by Anna Carey
FROM: Cate Sloane
DATE: Monday, 9:18 p.m.
SUBJECT: Democracy Now
Listen up, ladies!
As official leader of the Chi Beta Phis, it’s my duty to ensure that all prospective members go through a screening process more rigorous than the CIA’s. I refuse to have you subjected to any more shows on ice.
At our last sleepover, you asked if we could hang out with my stepsister, Stella Childs. Now, I’m answering: yes. For the next five days Stella will be “in trials.” I’ll give her a series of tasks to see if she is Chi Beta Phi material, and on Saturday (assuming she completes all her trials) we’ll vote to see if she should be in.
Be discerning!
Cate
A SISTER IN NEED IS A FRIEND INDEED
Lola studied her reflection in the bathroom mirror and frowned. She pulled on the teal cloth headband she’d bought at Duane Reade after her disastrous reunion with Kyle. Two years had transformed him into the most adorable guy she’d ever seen, but she was still his mate Sticks. She still had big ears and a bump in the middle of her nose. And she still couldn’t last ten minutes without spilling soda on her jumper or stepping in a steaming pile of dog poo.
She adjusted the headband so it concealed the tips of her ears. From now on, things would be different. She would be different. No more tripping over things. And absolutely no more Dumbo ears.
Andie peeked into the bathroom. She was wearing plaid pajama pants that looked three sizes too big. “I just need to wash my face,” she said, sidling up next to the sink.
“About today,” Lola started. Before leaving her at homeroom, Andie had drawn a map on the back of her schedule so Lola would know where all her classes were. “Thanks for helping me.” Her stomach hurt just thinking about her debut on Ashton News.
“No problem.” Andie eyed Lola’s hair and the Duane Reade bag crumpled up by the sink. “What’s with the headband?”
“I just thought…” Lola watched as Andie leaned over and lathered up her face. She hesitated, not wanting to reveal too much. But even if Andie did have an intimidatingly perfect wardrobe, gorgeous never-frizzy hair, and a button nose, she wasn’t going to make fun of Lola in front of the entire school. “I thought that maybe it would hide my ears.”
“What’s wrong with your ears?” Andie asked, splashing her face with water. She already knew the answer to that question, but after today she figured Lola could use a little self-esteem boost.
Lola chewed her lower lip. “Well, they’re big. And…well, there’s this bloke Kyle, who I grew up with in London. We’ve been talking online all summer and he lives in Tribeca now.”
Andie patted her face with a checkered towel, her lips curling into a smile. “Let me guess: You like him?”
Lola blushed so much her big ears turned red. Kyle was one of the cutest guys she’d ever seen, and he was nice. And funny and smart and all-around wonderful. “It doesn’t matter,” Lola mumbled. “He’d never fancy me.”
“But you’ve been talking to him online all summer, right?” Andie asked, walking back into her room. Lola nodded. Andie plopped down on her bed and pulled a bright red throw pillow into her arms. “That’s a good start. Now you just need to get out of the friend zone,” she said matter-of-factly.
“But how?” Lola asked, walking to the door.
“You just stop being his friend and lay on the girl.” Andie twirled her ponytail around her finger as she said “girl.” Lola was still standing tentatively in the doorway. “You can come in, you know.”
Lola glanced around the room, which had one bright red wall. Almost every surface—the chaise lounge, the bed, the desk chair—was decorated with brightly colored Moroccan pillows. It felt like an exotic palace, minus the belly dancers.
Above Andie’s head was a massive collage. In the center hung a black-and-white photo of a woman holding a baby. Ticket stubs to Wicked and Rent were sandwiched between a cartoon of a Siamese cat doing yoga and a glossy pullout of David and Victoria Beckham, modeling their signature DVB line. Beside it was a Chloé ad featuring a model covered in leather handbags, as though an avalanche of accessories had tumbled down on her. Andie’s smiling face was pasted on the body. It looked like she had no neck. Lola giggled.
Andie followed Lola’s gaze and quickly stood up on the bed. “You weren’t supposed to see that.” She pulled the ad from the collage and tucked it into the drawer in her nightstand.
“I’m sorry, it’s just—why did you do that?” Lola squeezed the ends of her frizzy hair and tried to stop smiling.
