Survival of the Fiercest (3 page)

L
ater that afternoon, Lola stood in the poorly lit hallway of a building in SoHo, wearing her pink Speedo and a Gap white linen sundress. She stared at a door labeled
PACIFIC SUNWEAR
. The next time she was on
Ashton News
, she'd be in a Prada evening gown, strutting down the runway in Bryant Park, Betsy Carmichael running commentary on Ashton Prep's newest It girl
(Days-of-the-week knickers have been selling out all over the city! The fashion world speaks: Stop flattening your hair! Dumbo ears are so IN!).
The rag mags would finally have something to talk about other than her parents' divorce
(The Childs' Child Following in Mum's Footsteps!)
, and Kyle Lewis, her childhood friend turned crush, would finally forget she was ever just his clumsy mate “Sticks.”

She adjusted her cloth headband so that it held down the tops of her ears and entered the room, which smelled like a strange mixture of hair spray and baby oil. It was bustling with teenagers, all over the age of sixteen, and all looking like they had taken a
break from surfing in Malibu to stop by the casting call. In the corner, a few girls examined themselves in Clinique compacts. Lola couldn't have gotten her skin that brown if she'd spent the entire summer roasting on a beach in Spain. The boys were uniformly handsome, reminding Lola of the small army of Ken dolls she had when she was little. Hearing the door shut, they all turned in unison like a herd of beautifully tanned, blond deer. Their blue eyes stared at Lola.

She pulled at the straps of her Speedo one-piece, realizing it probably wasn't
exactly
what Ayana had had in mind when she'd said “beachwear.” She shifted around in her sundress, trying to cover the bright pink straps. “I'm here for the Pacific Sunset casting?” she said in a small voice.

Everyone was completely silent. “No way—did she just say Pacific
Sunset
?” a girl with a sunburned nose asked. She patted it with powder as she let out a loud cackle.

A pretty bloke with wavy, bleach blond hair eyed Lola's Speedo, which was still visible beneath her sundress, and her pale, freckled legs. He whispered to the bloke next to him. Then he turned to Lola. “Are you sure you're in the right place?”

Lola blushed so much her ears turned red. Everyone there had tiny button noses and golden brown skin, the color of chocolate chip cookies that had been in the oven just a little too long. None of them had bumps on their noses, none of them had skin so white you could practically see through it, and none of them had to wear a cloth headband just to pin back their bloody ears. “Maybe I made a mistake…” Lola mumbled, feeling for the door behind her.

As she turned quickly to leave, she felt her dress catch on the doorknob. There was a horrid ripping sound, then laughter. She felt a cool breeze on her legs and looked over her shoulder to see a piece of white linen hanging down, revealing her Speedo wedgie. She squeezed out of the room and flew down the staircase, not stopping until she was out on the street in the warm September air.

 

 

S
tella sat in front of the fireplace in the living room on Tuesday night, working on a drawing of Heath Bar. He was curled up on the chaise lounge with her grandmum, who had fallen asleep reading her romance novel
Heating Up the Arctic
. The cover featured a man embracing a woman on the snowy tundra, his parka unzipped to reveal a shiny, waxed chest.

“Now don't move,” she whispered to Heath Bar as she used the edge of her charcoal pencil to shade his fur. The giant tabby cat's eyes were half closed, his chin resting on his front paws. After the run-in with the Beta Sigma Phis today in gym, some relaxation time was just what Stella needed. She and Cate had spent the afternoon at Café d'Alsace, drinking cappuccinos and trying to figure out who was going to be the third member of their sorority. Cate had run down the short list: Celia Reynolds was sufficiently popular, but she didn't go anywhere without her best mate Benna Matthews. Benna wore Sally Hansen acrylic nails and sometimes spoke in a fake British accent, which would
have driven Stella insane. Amy Klentak was cute and funny, and didn't belong to any one clique. But according to Cate, she had “major control issues.” They could talk about Chi Sigma and plan as many bloody meet-and-greets as they wanted. It didn't matter. For now, it wasn't a sorority. It was just Cate and Stella.

“This is all of it!” Cate announced, strolling into the living room with a cardboard box. It was overflowing with old clothes, photos, and a poster that said CATE SLOANE FOR PRESIDENT. Seeing Cate, Heath Bar jumped off the chaise lounge and ran out the door, his back hunched in fear.

Stella put down her sketchbook and sighed. A blank circle stared out at her, right where the cat's face was supposed to be. Cate set the box down next to the fireplace and opened the grate. Then she began pulling items out with black iron tongs. “What is all that?” Stella asked.

