by Anna Carey
“Clay Calhoun?” Lola furrowed her brows. “Why do you have Clay Calhoun’s sweatshirt?” She’d only been at Ashton Prep a week and a half, but she’d learned who Clay Calhoun was before she learned her homeroom. All the Ashton girls kept on about him like he was Prince Harry or something.
“He’s,” Andie heard herself say, “my new boyfriend.” She shot Lola a smile that said, Isn’t that just so crazy? So it wasn’t the truth. It wasn’t even a small sliver of the truth. But how could she have possibly explained the shirt?
“You’re dating Clay Calhoun?” Lola asked, clapping her hands in front of her face. “Since when?”
“Since Tuesday,” Andie hugged the sweatshirt to her chest. “I just didn’t want to say anything…” One lie came after the other, tumbling out of her mouth. She couldn’t stop them now.
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.” Lola threw her pale arms around Andie. “And here I was keeping on about Gunther Gunta. This is brilliant.”
As Lola squeezed all the air out of her lungs, Andie stared at the digital picture frame on her desk. It was on a photo of her and Lola at the wedding. They were holding their bridesmaid bouquets, their arms wrapped around one another like they had known each other forever. Her stomach sank with guilt.
“I can’t wait to meet him,” Lola said. “I heard he’s the fittest bloke at Haverford.”
“Yeah…he’s great,” Andie lied. Technically, Clay was “the fittest bloke at Haverford.” And he was an expert at making armpit farts, butt buddies with Brandon O’Rourke, and the son of Scooter Calhoun, who’d somehow managed to become the CEO of a major investment bank despite his name. Clay Calhoun was a lot of things. But he wasn’t Andie’s boyfriend. Not even close.
THE LIFE OF THE PARTY IS…MYRA GRANBERRY?
Stella and Cate sat at the round cherry table in the kitchen, staring at the list of candidates from the open call. Margot was pulling things out of the refrigerator. Her hair was in curlers and she was humming to herself like some lovesick princess in a Disney movie.
“Lindsey Krauss?” Stella read from the Moleskine notebook in front of her.
“Who?” Cate set her head down on the table. She couldn’t muster any enthusiasm for Chi Sigma, not after her run-in with Blythe at the basketball game. They were in a serious clique war, and right now all she wanted to do was fly the white flag of surrender. Blythe had Priya, Sophie, and Eli Punch. On all sides, she was winning.
“Well, I guess that’s our answer. She’s quiet, just transferred from public school. Kind of looks like she got hit in the face with a frying pan?” Stella raised her eyebrows as if to say, Does any of this ring a bell?
“She’s obviously forgettable.” Cate doodled on the spiral notebook in front of her. She drew a crude picture of Blythe, complete with devil horns and fangs. All she needed was an orange crayon to color in her skin.
Margot dumped a whole avocado, milk, and some honey into the blender. “Hope I’m not bothering you!” she yelled over the electronic mixing sound. “I’m just making my secret anti-aging masque! I’ve been using it since the ’80s!”
“It’s fine, Grandmum.” Stella pressed her fingers to her temples until the blender stopped. Margot had gone to “Capri” for three weeks last year and come back with flawless skin that was three shades lighter than her neck. Still, she insisted she owed everything to that avocado sludge.
“Yes, Lindsey is too forgettable,” Stella continued. “We both say nay. But we also don’t want someone who needs to be the center of attention.” She studied Cate’s face, giving the words a moment to sink in. She hadn’t brought up Myra’s makeover yet. First she wanted to show Cate that all of the other candidates were inadequate—a task that seemed easier and easier with each name she read off. There’d been more nays than on the horse path through Central Park. Cate hadn’t even given an official “nay” to Shelley DeWitt, but had simply writhed in pain, like someone was poking her with a hot iron. “That said, I don’t think Paige Mortimer is a good candidate. I say nay.”
“Me neither. Nay!” Cate grabbed the notebook from Stella’s hand and glanced down the list. “Last year Corynne Handler spread a rumor that I had lice, and Marissa Marks chews too loudly.” Cate crossed off ten names in a row. “Nay, nay, nay, nay—I don’t like any of these options. This is hopeless. Blythe is going to date Eli, and everyone will always think of Chi Sigma as my lame attempt to start a sorority after she kicked me out of hers.”
