Popularity Takeover (7 page)

“You're going to pay for this, Ashley Spencer!” squeaked A. A., imitating Sadie's annoying whine. They all burst out laughing.

“I didn't know what you were up to at first,” Lili admitted.

“I thought you might be trying to make friends with them,” agreed Lauren.

“Oh ye of little faith,” Ashley said, beaming. “Did you really think I'd give up the bench so easily?”

Lili had to hand it to Ashley. Maybe she fought dirty—quite literally—but one thing was sure: On her watch, the Ashleys would
always
come out on top.

13

IS THERE SUCH A THING AS MOMSWAP?

WHEN A. A. GOT BACK TO
the penthouse apartment in the Fairmont that afternoon, her mother was home. This wouldn't be an unusual event in most households, but A. A.'s family was not like other families. Most of the time it was just her and Ned, with a maid or two wandering in and out.

Their mother, the beautiful former model Jeanine (one name only), spent most of her time flitting around the world, falling in and out of love, crashing the front rows at fashion shows in Milan and Paris, making headlines with her crazy behavior on yachts in the Caribbean, promoting her own range of botanical cosmetics on QVC, or sampling new beauty and body treatments from Bali to Brazil.

Not that she wasn't
there
for her kids: A. A. knew that a quick phone call would bring Jeanine home from wherever she was in the known universe. Jeanine doted on A. A. and Ned. But she was never going to be the apron-wearing, cookie-baking, car-pooling, homework-checking mother A. A. saw on television shows. That was fine with A. A.—who needed a mother in the kitchen when downstairs at the Fairmont there was a team of four French pastry chefs, ready to send up anything A. A. and Ned felt like eating?

But it was still nice to hang out with Jeanine, even if she insisted on redecorating their apartment way too often and kept trying to persuade A. A. to wear high heels and designer clothes when she'd much rather be in yoga pants and a T-shirt.

This afternoon her mother was sprawled on the huge white rug in front of the fireplace, her long legs hoisted straight in the air and her luxuriant dark hair spread out around her. A. A. couldn't tell if she was practicing Pilates or admiring her new shoes.

“Hey, Mia Hamm!” Jeanine called, lowering her legs to the ground.

“Hey, Mom!” A. A. bent over to kiss her mother's forehead and then flopped onto the rug next to her. The
roaring fire, controlled—like almost everything in their apartment—by remote control, made the high-ceilinged living room feel warm and cozy.

“Good day at school?”

“It was okay.”

“Meet any cute boys?”

“You know that Miss Gamble's is all-girls.” A. A. lay back, cradling her head in her hands.

“And that's exactly why I sent you there,” said Jeanine. “Keep away from boys, A. A.! That's my motherly advice to you. Listen to the woman who's learned the hard way.”

A. A. couldn't help laughing.

“Listen, giggly girl,” Jeanine said, sitting up abruptly and shaking her hair. “I got a little favor to ask you. Just a teensy-weensy little favor for your poor old mother.”

“What?” A. A. narrowed her eyes. The last time Jeanine asked for a favor, it involved A. A. getting a full preteen botanicals makeover on a stage set up at the mall. The shame!

“You like Marty, don't you?” Jeanine asked. The other week A. A. and Ned had had the pleasure of meeting Jeanine's newest boyfriend. Marty Law was a famous film director who was well known for winning an Oscar
for his first and best film,
The Don
, about an Italian mobster family. Since then he'd made a few flops and was now better known for his vineyard in Santa Barbara.

“I guess.” A. A. nodded. She'd liked Marty well enough, although she was a little intimidated by his cigar and his bushy silver beard.

“Well,” Jeanine continued in her silkiest voice, “he wants to cast you in a movie.”

“What?” A. A. sat up, shaking her head in disbelief.

“It's just a small, nonspeaking role,” said Jeanine quickly. “And it's only for a few days here and there, filming right here in San Francisco. And there's no problem getting the time off. I've already called what's-her-name at Miss Gamble's. As soon as I told her she'd be invited to the premiere, she was putty in my hands. So what do you say, doll? Isn't it exciting?”