“It’s really not funny.” Andie knew Lola didn’t mean anything by it, but she was careful who she told about modeling. She didn’t want Cate to know she was actually serious about it—not until there was something to prove it was real.
“I’m so sorry,” Lola repeated, pressing her hands into her freckled cheeks. She looked from the collage to Andie’s nightstand, which had more fashion magazines than a nail salon—and what looked like a printout of the FordModels.com home page. Understanding washed over her face. “Do you want to model?”
Andie bit her cuticle. “I know, it’s totally dumb. I’m four-foot eleven. But Nurse Paul said I’m due for a growth spurt this year—and I’ve been drinking a lot of milk.”
“No, no,” Lola protested, gazing at Andie’s round, flawless face. “I don’t think it’s dumb at all. You’re prettier than most of those girls in Teen Vogue.” Lola meant it.
“Thanks,” Andie said, lying back on her bed. “I tried to talk to your mom about it, but she had to go to a tasting at the boathouse and she’s not back yet. I really wanted her to take me to Fashion Week—I would honestly lick Cate’s feet if I could be in the same room as Kate Moss,” she said wistfully.
“Ew! You don’t need to do that.” She clapped her hands together in front of her face, small and fast. “Let’s just sneak in! I’ve been to the shows before—it can’t be that hard.”
Andie’s eyes widened. Lola. She’d thought Emma would help her, and that Stella was the next best thing. But Lola was a Childs too. Andie had totally overlooked her—in more ways than one.
Andie grinned, picturing herself sitting front row, watching as Bar Refaeli strutted down the runway in a Cynthia Rowley couture gown. “Yes!” she cried, pulling Lola into a tight hug.
She’d rub shoulders with Anna Wintour and smile at Heidi Klum. She’d absorb fashion and exude modeling vibes. And maybe, just maybe, she’d get…discovered.
TRIALS AND TRIBULATIONS
Stella followed Cate down an air-conditioned corridor that smelled vaguely of Elmer’s glue. On the way to school this morning, Cate had kept on about Blythe’s new knockers, even referring to her as B.B. (Boobie Blythe). Then she’d pulled Stella out of homeroom to give her an “official” Ashton Prep tour. Stella couldn’t wait to walk down the hall first period with the Chi Beta Phis.
Forget M.U.G. the Slug—she’d moved on to bigger and better acronyms.
They mounted a narrow cherry staircase and turned down a wide hallway. Abstract wire sculptures that looked like giant copper amoebas lined the walls. A tall girl with a bouffant, Hairspray chorus-girl hairdo and white eyeliner came out of one of the rooms. Her gray apron was stained with dark red splotches, like she’d just completed a Jackson Pollock–style painting using only ketchup.
“Hi, Cate,” she called.
“Hey, Missy. This is Stella,” Cate responded.
Stella straightened up. Maybe Blythe wasn’t really drawing up plans for a coup, but that one teensy lie had been worth it. For the first time since school started, she wasn’t the odd girl out.
“Hey.” Missy smiled as she walked past.
“Missy’s in eleventh grade,” Cate whispered as they turned down a corridor. In a room with red leather sofas, a few girls were sprawled out on the floor, scribbling on an oversize get well card with a bedridden zebra on the front. “She’s an amazing artist—she was the youngest person ever to get a piece in the Whitney. But the girl’s
got more issues than Seventeen magazine.”
Cate paused. “I almost forgot,” she said, crossing the room to a sliding glass door. “This is our deck.”
Stella stepped outside onto a stone patio enclosed by a high wrought iron fence. “It’s amazing,” she breathed, spinning around. In front of her spread a giant patch of green—Central Park—lined by stately towers with granite facades. In the distance was the murky Hudson River, and beyond that, New Jersey—New York’s loser cousin.
Cate crossed her arms over her chest. “So this week you’ll have to complete a few…trials. And then on Saturday the Chi Beta Phis will vote on whether or not you should be admitted to the group.”
Stella glanced around the deck, imagining eating seared tuna salads with the Chi Beta Phis and deciding what outfits to wear to the Ashton formal. She could handle a few trials, if that was what it took. Finally she nodded.
“Here’s my offer,” Cate continued. “You let me know if Blythe is acting suspicious, and I’ll go easy on you for trials. Deal?”
