by Anna Carey
Priya rested her hands on the mannequin’s neck stump and turned to Stella. “Veena is going to be so jealous when I tell her what I did today. Actually, I’m going to make her jealous right now.” She took out her iPhone and snapped a picture of the dress, sending it to her sister.
“I don’t think you should try those on.” Cate tried to sound convincing. “They look so fragile…. If you rip them you’re going to owe Marc Jacobs, like, a million dollars.” Cate knew that reason was lamer than BeDazzled Converse All Stars, but she was desperate.
Blythe turned away from a pale blue cotton dress with black zippers up each side, which looked too punk rock, like it could be accessorized with a studded dog collar. “Have you been sniffing glue with Myra Granberry? Who cares?” Blythe grabbed Priya’s arm and walked down the row of mannequins, pausing to admire each outfit. She leaned over and whispered something in Priya’s ear.
“But there aren’t even any dressing rooms!” Cate called at their backs.
“I don’t think that’s going to stop anyone.” Stella smiled sweetly. She was standing across from the mannequins, thumbing through a rack of clothes. “And anyway, it’s not like Gerard fancies us.” Cate glanced across the loft space at Gerard, who was now leaning against the back wall, filing his nails with an emery board. Stella chose a hanger with a bubble gum–colored organza dress and walked confidently toward him.
Cate stared at the rack of clothes, torn. Sophie was thumbing through it, slinging dresses over her arm like she was looting the place.
“Cate!” she squealed, holding up a blue-and-white striped corset dress. “This would look great on you!” Cate studied it, then glanced across the room at Stella, who was talking to Gerard. Cate loved corset dresses, but she couldn’t bear to let Stella know she was enjoying herself.
“Fine,” Cate agreed. “But only because I don’t want Marc Jacobs to think I’m rude.” She tried hard not to smile as she strolled to the corner and pulled off her Anna Sui ruffle dress.
Across the room, Priya had tried on the strapless floral dress from the mannequin. “You could totally be a Marc Jacobs model,” Blythe cried, fawning over her.
Cate zipped up the corset dress and walked over to the mirror. It looked amazing with her deep blue eyes and dark brown hair.
Stella slinked over. “You know you love it,” she purred, eyeing Cate’s dress.
“I’m actually a little disappointed,” Cate said sharply, keeping her eyes on her reflection. “This collection is kind of bland. I guess I just have more sophisticated taste than you,” she shrugged.
“Right, right.” Stella laughed, rolling her eyes. She floated across the room in her pink couture gown. “You guys look amazing!” she called to Sophie and Blythe. They were huddled in a corner of the room, admiring their dresses.
With every compliment, with every smile, with every passing minute Stella was getting closer to the vote. And closer to the end of Cate’s reign.
ANDIE AND THE BEANSTALK
Saturday afternoon, Andie stood in the mirrored elevator of Ford Models beside Lola, dragging her Kate Spade wedge heels across the red carpeting. Her hands shook as she stared at the buttons, and she felt like she’d downed fifty cans of Diet Coke. Number five glowed, then six. Just eight more floors to go.
She’d looked at the Ford Models website almost every day for the last year, and now she was here, minutes away from meeting with Ayana Bennington. She’d dreamed about being represented by Ayana—the same agent who represented Kate Moss, Heidi Klum, and Tyra Banks. Ayana was said to take on only three new models a year—if she agreed to represent you, you were destined for high fashion.
Andie smoothed down her skirt. She’d spent all morning figuring out what to wear, finally settling on a sleeveless blue Juicy Couture dress with crocheting down the front. She almost always wore her hair in a ponytail or a bun, but today she’d blow-dried it. It was shinier and smoother than Frédéric Fekkai extensions.
Lola clapped her hands together lightly. “You’re going to be famous.” Since the Fashion Week show, Lola had dubbed herself Andie’s “manager” and was taking her duties very seriously. She even insisted on wearing a “power suit” to seem “professional,” but it was really just a black skirt and a cropped Juicy jacket she’d stolen from Stella.
