by Anna Carey
Cate felt like Winston had thrown his tumbler of ice-cold Pellegrino in her face. Stella was the fashion guru?
Emma tucked a golden strand of hair behind her ear. “Andie, maybe you could help me pick out the flowers for the tables, and Lola, you could help decide on the band.”
Andie straightened up in her chair and offered Emma a small smile.
Cate rolled her eyes. If Emma Childs had asked Andie to wash the kitchen floor with her tongue, she would have jumped at the opportunity.
“And Cate,” Winston added, “you could do a tasting at Greene Street Bakery and pick out the perfect cake for us.”
Cate gripped the seat of her chair, digging her manicured nails into the silk fabric. She hated desserts—and had ever since she ate her first chocolate chip cookie. Had her dad totally forgotten? She touched the Fendi pashmina again, a knot creeping up the back of her throat.
“Cate?” Winston prompted.
“That…sounds great.” Cate tried hard to smile. Lola was chewing nervously on a piece of her hair, and Stella was biting her nail. Andie had dissected her scallop into ten tiny pieces. Nobody was looking at anyone else.
So it was official. Their parents were officially getting married. Stella and Lola Childs were officially residents of the Upper East Side. And Cate’s life…was officially over.
THE SISTERS GRIMM
At eight on Monday morning, Madison Avenue was already crowded with nannies pushing double-wide strollers and businessmen on their Bluetooths, muttering to themselves like they were insane. Andie followed Stella and Cate down the tree-lined sidewalk. She stared at the doughy doorman at the Excelsior, then at a parked yellow Volkswagen bug, then at a sweaty old man running shirtless down Eighty-ninth Street—anywhere except at Lola. Winston had asked Andie to walk Lola to school, but he hadn’t said anything about talking to her.
“What are you guys doing after school?” Andie asked, staring into the back of Cate’s lavender polo.
“Your optimism is cute, C.C.,” Cate cooed, not bothering to turn around. “But I’m never going to invite you to hang out with the Chi Beta Phis.”
Andie kicked a crushed Pepsi can on the sidewalk.
“Don’t worry,” Stella replied, shooting Andie a smile. “You’re not missing much.”
“I was thinking, Stella,” Cate said, pushing her oversize Guccis onto the top of her head. “You may want to consider joining the marching band. They accept everyone.” She turned onto Ninetieth Street, nearly punting a teacup Yorkie across the sidewalk.
Girls in charcoal gray wool skirts were crowded around Ashton Prep’s entrance. The eight-story renovated mansion was surrounded by a small landscaped courtyard. Addison Isaacs and Missy Hurst were standing just inside the wrought iron gates, hugging each other and shrieking excitedly. At the top of the steps, two men in navy blazers stood on either side of the massive carved wood doors like bouncers, ushering uniform-clad upper-school girls inside. Molly Lambert, one of Ashton’s only goths, sat on a bench in the corner of the courtyard, drawing on her hand with a black Sharpie.
“Thanks for your concern,” Stella said breezily, pushing past a group of ninth-graders. “But I’ll be brilliant on my own.”
With that, she disappeared into the crowded courtyard.
Cate shook her head dismissively at Stella’s retreating back. She strolled confidently toward the upper-school entrance, where Priya, Sophie, and Blythe were waiting for her. The lower and upper schools were in two separate wings, with separate entrances and separate lunchrooms.
Andie gazed longingly at Cate’s friends. They were all wearing Lacoste button-downs in pastel shades of pink, blue, lavender, and green, like a handful of Easter M&M’s. Betsy Carmichael was staring bug-eyed into the Ashton News camera, held by a twiggy sixth-grader with stringy black hair. Betsy kept up a running commentary on Chi Beta Phi’s outfits, as though the courtyard were a Hollywood red carpet.
“Andie!” Cindy Ng called. She smiled wide, revealing perfectly straight, braces-free teeth.
Andie pulled Cindy into a tight hug, breathing in her Chanel Chance perfume. “You look awesome.”
As they started toward the lower-school entrance, Andie heard a car horn blare. She turned to see Lola kneeling on the street in front of a mustard yellow cab, a few books scattered on the ground by her feet. The driver was hanging out the window, shaking his fist at her. This morning Lola had had to borrow one of Andie’s uniform skirts, which was so short she was flashing her days-of-the-week underwear.
