“Did you know Clay is one of the best players on the Haverford soccer team?” Andie asked. “You should tell Lola that story about you and Brandon at the Burger Joint.” She punched Clay’s arm playfully.
“Well,” Clay started. “My friend and I had this contest to see who could eat the most burgers. Brandon upchucked on some tourist’s shoes.”
“Isn’t he the funniest?” Andie cooed, staring into Clay’s green eyes.
“Thanks, Sloane,” he said, then he caught her hand and squeezed it tightly. She wanted to yank it away but he kept staring at her. Andie felt embarrassed for him, like she’d just caught him trimming his nose hair. It was easier to pretend she was his girlfriend when she thought of Clay as the boy who did bad Will Ferrell impressions and had every girl at Ashton checking his Facebook page five times a day. She didn’t like being reminded that he wasn’t pretending—that for him, this was real.
Lola smoothed down her headband, trying to imagine what it would be like to have someone look at her that way. Lately it felt like she only got noticed when she was doing something daft, like flashing her bum to an entire room of models. Even worse, when she’d invited Kyle to the party last night, he’d acted like she was a complete stranger. Thanks 4 inviting me, he’d written in the e-mail, ur such a good friend. She had wanted him to show up in one of his cute T-shirts and look at her the way Clay looked at Andie. Just for once, she wanted to know what it felt like to be seen.
“Are you coming to our party?” Lola asked, glancing from Andie to Clay.
“What party?” Clay turned to Andie. Her throat closed up. She couldn’t breathe. She stepped back, behind Clay and shook her head, trying to get Lola’s attention. But she just continued on.
“The party Saturday night. You have to come!” Lola clapped her hands together in front of her face. “We’re going to have sweets and punch, and our sisters invited all these Haverford blokes.”
“Sounds awesome,” Clay said, looking from Lola to Andie. He furrowed his brows. “Why didn’t you tell me about it, Sloane?”
Andie felt his eyes on her. “Lola…it’s just…” she mumbled. “I kind of promised Cindy she could come.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Lola cried. “Stella and Cate will never know if you invite one more guest.”
“Right…” Andie muttered. She swallowed hard. Tomorrow night Clay, Kyle, and Lola would all be at the party, in her town house. Hiding from Kyle would’ve been hard, but hiding from Kyle, Lola, and Clay would be impossible.
TO: Lola Childs
FROM: Ayana Bennington
DATE: Friday, 5:02 p.m.
SUBJECT: Your contract with Gunther
Hi Lola,
I was delighted to hear your go-see went well. I had a feeling you’d be just the model Gunther was looking for. Which is why I’m writing…
I just spoke with Gunther regarding the contract. I understand his assistant gave you a copy for you and your guardian to sign. I wanted to stress, again, the fine print: You are not to bathe before the shoot. Apparently Gunther is very serious about this. He has a specific aesthetic he’s going for with this campaign, so your cooperation is essential. Do call me Monday to let me know how everything went. Best of luck—I look forward to hearing from you.
All the best,
Ayana
DESPERATE TIMES CALL FOR SABOTAGING MEASURES
Cate looked out over the Great Lawn. It was covered with people, all reveling in one another’s company. A group of boys tossed around a Frisbee while clusters of girls sat on blankets, picking Thai dumplings out of takeout containers. A man in baggy red sweatpants wheeled his hot dog cart past Cate, eyeing the stretch of empty bench beside her. “What are you looking at?” she snapped. The man sped up, glancing nervously over his shoulder at her.
She couldn’t help it. She’d spent the entire afternoon without Stella—without anyone—and she’d never felt so self-conscious. Since fourth grade she’d never gone more than an hour or two without a friend beside her—especially not during the school year. She’d sit with the Chi Beta Phis at lunch, thankful she wasn’t one of those people who ate solo, or she’d talk about how sad it was that Molly Lambert never had anyone to walk down the hall with. But today things had taken the kind of turn that made her believe in karma. Stella had taken Myra for her makeover, so Cate had picked up gift bags for the party…alone. She’d called fifteen different caterers…alone. She’d even drafted the mass e-mail announcing Chi Sigma Mu’s first official party by herself. Being friendless was awful. She felt like she’d left her house this morning and forgotten something essential—like her cell phone, her wallet, or her shirt.
