Survival of the Fiercest

by Anna Carey

  “All right, ladies,” Mrs. Taft called out, nodding to the locker room doors. “I’m done torturing you.” As Andie dropped her racquet into a giant red bin, Hannah pulled a lavender sheet of paper out of her flowered LeSportsac. She offered it to Andie. “Here, I found an extra one in the courtyard. It’s yours if you want it.”

  Andie turned it over in her hands. “Thanks, Hannah.” The girls filed inside the locker room, but Andie lingered behind. She imagined walking to school with Cate and Stella, stopping for café lattes at the Starbucks on Eighty-seventh Street. Cate would review her schedule for her in June, telling her which teachers to avoid and why, and look over all her papers on A Christmas Carol or Huck Finn. They’d all stay up late, having their own karaoke sleepover. Andie would do her best rendition of “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun,” and they wouldn’t care that she was completely tone deaf.

  She tucked the flyer into her pocket and headed inside, the slightest smile creeping over her face. Finally she wouldn’t be Copy Cate, or C.C., the annoying cling-on that Cate was always trying to get rid of.

  THE ROAD TO THE TOP IS PAVED WITH FAT LITTLE MEN

  When the lift doors opened into the Royal Suite in the Waldorf Towers, Lola clapped her hands in excitement. Its eighteenth-century antiques and gilded crown molding made her feel like she’d walked into a life-size dollhouse. The pink and turquoise damask curtains were pulled back to reveal a spectacular view of Central Park, the high-rise buildings around it sparkling in the afternoon sun. “New York Sit-aaaay,” Lola whispered, her lips curling into a smile. It was awful how much she missed London, with its quaint little streets and alleyways, but at a time like this, it was impossible to be sad. Here she was, in a posh hotel, about to meet Gunther Gunta, world-famous fashion designer.

  Two models sat on gilt wood settees, barely looking up as Lola entered. A young girl flipped through a Vanity Fair that had Lola’s mum’s friend, the British actor Harley Cross, on the cover. Lola studied the girl, a little relieved. She had skin so white she looked albino, and her red hair was the color of fire ants. Another model chatted loudly on her mobile, complaining about someone named Panchito. There was a huge bump on her nose, like a marble was lodged in the center of it. They were all different looking, but in their own way…beautiful. Lola relaxed into the sofa and admired her legs. She actually looked tan compared to the redhead model.

  “Is there a sign-in sheet?” Lola asked her. She just shook her head, barely looking up from her magazine. The other girl was still on her mobile. “Panchito should’ve known better. Tenjune is over—it’s all bridge and tunnel now.”

  Lola pulled her iPhone out of her Gap tote. After she’d read the entire Gunther Gunta article, she’d called Abby in London and told her about Ayana and the go-see. Abby had shrieked so loudly her mum thought there was a burglar in her room. But there was still one person who didn’t know about her new career, and Lola couldn’t wait to see his face when she told him. She typed away.

  LOLA: WHAT R U UP 2 L8R?

  KYLE: HW. SRY.

  Homework, again? Lola tucked the iPhone back in her pocket, feeling like she’d eaten some bad sushi. Kyle had been acting strange all week. Even if she’d practically pushed him out the front door on Saturday when Andie had flirted with him, he didn’t have to completely avoid her. Yesterday, when she’d IMed him he’d taken twenty-six whole minutes to respond (not that she was counting…), saying he was IMing with someone else. Who? Lola wrote, but he never wrote back. Lola imagined a girl who looked just like her, but with smaller ears, a straighter nose, and glossy blond hair like corn silk. Imaginary Girl would never spill ice cream all over Kyle’s shirt, trip in the middle of the street, or get so nervous her ears turned red.

  A door on the far side of the room flew open and a girl stumbled out. Her face was pink and her cheeks were slick with tears. Everyone stared at her. “He told me I need eye-replacement surgery!” she sobbed. Lola studied her face. Her eyes were extremely close together. Still, it wasn’t a nice thing to say.

