Survival of the Fiercest

by Anna Carey

  Myra looped her arm through Stella’s. “Let’s go.” They took off toward the escalator, the shopping bags swinging on their arms. “I have my first fashion show to put on.”

  “Voilà!” Myra said, throwing Stella’s closet door open in a dramatic reveal. Her blond hair was tucked neatly behind her ears, showing off two hammered gold hoops. The blue Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress looked like it had been custom tailored to her petite frame. As she spun around she looked prettier than Blythe, prettier than any of the girls at Ashton Prep who had laughed at her.

  “You’re brilliant!” Stella cried. Myra spun around and her skirt flared out, exposing her rainbow knee-highs. Stella’s eyes settled on Myra’s toes, each one snuggled into its own colored pouch.

  “Oh,” Myra followed Stella’s gaze. “I guess I should throw these away…”

  “No,” Stella shook her head, smiling. She couldn’t tell Myra to get rid of them. It would be like telling Cindy Crawford to get rid of her mole. “Definitely not. They’re so…you.”

  “Well, maybe I’ll wear them under my new jeans from now on.” Myra smiled at her reflection in the full-length mirror on Stella’s door. “Oh my gosh. The Mathletes are going to die when they see me.”

  Stella laughed, imagining Myra swarmed by guys clutching protractors and pads of graph paper. Just then, there was a knock on the door. Stella opened it a crack.

  Cate was standing in the hall, looking like she was about to break down the door. “Um…remember me?” she hissed. “What happened? Where is she?”

  Stella glanced back at Myra. She was standing in the center of the room, smoothing down her blond bob. She was as ready as she’d ever be. “I give you…Myra Granberry: our Mu.” She flung the door open.

  “Hi,” Myra said shyly.

  Cate took in a deep breath, feeling like she’d been trapped underwater and only now come up for air. Stella had been right. Myra was Chi Sigma material; she’d just needed a little help. Her pale skin was flawless, and her cheekbones were dusted with a pale pink blush. Now that they’d transformed her into a Chloë Sevigny look-alike, there was nothing Chi Sigma couldn’t do. “You look amazing!” Cate cried. Myra’s face broke into a smile. Cate rested her hands on her hips and surveyed her one last time. “Welcome to Chi Sigma, Slug!”

  Stella watched Myra’s face fall, her brown eyes suddenly dull. It was the same face Stella had seen that day in the drawing room, when Cate made fun of her facial hair. “Cate,” she said through clenched teeth. “Can I talk to you outside for a minute?”

  “What?” Cate shrugged, her dark brown hair falling in her face.

  Stella pulled Cate into the hallway, shutting the door behind them. “If Myra is going to be in Chi Sigma, you can’t keep on like that.”

  “Like what?” Cate stared at the ceiling, like she was searching for the answer somewhere beyond the crown molding.

  “No more Mug the Slug talk—no more calling her fugly mugly. She’s one of us now.” Stella rested her hands on her hips. Even if she and Cate were the original members of the sorority, there needed to be some ground rules. She didn’t make over Myra so Cate could torture her for the rest of the year.

  Cate picked at her red nail polish. “Fine. But just do me a favor. Make sure she doesn’t ramble on about coordinate planes at the party tomorrow. I don’t want her embarrassing me in front of Eli.” Then she took off down the narrow staircase.

  “She won’t!” Stella called. “You’re going to thank me!” She crept back into the room. Myra was sitting on the edge of Stella’s queen bed, knocking her heels against the black footboard. “Myra, I’m sorry. She didn’t mean that.”

  “It’s fine,” Myra mumbled. But Stella could tell it wasn’t fine. Myra’s forehead was scrunched in concentration, like she was trying hard not to cry.

  Don’t, Stella thought. Do not cry. She wanted to tell Myra that Cate was hard on everyone. She’d said Lola needed to gain two stone, she’d said Andie needed growth hormones, and every time she looked at Heath Bar she turned away in disgust, calling him “that morbidly obese thing.” She wanted to tell Myra that just last week she was taking insults from Cate Sloane, who’d all but ordered her to go back to London. If you were going to survive her friendship there was one rule to follow: Take nothing personally.