She stared at her iPhone, willing it to ring. Stella was supposed to send picture messages of the makeover in progress: one as soon as they threaded off Mug’s caterpillar ’stache, one after they cut her stringy blond hair, and a few of Mug trying on outfits for the party, so Cate could vote on which option she liked best. It was one thing to talk about making over Mug, but it was another thing to do it. Two hours had passed, and Cate still hadn’t gotten confirmation that it was working.
Danny Plimpton bounded up the path. “Danny!” Cate cried, more grateful to see him than ever. With the exception of the woman at Papyrus, he was the only person she’d talked to all afternoon. “Sit! Please!” She patted the bench.
He raised one of his thick black eyebrows, as if he weren’t certain he had the right Cate Sloane. Then he passed her a manila envelope. “It’s all there, but I better run. The Eagle will be here any minute. I was right in front of him.”
Cate dug into her black and white Balenciaga bag. “These are for you.” She passed him a stack of things she’d found in Lola’s desk. There was an English essay titled “My First Impressions of New York,” a letter from a friend named Abby, and her Ashton Prep class schedule. While Lola was eating breakfast this morning Cate had snuck into her room and jotted down additional notes: full name Lola Evelyn Childs, birthday July 31, plays the viola, has a stash of caramel candies in her nightstand, owns the complete works of Beethoven on CD. “Lola will be at my party tomorrow, and you’re officially invited. Just play it cool—don’t talk to her too much or she’ll know you like her.”
“I won’t.” Danny ran his fingers over the papers as if they were made of gold. “Thanks, Cate.” He took off, his black JanSport backpack swinging on one shoulder.
Cate peered into the folder, cringing at the first page. I regret to inform you the date with Blythe Finley is confirmed. Tonight at 8. Jackson Hole.
Ever since the basketball game, Cate couldn’t think about Blythe without wanting to break something. Of course she’d gone after Eli—it was so typical of her. Last year, when Cate bought navy Tory Burch flats Blythe went out the next day and bought the same pair in black. When Cate decided to be a vegetarian for two weeks, Blythe started preaching about slaughterhouse conditions. So she had gotten a date with Eli first—that didn’t mean it was going to be a successful date. At least not if Cate could help it.
She tucked the folder into her bag and pulled out Catcher in the Rye. She’d rolled the cover back and broken the spine so it looked like she’d read it five times.
“Hey, neighbor,” a familiar voice called. Eli walked toward her, still in his blue Haverford warm-up pants.
Cate waved at him with the book. In the late-afternoon sun, Eli’s flawless skin glistened with sweat. “Oh, you startled me. I was just reading.”
Eli smiled at the cover. “That’s my favorite book.”
“Mine too.” Cate leaned in close and raised an eyebrow. “So is that why you’re in New York? You’re a runaway from some boarding school?”
“I wish my life were that exciting.” Eli laughed. “I can’t even find my way out of Central Park, let alone to some cheap hotel. Mind if I follow you home?”
You can follow me anywhere, Cate thought, as she let her shoulder graze his. They started down the path toward the Met, the trees forming a canopy of leaves above
their heads. Everywhere Cate looked people were paired off. On the path in front of them, an elderly couple held hands, their backs hunched with age. A little girl with pigtails shared her lollipop with a bucktoothed boy. Even the dogs were in heat. On the grass outside the Temple of Dendur, a golden retriever licked frantically at a poodle’s butt.
For the first time all afternoon, Cate felt at ease. She wasn’t walking around alone, pretending she was having a super-important conversation on her iPhone. She was walking with Eli Punch, his hand swinging inches from hers. They were together, and she was someone again. “Good game yesterday,” she said finally.
“I looked for you afterward, but it was so packed I couldn’t find you.” Eli pushed his thick black hair off his forehead.
“I saw Blythe Finley there.” Cate paused when she said Blythe’s name, waiting for a smirk or a scrunch of the nose—anything that would reveal how Eli felt. But there was nothing. “She told me you guys are going out tonight?”
“Yeah.” Eli just shrugged. “I met her and her friends in Sheep Meadow the other day.” Cate cringed at those words: her and her friends. Priya and Sophie weren’t Blythe’s friends—they were prisoners of war. “I guess she knows some of the guys on the basketball team. She seems cool.”
