Sloane Sisters (9 page)

“Everything all right?” Stella asked, shooting Cate an innocent look. Cate dug her fingernails into her palm and glanced back and forth between Stella and Blythe. Stella was stabbing at a slice of cake in Priya's hand, and Blythe was sprawled out on the floor with Sophie, painting her toenails. Cate couldn't decide who was less trustworthy.

“Fine,” she said cheerfully, offering Stella a sweet smile. Blythe was still a threat. So for now, she needed Stella in the group. But then again, so was Stella….

 

T
hursday afternoon, Andie and Lola stood across the street from Bryant Park. They watched as Lilianna Crosby, the actress who had adopted a child from almost every continent, strolled into the giant white tent, two babies crammed into a sack on her hip. Men in black IMG T-shirts guarded the entrance, spitting commands into their headsets as though they were trying to land a three-ton spacecraft in the middle of Fifth Avenue.

“I don't know about this,” Andie said, pulling at the hem of her gray Zac Posen skirt. Today, while Emma and Winston had been busy drafting a seating chart with Gloria, Lola had suggested they sneak into the Alexander Wang show, to give Andie her first real taste of the fashion world. She'd found all the info in Emma's planner. It was a good idea—in theory—but they had no invites, no press passes, and they were at least ten years younger than everyone going inside.

“This is our chance!” Lola grabbed Andie's wrist and pulled
her across the street, nearly getting them flattened by a black Lincoln Town Car.

Andie and Lola snuck through the side entrance and ran into the tent, nearly colliding with a woman wearing a tiny hat that looked suspiciously like a dead hummingbird. They quickly disappeared into the crowd, squeezing through a group of people. They passed Curtis Harding, the lead singer of Demon Landlords, holding hands with a girl who looked like Tinkerbell. A German reporter pushed between them and shoved his press pass in Curtis's face. “Vat's next vor ze Demon Landlords?” he shouted.

Andie stared at the long white runway, awestruck. In the front row, a petite woman with wavy blond hair looked through her program. It was
Kate Moss.
Andie dug her fingers into Lola's arm. “This is unbelievable,” she whispered. She'd waited years for the chance to be in the same room as her idol, and now she was just a few feet away. She breathed in deeply, hoping to soak up some of Kate's career karma.

Lola clapped her hands. “I told you!” she cried. They made their way toward the back of the room.

Arden Porsche, the New York City socialite notorious for her temper, argued with a woman with severe bangs. “Check your little chart again,” Arden said, smacking the woman's clipboard. “I should be in the first row, not third—
first
.”

Lola and Andie walked past white folding chairs filled with familiar faces. They hid in back of two model types standing behind the last row. One wore a striped jumper that made her look like a one-hundred-pound candy cane, the other a strategically ripped black T-shirt that barely covered her neon green bra.

“Have you heard anything about Alexander's collection?” the model in the jumper asked her friend.

“It's supposed to be inspired by her master bath. Think cold, stark, glossy,” the girl with the ripped tee said importantly.

Andie scanned the room, her eyes falling on a woman sitting on the other side of the runway. Her hair was so long and thick it looked like she had a black blanket draped over her shoulders. “Lola!” Andie squealed, a little too loudly. “That's Ayana Bennington! She's one of the top agents in the world.”

“I know—she's been trying to represent my mum for ages.” Lola adjusted her headband. Andie had relented and let Lola wear a headband, but only if it was one of her choosing. She'd thrown the teal Duane Reade one in the kitchen trash (so Lola wouldn't be tempted to dig it out) and replaced it with one from Burberry. It wasn't a ten, but it'd do.

Andie straightened up and stood in Ayana's line of vision. It was only a matter of time before she noticed her. Andie would be her most successful client—the model who changed the industry, making “petite” the new “tall.”

Just then Andie felt a tap on her shoulder. A man with long black hair and tortoiseshell-framed glasses stood behind them, chewing on the end of a pencil. His thin legs were packed into a tiny pair of black skinny jeans and his round belly hung slightly over his studded belt. He looked like an egg on toothpicks.

“Right, hi,” he cooed, pointing the pencil at Andie, then Lola. “I assume you two escaped from the day care tent? Let me show you out—the show is about to start and I don't get paid nearly enough to babysit.”

