All That Glitters

by J. Minter

  ALL THAT GLITTERS

  inside girl

  a novel by J. MINTER

  author of the insiders

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Also by J. Minter

  Imprint

  for J. Morphew and Destiny

  Chapter 1

  Busted at Bergdorf’s

  “Repeat after me,” SBB said. She was sitting half-in and half-out of a pair of Gucci riding pants with her eyes closed and her hand over her heart. “I, Sara-Beth Benny.”

  Camille and I gave each other a sly grin. We were standing in a mirrored private dressing room on the fifth floor of Bergdorf Goodman on 58th Street, surrounded by champagne flutes of Pellegrino and a tray of chocolate covered strawberries the shopgirl had brought in. It was the Sunday afternoon before classes started up at Thoney, and we were waiting for her to return with a wheeled rack of winter clothes we’d selected for some back-to-school shopping. In the meantime, SBB was making us vocalize our New Year’s resolutions.

  “Wait,” Camille said, nudging me and giggling. “If it’s your resolution, why do we repeat after you? We’re not Sara-Beth Benny, last time I checked.”

  SBB opened one eye and looked at Camille. “Collective affirmation of resolutions has the highest rate of follow-through.” She pinched Camille playfully on the arm. “Don’t worry—we’ll get to you guys next.”

  As someone who was used to indulging SBB’s crazy ways, I gave Camille a nod and joined SBB on the gilded carpet. Camille plopped down next to me, and we followed the instructions.

  “I, Sara-Beth Benny,” we repeated, as mock-solemnly as we could.

  In the three-way mirror in front of us, I could see our reflections from all angles. Camille was still glowing from her family’s New Year’s trip to Cabo, and SBB looked fresh faced from a week off from filming and a week on with her new boyfriend, actor-musician Jake Riverdale.

  As I looked over at my reflection, I was pleased to see that I had my own sort of glow. It wasn’t from a vacation tan, and it wasn’t from a boy, but it was satisfying in a very Flan way. It had to do with my decision to start at Thoney this semester and, even though my excitement was tinged with a case of nerves, I was happy.

  SBB continued. “I, Sara-Beth Benny, promise to donate a portion of all of my movie and TV royalties, as well as my perfume line profits, to help those in Africa who are less fortunate than I. And maybe to adopt a child who needs love and whom I could cart around in one of those cute Karma Baby slings. And to grow at least six inches by July.”

  “Whoa,” Camille said. “I was only going to try to start recycling more.”

  Just then, the shopgirl returned, wheeling in a giant clothing cart full of gorgeous-looking sweaters, pants, and slinky dresses. Instantly, we forgot our collective New Year’s affirmation and pounced on the clothes like wild animals.

  “Omigod,” SBB said, grabbing a sheer polka-dotted dress from the middle of the rack. “Is this so ‘Flan on the first day of school’ or what?”

  I held up the tiny Geren Ford dress to my body. It was asymmetrical, and it tied around the left shoulder with an almost nonexistent green silk strap. It was also no longer than my crotch.

  “It’s cute,” I said, stalling as I searched for the right words so that I wouldn’t offend SBB. “But it looks more like ‘Flan gets thrown out of school before third period.’” My hand reached for a supercozy navy Autumn Cashmere drape sweater. “How about something more like this?” I said.

  “Okay, Mister Rogers,” Camille said, taking it from my hands and hanging it back up. “Believe me, I know that rocking the five-foot-ten frame does present its own set of fashion challenges, but I will not let you be a frump master on the first day of school.” She rooted through the rack of clothes and pulled out a shrunken gray blazer with three-quarter sleeves and a really unique notched collar. “How about something like this?”

  “Cute!” SBB and I said simultaneously.

  “Ooh,” SBB continued, looking at the label. “And it’s my old costar Waverly James’s new line. She was showing me how to wear it … there are these really cute leggings that go with this top….” Her voice trailed off as her tiny body virtually disappeared into the rack of clothes.