Cate banged her forehead hard against the table. She imagined going to the winter formal with Stella as her date. They’d hover by the refreshments table, stuffing their faces with Brie and crackers while Blythe slow danced with Eli, her arms wrapped around his neck. She and Stella would sit in English class sophomore year, watching Ashton News’s coverage of Blythe’s second term as class president. At graduation they’d be forced to listen to Blythe deliver her valedictory address, while Cate was ranked third, the close-but-not-quite spot of every year. I’d like to thank my best friends, Priya and Sophie, Blythe would say, and my loving, supportive boyfriend, Eli Punch. Her gray eyes would settle on Cate. I couldn’t have done this without you three.
“It’s not that awful,” Stella said. She chewed the end of her pen. Ever since the basketball game, Cate hadn’t stopped talking about Blythe’s date with Eli, or how Priya and Sophie had looked at her like she was just another pom-pom-waving basketball mom. Even worse, Cate was still wearing that bloody Tiffany locket under her Lacoste button-down, and the stuffed bear Blythe had bought her was still sitting on her bed. Yes, she’d burned most of her memories of Chi Beta Phi. But Stella was worried she’d forgotten how Chi Beta Phi had burned her. If things kept on like this, it wouldn’t be long before Cate was begging Blythe to be back in Beta Sigma Phi, pitching a vice president position. Stella would come into school on Monday and be friendless, again, doomed to spend study halls chatting with Mrs. Perkins about her recent vacation to Mohegan Sun.
“You have got to try this,” Margot cooed, oblivious to Cate’s despair. She mixed the green paste around in a bowl and dabbed some on her face. It looked like someone had sneezed on her.
“Ew, no thanks.” Stella winced.
“Suit yourself, but it’s great for your complexion. I’ve got a date this Saturday night and I need to look refreshed.” Stella suppressed the urge to roll her eyes. After her grandpa died five years ago, her grandmum had lost her bloody mind. Stella and Lola had spent last summer with her in Florence, watching in horror as she chatted up Italian waiters in the Piazza della Signoria. “It’s with Walter Hodgeworth—the retired oil tycoon.”
Just yesterday, Stella had seen Walter Hodgeworth on the cover of her grandmum’s Time magazine, under the headline “The New Rockefeller.” Even if he was the most well off bachelor in Manhattan, his white hair receded in an M and his face looked like a shriveled apple.
“Walter’s taking me to Masa. I’ll need you luvs to keep an eye on Lola and Andie. If everything goes well, I won’t be back until late.” She winked at Stella before heading out of the kitchen, the green muck concoction in one hand and a dirty martini in the other.
“Repulsive,” Cate mumbled under her breath. But Stella was smiling like Margot had just offered to take them to Spain for the weekend. “What?”
“This is perfect,” Stella whispered. She didn’t want to think of her grandmum snogging a walking prune either, but this was the opportunity they needed. “We’ll throw a party. We’ll invite all the ninth-graders, and you can invite Eli.”
Cate suddenly perked up. “Keep talking…”
“We’ll use it to show Ashton Prep what Chi Sigma is all about. Imagine this.” Stella turned to the wall of windows overlooking the garden. She spread her hands in the air dramatically, framing the teak patio furniture. “You’re sitting in the garden. It’s filled with Ashton girls and Haverford blokes talking about how great Chi Sigma is—how great Cate Sloane is. Eli Punch walks in and sees you in your new Kate Spade dress—�
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“Nope,” Cate corrected, holding one finger in the air. “Kate Spade dresses make me look frumpy.”
“Fine—your new Phillip Lim dress—and he completely forgets about Blythe Finley. It’s like—poof! She doesn’t exist.” Stella studied Cate’s face as she considered it. No one was going to pay any attention to them if they were just eating turkey burgers at Jackson Hole, or walking down Fifth Avenue, mixed in with the other eight million people in New York City. If they wanted to get Chi Sigma off the ground, they needed to make a big statement—regardless of who their third member was. They needed to do something that said, Here we are. Prepare to worship us.
“I think”—Cate smiled—“you’re a genius.”
