy. After all, she’d lured them away from the skate ramp with the promise of a great time. And if she didn’t deliver, they’d be get-me-outta-here glancing in no time.
But the Soccer Stalkers and ex-crushes seemed perfectly comfortable in the Riveras’ screening room, where each guest sat in full view of the fifteen-foot hi-def screen. Even baby Kate had her own couch. Olivia had mounted her between six grass green cowhide pillows to keep her from rolling onto the clay-tiled floor.
“It’s back on,” announced Plovert, pulling his brown-and-yellow Burton snowboard cap over his elfin ears.
“Volume!” demanded Strawberry from the front of the room. Her wavy pink hair spilled over the back of the couch like My Little Pony’s bubble-gum-colored mane.
Winkie’s hi-def poreless face suddenly filled the screen. The reporter was standing in the BOCD parking lot, wearing a navy Escada Sport tunic dress over matching wide-leg pants. “It feels like another beautiful summer day, but don’t be fooled.” She smirked, her berry colored lips pursing together ever so slightly. “Fall is fast approaching, and with that comes change. And no one knows more about that than the handful of students who managed to turn those …” A “before” shot of the dingy white trailers appeared. “… into these.” The camera pushed past her, zooming in on the gleaming double-wide Tiffany & Co. boxes as if lit by Gawd himself. “Here they come now,” she whispered with the hushed enthusiasm of a bird-watcher.
The trailer door burst open, and there she was. Massie Block appeared at the top of the red velvet-covered stairs, then paused to slide on her bronze Dior sunglasses.
The metallic stripes in her brown dress reflected the late-afternoon sun in glittering winks. Her lips shimmered like a glassy lake at dusk, and her side-pony had more sheen than the new Chloé Mathilde shoulder bag. But it was the purple hair streak she casually twirled around her index finger that showed the world how unstoppable she was. Sure, anyone could buy a fabulous outfit, wear shiny gloss, and have flawless hair. But not everyone would have the vision to add a purple hair streak, announce a boyfast, or turn a hideous metal trailer into a Tiffany box. She was always steps ahead. Impossible to beat. The best anyone could do was walk beside her. And Alicia missed that privilege more and more with every passing second.
One by one, the NPC and the NLBRs descended the staircase as if completely unaware of Winkie and the camera.
“Eh. Ma. Gawd!” Alicia heard herself say. “It’s a full-awn ‘afters’ parade.”
“Seriously,” Olivia gasped. “Who are those people?”
“They’re, like, almost hot,” Kemp dared.
Plovert leaned toward his couch and the two high-fived.
“They’ve been Massied,” Strawberry deduced, sounding one part appalled, two parts jealous.
Just then, Layne, Meena, and Heather appeared, angrily waving poster boards in the air, but the camera panned away so quickly it was impossible to read what they said or hear what they were shouting.
Instead, they saw shots of the NPC and the NLBRs chatting and laughing in the parking lot. Shockingly, not one person so much as side-glanced at the camera. They didn’t fuss with their hair, bite their nails, or scratch their inseams. Instead, they mingled and glided from one attractive person to the next with the grace and skill of Upper East Side debutantes.
In fact, they were so engrossed in their muffled musings, Winkie seemed too intimidated to ask them for interviews. Instead, she whispered, the way one does in a holy temple or at a designer’s trunk show:
“It lifts the human spirit to see what can happen when the oppressed pull together and fight back—especially when they end up better off than they’d ever dreamed they could.” She smiled warmly. “And where there’s triumph, there’s love,” she gushed. The camera cut to a shot of Claire, who lifted a dandelion to her nose and sniffed it. She mouthed, “Thank you,” to Dempsey.
Cam stiffened. Kate started crying. And Olivia ignored them both as she struggled to untangle the massive knot that had formed in her multitiered silver chain necklace. It wasn’t until Kate tumbled onto the floor and Cam jumped to her rescue that Olivia actually lifted her head.
But all Alicia could think about was Claire flirting with Dempsey. And how she’d better be in the process of turning in her bracelet, or she would sue the NPC for unfair treatment.
“What?” Josh gasped, picking up on the injustice. “That’s not fair!”
“I know!” Alicia beamed, grateful, as always, to have him on her side.
“Shhhhhhh,” Cam hissed over Kate’s high-pitched screams.
It was hard to know if he wanted silence to calm his doll, or to hear what the reporter might say next about BOCD’s latest couple. Either way, the only voice that remained was Winkie’s.
“Let’s leave those lovebirds alone and slip inside the nest for a quick tour.” She urged the camera to follow her inside.
The Soccer Stalkers gasped when they saw the rows of mirrored desks, the cotton-covered walls, the velvet ceilings, and the row of Louis Vuitton suitcases. Even Alicia was impressed.
“Who did that?” Kori asked.
“Massie,” Alicia blurted with utmost certainty.
“I want one,” Olivia pouted.
“I want two,” Strawberry whined.
“Are you serious?” Derrington balled up a chocolate-stained napkin and whipped it at Strawberry’s head.
“Are you?” Strawberry whipped it back.
“Why would anyone want to hang out in a jewelry box?”
Kemp cracked up.
“Seriously, dude.” Plovert snickered. “Could you imagine if word got out that the soccer team went to school in one of those things? We’d be destroyed.”
“Dempsey didn’t seem too upset,” Cam blurted bitterly.
“He will be once he hikes up his skirt and realizes he’s not a girl.” Kemp lifted his palm, knowing a round of high fives were on the way.
By now, Winkie was back in the parking lot, surrounded once again by NLBRs and the NPC, all of whom were beaming and smiling and ignoring the woman with the microphone who was standing off to the side, going on about how incredible the trailers were and how impressed she was with Massie Block, who’d made it all happen.
“Whatever!” Derrington blew a spitball at the screen.
After she signed off, Alicia felt hungry. Not for sundaes or fro-yo but for the NPC. She inhaled Josh’s Polo Black, hoping it might remind her why she’d chosen him. But it didn’t.
What was the point in having a boyfriend if you didn’t have girlfriends to talk about him with? It was like having an iPhone without AT&T. A Prada wallet with no credit cards. Gloss and no lips.
Suddenly, the phones in the house started flashing and ringing, all five lines at once.
“What’s happening?” Strawberry reached for her backpack.
“Terrorists!” Olivia grabbed her yellow Kate Spade bag, leaving Kate for Cam to deal with.
“Why would they call first?” Plovert scratched his hat.
Olivia giggle-shrugged.
“Shhhhhh,” Alicia insisted. Once everyone was quiet, she placed line two on mute-speaker.
A nasal woman was in the middle of leaving a message for Mr. Rivera.
“… I certainly don’t pay forty thousand dollars a year to have my daughter stuck in some run-of-the-mill building. Why wasn’t she chosen to be in the Tiffany’s Boxes? She shops at that store more than anyone. I can promise you that! If my daughter isn’t in one of those trailers tomorrow I am suing. And I want you to represent me. So please call me at—” Alicia hung up quietly.
While the Soccer Stalkers schemed about ways to get transferred to the trailers and the ex-crushes made fun of the people who actually thought they were cool, Alicia stared at the blinking phone. More than anything she wanted to call up the NPC and congratulate them on a job well done. She wanted to celebrate with them. Laugh with them. Take part in their victory.
All her life she’d dreamed of making the news. Not watching it. And no one did that better than the NPC.
No one.