by Anna Carey
Andie watched as Cate pulled Danny aside by the ear. It seemed strange that Danny had come to the party at all, and even stranger that Cate knew who he was. But she’d dragged him into the kitchen and was now explaining the difference between “good attention” and “bad attention.”
“You keeping on all right?” Lola asked, moving behind Clay and winking at Andie so much it looked like she was having an eye spasm. Her face still looked puffy and red from the Gunther shoot. Right before the party, Andie had discovered her crying in the bathroom. Her head was in the sink and she was scrubbing furiously, trying to get the olive oil out of her hair. Andie felt partially responsible. She’d given Lola the once-over before she left for the shoot. She did look dirty, and her hair did look like she’d styled it with a stick of butter, but she’d also insisted that was what Gunther had asked for.
“Clay’s the best,” Andie said. She leaned her head on his shoulder. But when she turned back at Lola, she was looking through her Polaroid camera, the lens leveled right at them. “No,” Andie cried, as Lola’s finger pushed down on the button. She was ready…she aimed…and she fired.
Andie tried to block it with her hand, but the flash blinded her. A photo shot out of the front of the camera. “Now we can put it on the wall,” Lola said, shaking it back and forth.
“No!” Andie snatched the photo from Lola’s hands. She could just make out the picture. She was standing next to Clay, her mouth open like she was mid-scream. One hand was reaching toward the camera. “I’ll put this up later.”
Lola glanced at it. “It’s horrid, though. Let’s take one more.” She raised the camera again. That was it. Andie couldn’t have the picture—or Lola—floating around the party anymore. It was too much of a liability, like having Hannah Marcus, who was infamously unathletic, on your intramural softball team. “Cindy? Don’t you need some cough syrup or something?” She leveled her brown eyes at her friend.
“Rught. I do.” Cindy’s voice sounded like she was underwater. “Lola—cun you hulp me fund some?” She shot Andie a knowing look as she pulled Lola toward the staircase.
“Well, all right,” Lola said, following her up the stairs.
“Do you huve uny of thugh Hurry Putter movies?” Cindy added, her gold bowler hat sitting askew on her head. “I thunk I may need to lie down fur uh-while…”
“Of course.” Lola perked up. “Follow me.” Cindy and Lola headed up the stairs, weaving through the Haverford freshmen who were now lined up, waiting to slide down the banister. Andie watched them disappear and let out a deep breath. She didn’t care what Lola and Cindy were doing—watching a Harry Potter marathon, taking more Polaroids of each other, or giving Heath Bar a flea bath—the most important thing was that they were doing it on the third floor. As long as Lola and that annoying camera stayed there, she’d never know Kyle had ever shown up.
SECRETS, SECRETS ARE NO FUN…SECRETS, SECRETS HURT SOMEONE
The party had been going on for over an hour, and there was still no sign of Myra. Stella wandered around the living room, hoping against hope she was hiding somewhere in all the chaos. By the fireplace, two Haverford boys roasted marshmallows on the wrought iron poker. An Ashton girl had grabbed Heath Bar and was attempting to feed him M&M’s, his green eyes wide with fear. “I heard Myra looks like Claire Danes,” the girl called out as she spotted Stella in the crowd.
Stella wrung her hands. “Right!” she yelled. “You’ll see soon enough!” All night, people had been asking for Myra Granberry by name. Betsy Carmichael had posted an item about Myra on the Ashton News website that morning, encouraging people to come forward with any preliminary Myra sightings around the city. Paige Mortimer had set aside a whole packet of Polaroid film just for Myra’s big reveal, and some of the Haverford blokes had even asked for Myra’s phone number, sight unseen. It seemed like everyone was obsessed with Extreme Makeover: Myra Granberry Edition.
Stella had been texting Myra for the last hour, but hadn’t gotten a reply. It wasn’t like her not to respond. Stella was starting to worry something had happened. Maybe Myra had had an allergic reaction to her Armani Code perfume, or maybe she’d tripped in her new Manolos and was lying somewhere on Madison Avenue, her ankle twisted and swollen. Or maybe Pythagoras had gotten sick and she’d had to rush him to the veterinary clinic. Right now, anything seemed like a possibility.
