by Anna Carey
“You think Blythe wants to lead the Chi Beta Phis?”
Stella shrugged noncommittally, knowing she’d done enough.
“There’s safety in numbers,” she continued. “You could always let me in. You know, for security. Just something to think about.”
“I thought you were ‘brilliant’ on your own?” Cate asked, faking a British accent.
Stella studied her cuticles. “Suit yourself. I was just trying to help.”
Cate turned to leave but stopped at the top of the stairs. She ran her tongue over her teeth thoughtfully. Blythe had spent all of Bio talking about what a pain it was to buy all new clothes, since nothing fit her in the chest anymore. And then there was that eye roll at lunch….
“I’ll think about it,” she called over her shoulder.
Cate followed Blythe through Chelsea Passage, the home department at Barneys. Blythe touched a tall cream-colored vase. It was completely smooth except for a large elephant trunk coming out of its center.
“What about this?” she giggled.
“Nice,” Cate teased, glancing around for an engagement/wedding/thank-you-for-ruining-my-life gift for Emma and her dad. One wall was covered in plates with graphic faces, like an artful police lineup. A stack of red and yellow mod plastic chairs sat in one corner, next to a long pink table set with neon yellow china.
“Or how about this?” Blythe pointed to a red glass vase with a nose and a handlebar moustache.
“Eh…not so much,” Cate murmured.
“Come on! It’s funny!” Blythe said, pulling her freshly highlighted hair into a ponytail.
A saleswoman with a wannabe-Rihanna bob shot the girls a dirty look. Cate shot her a look right back. This was Barneys—not the library.
The truth was, she didn’t care about buying her dad and Emma a gift anymore. She’d spent the last hour dissecting everything Blythe had done since she’d been back from Greece. Why had she let Sophie borrow her hoop earrings? Why had she asked Priya to go to the bathroom with her during gym? Was that paper she’d passed to Mackenzie Brooks during history more than just the homework? Was she announcing the new regime?
“What did you do last night?” Cate asked casually, wandering over to a wall of picture frames. She rubbed her hand over a black alligator frame. It felt rough to the touch.
“Nothing.” Blythe picked up a lacquered Mondrian box and turned it over in her hands.
“You didn’t do a single thing?” Cate pressed, hoping the question sounded innocent.
“Fine, I went to dinner with my mom.”
Cate watched her, unsure whether she had just caught Blythe in a lie. She shook her head and sighed. “Let’s go upstairs,” she announced, heading for the escalators. “Forget the wedding. I’m in the market for a new dress.”
Blythe picked a piece of lint off Cate’s gray uniform skirt as they stepped on the escalator. “I wish you could have come to Greece this summer. I had to hang out with Connor the whole time. I’m now fluent in two-year-old.”
Cate laughed despite herself, picturing super-tan Blythe and Connor on the beaches of Santorini, Blythe buried up to her neck in sand. Blythe’s father had remarried after her parents divorced, and now he lived with his new wife and son in L.A., where he produced big-budget action films and little blond babies.
Cate stepped off the escalator, a little relieved. Maybe Stella was wrong. Blythe seemed to be the same as always, making Cate laugh between spray tans.
On the sixth floor, an army of Marc by Marc Jacobs mannequins was posed in a line, racks of brightly colored clothing adorning the walls behind them. She loved how Barneys had no aisles, just open space and walls lined with exquisite clothes—exactly how a store should be. Beth Ann Pinchowski had dragged the girls to Macy’s once, and Cate had nearly had a panic attack from the masses of tourists and the claustrophobia-inducing, tightly packed clothing racks. Blythe had handed her a paper shopping bag and instructed her to slowly breathe in and out.
Cate walked along a lime green wall covered with bags and shoes, running her fingers over a chocolate brown Sissi Rossi tote. Across the store, Ally Pierce, an Ashton senior, was holding a gold lamé tunic. Interesting—were metallics back? Cate made a mental note to share the tidbit with the girls.
“So, Priya said her sister said that if we have to choose between sculpture and band next term, we should choose sculpture.” Cate picked up the buttery leather tote and slung it over her shoulder experimentally.