  Panchito’s ex-friend consoled her, as the redhead model disappeared into the room. Lola adjusted her cloth headband, suddenly nervous. The Vogue article mentioned that Gunther Gunta was notorious for his mood swings, subtly suggesting he might have two personalities, like Jekyll and Hyde. Gunther would insist a model gain half a stone, then throw a tantrum when she didn’t fit into her couture jumper. Once he hurled a Diet Coke at a model’s head after she rolled her eyes at him. But he was supposed to be different now—better. The Vogue reporter said two years at an ashram in India had transformed him. Lately he’d donated fifty percent of his income to Models Without Borders, a charity that held fashion shows in the remotest parts of the world.

  A few minutes later, the redhead model stormed out of the room, shaking her head. “He told me I should break my own nose!” she cried, covering her face with her hand.

  “You can go next,” the girl with the bumpy nose said, slowly gathering her bright yellow purse and sweater. “I don’t have a chance.” Lola wrung her hands. The last thing she needed was Gunther Gunta: Man. Myth. Maniac? pulling off her headband and telling her she had elephant ears, or demanding she bleach away her freckles. She took a deep breath, remembering Andie’s words. You’re editorial. Gunther will love you. Lola hoped she was right.

  She opened the heavy oak door. The dining room had been cleared of furniture and the thick curtains were drawn. It was dark except for a single spotlight that lit up the wall, like a perfect glowing moon. “Stend on ze X,” a low voice hissed. It was coming from the far end of the room, where two shadowy figures sat in armchairs. Lola couldn’t quite make out their faces. “Do nut speek,” the man said.

  “Donut speak?” Lola furrowed her brows, imagining two chocolate Krispy Kremes talking to each other. She stepped onto the masking tape X on the floor and smoothed down the skirt of the black Gap chiffon dress she’d bought for her uncle Simon’s wedding last year. Andie had helped her pick it out, insisting it was the outfit most “in line with Gunther’s sensibilities.”

  “Shhhh!” the voice hissed. The spotlight was so bright it was like staring directly at the sun. Lola shielded her eyes, trying to make out who was talking. “Lit me zee your face!”

  Lola braced herself, waiting for Gunther to sling his first insult. He would tell her to get knee-reduction surgery, to break her feet so they didn’t turn inward so much, or to splurge on fat injections for her arms. He would scrunch his nose in disgust, insulted she’d even come. Lola waited. The sweat pooled at the small of her back. There was only silence.

  In the back of the room she saw the flame of a lighter, then the glow of a freshly lit cigarette. Lola coughed, the smoke stinging her throat. She wanted to run out the door, down the ornate hallways of the Waldorf Towers, and up Park Avenue, not stopping until she was at home with Heath Bar, cuddled safe in her bed. She’d been so dim. Gunther Gunta was looking for a high-fashion model, not some twit who couldn’t walk to the loo without falling over her own feet. “Um…” Lola mumbled, staring at the carpet. “I’m sorry for wasting your time. I’ll—”

  “No!” The man’s voice growled. “Evette. Ze lights!” He snapped his fingers in the air. The shadow with the cigarette walked over and flipped a switch on the wall.

  Lola blinked a few times, the room slowly coming into focus. There was an oak credenza next to her, decorated with two ivy topiaries. The woman on the far wall wore high-waisted pants and a blue beret and was enveloped in a cloud of smoke. She reminded Lola of the women in those subtitled films her mum liked to watch. Then Lola spotted him.

  Walking toward her was a round man just a little taller than Andie. His hair formed one stiff black peak, like it had been gelled back with rubber cement. In his striped blue T-shirt and jeans he looked a little like the street performers in Covent Garden, only older…and fatter. And he wasn’t juggling bowling pins.

  He circled Lola three times, peering up at her through his Prada glasses. They were half an inc
h thick, making his black eyes look as tiny as peas. “Git rid of eet!” he hissed, snapping his fingers at Lola’s headband.

  Lola had barely taken it off since last week, when she bought it at some place called Duane Reade, which Andie had explained was New York City’s version of Boots. The headband held down the tops of her ears. Now that she had it, it wasn’t something she could do without. “Um…I’d rather—”

  “Ne-ow!” Gunther hooted, throwing his short arms in the air. Lola slowly pulled it off, hoping her dirty blond hair would cover her ears. Gunther kept considering her, looking at one side of her face, then the other. She tapped her foot, hoping it would end soon. Whenever someone looked at her that long it only meant one thing: They were forming a joke in their head. “You ahhh eet,” he whispered, taking Lola’s chin in his hands. “You ahhh my gutta and my light.”