“Stella!” Cate called from the doorway. “A word!” Then she walked over to the couch, where Blythe was snuggled with Sophie and Priya. “I hope you’re taking notes on how to throw a party. I know it’s hard for you to do anything without seeing my example first.”
Blythe rolled her eyes. “I stopped taking notes after the page titled ‘How to Lose Friends and Alienate People.’” Priya let out a little laugh, her nose ring sparkling in the light.
Cate pulled Stella into the foyer. She yanked so hard that Stella was afraid she’d dislocated her shoulder. “Everyone’s asking where Myra is. What am I supposed to say?”
“I told you. She’ll be here.” Stella tried to sound calm, but it was almost nine. Stella had told Myra to be there at seven thirty—half an hour before all the guests came. She’d wanted her to come down the stairs for her big reveal, cheered on by the crowd gathered in the foyer. She’d even planned on Myra passing out the Polaroid cameras, so she could get to know the guests by name. But Myra had missed all of it. If she didn’t show up soon, Stella would have to march over to her town house and escort her herself.
Cate dug her fingers into her palms. “You said that a half hour ago.” She glanced into the living room where Blythe, Priya, and Sophie were now dancing to the Pussycat Dolls. Blythe popped her shoulders in and out. Priya laughed as Sophie shook uncontrollably, like there was electricity pulsing through her tiny body. Cate couldn’t help thinking that if Stella had never wormed her way into the Chi Beta Phis, right now Cate would’ve been with them, twirling and dipping Priya so she didn’t feel so self-conscious on the dance floor. Instead, she was waiting around for Myra Granberry, along with everyone else—and her reputation depended on it. “This is humiliating. Do you see that banner?” She pointed at the sign in the living room that read Chi Sigma Mu.
“Right.” Stella nodded. “We need the Mu. I’ll text her again.”
“Good. Now I have to get the garden ready for my date with Eli.” Cate turned on her heel, gently pressing down her messy bun to make sure it was still in place. Stella swallowed hard, but her mouth felt like it was filled with sand. She hadn’t told Cate about the door yet—but right now that was the least of her problems. She whipped out her iPhone and texted furiously.
STELLA: WHERE R U?
Just then Betsy Carmichael grabbed Stella’s arm. Her pink Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress was spotted with red punch. “Where’s the Slug?” Her green eyes bulged from her head, making her look like an Amazon tree frog.
Stella gritted her teeth. “Her name is Myra,” she snapped. “Not Slug, not Sluggie, not Mug, or Mugsy, or the traditional Mug the Slug. Its just Myra—at least to you.”
Betsy backed away, like she was afraid Stella might beat her over the head with her iPhone. Stella couldn’t help it. She was so tired of everyone treating Myra like a bearded lady or a circus midget—just there for everyone’s amusement. She couldn’t wait for Myra to walk through the door and shut them up, once and for all. Her iPhone buzzed.
MYRA: I’M IN FRONT OF UR HOUSE
Stella darted outside. “Myra! I was so worried—” The heavy front door closed behind her, knocking her onto the steps. Standing outside the wrought iron gate was Myra…but not the Myra Stella was expecting. Her blond hair looked flat and stringy against her cheeks, and she was wearing her Mathletes T-shirt with neon green track pants. Her L.L. Bean backpack was high on her shoulders, making her look hunchbacked.
Stella took a deep breath, trying not to panic. She’d given Myra nearly two hours to get ready for the party, but it was as though she’d traveled back in time to three days ago. Nothing
had changed. When Cate saw her she was going to hyperventilate. “What happened? You were supposed to be here an hour and a half ago.” Myra gripped the fence, her knuckles turning white. The light from the foyer window fell on her face and Stella noticed her brown eyes were puffy and red. “What’s wrong?”
Myra glared at Stella. “So I finally know why you’ve been so nice to me.”
“What are you talking about?” Stella felt a bubbling in the pit of her stomach. Something wasn’t right. The light from the window darkened, and Stella turned to see a few Ashton girls pressed against the glass.
“I know about your stupid challenge!” Myra yelled. Tears fell down her cheeks and she wiped them away with the back of her hands. “After I left you I saw Blythe Finley on Third Avenue. I walked behind her for three blocks, listening to her tell Priya Singh how ridiculous it was that you’d actually made me over. She just couldn’t believe you took her seriously when she told you ‘Mug the Slug’ couldn’t be the third member of Chi Sigma.”
