The Daughters Take the Stage
Page 5
She got her answer as soon as she stepped onto the floor of the Upper School. Ken Clayman and Eli Blackman were leaning against the wall under the bulletin board. Their faces lit up when they spotted her. “Hey, Hudson!” Ken called out. “Did you have any sushi for breakfast?”
Hudson darted down the hall toward her locker, her ears on fire. On her way she passed Sophie Duncan and Jill Rau, who grabbed each other, burst into giggles, and kept walking.
They remember, Hudson thought. And nobody, nobody, believes it was food poisoning.
Even seeing her friends for the first time in weeks was no relief.
“You guys, everyone remembers,” she whispered to them in homeroom, just as Ava Elting walked in and sent a searing look at her from across the room.
“No they don’t,” Carina said. Then she noticed Ava’s glare. “Oh, yeah,” she said. “They totally do.”
“Carina,” Lizzie complained.
Todd just gave Hudson a sympathetic smile.
As Madame Dupuis called roll, Hudson focused on a heart she was drawing, over and over, on a page of loose-leaf paper. When her name was called, more whispers and giggles rose from the back of the room.
“Here,” Hudson said meekly.
At school she’d always been an object of vague curiosity, a kid other people noticed when she rose her hand in class, or when she wore her feathered headdress to the school dance. She was used to a certain amount of attention because of her mom, and because of her clothes. But that had been positive attention. This was different. Now she felt like a freak.
When it was time for their first free period of the day, Hudson couldn’t get down to the library fast enough. “The worst part is, I can’t even tell people the truth,” Hudson said, still between Lizzie and Carina as they walked down the stairs to the library. “Now everyone thinks I can’t sing, and that I made up some excuse to cover it.”
“But food poisoning’s, like, totally believable,” Carina said.
“The point is I should have just told everyone I had stage fright.”
“Somehow I don’t think that would have gone over any better,” Lizzie said.
“And I couldn’t have gotten stronger hate vibes from Ava Elting,” Hudson said. “She must totally want to kill me.”
They walked into the library and Hudson stopped in her tracks. Just inside the doors was an empty table, covered with bags. And in the middle of the table, holding court like its owner, was a familiar black and red Hervé Chapelier bag. Ava’s bag.
“Are you sure Ava didn’t say anything to you?” Hudson asked Carina. “Like, that I ruined her party or something?”
“Not a thing,” Carina said.
Knowing Ava’s sometimes-shaky hold on the truth—she’d actually said Todd had cheated on her in order to save face when he dumped her—Hudson was pretty sure that Ava was talking about her behind her back. Especially after that furious look Ava shot her in homeroom. “You guys, let’s sit back there,” Hudson said. She pointed to an empty table in the corner farthest from Ava’s table. It was the least she could do.
“Is Todd coming?” Hudson asked.
“He’s coming a little bit later,” Lizzie said. Hudson wondered for a moment if everything was okay between them. “So you’re still scrapping the album?”
“Yup,” Hudson said determinedly. “The record label peeps weren’t too happy, but I guess my mom convinced them.”
“That’s too bad,” Lizzie said.
“What do you mean?” Hudson asked.
“Just that you’re not going to finish it,” Lizzie said, opening her History book.
“Well, you guys saw what my mom did to it. How she totally took it over. It wasn’t even mine anymore. Scrapping it was the right thing to do.” Hudson took out her Geometry book. “I think I need to forget about music.”
“Forget about music?” Lizzie said. “Are you serious?”
“It’s the one thing you really love,” Carina protested.
“I love other things,” Hudson said. “Like fashion. Like astrology.” She knew she didn’t sound convincing. “Whatever, I’m taking a break. Believe me, it’s the best thing for my sanity.”
“Speaking of sanity,” Carina whispered, tilting her head, “your biggest fan looks just as unhinged as ever.”