  “SBB,” I said, sticking my head in after her. “Are you still in here?”

  “Ta-da!” She jumped out, holding a pair of stretchy black leggings with a row of brass studs around the cuffs. She waggled them at me. “Terrick Zumberg, here you come!”

  Camille squealed. “Um, speaking of New Year’s resolutions! Flan, you must wear those leggings with this blazer on the first day of school. Because you know what happens on the first night of school, right?”

  I shook my head. “Homework?” I asked hesitantly.

  “No! All the Thoney girls go to David Burke’s to meet the Dalton boys for pizza—and then TZ will see you in this!”

  I let my friends hold up the clothes against me and looked at myself in the mirror. The ensemble was totally my style, but I was suddenly feeling more than a little overwhelmed. It made me nervous that Camille just assumed I’d be up on all the Thoney protocol. And now there were all these expectations about impressing TZ, whom I’d barely seen since we’d hung out over Thanksgiving break in Nevis. All the old fears I thought I’d freed myself of came creeping back into my mind. What if I couldn’t keep up with life at Thoney?

  Camille must have sensed me getting tense. “Hey,” she said, linking her arm through mine. “Don’t stress. This semester is going to be amazing, whether or not you decide to grace TZ with your affection.”

  I looked in the mirror at my two best friends and nodded. “You’re right. Thoney, the David Burke’s pizza party—bring it on!”

  “Of course Camille is right,” SBB agreed. “Now try these on so I can envy your long legs even more.”

  I slipped into the leggings, and Camille handed me a long ribbed cotton tank with detailed stitching that fell well below my waist. When I pulled the blazer on over it and looked in the mirror, I felt instantly more self-assured. I tried to imagine a boy looking at me. I guess I did look pretty good.

  “Hey, you guys,” SBB called. She’d sneaked out of the dressing room and was standing at the edge of the shoe department, holding up a pair of Joie patent leather Mary Janes in one hand and a pair of caramel-colored Michael Kors boots in the other. “Flan, come here and try these on with that outfit.”

  Camille and I left the dressing room and stepped out into the bright, bustling floor of the shoe department. The Mary Janes looked pretty great with the leggings.

  “Ooh,” Camille said, holding one up to me and putting on a dramatic advertising voice. “This shoe will take you from study hall to evening ball.”

  “And right into the arms of TZ,” SBB sang.

  “Shhh!” I blushed and immediately looked around. It would be just my luck that TZ’s cousin or grandmother would be shopping within earshot. Luckily, there were just the usual crew of personal assistant
s on their BlackBerrys and a bunch of overbearing Upper East Side mothers making their daughters try on “just one more pair” of Chloé loafers.

  But then …

  “I thought I recognized those voices,” said someone behind me.

  I spun around and immediately knew I hadn’t been comprehensive enough in my coast-is-clear sweep of the store. Standing before me was my ex–best friend, Kennedy Pearson.

  “I was just picking up my outfit for the first day of spring semester, and I couldn’t help but overhear your little discussion in the dressing room.”

  I looked at Kennedy’s clear plastic Bergdorf garment bag and was stunned to see the very same pair of black leggings that I had on. I could feel the blood rushing to my cheeks. If I ever had to put a single face on all my anxieties about returning to Thoney, that would be Kennedy’s—and it would have the same smug look on it that Kennedy had right then.

  She put her hand on my arm. “I just wanted to apologize, Flan.”

  “For what?” I said, moving my arm from her grasp. “For eavesdropping?” For stealing my outfit? For being the devil incarnate?

  “No.” She winced dramatically. “For having to be the one to tell you, when it’s clear that you’re really into TZ.” She covered her face with her hand in faux-anguish. “How do I say this? I’m so sorry, Flan, but TZ and I are sort of together. As of New Year’s.”

