12
LILI INCURS ASHLEY’S “SIGNATURE” SARCASM
LILI DIDN'T THINK OF HERSELF as a cowardly person, but days were passing and she still hadn’t made her stand. The S. Society and its idea of a signature accessory were sweeping Miss Gamble’s. Daria Hart had started wearing Miu Miu flats personalized with ribbons in Miss Gamble plaid. Catherine Diega flew up and down the hallways trailing a shimmery scarf trimmed with humanely farmed snow rabbit fur and telling everyone her style role model was Isadora Duncan. Whoever that was.
Even Cass Franklin, who couldn’t go anywhere without her oxygen tank, had acquired a bejeweled inhaler cozy, which she wore dangling from the strap of her bag. All everyone could talk about was their signature item, and how important it was to develop a unique style.
Finally, on Tuesday morning, when the Ashleys assembled at the Fillmore Starbucks, Lili decided it was time. She arrived promptly, as usual, and ordered her drink before the other girls arrived. Then she dropped her bag on the counter by the window and sat on a tall stool, waiting for all hell to break loose.
Ashley was the last to get there but the first to notice.
“What is that?” Ashley pointed an accusing finger at Lili’s bag. It was not the Ashleys handbag of choice, as Lili knew very well. She lifted her chin in the air defiantly and took a long sip from her hot drink before answering.
“It’s a vintage Gucci,” Lili said. The bag was a sturdy blue leather in a classic bowling-bag shape.
“Vintage? You mean secondhand?”
“I think it’s pretty cool,” said A. A., stroking the bag as though it were a small pedigreed cat.
“I would totally love one of those!” Lauren enthused. She stared down at her own bag with a look of instant discontent.
“Where did you get it, exactly?” Ashley raised an eyebrow and did not look pleased.
“At this great vintage store in Cow Hollow,” Lili told her.
“Ugh!” Ashley wrinkled her nose. “Isn’t there a flea market down there? Are there going to be fleas in this bag?”
Lili rolled her eyes.
“Vintage is all the rage,” she informed them. “I think Sophia Loren used to own a bag like this.”
“Well, I prefer Ralph Lauren,” snapped Ashley.
“Pretties, we better go,” A. A. interjected. “If we want to get to the bench in time, that is.”
Ashley shrugged, prying off the lid of her venti decaf soy latte and blowing on the hot liquid. She was never in any hurry to get to school even these days, even when it was crucial that they arrive before the S. Society.
“Oh . . . the bench.” Lauren sighed. Lili knew how she felt. The tussle over possession of the bench outside Miss Gamble’s was getting really old, really fast. It made arriving at school every day so tense and nerve-racking. This must be the way every other girl at Miss Gamble’s used to feel, walking past the Ashleys every morning! She lowered herself from the stool and picked up her bag.
“Omigod! What happened to your Louboutins?” Ashley shrieked, pointing toward Lili’s feet.
“Dude, you’re wearing Vans!” Clearly, A. A. couldn’t believe it either.
“I thought it was time for a change,” Lili said in a low voice. She clicked the soft heels of her black-and-white canvas Vans together. “And these are way more comfortable.”
“Comfortable?” Ashley was scandalized. “What do you mean, comfortable? What’s next? Fat-people jeans?”
“They’re cute and all.” Lauren was being kind, thank goodness. “But are you sure they’ll be allowed at Miss Gamble’s? I thought that saddle shoes were the regulation.”
Lili rolled her eyes. She was tired of rules and regulations. She was tired of always being the good girl. She’d never heard from Max after spilling her true confessions to him at the vintage store, and she had to admit to herself finally that he really wasn’t interested in her anymore.
Still, the next time she bumped into him, she wanted Max to see the true Lili—not the spoiled rich girl wearing her expensive high heels and driving around in a giant SUV. She wanted him to see the girl who was going to grow up and run a nightclub in New York City. Maybe then he’d realize his mistake. Unlikely, but it was a nice fantasy she harbored.
She liked looking different from the Ashleys for a change. Maybe the S. Society was right on that point—everyone needed their own signature style.
“They make you look short,” complained Ashley.
