The Daughters

  Todd suddenly swallowed and looked down at the acid green carpet. “Thanks,” he said, looking mortified for some reason.

  “Would it be okay if I kind of tweaked this a little bit?” she asked Mr. Barlow. “Maybe just smooth out some of the story? End up in a different place?”

  “Sure, sure,” Mr. Barlow said, getting distracted by the front page of the Times on his desk. “Good luck, you two.”

  They walked out into the hall, and when they got to French class, Todd sat in the empty chair next to her. It was the closest they had been to each other since Ava’s bathroom.

  “So tonight around seven?” she asked him. “We can do it at my place.”

  “Great. And hey, I want to show you something,” he said, unzipping his bookbag. “Close your eyes.”

  “Where’s Ava?” she asked him. Seeing him alone for this long was a rare event.

  “She has the flu. Just close your eyes.”

  She sighed and shut them. She didn’t seem to have any choice. “Todd, I really need to check my homework for a second—”

  “Okay, open.”

  There was a blue box on her desk, like the ones she’d seen in Todd’s bookcase. “Open it,” he said.

  She opened the box. Inside was a hardback book with a slightly tattered, familiarly blue dust jacket. It was The Great Gatsby. And it looked like a first edition.

  “Oh my God,” she said, almost afraid to touch it. The book’s jacket was creased and wrinkled, and peeling apart at the edges. It looked ancient. “You found it?”

  “Yep. You can take it out,” he said.

  She ran her fingers over the smooth, delicate dust jacket, and carefully opened the book. On the title page was a dark squiggle of ink. She stared, dumbfounded, at the signature. “You got a signed first edition?”

  Todd smiled at her. “My hookup in London really came through.”

  She ran her fingers over the ink. Fitzgerald had touched this book, held this book, and signed this book himself. It was the most precious thing she had ever come across. “I can’t believe you have this.”

  “I don’t have it,” he said. “You do. It’s yours.”

  She gaped at him. “What? I can’t take this! How much did this cost?”

  A deep red blush pulsed in his cheeks. “Don’t worry about it,” he said, shrugging. “It’s for you to start your own collection.”

  “I can’t take this, Todd.”

  “Well, if you want, we can share it,” he said, cocking his head and peering into her eyes in a peculiar way.

  Her heart thudded in her chest. Her palms got sweaty. HE LIKES YOU, said a voice inside her, as loud as a siren.

  “Okay,” she said. “Thanks.”

  “Oh, and we’re on for tonight then?” he asked cheerfully, taking out his French book.

  “Uh, yeah,” she managed to say. “Sure.”

  As she put the book carefully back into the box, and then into her bookbag, she knew that it was time to stop playing the We’re Just Friends game. She was going to tell him how she felt—tonight. Ava or no Ava. After all the games and the missed signals and the weird broken pauses, she had her answer. And for the first time, she finally had the courage to give him hers.

  chapter 21

  Later that afternoon, Lizzie sprinted through the cobblestone triangle of the meatpacking district, her kilt flying around her knees and the wind blowing through her unruly curls. She was fifteen minutes late for her life-changing meeting with Martin Meloy.

  Panting, she turned the corner onto Washington Street and saw the low, block-long, aluminum-green warehouse, and on the bottom floor, the windows of the flagship Martin Meloy store.

  She bypassed the store entrance, emblazoned with twin silver M’s, and ran around the corner to a nondescript glass door. Anyone could walk into Martin Meloy’s boutique and buy wallets and perfume and his coveted clothes, but only the chosen fashion elite knew about this door, which led to Martin’s private, multi-million-dollar five-story studio. She felt a little shiver as she pulled the door open. As Katia Summers’s daughter she wouldn’t have been able to swing this invitation. But now that she was Katia Summers’s model-daughter, everything was different.

  “Hello, Lizzie, Martin’s expecting you,” said a receptionist behind a steel sliver of a desk. She gestured toward the lobby with her fountain pen.

  “Thanks,” she said, unbuttoning her peacoat and hoping she wasn’t too sweaty.