  There was a time when I wouldn’t have known how to respond to this. A time when my face would have turned red, and I would have had some whiny, embarrassing response like, “But I thought he liked me.” But I had just spent that week in Nevis finally figuring out how to stand up to Kennedy, and I was determined not to revert back to sad-and-immobile-Flan again. I squared my shoulders, finally thankful for my height, and peered down at Kennedy’s Laura Mercier madeup face.

  “You know what, Kennedy? You can have him. Sounds like TZ is even flakier than you. You two deserve each other.”

  Kennedy’s face flushed bright red and her glossy lips parted in shock.

  “Wow, go Flan!” Camille whispered at my side. Then I waited, but it was like Kennedy couldn’t find anything to say, and so we all just stood there, sniffing the perfume-scented air and waiting for her to back away.

  And then, just as I was able to relax enough to start reveling in the fact that I had finally said the right thing at the right time, Kennedy’s cell phone started to ring.

  “Oh,” she said, “that’s TZ now.” Putting the phone to her ear, she said, “Hold on a sec, honey.” Then she turned back to me. “You know, Flan, some people might think you’re ‘brave’ to come back to Thoney, but I personally think you’re really, really going to regret it. Especially after that precious jealousy outburst you just had.” Waving her leggings in my direction, she started toward the elevator. “Can’t wait to see you Monday!”

  “Oh, she’s going to see you Monday,” SBB shouted, hurling a wad of tissue paper from a nearby shoebox at Kennedy’s receding back.

  My legs started shaking in my studded leggings, and I grabbed Camille’s and Sara-Beth’s arms for support. I swallowed hard. This was not the fabulous start I’d envisioned for my New Year. What kind of mean little competition could I possibly have gotten myself into?

  Chapter 2

  The Meal that Launched a Thousand Trips

  I’ll be the first person to admit that my family is a little bit … unorthodox.

  Growing up, most of my parent-teacher conferences took place via video conference call because my globetrotting parents couldn’t be tied down long enough to swing by my elementary school for a chat about my first place win in the science fair.

  Not that I’m complaining—after all, when I did get that blue ribbon for my analysis on why you should always talk to your plants while you water them, my parents flew me out to meet them for the weekend in Cape Town (or Buenos Aires, or Hong Kong, or wherever it was this time for a good old-fashioned Flood-style celebration).

  Turns out, this legendary wanderlust is hereditary, because both my sister, February, and my brother, Patch, could literally be anywhere in the world at any given moment. We joke about how I’m the homebody, how I’m happiest curled up on our big suede couch in the living room, watching the flow of Manhattanites go by our Perry Street windows. But the truth is, I rarely am happier than when I’m home with the added bonus of my crazy family.

  Sunday night happened to be one of those uncommonly lucky nights: the whole Flood crew was present … if only for a few fleeting hours.

  “Yes, I’m calling to confirm a limo for five-thirty tomorrow morning,” my brother was saying into his cell phone when I walked in the door with my shopping bags loped over my arm. “To Kennedy airport … Flight one hundred to Dubrovnik.”

  Even though it was five o’clock, Patch was wearing his gray silk Armani pajamas, and his dirty blond hair was sticking out in all directions from a recent nap. I met his raised palm with my own for a high five and started up the stairs.

  In the bathroom I shared with Feb (on the rare occasions when she was actually around), I found my older sister rummaging through the cosmetically overstuffed cabinets. Her long, straight blond hair was piled up in a knot on top of her head and fastened with a giant green batik patterned scarf. She was speaking—very emphatically—into her phone.

  “Of course, I have three hair straighteners, Jade,” she said, counting the flatirons laid out on the tile floor. “I just can’t find my adapter for Asia. So make sure you bring whatever we need for Cambodia. It’s more humid there than Bungalow 8 on a Saturday night in July.”

  I was used to this flurry of activity from my siblings, and usually I’d plop down next to Feb and help her sort through her stash of adapters. But at the moment, I was feeling pretty wound up, too. My mind was still spinning with Kennedy’s cutting words about her recent hook-up with TZ.