Lili wished Ashley would drop it already. As they approached Miss Gamble’s, she saw two girls dashing from a parked silver Lexus SUV toward the stone bench. Sure enough, it was Sadie and Sheridan.
“Quick!” she called to the other Ashleys. “We have to get to the stone bench before they do!”
Lili started sprinting away, glad she was wearing flat shoes for a change, even if they did make her—as Ashley had pointed out—the size of a munchkin.
“Lil!” Ashley called. “No need to run.”
“But they’ll get there first,” Lauren pointed out, breathlessly hustling up. “And I really don’t think we should try to drag them off.”
None of them were very enthused about Ashley’s suggestion last night that they physically remove the S. Society from the bench if they saw them there. Even if it was a four-against-two fight.
“Whatever!” said Ashley breezily. “Just cool it, ladies. Take it from me—there’s no need to argue over the bench this morning.”
“But they’re headed there right now,” A. A. pointed out. Sheridan was scampering ahead of Sadie, her Prada coat flapping open. Sadie must have spotted the Ashleys stalking up the hill, because her face was a combination of panic and glee. She was calling something to Sheridan, probably telling her to hurry. They’d be sitting there all gloating and triumphant by the time the Ashleys got there. Lili couldn’t stand it.
“Oh God,” moaned Lauren. “Shall we just walk past them and go into school early?”
“Go into school early?” scoffed Ashley. “I don’t think so.”
“We could walk behind them and accidentally-on-purpose drip coffee on their heads,” A. A. suggested. Ashley sighed, as if this were the lamest idea she’d ever heard.
“Or,” Ashley said, “we could just let them sit.”
“What?” Lili shot Ashley a look. Was Ashley Spencer actually giving up the fight?
“Let them settle in,” said Ashley, smiling in the direction of Sadie and Sheridan. Both were now sitting on the stone bench, with their bags up on the seat as well, so it was impossible for anyone else to squeeze alongside them. Quite a crowd was gathering, as usual these days. All the other girls at Miss Gamble’s were loving the Ashleys vs. S. Society showdowns—especially, it seemed to Lili, when the S. Society gained the upper hand. “How long till the bell?”
“Seven minutes,” said Lauren, checking the time on her cell phone. She sounded miserable, and Lili wasn’t surprised. This was so humiliating!
“Seven minutes—perfect,” Ashley said mysteriously. “Just long enough.”
“For what?” A. A. asked in a hushed voice. They were approaching the bench, and, Lili guessed, she didn’t want Sheridan and Sadie to hear the desperation in her voice. “For us to fight them and get suspended?”
“I don’t want to get suspended,” Lili whispered. Her parents would kill her, and she’d be off the Honor Board. If they took her phone away again, how would she ever hear from Max? Not that he’d called her since she saw him at the vintage store, but still . . .
They all stopped in front of the bench. Sheridan and Sadie flashed each other gloating looks. Okay, they’d won. They were Queens of the Bench this morning.
“Morning, ladies!” Ashley called out in a singsong voice. Huh? Why was she acting as though Sheridan and Sadie were her best friends all of a sudden? She addressed Sheridan. “Is that a new coat?”
&
nbsp; “It is, actually,” Sheridan said. She smoothed down the lapel of her pale yellow coat.
“And, Sally—I mean, Sadie,” Ashley continued. What exactly was she up to? Lili knew Ashley: She had a devious plan. “That is the cutest trench. Is it Dolce? I love winter white, don’t you?”
“Duh!” said Sadie. She clearly didn’t know what to make of Ashley’s compliments either. “I wouldn’t be wearing it if I didn’t.”
“If you’re kissing up to us so you’ll get an invitation to sit on the bench, you’re wasting your time,” Sheridan told Ashley. “The S. Society has very high standards. Our members wear signature items. Not matching bags and shoes. Though it looks like Lili’s trying to change teams, doesn’t it?”
Lili suddenly felt intensely disloyal for bringing a vintage bag to school.
“Thanks,” she snapped at Sheridan, “but I don’t intend to be on the losing side.”
“You’re the loser,” Sheridan sneered.