“I guess.” A. A. wasn't very enthusiastic. It was bad enough getting her photo taken for those random shoots where Jeanine had to pose as a woman who “had it all,” but having a small part in a film probably meant standing around for hours and hours, from dawn until after dark. But her mom seemed super keen on it, and A. A. didn't want to disappoint her.

“Okay, I'll do it. If it makes you happy.”

“It makes me very happy.” Jeanine beamed. “I'm going to call Marty right away. He'll be more in love with me than he is already. Hey, do you have any idea where that brother of yours is hiding? He's not returning my texts.”

“Maybe he's over at Tri's playing a video game,” A. A. suggested. “I'll go look for him.”

A. A. was secretly pleased for an excuse to go over to Tri's apartment. They hadn't seen each other for almost a week, since they'd hung out after school riding bikes and bumped into Ashley.

Tri's family owned the Fairmont, so they lived in its other penthouse. Their private elevator opened into a dark lobby furnished with antiques. A beautiful orchid sat in a blue and white china pot on top of a dark, ornately carved table. A. A. pushed open the unlocked front door. She and Ned were welcome at the Fitzpatricks' any time, and they knew the secret elevator code by heart.

There was no sign of the boys inside the apartment­—which meant it was quiet, and there weren't pizza boxes and game consoles strewn all over the living room floor. Although this penthouse was similar in size and shape to the Aliotos', it couldn't have been more different in the way it was furnished.

Everything was rumpled and shabby-chic. A leather
chesterfield, centered on a big Turkish rug, faced the stone fireplace, and the low tables next to the overstuffed armchairs were piled with books and magazines. A giant French armoire was stuffed full of platters and bowls, with Mrs. Fitzpatrick's extensive cookbook collection jammed along one shelf. A. A. always liked coming here; it felt homey and nice and warm. Plus, it didn't change every other month.

“Hello!” A. A. called, wandering toward the kitchen. Soft classical music was playing, and she could smell something delicious cooking, like roast chicken.

“In here!” called Mrs. Fitzpatrick. She was standing over their professional-range stove, stirring a bright copper pan of what looked like stock. “Hi, A. A. I'm just thinking about making some soup to have before our chicken tonight. Want to help?”

A. A. agreed, even though she knew even less about cooking than Jeanine. It was always nice hanging out with Mrs. Fitzpatrick—or Supermom, as Ned always called her. Whenever they went over there, she was baking something or planning a family dinner. She was no
Cosmo
cover girl, for sure: She was at least ten years older than Jeanine, at any rate. But this apartment always felt like a home away from home for both the Alioto kids.

Fifteen minutes into stirring together chopped carrots, diced onions, and grated ginger, A. A. heard the front door open and close with a bang.

“Anything to eat?” a familiar voice called. “I can't wait till dinner.”

Tri barged into the kitchen, hot and sweaty from crew practice, his dark hair plastered against his face. His blue and gold T-shirt stuck to his chest, showing off his narrow, toned torso. He blushed when he saw A. A., but she tried to focus on stirring the vegetables with a wooden spoon and looking blasé.

But really, her heart was flipping around like a fish out of water. Could it be . . . could it be that she really still liked Tri? That she secretly wanted to be more than just friends?

And, unless her eyes were playing tricks on her, wasn't he looking kind of . . .
tall
?

“You're growing so fast,” said Mrs. Fitzpatrick with a sigh, swinging open the tall doors of the full-height pantry and pulling out a Tupperware container. “And eating like it's going out of style. There are crackers here, and you can have some cheese and fruit. And there should be some cookies left from yesterday, unless you've finished them off already.”

“I have,” Tri said, his mouth already full of crackers, reaching for the jar of peanut butter.

“Aren't you going to say hello to A. A.?” Mrs. Fitzpatrick asked.