  It was weird. I mean, TZ was a cool guy and everything, but mostly, he was someone for my friends to tease me about—not someone I genuinely wanted to date. So it wasn’t jealousy I was feeling, the way that Kennedy had made it sound. It was just that I didn’t want to give her any more ammunition that she could use to lord over me once school started.

  I lay down on my canopy bed to recompose myself and, as if on cue, Noodles, the world’s greatest Pomeranian puppy, made an appearance on my pillow, circled three times, and plopped down in my arms.

  “Oh, Flan! I didn’t hear you come in, dear.” My mother’s blond head appeared in my doorway, waving her nails out in front of her to dry. When she was in town on Sundays, her manicurist-waxist, Heleva, came downtown from Bliss to give my mom her special home treatments.

  “How was shopping?” she asked, then held out a perfectly manicured hand. “Do you think Keys to My Karma Red was a bad choice? Be honest—is it too ‘Garish Cousin Linda at the annual Flood regatta?’”

  “Not at all; it’s very classy,” I told my mom. “More like ‘Princess Grace hosts the Kennedys for dinner.’”

  She nodded her head. “Good. I just got so caught up in Bruno vs. Carrie Ann that I barely paid attention to what Heleva was doing. I wouldn’t want anyone at the Taj Mahal to look at your father and me and think ‘tourist’—not that that would happen—but I’d hate to think it could.” She looked at her watch. “Speaking of your father, he’s going to be home in ten minutes … maybe. Definitely less than an hour. We’re having a family dinner tonight.”

  “Really?” I asked, a little giddy. It was a rare thing for the five of us to be in the same area code, let alone the same room for a Sunday dinner.

  “Of course, darling,” my mom said. “We need to do a little celebrating in honor of your return to the female half of the family’s alma mater.”

  An hour later, I was sitting at our dining room table watching the sun set over the West Village as my mom brought out heaps of food served on our best china.

  “Did someone cook?” my father asked, looking suspiciously over the top of his Oliver Peoples hornrimmed gla
sses at the gilt-edged china, which I’m not sure any of us actually recognized.

  “Yeah, the sous chef at Otto,” Feb said, retying her green scarf like a headband instead of a turban. “Mom had everything delivered.”

  My father nodded, as if this made much more sense than someone in our family actually preparing a meal. “Your mother is a genius,” he said, brushing his salt and pepper hair off his forehead.

  “That’s where Flan gets it,” Patch said as he walked into the dining room, tousled my hair, and took a seat next to me. He’d changed out of pajamas into a wrinkly T-shirt and a pair of hemp jeans; his hair still mussed in that just-fell-out-of-bed way. “You ready to knock their private school socks off tomorrow?”

  I hesitated. If there was anyone in my family I’d tell about the horrific scene with Kennedy this afternoon, it would probably be Patch. He was the closest to my age, and he’d hung out with Kennedy a few times at parties his friends had thrown. But somehow the ugly topic of Kennedy Pearson didn’t quite fit in with our very happy family dinner, so I just gave Patch my best private school grin and nodded.

  “It’ll be just like old times,” I said. And despite my nerves about Kennedy’s self-declared Thoney domination, I really was excited to return to private school. My first semester of public high school at Stuy had been really important for me, and not just because I got to go to a real high school football pep rally or because of the liberal dress code policy—which revealed the endless options of body piercing and confirmed for me forever that such adornment was so not my thing. It was because after a couple of not-so-great experiences, I learned that Camille and my old friends from Miss Mallard’s were the girls with whom I wanted to make the rest of my high school memories.

  Feb’s BlackBerry beeped, bringing my mind back to the dinner table, and she sighed heavily as she chewed a big bite of escarole.

  “Seriously?” She rolled her eyes. “In the future, someone please remind me to limit my travel with obsessive French designers. It’s like Jade thinks we’re packing for a year-long getaway to the moon. This is just a quick trip in and out of Cambodia.” She fumbled with her scarf again and rewrapped it pashmina-style over her shoulders.