“We’re not going to find a third member,” Stella said, ripping a page out of her sketchbook and handing it to Cate. “They’re going to find us.”
CHI SIGMA [YOUR LETTER HERE]
Do you have what it takes to be in Ashton Prep’s hottest new sorority?
If so, come to the drawing room on Thursday right after school and tell us why we should choose you as our third member.
Bring your A-game, ladies—you’re going to need it.
*This once-in-a-lifetime opportunity brought to you by Cate Sloane and Stella Childs.
“This is perfect!” Cate screamed. “We’ll have the girls rush!” At this, Margot sat up, her thick blond hair falling in her eyes. She looked around in confusion, like she wasn’t sure if she was still dreaming.
Cate hugged Stella so tight she nearly cracked her ribs. News of the rush would spread faster than lice at a middle school sleepover. Girls would swarm Bergdorf’s after school tomorrow, fighting over the perfect Badgley Mischka dress for their first impression. She pictured a line of ninth-graders outside the Ashton Prep drawing room, their résumés in hand as they rehearsed their Chi Sigma pitch. I’m sorry, we need someone a little more…easygoing, Cate imagined herself saying, as Amy Klentak threw a temper tantrum over her immediate dismissal.
“Good work,” Cate said. As she looked at the flyer in her hands she imagined walking down the hall with her new sorority: Chi Sigma Theta, or Gamma, or whatever it became. It would never be Chi Beta Phi. Cate would never laugh as hard as she did when Blythe jokingly taped her nose up toward her forehead, making herself look like a pig. No one could comfort Cate as well as Priya, who was calmer than a yoga guru. And even Sophie was irreplaceable. Cate would always remember the “music video” she made on her webcam, where she lip-synched Fergie’s “Glamorous” wearing every piece of her mom’s diamond jewelry.
But Chi Beta Phi was over now. And if Cate and Stella’s new sorority was going to be the best at Ashton Prep, it would have to be more visible, more popular, and fiercer than Blythe’s. Cate clutched the flyer to her chest and smiled. She had put the Chi in Chi Beta Phi. She was more than up to the challenge.
IGNORANCE IS BLISS…AT LEAST FOR LOLA
Andie carried the crumpet up the stairs, watching as the honey melted over its spongy top. She felt so guilty about hanging out with Kyle, she’d begged Greta, their cook, to make Lola’s favorite snack. Kyle had IMed her yesterday, and they’d spent two hours debating the Shins vs. Death Cab for Cutie, and Killington vs. Sugarloaf. Afterward Andie rolled around in bed, unable to sleep. She couldn’t stop picturing them huddled together on a ski lift, so close that Kyle’s breath fogged up her goggles. It wasn’t that she had a crush. It was that with every hour—every minute—it was getting worse.
She knocked on Lola’s door. No matter how hard it was, no matter how mad Lola would be, she had to tell her—now. She only hoped the crumpets would serve as an adequate consolation prize.
“Look what Greta made!” she called out cheerfully. She set the plate down on Lola’s dresser, right next to the framed picture of her and her best friend, Abby, on Primrose Hill. “Lola?”
“What?” a muffled voice said. It came from somewhere inside the mound of bedding piled on Lola’s mattress. The tangle of pillows and blankets reminded Andie of the cushion forts she and Cate used to make when they were little, back when they could still stand to be in the same room together.
“Lola!” Andie cried, sitting down on the edge of the bed. She pushed back the patchwork quilt. Lola was curled up in a ball with her cheek resting on Heath Bar’s furry back. Her eyes were swollen and red, like she’d had a severe allergy attack. Andie had seen the “first-week-of-school highlight reel” yesterday—it wasn’t good. Lola had been on the verge of tears all through dinner last night. But eventually everyone ended up doing something stupid on Ashton News. It was like a rite of passage. Just last year they’d shown her getting knocked in the face with a soccer ball. “You cannot let Betsy Carmichael get to you. Besides, nobody cares if you wear days-of-the-week underwear.”
“It’s not that. Well, it’s not just that.” Lola stared at the turquoise wall and shook her head. The end of her freckled nose twitched, the way it always did when she was trying not to cry.
“What’s wrong?” Andie leaned back, suddenly nervous. She’d waited a whole day to tell Lola she’d been talking to Kyle. She just hoped Kyle hadn’t mentioned it first.