  “Please don’t worry about Cate. She’s just a little…temperamental,” Stella finally offered. Maybe temperamental wasn’t quite the right word, but Stella didn’t want Myra thinking Cate was an awful person. They still had to be friends. “Now I have one more surprise for you. I was saving it for the party but…” She went into her walk-in closet, gesturing for Myra to follow her. She pulled a Saks box off the top shelf. “This is for you.”

  Myra tucked her hair behind her ears, staring at the black and white box, tied with a red silk bow. “This is for me?” she asked, her brown eyes wide.

  “I thought you might like it.” Stella grinned, squeezing Myra’s shoulder.

  Myra opened the box and held the Marc Jacobs bag in the air like it was a trophy. “It has my initials on it!” She cried, running her fingers over the letters M.G. While Myra was getting fitted for new bras, Stella had picked out the hobo bag and gotten it embossed—without the U, to free her of her nickname. It was the perfect new alternative to her L.L. Bean knapsack. “Oh my gosh!” She threw her arms around Stella, pulling her into hug. “This is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.”

  Stella hoped she was exaggerating, but as Myra squeezed her tight she had the sinking feeling she wasn’t. In the last three hours Myra’s mobile hadn’t rung once. No one had texted to see where she was, or what her plans were for Friday night. Every lunch period Stella watched her from across the cafeteria as Myra sat alone, reading a beaten-up copy of Plato’s Republic. It was as if Myra had spent years at Ashton Prep as a ghost, roaming the halls friendless, visible only to teachers, Mathletes, and anyone looking for someone to torment.

  “You deserve it,” Stella said, smiling. “You’re a good friend.” She thought about Blythe’s smug face, and the glitter thongs, and how Myra had jumped to defend her, more loyal than a guard dog. Out of all the things she’d told Myra that afternoon—you look great in red, green shadow complements your eyes, you should always wear earrings—that statement was the most true.

  TO: CSMGuestList@gmail.com

  FROM: Cate Sloane

  CC: Stella Childs

  DATE: Friday, 5:33 p.m.

  SUBJECT: Chi Sigma Mu Mixer

  You’ve watched. You’ve waited.

  You’ve wondered.

  And now…you won’t believe your eyes.

  Join Ashton Prep’s hottest new sorority as we induct our third member:

  Myra Granberry

  Chi Sigma Mu Mixer

  This Saturday, 8 p.m.

  The Sloane town house

  50 East 82nd Street

  Refreshments will be served.

  Parents will be gone.

  Be there or be jealous.

  THE SMELL OF SUCCESS

  Friday night, the waiter at Tao set a bowl of velvet-corn-and-crab soup in front of Lola, trying with the other hand to inconspicuously cover his nose. Lola sank lower in her chair, glancing around the table at her sisters and her grandmum to see if anyone had noticed. The last thing she wanted to do was go anywhere in public, but her grandmum had insisted on taking them out for dinner. That afternoon a cab had splashed electric green gutter water all over her. At first she was convinced it would make her “guttaaa” shoot more authentic, but four hours later she smelled like a foul mixture of turpentine and old bologna.

  Lola pulled her sweatshirt close to her neck. She’d tried to cover up the stench by wearing a freshly washed Gap hoodie, but it seemed like anyone who came within a one-foot radius of her needed a gas mask.

  At the other end of the table, Margot adjusted her pea-size hearing aid and winked at Lola. She’d signed the release form for the Gunther Gunta shoot, insisting Emma would be thrille
d that Lola was modeling. But when her mum rang yesterday from Tahiti and Lola tried to tell her about it, the connection kept breaking up. Lola imagined her on a beach somewhere with Winston, sipping drinks with those silly umbrellas in them. She wanted her mum to be happy, she did, but she wanted her to be happy in New York. She needed her here, to tell her about the time she modeled in the Atlantic Ocean in January, or had to walk down the runway dressed in an alligator-skin evening gown, her face painted neon green. She was the only person who could understand.

  “Cheers!” Margot hooted to the girls, holding up her dirty martini. “Here’s to my date with Walter Hodgeworth.” She took a swig of the murky liquid.

  Stella let out a deep breath, not bothering to lift her Diet Coke. It was bad enough that her grandmum wore leather pants to dinner, even though she had a serious case of pancake bum. But now she’d spent half an hour keeping on about Walter’s “young physique.” Stella glanced around the crowded restaurant, taking in a sixteen-foot Buddha towering over a reflecting pool with live carp. Two tables over, a group of Sex and the City wannabes discussed their dating escapades a little too loudly.

