Bratfest At Tiffany's

BOCD
THE BOMB SHELTER

Tuesday, September 8th
4:03 P.M.

A rush of boys dressed in burgundy shorts and green shirts hurried in. Massie stiffened. The soccer team?!
Derrington in her bomb shelter was too much to process. Her palms flooded. Her pits prickled. And her personality was MIA. All she could do was stare at his muddy, grass-stained knees and hate herself for thinking the boy who’d dumped her at an eighth-grade party looked kinda cute.
“Look, it’s more girls.” Derrington ran a hand through his sweaty, dirty blond post–soccer practice hair. “Everywhere we go we have fans.” He turned around and wiggled his butt.
“Ehmagawd, I should have known!” Alicia fanned her cheeks and paced in a tight circle. “I made the announcement at lunch!”
What announcement? Massie asked with crinkled brows.
“The Tomahawks soccer meeting will be held in room sub-C5 at four this afternoon,” she air quoted. “I had no idea sub-C5 was—”
“We’re like Beckham.” Kemp Hurley high-fived the guys.
Massie twirled her purple hair streak tightly around her finger until the digit throbbed.
“So, what brings you here?” Derrington strutted over to the benches and glared at Massie. “Autographs?”
The guys snickered, forming a tight half-circle behind their star goalie.
“No.” Massie struggled to keep her shaking knees from knocking. “We’re not signing today. Sorry.”
She exchanged a triumphant round of high fives with the NPC.
“Then why are you here?” Derrington pressed. “To apologize for spying and beg for our forgiveness?”
The Tomahawks laughed and moved in closer. Cam was the only one who didn’t join them. Instead he camped out by the Poland Spring cooler, nervously filling, gulping, and refilling a tiny waxed-paper cup with water.
Massie dialed up her inner alpha and pleaded for something fabulous to say. But the call went straight to voice mail.
“Because we’ve talked about it. And we’ll forgive you, if, and only if, you complete a few small tasks for us.” Derrington folded his arms across his chest.
The boys high-fived again while the NPC eye-urged Massie to do something.
But what?
Her heart thumped like a little bunny whose feet were about to get torn off and made into key chains. The last time she’d felt this threatened had been at a crowded Southampton estate sale over the summer. She had grabbed a black satin vintage Chanel clutch that was ridiculously underpriced at eighty-five dollars and was immediately descended upon by a pack of Kelly Ripa look-alikes. As they got within grabbing distance, Massie froze. The grassy lawn spun, the sun intensified, and her Cookie Dough Glossip Girl lip gloss evaporated. A tangle of spray-tanned arms reached out toward her. Luckily, the overpowering smell of freesia perfume woke her inner alpha. Sudden bolts of energy zapped through Massie’s entire body and fortified her with the strength she needed to escape. Without a second thought, she dug into her Coach tote, grabbed a crumpled hundred-dollar bill, whipped it at the cashier, and sprinted for the Range Rover.
Now, desperate for another lifesaving bolt of energy, Massie unzipped her bowler bag and quickly spritzed the air with Chanel No. 19. She inhaled deeply. The green floral wood notes, jasmine, rose, iris, ylang-ylang, sandalwood, and mosses filled her every cell. She was back.
She took a step forward and glared into Derrington’s light brown eyes.
“Do you have a nut allergy?”
“No, why?” He glanced at his teammates in confusion.
“Because your head is starting to swell.”
The NPC burst into laughter and slapped each other with a hearty round of high fives.
Derrington stepped closer. “Um, do you have a towel?” he asked evenly.
“No, why?” She fake-yawned.
“Because you’re all washed up.” Derrington wiggled his butt and bowed for his whooping and hollering male audience.
Massie gripped her purple crown charm. “Are you a sweater set?”
“No, why?”
“Because you’ve just met your match.”
“Yes!” squealed the NPC, who danced and spun and wiggled their booties in a ha-take-that! sort of way … until Derrington countered.
“Are you Will Ferrell?”
“No why?”
“Then don’t make me laugh.”
“Oh yeah? Well, are you a calendar?”
“No, why?”
“Because your days are numbered!”
And with that Massie grabbed the NPC and yanked them toward the exit. Slamming the black door behind them, she and the girls broke into hysterics. They ran and giggled and panted and laughed all the way up the steps, through the boiler room, and out the side of the building, burning off the leftover adrenaline that exploded in them like fireworks.
Collapsing on the grass under their favorite oak, Massie accepted their nonstop congratulations on a job well done. But she was unable to take comfort in their praise. Comfort would come once the battle was won. And it was just getting started.
CURRENT STATE OF THE UNION
IN OUT
The Oak The Bomb Shelter
Crushing Derrington Crushing on Derrington
BFF (Boy Fast Forever) BFF (Best Friends First)