Lola sat up, sniffing back tears. “Everything,” she mumbled, petting Heath Bar hard on his head. The tabby cat’s eyes pulled back, like he’d just gotten a kitty face-lift. The highlight reel was only the beginning. All day, she couldn’t stop thinking of how daft she’d been at the casting, or how she’d had to keep her hand on her dress for the entire tube ride home, so thirty more people wouldn’t see her bum. “It’s not just the knickers thing, I—” She stopped herself. All last week Andie had kept on about Ford, striking impromptu poses in doors, puddles, and any other reflective surface she could find. Now Lola was the one going on casting calls. Even if she hadn’t done anything wrong, it wasn’t exactly the easiest news to share.
Lola let out a deep breath, feeling the words come out one by one. “That agent Ayana Bennington called me yesterday. I went on a modeling casting for some company called Pacific Sunwear.” She made certain she said it right this time. Lola had only told her grandmum about the casting, and that was because she needed her to sign a release form. “I was daft to go. Everyone there was tan, with little ears and little button noses.” Lola picked a piece of cat hair off the quilt, afraid to look up. “I’m sorry—I should have told you.”
Andie stared at the horseshoe on Lola’s wall. She didn’t know what to say. After the incident at Ford, she’d told Lola it was okay with her if she wanted to model—she just hadn’t thought Lola would go ahead and do it two days later. “It’s fine…really,” she managed. She pictured Lola going to the agency every day after school, passing Kate Moss in the lobby. Lola! Kate would cry, kissing her on both cheeks, Let’s get together after the Rodarte show!
Still. She wasn’t allowed to be mad. Not when she was scrimmaging with Kyle, talking to him online, and staying up late obsessing over what their first kiss would be like. Since Lola had kept her own secret, it was time for Andie to spill hers. “I’ve been meaning to tell you something.”
“It’s just,” Lola interrupted, tears welling in her eyes, “I’m tired of feeling so…ugly.” When she said the word ugly her chin wrinkled and she covered her face.
“You’re not ugly!” Andie pulled Lola’s hands away. All she could think was: Make Lola feel better. Now. “You’re just not supposed to be modeling for Pacific Sunwear, that’s all. Those girls are like Malibu Barbie dolls. You’re more…editorial.” Ever since Ayana had told Lola she was “stunning,” Andie couldn’t help noticing that Lola’s freckled skin was flawless, or that she had an oddly delicate bump on the bridge of her nose. It was true—she had a unique look. Heath Bar walked over to Andie and started licking the back of her hand, his tongue scratchy like sandpaper.
“That’s what Ayana said,” Lola mumbled. “She’s insisting I meet some bloke named Gunther Gunther tomorrow, but I just…I can’t.” Lola picked Heath Bar up and buried her face in his back.
“Gunther Gunta?”
“Yeah, that’s it.” Lola said. “You’ve heard of him?”
“The Gunther Gunta?” Andie was stunned. Gunther Gunta was number one on Andie’s list of Designers to Work With, ahead of Marc Jacobs and Vera Wang. For her twelfth birthday she’d begged her dad to buy her a Gunther Gunta vintage couture dress, even though it was only appropriate for the Oscars, the Emmys, or a runway in Milan. After Winston’s tailor made some serious alterations, she spent a whole week wearing it around the house, practicing her runway walk in wedge heels. “Lola—do you have any idea who that is? You have to go!”
Andie grabbed last month’s Vogue off Lola’s nightstand. It was in the same e
xact spot she’d left it last week, when she was trying to school Lola about fashion. She opened to a spread titled “Gunther Gunta: Man. Myth. Maniac?” and pressed her finger into the page. “He’s a fashion icon—bigger than Calvin Klein, Karl Lagerfeld, Versace. He’s Indian, but he was born in Paris and moved to Germany when he was three. People claim he was designing dresses before he could talk, fashioning scarves out of his baby blankets. His first fashion show was in Munich when he was only seven.” Andie looked at a photo of the young Gunther watching his own fashion show and smiled. Even as a kid he had glasses an inch thick, his red beret sitting lopsided on his head.
Lola looked at the spread. In the center there was a blurry paparazzi shot of a short man lying out by a pool, his hairy gut hanging over his Speedo. A newspaper covered his face. “That’s him?”
