“I don’t know about this,” Andie said, pulling at the hem of her gray Zac Posen skirt. Today, while Emma and Winston had been busy drafting a seating chart with Gloria, Lola had suggested they sneak into the Alexander Wang show, to give Andie her first real taste of the fashion world. She’d found all the info in Emma’s planner. It was a good idea—in theory—but they had no invites, no press passes, and they were at least ten years younger than everyone going inside.
“This is our chance!” Lola grabbed Andie’s wrist and pulled her across the street, nearly getting them flattened by a black Lincoln Town Car.
Andie and Lola snuck through the side entrance and ran into the tent, nearly colliding with a woman wearing a tiny hat that looked suspiciously like a dead hummingbird. They quickly disappeared into the crowd, squeezing through a group of people. They passed Curtis Harding, the lead singer of Demon Landlords, holding hands with a girl who looked like Tinkerbell. A German reporter pushed between them and shoved his press pass in Curtis’s face. “Vat’s next vor ze Demon Landlords?” he shouted.
Andie stared at the long white runway, awestruck. In the front row, a petite woman with wavy blond hair looked through her program. It was Kate Moss. Andie dug her fingers into Lola’s arm. “This is unbelievable,” she whispered. She’d waited years for the chance to be in the same room as her idol, and now she was just a few feet away. She breathed in deeply, hoping to soak up some of Kate’s career karma.
Lola clapped her hands. “I told you!” she cried. They made their way toward the back of the room.
Arden Porsche, the New York City socialite notorious for her temper, argued with a woman with severe bangs. “Check your little chart again,” Arden said, smacking the woman’s clipboard. “I should be in the first row, not third—first.”
Lola and Andie walked past white folding chairs filled with familiar faces. They hid in back of two model types standing behind the last row. One wore a striped jumper that made her look like a one-hundred-pound candy cane, the other a strategically ripped black T-shirt that barely covered her neon green bra.
“Have you heard anything about Alexander’s collection?” the model in the jumper asked her friend.
“It’s supposed to be inspired by her master bath. Think cold, stark, glossy,” the girl with the ripped tee said importantly.
Andie scanned the room, her eyes falling on a woman sitting on the other side of the runway. Her hair was so long and thick it looked like she had a black blanket draped over her shoulders. “Lola!” Andie squealed, a little too loudly. “That’s Ayana Bennington! She’s one of the top agents in the world.”
“I know—she’s been trying to represent my mum for ages.” Lola adjusted her headband. Andie had relented and let Lola wear a headband, but only if it was one of her choosing. She’d thrown the teal Duane Reade one in the kitchen trash (so Lola wouldn’t be tempted to dig it out) and replaced it with one from Burberry. It wasn’t a ten, but it’d do.
Andie straightened up and stood in Ayana’s line of vision. It was only a matter of time before she noticed her. Andie would be her most successful client—the model who changed the industry, making “petite” the new “tall.”
Just then Andie felt a tap on her shoulder. A man with long black hair and tortoiseshell-framed glasses stood behind them, chewing on the end of a pencil. His thin legs were packed into a tiny pair of black skinny jeans and his round belly hung slightly over his studded belt. He looked like an egg on toothpicks.
“Right, hi,” he cooed, pointing the pencil at Andie, then Lola. “I assume you two escaped from the day care tent? Let me show you out—the show is about to start and I don’t get paid nearly enough to babysit.”
The model in the jumper let out a cackle. A few people in the back row turned around to see what the commotion was about. Andie’s face flushed. This wasn’t the kind of attention she wanted. “We, uh,” she muttered, looking at Lola, who was wringing her hands nervously.
“Puh-lease,” the man said, circling his pencil in the air. “I don’t have time for little games from little people. Either I show you out or the police do.” He turned and started for the exit.
Andie looked at the crowd in front of her. A couple across the runway glanced up from their programs. A woman in a full-length alpaca coat pointed. Andie stared at the back of Kate’s head, hoping she wouldn’t turn around. WWKD? But there was only one thing to do: make a graceful exit. Fast.