Cate punted a rock with her Sigerson Morrison flat, sending it skittering down the path. When she and Stella had been fighting over who would be Chi Beta Phi’s president, Stella had impressed her friends by introducing them to the entire Haverford varsity basketball team. Cate knew that was going to come back to haunt her, like the fourth-grade yearbook picture where she’d sneezed.
They turned up Fifth Avenue past the Met, where a man stood selling roses for a dollar. Cate glanced at Eli, hoping he’d pluck one from the bunch and hand it to her, but they just kept walking.
Cate clenched her fists as she imagined Blythe and Eli snuggled in a corner of Jackson Hole, feeding each other spoonfuls of strawberry ice cream. Eli had to know that there wasn’t anything “cool” about Blythe. She would use him just like she used Cate—to get to the top. “You know…I was good friends with Blythe. But then I realized a few things about her.”
Eli furrowed his dark brows. “What kinds of things?”
“Well,” Cate searched her memory. She had nearly ten years of history with Blythe. There were more than enough “things” to bring up. “Once she stole a Ralph Lauren bracelet from Bloomingdale’s. It was really sketchy.” So that wasn’t exactly the truth. Blythe had tried on the bracelet and forgotten about it, walking home with it on her wrist. Then she was too embarrassed to take it back. It was an accident—but it was still, technically, stealing.
“That’s really weird….” Eli tucked his thumbs under his backpack straps.
Cate was going for disturbing, unforgivable, or messed up—not weird. Weird wasn’t enough to stop Eli from liking Blythe. “And that’s not all,” Cate could feel the words spilling one by one from her mouth. “Once she kicked a golden Lab puppy. We were walking down Madison and—boom!” Cate mimed punting a football. Eli flinched. “Right. In. The. Head.”
Eli raised his eyebrows in shock. “I know…” Cate continued. “That poor…creature.” Cate nodded solemnly. If she wanted to get into specifics, Blythe really tripped over the puppy, which was running around the sidewalk in circles, chasing its tail. But Cate could’ve sworn she saw her Juicy wedge knock it in the head.
Cate turned down Eighty-second Street, a bounce in her step. She’d spent half her summer lying on her roof deck with Blythe, planning ninth grade. They were supposed to take a train trip to visit Priya’s sister Veena at Yale. They were supposed to spend Saturday nights in Sophie’s hot tub, and Sunday mornings choreographing their dance for the Ashton talent show. Cate was supposed to be with the Chi Beta Phis, but Blythe betrayed her. Every moment they’d talked, every hug, every laugh—it was all a lie. From now on, all bets were off. “And this is just gross, but once she went a whole week without brushing her teeth.”
Cate paused in front of her town house watching as Eli shook his head in disgust. Maybe Sophie had dared Blythe not to brush her teeth, but that was just a minor detail. “By the way,” Cate added, staring into Eli’s dark eyes. “My sisters and I are having a party tomorrow night. You should come.”
His lips curled into a smile. “I’ll be there.” Then he bounded up his stoop, his keys jingling in his hand. He paused for a moment before heading inside. “And thanks for warning me about Blythe.”
“No problem.” Cate squeezed her hands together as he disappeared inside. Tomorrow Eli would be in her house, at her party, as her date. They’d sit alone in the candlelit garden and Cate would casually mention how she’d played the lead in Annie and South Pacific, and how she’d been class president three years in a row. She’d make a joke about the Haverford basketball team, mentioning how they were all, literally, players. I’m not like that, Eli would say, his perfect pink lips moving closer and closer to hers. They’d finally kiss, not bothering to stop until the party was over, until one by one the guests filed out and everyone—including Blythe—was gone.
FRIENDS DON’T LET FRIENDS BE CALLED “SLUG”
“I’ve never been in here before,” Myra said, glancing around the fifth floor of Saks Fifth Avenue. A crystal chandelier hung over the Elie Tahari section, illuminating three mannequins in evening gowns. “It’s so…glamorous.”