“He’s been in seclusion for the last two years—that’s the only recent picture they have.” Andie tried not to sound so annoyed. Lola didn’t know Armani from Arkansas, and she was meeting Gunther Gunta tomorrow. It wasn’t fair. Andie had watched footage of his early fashion shows and read every article about the alleged breakdown that put him in seclusion. Two weeks after critics called his fall 2007 collection “an utter abomination,” Gunther disappeared. He was discovered a month later lying in an alley in Paris, muttering to himself as he gnawed on the end of a stale baguette. Andie had read so much about Gunther, seen so many interviews, she felt like they were friends. She’d even rehearsed what she would say if she met him: Don’t listen to the critics! Your fall 2007 collection was an utter inspiration.
“You have a big day tomorrow. I should let you rest up.” Andie headed toward the door. She felt confused, like when she’d found out Cindy—her always prudish best friend—had kissed a boy before she had. Lola was supposed to be the sister who didn’t intimidate her.
“Wait—didn’t you want to tell me something?” Lola asked. The quilt was thrown over her shoulders, like an ugly patchwork shawl.
Andie eyed the crumpet on Lola’s dresser, remembering why she had come there in the first place. She was talking to Kyle Lewis—Lola’s crush. “Just…” She looked at Lola’s face, which was still pink and swollen. Whether Lola was modeling for Gunther Gunta or not, Andie knew the moment she left, Lola would bury her head back in the blanket. “Don’t worry. You’re perfect for modeling. Gunther will love you.”
Lola smiled, revealing a small glimpse of her usual, enthusiastic self. “Cheers,” she whispered, pulling Heath Bar into her arms. And with that, Andie left.
TO: Andie Sloane
FROM: Kyle Lewis
DATE: Wednesday, 6:02 p.m.
SUBJECT: Hey there
Signed on but you’re not here. Anyway, here are the links for those YouTube videos I was talking about. I can’t stop laughing at that one with the pit bull break dancing.
Kyle
PS: You were right about that Decemberists song—the acoustic version of “Engine Driver” is so much better.
TO: Kyle Lewis
FROM: Andie Sloane
DATE: Wednesday, 7:11 p.m.
SUBJECT: Re: Hey there
Hilarious video. This totally made my night. This week is turning out to be kind of…weird (long story). I’ll definitely talk to you soon. Can’t wait.
xoxo
Andie
ASHTON PREP GIRLS DO THEIR HOMEWORK
Cate leaned on the wrought iron fence outside her town house, glancing every so often at her Tiffany Crown of Hearts watch. All day, girls had been peppering her with questions, asking if there would be a talent portion of the audition, or if she preferred they change out of their uniforms and into a specific designer label. Everything was as it was supposed to be: Girls were back to looking to Cate for advice, and Chi Sigma was already on its way to beating out Beta Sigma Chi as the most popular sorority at Ashton Prep. But if she was going to make ninth grade her defining year, she was still missing one key ingredient: a boyfriend. And that’s where Eli Punch came in.
Danny Plimpton dashed down Eighty-second Street. His red and blue-striped tie was blown over his shoulder, like he’d just stepped out of a wind tunnel. “It’s about time,” Cate hissed, snatching the lime green folder from his hands.
“It wasn’t my fault!” Danny had thick black eyebrows and a nose that turned up at the end. He reminded Cate of the Grinch Who Stole Christmas. “Mr. Klotchske gave me detention for spitting on the sidewalk.”
“Save it.” Cate turned the folder over in her hands. The front of it had a picture of a stick figure planting a tree, the words THE GREEN CLUB printed right above it. Two whole days had gone by since she first met Eli, and she still hadn’t had one real conversation with him, unless you counted his original “hi.” Still, she found herself sitting up straighter in class, smiling as she walked down Madison Avenue, and spending twenty extra minutes picking out her uniform shirt. She felt an imaginary set of eyes on her all the time—Eli’s eyes. She was starting to feel like the lovesick Eponine in Les Misérables, always pretending Marius was beside her. She didn’t just want to be Eli’s girlfriend. He made her want to be a better version of herself.
She opened the folder slowly, breathing in the cool night air. Eli Punch’s smiling face looked directly at her. She smiled back.
