Survival of the Fiercest (14 page)

T
he next morning, Lola stood in the living room in her Harry Potter pajamas, picking M&M's out of a Ming vase. She'd spent the entire night curled up in bed with Heath Bar, using his thick orange fur as a tissue. Her eyes were practically swollen shut and her face felt raw. Even worse, Stella had put her in charge of cleaning the living room. She'd just scraped pink frosting off the mantel, her teeth gritted the whole time. She shouldn't have been vacuuming ground chocolates from the rug, or scrubbing bloody icing from the floor. It was never her party in the first place.

She dropped the M&M's into a trash bag, shaking the sticky ones from her hands. She couldn't stop picturing Gunther's face, how he'd pulled away from her in disgust.
You aahh feeelthy! You smeeell like ze poo-poo!
She'd been so dim. She shouldn't have believed anyone—Ayana, Andie, or Gunther—when they said she could be a model. Because, somewhere deep down, she always knew the truth. Betsy Carmichael was right. She wasn't
supposed to walk down the hall and have people look up to her; she wasn't supposed to be featured on the
Ashton News
as a person to watch. There were already enough girls like that at Ashton, and she already had her place. She was Lola “Days of the Week” Childs.

Stella appeared in the doorway in plaid boxers and a T-shirt. “Lola…I have a present for you.” She was wearing bright yellow rubber gloves, a scrubbing brush in one hand and a bucket in the other. “Here. There are punch puddles all over the kitchen floor.”

“Why can't
you
clean the floor?” Lola punted a cupcake in the middle of the Persian rug. Cate had already demanded she collect the plastic cups from the dining room, even though she hadn't set foot in there the entire night.

“I'm cleaning the foyer,” Stella said as she brushed back her curls with the crook of her elbow. She'd been up since eight, pulling down the wall of Polaroids. She didn't have the energy to argue. Last night, their grandmum had come home early from her date. Margot had looked at the punch stain on the foyer wall and the cupcakes smashed into the floor and barely said a word. Apparently things with Walter Hodgeworth didn't go as well as she'd hoped. He preferred women in their fifties.
I look like I'm in my fifties!
she cried. She'd agreed the party could be “their secret” as long as the girls tidied the house first thing this morning, so that it was in perfect condition when Margot woke up. “Besides,” Stella added, “Andie will help you.”

Lola cringed at the sound of Andie's name. She should've realized Andie wasn't okay with her modeling. She was just wait
ing, looking for the perfect way to get back at her. Lola imagined her at Kyle's band practice, batting her eyelashes like a twit and tossing her hair over her shoulder the same way she'd showed Lola. She had probably decided to keep Kyle on call, in case Clay broke up with her. It just wasn't fair—to Lola, or to Kyle. Even if he hadn't been the best friend this week, Lola was sad just thinking about his face last night. He'd looked like he was about to cry. “Maybe I don't want Andie to help me,” Lola mumbled.

“Please, Lola.” Stella sighed. “Just do it for me.” She dropped the bucket on the floor and disappeared into the foyer.

In the kitchen, Andie was kneeling on the ground, surrounded by a puddle of pink foam.

“Hey…” Andie said, trying hard to smile. Lola hadn't spoken to her since last night. She'd barricaded herself in her room, locking the bathroom door so Andie couldn't get in. Andie knew she was mad, but she just needed to explain. That one little lie about “Clay's sweatshirt” had snowballed, turning into something too big to control. “Can you pass the bucket?” she asked, breaking the silence.

Lola dumped some soapy water on the floor, splashing it right in Andie's face. Then she knelt down and started scrubbing, pretending she hadn't heard the question. “Lola, I can explain…” Andie started.

“Don't bother.” Lola was scrubbing so hard she nearly took the finish off the wood. “I don't want to hear how you forgot to tell me you were going to Kyle's band practice. You just flirted with him because you were mad at me about Ayana. You're jealous I was modeling.”

Andie swallowed hard. Just last week she'd flirted with Kyle to get back at Lola for the Ford go-see, but this time was different. Kyle was the one who'd showed up at the soccer game. Kyle was the one who'd IMed her. She hadn't set out to hurt Lola. The only thing she'd done wrong was like him back. “If I was so jealous, why would I help you do your makeup for the go-see? Why would I tell you to meet Gunther and help you pick out a dress to wear?” She looked Lola in the eyes. “I'm happy for you, I am. And I was going to tell you I'd been hanging out with Kyle eventually, but there was never a good time. You were upset about Pacific Sunwear, or Betsy Carmichael, or Gunther.”

Lola stopped scrubbing, her fingers pink. It was true. Andie
had
helped her with modeling. But she still couldn't get past all the lies. The entire time she'd been texting Kyle, and IMing him, asking him to hang out, he'd been hanging out with Andie. Not once—but several times. She'd made her look like a fool. “Just tell me one thing—was that even Clay's sweatshirt in your room? Was I right? Was it Kyle's?”

