Survival of the Fiercest (5 page)

BOOK: Survival of the Fiercest
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A
ndie hit the shuttle with her racquet, sending it soaring over the net. It was Thursday morning gym class, and Mrs. Taft had paired her off with Hannah Marcus. Andie had always hated badminton. It was like a lame version of tennis, for people who were over seventy-five or just plain lazy. Hannah fell into the second category. Playing with her was like playing with a statue—she refused to move even six inches to keep the game going.

Hannah swung her racquet and missed, the shuttle falling a few feet to the right of her feet. Andie gazed longingly at Cindy, who was running around the corner court, having a quick back-and-forth with Addison Isaacs. “So,” Hannah said, as she walked to retrieve the shuttle. She was moving so slowly, it was like she was stuck in mud. “It seems like Cate is coping okay without Blythe.” When she bent over, her purple tank top rode up, revealing her chubby back.

“Yeah,” Andie offered. She had heard that Cate and Blythe
weren't friends anymore—
everyone
had heard. “She's great.” The truth was, most girls at Ashton Prep—even ones Cate
wasn't
friends with—were better qualified to answer that question than Andie. Hannah gave the shuttle a halfhearted whack and Andie smashed it right back. It bounced off the shiny gym floor, not going anywhere near Hannah's racquet.

Andie and Cate were close when they were younger, before their mother died. They'd throw birthday parties for Andie's American Doll, Molly—even wrapping up Winston's Tiffany cuff links as a gift. They'd put on elaborate plays in the den and borrow their mother's pearls and diamond brooches to pretend they were princesses, trapped in an ogre's castle. And when their mom was really sick, it was Cate who had worn one of her wigs, pretending it was just another play so Andie wouldn't be so scared. But it hadn't been like that in years.

Hannah huffed to the far corner of the badminton court and served the shuttle back over the net. “Everyone's talking about the rush. A few girls stole some flyers from the upper school.”

“What do you mean?” Andie caught the shuttle in her hand and just held it there.


Do not
tell me you haven't heard.” Hannah's brown hair was a mess of frizzy curls, and she had a mole on her chin the size of a pencil eraser. Cindy only referred to her as “Holy Mole-y.” She dropped her racquet to her side, like she'd given up on the game completely. “She and Stella are having an open call today to find a third member for Chi Sigma.”

Andie tugged on the highlight in her bangs. She knew Chi Beta Phi was done. But she didn't know Cate and Stella were
starting their
own
sorority…and looking for one more member. Over the last few years, there hadn't been any space in Cate's life for her. Every weekend Cate was holed up in her room with “her real sisters,” the Chi Beta Phis, watching marathons of
The City
and singing all three hundred songs on her karaoke machine. Andie used to listen to them through the heating vent in her bathroom, wishing, just for once, they'd ask her to join. “When is it?” Andie asked.

“After school. I just assumed you were going.” Hannah started to sit down on the court, but Mrs. Taft blew her whistle, bringing her to attention.

“Back to the game, Hannah, period's almost over,” she called. She was standing next to the gymnasium doors with her clipboard. Her thick legs were packed into gray Ashton Prep sweatpants, making them look like Polish sausages.

“I mean, you're the most obvious third member,” Hannah continued, as Andie served back to her. “You
are
related to them.” She looked at Hannah's pale face and decided, right then, that she was more likeable than people gave her credit for.

“Maybe I will go.” She and Cate always got along on vacation, when Cate's only choices were to hang out with Andie or be alone. Last winter in Killington, Cate had jumped out of the hot tub on Andie's dare, rolling around in the snow until her skin was pink. In Australia they'd snorkeled side by side over the Great Barrier Reef, gripping each other's hands because they were so terrified of sharks. Andie wanted
that
Cate to be her sister—the one who could go more than an hour without snapping at her, or slamming a door in her face. To Andie, those vacations
always felt like proof that they could get along. Cate just had to be willing to give her a chance.

“All right, ladies,” Mrs. Taft called out, nodding to the locker room doors. “I'm done torturing you.” As Andie dropped her racquet into a giant red bin, Hannah pulled a lavender sheet of paper out of her flowered LeSportsac. She offered it to Andie. “Here, I found an extra one in the courtyard. It's yours if you want it.”