Hudson looked over. Across the room, hunched over what looked like the New York Times crossword puzzle, marking her answers with a fountain pen, was Hillary Crumple. To Lizzie and Carina, Hillary Crumple was pretty much a stalker, blatantly obsessed with Hudson and her mom. They even thought that Hillary had given one of the tabloids Hudson’s cell number. But Hudson doubted it. For one, Hillary just didn’t look clued-in enough to do that kind of thing. She just seemed a little… different. She wore her brown hair tied back in a ponytail, but most of it hung loose and floated, staticky, around her head, despite a few plastic barrettes. She wore acid orange roll-neck sweater had blue waves sewn on the front, and a sequined dolphin jumped through them. Her Chadwick kilt hung to her shins, well past the appointed “cool” length of above the knees. As Hillary filled in another box, unaware of being watched, she made a tiny victory pump with her free hand.
“Wow,” Hudson said, genuinely impressed. “She’s not even doing that in pencil.”
“I don’t know,” Carina said, eyeing her. “I still think she’s the one who gave that tabloid your number.”
They watched as Hillary put down her pen, stood up, and walked out of the library.
“Do you think she heard us?” Carina asked.
Lizzie shook her head. “What did they want?” Lizzie asked Hudson. “The tabloids? You never told us.”
“Oh, some rumor about my mom dating John Mayer or something.” Hudson shrugged. “The usual.”
Just then Ava breezed into the library. Her devil-horned knit cap and silver coat were both dusted with snow, and as she sipped from her Starbucks cup, she locked eyes with Hudson and approached the table.
Oh, great, Hudson thought, looking down.
“What?” Lizzie whispered.
“Ava,” Hudson said. “Incoming.”
“Hi, Hudson,” Ava said, coming to stand right next to Hudson’s chair.
“Hey, Ava,” Hudson said, barely able to look her in the eye.
“Hey, Ava,” Carina said.
“Hey, Ava,” Lizzie murmured.
“So how was your break, you guys?” Ava asked, popping the lid off her cappuccino. “Did you go away anywhere cool?” Hudson could already smell Ava’s Daisy perfume.
“Vail,” Carina said.
“Florida,” said Lizzie.
“I was here,” Hudson said.
“I was back down in Mustique,” Ava said, sighing grandly. “It is just sooo beautiful there.”
Good to know, Hudson thought. Now please leave.
“So, what happened at the Ball?” Ava said, turning to Hudson. “I thought for sure I’d hear from you after… I mean, given your dramatic exit.”
Hudson played with the loose spine of her textbook as she felt a blush heat her face. “I wasn’t feeling that well,” she said, because she couldn’t think of anything else.
“Oh, riiiigghht,” Ava said, drawing out the word. “I forgot. What was it, again? Some bad tuna?”
Hudson glanced at Carina.
“Have you ever had bad tuna?” Carina asked Ava.
“No, but I’m sure it’s awful,” Ava said, narrowing her big brown eyes. “Almost as awful as not being able to sing.”
“I have to go to the bathroom,” Hudson said, getting up.
“More food poisoning?” Ava asked with mock sympathy.
Hudson walked past her, toward the door, and out into the hall. I hate Ava Elting, she thought, speeding to the bathroom. I know it’s not right to hate people, but she is truly the most evil person on earth.
Inside the bathroom, she locked herself in a stall and looked at her watch. Ten twenty-five. This was going to be the longest day of her life. She just neede
d to visualize getting through this, like she’d read over break in one of her New Age books. If you visualized what you wanted, the book said, most of the time you could make it happen. She closed her eyes and pictured herself walking proudly through the school halls, her head held high, immune to the stares and whispers… and then breaking into song when people least expected it…
And then the girls’ room door opened.
“I mean, it’s one thing to not be able to sing,” a girl said in a familiar lockjaw drawl. “But to tell everyone you have food poisoning? I’m just so embarrassed for her.”
It was Ilona Peterson, Ava Elting’s head henchwoman and easily the meanest girl in the freshman class.
“Oh my God, totally,” said Cici Marcus, in her harsh, brittle voice. “Did she really think that people would buy that? Please.”
“I think it’s kind of awesome,” Kate Pinsky chimed in. “I mean, she’s had this giant ego ever since fourth grade, and now everyone can see that she’s just a big fake.”