“This,” Cate said, stabbing at a black and white Nanette Lepore scoop-neck top and tossing it into the fire, “is the shirt Priya got me for my birthday last year.” She watched as it burst into flames, the silk igniting instantly. “At least, it
was
the shirt Priya got me for my birthday last year. I'm purging.”

“What?” Stella got up from the couch, her stomach tight. Cate was holding a stack of old pictures that looked like they had been taken over the last ten years. One was of her and Blythe dressed up as yellow chicks for Halloween. They looked about six. “You're not going to—”

But before she could go on, Cate threw all the pictures in the fire. A photo booth strip of the Chi Beta Phis curled and twisted, turning to ash. “It's the dawn of a new era. All this stuff is bad
karma.” She ripped the poster into pieces and threw that on the fire too. On the chaise lounge, Margot turned over in her sleep and coughed.

Cate picked up the old notes she and Sophie used to pass in seventh-grade health class (all folded into perfect footballs that read 4 UR EYES ONLY) and tossed them on the pile, feeling a little lighter. Over the last two hours she'd reread all the e-mails between her, Priya, and Blythe—the ones from fifth grade where they first planned the sorority. It had been Blythe's idea to name it Chi Beta Phi (Chi for Cate, Beta for Blythe, and Phi for Priya) and Cate who suggested they let Sophie in when she transferred to Ashton the following year. She'd shuffled through the postcards Blythe had sent her from Greece this summer, which were written in code so that Winston couldn't read them. Then she took out the cards from every one of her birthdays, the insides completely covered with writing. Every second of it was torture.

She didn't want to think about her friends. She didn't want to think about how Priya had helped her when she first got her period, stealing pads from the bottom drawer of her parents' bathroom. Or how Sophie had made flash cards for her when she was terrified she wasn't ready for the earth science final. She didn't want to think about how Blythe was the only person she felt comfortable enough to cry to—about Emma sleeping in her mom's room, or losing the sixth-grade election, or anything, really. She wanted all the memories to go away, to simply disappear. And this was the only way she knew how to make that happen.

She reached into the box and pulled out the last memory of
Chi Beta Phi: the Madame Alexander doll her friends had gotten her when she played Annie last year in Ashton's school play. They'd searched eBay for it for weeks, making sure to find one in mint condition.

“You're getting rid of
everything?
” Stella asked as she peered into the empty box. She felt like she had swallowed a handful of gravel. Yes, she was happy she and Cate were mates now and yes, she was happy Cate was finally free of Blythe's poisonous jealousy. But up until Stella moved to New York, the Chi Beta Phis were Cate's whole life. It would take all of high school and most of university before Stella and Cate had history like theirs.

“Chi Sigma needs to have a fresh start—if it's just you and me, it's just you and me. No baggage.” Cate stroked the doll's hair and threw her onto the dwindling fire, along with her stuffed dog Sandy. Annie's glassy eyes stared at Stella as the flames died down around her.
You!
Stella imagined her screaming,
This is all your fault!

Stella sat back down in Winston's leather club chair, determined. If she hadn't insisted on being in the Chi Beta Phis in the first place, none of this would've happened. She was the one who'd suggested the revote where Blythe had stolen Cate's presidency. Then she'd told the girls Cate had blabbed their secrets—that Blythe had a spray-tan addiction, Priya was obsessed with dissecting things at science camp, and Sophie still played with Barbies.

She pulled her sketchbook into her lap. As she scribbled furiously, Cate watched the last of the Chi Beta Phi memorabilia burn. Stella knew she had made a mess of Cate's ninth year. Now
she was the one who'd clean it up. “What if,” she started, “it wasn't just you and me? What if we were able to find the perfect third member?”

Cate shook her head, her shiny ponytail swinging back and forth. Kneeling in front of the fireplace in her pink plaid J. Crew pajamas, she looked like a small child. “How are we going to find a third member? We already went over our options—it's useless.”

“We're not going to find a third member,” Stella said, ripping a page out of her sketchbook and handing it to Cate. “
They're
going to find
us
.”

 

CHI SIGMA [
YOUR LETTER HERE
]

 

Do you have what it takes to be in Ashton Prep's hottest new sorority?

 

If so, come to the drawing room on Thursday right after school and tell us why we should choose you as our third member.

 

Bring your A-game, ladies—you're going to need it.

 

^*
This once-in-a-lifetime opportunity brought to you by Cate Sloane and Stella Childs.

 

“This is perfect!” Cate screamed. “We'll have the girls
rush!
” At this, Margot sat up, her thick blond hair falling in her eyes.
She looked around in confusion, like she wasn't sure if she was still dreaming.

