“So,” said her ex-friend, grimacing at Lauren’s Saint Laurent bag. “I haven’t got much time, you know. I’m really busy right now.”
“Planning Congé?” Lauren tried to sound casual. She followed Sadie into the store and up the escalator, waiting for an answer, but Sadie seemed to have gone deaf all of a sudden.
They browsed the Current/Elliot and Splendid racks, Sadie complaining the whole time. She preferred Rag & Bone, she said, and FreeCity sweatpants. No wonder she was busy, Lauren thought: Sadie must be spending all her spare time catching up on her fashion education. A month ago, she didn’t know the difference between Anne Klein and Calvin Klein. She thought Dolce & Gabbana were gelato flavors.
“You’re so right.” Lauren sighed, rifling through a pile of Joie cashmere sweaters. “These are looking kind of tired.”
“I don’t know,” sniffed Sadie. “I like that gray sweater. It’ll look so cute with my socks. They’re my signature look, you know.”
“Really?” Lauren’s face was aching from the strain of her false smile. “Let me get it for you. I was thinking of buying one for myself in green.”
“Okay.” Sadie sighed, as though she were doing Lauren a big favor by allowing her to buy Sadie a sweater. A really expensive sweater! Lauren picked out two extra smalls and tucked them under her arm.
“You see, in the S. Society,” Sadie explained, “we don’t believe in wearing matching outfits or carrying matching bags. It’s kind of tacky.”
“Mmm.” Lauren hoped Sadie couldn’t hear her grinding her teeth.
“So we have our signature looks.” Sadie held up a pair of white Nanette Lepore pants and wrinkled her nose. “I have my socks, and Sheridan has her barrettes, for example. Our new members have to develop their own signature items. That’s what the S stands for, you know.”
“I did not know that,” Lauren said. The wide-legged white pants would make Sadie look like a walking fridge, and she couldn’t help but hope that Sadie would buy a pair.
“But we also give priority to girls whose names begin with S, of course.” Suddenly the Queen of Argyle was all chatty. “Supriya Manapali is desperate to join. She’s shopping for her signature item today.”
“That’s great.” Lauren felt like she’d run out of inane things to say. “Do you ever go to that boutique on Geary? It’s the Ashleys’ favorite store.”
Sadie’s face puckered at the mention of the Ashleys, as though the very idea of them made her physically ill.
“Who cares where they shop? They are old news!” she said, pushing over a tower of BCBG T-shirts and not even noticing. “I’m sick of them running everything. We all are. Why are they always chosen to be models at the Mother-Daughter Fashion Show? Just because Lili’s mom is head of the Mothers’ Committee!”
“I know.” Lauren sighed. It was an open secret that although any girl could be considered for the show, the roster invariably included only the Ashleys and their SOAs, with the Ashleys hogging all the best clothes.
The Mother-Daughter Fashion Show was only fun for the people who were in it. Everyone else always felt like a big, ugly loser. In the past Lauren had usually sat at the same back table with girls like Daria Hart, Guinevere Parker, and Cass Franklin. Girls who would never be picked for the fashion show in a million years. And why not? As Lauren and Sadie had shown, a little makeup and a lot of tan made anyone more attractive.
Lauren suddenly got a brain wave. She had to get Daria, Guinevere, and Cass chosen as models for the show somehow. If she really wanted to break the power of cliques in the school, she would have to do more than just sneak into one. She would have to try to encourage real social change. Show them that with the right look and the right opportunity, anyone could be an Ashley.
Of course the Ashleys would protest, but she could make them think it was the S. Society trying to sabotage one of their events.
“Well, I’m not going to stand for it anymore,” Sadie said, with a toss of her newly golden locks. “At our Congé meeting, I told Miss Charm that the fashion show was just another example of clique dominance at Miss Gamble’s, and she totally saw our point. She promised that there are going to be some major changes at the fashion show this year.”
“Really,” Lauren said. The Ashleys would not like the sound of that. “So . . . what else happened at the meeting?” she asked, pretending to look through a rack of clothes, her heart fluttering.
