Survival of the Fiercest

by Anna Carey

  “Yes,” Cate continued, glancing down at her notebook as if it contained important information. “We cannot, under any circumstances, consider any middle school girls.” Andie crossed her arms over her chest, obviously annoyed. “Sorry, C.C.” Andie left, followed by a girl with an unfortunate mole, and two fifth-graders who were so tiny they looked like they belonged in day care.

  “And I’m sorry,” Stella added, “but we can’t have any candidates affiliated with the Ashton Prep marching band, or the Ashton Prep mascot club.” Liza Bartuzzo & Co. slowly collected their flags and headed out, but not before Liza muttered something under her breath that sounded like “discrimination lawsuit.” Kimberly “Kimmy-Kim” Berth exited too, dragging her purple duffel bag behind her. The tail of the bobcat costume was sticking out the back, like she’d just bagged game on a hunting safari.

  Stella looked down at the list of questions, searching for the perfect opener.

  “What is Mug the Slug doing here?” Cate hissed in her ear. Stella’s head snapped back like a Pez dispenser. Myra Granberry had snuck in the side door, filing in line next to Paige Mortimer. Her thin blond hair was smoothed back into a ponytail, and she had changed into a purple button-down shirt.

  “It is an open call,” Stella whispered, suddenly nervous. She’d completed her biology lab with Myra this morning, labeling all the different chambers of the heart on a worksheet. Myra had talked about her Mathletes practice, the ABC special she’d seen on insomnia in mice, and her dad’s prototype for the underwater guitar, but she hadn’t mentioned anything about the Chi Sigma rush. Stella was hoping she’d forgotten.

  “Sorry I’m late!” Myra said cheerfully, offering Stella a small wave. Myra pulled up her red and white-striped knee-highs, smiling.

  Stella cringed. There was no way she was telling her to leave—not now. But if it wasn’t for her, Myra would’ve never showed up in the first place. “So let’s begin.” Stella adjusted the glasses. “Why do—”

  “Wait.” Cate interrupted, a smirk creeping across her face. She leveled her deep blue eyes at Myra. “I’m sorry, but we can’t accept any candidates with facial hair.” Paige Mortimer laughed loudly. Myra glanced from Cate to Stella, tears welling in her eyes.

  “She didn’t—” Stella tried to find the right words. But before she could say anything else, Myra covered her lip with her hand and stormed out.

  “Cate,” Stella hissed under the chorus of giggles. “You didn’t have to be so harsh.”

  “Since when are you friends with the Slug?” Cate brushed her dark brown hair out of her eyes, shooting Stella her most innocent Was it something I said? look.

  “She’s my lab partner,” Stella snapped. She knew lab partner didn’t equal best friend, but suddenly she couldn’t stand thinking about Myra sitting alone in the loo, dabbing her eyes with cheap squares of toilet paper. “I’ll be right back.” Stella darted outside, feeling Cate’s stare burning a hole through her back.

  “Myra!” she called. “Myra!” The hall was empty except for a few creepy papier-mâché sculptures. The short, abstract blobs looked vaguely like headless children.

  “Myra?” a familiar voice asked. Stella whipped around to see Blythe and the Beta Sigma Phis turning the corner. They were in matching red Juicy Couture pants and their hair was pulled back into sweaty ponytails.

  “Have you seen her?” Stella asked, peeking into the photography room. Molly Lambert, Ashton’s only goth, was hanging framed pictures of a boy in a long black trench coat. “She was just at the open call.”

  “Are you kidding?” Blythe put a hand on her hip and stuck out her boobs, which she did whenever she felt threatened, the way porcupines shot quills or skunks sprayed that foul musk. “You think Mug the Slug is Chi Sigma material?”

  “Why not?” Stella asked, already knowing the answer to the question. There were unspoken rules in high school. You didn’t wear red and white-striped socks, you didn’t talk loudly about your pet ferret, and you definitely didn’t walk around with a thick white mustache.

  “Oh, come on.” Priya tilted her head so that her nose ring caught the light. “Yesterday I heard her telling Mrs. Perkins about her sea monkeys. She’s bizarre.”

  “Well, I like her.” Stella rested her hands on the top of her gray uniform skirt. It wasn’t like Myra was hopeless. She just needed some…guidance. Instead of shopping with her inventor dad, picking out weird socks and ugly patterned sweaters, she needed go to somewhere like Bloomingdale’s, or Saks. “With a few adjustments she could be Chi Sigma material.”