Hudson felt her stomach shrink into a cold iron fist. Ava had sent the Icks in to talk about her on purpose. And now she couldn’t do anything but stand there and listen to it.
A toilet flushed a few stalls away, drowning them out. Someone else was in the bathroom listening to this, too, Hudson realized. This was actually getting worse.
“I mean, talk about negative attention,” Ilona went on, not caring about the unknown person in the still-closed stall. “But I guess if you’re the daughter of Holla Jones, that’s all you know anyway.”
“Her music is just soooo cheesy,” Cici put in.
The stall door opened with a sharp thwack. “Could you guys be any more jealous or pathetic?” said a small, squeaky voice. “I mean, listen to yourselves. I almost fell off the seat.”
Hudson craned her head to peek through the door crack, but the speaker was out of her line of sight.
“Um, nobody’s talking to you,” Ilona said icily. “And nobody asked you to eavesdrop, either.”
“Yeah,” Cici said.
“Well, I’m talking to you,” said the voice, “and if you’re gonna gossip about someone you don’t even know, don’t do it about someone who’s got more talent and style than the three of you will ever have in your entire lives.”
Hudson’s mouth fell open. Nobody talked like this to the Icks. Who was this person?
“And just for your information,” added the stranger, “she doesn’t have an ego.”
“How do you know?” Ilona said thickly. “Hudson Jones would never even talk to you.”
“Yeah,” Cici repeated numbly.
“As if we care what you think,” Kate said. “And nice sweater.”
Hudson heard them walk to the door.
“I hope you guys get food poisoning!” the stranger yelled as they walked out.
Hudson unlatched the stall door with trembling fingers. Whoever this girl was, she couldn’t wait to thank her. And promise her eternal friendship, and possibly her firstborn child.
She threw open the door and there, standing on her tippytoes at the sinks, applying sparkly pink lip gloss, was Hillary Crumple.
“Hillary?”
Hillary turned around. “Oh, hi,” she said, as if she’d known Hudson had been in the bathroom all along. “How was your break?”
“Uh… my break was fine,” Hudson stammered, eyeing the exit.
“Mine, too,” Hillary said casually. She turned back to the mirror and spread more lip gloss on her lips. “We just stayed here. It was kind of boring. What did you do? Did you guys go away? I really like your sweater. Where’d you get it?”
“Uh, I don’t remember,” Hudson said, trying to follow Hillary’s line of questioning. “Yours is nice, too.”
“Yeah?” Hillary turned back to Hudson and looked down at her sweater proudly. “Thanks. I got it for Christmas. My mom’s life coach says that orange is supposed to make you more productive. And blue’s supposed to be calming. What’s your favorite color?”
Hudson glanced at the door again. “Um… silver?”
“Silver,” Hillary mused, capping the lip gloss. “I’m going to have to check with the coach about that one.”
“So, Hillary, thanks for what you said,” Hudson said. “But you don’t have to defend me or anything. It’s okay. It’s not your job.”
“I know,” Hillary said, slipping the lip gloss into a side pocket of the boxy pink and blue backpack at her feet. “But you’re my friend. And friends stick up for each other.”
We’re friends? “Right,” Hudson said uncertainly.
“And it’s not like I’m lying to them or anything,” Hillary said, taking a plastic barrette out of her backpack. “US Weekly said that you have an amazing voice. Didn’t they interview your producer or something?”
“I’m not really sure,” Hudson said, running her hands through her wavy black hair. “But thanks again, Hillary. And if you need anything, ever, just let me know.”
“Then let’s go shopping,” Hillary said, turning to the mirror and securing some of her floating hair with the barrette. “Weren’t we supposed to do that together? A couple months ago?” Hillary snapped the barrette shut and turned around again. “Do you remember we talked about it?”
“Yeah,” Hudson said, feeling caught. She did remember Hillary asking her to go shopping at the Chadwick dance back in the fall. “When’s good for you?”
“What about Saturday?” Hillary asked. “I could meet you downtown. Like, in NoLIta somewhere. What’s your favorite store?”
