Material Girls (3 page)

Taking note of her choices, other personal shoppers grabbed coordinating looks for her nymphs, who themselves gathered armfuls of additional pieces that appealed to them. Finally, laden with nearly the entire Torro-LeBlanc late-winter line and giggling with anticipation, the whole group headed to the dressing rooms.

Ivy tugged garment after garment over her head. She loved the freshness and fantasy of each piece. She would emerge from her dressing room and stand on the platform in front of the brightly lit three-way mirror, pouting at her reflection, imagining how a certain halter top would look in her favorite nightclub, how well a pair of denim cutoffs would photograph from behind. She could visualize the moment when she'd wear the clothes, complete with the crowd of people staring at her. She took her time, picturing herself through their eyes.

Not caring if the store staff saw their underwear—it was designer, after all—the girls ran back and forth between dressing rooms to trade clothing or offer a quick opinion. Sometimes they gathered in front of a mirror to see how they looked as a group. They put their disorderly-conduct-arrest look together with little trouble, though Aiko had to part with a pair of alligator stilettos that Ivy wanted to wear. Aiko was nice about it, assuring Ivy, “Clayton's totally going to think those are hot.”

“The higher the better, he always tells me,” Ivy said with a straight face. “Even when heels aren't in, he wants me to wear them.”

“Isn't that always the way,” said one of the personal shoppers, nodding her head knowingly.

“You two are such a great couple, Miss Wilde,” said another, beaming. “I'm a huge Clayton Pryce fan. Do you two, you know,
sing
when you're together?”

“Yeah, not so much,” said Ivy. “We're kind of busy doing other things.” The shopper's eyes widened. “Aiko!” called Ivy. “Can you bring me the black and white boa?”

The girls' “yes” pile grew bigger and bigger. Soon, smiling Torro-LeBlanc employees were recruited to begin packaging the clothes in boxes and garment bags.

Ivy exited her dressing room wearing a gingham babydoll dress she thought looked cute. She stepped on the platform in front of the mirror and inspected herself from all angles. Naia, who was being zipped into a silk dress nearby, watched her.

“I kind of love this,” Ivy said to Naia's reflection in the mirror.

“It looks
so prime
on you, Miss Wilde,” said one of the personal shoppers as she hurried over to tug on the hem needlessly. “The fit is just right. Torro's anticipating a big prairie trend. You could be the one to launch it.”

Naia wrinkled her nose. “It's cute—but is it ‘Wilde' enough? You look like you should be milking cows. I don't think—”

“Oh, but what you do, of course, is play up the frontier angle,” interrupted the personal shopper, showcasing a shiny plum manicure with enthusiastic gestures. “Have your makeup artist give you a dirty brow. Tie a bandanna around your neck. And the dress can look tougher. Jerry! Grab a pair of those ripped tights from the display case.”

Naia shrugged. “Whatever. If you like it, Ivy.” She smoothed her hands over her dress and examined herself in the mirror, raising herself up on the balls of her feet. “I'm going to need to see this with some heels,” she said to another personal shopper, who nodded and hurried away.

Jerry returned with something that looked like a long, rolled spider's web draped over his upturned palms. Ivy's personal shopper lifted the tights delicately with her manicured fingertips and handed them to her. “Trust me. Just try them on.”

Back inside the dressing room, Ivy sat down on the bench. She carefully gathered one of the tights' delicate legs in her fists, stuck her toes inside, and pulled the fabric over her ankle and calf. She was rounding her knee when she caught sight of the price tag dangling off the waistband label. She caught it between her thumb and forefinger to double-check that she had read it correctly.

One hundred fifty-nine dollars. She so rarely glanced at price tags these days. Her record label, Warwick, paid for her clothing; even if it didn't, her salary could easily cover her shopping sprees. But one hundred fifty-nine dollars for tights. Could that be right?

In an instant, she remembered why that number felt significant to her. It had been the price of her first pair of slicers. Her parents had paid for half, and she had saved her allowance for two months to cover the other half. She recalled the moment of finally,
finally
bringing them home from the store, strapping them on, and tottering up and down her sidewalk. After falling hard and often, she'd gotten the hang of it, and had eventually learned all sorts of tricks like skating backward and stopping short. She'd loved whizzing around her neighborhood on those blades full of tiny ball bearings, the pavement smooth underfoot, the wind in her face . . . Ivy sat in the dressing room, half dressed, lost in the memory.