  Just then three waiters circled the table, dropping plates of Dragon Tail spareribs and Thai crab cakes. “I already got thirty-one responses to the invite,” Cate whispered to Stella as she plunged her knife into her soy ginger–glazed salmon. “Betsy Carmichael wants to cover Myra’s makeover for Ashton News.” Cate put emphasis on the word Myra, as if to say, See? I’m trying. “She even wants to do an exclusive interview on my split from Chi Beta Phi.”

  Stella stuck a lobster dumpling in her mouth and practically swallowed it whole. She was starting to feel like she was going through her own split. Pippa and Bridget had finally e-mailed, but only to announce that Bridget had highlighted her red hair and Pippa was now dating Robin Lawrence, who—just last spring—was someone Stella fancied. They’d signed the e-mail “Miss you!” even though they hadn’t asked about her new school, or Winston, or anything really. Their lives in London were barreling on, without Stella, and it felt like they didn’t even care. “We saw Blythe in Saks today,” Stella mentioned.

  But Cate didn’t respond. She was eyeing her plate suspiciously, her nose scrunched up like she’d just gotten a whiff of cheap perfume. “I think my salmon is bad.” Cate raised her dainty hand in the air, signaling for the waiter.

  Lola felt like she was sitting on a heating vent. From across the table Andie stared at her, her brown eyes wide. Stella and Cate didn’t know about Gunther—and it was better that way. The last thing she wanted was Cate listing all the reasons why she wasn’t qualified to be a model, or Stella blabbing it to their mum the next time she called from Tahiti. Lola wanted to be the one to tell her.

  “I’m sure it’s brilliant,” Lola insisted a little too loudly. But the waiter was already there.

  “The salmon doesn’t smell right,” Cate said, pushing the fish with her fork. She offered the plate to the waiter, but he didn’t take it.

  Instead, he narrowed his beady eyes at Lola. “I’m sorry,” he said, shaking his head. “But it’s not the salmon.”

  Lola pulled her hoodie tighter around her, trying to conceal the stench. But Cate was already leaning in, sniffing her like she was a container of yogurt that was past its expiration date. “Lola, is that you?”

  At the other end of the table, Margot tried to change the subject. “Did I mention Walter ran a marathon last year? He’s very active.” She patted down her stiff blond hair.

  “Lola,” Stella hissed, grabbing her sister’s arm and lifting it up. “You smell like a rubbish bin!”

  “All right, luvs, let’s not make a scene.” Margot let out an uncomfortable laugh. At the table next to them a couple in their forties watched in horror as Stella stuck her nose in Lola’s armpit.

  “You’re dirtier than Margot’s martini,” Cate said. Stella laughed loudly and a few other tables turned to look. “You better take a shower before tomorrow. I don’t want you stinking up my”—she glanced quickly at Margot—“town house.”

  Lola’s nose twitched as she pushed farther away from the table. She knew Cate was talking about the bloody party, but she didn’t care about it anymore. Kyle was online earlier, but when she’d asked him if he was actually coming tomorrow night he’d signed off. She pictured him cuddled up on a love seat, watching Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire with Imaginary Girl, holding her tight during the scariest part, when Harry is in the graveyard with Voldemort. I love the way you smell, he’d whisper, breathing in her Clinique Happy perfume.

  Andie watched as Lola’s eyes brimmed with tears. She’d noticed the stench too, but knew better than to say anything. Last night, Lola confessed that part of the Gunther Gunta shoot involved not showering. While Andie washed her face Lola stood three feet away from the sink, as though she were the Wicked Witch of the West and would melt if she got a drop of water on her. “She can’t take a shower,” she finally said, unable to stand it any longer. Maybe Lola hadn’t wanted to tell them, but the only way to shut Cate up was to impress her. “Because Gunther Gunta told her not to—heard of him? Lola is modeling for him tomorrow.” She glanced at Lola and smiled.

  Cate pointed a finger in Lola’s face. “You’re modeling for Gunther Gunta?”

  “Yes,” Andie said proudly, answering the question for her.

