Material Girls (10 page)

“It's really you! It's been so long since
Henny Funpeck
!
”
Lyric said. “You're one of my
heroes
, you know, Ivy. I went to five
Girl Gone Wilde
shows! And I
love
the new album. Love, love, love it!”

Slowly, Ivy nodded. At least Lyric was fawning appropriately. “Sorry—I haven't had a chance to listen to yours yet.” It wasn't a lie; her nymphs knew to change the station every time “So Pure It Hurts” came on. “But I'm sure it's prime.” Okay, that
was
a lie.

“Oh, no, well, of course not. You must be so busy,” Lyric gushed. “I'm starting to know how it feels. We're gearing up for my first tour. It's so much work! Twenty-eight stops, with publicity events in each,” she said. Ivy smiled through gritted teeth.
Girl Gone Wilde
had hit only eighteen cities.

“Yeah, well, you get used to it,” she said. “The hotels are fun at first, but they get kind of old. You'll see how it is. Make sure you don't screw up the city name when you're onstage.”

Lyric laughed. “No—that would be awful.”

“I think Clayton's waiting for you, Ivy,” Madison interrupted, pointing toward the bar. Ivy glanced over, but Clayton wasn't looking at her. He was talking to his satyrs. She realized Madison was giving her an out, but Lyric spoke before she could take it.

“Oh, I won't keep you. You're lucky—Clayton Pryce is super cute,” she whispered, moving in closer. Her blond hair was curled into waves, and the curls shone with resin. Ivy wondered whether her hairdresser had always been lying when he said she'd look terrible as a blonde. “They're still deciding whether to give me a boyfriend,” Lyric went on. “They don't want to spoil the ‘pure' thing. I hope they do, though!”

“Good luck with that,” said Ivy. “Well, see you around.”

“Oh, I'll probably see you at the Pop Beat Music Awards, right? I'm performing—can you believe it? Stay young!” And with a wave, she walked into the crowd, her nymphs closing the gap behind her.

For a moment, Ivy stood motionless. She could feel her nymphs waiting for a reaction of some sort. There were other eavesdroppers watching her too, some of them reporters. She needed to stay composed.

“Nice kid,” she said, shrugging. “A little virginal for my taste, though.” Reliably, her nymphs snickered in unison. She turned to Hilarie.

“Hey, come to the bathroom with me, okay, Hil?” she said. She dabbed her lips with her middle finger. “I need a touchup. Tell Clayton I'll be right over,” she instructed the other nymphs.

Passing the metallic basins, Ivy headed straight for a stall and pulled the door closed behind her. She was glad Scalpel was a classy place; the doors went all the way to the floor.

She unclasped her purse and pulled out her Unum. “Jarvis,” she said into the microphone. A moment later, the words
Jarvis unavailable
flashed on the screen. She swore in frustration. Tapping the New Message button on the Unum screen, she spoke into the microphone again. “Jarvis. Two questions. How many stops on my
Laid Bare
tour? And am I performing at the Pop Beat Music Awards again? I am, right? Reply ASAP.”

She hit Send.

After emerging from the stall, she began freshening her makeup. She relined her lower eyelids and applied gloss until her lips shone like glass. Next to her, Hilarie and a few other girls were doing the same. Ivy could tell that the girls were staring at her while trying to look like they weren't. At least that felt good.

Her Unum buzzed.

Twenty stops on tour,
the screen read.
Working on two more. We didn't get slot for Pop Beat Awards.
Not to worry. You're going anyway. Have fun tonight!

She could feel her face heating. Lyric would be on stage at the awards show
,
and she would be watching from the audience.
The audience.

“You okay, Ivy?” she heard Hilarie ask. Ivy caught her nymph's gaze in the mirror.

“Fine,” she said, motioning with her head. The two of them stepped into the handicapped stall together. Ivy locked the door.

“The Pop Beat Music Awards didn't book me this year. But they booked Lyric.” She scanned Hilarie's face. It was sympathetic—but not overly so.

“Gross. That's totally wrong. Sorry.”

“I kind of don't get why she's such a big deal. Her career is on
overdrive.
Twenty-eight stops on her first tour? What's up with that?”

“She's totally boring. Everyone'll be over her in a minute.”

“That's what Jarvis says.”