Stella’s knees shook, her legs feeling like they might give out beneath her. “No. It wasn’t like that,” she managed. She’d nearly forgotten about Blythe’s challenge. It felt like it had happened so long ago. Yes, it was technically the reason she’d wanted Myra as their third member, but things were different now—she was different.
“Then tell me. What was it like? Did you agree to make me over on a dare or not?” Myra crossed her arms over her chest. The window was full of people now, all pressed together in a tight row. A few banged on the glass to get their attention, like Stella and Myra were two monkeys at the zoo.
“Myra, I think—” Stella reached out for Myra’s arm, but the other girl pulled away. A boy inside started chanting Mug the Slug! Mug the Slug! and Stella cringed as a camera flash went off.
Myra took a step back. “Yes or no?” She bit her bottom lip so hard it looked like it might bleed.
There was only one answer to the question. Stella stared down at her red Marc Jacobs pumps, wishing she could click the heels together like Dorothy and go somewhere else—anyplace but here. “Maybe it started that way, but…”
Myra tucked her stringy hair behind her ears. “I can’t believe how selfish you are. You and Cate must’ve had a great time, watching me get my lip waxed and parading me around in Diane von Fusterbutt dresses. Just do me a favor—next time you need some cheap entertainment, watch The Hills.”
The front door opened a crack and Cate peeked her head outside. “I heard she’s here.” Cate froze when she noticed Myra. “Oh, no. What are those?” She hissed, pointing at the neon green track pants.
But Myra wasn’t listening. She pulled her new Marc Jacobs bag out of her L.L. Bean backpack. “I won’t be needing this anymore,” she said, thrusting it into Stella’s arms. Then she took off down Eighty-second Street.
“Where does she think she’s going?” Cate stood next to Stella, her brows furrowed.
“Home.” Stella stared down at the embossed M.G., blinking back tears. She’d been so daft. She’d brought Myra to the Red Door Salon, to Saks, to Bliss, treating her like she was some poor child from the Make-a-Wish Foundation. She’d even felt proud of herself for helping Myra—for showing her that green shadow complemented her eye color, or that wrap dresses looked best on her petite frame—when it didn’t mean a thing—any of it. Once again, Myra was right. Stella had been selfish, and condescending, and just as mean as every other girl at Ashton Prep. “She quit.”
“What do you mean, ‘She quit’?” Cate growled. “I trusted you to make this work. She’s our Mu.” Cate bit down hard on her thumbnail. She’d just bragged to Kirsten Phillips about how spectacular Myra’s new haircut looked, and spread a rumor through Shelley DeWitt that Myra’s dad owned Belvedere Castle in Central Park. She’d even scanned Myra’s eighth-grade yearbook picture for Ashton News, just to be certain Betsy would feature the before/after shots during Monday’s homeroom. She couldn’t go back into the party without Mug. Not now, and especially not with Blythe, Priya, and Sophie in there. Everyone would see her for who she was: a Beta Sigma Phi reject.
Stella sniffed back tears. She had enough to feel guilty about already, without Cate reminding her of her promise. They could cut the Mu off the banner, throw away the rest of the personalized chocolates, or they’d just tell people Myra had a headache and had to go home. It didn’t matter what they said now—it mattered what they’d done these last two days. Stella had made Myra feel like a science experiment, the silly product of some silly, mean bet. “You know, there are more important things than bloody sororities,” she spat. Then she went back inside, letting the door slam behind her.
TO: Abby Powell
FROM: Lola Childs
DATE: Saturday, 9:16 p.m.
SUBJECT: Ugh.
I know it’s almost two in the morning there, and you’re probably sleeping. But I needed someone to talk to.
The Gunther shoot was bad, Abby. Bad isn’t even the word—it was horrid, worse than the time I fell on stage at fifth-grade awards night. I feel like such a bloody twit, as always. Gunther hates me, and my hair still looks like I haven’t washed it in a week.