Cate hugged Stella so tight she nearly cracked her ribs. News of the rush would spread faster than lice at a middle school sleepover. Girls would swarm Bergdorf's after school tomorrow, fighting over the perfect Badgley Mischka dress for their first impression. She pictured a line of ninth-graders outside the Ashton Prep drawing room, their résumés in hand as they rehearsed their Chi Sigma pitch.
I'm sorry, we need someone a little more…easygoing
, Cate imagined herself saying, as Amy Klentak threw a temper tantrum over her immediate dismissal.

“Good work,” Cate said. As she looked at the flyer in her hands she imagined walking down the hall with her new sorority: Chi Sigma Theta, or Gamma, or whatever it became. It would never be Chi Beta Phi. Cate would never laugh as hard as she did when Blythe jokingly taped her nose up toward her forehead, making herself look like a pig. No one could comfort Cate as well as Priya, who was calmer than a yoga guru. And even Sophie was irreplaceable. Cate would always remember the “music video” she made on her webcam, where she lip-synched Fergie's “Glamorous” wearing every piece of her mom's diamond jewelry.

But Chi Beta Phi was over now. And if Cate and Stella's new sorority was going to be the best at Ashton Prep, it would have to be more visible, more popular, and fiercer than Blythe's. Cate clutched the flyer to her chest and smiled. She had put the Chi in Chi Beta Phi. She was
more
than up to the challenge.

A
ndie carried the crumpet up the stairs, watching as the honey melted over its spongy top. She felt so guilty about hanging out with Kyle, she'd begged Greta, their cook, to make Lola's favorite snack. Kyle had IMed her yesterday, and they'd spent two hours debating the Shins vs. Death Cab for Cutie, and Killington vs. Sugarloaf. Afterward Andie rolled around in bed, unable to sleep. She couldn't stop picturing them huddled together on a ski lift, so close that Kyle's breath fogged up her goggles. It wasn't that she had a crush. It was that with every hour—every minute—it was getting worse.

She knocked on Lola's door. No matter how hard it was, no matter how mad Lola would be, she had to tell her—
now
. She only hoped the crumpets would serve as an adequate consolation prize.

“Look what Greta made!” she called out cheerfully. She set the plate down on Lola's dresser, right next to the framed picture of her and her best friend, Abby, on Primrose Hill. “Lola?”

“What?” a muffled voice said. It came from somewhere inside the mound of bedding piled on Lola's mattress. The tangle of pillows and blankets reminded Andie of the cushion forts she and Cate used to make when they were little, back when they could still stand to be in the same room together.

“Lola!” Andie cried, sitting down on the edge of the bed. She pushed back the patchwork quilt. Lola was curled up in a ball with her cheek resting on Heath Bar's furry back. Her eyes were swollen and red, like she'd had a severe allergy attack. Andie had seen the “first-week-of-school highlight reel” yesterday—it wasn't good. Lola had been on the verge of tears all through dinner last night. But eventually everyone ended up doing something stupid on
Ashton News
. It was like a rite of passage. Just last year they'd shown her getting knocked in the face with a soccer ball. “You cannot let Betsy Carmichael get to you. Besides, nobody cares if you wear days-of-the-week underwear.”

“It's not that. Well, it's not
just
that.” Lola stared at the turquoise wall and shook her head. The end of her freckled nose twitched, the way it always did when she was trying not to cry.

“What's wrong?” Andie leaned back, suddenly nervous. She'd waited a whole day to tell Lola she'd been talking to Kyle. She just hoped Kyle hadn't mentioned it first.

Lola sat up, sniffing back tears. “Everything,” she mumbled, petting Heath Bar hard on his head. The tabby cat's eyes pulled back, like he'd just gotten a kitty face-lift. The highlight reel was only the beginning. All day, she couldn't stop thinking of how daft she'd been at the casting, or how she'd had to keep her hand on her dress for the entire tube ride home, so thirty more
people wouldn't see her bum. “It's not just the knickers thing, I—” She stopped herself. All last week Andie had kept on about Ford, striking impromptu poses in doors, puddles, and any other reflective surface she could find. Now Lola was the one going on casting calls. Even if she hadn't done anything wrong, it wasn't exactly the
easiest
news to share.

Lola let out a deep breath, feeling the words come out one by one. “That agent Ayana Bennington called me yesterday. I went on a modeling casting for some company called Pacific
Sunwear
.” She made certain she said it right this time. Lola had only told her grandmum about the casting, and that was because she needed her to sign a release form. “I was daft to go. Everyone there was tan, with little ears and little button noses.” Lola picked a piece of cat hair off the quilt, afraid to look up. “I'm sorry—I should have told you.”