The model in the jumper let out a cackle. A few people in the back row turned around to see what the commotion was about. Andie's face flushed. This wasn't the kind of attention she wanted. “We, uh,” she muttered, looking at Lola, who was wringing her hands nervously.

“Puh-lease,” the man said, circling his pencil in the air. “I don't have time for little games from little people. Either I show you out or the police do.” He turned and started for the exit.

Andie looked at the crowd in front of her. A couple across the runway glanced up from their programs. A woman in a full-length alpaca coat pointed. Andie stared at the back of Kate's head, hoping she wouldn't turn around.
WWKD?
But there was only one thing to do: make a graceful exit. Fast.

“Come on,” Andie whispered, grabbing Lola's hand. “We need to go.
Now
.” She tried to cover her face with her hair, like a criminal avoiding being seen on camera. Egg on Toothpicks was probably going to take her photo and e-mail it to Gawker.com, the snotty Manhattan media blog, with a note about the two clueless twelve-year-olds who thought they could sneak into Fashion Week. Forget modeling. Forget finding an agent. Andie Sloane was going to be blacklisted from the industry forever.

Lola stopped suddenly. “We can't leave,” she said to Egg on Toothpicks's back. “I'm here for my mum—Emma Childs.”

He turned around and pursed his lips coolly. He scanned Lola's gangly frame, his eyes stopping on her frizzy blond hair. “Emma Childs…
the supermodel
?” he asked snidely. Under his breath he mumbled, “And I'm Christy Turlington's hotter younger brother.”

“Yes, Emma Childs
the supermodel
,” Lola muttered. There was only one other Emma Childs—the bucktoothed host of
Sleeping with Simians
, an Animal Planet show about monkeys. She fumbled through her purse and found her wallet. She held out the picture of her and her mom on a yacht in Southwest France. “See?” she said, like it was her official pass into the show. “That's me and my mum. She couldn't make it, so she wanted us to come instead.”

Egg on Toothpicks bit the pencil again. “Wait here.”

He strode toward the runway and whispered to the woman with the clipboard. Then he returned, his face softer than before. “I'm so sorry for the miscommunication,” he said apologetically, clasping his hands together as though he were praying. “I'm Anton Von Kleet. Let's get you two a little more…
situated
. Follow me.” He walked through a narrow aisle. Lola grinned. Her mother's name always had magical powers.

They followed Anton toward the end of the runway, where Arden Porsche was sitting in the front row with a doughy friend. Arden's skirt was so tight her legs were turning blue. “Apologies, but we need these seats,” Anton said breezily. He looked around the room as he spoke, as though Arden were a bear who'd maul him if he made direct eye contact. “We have something for you a few rows back.”

Arden looked from Andie to Lola, her hand tightening around her plastic water bottle. “We're not going anywhere,” she growled. With that, she emptied the contents of her water bottle onto Anton's alligator-skin boots.

Anton merely waved his hand in the air. Two burly security
guards immediately came over and pulled Arden and her friend flailing from their seats.

“Do you know who my father is?” Arden called over her shoulder as she was escorted out of the tent. “I will
ruin
you!”

“Ladies,” Anton said calmly, gesturing to the two empty seats. “Let me know if you need anything. Evian, Pelligrino, perhaps?”

Andie shook her head and straightened up in her seat. Across the runway, Ayana Bennington and her assistant were standing up, trying to get a better look at the two twelve-year-olds who'd gotten Arden Porsche booted out of Fashion Week.

As the lights dimmed, Andie grabbed Lola's arm and squeezed. “This is incredible.” Not only had they gotten inside, now they were VIPs. After the show they'd be eating caviar at the Bryant Park Hotel with Vivienne Westwood. And by next year's Fashion Week, Andie would be calling Dolce and Gabbana by their first names.

Lola looked around the crowd at all the famous faces. The thump of techno music filled the room and the first model stepped onto the runway in a white pleather evening gown. A hundred camera flashes went off. This
was
incredible. And if the magic words—Emma Childs—could get her into the front row at Fashion Week, then they could get her a lot of other places too. She looked at Andie, then at Ayana Bennington, who was whispering to the editor in chief of
Bazaar
, and got an idea. It was time to put her mom's name to the test.