“Yeah, she mentioned that to me too.” Blythe circled a tropical fish tank with a giant smiling Buddha inside. A snail crawled across his chubby belly. “She said they get models from the Lincoln Center ballet company. Even in tights, the guys are super cute.”
Cate dropped the bag on the ground. Priya definitely hadn’t mentioned anything about male models. Cate had always been the one to get feedback on their collective schedules, then make final decisions about registering. She needed that kind of information. And when had Priya even talked to Blythe about sculpture? Cate had been in every class with them. Every class except French….
“I just thought we should finalize our plans,” Cate said, trying to compose herself. She followed Blythe over to the Theory rack along the wall.
“Sounds good.” Blythe pulled a bright blue cashmere V-neck off the rack and held it up to her boobs. They looked even bigger than they had yesterday. “I’m going to try this on—meet me in the dressing room upstairs.” She turned and walked toward the glass stairs.
Meet me in the dressing room upstairs? That sounded like an order. Cate didn’t respond to those.
Cate lingered by the Theory rack far longer than she needed to, watching as a woman with stiff red hair set a Louis Vuitton suitcase on the counter and returned its contents—twelve different beige purses. Finally, Cate pulled a few dresses from the rack and headed upstairs too.
Blythe was admiring every angle of herself in the dressing room’s three-way mirror. “Verdict?” she asked, turning to the side. She twisted her highlighted hair into a ponytail and the sweater rode up, revealing a slice of toned orange stomach.
“Guilty of making your boobs look huge,” Cate blurted out. It looked like Blythe had shoved two water balloons in her shirt, the way they used to in third grade, playing in Carl Schurz Park on the East River.
“I know!” Blythe cried excitedly, pushing back her bangs. “I look hot!” She winked at her reflection. Cate looked down at her tiny chest, which just barely filled out her padded A cups.
“Can I start a room for you?” a voice asked.
Cate turned to see a college-age girl in bright green stilettos, ten silver hoops hugging one ear.
“Actually…” Cate said, forcing a smile. The clothes slung over her arm suddenly felt like they weighed five hundred pounds. “I’m not in the mood to try anything on. I’ll just take these.”
The girl nodded and turned to go. “By the way, that’s perfect on you,” she added, admiring Blythe’s sweater.
“Thanks,” Blythe said smugly. Then she looked over her shoulder at Cate and smiled.
Fifteen minutes and five Theory purchases later, Cate and Blythe pushed through Barneys revolving glass doors and stepped out onto Madison Avenue. Cate started to take off toward Sixty-first Street, two shopping bags swinging at her side. But Blythe didn’t move.
“I have to run errands downtown,” she said. Her face was pink and expressionless.
“What errands?” Cate pressed, resting a hand on the waist of her uniform skirt.
“Just some stuff—I better hurry.” Blythe glanced at her bare orange wrist.
“Blythe!” Cate yelled, as Blythe took off down the street, her Tory Burch flats thwacking against the sidewalk. “You don’t even wear a watch!”
“See you tomorrow!” Blythe called, not looking back. Cate’s legs felt like they were Krazy Glued to the sidewalk. Blythe was keeping secrets from her—she just knew it. Blythe, her so-called best friend, her second-in-command. How could she?
She whipped out her iPhone and dialed Sophie’s number. Her call went straight to voice mail.
“Sophie, call me as soon as you get this, we need to talk,” Cate snapped, clutching the phone to her ear. Sophie always kept her phone on, even when she was playing with her Barbies.
A red double-decker bus barreled past. On the roof, a girl wearing a foam Statue of Liberty crown stared down at Cate as though she were an exotic animal.
She dialed Priya next. This is Priya, her voice mail cooed. Do your thing.
Cate didn’t bother leaving a message. It was obvious what was going on. Blythe had made plans with Sophie and Priya and not invited her. Why else would they both have their phones off?
So Stella had been right after all. Blythe wasn’t loyal. She’d just been studying Cate these past three years, making a huge folder labeled how TO OVERTHROW THE CHI BETA PHI PRESIDENT.