“Come on,” Andie whispered, grabbing Lola’s hand. “We need to go. Now.” She tried to cover her face with her hair, like a criminal avoiding being seen on camera. Egg on Toothpicks was probably going to take her photo and e-mail it to Gawker.com, the snotty Manhattan media blog, with a note about the two clueless twelve-year-olds who thought they could sneak into Fashion Week. Forget modeling. Forget finding an agent. Andie Sloane was going to be blacklisted from the industry forever.
Lola stopped suddenly. “We can’t leave,” she said to Egg on Toothpicks’s back. “I’m here for my mum—Emma Childs.”
He turned around and pursed his lips coolly. He scanned Lola’s gangly frame, his eyes stopping on her frizzy blond hair. “Emma Childs…the supermodel?” he asked snidely. Under his breath he mumbled, “And I’m Christy Turlington’s hotter younger brother.”
“Yes, Emma Childs the supermodel,” Lola muttered. There was only one other Emma Childs—the bucktoothed host of Sleeping with Simians, an Animal Planet show about monkeys. She fumbled through her purse and found her wallet. She held out the picture of her and her mom on a yacht in Southwest France. “See?” she said, like it was her official pass into the show. “That’s me and my mum. She couldn’t make it, so she wanted us to come instead.”
Egg on Toothpicks bit the pencil again. “Wait here.”
He strode toward the runway and whispered to the woman with the clipboard. Then he returned, his face softer than before. “I’m so sorry for the miscommunication,” he said apologetically, clasping his hands together as though he were praying. “I’m Anton Von Kleet. Let’s get you two a little more…situated. Follow me.” He walked through a narrow aisle. Lola grinned. Her mother’s name always had magical powers.
They followed Anton toward the end of the runway, where Arden Porsche was sitting in the front row with a doughy friend. Arden’s skirt was so tight her legs were turning blue. “Apologies, but we need these seats,” Anton said breezily. He looked around the room as he spoke, as though Arden were a bear who’d maul him if he made direct eye contact. “We have something for you a few rows back.”
Arden looked from Andie to Lola, her hand tightening around her plastic water bottle. “We’re not going anywhere,” she growled. With that, she emptied the contents of her water bottle onto Anton’s alligator-skin boots.
Anton merely waved his hand in the air. Two burly security guards immediately came over and pulled Arden and her friend flailing from their seats.
“Do you know who my father is?” Arden called over her shoulder as she was escorted out of the tent. “I will ruin you!”
“Ladies,” Anton said calmly, gesturing to the two empty seats. “Let me know if you need anything. Evian, Pelligrino, perhaps?”
Andie shook her head and straightened up in her seat. Across the runway, Ayana Bennington and her assistant were standing up, trying to get a better look at the two twelve-year-olds who’d gotten Arden Porsche booted out of Fashion Week.
As the lights dimmed, Andie grabbed Lola’s arm and squeezed. “This is incredible.” Not only had they gotten inside, now they were VIPs. After the show they’d be eating caviar at the Bryant Park Hotel with Vivienne Westwood. And by next year’s Fashion Week, Andie would be calling Dolce and Gabbana by their first names.
Lola looked around the crowd at all the famous faces. The thump of techno music filled the room and the first model stepped onto the runway in a white pleather evening gown. A hundred camera flashes went off. This was incredible. And if the magic words—Emma Childs—could get her into
the front row at Fashion Week, then they could get her a lot of other places too. She looked at Andie, then at Ayana Bennington, who was whispering to the editor in chief of Bazaar, and got an idea. It was time to put her mom’s name to the test.
TO: Ayana Bennington
FROM: Lola Childs
DATE: Thursday, 7:35 p.m.
SUBJECT: Future models
Dear Ayana Bennington,
Let me introduce myself. My name is Lola Childs and I am the daughter of Emma Childs (the supermodel—not the Animal Planet host). It was delightful to see you at the Alexander Wang show tonight! Like yourself, we were fortunate to get front-row seats.
I’m writing because my sister Andie and I would like to meet with you to discuss future careers in modeling. Do you have any time available this week? I know my mum would appreciate it (she’s been so busy with wedding planning it’s hard for her to find time to write).