“Abso-bloody-lutely.” Stella followed Cate into the elevator, the gold railing shining under the overhead light. The doors opened and she stepped out into the oak-paneled hallway, walking a little faster, a bounce in her step. Ashton Prep was her school now. She would sit next to Priya in Latin, texting back and forth about the teacher’s comb-over. She’d do yogalates with Sophie and Cate in gym, toning her core for a summer on Blythe’s father’s yacht. She’d hold a meet-and-greet in the drawing room, the Chi Beta Phis by her side as the entire ninth grade nervously introduced themselves to Stella Childs, Ashton’s newest It girl.
As they reached geometry class, Stella spotted Priya and Blythe down the hall, leaning against the burgundy wall by the door. They both waved when they saw her coming. Stella tousled her golden ringlets, excited. “For your first trial,” Cate said, shoving three heavy textbooks into her arms, “you carry my books.” The books knocked Stella hard in the ribs.
Cate winked. “We have to make this believable. And I took the liberty of making a little ‘to do’ list for you.” She took off toward Blythe and Priya and kissed them both on their cheeks.
Stella looked down at the stack of books, a piece of carnation pink paper tucked into the one on top. She closed her eyes, let out a deep breath, and slowly unwrapped the note.
FROM THE DESK OF CATE SLOANE
Pick up the red Jimmy Choo flats on hold at Bergdorf’s —Lily, the saleswoman on the 5th floor should have them
—If Lily’s not in today, Brianna—or Beatrice? (I can’t remember) will definitely have them.
Research venues for my birthday party in November —Ono, Megu, and Tao are on the top of my list, but I need a few more options. Think fabulousness!
—I need digital photos of all venues uploaded to my Flickr account by tomorrow at 8 a.m.
—I also need to know what the menu would be like for a party of 50, 75, and 100.
Call Frédéric Fekkai and book all my manicure, pedicure, and haircut appointments for the next year —Manicures should be spaced a week apart, pedicures can be a week and a half apart, and haircuts should ALWAYS be four weeks apart (I have very temperamental follicles).
Stella frowned. Today she was carrying Cate’s books and tomorrow she’d probably be pumicing Cate’s feet with Bliss mint scrub during lunch. Whether or not her trials were “easy,” one thing was certain—Cate Sloane was loving every minute of this.
BECOMING THE SWAN
Tuesday afternoon, Andie paced back and forth across Lola’s room, her thin arms crossed over her chest. Lola needed some serious boy help, and Andie wasn’t really sure where to start.
“First things first,” Andie said, pausing in front of the bed, where Lola was sitting with Heath Bar in her lap. “You have to get rid of the furball.”
“What? No!” Lola cried, clutching the cat tighter. He let out a sudden meow, like a sumo wrestler had just stepped on his tiny paw.
“Lola,” Andie explained, “no boy is going to want to talk to you if you’re holding a twenty-pound cat. You don’t have to really get rid of him—just don’t carry him around.”
“Right, right,” Lola said, kissing the cat on the head. She set him down gently on the floor and Heath Bar waddled into the bathroom, his big belly swinging.
Next Andie took in Lola’s outfit, her gaze settling on her pale yellow Gap button-down. She riffled through her Alice + Olivia tote and pulled out a lint roller. She held it up high.
“That also means no cat hair—none. I bought this for you, so from now on you have to carry this wherever you go.” Andie rolled the sleeve of Lola’s shirt, then the back. “And no more touching that cat.” She held the lint roller in front of Lola’s face. It was covered in orange fur.
“But Heathy sleeps in my bed,” Lola said sadly, running her hand over her bedspread.
Andie looked around Lola’s room, pretending she hadn’t heard that. After school she’d helped Lola unpack her books and hang up pictures of Starlett, her favorite horse from her stable in London. Her viola stood neatly in the corner, her CDs (mostly classical—Andie would have to work on that) were organized, and there was a photograph of Lola and her best friend, Abby, perched on the nightstand.
“So the next time you see Kyle, you want everything to go smoothly,” Andie continued, putting her hands on her hips authoritatively. “You need a plan, from the second you see him. What are you going to do?”
