Survival of the Fiercest

by Anna Carey

  “Is there room for one more?” Kyle asked. He glanced at Clay, who was working at a knot in his laces with his teeth.

  Kyle was standing on the field, wearing his shin guards and ready to play. They were on Ninety-seventh Street—she couldn’t tell him to go all the way back to Tribeca now. And besides, it was only one soccer scrimmage—what was the harm in that? Andie looked into Kyle’s warm brown eyes, the flecks of gold visible in the late afternoon sun. “Yeah,” she heard herself say. “Definitely.”

  Two hours later, Central Park was still filled with people. A pack of bicyclists zoomed past, looking like speedy sea turtles in their kelly green Lycra suits and helmets. In the East Meadow, a man with a goatee played catch with his rottweiler, throwing around a suspiciously lifelike bone. A shirtless old man ran past Andie and Kyle, his sweat splattering everything within a two-foot radius around him.

  They watched him disappear down the tree-lined path ahead of them as they continued walking. “Why is it always the oldest, saggiest, and sweatiest guys who don’t wear shirts?” Kyle’s smile revealed a dimple.

  Andie laughed, but before she could answer, Clay appeared at the edge of the field, his shaggy blond hair sticking out in every direction. “Hey, Sloane, where you headed?” His white T-shirt had a big red stain on the front of it from when he’d poured a fruit punch Gatorade over his head in celebration.

  “Gotta go,” Andie called over her shoulder. “I’ll see you next week!” She turned back to Kyle. Usually after every scrimmage Clay walked her home, but today she just couldn’t listen to another word about Brandon O’Rourke’s wiener.

  “What about Friday?” Clay asked, but Andie just kept walking, pretending she didn’t hear.

  “We killed it,” Kyle said, brushing his sweaty bangs off his forehead. “You were awesome.” During their Tuesday scrimmages Andie was always quick on the field, determined to show the Haverford guys that she could hold her own. But today was different. She ran faster, her touch on the ball was perfect, and she didn’t let a single player near their goalie. Having a new person watching her play made the game feel important, special, and every time she passed to Kyle she got an extra jolt of energy.

  “Me? You’re the one who scored three goals!” Andie twirled her ponytail around her finger. Before she met Kyle, she’d always assumed he was a massive dork. The Kyle Lewis that Lola talked about played the baritone horn, collected old Superman comic books, and had once tried to build a lunch box out of Legos. Even though she could tell right away he wasn’t that high on the dork meter, for the first ten minutes of the scrimmage Andie had watched him nervously, afraid he might trip over himself or mention Kal-El or Krypton to Austin Thorpe. But after he nailed a corner kick—his second goal—it became clear that this Kyle Lewis was not the one Lola described. This Kyle Lewis was…cool. Even Jake Goldfarb, the other team’s goalie, was impressed.

  “Did you see Austin’s face when you got the second one past him? He’s not used to losing.” Andie pushed her sleeves over her shoulder as they walked past the reservoir. She suddenly wished she were wearing her turquoise Elie Tahari silk dress instead of her old pit-stained Adidas T-shirt. She knew it was silly—she wore her soccer clothes more than she wore dresses. But this was the first time she was hanging out with Kyle, and she didn’t want him to think she was a complete tomboy.

  “I actually know Austin from Battle of the Bands.” Kyle tugged at the gray sweatshirt tied around his waist.

  “Wait—” Andie said, stopping in the middle of the gravel path. A three-year-old on a tricycle rode between them, pushing the pedals with great effort. “You played at Battle of the Bands? The one in June—at Arlene’s Grocery?” Every year, Arlene’s Grocery, a former bodega turned concert space, let the local high school kids compete for a chance to play at one of their Friday night shows. Usually Andie and her best friend, Cindy Ng, cheered for Austin’s band, Nightlight Destroyers, even though their music sounded like screeching tires.

  “Yeah, just the one for middle schoolers,” Kyle said. “You’ve heard of it?”

  Andie grabbed him. “I was there!” She looked at her hand on his arm, feeling her cheeks flush. She pulled it away and continued walking, keeping her eyes on the sidewalk. It was just too much of a coincidence. He’d probably been standing only a few feet away from her that very night. It was strange she hadn’t realized it sooner. “Which band are you in?”