I wish I could be at your flat right now, eating ham-and-butter sandwiches in your kitchen. Instead I’m in my mum’s room watching Harry Potter for the millionth time, alone. Or at least kind of alone. Andie’s with her new boyfriend downstairs, so I promised her I’d keep an eye on Cindy, her best mate. But Cindy drank so much cough syrup she fell asleep on the bed twenty minutes ago. And Kyle’s a no-show. I think he’s politely telling me to bugger off.
I just miss you, and I want my mum to be back from her honeymoon already. And now Stella’s in her room and won’t answer her door.
Ring me tomorrow? Please?
Love,
Lola
IT WAS ONLY A KISS
“So then Brandon slipped and totally wiped out,” Clay said, running a hand through his shaggy blond hair. “Puke everywhere.” He reached over Andie and punched Brandon in the arm. Brandon laughed, exposing a row of green braces. His black hair was gelled in the front, forming stiff spikes.
“That’s funny,” Andie mumbled. She was trapped between them on the love seat in the den, listening to another one of Clay’s stupid stories. This time it was about Brandon falling into a puke puddle on the 6 train. Andie glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner. It was nine twenty. Which meant in just ten minutes Clay and Brandon would be off to the Ludacris concert, and Andie would finally be free.
On the sofa Parker Adams was making out with her Haverford boyfriend, while two other couples faced off in foosball. Shelley DeWitt was perched in the window seat with Fillmore Weitz, whose skin looked surprisingly clear compared to the last time Andie had seen him. Everyone was paired off—everyone except Andie. She was supposed to be Clay’s girlfriend (even if it was fake), but ever since Brandon arrived she’d felt like a third wheel. A third wheel on an annoying, fist-pounding tricycle to Dude Land.
Just then Lola strolled in, carrying Heath Bar in her arms. “Lola?” Andie tried to steady her voice. “Where’s Cindy? I thought you guys were watching movies in dad’s room?”
“I’m bloody bored. Cindy fell asleep twenty minutes ago.” Lola looked around the den. “I can’t watch the telly when everyone is down here having…” She trailed off, her gaze falling on Parker and her boyfriend. Parker was sucking on her boyfriend’s ear. She was going to say fun but that didn’t seem like quite the right word anymore. Parker made snogging look scary, like her tongue was in a boxing match with her boyfriend’s ear.
“What’s the deal with your hair?” Brandon asked.
“Nothing…” Lola smoothed down her headband, feeling her face flush. Since the shoot she’d washed it three times but it was still greasy. Even worse, it looked a little green, like it used to get in London, after she spent all day in Abby’s indoor swimming pool. She’d spent so much time trying to become one with the gutter, she’d never considered how she’d get
out of the gutter. All she had to show for her brush with supermodeling was a stringy mop of hair that smelled like her grandmother’s olive grove in Tuscany.
“Maybe you should check on Cindy. She might need help.” Andie’s heart sped up. Kyle would be here any minute. If Lola was wandering around the house, she wouldn’t be able to talk to him, or look at him, without feeling like she was under FBI surveillance.
“She’s fine.” Lola tugged on the bottom of her black, long-sleeved T-shirt. It was covered with an inch of orange fur.
“Then as soon as Clay leaves I’ll go upstairs with you to wake Cindy up. I just don’t want her”—Andie searched for an excuse—“sleeping on my dad’s bed.” Even if Cindy had snuck out of her house with a stuffy nose and a bad cough, she was only there because she promised to watch Lola. Cough syrup or no cough syrup, Andie needed her awake.
“Sleeping on the bed?” Lola furrowed her brows. “Mum and Winston won’t care.” She held Heath Bar over her shoulder and bounced him up and down like he was a twenty-pound, fur-covered newborn.
On the love seat, Clay and Brandon had started punching each other. They reached behind Andie and in front of her, trying to get at each other. “You’re an idiot!” Clay hooted, standing to knock Brandon hard in the shoulder. Brandon pulled the hood of his orange Triple 5 Soul sweatshirt over his head and ducked behind Andie, using her as a shield.
Parker noticed Clay’s clenched fist, which was pulled back like he was aiming for Andie. “What’s your problem?” she yelled. “Isn’t that your girlfriend?” Her red hair was staticky from making out, and it floated up on one side, as though she’d just rubbed a balloon to it.