“I hope so,” Andie murmured. Her heart beat faster and faster as the elevator hit the twelfth floor. She imagined Ayana Bennington, former-model-turned-agent, in a corner office overlooking Fifth Avenue. She’d hold Andie’s face between her palms and just stare at it, falling hopelessly in love with every feature. Then she’d apologize for the trouble Andie had had with the website, for the fact that people hadn’t seen her photo and called her immediately. Idiots! Ayana would cry. Fools! She’d slide a contract across the desk. Welcome to Ford Models, Andie Sloane, she’d say, shaking Andie’s tiny hand. We’re happy to have you.
Ding!
The elevator doors opened to reveal a marble lobby, the walls covered with photographs of models on catwalks all over the world, framed advertisements of models awash in stilettos and luxury handbags. A slender young woman with bulgy fish eyes breezed past, and Andie recognized her immediately as Shiraz Artillion, the new face of Chanel. She grabbed Lola’s arm and took a deep breath. Hyperventilating in the Ford lobby didn’t exactly say Top Model.
The silver Ford logo hung above a chrome reception desk that looked like something out of an episode of Star Trek. A woman with a Kool-Aid red pixie cut handed a folder to the male receptionist, who wore guyliner.
Lola strode across the room, Andie following close behind. “Hello, I’m Lola Childs,” she announced, putting emphasis on her last name. “And this is Andie. We’re meeting with Ayana Bennington.” Lola tapped the toe of one of her Gap ballet flats against the marble floor.
The red-haired woman’s whole body perked up. “We’ve been expecting you.” She smiled. “Let me show you in.” She held the door open and pointed to a giant gold office just inside the hall. A wall of windows overlooked Fifth Avenue. On the building across the way, a window washer was perched on scaffolding, drinking a Colt 45.
Andie looked at the desk. There, going through the latest edition of Vogue with a highlighter, was the mistress of her destiny. Her long hair was secured in a massive bun by three sets of black lacquered chopsticks. She stood when she saw them. “Ayana Bennington,” she cooed. “It’s fabulous to finally meet you.”
“I’m Lola,” Lola said, shaking Ayana’s hand.
Andie smoothed back her hair. Be fierce, she thought, channeling her inner Tyra. Be fierce. She straightened up and looked Ayana directly in the eye—just like all the modeling blogs had told her to do when first meeting an agent. “I’m Andie,” she said confidently, making sure to enunciate every syllable. (Diction is done with the tip of the tongue and the teeth!) Then she pulled her shoulders back and lifted her neck—elongate!—before sticking out her hand.
Ayana gestured to the two massive leather chairs in front of her desk. Andie sat down in one, her feet barely touching the floor. Lola sat beside her.
Ayana clasped her hands together and leaned forward, her gaze shifting to Lola. “I saw you at Fashion Week. I should have known you were Emma’s daughter—I’d recognize those beautiful green eyes anywhere.”
Lola adjusted her headband, her face a deep red.
“I was there too!” Andie offered. “I loved Alexander’s fall collection,” she added, ready to gush about the metallics and clean lines.
“Yes, that’s right.” Ayana nodded. “I remember you now.” She eyed Andie carefully, and Andie kept her chin high and her neck long. “You must look more like your father.”
“Actually, Andie’s my stepsister,” Lola corrected. “Or, well, she will be, really soon,” she said quickly, shooting Andie a smile. “Our parents are getting married tomorrow!”
Andie tried to smile back, but her face was stiff, like her nana’s after a round of Botox injections. No, she didn’t have br
ight green eyes and blond hair, but was it so ridiculous to think she could be related to Emma Childs?
“Well, Lola…” Ayana scanned Lola’s body. “You’re stunning. Exquisite bone structure.”
Andie dug her fingernails into the black leather chair. What? Lola was stunning? Lola was exquisite? Andie pinched Lola’s arm, waiting for her to tell Ayana why they were really there.
Lola focused on a potted plant next to Ayana’s desk, a little embarrassed. Stunning, exquisite, stunning. No one had ever said those words before—at least not when talking about her. Dorky, clumsy, bowlegged. Those were words you used to describe Lola Childs.
“I’m sure you hear that all the time.” Ayana folded her thin arms over her chest.
Lola sat frozen, the compliments swirling around her head like snow in a snow globe. This whole week she’d felt like a circus freak in a Bloomingdale’s catalog. She’d half expected Cate and Stella to put her in a cage and charge admission to see her. It felt good to hear Ayana Bennington—agent extraordinaire—compliment her.