Stella scrawled Party on the top of the page and underlined it with one swift flourish. Just last weekend, she and Cate had planned a small, tasteful wedding in the garden after Winston and Emma called off theirs (which was partially her and Cate’s fault, but still). They’d found caterers, a florist, even a band, all in less than twenty-four hours. If the Chi Sigma party was even half as successful, Stella would finally be known at Ashton Prep as more than “the new girl with the funny accent.” If everyone came to their town house Saturday, for their party, she’d be Stella Childs again: the girl who was studying Vermeer before she was ten, the girl who was featured in Allure magazine for her fashion designs, the girl whom everyone in school—including the security guards and cafeteria ladies—knew by name. And standing alongside Stella in Chi Sigma, Cate would realize she never needed Blythe to be popular. She needed Stella.
“There’s still one problem.” Cate drummed her manicured nails on the table. “We can’t have a party without a third member. It’s just embarrassing.”
“I was thinking about that…” Stella began. “What about Myra Granberry?” She mumbled the name so it came out sounding like “maybe cranberry.”
“Myra Granberry?” Cate waited for Stella to laugh or say kidding. But her green eyes stayed focused on Cate. “The same Myra Granberry that I kicked out of our open call because I couldn’t look at her caterpillar lip?” As far as Cate knew, there was only one Mug the Slug. Had Stella lost her mind? “I take that back. You’re not a genius. That would be social suicide.” They might as well stop shaving their armpits and start wearing sweatpants every day, and simply resign themselves to life as Ashton Prep bottom dwellers. Maybe, if they were lucky, Blythe would let them check coats at their next Beta Sigma Phi soiree.
“Just listen,” Stella started, ignoring Cate’s outburst. She had already thought of every possible argument against it. “Myra’s like a blank canvas. She’ll do whatever we say. You never have to worry about her getting jealous or trying to stage a coup. And she’s genuinely nice and smart and,” Stella added, raising her voice before Cate could object, “all she needs is a very thorough makeover.”
“I don’t have time for makeovers.” Cate ran her hands through her dark brown hair, like she was about to pull it out at the roots. “I have a hot neighbor to stalk.”
“Stalk away!” Stella insisted. “I’ll do everything for the makeover. In two days I’ll turn Myra into the BFF you never knew you needed.” Stella looked into Cate’s deep blue eyes. Yes, she was pushing this because she’d already promised Blythe a new Myra, but it would be good for Cate too. Cate needed someone who wouldn’t argue if she wanted to go all the way to the Lower East Side for Sunday brunch. She needed someone who would not only remember her birthday, but would bake a banana bread “cake” because she knew Cate hated sweets. Myra Granberry was a good choice—the best choice.
Cate shook her head. “I’m not into it.”
“Well, that’s a shame,” Stella started. If she couldn’t convince Cate, there was one person who could. She hadn’t wanted to play this card, but desperate times called for desperate measures. “Because I bumped into Blythe today. She was keeping on about how we could never turn Myra Granberry into sorority material.”
“Blythe said that?” Cate’s face twisted in anger, like someone had poured paint all over her new Antik Batik boots. “What does she know about the capabilities of Chi Sigma?”
“The greatest satisfaction is to do well what Blythe said we could not do at all.” Stella leaned forward. “Myra could be our Mu.”
“Our Mu,” Cate repeated. She imagined Myra strolling down the staircase at the party in a Marc Jacobs dress, her blond hair pulled back in a tight bun. She’d be like some What Not to Wear success story, and Chi Sigma would be the ones who’d made it happen. “It would be pretty impressive if you could pull it off. If we can transform Mug the Slug into the new Ashton It girl, think of how that would raise our profile.”
“Just trust me,” Stella added, her pen perched in the air. “I’ll make it happen. Saturday, at the party, she’ll make her big debut.”
Cate twirled her dark brown hair around her finger, considering it. Myra had been an outcast ever since third grade, when her mom sent her to school wearing those awful knee-high socks. It was something Cate never questioned, like grass being green or the sky being blue. But besides the obvious things—her M.U.G. backpack and bleached ’stache—there wasn’t anything that wrong with Myra. Technically, she was the reason Cate’s mock trial team had won last year in Mr. Hertz’s social studies class. Knee-highs or no knee-highs, she’d delivered the most persuasive closing arguments Cate had ever heard. “Okay,” Cate finally agreed. “I trust you.”