Cheers,
Lola Childs, Esq.
TO: Lola Childs
FROM: Ayana Bennington
DATE: Friday, 8:58 a.m.
SUBJECT: RE: Future models
Hello Lola!
So good to hear from you. I’ve spoken to your mother a handful of times and have always been a huge admirer of her work. Do send her my fondest regards.
I’d love to meet with you and your sister. This week is a bit hectic with the shows, but I’ll be in my office for a few hours on Saturday afternoon. Would you be able to stop by then, say four thirty? I very much look forward to meeting you.
All my best,
Ayana
EVERY QUEEN NEEDS A COURT
“Here we are.” Cate stopped at the entrance to a majestic stone mansion on Seventy-seventh Street. A black Mercedes was parked in the half-circle driveway, the driver leaning out the window to clip his fingernails. He stopped when he spotted Cate and Stella in the rearview mirror.
“Is this a school?” Stella asked, as two boys in crisp blue button-downs and striped ties walked down the front steps. After last period, they had cut through Central Park to the Upper West Side, for her last trial before the vote on Saturday. Cate had told Stella it would be “challenging,” but she hadn’t said anything more. She was acting like some bad reality TV host, trying to create suspense by being unnecessarily mysterious.
“This is Haverford.” Cate crossed her arms over her chest and smirked. “It’s our brother school.” She walked across the driveway and up the stone steps to the arched entranceway, Stella following. There was a carved stone crest on the wall next to the giant oak doors—two winged lions holding a shield.
They pushed into a two-story entrance hall. Two marble staircases wrapped around the upper floor and emptied out on either side of the room, which was decorated with blue-and-red banners announcing every minor accomplishment from the last thirty years. Cate took a left down a wide tiled hallway that was mostly empty, except for a few stray boys lingering after school. A short boy with a bowl haircut walked past, struggling against the weight of a massive yellow backpack. He looked back and forth between the girls as if witnessing an alien invasion.
“Where are we going?” Stella asked, an edge in her voice. She had been so busy with all of the trials—picking up Cate’s dry cleaning, baking cupcakes and biscuits for Cate’s Junior Honor Society bake sale—she had only called Vera Wang yesterday to make an appointment for the girls to try on bridesmaid dresses. She’d hoped this next trial would be easy. But nothing was ever easy with Cate.
“Oh, you’ll see…” Cate singsonged, twisting her dark brown hair into a ponytail.
The girls walked in silence, until Cate finally stopped outside the gym. One of the doors was propped open and Stella could see the Haverford varsity basketball team practicing. It seemed like the boys were genetically engineered to play the sport—they were all at least five-foot eight, muscular, and adorable (maybe being adorable wasn’t a requirement for playing basketball, but it sure made it more fun to watch).
“So this is your final trial,” Cate told Stella, crossing her hands over her chest. Looking into Stella’s big green eyes, she almost felt a little guilty. “If you do this, you’re as good as in.” Cate assumed Stella would fail—and then Cate could show her generosity by forgiving her this one thing and letting her in anyway. That way Stella would be grateful and never forget her place in the order of the sisterhood.
Or if the girls voted her out…well that would provide its own karmic balance.
Stella looked back at the boys in the gym. A blonde in a T-shirt that read maine did a layup and the ball swooshed through the net. “Bring it,” she said, leveling her eyes at Cate. She had been able to do everything so far—what was one more trial?
“See those shorts?” Cate continued, nodding toward the gymnasium. All of the boys were wearing blue shorts with a red stripe down the sides. On the front of each thigh was a printed number. “Those are the Haverford signature shorts. I need you to steal all fourteen pairs and bring them back to me by five thirty.”
Cate bit her lip in excitement. The Haverford basketball team were state champions, and they acted like it. They hardly talked to anyone who wasn’t on the team, and all the Ashton Prep upper-school girls had worn black last year the week Braden Pennyworth, Haverford’s point guard, got a girlfriend. Cate wanted to incorporate the team’s signature shorts into Chi Beta Phi’s gym wardrobe. Everyone at Ashton would be so jealous.