“We have the best thing ever planned. I’d tell you all about it, but . . .”
“But what?” Lauren was almost breathless with excitement.
“Look at this!” Sadie exclaimed, clutching a bright yellow Isabel Marant tunic dress. “How cute! Maybe I’ll try it on.”
“Sure,” said Lauren. “But you were about to say—”
“Eek!” Sadie was checking her Rolex. “What time is Dex picking us up?”
“In about fifteen minutes,” Lauren said, her heart sinking. “But he won’t mind waiting.”
“I don’t want to keep him waiting.” Sadie giggled, and Lauren wanted to slap her. If she thought Dex would ever fall for a ninny like her, she was seriously deluded! “Listen, I’ll try this dress on while you go buy the sweaters. You know, I’m not sure if I should get a gray sweater or a black one.”
“How about both?” Lauren asked wearily. If she could buy Sadie’s friendship, maybe then Sadie would talk some more about Congé in the car. And maybe, she thought, stalking over to the cashier’s desk, Sadie would end up marrying Dex one day, while pigs flew in the sky over San Francisco Bay.
Whatever the S. Society was planning for Congé, Sadie had no intention of blabbing—not yet, anyway. Lauren would have to come up with a better plan.
8
THE ASHLEYS SHOW THEIR TRUE COLORS
THAT SATURDAY AFTERNOON ASHLEY SUMMONED the other Ashleys to the elegant Huntingdon Hotel to get mani-pedis at the Nob Hill Spa, their current day spa of choice. It was impossible to think clearly when your nail polish was chipped.
After some deliberation—that is, about five minutes, in the car on the way to the spa—she’d decided to restrict the invitation to Ashleys only. Lauren was number three on Ashley’s speed-dial, but just as she was about to press the button, she hesitated.
Sure, Lauren was one of them now—she had the right shoes, the right bag, even the right boyfriend, but then, it took more than the right accessories to be an Ashley. It took loyalty. During the weeks leading up to her birthday party, Lauren had been hanging out with her old dorky pal Sadie while thinking the Ashleys hadn’t noticed. Maybe Lili and A. A. hadn’t noticed, but few things escaped Ashley’s finely tuned social antenna.
Maybe it was just a coincidence that Sadie had appeared at Ashley’s party all dolled up and looking like Selena Gomez giving Justin Bieber a taste of what he was missing, but somehow Ashley didn’t think so. She thought that maybe Lauren had something to do with it. She didn’t know why Lauren would waste her time with such an obvious biter, and she didn’t really care to find out.
Ashley had meant what she’d said at the Congé meeting. Unless Lauren proved herself truly worthy of her Ashley affiliation, by infiltrating the pathetic S. Society and uncovering their sure-to-be-sad plans for Congé, she would no longer be one of them.
• • •
“I love it here,” Ashley said, slipping off her white slippers and plunging her feet into a petal-strewn footbath. They’d all changed into those slippers, and matching white robes, as soon as they’d arrived. Now they were sitting in side-by-side pedicure chairs in an all-white room, waiting to be soaked, exfoliated, massaged, wrapped, filed, buffed, and painted.
“Is this where your mother comes for prenatal yoga?” A. A. asked.
“Ugh. No!”
“Does she go to International Orange? My mother said they have Mom-to-Be massages there,” Lili added.
“You can get that
here as well—look.” A. A. picked up the menu of services. “The Fifty-Minute Pregnancy Massage.”
Ashley screwed up her face. Did they have to keep reminding her that her mother was knocked up? It was bad enough that everyone at Miss Gamble’s knew without broadcasting it in public.
And anyway, she had more interesting things to discuss, like her date on Thursday night with Cooper. Her parents felt so guilty about moving her against her will up into the little guest room that they’d allowed her to go out on a date on a school night. It was only pizza again, but the other Ashleys didn’t have to know that.
“It was the best date ever,” she gushed.
A. A. groaned. “Didn’t you already tell us every single detail at lunch yesterday?”
Ashley decided to ignore this. “Really, he’s like a male version of me!” She knew that sounded kind of conceited, but she couldn’t think of another way to describe it.