Andie turned it over in her hands. “Thanks, Hannah.” The girls filed inside the locker room, but Andie lingered behind. She imagined walking to school with Cate and Stella, stopping for café lattes at the Starbucks on Eighty-seventh Street. Cate would review her schedule for her in June, telling her which teachers to avoid and why, and look over all her papers on
A Christmas Carol
or
Huck Finn
. They'd all stay up late, having their
own
karaoke sleepover. Andie would do her best rendition of “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun,” and they wouldn't care that she was completely tone deaf.

She tucked the flyer into her pocket and headed inside, the slightest smile creeping over her face. Finally she wouldn't be Copy Cate, or C.C., the annoying cling-on that Cate was always trying to get rid of.

W
hen the lift doors opened into the Royal Suite in the Waldorf Towers, Lola clapped her hands in excitement. Its eighteenth-century antiques and gilded crown molding made her feel like she'd walked into a life-size dollhouse. The pink and turquoise damask curtains were pulled back to reveal a spectacular view of Central Park, the high-rise buildings around it sparkling in the afternoon sun. “New York Sit-aaaay,” Lola whispered, her lips curling into a smile. It was awful how much she missed London, with its quaint little streets and alleyways, but at a time like this, it was impossible to be sad. Here she was, in a posh hotel, about to meet Gunther Gunta, world-famous fashion designer.

Two models sat on gilt wood settees, barely looking up as Lola entered. A young girl flipped through a
Vanity Fair
that had Lola's mum's friend, the British actor Harley Cross, on the cover. Lola studied the girl, a little relieved. She had skin so white she looked albino, and her red hair was the color of fire
ants. Another model chatted loudly on her mobile, complaining about someone named Panchito. There was a huge bump on her nose, like a marble was lodged in the center of it. They were all different looking, but in their own way…
beautiful
. Lola relaxed into the sofa and admired her legs. She actually looked tan compared to the redhead model.

“Is there a sign-in sheet?” Lola asked her. She just shook her head, barely looking up from her magazine. The other girl was still on her mobile. “Panchito should've known better. Tenjune is over—it's all bridge and tunnel now.”

Lola pulled her iPhone out of her Gap tote. After she'd read the entire Gunther Gunta article, she'd called Abby in London and told her about Ayana and the go-see. Abby had shrieked so loudly her mum thought there was a burglar in her room. But there was still one person who
didn't
know about her new career, and Lola couldn't wait to see his face when she told him. She typed away.

LOLA: WHAT R U UP 2 L8R?

KYLE: HW. SRY.

Homework, again?
Lola tucked the iPhone back in her pocket, feeling like she'd eaten some bad sushi. Kyle had been acting strange all week. Even if she'd practically pushed him out the front door on Saturday when Andie had flirted with him, he didn't have to completely avoid her. Yesterday, when she'd IMed him he'd taken twenty-six whole minutes to respond (not that she was counting…), saying he was IMing with someone else.
Who?
Lola wrote, but he never wrote back. Lola imagined a girl who looked just like her, but with smaller ears, a straighter nose, and glossy blond hair like corn silk. Imaginary Girl would never spill ice cream all over Kyle's shirt, trip in the middle of the street, or get so nervous her ears turned red.

A door on the far side of the room flew open and a girl stumbled out. Her face was pink and her cheeks were slick with tears. Everyone stared at her. “He told me I need eye-replacement surgery!” she sobbed. Lola studied her face. Her eyes
were
extremely close together. Still, it wasn't a nice thing to say.

Panchito's ex-friend consoled her, as the redhead model disappeared into the room. Lola adjusted her cloth headband, suddenly nervous. The
Vogue
article mentioned that Gunther Gunta was notorious for his mood swings, subtly suggesting he might have two personalities, like Jekyll and Hyde. Gunther would insist a model gain half a stone, then throw a tantrum when she didn't fit into her couture jumper. Once he hurled a Diet Coke at a model's head after she rolled her eyes at him. But he was supposed to be different now—
better
. The
Vogue
reporter said two years at an ashram in India had transformed him. Lately he'd donated fifty percent of his income to Models Without Borders, a charity that held fashion shows in the remotest parts of the world.