“No, you are!”
“Wait until Congé’s announced,” Sadie practically shouted. “Then we’ll see who’s on the losing side!”
“Now, now,” said Ashley, smiling that unfamiliar angel-smile again. “There’s no need to shout. You should be enjoying sitting on the bench. It’s really quite comfortable, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yes, I would say,” Sadie replied, not returning Ashley’s fake smile. She settled into the bench, leaning her head against the high stone back as though it was a soft, comfy sofa. There must be a method to Ashley’s madness, Lili thought, but she couldn’t tell what it was yet.
“Could you go stand somewhere else?” Sheridan was waving them away. “All those matching clothes make me feel like I’m in some horror movie where clones have taken over the world.”
“You’ve got some nerve . . . ,” A. A. started, one hand balling into a fist.
“No,” Sheridan said. “We’ve got the bench. And you haven’t. What’s wrong, Lauren? Are you tired of being a pseudo-Ashley? Well, too bad. We don’t take rejects in the S. Society.”
“That’s a joke,” Lili burst in. How could Ashley just stand there and let them bad-mouth her friends? “You’re nothing but rejects. That’s why none of you would ever be invited to join the Ashleys.”
“We wouldn’t want to,” argued Sadie.
“I just think you’re both so brave.” Ashley sighed. Everyone looked at her—Sadie and Sheridan, the other Ashleys, and the crowd of delighted, wide-eyed girls crowding the outside stairs. “Wearing such pale colors. I would be worried about sitting . . . well, never mind.”
“Sitting where? On the bench? Whatever, Ashley.” Sheridan rolled her eyes. “We can sit wherever we like.”
“And we like it here,” chimed in Sadie.
“Of course you do,” cooed Ashley. The bell rang, and all the girls hanging around the stairs sighed—the show was over for another day.
Or was it?
The Ashleys started walking toward the stairs—everyone except Ashley Spencer.
“What are you waiting for?” sniped Sheridan, getting up and grabbing her bag. Sadie stood up as well, tossing her hair and fiddling with the belt of her coat. “Are you waiting until everyone’s gone in, just so you can say you got to sit on the bench today?”
“Oh no,” said Ashley. “I wouldn’t dream of being late for—OH NO!”
Everyone on the stairs stopped dead; girls already inside the main corridor of Miss Gamble’s pushed their way out again, to find out why Ashley Spencer was screaming.
“What?” snapped Sheridan. Lili, who’d had one foot on the bottom step, found herself pushed back onto the sidewalk.
“Your . . . your coats!” Ashley shrieked, then clapped a hand over her mouth, as though she was too shocked to go on.
“What?” Sheridan and Sadie both looked down at their coats, twisting to see the backs. Ashley pointed an accusing finger and gazed up at her audience on the stairs, making sure—Lili was certain—that as many people as possible would look.
“Yuck!” Sadie started battering her coat, frantically dusting off her shoulders and butt. “It won’t come off!”
“What won’t come . . . OMG!” Sheridan raised one hand: It was covered in thick, ashy dust. She turned around and around in circles, and Lili saw what the problem was. Her entire back looked like it was smudged with charcoal. “My coat!”
“Gosh,” said Ashley in a faux-sympathetic voice. Everyone on the stairs was tittering and pointing. “It’s not so yellow anymore, is it? That bench must have been really dusty.”
“You did this!” cried Sadie. Her white coat was a mess. Lili started laughing. Whatever this stuff was, and however Ashley had managed to coat the bench with it, it had certainly done the trick. The queens of the S. Society looked like they’d been climbing up chimneys.
“Did what?” Ashley asked, all innocence. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve been telling the school for weeks that the bench is dirty and needs cleaning. Maybe now they’ll do something about it.”
“My coat is ruined,” spluttered Sheridan.
“You’re going to pay for this, Ashley Spencer,” Sadie threatened.
“I doubt that,” said Ashley. She walked over to Lili and linked arms. A. A. and Lauren, farther up the stairs, smiled down at them. “Maybe you should be more careful where you sit. Just a suggestion!”
“What was that stuff?” Lili whispered when they were safely inside and the giggling masses were dispersing into classrooms.