“He's right.”

“Yeah, but did you see the reporters out there? They were crazy about her!” She pressed her back against the cold wall.

“So don't let her hog the spotlight. Do something wild. Fall down and let your underwear show again. Or slap one of the bouncers in the face. Get photoed.”

Ivy let her nymph's advice sink in. “Yeah. You're right.” She shook her head. “This is so annoying.”

“Do you need me to pick a fight?”

“No. I'll figure something out.”

As they exited the bathroom, Ivy threaded her arm through Hilarie's. They approached the bar where her nymphs were mingling with Clayton and his satyrs.

Farther on past the bar, directly in her sightline, Ivy saw Lyric sitting with her nymphs in one of the circular booths. The girls sipped Sugarwater demurely out of oversized tumblers. The nymphs were trying to keep the press from overwhelming their star, but Ivy noticed that Lyric made attempts to hold her smile for the photographers and answer a question or two if a reporter persisted.

As Lyric lowered her eyelashes to take a long, graceful sip from her straw, Ivy's plan came to her.

She dropped Hilarie's arm and walked up to Clayton. Ignoring the fact that he was in the middle of telling Naia a story, she ran her fingers through his hair and pressed her body against his. Naia quickly moved away. With both hands, Ivy began massaging the back of his neck. “Feel like getting frisky, Clay?” she asked.

Clayton raised his eyebrows at her.

“Photo op,” she whispered. Vaguely, Clayton nodded in understanding. He put his arms around her waist, and Ivy began kissing him.

She wished she had wiped off the gloss. It tasted terrible, and she was smearing it all over poor Clayton's mouth and face. It was so sticky, too; stray strands of her hair were mixing with their kisses. She tried to pull them out and tuck them behind her ears without breaking contact. At least he had P pill breath this time and no beard to scratch up her face. She was aware of a few flashes behind her—good. The press had noticed.

She grabbed Clayton's shale bodyshirt and forced him backward a few steps. He flinched as she clutched some chest hairs, and she shifted her grip, still kissing him, still steering him in her desired direction. The two arrived at Lyric's table, and Ivy pushed Clayton backward onto its surface. Like bowling pins, the Sugarwater tumblers fell over, spilling their contents everywhere. Lyric and her nymphs cried out, and Ivy fell forward onto Clayton, squirming and kissing him hungrily.

The cameras flashed until it looked like daytime in the club. Ivy risked a glance at Lyric. Soaked, the front of her dress stuck to her wet skin. She was covering her chest with one hand and waving to her wet nymphs to go get her jacket with the other. A few feathers on her headdress drooped forlornly.

Bull's-eye.

She pulled the stunned Clayton to his feet. “Our bad. Really sorry,” she mumbled over his shoulder. She jumped into Clayton's arms and swung her legs around his waist; luckily, he caught her. “Coat closet,” she whispered. He carried her toward the club's entrance while she chewed on his ear. The cameras continued to flash. When they reached the closet, she yelled, “Out!” at the coat-check boy. He scampered. The two of them tumbled into the closet and shut both halves of the split door.

Ivy released Clayton and took a few steps back, catching her breath. Clayton blinked at her. He sat down on the coatroom floor, grabbed the hem of a coat, and wiped his cheeks and chin. Ivy sat down across from him and looked at her watch. “One eleven. Let's give it fifteen minutes.”

Clayton nodded.

“Sorry about the gloss.”

“It's okay. I'm used to it.” The placidophilus gave his voice a calm, dreamy quality.

Ivy wiped her own mouth with her fingers and pushed her hair back. She held it in a ponytail for a moment, wishing she had a hair elastic, then let it fall. “So what's new?”

Clayton shrugged. “Not much. How're you?”

“Better now.”

Clayton blinked a few times at her, but she didn't elaborate.

A minute of silence passed. Ivy scratched her neck. Clayton began humming “Swollen” absent-mindedly. He sat on his hands, widened his eyes in surprise, and began patting his backside. “My back is soaked!” he announced.

She laughed. “Sorry. I guess that's my fault, Clay. Well, Lyric Mirth's, really. Let's blame her.”

Clayton pulled the coat he had used to wipe his mouth off its hanger, folded it roughly, and sat on it. “Yeah, let's. ‘So Pure It Hurts' makes my ears hurt.”