“The ones they’re wearing right now?” Stella gulped, trying to keep her voice steady. She imagined running around to each of the giant players, trying to pants them without their noticing.
Cate nodded. “Oh,” she added, turning to leave, “I’ll be at Jackson Hole with Priya, Sophie, and Blythe. Bring the shorts there…but don’t bother coming if you don’t have them.” She looked Stella in the eye and smiled, then offered her a breezy little wave. “Good luck. I’m out like pointy-toe shoes.” Then she strutted back down the empty stone hall and disappeared around the corner.
Inside, a basketball swished through the hoop and a few boys threw their arms up and cheered. What was she supposed to do? Sneak into the boys’ locker room Mission Impossible style, with grappling hooks and ninja gear? Stella pulled out her iPhone and looked at the time. It was four o’clock—the team probably wouldn’t be done practicing until five. Maybe she could try to buy fourteen pairs from the school store, if they even had one. Not likely. The gym echoed with the sound of squeaky shoes and the thump-thump-thump of the bouncing ball.
“Heads up!” a voice called. The basketball bounced off the glossy wood floor and came careening toward Stella’s head.
“Bloody hell!” she screamed, catching the ball just before it pummeled her face. The entire team was frozen on the court, staring at her. “Hi,” she said softly.
The tall blonde bloke, the one who had scored the layup, gestured for Stella to throw him the ball. She tried to do a chest pass, but it fell a little short. She suddenly wished she had paid attention during gym at Sherwood Academy in London, instead of making fun of Ms. Reed’s hairy armpits with Pippa and Bridget.
A few boys laughed. “Can we help you?” the blond guy said. He hugged the ball to his chest.
“Um…” Stella muttered. A boy with shoulder-length black hair whispered something to his freckled teammate. “I’m here to try out for the team.” She tossed her golden curls over her shoulder and shot them all her cutest, most flirtatious smile. The guys looked at each other and laughed. Maybe this trial wasn’t impossible after all. She just needed some help from a few new mates. Fourteen, to be exact.
Jackson Hole was bustling with Ashton Prep upper-school girls. Cate, Priya, Sophie, and Blythe went there every Thursday after school and always sat at the same table in the corner, so they could survey the room. Amber Haan, one of the prettiest seniors, sat with her friends at a table by the window, staring dejectedly at their plain bowls of lettuce. Kimberly Berth, who’d started referring to herself as “Kimmy Kim” last year, maneuvered between
tables, dropping fliers for the school mascot club she was starting.
Sophie picked through a pile of sweet potato fries, her retainer perched on the edge of her plate. “Who wants to dress up as a bobcat?” she asked, eyeing the flier. Priya was sitting next to her with one elbow on the table, her left hand shielding her eyes from the swirly mustard-ketchup mixture Sophie always made.
“Losers,” Cate answered. She looked at her silver Tiffany Crown of Hearts watch and then out the wall of windows on the far side of the restaurant. It was ten after five, and Stella was still nowhere in sight. She leaned back in her seat and smiled. She couldn’t feel badly about it—she had given Stella a fair chance, and Stella knew the rules. If she couldn’t complete all the trials, she couldn’t be in Chi Beta Phi.
“I’m having order remorse,” Blythe moaned, looking down at her chicken-finger parmigiana sandwich. They had put too much pasta sauce on it and the bread was soggy and red. She leaned across the table and stole a bite of Priya’s turkey club. “I have to run to the ladies’ room,” she said, grabbing her midnight blue Marc by Marc Jacobs bag. “Sophie, come with?”
Sophie popped her retainer back into her mouth and started to get up.
Cate scraped her nails along the sides of her wood chair. During English Blythe had texted Priya twice, then shut off her phone when Cate asked her what it was about. If Stella wasn’t going to make it in the Chi Beta Phis, Cate would have to watch her own back—and she didn’t have eyes on both sides of her head. She slid out of the table and followed Blythe. “No—I’ll come with you,” she snapped.
Blythe bit her lip. “Um…sure.” She heaved her bag over her shoulder and headed toward the small wooden door marked ladies. Cate trailed her to the back of the restaurant, edging between the tightly packed tables.