  “I’ll believe it when I see it.” Blythe laughed.

  Stella narrowed her eyes. That sounded like a challenge, and Stella never backed down from a challenge. When Robin Lawrence told her she was too young to have a painting in a gallery in London, she’d spent two weeks dragging her abstract self-portrait around Chelsea, until she found a small place that would exhibit it in their “Emerging Artists” show.

  “Just watch.” Stella smiled. “I’ll turn Myra Granberry into one of the most popular girls at Ashton.” With that, she turned on her heel, her blond curls bouncing as she strode back into the drawing room. She would use a little green shadow to bring out Myra’s brown eyes, and her mustache would come right off with a good threading. They’d find the perfect Cynthia Rowley dress for her petite frame. The makeover would be easy.

  Convincing Cate to let Myra be the Mu to their Chi Sigma? That would be the hard part.

  ELI PUNCH IS HAVERFORD’S BEST CATCH

  After the open call, Cate sat in the packed Haverford gymnasium. The fans were all holding red-and-blue pom-poms or flags, like they’d just looted the school store. The Haverford Devil, a twiggy boy dressed in a skintight red bodysuit, aimed something that looked like a grenade launcher at the crowd. A whole row of sixth-grade boys pounded their fists in the air, their faces painted bright red. “Over here!” one called, opening his hands. “Me!”

  A woman in tortoiseshell Gucci glasses sat in front of Cate, looking on in disapproval. She grabbed her husband’s arm. “I don’t know whose idea it was to get him that T-shirt cannon. He’s going to kill someone.” As the players made their way down the court, the Devil shot a balled-up shirt into the bleachers. It careened over the boys’ heads, hitting a white-haired man squarely in the chest. He held up the blue Haverford Basketball T-shirt and the crowd cheered. “I should call the dean,” the woman continued. “Really.” Cate wished Stella was there, but Ashton’s headmistress had called her into a lame How are you adjusting? meeting after the rush. She needed someone to roll her eyes with—someone to sit beside her when Eli glanced up into the stands.

  She imagined wearing a Haverford Basketball T-shirt next weekend, when she was helping Eli unpack his room. He’d pull her close and kiss her forehead, a thank-you for supporting his team. “I don’t know.” Cate leaned forward, interrupting their conversation. “It could be kind of…fun.” The woman shook her head, like Cate had just told her she supported school-sponsored bungee jumping.

  On the court below, Eli chest-passed to Braden Pennyworth, his arms glistening with sweat. Cate smiled. She’d worn her dark wash J Brand jeans and bright red Madison Marcus silk top, which she hoped would send a clear message to Eli: I am enthusiastic about your athletic pursuits, but I am also fashion forward. She’d only been to one Haverford basketball game before, when she was twelve, and that was because her dad had dragged her. While she loved being part of the Ashton drama club, or heading the fall formal committee, she’d always thought sports functions weren’t for her. But as she watched Eli dribble up the court, his toned arms flexed and his black hair an adorable sweaty mop, she knew she’d been wrong. At the very least, she could enjoy the view.

  Eli did a layup and the ball swished through the net. As he high-fived his teammates, the stands erupted in cheers. The boys with the red faces chest-bumped each other and the Devil shook his skinny butt at the crowd, his pointed tail swinging back and forth. “Yes!” Cate shrieked. Sh
e waved her Haverford flag so fast she nearly poked the Botoxed mother next to her in the eye. “Go Eli! Yes!”

  When she sat down, the woman was staring at her. Her skin was completely smooth, like she hadn’t made a facial expression in years. “That’s my next-door neighbor,” Cate explained. She couldn’t wait for the moment when she could officially call Eli her boyfriend. It was only a matter of time. Earlier today Danny had overheard him mentioning a “cute freshman from Ashton Prep.” It was practically a done deal.

  The clock counted down the last second of the first half and the team exchanged pats on the back. Eli walked off the court and took a swig from his water bottle. His eyes scanned the stands.

  “He’s looking for you,” the woman whispered, pointing a manicured nail at Eli. Cate felt like her whole body was on fire. Every moment she’d thought about him, pored over the “Green Club” folder, memorizing his schedule, or Google Earthing his address in Westport, was now worth it. Because every moment she’d been thinking about Eli, Eli had been thinking about her.