When Lola lifted her head, Ayana was staring at her, waiting for a response. “Right,” she said in a small voice, the tiniest smile creeping over her face. “All the time.”
Andie clenched her hands into fists and let out a deep breath. This was supposed to be her moment, her big break. This is what she had been studying and practicing and hoping for. She kicked Lola under the desk, trying to get her attention, but Lola just rubbed her leg.
“How old did you say you were?” Ayana pressed. She took one of the chopsticks out of her hair, which stayed miraculously in place, and tapped it lightly against the glossy desktop.
“I’m interested in modeling too,” Andie blurted out.
Ayana scanned Andie’s tiny frame and pressed her lips together. She put her fingers to her temples, as if Andie had just spoken Portuguese and her brain was slowly trying to translate it. “Well,” she began, “you have a beautiful complexion. Delicate features. There’s a real warmth to your look, especially your eyes.”
Andie straightened up in her chair and blushed happily. Ayana was talking about her. Forget Shiraz Artillion—she’d be the new face of Chanel, clutching a bottle of Coco perfume against her cheek, her hair slicked back.
Ayana rested her chin in her hands. “You have a more…commercial look. When Emma comes in we should discuss catalog work. We could start with JCPenney, Sears, Kohl’s.”
Andie felt her eyes welling with tears. Catalog work? In the modeling world, Ayana might as well have told her she should do dog food commercials. She wanted to go to bed, curl up under her red duvet, and not come out until she was five-foot seven…if she ever was five-foot seven. She was starting to feel like she belonged on Little People, Big World.
Ayana placed a hand on her computer mouse and pulled up her calendar on the screen. “I’d love for you to come in for some test shots,” she said, peering over the desk at Lola—gangly giantess Lola, with ears that Andie could’ve used for extra shoe storage.
Lola clapped her hands together excitedly. “That would be brilliant!” she cried. She’d never thought about modeling before, but actually, it really would be brilliant. She and Andie could both be models. Every Ashton seventh-grader would worship her, whether she wore days-of-the-week knickers or not. Cate and Stella would seethe with jealousy over her billboard in Times Square. And if Kyle didn’t fancy her now, he definitely would then. Forget the rehearsal dinner—she’d bring him to every Ashton Prep formal for the next six years. As her boyfriend.
Andie sank lower in her chair. She wished she could disappear, that she could suddenly just be somewhere else—a Star Wars convention, a medieval torture chamber—anywhere but here.
This was all Lola’s fault. She was the one who’d e-mailed Ford. She was the one who’d let Ayana ramble on and on about how stunning she was. And now she was agreeing to do test shots!
Andie saw herself posing next to a jungle gym in Oshkosh overalls, her hair in pigtails, while Lola graced the cover of Teen Vogue, CosmoGirl!, and Seventeen. She saw the Chanel ad again, but this time it was Lola clutching the bottle of perfume—her hair slicked back, exposing her massive ears.
Andie closed her eyes and let out a sigh. After everything, she’d been right: Modeling was her destiny. Modeling for Sears.
CARE FOR SOME TEA WITH THAT HUMBLE PIE?
Priya pulled a cucumber sandwich off the three-tier silver serving tray and leaned over to Sophie. “I cannot wait to see that silk dress in Vogue. I’m going to be like—I wore that!” She took a tiny bite out of the fluffy white bread.
“I know!” Sophie squealed. “I can’t wait to see that tweed skirt I tried on.”
Stella stirred a teaspoon of sugar into her china cup and gazed up at the marshmallow clouds on the domed ceiling of the rotunda. The entire cab ride to the Pierre, Blythe, Sophia, and Priya had kept on about Marc Jacobs’ new collection. Sophie had been so distracted, she’d almost left the dress Cate bought her in the cab. Stella glanced across the table at Cate, who was stabbing at her scone with her fork dejectedly. Stella took a sip of her raspberry tea.
It had never tasted so sweet.
“Should we vote now?” Stella cooed, looking around the table at the girls.
“Yeah, let’s do it.” Sophie pulled a small black Moleskine notebook out of her quilted purse.
Blythe was smoothing some crème fraîche onto her scone but suddenly dropped her knife, her eyes fixed on something across the room. “Oh. My. God.” she squeaked.