“Who’s that?” Cindy asked, cringing.
Andie was about to answer when Cate pushed by, Betsy Carmichael and the Ashton News camera in tow. Blythe, Sophie, and Priya were following close behind them, their hands covering their mouths in amusement.
“Ladies of Ashton Prep!” Cate called out, laughing. She stood by the sidewalk and framed Lola with her hands. “Meet Lola Childs!”
Blythe pulled Cate away and the girls took off up the stairs and into the Upper School, erupting in a fit of giggles.
Betsy Carmichael stood in front of Lola and stared into the camera. “Welcome back, Ashton Prep girls. I’m Betsy Carmichael, telling you to keep it hot, keep it fresh, and keep it real.”
As Andie watched Lola fumble with her books, her face as red as a tomato, her stomach sank with guilt. The last thing Lola needed was another sister torturing her—that was the last thing either of them needed.
“I’ll see you in English,” Andie said to Cindy. “I’ll explain later.”
She pushed through the small crowd that had formed on the sidewalk. When she got to her, Lola was still struggling with her books.
“Hey…” Andie said slowly.
“I’m fine,” Lola mumbled, but even as she said it she dropped her leather-bound Ashton Prep’s Code of Ethics on the ground. She picked it up, but the back of her skirt was standing up straight, stiff with starch. Hannah Marcus, a seventh-grader who refused to play sports because she “didn’t like to sweat,” pointed at Lola and cackled.
“Here,” Andie said, smoothing the skirt back down. “I’ll walk you to homeroom.” She took a few books from Lola’s hands.
“Thanks,” Lola said, standing up a little straighter.
Andie pushed past Hannah and shot her a dirty look. Maybe she and Lola weren’t going to be best friends, but as of next Sunday they were family. And Andie wasn’t going to let anyone—Cate or otherwise—treat her family like that.
BANISHED TO LOSERVILLE
Stella took a bite of her turkey burger and glanced around Ashton Prep’s crowded cafeteria. Its long oak tables were filled with uniform-clad girls, gossiping over plates of grilled chicken and brown rice sushi. In the corner two bony freshman girls were eating nothing but vanilla frozen yogurt. Everyone was sitting with someone else—everyone except Stella.
Stella looked down the end of her table, where the Ashton field hockey team was discussing their “sweeper.” All day, she’d overheard girls talking about Shelley DeWitt’s house in the Hamptons, some people called Dean and DeLuca, or the brunch Eleanor Donner threw every year at her grandmother’s Upper West Side town house. Ashton Prep girls spoke a different language, some sort of elite code their mothers must have taught them when they were babies. Stella wished the headmistress had given her a pocket translator, instead of that useless handbook with five whole pages dedicated to the proper way to outfit the school uniform—as if anyone actually paid attention to those rules.
No matter where Stella was—Kensington Gardens, the Nanette Lepore store, or the French Riviera—people always flocked to her. But so far at Ashton Prep she’d only talked to three teachers and the cafeteria lady who’d asked her, “Fries or salad?” But she wasn’t about to give up that easily. Stella straightened up and leaned toward the field hockey girls. She glanced at the least sporty-looking girl at the table, who had glossy long brown hair.
Just then Cate waltzed in, her chin held high, flanked by the Chi Beta Phis. Every head in the lunchroo
m turned as they sat down at a table by the window.
“Do you think they’re letting anyone else in this year?” a girl with dyed blue bangs asked the rest of the team.
“If they do, it would probably be Kirsten Phillips,” a girl with splotchy red cheeks answered definitively. “Last year they invited her to have dinner with them at Ono.”
Stella sat back in her seat, wishing she had Bose sound-canceling headphones. In gym, two girls had spent the entire volleyball game discussing a rumor that Cate had chartered a yacht to Miami this summer by herself, hosting a port-to-port party. She was starting to think Cate was right: If you weren’t one of the Chi Beta Phis, you were a nobody.