The music changed to a thumping dance beat and splintered her thoughts. She looked down at her leg, now covered in a mess of holes and slashed fabric. One hundred fifty-nine dollars. For one pair of ripped tights. To wear with one dress . . . once. Yes, she could afford it, no problem. Yes, she was a star, and stars had to wear Big Five labels. She didn't think about money much, but every so often, something like the tights reminded her how different her new life was from her old . . .

In a swift motion, she pulled off the tights and removed the dress without looking at its price tag. She fished in her handbag for her placidophilus tin and shook it. It was empty. Cursing, she slid back into her tube dress, then stepped out of the dressing room holding the gingham dress and tights. She thrust them at the personal shopper. “No to both.”

“Are you sure, Miss Wilde?”

Ivy nodded. “Positive.”

The personal shopper didn't miss a beat. “Well, perhaps you'll be interested in something else from the safari line instead?”

Ivy ignored her. “Hilarie? Mad? I'm out of P pills. Anybody got some?”

“IS THE REIGN OF THE ‘WILDE' CHILD OVER?” The question resounded across the store. Ivy looked up at the nearest screen and saw the source of the voice: a young
Pop Beat Newsbreak
reporter with spiked black hair and lined eyes. He sat behind a desk; a photograph of Ivy hovered above his left shoulder. Ivy recognized her devil's costume from her
Girl Gone Wilde
tour the previous year.

“Ivy Wilde's single ‘Swollen' is holding at number one this week, but a new singing sensation is challenging the naughty princess's claim to the pop throne.” Slowly, Ivy's nymphs peeled back their dressing room curtains and stared at the screens.

“Newcomer Lyric Mirth debuted at number six this week with ‘So Pure It Hurts,'” continued the reporter. “Sources say her self-titled album may go platinum by fall. Furthermore, Sugarwater, which has long featured Wilde in its advertising, is taking a gamble on the new artist with its prominent Rock Row billboard.” Ivy drew in her breath as the screen flashed an image of the giant ad. Lyric, dressed all in white, hovered in midair, giant white wings extending from her shoulders. She held a Sugarwater bottle and sipped the brown liquid through a straw, her eyes open in wide innocence. Ivy felt like blackening both of them.

“Wilde and Mirth were both tapped onto
The Henny Funpeck Show
, which launches so many music careers,” the reporter went on, interlacing his fingers. “Mirth is quoted as saying that she has always admired Wilde's success and hopes to follow in her footsteps. She may get her wish sooner than she thinks, as certain critics find Mirth's angelic voice and style a refreshing antidote to Wilde's devilish antics. But don't take our word for it. Here's ‘So Pure It Hurts,' by Lyric Mirth!”

Not bothering to listen past the opening chord progression, Ivy flew back into her dressing room. She grabbed her Unum and shouted “Jarvis!” at it. Moments later her agent's face appeared on the screen. His look of amusement was maddening.

“Did you see it?” she demanded breathlessly.

“Kiddo, just
relax.
” His voice was calm, almost lazy. “We've seen this before. We'll see it again.”

“But the poster—and the album sales—”

“Uh-huh. So she's got the spotlight. For a whole fifteen minutes. Let the poor kid enjoy it. Once you release your album and start touring, she'll be buried.”

“But—”

“Have I
ever
been wrong?”

“But . . . they said . . .” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “They said my reign might be . . .” She couldn't bring herself to finish.

Jarvis ran his fingers through his gray hair and chuckled. “Let me tell you when you're in danger of fossilizing, will you? I promise, you'll hear it from me first. In the meantime, take a P pill and
don't worry about it
.”

“I remember Lyric.” Ivy bit her lip, thinking about their brief period of overlap at
Henny Funpeck
. “She's a good performer.”

“You're better. Just relax, kiddo. Okay?”

She sighed. “I'll try.”

“Oh, one thing. Tell Fatima. We've canceled the Correspondents' Dinner. Not enough coverage. Instead, you're going to be the guest of honor at Millbrook's Tap.”

Millbrook. Ivy smiled in spite of herself. She'd been home only a handful of times since her own Tap, far less frequently since her career had picked up. She wondered what it would be like, how it had changed, how her family was doing.