All the girls turned. At the table by the far wall, a man with a mop of blond hair was sitting with a woman who looked like a young, pre-surgery Demi Moore. He wore a tight black sports coat and had cheekbones more defined than Webster’s dictionary. Cate straightened up in her chair. “Is that…Harley Cross?” she asked, smoothing down her dark brown hair. A young waiter with a shiny black ponytail set down Harley’s check, her face a bright pink.
“It is,” Priya cried, leaning her chin on her hand.
Sophie pinched her cheeks and pressed her lips together. “Wait—how do I look?” she asked. “Guys?” But no one took their eyes off Harley. He pushed his chair back and stood up, grabbing the woman’s hand. The two of them headed toward the door as the table of overdressed Long Island girls next to them exploded in chatter.
“He’s leaving?” Cate whined. She had been obsessed with Harley Cross since fifth grade, when she’d seen him in Reinventing Simon Worth, a romantic comedy about a first-grade teacher in England. Harley Cross was one of the most adorable actors in Hollywood and he had a British accent. British accents on funguslike stepsisters were annoying, but British accents on moppy-haired actors? Totally hot.
Harley glanced around the circular room, his eyes landing on Cate. He held up one finger to the woman with him, then turned and started walking straight toward their table. Cate pulled at the silver locket on her neck, her pulse quickening. Harley ran a hand through his blond hair and tucked one finger in the front pocket of his dark-wash jeans.
Cate took her napkin off her lap, preparing to stand up and say hello, but as he got closer Cate realized he wasn’t looking at her. He was staring at Stella, who was sitting in the chair beside her. He leaned down and gave her a kiss on the cheek.
“Hello, luv,” he cooed. “I thought that was you. I’m flying back to London in three hours, but I couldn’t walk out of here without saying hello.”
“Hi.” Stella grinned, her cheeks a rosy pink.
“So how’s mum?” Harley asked. Cate coughed, trying to draw attention to herself, but Harley was still staring at Stella intently. Cate could feel the chewed-up scone sitting in her stomach like cement.
“Quite well,” Stella replied.
Harley pulled back the bottom of his sport coat and rested a hand on his hip. “And your father…how is he keeping on?” he asked slowly, furrowing his brow in concern.
Stella looked down at the pink paisley carpeting, her eyes blurring from all the orna
te swirls. “Um…fine,” she said after a beat, then let out an uncomfortable laugh.
“Right. Well, it was good seeing you, Stella. Do send everyone my love.” Harley squeezed Stella’s shoulder, then walked off.
The second he disappeared from the rotunda, Sophie started shrieking. “Omigodomigodomigod!” she cried. Blythe tucked a piece of dirty blond hair behind her ear and wiped her forehead, still glowing from her Close Encounter of the Celebrity Kind.
Cate glanced around the table at the Chi Beta Phis, who were all staring at Stella like she’d done a magic trick. She twisted her cloth napkin in her hands. For my next trick, she imagined Stella saying, I will make all your friends disappear.
“That was amazing.” Priya turned her chair toward Stella. “How do you know Harley Cross?” A woman in an unflattering mauve frock sat down near the entrance to the rotunda and began to play a gold harp, moving her graying head in slow figure eights.
“We’re old family friends.” Stella shrugged, as if to say, There are more celebrities where that came from. She smoothed down the front of her tan skirt, then looked around the table. Priya, Sophie, and Blythe were seriously impressed. This was better than bringing the basketball team to Jackson Hole, better than getting them into the Marc Jacobs designer showroom. She knew Harley Cross. And this was what they’d think about when they scribbled her name across their ballots. “Should we vote now?” Stella prompted again, smiling sweetly at Cate.
Cate balled up her white napkin in her hand and threw it down on the table. She couldn’t let this vote slip away from her. She was the head of the Chi Beta Phis—she always had been, and she always would be.
Cate cleared her throat. “First we should voice any concerns we have about potential candidates,” Cate said carefully, leveling her eyes at Stella. “Sure, Harley Cross knows Stella, but how much do we really know about her?” At the table next to them, a balding waiter leaned over and poured a scalding cup of tea, nearly searing off his eyebrows. Cate breathed in the minty smell, her whole body tingling with excitement.