 

 

“H
ere we are.” Cate stopped at the entrance to a majestic stone mansion on Seventy-seventh Street. A black Mercedes was parked in the half-circle driveway, the driver leaning out the window to clip his fingernails. He stopped when he spotted Cate and Stella in the rearview mirror.

“Is this a school?” Stella asked, as two boys in crisp blue button-downs and striped ties walked down the front steps. After last period, they had cut through Central Park to the Upper West Side, for her last trial before the vote on Saturday. Cate had told Stella it would be “challenging,” but she hadn't said anything more. She was acting like some bad reality TV host, trying to create suspense by being unnecessarily mysterious.

“This is Haverford.” Cate crossed her arms over her chest and smirked. “It's our brother school.” She walked across the driveway and up the stone steps to the arched entranceway, Stella following. There was a carved stone crest on the wall next to the giant oak doors—two winged lions holding a shield.

They pushed into a two-story entrance hall. Two marble staircases wrapped around the upper floor and emptied out on either side of the room, which was decorated with blue-and-red banners announcing every minor accomplishment from the last thirty years. Cate took a left down a wide tiled hallway that was mostly empty, except for a few stray boys lingering after school. A short boy with a bowl haircut walked past, struggling against the weight of a massive yellow backpack. He looked back and forth between the girls as if witnessing an alien invasion.

“Where are we going?” Stella asked, an edge in her voice. She had been so busy with all of the trials—picking up Cate's dry cleaning, baking cupcakes and biscuits for Cate's Junior Honor Society bake sale—she had only called Vera Wang yesterday to make an appointment for the girls to try on bridesmaid dresses. She'd hoped this next trial would be easy. But nothing was ever easy with Cate.

“Oh, you'll see…” Cate singsonged, twisting her dark brown hair into a ponytail.

The girls walked in silence, until Cate finally stopped outside the gym. One of the doors was propped open and Stella could see the Haverford varsity basketball team practicing. It seemed like the boys were genetically engineered to play the sport—they were all at least five-foot eight, muscular, and adorable (maybe being adorable wasn't a requirement for playing basketball, but it sure made it more fun to watch).

“So this is your final trial,” Cate told Stella, crossing her hands over her chest. Looking into Stella's big green eyes, she almost felt a little guilty. “If you do this, you're as good as in.” Cate assumed
Stella would fail—and then Cate could show her generosity by forgiving her this one thing and letting her in anyway. That way Stella would be grateful and never forget her place in the order of the sisterhood.

Or if the girls voted her out…well that would provide its own karmic balance.

Stella looked back at the boys in the gym. A blonde in a T-shirt that read maine did a layup and the ball swooshed through the net. “Bring it,” she said, leveling her eyes at Cate. She had been able to do everything so far—what was one more trial?

“See those shorts?” Cate continued, nodding toward the gymnasium. All of the boys were wearing blue shorts with a red stripe down the sides. On the front of each thigh was a printed number. “Those are the Haverford signature shorts. I need you to steal all fourteen pairs and bring them back to me by five thirty.”

Cate bit her lip in excitement. The Haverford basketball team were state champions, and they acted like it. They hardly talked to anyone who wasn't on the team, and all the Ashton Prep upper-school girls had worn black last year the week Braden Pennyworth, Haverford's point guard, got a girlfriend. Cate wanted to incorporate the team's signature shorts into Chi Beta Phi's gym wardrobe. Everyone at Ashton would be so jealous.

“The ones they're wearing right now?” Stella gulped, trying to keep her voice steady. She imagined running around to each of the giant players, trying to pants them without their noticing.

Cate nodded. “Oh,” she added, turning to leave, “I'll be at Jackson Hole with Priya, Sophie, and Blythe. Bring the shorts there…but don't bother coming if you don't have them.” She
looked Stella in the eye and smiled, then offered her a breezy little wave. “Good luck. I'm out like pointy-toe shoes.” Then she strutted back down the empty stone hall and disappeared around the corner.