  Cate watched Eli’s brown eyes searching the sea of faces. I’m over here, she thought. She sat up straighter and pursed some color into her lips. Over here. The Haverford Devil had picked up the T-shirt cannon and was aiming it at the stands again. He pulled the trigger, sending a red ball flying in Cate’s direction. She saw her opportunity and stood up, feeling Eli watching her from the court below. The T-shirt sailed closer and she reached up, ready to grab it as it flew by.

  “I’ve got it!” she cried. All the people around her, even the woman with the tortoise glasses, cheered as it came closer. She stood on her tippytoes, as it came closer still, but it flew right between her hands.

  “No—I’ve got it,” a voice said. Cate whipped around. Blythe, overly tanned Boobie Blythe, was in the stands a few rows back. Sophie and Priya were next to her, and they were all a mess of Haverford paraphernalia. Not only were they wearing Haverford warm-ups, they had every accessory you could possibly buy—pom-poms, foam fingers, and flags. Blythe was wearing devil horns, which suited her perfectly. “Eli!” she yelled, holding the T-shirt up. “Look!”

  Cate turned back to the court where Eli was standing, smiling and waving at Blythe. She dug her nails into her palm. That smile. It was so genuine, so adorable, and so not directed at her.

  Blythe blew a kiss to him. “Isn’t he the best?” she asked, leveling her eyes at Cate. “We have a date tomorrow.” She leaned to her right, trying to look around Cate. “Do you mind? You’re blocking my view.”

  Cate clenched her fists tight. Blythe had a date with her next-door neighbor, her crush, her future boyfriend. She already had Priya and Sophie. Now she was taking Eli Punch too?

  LITTLE WHITE LIES ARE THE WORST KIND

  Thursday afternoon Andie sat at her desk, her hands trembling with excitement. For the third day in a row she was talking to Kyle Lewis on IM. It turned out Kyle went snowboarding every winter at Killington too, and they were both obsessed with the New England clam chowder they served at the lodge. They both agreed that Sam’s Town was the Killers’ worst album, with the exception of “Read My Mind”—which was by far the best song they’d ever written. They even went to the same soccer camp in New Hampshire last summer, just on different weeks. It was starting to feel like Kyle was the boy version of herself.

  STRIKER15: WHAT R U UP 2 2MORROW?

  SLOANE28: NM. Y?

  STRIKER15: U SHOULD COME 2 MY BAND PRACTICE

  STRIKER15: WE REHEARSE AT THE LIVING ROOM

  STRIKER15: U CAN HEAR ALL OUR NEW SONGS

  SLOANE28: SOUNDS AMAZING

  Andie’s legs felt like they were made of oatmeal. The Living Room was a music hall on the Lower East Side that Andie had only read about in New York magazine. She pictured her and Kyle sitting at a table after the practice ended and his band had gone home. He’d lean over her shoulder, his hand on top of hers, showing her how to play a G chord. They’d walk around the neighborhood, stopping at Sugar Sweet Sunshine for the peanut butter pie Andie was obsessed with. It would be their first official date.

  “Andie!” Lola’s voice echoed off the bathroom walls.

  SLOANE28: G2G

  Andie slammed the laptop shut, feeling like she’d just been caught stealing from Cate’s closet. There was still one problem with her date with Kyle: Lola. But even if they had gone on a date to Madame Tussauds, even if Lola had “fancied” him, she hadn’t mentioned anything about it since the fight on Saturday—not a word. Andie was starting to think she’d forgotten about the whole thing. After all, if Andie were the one meeting Gunther Gunta and his entourage of French socialites, or swapping calls with Ayana Bennington, she definitely wouldn’t be obsessing over her childhood best friend.

  “You were right!” Lola cried, bursting into Andie’s room. She was still wearing her black chiffon dress and the shimmery white MAC eye shadow Andie had managed to apply two hours ago, even though Lola flinched whenever the brush came within an inch of her eye. “Gunther loved me! I’m heeezzz guttaaa and light.” Lola clapped her hands in front of her face as she impersonated Gunther’s accent.