  She walked into the spacious, white lobby. Tufted couches and chairs in purple and magenta dotted the room. A fake tree rose out of the floor, extending its branches in all directions. And in the center was a twisting gold and diamond-studded staircase. As Lizzie climbed the steps, she couldn’t help but think of Mount Olympus, from the myths they’d been reading about in English class.

  “Hello, Lizzie,” said a girl who was waiting for her at the top of the steps. She was tall and thin, with expertly flatironed brown hair and a fresh-scrubbed, freckled face. Lizzie wondered for a moment if she was one of Martin’s models. She definitely could be. “I’m Annalise, Martin’s assistant,” she said in a velvety smooth voice. “They’re waiting for you in the salon.”

  “There’s a salon here?” Lizzie asked, looking around the large open room, where designers hovered over drafting tables.

  “No.” Annalise smiled gently. “The Salon. As in, the French term for a gathering of creative people. Martin is a big fan of the French. Their history, their philosophy, their food… Can I take your bag?”

  Lizzie eyed her dirty bookbag. “Uh, that’s okay.” The less that Annalise noticed her bag, the better.

  “Well, then, follow me,” she said, walking—or rather, floating—down the hall. “Martin is so excited to have you here,” she whispered over her shoulder. “He’s been talking about it all day. I’ve been with him for years and I’ve never seen him so excited about one of his girls.”

  “His girls?”

  Annalise gave her another sweet, patient smile. “I’ll let him explain it.” Annalise came to a stop at the open door. “Here we are.”

  Lizzie walked inside. Katia sat on the couch, dressed in a knee-length pencil skirt and high black boots, her blond hair drawn into a severe bun. She was frowning, but before Lizzie could reach her, Martin suddenly appeared in the doorway. In his distressed velvet jacket he looked like a punk Willy Wonka.

  “Lizzie,” he said, tugging her inside with both hands and giving her a European-style double-cheek kiss. “So good to see you. I hope you found it okay. I’m delighted to have you.” Martin smiled, exposing his blindingly white teeth. “Your mother and I were just talking about you,” he said kindly. “Please. Sit down. Can I get you a cappuccino?”

  “No, thank you,” she said.

  The salon was actually just an office, with furniture that looked like it had been stolen from Versailles and then updated for the twenty-second century: suede chairs with gold-leafed legs, a gigantic armoire with filigreed pulls. A gold velvet sofa stretched against one wall in one long, undulating wave, and the window facing them looked out over the placid gray surface of the Hudson. But like the lobby, the room felt cold and untouched. Lizzie sat tentatively on the sofa next to her mom and kissed her hello.

  “Martin has something he wants to say to you,” Katia told her. “Go ahead, Martin,” she said.

  Martin took off his velvet jacket. Underneath was a simple black T-shirt that showed off his gym-sculpted arms. “When I saw your photo in New York Style, Lizzie,” he said, pacing the floor, “I knew exactly what was going to inspire my next collection. You. Your face. The way it makes you think. The way it seizes your attention. The way it veers between awkward and stunning. The way it breaks all the rules.”

  Awkward and stunning? she thought. What the heck did that mean? Lizzie snuck a glance at her mom. She was watching Martin with an inscrutable expression.

  “You are what my clothes are all about,” he went on. “Straddling the line of what’s acceptable, what??
?s beautiful. Making people think. Provoking people.”

  He leaned closer to her, close enough that she could see the wrinkles and bags under his radiant eyes. She wondered for a moment if Martin Meloy actually slept. “Here, look at this.”

  He picked up a piece of poster board that was leaning against the wall. With a start, Lizzie saw that it was a collage of pictures of her. Her New York Style cover. Her Rayon shoot. The first photo that had run in New York Style. Plus every paparazzi shot that had been taken of her in the past five years: photos of her with her mother at screenings, at Fashion Week, at the supermarket. Pictures that had made her cringe. Pictures that had made other people cringe.

  “You were my inspiration board this season,” he said proudly. “The awkward trailblazer. The girl who doesn’t know she’s beautiful.” He put down the collage and took a deep, meaningful breath. “I want you to be the face of Martin Meloy next year. I want you in my clothing ads, my fragrance ads. My accessories ads. Everything. All over the world. You are the face of the moment. And I want it.”