Stella scrawled Myra Granberry across the top of her notebook, just because it seemed like a satisfying thing to do. She studied her writing, excited. Blythe could go on a date with Eli. She could beg Cate to return to Beta Sigma Phi without Stella. It wouldn’t matter. Stella and Cate were finally on the same page, and Blythe couldn’t stop them now.
An hour later, Cate paced the living room in her Juicy Couture sweats. “Yes, Dad,” she said into her iPhone. “We’re being good for Margot.” She glanced at Stella and winked. “Right, love you too.” With that, she hung up. Winston had called ten minutes ago, as though he could sense they were planning a party, even from Tahiti.
“What did he say?” Stella asked nervously.
“Just that he and your mom went snorkeling today. As long as we have everything cleaned up before Margot gets home, we’ll be fine.” Cate stood between the chaise lounge and the fireplace. “Now…let’s see. We can set up the Bose sound dock here; we just need to bring it down from the den.” She and Stella had carefully put together a guest list, being more selective than a gluten-free vegan at an all-you-can-eat buffet. They’d even found a bakery online that could make chocolates in the shape of Greek letters. If Chi Sigma Mu’s first official soiree was going to establish their dominance, every detail—right down to the customized M&M’s—needed to be perfect. “If we have the food in the kitchen, we can keep everyone on the first floor and in the garden.”
“Brilliant. Then we can use the den as a VIP area. Every party needs to have a flow,” Stella agreed. She was wearing her red Topshop shorts, and her curls were pulled back in a ponytail.
“Party?” a voice asked. Cate turned to see Lola and Andie hovering in the doorway, both chewing on chocolate granola bars. Lola clapped her hands small and fast in front of her face, more hyper than a fifth-grader with ADD.
“Isn’t it past your bedtime?” Cate leaned on the white marble mantel. She eyed Lola’s pajamas, which were patterned with Hogwarts crests.
“When are you throwing a party?” Lola asked, ignoring Cate’s question. Even if Kyle hadn’t been the greatest friend all week, a party would be a brilliant excuse to invite him to the town house.
“It’s Saturday,” Cate said.
Lola clapped her hands together excitedly. Saturday was the day of her Gunther Gunta shoot! She’d walk into the town house after the shoot, her hair slicked back, her face made up, wearing a couture evening gown. It would be the perfect time for Kyle to meet the new, improved Lola Childs—the supermodel.
“But it’s an upper-school
party,” Cate continued. “So run along now.” She made a shooing gesture with her hand, like the one Emma used when Heath Bar was digging his claws into the furniture. Lola slumped against the doorway, disappointed.
“Sorry.” Stella shrugged.
Andie took a bite of granola bar and swallowed hard. She hadn’t seen Cate since she humiliated her at the Chi Sigma open call. Sometimes it was hard to believe this was the same person who’d read her The Very Hungry Caterpillar in their mother’s library, making up any words she didn’t recognize. If Cate didn’t want to be her friend, fine. They would never be friends. But Andie wasn’t going to be treated like a boarder in her own house. “Does Margot know about this?” she challenged.
“Margot won’t care.” Cate grabbed a notebook off the mantel and started scribbling in it.
Andie squeezed the granola bar in her hand, nearly shooting it out of the wrapper. That was how Cate always ended their conversations—by starting something else.
“Then maybe I’ll just go tell her,” she said. She turned on her heel, her glossy ponytail swishing back and forth. She got through the foyer and up the first two stairs before she heard Cate’s voice over her shoulder.
“Fine!” she called. “You can come.”
Andie slunk back to the doorway, feeling more satisfied than when she scored on Tricia Kipps, the obnoxious Donalty goalie who was always trash-talking before games. “And we can invite friends,” she negotiated.
“You’re pushing it,” Cate huffed. Her pale cheeks were splotchy and red, the way they always got when she was angry.
“Margot!” Andie yelled up the stairs.
But before she could say anything else, Cate cut her off. “Fine—no losers, though.”
Andie took off into the foyer, feeling a sudden burst of energy.
“You’re brilliant!” Lola cried. She darted up the stairs, pulling Andie by the hand. “Now you can invite Clay. I can’t wait to meet him.”