Andie stared at the horseshoe on Lola's wall. She didn't know what to say. After the incident at Ford, she'd told Lola it was okay with her if she wanted to model—she just hadn't thought Lola would go ahead and do it
two days later
. “It's fine…
really
,” she managed. She pictured Lola going to the agency every day after school, passing Kate Moss in the lobby.
Lola!
Kate would cry, kissing her on both cheeks,
Let's get together after the Rodarte show!

Still. She wasn't allowed to be mad. Not when she was scrimmaging with Kyle, talking to him online, and staying up late obsessing over what their first kiss would be like. Since Lola had kept her own secret, it was time for Andie to spill hers. “I've been meaning to tell you something.”

“It's just,” Lola interrupted, tears welling in her eyes, “I'm tired of feeling so…
ugly
.” When she said the word
ugly
her chin wrinkled and she covered her face.

“You're not ugly!” Andie pulled Lola's hands away. All she could think was: Make Lola feel better. Now. “You're just not supposed to be modeling for Pacific Sunwear, that's all. Those girls are like Malibu Barbie dolls. You're more…
editorial
.” Ever since Ayana had told Lola she was “stunning,” Andie couldn't help noticing that Lola's freckled skin was flawless, or that she had an oddly delicate bump on the bridge of her nose. It was true—she had a unique look. Heath Bar walked over to Andie and started licking the back of her hand, his tongue scratchy like sandpaper.

“That's what Ayana said,” Lola mumbled. “She's insisting I meet some bloke named Gunther Gunther tomorrow, but I just…I can't.” Lola picked Heath Bar up and buried her face in his back.

“Gunther
Gunta
?”

“Yeah, that's it.” Lola said. “You've heard of him?”

“
The
Gunther Gunta?” Andie was stunned. Gunther Gunta was number one on Andie's list of Designers to Work With, ahead of Marc Jacobs and Vera Wang. For her twelfth birthday she'd begged her dad to buy her a Gunther Gunta vintage couture dress, even though it was only appropriate for the Oscars, the Emmys, or a runway in Milan. After Winston's tailor made some serious alterations, she spent a whole week wearing it around the house, practicing her runway walk in wedge heels. “Lola—do you have any idea who that is? You have to go!”

Andie grabbed last month's
Vogue
off Lola's nightstand. It was
in the same exact spot she'd left it last week, when she was trying to school Lola about fashion. She opened to a spread titled “Gunther Gunta: Man. Myth. Maniac?” and pressed her finger into the page. “He's a fashion icon—bigger than Calvin Klein, Karl Lagerfeld, Versace. He's Indian, but he was born in Paris and moved to Germany when he was three. People claim he was designing dresses before he could talk, fashioning scarves out of his baby blankets. His first fashion show was in Munich when he was only seven.” Andie looked at a photo of the young Gunther watching his own fashion show and smiled. Even as a kid he had glasses an inch thick, his red beret sitting lopsided on his head.

Lola looked at the spread. In the center there was a blurry paparazzi shot of a short man lying out by a pool, his hairy gut hanging over his Speedo. A newspaper covered his face. “
That's
him?”

“He's been in seclusion for the last two years—that's the only recent picture they have.” Andie tried not to sound so annoyed. Lola didn't know Armani from Arkansas, and she was meeting
Gunther Gunta
tomorrow. It wasn't fair. Andie had watched footage of his early fashion shows and read every article about the alleged breakdown that put him in seclusion. Two weeks after critics called his fall 2007 collection “an utter abomination,” Gunther disappeared. He was discovered a month later lying in an alley in Paris, muttering to himself as he gnawed on the end of a stale baguette. Andie had read so much about Gunther, seen so many interviews, she felt like they were friends. She'd even rehearsed what she would say if she met him:
Don't listen to the critics! Your fall 2007 collection was
an utter inspiration.

“You have a big day tomorrow. I should let you rest up.” Andie headed toward the door. She felt confused, like when she'd found out Cindy—her always prudish best friend—had kissed a boy before she had. Lola was supposed to be the sister who
didn't
intimidate her.

“Wait—didn't you want to tell me something?” Lola asked. The quilt was thrown over her shoulders, like an ugly patchwork shawl.

Andie eyed the crumpet on Lola's dresser, remembering why she had come there in the first place. She was talking to Kyle Lewis—
Lola's
crush. “Just…” She looked at Lola's face, which was still pink and swollen. Whether Lola was modeling for Gunther Gunta or not, Andie knew the moment she left, Lola would bury her head back in the blanket. “Don't worry. You're perfect for modeling. Gunther will love you.”

Lola smiled, revealing a small glimpse of her usual, enthusiastic self. “Cheers,” she whispered, pulling Heath Bar into her arms. And with that, Andie left.