A short blond girl with a faint white mustache walked toward the table and sat down across from Stella. She pulled all the contents from her pockets and set them down on her tray. “Ahh, that feels better,” she said, to no one in particular. There was a tube of ChapStick, some tissues, and a key chain that said, don’t drink and derive. Her monogrammed L.L. Bean backpack said M.U.G. Stella glanced over at Cate’s table, where all the girls were now huddled close together, as though they were studying a treasure map of Barneys’ secret floor.
“You’re new here,” the girl said, opening up a packet of Sweet’N Low and pouring it over her macaroni and cheese.
“Um, yeah,” Stella said. Mustache Girl took a bite of macaroni covered in white powder.
“I’m Myra, Myra Granberry.”
Stella sunk into her chair. She could suddenly imagine her life at Ashton Prep—she wouldn’t be alone after all. She and Myra would be best mates. Stella would get a matching L.L. Bean backpack, eat Chef Boyardee with Equal, and spend Friday nights waxing Myra’s mustache or feeding Myra’s sea monkeys—or, if she was lucky—both.
Across the lunchroom, Cate watched Stella as Myra Granberry petted her furry upper lip.
“Come on, Cate,” Priya said, following Cate’s gaze. She broke up a neon green wasabi ball with her chopsticks. “You can’t let her sit in Loserville with M.U.G. the Slug.”
“Actually, I can,” Cate snapped. She glanced at Blythe for support and caught her rolling her eyes. “That’s funny,” Cate growled, staring down at her sushi. “I didn’t order an eye roll.”
“Sorry.” Blythe shrugged, looking to Priya and Sophie. “But what’s the big deal about her sitting with us?”
Cate gripped the edge of the table. “We have rules!” she snapped. She stared across the crowded lunchroom. Beth Ann Pinchowski was picking a tray off a giant stack by the door, her Converse All Stars barely covering her ugly ankle socks. “Doesn’t anyone remember Beth Ann? We let her hang out with us in sixth grade and a week later she was dragging us to Finding Nemo on Ice!”
She’d tried to get them all to wear bright orange hats that looked like Nemo, with little fins sticking out the sides. But it was Cate who’d had to plan Operation Phase-Out, eventually forcing Beth Ann to leave the group.
“That was different,” Sophie said, shaking her head. She was staring at Stella sympathetically, as though Myra were about to force-feed her boogers.
“It was pretty bad, though,” Priya noted. The girls watched as Beth Ann took out a Kleenex and blew her nose. It sounded like a motorcycle revving its engine. “I really don’t want to see any more shows on ice—do you?”
Sophie shook her head slowly.
Blythe shrugged. “Okay, so it’s just us. Whatever.”
Cate sat back in her chair, satisfied. Ashton Prep was her school, the Chi Beta Phis were her friends, and she made the rules. And from now on Cate was enforcing a strict closed-door policy: No Brits allowed.
THE FROG PRINCE
Lola strolled down Eighty-second Street Monday after school. She hadn’t seen Andie since she dropped her off at homeroom, and she’d spent the day feeling helpless and alone, like the geeky girl in some after-school special. In world history, a cute blond girl had asked the teacher if the Ashton Prep uniform included days-of-the-week knickers. Everywhere she went, it seemed like people were whispering about her and giggling behind her back.
The afternoon sun warmed up her body and she smiled as she turned down Fifth Avenue, remembering where she was headed. She couldn’t wait to see Kyle. He’d promised her a “first day of school” ice cream after his band practice, just like old times.
Lola approached the Mister Softee truck on the corner, where a little boy with a fruit punch mustache waited in line with his mother. Across the street, two muscular guys were break dancing on a sheet of cardboard outside Central Park. Lola waited patiently. Any minute, Kyle would be pulling his baritone horn up the street on his hand trolley, with his too-big-for-his-face glasses. She smiled just thinking about him.
“Sticks!” an unfamiliar voice called out her old nickname. Lola turned back to the ice cream truck. In front of it stood…
“Kyle?” she squeaked.
The boy standing before her was almost unrecognizable. Kyle had filled out and gotten a tan, and he wasn’t wearing his glasses. His brown eyes twinkled against his dewy skin. His hair was still spiky, but less Harry Potter dorky and more Zac Efron hottie. And…he was tall.
“Hey!” Kyle grinned as he handed the man in the truck a few wrinkled bills. The man set them in a battered shoe box, gently patting his sweaty forehead with a single.