  It took a moment for this to sink in. Her. Lizzie. Chia Pet. Muse?

  “What do you think?” he asked, crouching forward, as if his entire career depended on her answer.

  “I… I would love to,” she said.

  “Lizzie,” Katia snapped, breaking Martin’s spell. “What about school?”

  “I’m happy to work around her schedule,” Martin replied.

  “She’s in ninth grade,” Katia reminded him.

  “I’m sure she has some free time,” Martin said.

  “I have free time!” Lizzie agreed.

  “Annalise!” Martin called toward the door. “Can you bring in my book, please?” He turned back to them. “Just so we can take a look at Dietrich’s schedule. Dietrich Hoeber,” he said to Lizzie. “He’s my photographer. A genius. First we’ll do a fitting of some of the clothes—I just have a few pieces done—and then we have you do a shoot. Which is why we need to check Dietrich’s availability.”

  “Martin, just hold on a minute—” Katia interjected.

  But Martin didn’t seem to hear her. Annalise hurried in carrying an appointment book the size of a small billboard. She opened it and Martin looked over her shoulder. “Let’s put you down for a fitting tomorrow. Four o’clock. Does that work?”

  “That’s not good for me,” Katia said, sounding exasperated. “I have a meeting with my designers.”

  “Well, I’d like to get Lizzie fitted as soon as possible so Dietrich can shoot her. He’s leaving for Iceland next week.” Martin glanced over the schedule again. “Yes, I’m afraid that’s the best time. Of course, if that doesn’t work for you, Lizzie, then perhaps we can move it.”

  “No, it works for me,” Lizzie said.

  Katia shot Lizzie a warning look, and Lizzie couldn’t help but notice that her mom’s eyes had gotten frighteningly purplish.

  “You know, you don’t have to be here for this part, KK,” Martin said, the faintest trace of a smile on his pink lips. “It’s just a fitting. Believe me, there’ll be plenty of people here to supervise.”

  Katia glanced from Martin to Lizzie as her face reddened. “Fine,” Katia agreed, but she didn’t sound happy about it.

  “Tomorrow at four,” Annalise said, as she scribbled in the book with her red pen.

  Katia snatched her purse from the couch. “In that case, I think we should go now. Lizzie has homework.”

  “Oh, Lizzie, before you go, I’d like to give you something.”

  If he knew that Katia was angry, Martin was pretending not to see it. Instead he strode over to a cabinet, opened the light-colored wood doors, and pulled out the most gorgeous white handbag Lizzie had ever seen. It was made of a soft, buttery white leather, quilted on the sides, and strung with shiny silver chains and buckles. There was even a pocket for an iPhone. “I’m calling it the ‘Lizzie,’ ” he said, handing it to her. “Do you like it?”

  She eased the bag onto her shoulder in disbelief. She’d never cared much about bags, but this was probably the most beautiful thing she had ever seen in her life. “Oh my God. Thank you.”

  “Katia, would you like one, too?” Martin asked.

  Katia glared at him. “Come on, Lizzie, let’s go,” she said, tugging her by the arm toward the hallway.

  Out on the street, Katia’s stilettos struck the cobblestones like thunder. Lizzie lagged behind her for a few minutes, her new bag slamming against her hip. “Why are you so mad?” she asked.

  Her mother wheeled around. “Why am I mad? I felt completely ignored up there. It was like I wasn’t even there.”

  “Mom, he was talking to me. He asked me a question and I said yes.”

  “You said yes?” Katia repeated, rolling her eyes. “You’re fourteen!”

  “I don’t get it,” Lizzie said. “You’re always kissing and hugging him and pretending to be his best friend. Now you hate his guts. For what? For wanting me to work with him? Why does that make you so angry?”

  “Because he’s a parasite, honey!” Katia yelled. “He’s only concerned with making money. Trying to get people to buy his clothes and his perfume and his bags. He’s part of a giant corporation now. He doesn’t care about your career. He certainly didn’t care about you before all of this started. And he doesn’t care about how this is going to be for you. He just wants to use you.”

  “Isn’t that the point? Isn’t that what modeling is all about?” Lizzie’s voice was getting louder. Tourists coming out of his store turned to stare.