Lola stared out the window, watching a one-legged pigeon hop along the stone ledge. “I guess I’d start with hello,” Lola said thoughtfully. That felt like a safe answer.
“No!” Andie corrected her. “You’re going to say…” Andie paused dramatically and tossed her glossy brown hair over her shoulder. “‘Hi…’” She said it so softly it was practically a whisper.
Lola shook her head, her cheeks pink.
“Trust me,” Andie continued. “I know what I’m talking about. I went out with Ben Carter last year for almost a month. And Clay Calhoun likes me—he’s one of the hottest guys at Haverford.” She wasn’t bragging—it was true. Boys always liked her, and she never even had to try. Brett Crowley, a boy in her drawing class at the MoMA, had asked her out last year by sketching a picture of the Mona Lisa with her face on it. It wasn’t exactly a faithful representation, but it was still cute.
“Oh,” Lola said. She sat up a little straighter, impressed by Andie’s credentials.
“Just practice it!” Andie coaxed.
“Hi…” Lola said softly, but when she tossed her hair, her headband slid down on her forehead.
“Okay…maybe we should start with more basic stuff,” Andie amended. “You can’t sweat or turn beet red when you talk to Kyle. And you can’t be so clumsy—just move very slowly. If you’re fumbling all the time, he’ll know you like him.”
Lola patted down her frizzy blond hair, confused. “But I do fancy him….” Wasn’t that the point? She wanted him to take her on a double-decker bus tour, or show her the inside of Belvedere castle, that spooky stone structure in Central Park.
“I know.” Andie sighed. It was like Lola had been sick for all of fifth grade, when everyone else discovered boys like to be ignored. She put on her most patient face and took a deep breath. “But you don’t want him to know that—at least not yet. You have to pretend like you don’t care. If you get nervous, just pretend Kyle is…” Andie scanned the room. “…is Heath Bar!” The orange tabby was in the corner, licking the remnants of a glazed doughnut off a plate on Lola’s nightstand.
Lola imagined herself on the double-decker tour bus, gazing into Heath Bar’s furry face as they sped through Greenwich Village, the Washington Square arch flying past. She let out a laugh. It would be hard to get nervous if she did that.
Andie started pacing again, like a detective on the verge of solving a particularly tricky case. The Case of Lola Childs and the Missing Cool Gene. She stopped right in front of Lola. “And when you’re walking next to each other
, you always want to be within two feet of him. That way he’ll be able to smell your perfume.”
“But I don’t wear perfume,” Lola pointed out.
Andie pulled a tiny Philosophy bottle out of her bag and tossed it to Lola. “Now you do.”
Lola sprayed the vanilla scent in the air and leaned forward into the mist. It smelled like cake batter, and she closed her eyes as she inhaled the sweet scent. But then she frowned.
“What’s the problem?” Andie asked, one hand on her hip.
“Well, all this will only work if I actually see him again.”
“And?”
“And after I spilled ice cream all over him, he said he had to go home and change his shirt.” Lola filled her cheeks with air, like a blowfish on its guard. “I haven’t heard from him since. And I’m not going to,” she finished dejectedly, releasing the air from her cheeks.
Andie waved her hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about it—that was only yesterday. Haven’t you ever heard of boy time?”
Boy time was a well-proven unit of measurement. After Ben Carter had asked her for her phone number last year—via a note on a Bubblicious wrapper—he hadn’t called for almost three days. Andie had been sick with worry until Cindy, whose favorite movie was Clueless despite the ugly ’90s clothes, had reminded her about the golden rule revealed in the movie: Boys experience time differently. Sure enough, Ben had called on day three.
“And now for the most important part,” she continued, taking Lola’s MacBook from her desk and resting it on the bed. “Research.” She looked disapprovingly at Lola’s computer desktop: a photo of Heath Bar in a miniature construction paper party hat.
An IM popped up in the corner of the screen and Andie furrowed her brows. “Is Striker15…Kyle?” She shot Lola an I-told-you-so look.
“Um…yes,” Lola muttered. She leaned over the laptop and swallowed hard. Sure, she had been talking to Kyle online all summer, but now he was a real person. A real, cute person. They lived in the same city and she had just spilled ice cream all over his shirt. And apparently he still wanted to talk to her.