  Lola sat up a little straighter. Even if she smelled like a kitty litter box, there was something satisfying about Cate’s reaction. Mainly that she was having one. She only talked to Lola to complain about Heath Bar puking chunks of Fancy Feast in her new Botkier bag. When they were in the kitchen together, or the den—or anywhere—Cate barely said a word, moving around her like she wasn’t even there.

  “Wow, Lola,” Stella said quietly. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Please don’t say anything to Mum,” Lola whispered to Stella. “I want it to be a surprise.” Last week, Emma had spent so much time planning the wedding Lola had barely seen her. Growing up, her mum was always busy with work, but now it was even worse. She had a new contract with Ralph Lauren, she had a new husband, and she had two new daughters. Lola couldn’t wait for her to come home from the honeymoon so they could be alone. She would show her the photos from the shoot and they’d talk about Gunther and his silly accent. Maybe they’d even be on Ralph Lauren billboards together—as mother-and-daughter models.

  Stella pinched her nose as she popped a lobster dumpling in her mouth. “Oh she’ll be surprised.” Her voice sounded like she had a cold. “But you have to take a shower. Otherwise we’re going to quarantine you.”

  “Let’s just eat, okay?” Andie said, taking a bite of her spare ribs. Cate rolled her eyes in protest, but eventually everyone returned to their dinners.

  Lola let out a deep breath, relieved. She didn’t care if Cate called her Dumpster Diva or Stella forced her to wear a plastic hazmat suit around the town house. It didn’t matter. Only one person’s opinion counted: Gunther Gunta’s. And tomorrow, with his help, she’d be a supermodel.

  Late that night, Lola was twisted up in her blankets, unable to sleep. When she’d walked into her room after dinner, Heath Bar had hissed and darted under the bed, like she was a burglar with bad hygiene. The stench had now taken on a slight seafood odor, probably a side effect of her corn-and-crab soup. It was so awful she’d tried to stuff her nose with earplugs, but they kept falling out.

  She rolled around, finally pulling her shower cap off. She’d hoped it would keep her pillowcases clean, but now her roots were slicked with sweat. Her leg was itching badly like it did when she’d gotten stung by a jellyfish in Mykonos.

  Nooo baaathing. Gunther’s voice echoed in her head. One with the guttaaaa. She dug her nails into her calf and scratched the spot, but it felt even worse. She flipped on her bedside lamp and went into the loo, staring at the white claw-foot tub. She could just wash her leg and go back to bed. Just her leg. Gunther wouldn’t be able to tell that her calf was any less “feelth
y” than the rest of her.

  She ran the bath and stepped in, hiking her pajama pants up to her knee. The warm water ran over her shin. She lathered up her hands, smelling the sweet scent of the Bath & Body Works Cucumber Melon body wash. No baaathing! The voice said again. She imagined Gunther Gunta with his arms crossed over his chubby belly, staring disapprovingly at her through the thick lenses of his glasses. One with the guttaaa!!

  She knew she shouldn’t—she couldn’t. But the body wash smelled so inviting, and the warm water felt so nice on her skin. She peeled off her pajamas and tossed them on the floor. With one quick turn of the tap the shower started, rinsing away the nasty green gutter water, the crab soup, and the horrible stench that had been following her around all day. I zed no baaaathing! the voice hissed. But Lola ignored it as she inhaled the fresh scent of Andie’s rosemary mint Aveda shampoo. Showering felt too good. Tomorrow, before the shoot, she’d just have to find another way to be one with tha guttaaa.

  TO: Cindy Ng

  FROM: Andie Sloane

  DATE: Saturday, 9:46 a.m.

  SUBJECT: Party tonight…

  Umm…new development on the Lola front. I was going to tell her about Kyle, I was, but then she told Clay to come tonight…as my date. So I can’t back out of the party now.

  Can you please (seriously I’m begging you, please) distract Lola when Kyle gets here? Clay has to leave to go to the Ludacris concert with Brandon. You’d only have to keep her in her room for an hour or so while I hang out with Kyle.

  Andie

  TO: Andie Sloane

  FROM: Cindy Ng

  DATE: Saturday, 11:08 p.m.

  SUBJECT: Re: Party tonight…

  Ugh. I just woke up and I feel like I’ve been run over by a bus. My nose is stuffed up, I still have that awful cough, and I get dizzy whenever I stand up too fast. If you need me to come, I’ll come, but you may have to push me around in a wheelchair.