“It’s a charcoal rub you use to clean stone,” Ashley confided. “Invisible to the naked eye. You can’t buy it in the States—nobody’s even heard of it here. Our grounds staff uses it on our fountain. It sits on the stone for twelve hours, and then you have to scrub it off. Otherwise, if you happen to brush against it or sit on it, well . . .”
“You’re going to pay for this, Ashley Spencer!” squeaked A. A., imitating Sadie’s annoying whine. They all burst out laughing.
“I didn’t know what you were up to at first,” Lili admitted.
“I thought you might be trying to make friends with them,” agreed Lauren.
“Oh ye of little faith,” Ashley said, beaming. “Did you really think I’d give up the bench so easily?”
Lili had to hand it to Ashley. Maybe she fought dirty—quite literally—but one thing was sure: On her watch, the Ashleys would always come out on top.
13
IS THERE SUCH A THING AS MOMSWAP?
WHEN A. A. GOT BACK TO the penthouse apartment in the Fairmont that afternoon, her mother was home. This wouldn’t be an unusual event in most households, but A. A.’s family was not like other families. Most of the time it was just her and Ned, with a maid or two wandering in and out.
Their mother, the beautiful former model Jeanine (one name only), spent most of her time flitting around the world, falling in and out of love, crashing the front rows at fashion shows in Milan and Paris, making headlines with her crazy behavior on yachts in the Caribbean, promoting her own range of botanical cosmetics on QVC, or sampling new beauty and body treatments from Bali to Brazil.
Not that she wasn’t there for her kids: A. A. knew that a quick phone call would bring Jeanine home from wherever she was in the known universe. Jeanine doted on A. A. and Ned. But she was never going to be the apron-wearing, cookie-baking, car-pooling, homework-checking mother A. A. saw on television shows. That was fine with A. A.—who needed a mother in the kitchen when downstairs at the Fairmont there was a team of four French pastry chefs, ready to send up anything A. A. and Ned felt like eating?
But it was still nice to hang out with Jeanine, even if she insisted on redecorating their apartment way too often and kept trying to persuade A. A. to wear high heels and designer clothes when she’d much rather be in yoga pants and a T-shirt.
This afternoon her mother was sprawled
on the huge white rug in front of the fireplace, her long legs hoisted straight in the air and her luxuriant dark hair spread out around her. A. A. couldn’t tell if she was practicing Pilates or admiring her new shoes.
“Hey, Mia Hamm!” Jeanine called, lowering her legs to the ground.
“Hey, Mom!” A. A. bent over to kiss her mother’s forehead and then flopped onto the rug next to her. The roaring fire, controlled—like almost everything in their apartment—by remote control, made the high-ceilinged living room feel warm and cozy.
“Good day at school?”
“It was okay.”
“Meet any cute boys?”
“You know that Miss Gamble’s is all-girls.” A. A. lay back, cradling her head in her hands.
“And that’s exactly why I sent you there,” said Jeanine. “Keep away from boys, A. A.! That’s my motherly advice to you. Listen to the woman who’s learned the hard way.”
A. A. couldn’t help laughing.
“Listen, giggly girl,” Jeanine said, sitting up abruptly and shaking her hair. “I got a little favor to ask you. Just a teensy-weensy little favor for your poor old mother.”
“What?” A. A. narrowed her eyes. The last time Jeanine asked for a favor, it involved A. A. getting a full preteen botanicals makeover on a stage set up at the mall. The shame!
“You like Marty, don’t you?” Jeanine asked. The other week A. A. and Ned had had the pleasure of meeting Jeanine’s newest boyfriend. Marty Law was a famous film director who was well known for winning an Oscar for his first and best film, The Don, about an Italian mobster family. Since then he’d made a few flops and was now better known for his vineyard in Santa Barbara.
“I guess.” A. A. nodded. She’d liked Marty well enough, although she was a little intimidated by his cigar and his bushy silver beard.
“Well,” Jeanine continued in her silkiest voice, “he wants to cast you in a movie.”
“What?” A. A. sat up, shaking her head in disbelief.