“It’s everything from the last two days, just like you asked.” Danny tugged on the ends of his tie. His uniform shirt was untucked, his tiny legs sticking out underneath it.
This was it. The crucial piece of the Eli puzzle—his life at Haverford. Cate thumbed through the materials, which included Eli’s schedule, napkins and receipts Danny had scribbled on (the Eagle wiped his mouth with this at lunch; receipt from the Eagle’s recent Coke purchase), and candid photos Danny had taken on his iPhone. There was one of Eli eating turkey burgers with Braden Pennyworth, Haverford’s star basketball player, and one of him in his Brooks Brothers boxers and a T-shirt that looked like it had been taken from the inside of a locker. In the last one he was wearing the Haverford signature red and blue shorts, a basketball tucked under his arm. “Wait—he’s on the Haverford varsity team?”
“Yup.” Danny glanced inside the front window. He was three inches shorter than Lola and could’ve easily been mistaken for a fourth-grader.
Cate pressed the photo to her chest. “And he’s only a sophomore,” she said. The only thing better than having a Haverford boyfriend was having a Haverford boyfriend on the varsity basketball team. Every Ashton Prep girl was part of the Facebook group “Waiting for Braden Pennyworth to be single again” or “I don’t really like basketball but those Haverford jerseys are hot.” Betsy Carmichael even had a special segment on the Ashton News where she named members of the team M.A.P.s (Most Adorable Players).
“Good work,” Cate said, digging through her black and white Balenciaga bag. She pulled out a picture of Lola and one of her friends on Hampstead Heath in London. Cate had plucked it from her bulletin board that afternoon. Lola was wearing shorts that came down past her knees, and her fried hair was tucked behind her huge ears. Lola was more awkward than a fart in an elevator. It was kind of amazing that someone had a crush on her. “Try not to slobber all over it. I’m also ninety-nine percent certain she does not have a date to the Haverford formal.”
Danny shoved it in his backpack. “Thanks.” He smiled, pushing his dark curls out of his eyes. “Eli should be here in five minutes. He was just leaving the locker room when I saw him.” Then he took off down the street, leaving Cate to her research.
According to the folder, Eli ate a turkey burger with Swiss every day at lunch, always kept the top button of his shirt unbuttoned, and had been spotted hanging out on the grass outside the Museum of Natural History after school. He had three basketball games in the next two weeks, he wasn’t good at long division, he bought his socks at American Apparel, and he might need glasses (the Eagle seen squinting at the blackboard).
Cate smoothed down the skirt of her Diane von Furstenberg chiffon dress. Stella had helped h
er pick it out after dinner, saying she’d worn something similar when she went to the movies with her sixth-grade boyfriend. Whenever Stella brought up boys, Cate tried her best to keep up, offering the occasional I so know what you mean, or totally! But the truth was, she so didn’t know what Stella meant. Cate had spent every second of middle school with the Chi Beta Phis, planning brunches at L’Absinthe and picnics by the Turtle Pond. Every Valentine’s Day Cate exchanged gifts with Blythe, Priya, and Sophie, making them cheesy doily paper cards. She hadn’t even gotten her first kiss until this past summer. Now she was fourteen, Chi Beta Phi-less, and playing a serious game of catch-up. While everyone else was sprinting toward second dates, serious boyfriends, and hookups, Cate was still at the starting line, trying to figure out when the gun went off.
Across the street, Mrs. Ashford watered her window boxes, singing to her mums like they were small children. Cate let out a deep breath as a boy turned down Eighty-second Street. It was Eli—she recognized him immediately. He was still in his Haverford warm-ups, his blue pants making a swishing sound as he walked.
She’d had this conversation in her head a thousand times in the last two days, when she was brushing her teeth, blow-drying her hair, and in the last moments before she fell asleep. She imagined bumping into Eli on the crosstown bus, or catching him peering over the roof deck wall at her, as she lay out in her Theory bikini. You live next door—right? she’d casually say, shooting him her most flirtatious, I haven’t been stalking you smile. But now that he was actually here, walking toward her—in real life—her mouth felt dry, like she’d just eaten an entire box of saltines.
Eli pushed his thick black hair off his forehead and looked up at Cate’s town house. “What’s up…neighbor?” He let out a little laugh.