“It's Constantine's year,” she said softly.

“Thought you'd like to be there for that.” Jarvis winked. “We'll spruce it up, tons of photo ops, stream the ceremony, the whole deal. Who's the best agent in the world?”

Ivy rolled her eyes. “Cocky, much?” She paused. “No, really, Jarvis. Thanks. I—it'll be nice to go home.”

He nodded. “I know, kiddo.” Ivy heard two faint beeps coming from the screen. “Whoops—gotta go,” said Jarvis. “It's
Pillow Party
. I'm working on a guest spot for you. You getting some good clothes today?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. We'll talk soon. Stay young.”

The Unum screen went black.

After the day of shopping at Torro-LeBlanc and the other four flagship design stores in La Reina, Ivy was exhausted. The group had a quick dinner at Saltimbocca, and Fatima drove the urban utility vehicle, now stuffed with bags and boxes, back to Ivy's estate. Although her nymphs lingered in the kitchen, blending smoothies for dessert, Ivy announced she was going straight to bed.

In her bedroom, she pawed through her drawers in mounting frustration. She opened the door to her closet and wearily climbed the spiral staircase. Fatima was on the second floor, going through Ivy's rows of clothes with two assistants and a gold trendchecking gun. Little rubies gleamed along its barrel.

The three of them were hanging Ivy's new purchases and getting rid of the clothes that had expired before Ivy had had a chance to wear them. She stared at the giant pile of discarded clothing on the floor.
One hundred and fifty-nine dollars
flew back into her head; she tried not to think about what all those crumpled, unworn items had cost.

“Yes?” said Fatima, scanning the label of a floral pin. She ripped it off the jacket to which it had been attached and tossed it onto the discard pile. “I thought you were going to bed.”

“I'm trying. Where are my Millbrook sweats?”

“Those grimy things?” said Fatima. “I tossed them.”

“What?”

“What if there was a fire in the house?” demanded Fatima. “You run outside in the middle of the night and get photographed in
sweatpants
? Your image is ruined! Plus, you'd better get used to looking good all the time for the reality cameras. Filming starts again in a few months when the tour begins.”

Ivy sighed. “So what do I sleep in?”

“Here.” Fatima walked over to the closet bar on the opposite wall. She lifted a shiny black outfit on a hanger and held it out to Ivy.

“You've got to be kidding. What is that made of?”

“It's a new patent leather–vinyl blend. They're calling it ‘shale' or ‘scale' or something. Bancroft House came up with it. Not exactly cotton, I know, but get over it. You've got to let the world know you're ‘Wilde'—even when you sleep.”

Back in her bedroom, Ivy snapped the stretchy tank top over her head and pulled it down around her torso with difficulty. She wriggled into the matching shorts and climbed under the covers, squeaking as she moved. Sighing, she fumbled on her nightstand for a placidophilus pill and popped it into her mouth. The scent of strawberries filled her nose. She chewed, waiting for the pill to kick in, for her nightclothes to feel suddenly comfortable, for her day of shopping to turn into a pleasant memory, for her worries about Lyric Mirth to disappear.

The morning after Julia
told me I was in danger of losing my seat on the court, I arrived at the station ten minutes before the train arrived. My nail polish was fully dry. I wasn't taking any chances.

When the train pulled up, I was the first one through the door. Aboard, I pulled out my Unum and used it to locate which car Braxton was riding in. I spotted him in the crowd and waved.

“Hey, babe!” Braxton called, beckoning me over. He was wearing his black Denominator Films baseball cap. In the seat across from him, I could see Sabrina's blond ponytail. I held my latte above my head as I navigated my way down the center aisle toward them.

I slid into the seat next to Braxton. He squeezed my knee and gave me a quick kiss on the neck. I loved the way he smelled, like a fresh shower. “You made it,” he said.

“I actually got up at a decent hour this morning.” My father had found me a backup alarm clock in our basement storage unit, but the truth was, I had woken before either alarm went off. I'd stared at the red numbers on the clock, my brain buzzing. I hadn't mentioned Julia's warning to Braxton or to my parents. I told myself it was because I didn't want to worry them, but deep down I knew I was the worried one. Besides, it was totally humiliating. Braxton had never mentioned getting a warning like this at Denominator.