A few minutes later, the redhead model stormed out of the room, shaking her head. “He told me I should break my own nose!” she cried, covering her face with her hand.

“You can go next,” the girl with the bumpy nose said, slowly gathering her bright yellow purse and sweater. “I don't have a
chance.” Lola wrung her hands. The last thing she needed was Gunther Gunta: Man. Myth. Maniac? pulling off her headband and telling her she had elephant ears, or demanding she bleach away her freckles. She took a deep breath, remembering Andie's words.
You're editorial. Gunther will love you
. Lola hoped she was right.

She opened the heavy oak door. The dining room had been cleared of furniture and the thick curtains were drawn. It was dark except for a single spotlight that lit up the wall, like a perfect glowing moon. “Stend on ze X,” a low voice hissed. It was coming from the far end of the room, where two shadowy figures sat in armchairs. Lola couldn't quite make out their faces. “Do nut speek,” the man said.

“Donut speak?” Lola furrowed her brows, imagining two chocolate Krispy Kremes talking to each other. She stepped onto the masking tape X on the floor and smoothed down the skirt of the black Gap chiffon dress she'd bought for her uncle Simon's wedding last year. Andie had helped her pick it out, insisting it was the outfit most “in line with Gunther's sensibilities.”

“Shhhh!” the voice hissed. The spotlight was so bright it was like staring directly at the sun. Lola shielded her eyes, trying to make out who was talking. “Lit me zee your face!”

Lola braced herself, waiting for Gunther to sling his first insult. He would tell her to get knee-reduction surgery, to break her feet so they didn't turn inward so much, or to splurge on fat injections for her arms. He would scrunch his nose in disgust, insulted she'd even come. Lola waited. The sweat pooled at the small of her back. There was only silence.

In the back of the room she saw the flame of a lighter, then the glow of a freshly lit cigarette. Lola coughed, the smoke stinging her throat. She wanted to run out the door, down the ornate hallways of the Waldorf Towers, and up Park Avenue, not stopping until she was at home with Heath Bar, cuddled safe in her bed. She'd been so dim. Gunther Gunta was looking for a high-fashion model, not some twit who couldn't walk to the loo without falling over her own feet. “Um…” Lola mumbled, staring at the carpet. “I'm sorry for wasting your time. I'll—”

“No!” The man's voice growled. “Evette. Ze lights!” He snapped his fingers in the air. The shadow with the cigarette walked over and flipped a switch on the wall.

Lola blinked a few times, the room slowly coming into focus. There was an oak credenza next to her, decorated with two ivy topiaries. The woman on the far wall wore high-waisted pants and a blue beret and was enveloped in a cloud of smoke. She reminded Lola of the women in those subtitled films her mum liked to watch. Then Lola spotted him.

Walking toward her was a round man just a little taller than Andie. His hair formed one stiff black peak, like it had been gelled back with rubber cement. In his striped blue T-shirt and jeans he looked a little like the street performers in Covent Garden, only older…and fatter. And he wasn't juggling bowling pins.

He circled Lola three times, peering up at her through his Prada glasses. They were half an inch thick, making his black eyes look as tiny as peas. “Git rid of eet!” he hissed, snapping his fingers at Lola's headband.

Lola had barely taken it off since last week, when she bought it at some place called Duane Reade, which Andie had explained was New York City's version of Boots. The headband held down the tops of her ears. Now that she had it, it wasn't something she could do without. “Um…I'd rather—”

“Ne-ow!” Gunther hooted, throwing his short arms in the air. Lola slowly pulled it off, hoping her dirty blond hair would cover her ears. Gunther kept considering her, looking at one side of her face, then the other. She tapped her foot, hoping it would end soon. Whenever someone looked at her that long it only meant one thing: They were forming a joke in their head. “You ahhh eet,” he whispered, taking Lola's chin in his hands. “You ahhh my gutta and my light.”