“You mean he’s got long blond hair and a pet labra-doodle?” Lili was in a sarcastic mood—maybe, thought Ashley, because her own life was a boyfriend-free zone. Lili knew full well what Ashley meant: Cooper, like Ashley, was cute and rich.
“You’re so funny, Lil.” She sighed, splashing her feet in the warm water. “Jealous much?”
“You guys!” A. A. leaned forward. “What we do need to discuss is the Mother-Daughter Fashion Show. It’s only a week away.”
“What’s to discuss?” asked Ashley. Talking about Cooper was much more interesting. The Ashleys had always been the stars of the annual Mother-Daughter Fashion Show, which raised money for some sort of charity, and they would be again this year.
Only a handful of mothers and daughters were invited to model in the show. Ashley didn’t even care who else got to model, as long as she and her mother got to model the final look, which every year was a pair of white tea dresses. The most beautiful mother-and-daughter duo was always chosen to model those dresses, and for the past two years, Ashley and Matilda had ruled the runway.
“I hope they’re going to tell us who’s selected on Monday.” Lili picked at her fingernails. “I really need to know so I can clear my schedule.”
“Of course we’ll all be selected!” Ashley didn’t know why they were even discussing this.
“Lauren too, probably,” A. A. said. “All the teachers know she’s in our group now.”
“But her mom is such a Donatella,” groaned Lili, and A. A. nodded. They all thought, not so secretly, that Lauren’s mother, Trudy Page, was kind of tacky and nouveau riche. Trudy was pretty enough, considering she was way old—like, over forty—but she always dressed garishly, in too much Versace and too much bling.
“Where is Lauren?” Lili asked. “Is she not coming?”
“I didn’t call her,” Ashley said casually. “Sometimes I like when it’s just us, you know?”
A. A. and Lili exchanged raised eyebrows, but Ashley decided not to explain further. She had to give Lauren a chance to prove herself. If she delivered the goods, she could remain an Ashley. If not, then best if A. A. and Lili didn’t miss her too much.
“I heard Miss Charm telling the headmistress they were expanding the number of girls in the show this year,” Lili told them with a frown.
“Oh God, it’s probably that S. Society behind it,” A. A. said. “They’re all over Congé, so it makes sense that they’re going to be all over this. We better watch our backs,” she said, as she lifted her left foot for the pedicurist to exfoliate.
“Speak of the devil,” Ashley muttered, as two familiar-looking girls walked out of the locker room wearing the spa’s white robes.
“Oh, look!” said Sadie, in that mocking tone Ashley recognized as her own. “It’s the Jonas Sisters!”
“What are you guys doing here?” Ashley snapped.
“This is the S. Society’s favorite spa. We like to think of it as the S. Spa.” Sheridan sniffed.
“But this is our spa.” Ashley glared, rising up from her chair a little and getting scolded by the beautician kneeling at her feet for splashing water everywhere.
Sadie folded her arms and sneered. “Funny, because I don’t see your names on the front.”
Of course, what Ashley meant was that this was the Ashleys’ personal spa. Their oasis, their spa-away-from-home.
“What’s up with calling yourselves the S. Society, anyway? It’s just you and Sheridan. Hardly a society. Not even a group,” A. A. pointed out.
“For your information, Supriya Manapali is one of us now, and so is Vicky Cameron,” said Sheridan.
“Doesn’t everyone have to have a name that starts with S for it to be the S. Society?” Lili asked.
“For your information, S stands for signature. Because we each have a signature accessory.”
“I thought the S stood for Sucky,” Ashley said, disgusted that unwelcome interlopers had crashed their relaxing afternoon.
“What’s sucky is your idea for Congé,” said Sheridan. “I hear you have nothing.”
“That’s not true!” Ashley protested, even though it was. Where did they hear that? From Lauren? Lauren wasn’t a double agent, was she?
Just then two beauticians called Sadie and Sheridan to their treatments, leaving the Ashleys alone with their thoughts. They all seemed a little shell-shocked by the exchange. No one had ever dared speak to them like that in all their years at Miss Gamble’s. It was hard to get used to.