“And
that's
why I love you,” she said, hugging her knees to her chest. He grinned back at her.

Another minute or so passed in silence. Ivy wondered whether Lyric had left Scalpel altogether. She felt a small pang of guilt. It wasn't really Lyric's fault that her tour was scheduled so aggressively. And the girl
had
been decent to her tonight. She rubbed her temples. It was work to remain relevant. Sometimes . . . sometimes Ivy had to do things that would have shocked Evangeline.

At last, Clayton ran his fingers through his pompadour and spoke again. “Guess what? I'm actually taking a break before I go back into the studio again.” He giggled. “I had a little meltdown a few weeks ago. In a restaurant.”

“Really?” Ivy raised her eyebrows. She hadn't heard a whisper about it; Clayton's people had obviously done serious damage control.

Clayton nodded. “My agent was afraid I'd go all Skip McBrody on him, so he's sending me to Isla Del Sol with the fam for a vacation.”

Ivy thought about how nice a trip with her own family would be. Maybe she should try flying off the handle. Constantine, especially, would appreciate the chance to get away. She had spoken to her family only once since visiting Millbrook, but Christina had reassured her that her brother was coping as well as could be expected. He had returned to school and seemed relaxed and at peace with the Tap outcome. Ivy was pretty sure she knew what was keeping him so calm, but she didn't mention the P pills. Christina was weirdly uncool about them.

“That's kind of prime, Clay. The vacation, not the meltdown. Is James coming with you?”

Even in the placidophilus cloud, Clayton's face grew somber. He shook his head. “No satyrs allowed.”

“How are you guys?”

“Good, but . . .” He paused, removing another P pill from the tin in his pocket. He offered one to Ivy, who rolled it in her loose fist. “That's what the meltdown was all about,” Clayton continued. He looked at the floor. “We got photographed, and Keane had to bribe the photographer, and I just kind of hit the roof.” He popped the pill into his mouth and chewed. “Some days I'm just so sick of pretending,” he said with a sigh.

Ivy nodded. Clayton was almost twenty. It had been a long run.

“No offense, Wilde. You're the best beard a guy could hope for.” He knocked his knee against hers and hiccupped. “'Scuse me.”

“Excused,” said Ivy. “I'm really sorry about all that.” She paused. “And tell James I'm sorry for that whole thing out there.” She waved her hand.

“He understands. We know it's no picnic for you, either.”

Ivy thought of the one and only boy she'd kissed before becoming a star. It had happened a few precious times, one being that strange evening after she'd been tapped, after the parties, hours before Fatima and Jarvis had helicoptered in. She'd gone outside to sprinkle rock salt on her front steps. She'd whined about it, but her mother had told her, “You're not famous yet.” The sun had long set, and the snow was falling. Her friend Marisa's older brother, home to celebrate his sister's Tap, was salting his own walk. One of the Big Five fashion houses had tapped him two years before, but he'd been able to finagle vacation time here and there. He'd waved her over, then met her halfway and pulled her away from the streetlights, into the black gulf between their houses.

She remembered his hunter's jacket and his hat with earflaps. His nose had been red.

“Eva,” he'd said. “You rock. You deserve
Henny Funpeck.
It's a feeble show—but I'll watch it for you, you know.”

She'd beamed. And he'd kissed her. She remembered how warm it felt, how it cut the cold in an instant like a furnace.

“I can't wait until you get to La Reina,” he'd said, his mouth a hair's breadth from hers. “It's going to be so prime. We can hang out all the time.”

After a while, he'd squeezed her mittened hand and run back into his house. She'd been thirteen years old. He'd been, what, fifteen? After she'd moved to La Reina, she had seen him a few more times. But Fatima had been clear: To go solo after
Henny Funpeck
, Ivy needed to follow their instructions. Cut all ties. Rehearse all day long.

She'd done it.

She wondered what he was doing right now.

Ivy popped the P pill into her mouth and chewed in silence. “So, are you playing the Pop Beat Music Awards?” she asked Clayton.

“Yeah.”

“Lucky.”

“Keane keeps me relevant, but sometimes I wish he weren't so good at his job. But, as we all know, a contract's a contract.” He gave her a too-bright smile.