“Oh yeah. Hi.” Tri didn't even look up at her. A. A. tried not to feel hurt. He just stood there, stuffing his face, ignoring her as though she'd been sent by the caterer to help prepare the meal. Last week they'd had so much fun. Today he was cold and dismissive. What was up with that?

“Would you like something to eat, A. A.?” Mrs. Fitzpatrick asked. “I think I've got some more cookies hidden away.”

“It's okay. I should be getting back,” A. A. blurted. Her face felt red, either from steam or embarrassment. “I was supposed to be looking for Ned, really.”

“I'm going to take a shower,” Tri announced, and bounded out of the room without saying good-bye. Mrs. Fitzpatrick shot A. A. a sympathetic smile.

“Are you sure you don't want a cookie?” she asked, and A. A. shook her head. A cookie wasn't going to fix her problems, or make her feel better, even though Mrs. Fitzpatrick's cookies were so good they put Mrs. Fields' to shame.

14

THEY'LL ALWAYS HAVE PARIS

THE MONTH OF FEBRUARY ARRIVED,
cold and gray, but inside the Little Theater at Miss Gamble's, it was springtime in Paris. The Mothers' Committee, which always organized the Mother-Daughter Fashion Show, had done a pretty good job—not that Lili was surprised. Her mother was chair this year of course, as she was every year, and everything her mother accomplished was done to perfection. Nancy “Genghis” Khan used to be a super-lawyer; now she was a super SAHM (socialite-at-home mom). She was used to having everything her way.

Instead of the usual bleachers, clusters of folding chairs and café tables surrounded the temporary catwalk. The stage, banked with long aluminum tubs of yellow
roses, was shrouded with pale yellow linen curtains, onto which a silhouette image of the Eiffel Tower was projected. A black wrought-iron pergola in the center of the stage marked the entry point for all the models. The full-length windows along the back wall were draped in back-lit ivory linen, so the room felt like it was flooded with spring light.

On every tabletop a tiny vase held roses of the most delicate yellow; propped against the vases were hand-lettered menus. Audience members could order glasses of champagne or freshly squeezed white peach juice, and waiters in white aprons would bring frosted berries, buttery mini-croissants, and Nutella crepes. Soft accordion music played in the background. The only odd touch was the banner over the main door with the garish YourTV logo plastered all over it—Lauren's father must have sponsored the event. Lili was kind of surprised that Lauren hadn't mentioned it. Maybe she was embarrassed about how tacky it would look. At least nobody would see it until they were leaving.

“It's so beautiful, Mommy!” Lili enthused, clapping her hands with delight. “Everyone's going to love it!” They had arrived there early with the caterers to supervise setup.

“I'm glad you approve,” said Nancy, smiling. They'd
declared a truce this week: Lili had promised to focus on her schoolwork and other activities, and Nancy had promised not to freak out if Lili was five minutes late getting to the car or the dinner table.

Lili suspected her mother secretly approved of her new vintage look—not because Nancy approved of buying secondhand clothes, but because she always liked it when Lili emerged a little from the shadow of Ashley Spencer.

“Models! Backstage, please!” Vicky Cameron's mother, a member of the Mothers' Committee, rushed at them, waving her clipboard and gesturing to the door alongside the stage. “The audience will be arriving soon!”

“Of course,” said Nancy, steering Lili toward the stage door. “I hope all the clothes have been arranged as I instructed. One rack per each mother-daughter team, each clearly labeled!”

The racks were labeled, just as Nancy had arranged, but backstage was still a scene of total chaos. The place was packed with mothers and daughters, along with their personal hairstylists and makeup artists, plus photographers they'd engaged to document every loving family moment.

Some unscrupulous mothers were raiding other
racks, grabbing cuter outfits and pilfering accessories. Yikes! Lili hoped no fights would break out. Last year, when the theme was Pastel Parade, two of the mothers got into a major slapdown over a mauve, pearl-fringed cashmere wrap with matching Jimmy Choos. This being San Francisco society, no physical harm had been inflicted, of course, but there were a lot of frosty glares and hard feelings.