  “The Wormholes?” Kyle asked, his cheeks a deep red.

  “No way.” She stared at him in shock, like he had just told her he spent last fall touring with Death Cab for Cutie. In June she and Cindy had not only seen the Wormholes, they had become obsessed with them, listening to their album Spacetime on repeat for five days straight. But she hadn’t recognized Kyle at all. Suddenly it dawned on her: The lead singer K.L. always wore aviators and a headband, swinging his head back and forth to the music. “You’re K.L.?” Andie felt goosebumps prickling up on her arms, something that only happened when she was freezing or insanely nervous.

  “Yeah, it’s kinda my band.” Kyle laughed. He noticed Andie’s goosebumped skin as they crossed Fifth Avenue. “Here—you look cold,” he said, passing her his sweatshirt.

  “Thanks,” Andie managed. She wrapped it around her shoulders gratefully. Kyle Lewis, a.k.a. K.L., wasn’t just the lead singer of the Wormholes—he was a minor celebrity at Ashton Prep. After the Battle of the Bands show, every seventh-grader started following the Wormholes on Twitter. Cindy had discovered “K.L.”’s profile on Facebook, which said he was an eighth-grader at Donalty. Still, both of them were too embarrassed to actually friend him—they didn’t want to seem like groupies.

  “Uh…Andie? Isn’t this your house?” Kyle had stopped against the wrought iron fence.

  “Right.” Andie had been so busy studying Kyle’s face, trying to picture him in aviators and a headband, she hadn’t realized where they were. She walked up to Kyle, close enough that she could see the tiny freckles that covered the tip of his nose. “Thanks for the sweatshirt,” she said, pulling it from her shoulders.

  “No, you can borrow it,” he said, pointing to her bare arms, which still looked like a plucked chicken. “You’re freezing.”

  “Thanks.” She wrapped it around her shoulders and looked up into Kyle’s brown eyes. She couldn’t believe this was the same Kyle who, just three days ago, was standing in her foyer. “So I’ll see you again next week?” Say yes, she thought, imagining them together every Tuesday, jogging around the reservoir and stopping for Pinkberry on their walk home. Just say yes.

  “For sure.” Kyle ran his thumb along the strap of his Adidas duffel bag. “But maybe we can talk before then—online?”

  Andie tried to steady her voice. “Definitely. My screen name is Sloane28.”

  “Cool, I’ll remember that.” Kyle stepped out onto the sidewalk and smiled, a deep dimple in his right cheek. Then he took off toward Fifth Avenue, his bag swinging behind him. Andie pulled the sweatshirt off and held it in her hands, just staring at it. It was Kyle Lewis’s sweatshirt. The same Kyle Lewis whom Lola had grown up with in London, skating in Hyde Park and playing Ghost in the Graveyard in their parents’ gardens. The same Kyle Lewis Lola had gone to Madame Tussauds with just last week. And the same Kyle Lewis who was K.L.—the only boy who made Andie wish she went to Donalty.

  It was wrong of her to think his dimples were adorable. Or that he was talented and sweet and all the things she wanted in a boyfriend. It was wrong of her to like him—but she couldn’t stop herself. She hugged the sweatshirt to her chest, smiling as she breathed in a mixture of boy scent and Old Spice deodorant. If it was so wrong…why did it feel so right?

  ONE OF THESE THINGS IS NOT LIKE THE OTHERS

  Later that afternoon, Lola stood in the poorly lit hallway of a building in SoHo, wearing her pink Speedo and a Gap white linen sundress. She stared at a door labeled PACIFIC SUNWEAR. The next time she was on Ashton News, she’d be in a Prada evening gown, strutting down the
runway in Bryant Park, Betsy Carmichael running commentary on Ashton Prep’s newest It girl (Days-of-the-week knickers have been selling out all over the city! The fashion world speaks: Stop flattening your hair! Dumbo ears are so IN!). The rag mags would finally have something to talk about other than her parents’ divorce (The Childs’ Child Following in Mum’s Footsteps!), and Kyle Lewis, her childhood friend turned crush, would finally forget she was ever just his clumsy mate “Sticks.”

