Bratfest At Tiffany's

BOCD
THE GREAT LAWN

Tuesday, September 8th
7:38 A.M.

Massie slid on her oversize gold D&G sunglasses and descended upon the Great Lawn to regroup with the Pretty Committee after their summer apart.
“Look at all these boys,” Claire panted, scurrying to keep up with Massie’s frenzied pace. “They’re everywhere.”
“A total infestation,” Massie hissed at a pack of eighth-grade BMX-ers who skidded by on their muddy black dirt bikes. They dropped their rides on the grass, unclipped their sticker-covered helmets, and shuffled off to greet the rest of their sludge-brothers, who were slouched on the stone stairs below the school’s entrance. When a gaggle of Paris-wannabes made their way up the steps, the boys tilted their heads, hoping to see up their skirts. There was no way they actually saw anything, but they snicker-punched one another as if they had.
“We never dressed like that in the seventh grade.” Massie sneered at the girls’ display of bright fuchsia, turquoise, and tangerine ultra-mini halter dresses and lace-up espadrille wedges. “Um, I thought we left Orlando last week.”
“Hey!” Claire smacked her playfully on the arm.
“Sorry, but it’s true. They dress like your Florida friends,” Massie said unapologetically. “I mean ex-Florida friends.” She managed a glossy smile in case anyone was watching them. “Relaxed confidence” was proving hard to pull off since no one—not the pervy bikers, the lowly seventh-graders, or the eighth-grade LBRs—had yet stopped to admire her. Not her shimmering outfit. Not her grown-out bangs. Not the royal purple hair streak below her right ear.
Nuh-thing!
It was as though everyone suddenly had a brutal case of social amnesia, and all knowledge of her being this year’s alpha-alpha had been deleted from their memories. Were girls so easily distracted by boys? And were boys really so easily attracted to girls with horrific style? A visit to CosmoGirl’s FAQ archive was a must as soon as she got home.
Massie stepped onto the cold, dew-covered grass, which poked at her paraffin-waxed feet and most likely stained the leather on her black snakeskin Prada sandals. “This place is so over,” she grumbled as she zigzagged through clusters of overdressed, borderline tacky bodies invading her lawn.
“Huh?” Claire hurried to keep up, leaving a trail of baby powder–scented deodorant in the wake of her warming pits.
The sun was getting stronger by the minute. Instead of stopping to recharge her tan, Massie wished the ah-nnoyingly cheerful blue sky would cloud over and deliver a cool taste of fall—something to remind her that the Summer of Stress (SOS) was officially over.
But the universe sent a very different message.
It came in the form of a semi-cute, green ski cap–wearing, guitar case–carrying boy, who passed them and smiled.
At Claire!
Claire shy-grinned, then lowered her head.
Had the entire world gone mad? Were mass-produced canvas bucket hats and overbleached blondes “in” now that the boys had arrived?
Trying to see her friend from Semi-Cute’s perspective, Massie side-glanced at Claire, who did look good. For her.
The straight, shoulder-length white-blond hair that in the winter framed her ghostly complexion like limp spaghetti on a hard-boiled egg looked radiant against her tanned, cashew-colored skin. Her light blue eyes glistened like sea glass, and her waxy ChapStick had been replaced (thanks to Massie) with a frosty shade of Be Rosy lip quencher. Even her outfit was semi-decent: a woven long-sleeved cream-colored cotton shirt, fitted olive-colored knee-length Da-Nang cargos, and gold Sigerson Morrison gladiator sandals—a gift from Massie if Claire promised to toss her stinky summer Keds, which of course she had.
“There they are.” Claire pointed to the middle of the crowded lawn.
“What? Who?” Massie’s stomach dip-clenched. Was Derrington in range? Were the soccer guys with him? She had spent months wondering how their first post-breakup encounter would go. Would he beg for forgiveness? Act like nothing had happened? Publicly snub her? There were endless ways for this confrontation to play out. And surprisingly, Massie didn’t feel ready for any of them. And she wouldn’t until …
a)… she was reunited with the Pretty Committee.
b)… she got at least ten ego-boosting compliments.
c)… she applied more peach gloss.

Massie gripped Claire’s thin arm and pulled her close. “Who’s where?” she asked again, this time through a fake smile, in case the boys were watching.
Wiggling out from Massie’s tightening grip, Claire pointed at the massive oak in the center of the lawn. “The girls. They’re under the tree.”
A giddy flutter snaked through Massie’s insides when she saw her best friends. The Pretty Committee hadn’t been united for three whole months. And summering without them had left a lonely, gaping hole behind her abs that all the spicy tuna rolls in Japan couldn’t fill. But seeing them now, standing bare leg to bare leg, comparing tans in their favorite meeting spot, renewed her hope. And made her feel 110 percent again. Together, they would stop this Briarwood virus from spreading. Then they would reboot and come out even stronger. Because that’s what alphas do. And they were true alphas—whether anyone remembered it or not.