Lola blushed so much her ears turned red. She didn't know exactly what that meant, but it sounded good—at least better than needing eye-replacement surgery. “Cheers,” Lola said. “I think?”

“You are his Gutter and his Light,” Evette explained, exhaling smoke from her cigarette. “It's the name of the new campaign?” She shot Lola a look that said,
Do you have
any
clue why you're here?

“Yes!” Gunther yelped, stomping a python-skin boot on the floor. “I was in ze gutta! Zen I saw ze light!” He reached his hand up to the ceiling and stared at it for a good minute, his eyes rolling back in his head. Lola looked up, but all she saw was an air-conditioning vent. “Evette!” Gunther yelled, even though Evette was only five feet away from him. “Tell ze ahthas to leeve. I have found her!”

Evette stepped outside and Gunther kept circling Lola like she was a rare species of exotic bird. “You ahh so freeesh looking,” he hooted, his smile revealing a chipped front tooth. “I am so in ze love with ze ears!” He reached up to give one of Lola's ears a quick tug.

Lola couldn't stand it any longer. She bounced up and down on her heels, clapping her hands in excitement.
Gunther Gunta
loved her ears.
Gunther Gunta
thought
she
was freeesh looking. She didn't need a lip reduction, an ear tuck, or hair-replacement surgery. And if Gunther Gunta, one of the toughest critics loved her, everyone would.

Gunther grabbed two small cups of green liquid off the credenza and downed them one after the other. Lola recognized the smell as wheatgrass, the organic sludge her mum drank when she was trying to be healthy.

Evette returned and handed Lola a clipboard that had all the details of the shoot. At four o'clock on Saturday she'd show up at a warehouse on Canal Street. Evette pointed to the fine print at the bottom of the contract. “Just two things: You need a guardian to sign, and you cannot, under any circumstances, bathe until then.”

“No bathing?” Lola asked. It seemed like an odd request. Her mum had been a model for over twenty years, and she'd never mentioned anything about not showering.

“No baaathing!” Gunther screeched, pounding his little fist in the air. “You aah too be au naturale, one with ze guttaaa.” Lola could smell the wheatgrass on his breath, like he'd just eaten a whole bag of lawn clippings. “I had ze girls, zey come in wit ze
spritz spritz in ze hair, and zey smeell like ze parfum. Zey put ze powda under their arms, ze powda.” He pulled his glasses down his nose and gave her a stern look. “I was in ze guttaaa, Lola. Do you know wut zat meens?”

“No,” Lola mumbled, shaking her head.

“Eet meens I wuz in ze feelth. I wuz gnawing on ze old loaf of bread like a dirty leetle rat. So no baaaathing!” He pounded his little fist in the air. “No spritz spritz! No powda or parfum! Understend?”

“Abso-bloody-lutely.” Lola nodded. The shoot was only two days away. She didn't have to bathe or use hair spray or perfume. She would roll around in a Dumpster if Gunther Gunta asked her to. He was her boss now, and she was his Gutter and his Light. The little man threw his arms around her one last time before pushing her out the door.

“Saturdaaaay!” he called over her shoulder. “Saturdaaay!”

 

 

F
ROM THE DESK OF
C
ATE
S
LOANE

Interview questions for Chi Sigma rush

  • Have you ever been associated outside of school with Blythe Finley? If so, in what capacity?
  • If you could only wear one designer for the rest of your life, who would it be? Please elaborate.
  • Barneys is on fire, and your best friend has been trampled by women trying to get out with their sale items. She's badly hurt and can't walk. Do you leave her and go for help, or stay until help arrives? Explain your answer.
  • Have you ever been to a Disney show on ice? Have you ever suggested your friends go to a Disney show on ice? If so, please specify dates and which ones.
  • You overhear a girl calling a member of your sorority “stuck-up.” Do you Explain your answer.
  • a) immediately confront the girl;
  • b) return to your friends and tell them what happened;
  • c) convince yourself it didn't happen—that you must've heard wrong; or
  • d) pretend you're really mad, but then wave to the girl in gym when your sorority sisters aren't looking.

Explain your answer.

•Tell us your greatest weakness.

BOOK: Survival of the Fiercest
4.94Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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