  She adjusted her cloth headband so that it held down the tops of her ears and entered the room, which smelled like a strange mixture of hair spray and baby oil. It was bustling with teenagers, all over the age of sixteen, and all looking like they had taken a break from surfing in Malibu to stop by the casting call. In the corner, a few girls examined themselves in Clinique compacts. Lola couldn’t have gotten her skin that brown if she’d spent the entire summer roasting on a beach in Spain. The boys were uniformly handsome, reminding Lola of the small army of Ken dolls she had when she was little. Hearing the door shut, they all turned in unison like a herd of beautifully tanned, blond deer. Their blue eyes stared at Lola.

  She pulled at the straps of her Speedo one-piece, realizing it probably wasn’t exactly what Ayana had had in mind when she’d said “beachwear.” She shifted around in her sundress, trying to cover the bright pink straps. “I’m here for the Pacific Sunset casting?” she said in a small voice.

  Everyone was completely silent. “No way—did she just say Pacific Sunset?” a girl with a sunburned nose asked. She patted it with powder as she let out a loud cackle.

  A pretty bloke with wavy, bleach blond hair eyed Lola’s Speedo, which was still visible beneath her sundress, and her pale, freckled legs. He whispered to the bloke next to him. Then he turned to Lola. “Are you sure you’re in the right place?”

  Lola blushed so much her ears turned red. Everyone there had tiny button noses and golden brown skin, the color of chocolate chip cookies that had been in the oven just a little too long. None of them had bumps on their noses, none of them had skin so white you could practically see through it, and none of them had to wear a cloth headband just to pin back their bloody ears. “Maybe I made a mistake…” Lola mumbled, feeling for the door behind her.

  As she turned quickly to leave, she felt her dress catch on the doorknob. There was a horrid ripping sound, then laughter. She felt a cool breeze on her legs and looked over her shoulder to see a piece of white linen hanging down, revealing her Speedo wedgie. She squeezed out of the room and flew down the staircase, not stopping until she was out on the street in the warm September air.

  TO: Lola Childs

  FROM: Ayana Bennington

  DATE: Tuesday, 6:36 p.m.

  SUBJECT: Pacific Sunwear casting call?

  ATTACHMENT: Gutter and Light

  Hi Lola,

  I just heard from the Pacific Sunwear reps, who told me you failed to show up to the casting today. If I take the time to set up an appointment for you, I’d like you to take the time to actually go. I’m disappointed you missed it.

  Assuming you’re still interested in modeling, on Thursday I’d like you to meet with Gunther Gunta. He’s in town for a few weeks looking for a new face for his next campaign. It’s high fashion—but you’re definitely in line with Gunther’s aesthetic.

  All the information is attached. It’s essential that you be there. Gunther is extremely agitated by no-shows.

  All the best,

  Ayana

  ASHES TO ASHES, DUST TO DUST, FROM NOW ON THEY’RE DEAD TO US

  Stella sat in front of the fireplace in the living room on Tuesday night, working on a drawing of Heath Bar. He was curled up on the chaise lounge with her grandmum, who had fallen asleep reading her romance novel Heating Up the Arctic. The cover featured a man embracing a woman on the snowy tundra, his parka unzipped to reveal a shiny, waxed chest.

  “Now don’t move,” she whispered to Heath Bar as she used the edge of her charcoal pencil to shade his fur. The giant tabby cat’s eyes were half closed, his chin resting on his front paws. After the run-in with the Beta Sigma Phis today in gym, some relaxation time was just what Stella needed. She and Cate had spent the afternoon at Café d’Alsace, drinking cappuccinos and trying to figure out who was going to be the third member of their sorority. Cate had run down the short list: Celia Reynolds was sufficiently popular, but she didn’t go anywhere without her best mate Benna Matthews. Benna wore Sally Hansen acrylic nails and sometimes spoke in a fake British accent, which would have driven Stella insane. Amy Klentak was cute and funny, and didn’t belong to any one clique. But according to Cate, she had “major control issues.” They could talk about Chi Sigma and plan as many bloody meet-and-greets as they wanted. It didn’t matter. For now, it wasn’t a sorority. It was just Cate and Stella.

  “This is all of it!” Cate announced, strolling into the living room with a cardboard box. It was overflowing with old clothes, photos, and a poster that said CATE SLOANE FOR PRESIDENT. Seeing Cate, Heath Bar jumped off the chaise lounge and ran out the door, his back hunched in fear.