“Lili!” Ashley was waving frantically from a relatively peaceful corner. She and her mother, Matilda, were already dressed in their first outfits, elegant Diane von Furstenberg tie-front dresses, their golden hair loose and shining. “We've roped this area off.”

Lili had to hand it to Ashley: She was a mistress of crowd control. She and Matilda had brought the red velvet rope last seen at Ashley's birthday party and had used it to cordon off a little insanity-free zone in one corner. A. A.'s rack was there as well, but there was no sign of A. A. or her mom yet. Lauren's rack, Lili noticed, was pulled alongside the rope—but not
inside
the inner sanctum. Interesting.

“How are you feeling?” Nancy asked Matilda Spencer, resting a sympathetic hand on her arm. “Are you over the first-trimester nausea?”

“Not yet, unfortunately.” Matilda shook her head.

“She's already puked twice this morning,” Ashley whispered to Lili. “If she pukes on the runway, I'll have to leave the state.”

“Hello, hello! May we join you?” Uh-oh. That piercing voice. That overpowering smell of Poison by Christian Dior. That eye-crossing excess of zebra print from her tacky floor-length coat. The blinding flash of yellow gold jewelry. It
had
to be Lauren's mother.

“Of course!” said Matilda, though Lili could swear she saw Ashley's mom exchange a quick smile with Nancy. “They've asked us to try on all our dresses before the show begins, just to make sure everything fits.”

“But, Trudy, I thought you didn't approve of fashion shows,” Nancy remarked.

“Oh no! It's beauty pageants I don't like,” Trudy shouted, unwinding what looked like a six-foot-long python from her neck. Lili was relieved to see it was only a scarf with a snakeskin pattern. “Fashion is different. And of course I couldn't disappoint Lauren. She's been looking forward to this for weeks!”

Lauren didn't look like she was looking forward to anything. Lili thought she looked pretty upset when she noticed that their rack hadn't been placed inside
the Ashleys' sanctum, and she kept glancing around the crowded room, not paying attention while her mother jangled her bracelets and gabbed on about the cute Michael Kors silk halters Lili and her mom were going to wear as their first look.

While Lili slipped out of her shoes, hanging on to the rack to keep steady, she glanced around the room as well. When the announcements had been made, the Ashleys had been irritated, but not too surprised, to hear that the odious girls from the S. Society had been chosen to model too. The weeks leading up to the fashion show had been frosty between the two camps.

Sheridan Riley's spindly legged, redheaded mother looked terrified to be there, almost shivering in her strapless Nicole Miller number. Sheridan, however, was beaming around the room, her pointy nose stuck high in the air. Ugh.

Even more annoying, that worm Sadie Graham and her mother had set up camp right by the Ashleys' enclosure. Every five seconds Sadie was looking over at the Ashleys' clothing racks, as though she had her eye on something.
Watch your step!
Lili wanted to tell her. There was no way she was getting her hands on any of their stuff. Where were all her
signature items
now, huh?

Lili stood up, pulling the Michael Kors dress over her silk camisole and boy-short pants, making sure it was a perfect fit. Not bad at all! This fashion show was going to be amazing, even if the losers from the S. Society had managed to wriggle their way in. At least the audience would be able to do a quick compare and contrast: Ashleys versus Pretenders. Who would come out on top? Lili thought there would be no contest whatsoever.

Plus, how three of the nerdiest loser girls in school had been chosen to model at the Mother-Daughter Fashion Show, the school's prime beautiful-people-only event, Lili had no idea. The news had been downright shocking when it was announced at MODs last week. Maybe Ashley was right: All this anticlique lobbying done by the S. Society—in order to grab Congé off its rightful owners, the Ashleys—was ruining the school. If just
anyone
could model in the fashion show, what was the point of taking part?

There they were now: Droopy little Daria Hart. Guinevere “Bobblehead” Parker, whose knobbly knees were bigger than her bustline. Cass Franklin, with her oxygen tent, mouth-breathing at the sight of her clothes rack.

Hang on, was Lauren actually sneaking over there to talk to them?