  Lola blushed so much her ears turned red. She didn’t know exactly what that meant, but it sounded good—at least better than needing eye-replacement surgery. “Cheers,” Lola said. “I think?”

  “You are his Gutter and his Light,” Evette explained, exhaling smoke from her cigarette. “It’s the name of the new campaign?” She shot Lola a look that said, Do you have any clue why you’re here?

  “Yes!” Gunther yelped, stomping a python-skin boot on the floor. “I was in ze gutta! Zen I saw ze light!” He reached his hand up to the ceiling and stared at it for a good minute, his eyes rolling back in his head. Lola looked up, but all she saw was an air-conditioning vent. “Evette!” Gunther yelled, even though Evette was only five feet away from him. “Tell ze ahthas to leeve. I have found her!”

  Evette stepped outside and Gunther kept circling Lola like she was a rare species of exotic bird. “You ahh so freeesh looking,” he hooted, his smile revealing a chipped front tooth. “I am so in ze love with ze ears!” He reached up to give one of Lola’s ears a quick tug.

  Lola couldn’t stand it any longer. She bounced up and down on her heels, clapping her hands in excitement. Gunther Gunta loved her ears. Gunther Gunta thought she was freeesh looking. She didn’t need a lip reduction, an ear tuck, or hair-replacement surgery. And if Gunther Gunta, one of the toughest critics loved her, everyone would.

  Gunther grabbed two small cups of green liquid off the credenza and downed them one after the other. Lola recognized the smell as wheatgrass, the organic sludge her mum drank when she was trying to be healthy.

  Evette returned and handed Lola a clipboard that had all the details of the shoot. At four o’clock on Saturday she’d show up at a warehouse on Canal Street. Evette pointed to the fine print at the bottom of the contract. “Just two things: You need a guardian to sign, and you cannot, under any circumstances, bathe until then.”

  “No bathing?” Lola asked. It seemed like an odd request. Her mum had been a model for over twenty years, and she’d never mentioned anything about not showering.

  “No baaathing!” Gunther screeched, pounding his little fist in the air. “You aah too be au naturale, one with ze guttaaa.” Lola could smell the wheatgrass on his breath, like he’d just eaten a whole bag of lawn clippings. “I had ze girls, zey come in wit ze spritz spritz in ze hair, and zey smeell like ze parfum. Zey put ze powda under their arms, ze powda.” He pulled his glasses down his nose and gave her a stern look. “I was in ze guttaaa, Lola. Do you know wut zat meens?”

  “No,” Lola mumbled, shaking her head.

  “Eet meens I wuz in ze feelth. I wuz gnawing on ze old loaf of bread like a dirty leetle rat. So no baaaathing!” He pounded his little fist in the air. “No spritz spritz! No powda or parfum! Understend?”

  “Abso-bloody-lutely.” Lola nodded. The shoot was only two days away. She didn’t have to bathe or use hair spray or perfume. She would roll around in a Dumpster if Gunther Gunta asked her to. He was her boss now, and she was his Gutter and his Light. The little man threw his arms around her one last time before pushing her out the door.

  “Saturdaaaay!” he called over her shoulder. “Saturdaaay!”

  FROM THE DESK OF CATE SLOANE

  Interview questions for Chi Sigma rush

  Have you ever been associated outside of school with Blythe Finley? If so, in what capacity?

  If you could only wear one designer for the rest of your life, who would it be? Please elaborate.

  Barneys is on fire, and your best friend has been trampled by women trying to get out with their sale items. She’s badly hurt and can’t walk. Do you leave her and go for help, or stay until help arrives? Explain your answer.

  Have you ever been to a Disney show on ice? Have you ever suggested your friends go to a Disney show on ice? If so, please specify dates and which ones.

  You overhear a girl calling a member of your sorority “stuck-up.” Do you Explain your answer.

  a) immediately confront the girl;

  b) return to your friends and tell them what happened;

  c) convince yourself it didn’t happen—that you must’ve heard wrong; or

  d) pretend you’re really mad, but then wave to the girl in gym when your sorority sisters aren’t looking.