  Stella put down her sketchbook and sighed. A blank circle stared out at her, right where the cat’s face was supposed to be. Cate set the box down next to the fireplace and opened the grate. Then she began pulling items out with black iron tongs. “What is all that?” Stella asked.

  “This,” Cate said, stabbing at a black and white Nanette Lepore scoop-neck top and tossing it into the fire, “is the shirt Priya got me for my birthday last year.” She watched as it burst into flames, the silk igniting instantly. “At least, it was the shirt Priya got me for my birthday last year. I’m purging.”

  “What?” Stella got up from the couch, her stomach tight. Cate was holding a stack of old pictures that looked like they had been taken over the last ten years. One was of her and Blythe dressed up as yellow chicks for Halloween. They looked about six. “You’re not going to—”

  But before she could go on, Cate threw all the pictures in the fire. A photo booth strip of the Chi Beta Phis curled and twisted, turning to ash. “It’s the dawn of a new era. All this stuff is bad karma.” She ripped the poster into pieces and threw that on the fire too. On the chaise lounge, Margot turned over in her sleep and coughed.

  Cate picked up the old notes she and Sophie used to pass in seventh-grade health class (all folded into perfect footballs that read 4 UR EYES ONLY) and tossed them on the pile, feeling a little lighter. Over the last two hours she’d reread all the e-mails between her, Priya, and Blythe—the ones from fifth grade where they first planned the sorority. It had been Blythe’s idea to name it Chi Beta Phi (Chi for Cate, Beta for Blythe, and Phi for Priya) and Cate who suggested they let Sophie in when she transferred to Ashton the following year. She’d shuffled through the postcards Blythe had sent her from Greece this summer, which were written in code so that Winston couldn’t read them. Then she took out the cards from every one of her birthdays, the insides completely covered with writing. Every second of it was torture.

  She didn’t want to think about her friends. She didn’t want to think about how Priya had helped her when she first got her period, stealing pads from the bottom drawer of her parents’ bathroom. Or how Sophie had made flash cards for her when she was terrified she wasn’t ready for the earth science final. She didn’t want to think about how Blythe was the only person she felt comfortable enough to cry to—about Emma sleeping in her mom’s room, or losing the sixth-grade election, or anything, really. She wanted all the memories to go away, to simply disappear. And this was the only way she knew how to make that happen.

  She reached into the box and pulled out the last memory of Chi Beta Phi: the Madame Alexander doll her friends had gotten her when she played Annie last year in Ashton’s school play. They’d searched eBay for it for weeks, making sure to find one in mint condition.

  “You’re getting rid of everything?” Stella asked as she peered into the empty box. She felt like she had swallowed a handful of gravel. Yes
, she was happy she and Cate were mates now and yes, she was happy Cate was finally free of Blythe’s poisonous jealousy. But up until Stella moved to New York, the Chi Beta Phis were Cate’s whole life. It would take all of high school and most of university before Stella and Cate had history like theirs.

  “Chi Sigma needs to have a fresh start—if it’s just you and me, it’s just you and me. No baggage.” Cate stroked the doll’s hair and threw her onto the dwindling fire, along with her stuffed dog Sandy. Annie’s glassy eyes stared at Stella as the flames died down around her. You! Stella imagined her screaming, This is all your fault!

  Stella sat back down in Winston’s leather club chair, determined. If she hadn’t insisted on being in the Chi Beta Phis in the first place, none of this would’ve happened. She was the one who’d suggested the revote where Blythe had stolen Cate’s presidency. Then she’d told the girls Cate had blabbed their secrets—that Blythe had a spray-tan addiction, Priya was obsessed with dissecting things at science camp, and Sophie still played with Barbies.

  She pulled her sketchbook into her lap. As she scribbled furiously, Cate watched the last of the Chi Beta Phi memorabilia burn. Stella knew she had made a mess of Cate’s ninth year. Now she was the one who’d clean it up. “What if,” she started, “it wasn’t just you and me? What if we were able to find the perfect third member?”

  Cate shook her head, her shiny ponytail swinging back and forth. Kneeling in front of the fireplace in her pink plaid J. Crew pajamas, she looked like a small child. “How are we going to find a third member? We already went over our options—it’s useless.”