  “I know you feel very special right now, honey,” Katia said carefully, struggling to stay calm. “And that’s wonderful. But trust me, if you do this, you’re going to be at the mercy of Martin Meloy and his corporation. And as soon this is over, he’ll find someone else. He’ll use you and move on.”

  “But… but…” She felt tears well up in her eyes. “But what’s wrong with that?” she asked. “It’s just a job.”

  Katia sighed and twisted one of the diamond studs in her ears. “It won’t just be a job for you, honey,” she said in a softer voice. “You’re not a traditional model. You can’t just do his campaign and then go pose for Dior or Yves Saint Laurent. You’re not going to have those options. I don’t want you to burn out before you even begin.” Katia reached out and touched Lizzie’s cheek. “Don’t you see what’s going on here? He’s capitalizing on your story, too. Think about it—this isn’t happening because you’re anonymous, Lizzie. It’s because of me. Do you think you’d be in this position if you weren’t my daughter?”

  Lizzie felt as if someone had punched her in the chest. She stared at her mother in silence.

  On the street, a noisy truck barreled past them. “Katia!” yelled the driver, sticking his head out of the window. “I love you!”

  “Let’s go,” Katia said, heading to the curb where she hailed a cab.

  Inside, Katia gave the driver their destination and Lizzie turned toward the window and swallowed her tears. She wouldn’t give her mother the satisfaction of seeing her cry. She looked down at her new white bag, resting in her lap. Now it seemed like more of a bribe than a gift.

  “Look, it’s just a fitting,” Lizzie said thickly. “If it’s a bad scene, I can always say no. Please? Please?”

  Katia stared out the window. She took so long to answer that Lizzie wasn’t sure she’d heard her. “Fine,” Katia said, digging in her bag as her BlackBerry began to ring. “But just the fitting. Until I make up my mind about the rest of this.”

  As Katia answered her call, Lizzie clutched the white bag with relief. This wasn’t over yet, and she was going to do everything she could to make sure this wouldn’t be over. She pulled out her own phone and saw that she had a missed call from Andrea. She hadn’t told her about Martin Meloy yet. Maybe it was better not to say anything until she knew exactly what was going on. And then she saw that she had a text from Todd.

  NEED TO CANCEL TONIGHT. SORRY. TALK TOMORROW.

  No explanati
on. No warning. No real apology. And it had been his idea to work together tonight in the first place. What a complete jerk.

  As their cab rattled up the West Side Highway, she decided that Todd Piedmont could wallow in his bad relationship for the next four years for all she cared. She tossed her phone back into her bag and listened to her mother, chatting with her agent about her upcoming L’Ete contract. She wished they hadn’t fought, but things were okay. They were more than okay. If Katia couldn’t be there tomorrow for the fitting, she knew exactly who she’d bring.

  chapter 22

  “I’ve got one word for Todd Piedmont: Loo-oo-SER,” Carina declared the next morning, making an L with her fingers and plastering it onto her forehead. “Who does he think he is?”

  “A Scorpio,” Hudson spat, tying a pink Hermès scarf around her black ponytail and knotting it with outrage. “And he probably has Pluto in his relationship house.”

  “And this after he gave me that book,” Lizzie said, twirling her lacrosse stick in her hand. “Do you guys know how much it’s worth? A hundred thousand bucks! I looked it up!”

  “Well, my dad gives diamonds on the second date,” Carina said, leaning against the gym wall. “Don’t read too much into that.”

  Hudson sighed with disgust. “He’s just way too screwed-up, Lizzie. I say move on.”

  “Oh, completely. I’m totally over him.” She twirled her stick, watching the woven basket become a blur. “At least he’s not in school today. Even though I wish I could ignore him.”

  “But hey!” Hudson said, nudging Lizzie, her green eyes suddenly alive again. “You’re the new face of Martin Meloy! That’s like the biggest deal in the world. Is your mom gonna be there today?”

  “No, she can’t go,” Lizzie said, unsure how to explain the fight with Katia. Though they’d somewhat made up in the cab, they’d avoided each other the rest of the night, until her mom and dad went out to dinner. “She’s not that into it. We sorta had a big fight about it.”