  Explain your answer.

  •Tell us your greatest weakness.

  SELECTIVENESS IS NEXT TO GODLINESS

  Thursday after school, Cate and Stella sat behind a long oak table in the Ashton Prep drawing room, a wood-paneled hall that smelled faintly of Pledge. A few candidates were lounging on the grand piano in the corner, like they were about to break into show tunes. As more girls trickled in, Cate thumbed through her red Moleskine notebook, wanting to seem poised and professional. She and Stella had stayed up late the night before, writing interview questions and deciding how to seem both intimidating and accessible. Cate had borrowed a gavel from the debate team, and Stella had stolen Margot’s red Kate Spade reading glasses.

  Cate scanned the room, which was now packed with more than forty girls. Stella had prepared her for a few inevitable disappointments—the flyers had been plastered all over the high school for everyone to see. Liza Bartuzzo and the marching band girls had shown up after all. And Kimberly Berth, the only member of the Ashton mascot club, dragged a purple duffel bag in behind her. But with those few exceptions, the view was pretty good.

  Eleanor Donner was there, her black hair falling to her shoulders in shiny barrel curls. Shelley DeWitt had worn a strapless metallic cocktail dress that made her pale skin look radiant. Even Paige Mortimer—a former member of the Chi Beta Phi blacklist—had gone all out, her brown hair swept to the side in a dramatic updo. Cate turned the sapphire ring on her finger, thinking of the time her mother had taken her to FAO Schwarz when she was a little girl. She’d spent two hours wandering the aisles, trying to pick out the perfect porcelain doll. The only difference was, those dolls came perfect. The girls in front of her needed a few adjustments to make them Chi Sigma-worthy. Still, it was a solid turnout.

  She spotted a familiar face in the back of the room. Andie was standing behind Kimberly Berth, trying to seem inconspicuous. Cate narrowed her blue eyes at Andie. Last year she had discovered Andie and Cindy hiding in her closet during a Chi Beta Phi sleepover, eavesdropping on plans for their weekend trip to the Hamptons. It had always been that way: If Cate bought gray suede Sigerson Morrison boots, the next day Andie was wearing the same ones in black, insisting it was a coincidence. And when Cate got a body wave at Frédéric Fekkai, Andie started wearing her hair wavy too. She’d thought Andie’s days of doing bad Cate Sloane impressions were over, but apparently she was wrong. Maybe imitation was a form of flattery. But when your little sister was doing the imitating, it felt more like a form of torture.

  Cate banged the gavel hard on the wood table and all the girls in the drawing room jumped. “Thank you all for coming,” she said, sounding anything but thankful.

  “We hope you are all prepared to tell us why you should be the third member of Chi Sigma,” Stella said. “If you’ve brought a CV, we’ll take those now. The rest of you can line up.”

  Pa
ige Mortimer set a black leather folder down in front of Cate and Stella. “Everything is in here.” She tapped it gently. “My résumé, my certificate from Junior Honor Society, my headshot from when I was a child actor along with a DVD of the Welch’s commercial I was in, three recommendations from Ashton jun—”

  “Your older sister doesn’t count,” Cate interrupted. It was impossible to rely on Paige Mortimer, who was infamous for being two-faced. She changed faster than a braless sixth-grader during gym. Last spring she’d called Cate “stuck-up.”

  “Two recommendations from Ashton juniors,” Paige corrected, pulling a piece of paper from the folder and crumpling it up.

  Stella looked over the CV. Technically Paige had all the right credentials. But the last thing Chi Sigma needed was someone who’d insist they wear matching J. Crew flowered button-downs every Friday, or argue with Cate over which subway they should take to Columbus Circle. They needed a follower—someone who would be happy doing whatever she and Cate decided. And according to Paige’s résumé (captain of the Ashton Middle School swim team, editor in chief of the middle school newspaper), she was used to being in the spotlight.

  “Now”—Stella tried banging the gavel, just for fun—“we appreciate you all coming, but we have very specific criteria to follow.” She pulled Margot’s glasses down to the tip of her nose. The prescription was so strong they made the drawing room look like a Monet painting—everything blurred together.