  “Wow.” Andie tried hard to smile, but her cheeks were numb, like she’d just gotten a cavity drilled. She’d been prepared for Lola to meet Gunther, but she wasn’t prepared for Gunther to make Lola the next Kate Moss. Most models spent years doing minor advertising campaigns, switching agents, and even then few ever went on a go-see with someone as renowned as Gunther Gunta. Lola’s modeling career had gone from zero to sixty in less than a week, while Andie’s was in the same place it had always been: nowhere.

  “Congratulations.” Andie wrapped her stepsister in a hug, her arms feeling like Jell-O. “I can’t believe you’re going to work for Gunther Gunta.” She took a deep breath, trying to steady her voice. Talking to Kyle was officially the only good thing that had happened all day. After Cate threw her out of the Chi Sigma open call, she was so mad, she’d picked two of Cate’s favorite dresses out of her closet and hid them under her dresser. Then she’d written Cate was here on the top of her dad’s rolltop desk with a ballpoint pen, so he would find it when he got back from the honeymoon. Sometimes she just wanted him to see that Cate wasn’t perfect. Maybe she had better grades than Andie, maybe she was the lead in the play and the president of Junior Honor Society, but she had more sides than an octagon. And she could be cruel—even to her own sister.

  “Oh, he’s a complete nutter!” Lola continued. She threw herself on Andie’s queen-size bed and rolled onto her stomach, scattering the red and orange-embroidered throw pillows in every direction. “He kept on about me not ‘baaaathing,’ and how ‘freeesh’ looking I am. And he’s even shorter than you!”

  Andie sat back on the bed, a little stung. She knew Lola didn’t mean anything by calling her short. It was just a fact. Andie was four foot ten and three quarters, and Lola was five seven and a half. But still, Andie didn’t need any reminders.

  Lola squeezed the throw pillow in her hand. “And this is going to change everything with Kyle.”

  “Kyle?” Andie grabbed a fistful of blankets in her hand. His name suddenly sounded strange coming out of Lola’s mouth. It was as if Andie had caught Lola wearing her favorite pair of J Brand jeans, or telling people she played soccer.

  “Once he sees me in those ads, with my hair done and wearing a Gunther Gunta dress, he’ll really fancy me.” Lola stared out the window, as if picturing Kyle looking up at her billboard in Times Square. “I’ve barely talked to him since Saturday, though. Every time I ask him to hang out he’s doing homework, or going to dinner with his parents. I asked him if I could go to his band practice on Friday, but he said I’d probably be bored.”

  “Really?” Andie squeaked. She reached for her ponytail, but all her movements felt slow and forced. There was her answer. Lola was still interested in Kyle.

  Lola pulled a bright yellow throw pillow to her chest. “I don’t know what I did. Everything was brilliant until Saturday. I know I
shouldn’t have pushed him out of the door, but still.”

  “You probably didn’t do anything.” Andie’s palms were slick with sweat. The room felt hot, the way it had last August when the central air was broken for two days. “Why don’t we go get Pinkberry?” she offered, trying to change the subject.

  Lola ignored her, her green eyes focused on a spot on the ceiling. “It’s like he has a girlfriend or something.” The end of her freckled nose twitched. “Do you think I should ask him about it?”

  “No!” Andie snapped. She pulled at the collar of her mint green Lacoste button-down, feeling like it was choking her. “Definitely not. Just…give him some time.”

  Lola narrowed her green eyes at her stepsister. “You’re acting barmy.” She’d never seen Andie so nervous before, even when they went to Ford Models to meet Ayana. Her cheeks were bright red and she kept staring at her patent leather flats. Lola had seen a special on the BBC once, on how investigators determine if someone is lying. Avoiding eye contact was the number-two way, right under stiff body movements. Lola looked past Andie, where a boy’s gray hoodie was slung over the end of the bed. She eyed it, suddenly suspicious. It looked just like the one Kyle had worn to Madame Tussauds. “Why do you have that boy’s sweatshirt in your room? Whose is that?”

  “This?” Andie held up the sweatshirt. She’d completely forgotten about Kyle’s hoodie. She’d been holding on to it since Tuesday, wearing it every now and then before she went to bed. She looked at Lola, her heart pounding like she’d just run ten sprints, one after the next, after the next. “This is…” She searched her brain, trying to think of something—anything. She couldn’t tell Lola about Kyle now, not after it was so completely obvious she was still obsessed with him. “This is…Clay Calhoun’s.”