Andie sat back on her heels. “Yeah. It was.”

Lola winced. Kyle had given Andie a CD
and
his sweatshirt. He didn't just fancy her—he was bloody obsessed. Her mobile vibrated in her pocket and she darted into the living room, thankful to get away from her stepsister. She didn't want to think anymore about Kyle waiting for Andie outside Ashton after school, or asking her to play a one-on-one soccer match on the Great Lawn. She glanced at the ID, which said
Unavailable
. Abby's number in London was private, so they always used it
when they prank-called Stella. Lola smiled for the first time all day. “Abby?”

“No, Lola. Hi. It's Ayana Bennington.”

Lola imagined Ayana in her massive office, her four-inch heels crossed on top of her desk. Ayana was known for the thick black hair that fell past her butt, and Lola pictured it in a braid, wrapped around her neck like a scarf.

“I guess you heard about the shoot,” Lola muttered.

“I did. Gunther just called.” Lola's palms were so sweaty she was afraid the mobile would slip from her hands like a bar of soap. If she'd known it was Ayana, she never would've picked up.

“Ayana, it's just…” Lola began, her face feeling hot. She had hoped to be the model Ayana said she was. She had hoped she'd be able to walk into a room and look confident, assured, so everyone—including the girls at Ashton Prep—would like her. She'd hoped to keep her shoulders pulled back and her chin up, to show Gunther she was just like her mum—that she was
that
talented,
that
beautiful. But she knew now she'd never be Emma Childs. Sometimes Lola couldn't believe she was even her daughter.

She didn't need Ayana to tell her that.

“It's just nothing, my dear. Gunther developed the shots. He loves them.”

“He does?” Lola squeezed the back of the couch, stunned. Heath Bar was working his claws into its arm, but she was so excited, she didn't want to ruin the moment by yelling at him.

“He wasn't thrilled about the shoot. But when he developed the shots they were beautiful. I told you—you have a very
unique look.” Lola bounced up and down on her heels. “You're the industry's new It girl. The billboard goes up in Times Square next week, and he wants to book you for the Light shoot. We'll discuss it all this week—just wanted to give you the good news.”

“Yes, right,” Lola said and hung up. She stared at her reflection in the gilded mirror on the wall. Her hair was still a little greasy, and she wasn't wearing her headband. But for the first time she noticed the bits of gold in her irises and the way her freckles spread evenly over her entire face. She realized she'd never had a single pimple, and her eyebrows arched in the center even though she'd never tweezed them the way most girls did. She pulled back her hair, revealing her ears. She'd always hated them. They still weren't her favorite feature, but right now they didn't seem so big, or so strange looking. Right now they were part of what made her “unique,” and maybe even a little…pretty.

Lola smiled at her reflection. It didn't matter if Stella said she had Dumbo ears, or if her nose wasn't a perfect button like Cate's. It didn't matter if Kyle never looked at her the way he looked at Andie. Because for the first time she was looking at herself…and she liked what she saw.

She bounded into the foyer and up the stairs, not stopping until she reached her mum's room. She needed to share the news with someone. It had just happened, and already it felt like a good dream she never wanted to wake up from. Margot was still curled up in bed, watching a marathon of
As the World Turns
on SoapNet. “Have you luvs finished tidying up?” She asked. Her hair was flattened to her head and she was still in her silk pajamas. She was clutching a box of tissues in one hand.

“Grandmum…” Lola climbed onto the bed. She pressed her fingers into her freckled cheeks. “I'm going to be on Gunther's billboard.”

Margot bolted upright. “That's brilliant!” she cried, and squeezed Lola to her chest. Lola inhaled the scent of Crème de la Mer face moisturizer. “Your mum is going to be so proud of you.”

“Thanks,” Lola said, waiting for Margot to say something else.

But she just took Lola's hand in her own and smiled. “Really, luv.” Lola felt just the slightest pang of disappointment. She'd wanted her grandmum to jump up and down on the bed with her and demand they go get Pinkberry to celebrate. Or to be so bloody excited for her that she had to scream. She sometimes forgot that even if Margot wore halter dresses and heels, she was still a sixty-eight-year-old woman.

Her grandmum had done Lola's makeup for the Gutter shoot, but without one person, she never would've gotten the job. She would've still been upset about the Pacific Sunwear casting, or she would've written an e-mail to Ayana Bennington telling her to bugger off. Staring into her grandmum's green eyes, she realized she hadn't wanted to share the news with just anyone—she'd wanted to share it with
Andie
.

S
tella stood outside a three-story town house on Seventieth Street, feeling like the eggs she had for breakfast might make a second appearance. She'd called Myra five times this morning, but she'd refused to pick up. Myra was Stella's first real friend in New York—the first one who wasn't related to her, at least. She was the only person Stella had told about her dad and Cloud McClean, and the only person Stella knew at school whom she hadn't met through Cate. She couldn't lose her over Blythe's bloody challenge.