Lola stepped toward Kyle, her long skinny legs feeling suddenly unsteady. She eyed the black guitar case slung over his back. “Um, what happened to your baritone horn?” she asked stupidly.
Kyle laughed and pushed his bangs off his forehead. “Oh man, I forgot about that thing. I’ve been playing guitar for the last couple years.”
Lola untucked her blond hair from her ears. Across the street, one of the break-dancers spun around on his head.
“You still play the viola?” Kyle asked, taking two chocolate cones from the man’s hands. Chocolate ice cream and Fanta orange soda had always been their favorites. Bonus points if had together.
“I do!” Lola said, her voice a little shrill. She stared into Kyle’s warm brown eyes, suddenly nervous. She could feel the sweat pooling at the small of her back. She glanced at Kyle’s ankles for reassurance, but the white tube socks and Tevas he used to wear had been replaced with Adidas sneakers.
Kyle handed her a cone and Lola grabbed for it quickly, knocking it into the front of his shirt. The cone smashed onto the ground, leaving a trail of brown sludge behind it.
Lola pulled a tissue from her pink Gap purse and pressed it to his shirt. It fell apart, leaving huge white papery clumps. “Oh, no…”
She brought her hands to her freckled face and stared at the sidewalk. The chocolate puddle inched toward her Reef flipflops.
“I guess some things never change, Sticks.” Kyle laughed, pulling the wet fabric away from his chest.
A group of Ashton Prep girls crossed the street toward the park. A redhead with a squished face pointed over her shoulder at Kyle and the other girls stole glances at him.
Lola’s whole body felt like it had been set on fire, her skin hot and red. It was obvious what they were saying: Who on earth is Kyle Lewis with? And more importantly, um, why?
And suddenly, Lola asked herself the same thing.
They’d met up less than five minutes ago, but already Kyle could be filed under PEOPLE WHO WILL NOT BE SEEN IN PUBLIC WITH LOLA CHILDS, right next to Stella, Cate, and everyone else in New York City.
A VILLIAN IN THEORY
Stella sat in the den, doodling aimlessly in her sketchbook. Not only had she sat with Myra at lunch, but in bio they’d been paired up as lab partners, where she’d overheard whispering and learned Myra’s unfortunate nickname. Stella imagined standing onstage at the science fair, in front of a poster titled HEMORRHAGIC FEVER. Myra would grip her hand, the entire school chanting, M.U.G. the Slug! M.U.G. the Slug!
The entire day Cate had watched Stella roam the halls like a mental patient, stumbling confused into the wrong classrooms. She’d even pretended she didn’t know
her in study hall, when the teacher sat them next to one another.
Stella sat back on the leather couch and sighed. She was Stella Childs, spawn of a supermodel and a Duke. She’d grown up going to fashion shows and movie premieres, and her sketches had once been displayed at a gallery in Notting Hill. She was supposed to be on top of the high school food chain—not discussing bioterrorism with a bottom-feeder. But short of announcing to all of Ashton Prep, I’m practically royalty, please worship me!, she was out of ideas.
Whether she liked it or not, she needed Cate—and admittance to the Chi Beta Phis.
Just then, Cate breezed past the French doors, her black-and-white Balenciaga bag swinging on her shoulder. “So long, sis,” she said smugly. “I’m meeting Blythe at Barneys.”
Stella crumpled the sketch she was working on, annoyed. But then she had an idea.
“I know it’s none of my business,” Stella heard herself say. “But you should really watch your back.”
Cate leaned on the door frame and narrowed her eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Blythe’s not happy being second-in-command anymore, especially with her two new assets.” Stella stared at her seriously. So it was an exaggeration. But Blythe had seemed a little annoyed with Cate at the sleepover. And it was a well-known fact that once girls sprouted boobs, they totally changed. Besides, Stella couldn’t hang out with M.U.G. the Slug for the next four years. This was an emergency.
“What makes you such an expert on Blythe’s happiness?” Cate asked suspiciously.
“I didn’t say I was an expert. It’s just that we have French together and…” Stella trailed off, pretending to be so engrossed in her sketch she couldn’t possibly finish her sentence.
“And what?” Cate demanded.
“Nothing. Forget I said anything.”