Inside, a basketball swished through the hoop and a few boys threw their arms up and cheered. What was she supposed to do? Sneak into the boys' locker room
Mission Impossible
style, with grappling hooks and ninja gear? Stella pulled out her iPhone and looked at the time. It was four o'clock—the team probably wouldn't be done practicing until five. Maybe she could try to buy fourteen pairs from the school store, if they even had one. Not likely. The gym echoed with the sound of squeaky shoes and the thump-thump-thump of the bouncing ball.

“Heads up!” a voice called. The basketball bounced off the glossy wood floor and came careening toward Stella's head.

“Bloody hell!” she screamed, catching the ball just before it pummeled her face. The entire team was frozen on the court, staring at her. “Hi,” she said softly.

The tall blonde bloke, the one who had scored the layup, gestured for Stella to throw him the ball. She tried to do a chest pass, but it fell a little short. She suddenly wished she had paid attention during gym at Sherwood Academy in London, instead of making fun of Ms. Reed's hairy armpits with Pippa and Bridget.

A few boys laughed. “Can we help you?” the blond guy said. He hugged the ball to his chest.

“Um…” Stella muttered. A boy with shoulder-length black hair whispered something to his freckled teammate. “I'm here to
try out for the team.” She tossed her golden curls over her shoulder and shot them all her cutest, most flirtatious smile. The guys looked at each other and laughed. Maybe this trial wasn't impossible after all. She just needed some help from a few new mates. Fourteen, to be exact.

 

Jackson Hole was bustling with Ashton Prep upper-school girls. Cate, Priya, Sophie, and Blythe went there every Thursday after school and always sat at the same table in the corner, so they could survey the room. Amber Haan, one of the prettiest seniors, sat with her friends at a table by the window, staring dejectedly at their plain bowls of lettuce. Kimberly Berth, who'd started referring to herself as “Kimmy Kim” last year, maneuvered between tables, dropping fliers for the school mascot club she was starting.

Sophie picked through a pile of sweet potato fries, her retainer perched on the edge of her plate. “Who wants to dress up as a bobcat?” she asked, eyeing the flier. Priya was sitting next to her with one elbow on the table, her left hand shielding her eyes from the swirly mustard-ketchup mixture Sophie always made.

“Losers,” Cate answered. She looked at her silver Tiffany Crown of Hearts watch and then out the wall of windows on the far side of the restaurant. It was ten after five, and Stella was still nowhere in sight. She leaned back in her seat and smiled. She couldn't feel badly about it—she had given Stella a fair chance, and Stella knew the rules. If she couldn't complete all the trials, she couldn't be in Chi Beta Phi.

“I'm having order remorse,” Blythe moaned, looking down at her chicken-finger parmigiana sandwich. They had put too
much pasta sauce on it and the bread was soggy and red. She leaned across the table and stole a bite of Priya's turkey club. “I have to run to the ladies' room,” she said, grabbing her midnight blue Marc by Marc Jacobs bag. “Sophie, come with?”

Sophie popped her retainer back into her mouth and started to get up.

Cate scraped her nails along the sides of her wood chair. During English Blythe had texted Priya twice, then shut off her phone when Cate asked her what it was about. If Stella wasn't going to make it in the Chi Beta Phis, Cate would have to watch her own back—and she didn't have eyes on both sides of her head. She slid out of the table and followed Blythe. “No—
I'll
come with you,” she snapped.

Blythe bit her lip. “Um…sure.” She heaved her bag over her shoulder and headed toward the small wooden door marked ladies. Cate trailed her to the back of the restaurant, edging between the tightly packed tables.

Cate squeezed into the tiny white bathroom and closed the door. The fluorescent light above them buzzed. “What were you going to say to Sophie?” she demanded.

“Nothing,” Blythe said, looking confused. “I just needed her tampons.” She combed her fingers through her dirty blond hair. “What's your deal?”

Cate crossed her arms over her chest, annoyed. “I should ask you the same thing.” She needed to set B.B. straight:
Either you're second-in-command, or you're out.
She didn't want to boot Blythe, boobs or not, from the Chi Beta Phis. But if that was what it came down to, Cate would do it. She'd have to…

“I know what you're trying to do.” Cate leaned against the bathroom door and reached for the knob, pressing the lock down with a menacing click.

“What are you talking about?” Blythe squeaked, her orange face looking a little paler than usual.

“That comment at the sleepover. The eye roll at lunch the other day. You're staging a coup.”