Stella pressed down on the doorbell, her fingers trembling. After she'd finished cleaning the guest bathrooms (holding her nose the entire time), she'd gone shopping at the Manhattan Mall, a place she'd found through a Google search. She was now wearing a denim skirt, Myra's signature rainbow knee-highs, and a
HOW'S MY DERIVING
? tee. She'd even bought a sweater for Myra's ferret, Pythagoras, as an
I'm sorry
present (technically it was made for toy poodles, but she hoped it would do). It was a
little extreme, but she needed to show Myra that she didn't care about what she wore—Stella cared about who she was. And she wanted to be friends with her, no matter what.

The front door swung open and Myra appeared, her blond hair pulled back into a tight bun. Her eyes were still a little swollen from the night before. Seeing Stella's outfit, she started to close the door. “Myra—wait!” Stella cried, catching it before it could shut. “Please?”

Myra crossed her arms over her chest. “What are you doing here?” She looked both ways down Seventieth Street, as though she were expecting to see Cate hiding behind her neighbor's garbage can. “Is this some sort of joke?”

“No,” Stella said, pointing to her outfit. “These are my new socks and this my new T-shirt.” She studied Myra's face, but her amber eyes revealed nothing. “I was planning on wearing them to school tomorrow. And the next day…until you forgive me.”

Stella waited for Myra to smile, or laugh, but she didn't. Instead she tapped her foot, her clog keeping time like a metronome. “I can't forgive you if you don't apologize,” she said finally.

“I was getting to that.” Stella twisted one hand in the other, wringing it like a wet towel. She'd spent the entire walk to Myra's house rehearsing what she'd say, but now everything seemed inadequate. If Myra didn't want to be friends with her anymore, she couldn't argue, or convince herself Myra was overreacting. Because she knew that whatever happened—even if Myra threw a clog in her face—she deserved it. “I'm sorry, Myra, I am. And this is the only way I knew how to show you. I don't care about the stupid makeover, or if you wear your
EASY AS
π T-shirt every
day for the rest of your life. Maybe things started with Blythe's challenge, but I'm lucky we became friends. You're smart, and funny, and…the best person I've met since I've been in New York.”

Myra's face softened. “Do you really mean that?”

“More than anything. Here,” Stella pulled the ferret-size present from her Marc Jacobs bag and pressed it into Myra's hands. “I bought this for Pythagoras.”

Myra opened the box and held up the miniature argyle sweater. Stella had thought it was perfect for a ferret with a math-inspired nickname. For the first time since the incident yesterday, Myra smiled. “Thanks.” She looked at Stella's outfit and let out a small laugh. “You're really going to wear that to school tomorrow?”

“I will if you want me to,” Stella offered. She would've worn it for the entire year. Being popular seemed pointless now. She'd been popular in London, and all she had to show for it were two “best mates” who hadn't rung her once since she'd been in New York. Not to see how her mum's wedding was, or to hear about her first day at her new school. Not even to confirm that she hadn't gotten run over by a cab.

Myra shook her head. “That
would
be funny, but it's not necessary.” She looked Stella in the eye, suddenly serious. “I can't be the third member of Chi Sigma, though. And I definitely can't be
Cate Sloane's
best friend. It's just not me.” She straightened up, but her face still looked sad. “Besides, you spend every minute with her. I just don't see how this would work.”

Stella let out a deep breath. Cate was her stepsister. It wasn't like she could avoid hanging out with her…even if she wanted
to. But the reality was, right now they could hardly be considered friends. Cate had only said two words to her all morning:
Plastic bag?
she'd asked, tossing Stella one. Stella knew Cate was mad she'd abandoned the party, but she'd been upset about Myra. The last thing she'd wanted to do after their fight was field questions from
Ashton News
.

Stella and Cate both couldn't stand the headmistress's high-pitched voice. They both laughed at the way Winston hummed Sinatra whenever he thought he was in a room alone. And they both loved an afternoon of shopping on Madison Avenue, trying on dresses that would only be appropriate for an art auction at Sotheby's.

But lately it felt like they were too different. Yes, Cate had liked Myra. But it was only because she was a way to prove to Blythe that they were just as much of a sorority as Beta Sigma Phi. Stella liked Myra for who she was—the person who thought Cloud McClean was a blue-haired eleventh-grader. Stella tugged on a blond curl, her decision made. “I don't need to spend every minute with Cate,” she said. “I just need you—to be my friend.”

Myra stepped out of the doorway and put her tiny arms around Stella. It wasn't her usual, rib cage-breaking hug, but it was enough to squeeze tears into Stella's eyes. “I still am,” she said quietly.