IF AT FIRST YOU DON’T SUCCEED, TRY, TRY AGAIN
Andie paced back and forth across her room, hugging a bright orange throw pillow to her chest like a life preserver. She hadn’t been so nervous since Ben Carter asked her to be his girlfriend last fall.
She looked at the piece of paper on her desk one final time. She had bulleted out all her points and memorized them, like she had for her history report last year. Technically she was supposed to be helping Emma pick out centerpieces, but there was no reason she couldn’t bring up her modeling career while comparing peonies and roses.
She would start by telling Emma how modeling was her destiny.
If Emma said she was too young, she’d remind her that she herself had been thirteen when she shot her first Calvin Klein ad.
If she said Andie was too petite, she’d argue that Kate Moss was five-foot six—short for a model!
If she said the business was tough, she’d tell her her skin was thicker than a vintage Yves Saint Laurent alligator purse.
She’d leave out the fact that she’d submitted photos of herself with her contact information to the Ford website and that they hadn’t called back. They probably never checked the site anyway.
Then she would ask Emma if she could go to Fashion Week at Bryant Park with her. Emma had been so busy running around with Gloria, deciding on tablecloths and what paper stock she wanted for thank-you notes, she was missing most of the week’s events. But she had to go to the Ralph Lauren show tomorrow afternoon. And with a little luck, Andie would be her plus-one.
The beige plastic intercom on the wall crackled. “Andie, Gloria is here with the flowers,” Emma’s voice cooed.
Andie raced down the stairs and into the kitchen. Emma was standing next to the granite island and talking on her cell phone. “I realize that,” Emma said into her phone, “but it’s an inconvenience.”
Andie stood in the doorway, frozen. No matter how many times she passed Emma in the hall or ate oatmeal across from her, she was always a little starstruck. It was like finding the Jonas Brothers in your bathroom.
The granite kitchen island was covered with flowers. An older woman stood next to Emma, running her mauve fingernails through her thinning brown hair. Her skin was bizarrely taut.
“Gloria Rubenstein,” the woman announced, taking Andie’s hand in her own. “They say I’m one of the best party planners in New York—and they are right.” Gloria let out a little laugh, her eyes wide open as though she were surprised.
Andie glanced at Emma, who was still on the phone. “Right,” Emma said, sounding annoyed. She pressed her finger against her temple. She set the cell phone on the counter and looked at Andie and Gloria apologetically. “I’m so sorry, I’m afraid we have to postpone this—apparently Winston and I have to be at a tasting at the boathouse in half an hour.”
Andie pulled at the hem of her skirt, disappointed. The Ralph Lauren show was less than a day away, and she’d been waiting all summer to talk to Emma about modeling. But every time she’d chickened out. Today was going to be the day. She stared into Emma’s face, the same one she’d seen on the side of every New York City bus during the Chanel No. 5 campaign. “No problem,” she said brightly, forcing a smile.
“Thank you for understanding.” Emma grabbed her cropped trench from off a kitchen stool. Gloria waved a hand, as if used to dealing with flighty, overbooked clients.
“I’ll make it up to you,” Emma promised Andie as she headed out the front door.
Andie trudged up the stairs, just as Gloria’s cell rang.
“Romando! Darling!” Gloria cried loudly. “Tell me you’re available to shoot Sunday. It’s Emma Childs’s wedding—you should be paying us.”
Andie walked upstairs and paced outside of Winston’s old office. The decorators had painted the walls a mustard color and put a queen-size bed by the window. The door of Stella’s closet was open, a pile of brown boxes stacked next to it like a giant Jenga tower.
“Stella?” Andie finally asked, her voice a little squeaky. She hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the Allure article with Stella—the girl who said Paulina was practically her aunt. If Emma couldn’t get her into Fashion Week, maybe Stella could. She crept over to the closet, where Stella was kneeling on the floor, opening a cardboard box that said STELLA HAIR PRODUCTS.
Stella sat back on her heels, holding two bottles of Frédéric Fekkai shampoo in her hands like barbells. “Bollocks,” she mumbled, glancing up at Andie. “I’ve gone through my entire room twice and I’m still missing two boxes—Beauty Supplies and Dress Tops Three,” she explained. “And I can’t find any of my charcoals.”