“Um…are you serious?” Blythe shook her head. “I'm not staging…a
coup
.”

“Right. Then where did you go after Barneys on Tuesday?” Cate demanded, tapping her Tory Burch flat impatiently on the floor. Cate had trusted Blythe ever since third grade. She'd been the only one brave enough to come to the house after her mom died and sit with her as she cried. She had even brought Cate a present: her stuffed bear Randolph. She wanted desperately to trust Blythe again, she did. But listening to her flounder was like watching the Home Shopping Network—Cate just wasn't buying it.

Blythe looked up at the ceiling and sighed. “I can't tell you,” she said softly.

“Stop lying to me!” Cate cried. She shook her head and a strand of dark brown hair fell in her face. “You're phonier than a Canal Street handbag!”

“Fine!” Blythe snapped. She pulled her bag off the hook on the wall and started digging through it. “I wanted to wait until Sunday, but I guess I'll have to do this now, in the freaking Jackson Hole bathroom.” She pushed a robin's egg blue box into Cate's hand, along with a balled-up piece of white satin ribbon.

Cate stared at the small black type that read
TIFFANY
&
CO
.,
suddenly quiet. This whole time Blythe was sneaking around…buying her presents?

“I wanted to surprise you…” Blythe mumbled, “At the wedding.” Cate opened the box. Nestled in a velvet pouch was a tiny sterling silver locket. “I know it's hard for you with your dad getting remarried. And I know how you like to have something of your mom's with you all the time.” Cate held the silver necklace up in front of her face. The oval locket had a tiny silver orchid etched on its front. It was beautiful. “I thought you could put a picture of your mom in it, and you could wear it all the time. See?” Blythe popped open the front of it. “Priya and Sophie helped me pick it out.”

Cate looked at the locket, then back at Blythe. The same Blythe who'd stayed up all night with Cate, helping her rehearse her lines when she played Titania in
A Midsummer Night's Dream
. She'd sat in the front row with the script for all three performances, just in case Cate forgot her lines.

Cate felt a knot rising in the back of her throat. “Thank you, Blythe,” she said softly, putting the locket around her neck. “It's perfect.” She leaned over and hugged her friend tightly, tears welling in her eyes.

She had been so stupid. Blythe was the same loyal friend she always had been—just with a bigger chest.

“I'm sorry,” Cate whispered into Blythe's ear. She stood back and wiped a tear from her eye. “It's silly—I got nervous you were tired of being so…behind the scenes. Like, in my shadow.”

“No…” Blythe muttered. She smoothed down the front of her purple striped button-down.

Cate opened the bathroom door, relieved. Everything was back as it should be. But as she moved through the restaurant, she suddenly remembered that Stella was the one who had planted the seeds of suspicion.
You should watch your back,
she'd said.

Stella
was the schemer. She'd tricked Cate, to try to get into the Chi Beta Phis.

Cate glanced at her watch. It was five twenty-five. When Stella walked through the door late and empty-handed, this would all be over. No generous pardon for failing her final trial. No nothing. They had to be sisters—but they didn't have to be friends.

Cate sat back down and Blythe sat next to her. All the plates were gone, but Sophie had ordered a milk shake and was using her straw like an eyedropper, feeding herself tiny strawberry sips. She stopped suddenly, her gaze resting on something behind Cate. Priya was looking out the window too, her brown eyes wide.

“What?” Cate finally asked, turning around in her seat.

“No way!” Sophie squealed.

Cate couldn't believe it either. Stella was strolling around the corner…
with the entire Haverford basketball team.
Tall, blond Braden Pennyworth was in front, then a boy with peach fuzz brown hair, followed by a kid who looked like Josh Hartnett's stunt double. Cate counted fourteen of them, and all of them were cute. She looked at her watch, hoping against hope that it was past five thirty.

But it was five twenty-nine.

Braden opened the glass door of the restaurant so Stella
could step through. Every head in Jackson Hole turned toward the doorway as Stella strutted confidently down the central aisle, the collar of her cherry red Lacoste polo shirt popped up. She approached the table, picking up the hem of her pleated uniform skirt and curtsying. “You said to bring back the shorts,” she said smugly, her olive green eyes shining. “I hope it's okay that the team is still in them.”