Hudson tried to imagine hanging out with Hillary in the chic neighborhood of NoLIta and her mind went blank. “There’s Resurrection,” Hudson said. “But it’s a little expensive—”
“Cool,” Hillary said. “Let’s meet at noon. That way we can get lunch, too.”
“Lunch,” Hudson said, trying not to sound surprised. “Great.”
“Great,” Hillary echoed, hoisting her book bag onto her shoulders. “See you then.” A moment later she was out the door, the folded-up New York Times sticking out of her book bag.
Hudson washed her hands at the sink, trying to process what had just happened. Lizzie and Carina were probably going to freak out—they were convinced Hillary was dangerous. But Hillary had just chewed out the Icks for her. Who else at Chadwick would have done that? Not even Lizzie or Carina would have been that gutsy. A two-hour shopping date was a small price to pay for that kind of loyalty. Even if Hillary’s loyalty felt a little unearned.
She wet the corner of a paper towel and pressed it to her closed eyelids. Please, God, she thought. Don’t let me be known as the Girl With the Huge Ego and No Talent. If only she hadn’t run off the stage. If only she hadn’t let her mom make up such a goofy excuse. She wished she could blame her mom, or Carina, or even Ava Elting, but she couldn’t. She had no one to blame but herself, and frankly, it sucked.
I hereby promise myself, Hudson Jones, that I will never, ever get up onstage again, she thought as she pulled the girls’ room door open. Ever ever ever.
chapter 7
“Right up here’s fine, Fernald,” Hudson directed as the SUV swung over to the curb on Houston Street. Resurrection, the vintage boutique she and Hillary had chosen for their shopping date, was around the corner on Mott Street. But Hudson always preferred getting out of the car at least a block from wherever she was expected to be. It was embarrassing for people to see the SUV dropping her off.
“Just call me when you’re ready,” Fernald called over his shoulder.
“’Kay,” she said brightly, slamming the door behind her. She could have walked over to NoLIta, or at least taken the subway down Seventh Avenue and then the bus along Houston, but Holla didn’t like Hudson taking public transportation when she was by herself.
“Do you think I’m going to be kidnapped or something?” she’d asked Holla at the breakfast table, after yet another Saturday-morning power-yoga class. “I don’t need Fernald to take me to Mott Street.”
“Mom,” Hudson protested, digging in to her oatmeal.
“Do you want to cram it all in tomorrow night?” Holla asked, squeezing a lemon slice into her drink. “You have to start learning time management, honey. It’s absolutely the key to a successful life.”
“Fine,” Hudson said.
“And this semester we really have to bring up your math grade,” Holla said. “Brown doesn’t like C’s.”
“I didn’t get a C last semester,” Hudson said, carrying her bowl to the sink. “I got a B minus.”
Holla threw the lemon slice into her glass and scowled. “Same thing,” she remarked.
After waving good-bye to Fernald, Hudson turned south down Mott Street. She’d dressed in her Russian Spy/British Punk outfit—black wool leggings, black knee-high boots, black Russian hat, and a tartan plaid dress with strategically placed tears in the fabric. Her coat was a black trench with a bright red sash—a find from one of the street markets in Rome.
“Just don’t let her steal a lock of your hair,” Carina had said when Hudson had told her and Lizzie about her shopping date with Hillary.
“Or one of your buttons,” Lizzie added. “Voodoo dolls always have buttons.”
“Do you guys really think Hillary Crumple has a voodoo doll of me?” Hudson asked them. “That doesn’t even make sense.”
Far down the street, past the boutiques and espresso cafés housed in the ground levels of old tenements, Hudson could see a tiny figure in a bright pink knit hat and scarf and a gigantic puffy down coat that skimmed the ground. It had to be Hillary. Hudson raised one hand and sped up her walk. She hoped this wouldn’t take too long.
“Hey!” Hillary yelled as Hudson approached. “That’s such a cool hat. Where’d you get it? Moscow?”
“No. Somewhere around here.”
“I love this neighborhood,” Hillary said, glancing around. “Every single place down here is cool. You know? No Duane Reades, no Gristedes. Just really cool places. For cool people.”