“Stella…” Andie said slowly, leaning against the door frame, “Last year I read that article in—”
“Did the movers put any boxes in your room?” Stella interrupted, pushing past Andie and digging through another box on the top of the stack.
“No…” Andie said, pressing on. “I guess I just wanted to—”
Stella threw down a pair of Anlo jeans and put her hands on her hips. “Now is not a good time, C.C.,” she sighed. “I’m in crisis mode.” She disappeared back into the closet and lifted up a pair of Jimmy Choo heels, as if a cardboard box could be hiding underneath them.
Andie stepped back, stung. C.C. She had been hoping that was filed in the back of Stella’s brain, along with every other thing Cate had called her (midget, wannabe, poser, Munchkin). But apparently it was right up there, front and center.
She walked out of Stella’s room, defeated. She’d been silly for thinking she could talk to Stella about modeling—three days might have passed, but nothing had changed.
Stella sprawled out on her bed, staring at the ornate crown molding. Clothes and boxes were spread out on her floor, like her closet had thrown up all over her room. Not only did she have zero friends in New York, now she didn’t have any dress tops, either. Not that she felt like wearing them, anyway. She’d texted Bridget and Pippa five times, but it was nearly twelve o’clock in London, and neither of them had answered. She tugged at a golden blond ringlet until her scalp hurt.
Someone cleared her throat. Lola was perched in the doorway, scanning the room as though Stella were the victim of some horrible natural disaster. In her hand was a small bag from somewhere called Duane Reade.
“Does this look like your room?” Stella muttered, sitting up.
“Sorry,” Lola said quietly. She stared at the ripped cardboard box in the corner. “What are you doing?”
“Mourning the loss of my favorite Madison Marcus silk top.” Stella frowned. Then she narrowed her eyes at Lola. “Did you steal a box of mine?”
“No, no.” Lola shook her head. “I already unpacked my clothes.” She wandered into Stella’s room, stepping over a colorful pile of Chanel nail polishes. On Stella’s dresser was a framed photo of their family from Boxing Day. They all had thin paper crowns on their head in light green, purple, and pink. Lola pressed her finger into her dad’s grinning face, feeling like she’d swallowed a brick. It had taken a month before they’d found out about Cloud.
Lola smoo
thed down her frizzy hair and turned to Stella, chewing the ChapStick off her bottom lip. “Stella?” she asked. She wanted to tell her about the cab incident this morning, and how’d she’d eaten her lunch in the courtyard with Birdy, one of the Ashton security guards. She wanted to tell her how Kyle—geeky, I-shoot-peas-out-of-my-nose-at-dinner Kyle—was cool now. And more than anything, she wanted to ask how Stella could walk by that picture every day and not feel like she’d been run over by a tank. She set the frame facedown on the dresser.
Stella leaned back against her headboard, watching Lola’s freckled nose. It always twitched when she was about to cry. She knew that Lola hated talking about their dad—she hadn’t said a word about him all summer in Tuscany, and refused to talk to him whenever he called. It made it easier for Stella to be nice to him—Lola was mad enough for the both of them. Yes, he had made a massive mistake, but he was still their dad.
Just then Stella’s iPhone blared its techno ring. She picked up the phone and looked at the vibrating screen. Cate.
“Lola,” she said holding up one finger. “I have to get this, hold on.” She picked up her mobile. “Hello?” she asked. Cate had only ever called her once—and that had been three days ago.
“What are you doing?” Cate asked.
“Just unpacking my clothes—”
“Alone?”
Stella eyed Lola, who had walked back toward the door, swinging the red and blue Duane Reade bag around her thin wrist. “Of course I’m alone,” Stella muttered. “Do you have to rub it in?”
Lola stopped swinging the bag and looked at Stella, her nose twitching again. Stella tried to mouth the word sorry, but Lola stormed out of the room.
“Thanks for the intel before,” Cate continued. “I’ve decided you can hang out with us. But it has to be on my terms.”
“Fine,” Stella replied, not really sure what “my terms” meant. But before she could ask, Cate had hung up.
TO: Blythe Finley, Priya Singh, Sophie Sachs