“Ladies, have you all chosen your colors?” asked one of the pedicurists, dipping her hand into each foot basin in turn to check the temperature.
“Yes!” Ashley held up the bottle she’d brought with her, glad to think of something else. She always picked the nail color for everyone, and this one was her particular favorite: Princess Pink. “We’d all like the same thing.”
“Actually . . .” Lili looked sheepish. “I’d like to get something different today.”
“Er, so would I,” said A. A. She pulled a bottle of polish from her pocket and held it up. “I’d rather get a nude shade, so the chips won’t show. I always mess my nails up shooting hoops and playing video games.”
“And I’ve brought something new as well.” Lili fished in her bag and produced a tiny bottle. “It’s called Veruca Violet, and it’s totally funky.”
“Funky?” Ashley made a face. The polish Lili was brandishing was a deep shade of violet with flecks of silver. “I hope you’re not expecting me to wear that.”
“No, no,” Lili said. “You get Princess Pink. A. A. gets nude, and I get this.”
“I don’t understand!” protested Ashley. Was the world going mad? “We always get the same color.”
“Isn’t that one of the reasons the S. Society is making fun of us?” A. A. asked. “It’s not a bad thing to show people we can think for ourselves. And by the way, what is our idea for Congé? Do we even have one?”
“I agree. It’s time we made our own style choices,” chimed in Lili. “Ones that reflect our different personalities.”
“Fine.” Ashley leaned back in her massage chair, trying not to let her annoyance spoil her relaxation time. Let them have their little struggle for independence: This was a battle she could afford to lose. The main thing was to win the war against the S. Society.
“Do you think they have a chance at winning Congé?” Lili asked.
“They’re not going to win,” A. A. huffed.
“Right,” said Ashley, as if the thought had never occurred to her, either. Although inside, her heart was beating rapidly.
The Ashleys simply had to win Congé. Otherwise, they might as well transfer schools.
9
LILI TRIES ON OLD CLOTHES AND PAST LOVES
HER VERUCA VIOLET NAIL POLISH still drying on her hands, Lili wandered down the hill to meet her mother. Nancy Khan had an acupuncture appointment that afternoon and had arranged to collect Lili outside
the spa at six p.m. Which meant Lili had enough time to wander around the city, walking past some cute stores and doing some window-shopping, while blowing on her daring purple nails.
Near the bottom of the hill, a shop she hadn’t noticed before caught her eye. It was called Twist Again, and the sign was as purple and funky as her new nail polish. In the window, headless mannequins modeled amazing outfits.
One was a burnt orange jumpsuit with flared legs that Lili was positive was vintage Halston: She remembered something similar from one of her mother’s coffee-table style books. Another mannequin wore the chicest little wrap dress, with knee-high silver boots and gorgeous chunky jewelry.
Lili decided to go in and take a look. She’d never seen anything like those dresses in any other department store or boutique. She’d never been in a thrift store or a vintage store before, mainly because her mother looked down on secondhand stuff, and Chinese superstition said used clothes came with bad karma.
The Ashleys looked askance at the very idea of vintage. A. A. always said she had plenty of new stuff without looking for clothes her grandmother might have worn, while Ashley Spencer sneered that “vintage” was just another word for “trash.” These were clothes other people got rid of, she said, because they were old, worn-out, and crummy.
But Twist Again didn’t seem like a crummy place. It wasn’t down-market or scary. The floors were polished wood, and an iPod station was set up on the counter, playing a song by Cat Power she really liked, one that always reminded her of Max. The friendly assistant smiled at her, explaining how the racks were organized by era, and then left Lili alone to browse. She loved the artwork on the walls, all concert posters from the sixties and seventies; she liked the dressing room curtains, made from hundreds of vinyl records all stapled together. This was such a cool place!
Before long, she was trying on all sorts of interesting clothes: fur-trimmed sweaters, eighties prom dresses, and a dazzling array of Pucci shifts. It was all the kind of stuff she would love to wear, if only she didn’t have to look like an Ashley all the time.
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