Stella and Myra’s arms were piled high with Theory sweaters, Nanette Lepore dresses, and Marc by Marc Jacobs skirts, as though they were having a contest to see who could carry the most designer apparel. “I haven’t been here either,” Stella said. “It reminds me a little of Harrods.” Stella squeezed the clothes to her chest, thinking of the sweets counter in the massive London department store. It was packed with dark chocolate hearts, caramels, and yogurt-covered pretzels. She sometimes spent a half hour there, just trying to pick out truffles.
They approached the racks of Diane von Furstenberg dresses, and Stella rested her heap of clothing on the register. Behind it, a woman with over-lined lips was turned around, trying to inconspicuously pick a piece of pesto from her teeth. “Why, hello!” she cried a little too loudly, suddenly realizing Myra and Stella were there. She rang up the items one by one.
Just then, Stella’s mobile buzzed. “Who is it?” Myra asked. She tried to peek at the screen, but Stella pulled it closer to her chest as she read the message.
CATE: SO?!?!? HOW’S THE MAKEOVER GOING??!?! WHERE R THE PICS?!?!?
“It’s Cate—she’s excited you’re our Mu,” Stella lied. She’d secretly taken a photo of Myra after her haircut and one when she came out of the dressing room in her navy blue Marc Jacobs shirtdress, but she couldn’t bring herself to actually send them to Cate. She didn’t want her making any judgments based on some grainy mobile pictures—too much was at stake. Myra knew they had to get ready for tomorrow’s party, but she didn’t know that if she wasn’t ready…she was out. And Stella would hear, for the next ten years of her life, how she’d ruined Chi Sigma.
Myra laughed. “I never would’ve thought I’d be friends with Cate Sloane. Ever.” Whenever she smiled her brown eyes folded up in the corners, giving her momentary crow’s feet.
Stella tried hard to smile. Technically, they weren’t friends…yet. She imagined Cate circling Myra, appraising her like a Sotheby’s antique. She’d inspect her cuticles and check for split ends, trying to decide if Stella had done a thorough enough makeover.
As the sales clerk rang up the last Diane von Furstenberg dress, Stella slid her AmEx gold card across the counter. “The total is—”
“Wait,” a voice interrupted. Stella turned to see Blythe, with Sophie and Priya standing close behind her, all still in their gray uniform skirts. Blythe leveled her gray eyes at Stella as she threw a handful of plastic packages onto the counter. “You forgot these.”
Each one of the colorful sleeves displayed a glittery mesh thong. Stella froze, feeling like she’d swallowed a bowling bal
l. She hadn’t seen Cloud McClean’s face since last year, when Lola accidentally stumbled on her video “Love Cancer” on MTV. But there she was, winking at Stella from the front of each package, her white-blond hair styled in a sultry up-do.
“Did you want these?” the sales clerk asked, holding a fuchsia one up.
Stella stared at the package. Cloud McClean—unitard-wearing, glitter thong-endorsing, father-stealing Cloud McClean—had showed up in her life last year like a grenade, blowing her family apart. Every time Stella felt free, forgetful, Cloud appeared. There was no escaping her, even in New York, in a department store thousands of miles away from London.
Myra plucked the thong out of the woman’s hand and scooped the rest into her arms. Her face was contorted in anger, like someone had just stomped on Pythagoras’ tail for fun. “Absolutely not,” she snapped. “These are made by trash, for trash. The only person buying them is you.” She shoved them back into Blythe’s arms.
Blythe’s face turned a deep pink. “Whatever…Mug,” she muttered, obviously flustered. Blythe turned on her Tory Burch heel. She threw the glitter thongs onto a Theory table, toppling a tower of baby blue sweaters.
Stella grabbed Myra’s arm. She’d never seen Blythe speechless before. “Thanks,” she mumbled as the sales clerk swiped her card.
They both watched as Blythe and the Beta Sigma Phis disappeared down the escalator. “No problem,” Myra said. “I know how it feels to be teased.”
Stella suddenly felt the urge to apologize—for everything. Maybe she’d never called Myra “Mug the Slug” to her face, but she’d definitely laughed when other people did. She’d spent so much time staring at Myra’s bleached mustache, or rolling her eyes at her Don’t Drink and Derive key chain, she never noticed that Myra was funny…and genuinely nice. When every other Ashton girl was treating Stella like toxic waste, Myra sat next to her at lunch and was thrilled to be her lab partner.