Survival of the Fiercest (10 page)

F
riday night, the waiter at Tao set a bowl of velvet-corn-and-crab soup in front of Lola, trying with the other hand to inconspicuously cover his nose. Lola sank lower in her chair, glancing around the table at her sisters and her grandmum to see if anyone had noticed. The last thing she wanted to do was go anywhere in public, but her grandmum had insisted on taking them out for dinner. That afternoon a cab had splashed electric green gutter water all over her. At first she was convinced it would make her “guttaaa” shoot more authentic, but four hours later she smelled like a foul mixture of turpentine and old bologna.

Lola pulled her sweatshirt close to her neck. She'd tried to cover up the stench by wearing a freshly washed Gap hoodie, but it seemed like anyone who came within a one-foot radius of her needed a gas mask.

At the other end of the table, Margot adjusted her pea-size hearing aid and winked at Lola. She'd signed the release form for the Gunther Gunta shoot, insisting Emma would be thrilled that
Lola was modeling. But when her mum rang yesterday from Tahiti and Lola tried to tell her about it, the connection kept breaking up. Lola imagined her on a beach somewhere with Winston, sipping drinks with those silly umbrellas in them. She wanted her mum to be happy, she did, but she wanted her to be happy in New York. She needed her
here
, to tell her about the time she modeled in the Atlantic Ocean in January, or had to walk down the runway dressed in an alligator-skin evening gown, her face painted neon green. She was the only person who could understand.

“Cheers!” Margot hooted to the girls, holding up her dirty martini. “Here's to my date with Walter Hodgeworth.” She took a swig of the murky liquid.

Stella let out a deep breath, not bothering to lift her Diet Coke. It was bad enough that her grandmum wore leather pants to dinner, even though she had a serious case of pancake bum. But now she'd spent half an hour keeping on about Walter's “young physique.” Stella glanced around the crowded restaurant, taking in a sixteen-foot Buddha towering over a reflecting pool with live carp. Two tables over, a group of
Sex and the City
wannabes discussed their dating escapades a little too loudly.

Just then three waiters circled the table, dropping plates of Dragon Tail spareribs and Thai crab cakes. “I already got thirty-one responses to the invite,” Cate whispered to Stella as she plunged her knife into her soy ginger–glazed salmon. “Betsy Carmichael wants to cover Myra's makeover for Ashton News.” Cate put emphasis on the word
Myra
, as if to say,
See? I'm trying
. “She even wants to do an exclusive interview on my split from Chi Beta Phi.”

Stella stuck a lobster dumpling in her mouth and practically swallowed it whole. She was starting to feel like she was going through her own split. Pippa and Bridget had finally e-mailed, but only to announce that Bridget had highlighted her red hair and Pippa was now dating Robin Lawrence, who—just last spring—was someone
Stella
fancied. They'd signed the e-mail “Miss you!” even though they hadn't asked about her new school, or Winston, or anything really. Their lives in London were barreling on, without Stella, and it felt like they didn't even care. “We saw Blythe in Saks today,” Stella mentioned.

But Cate didn't respond. She was eyeing her plate suspiciously, her nose scrunched up like she'd just gotten a whiff of cheap perfume. “I think my salmon is bad.” Cate raised her dainty hand in the air, signaling for the waiter.

Lola felt like she was sitting on a heating vent. From across the table Andie stared at her, her brown eyes wide. Stella and Cate didn't know about Gunther—and it was better that way. The last thing she wanted was Cate listing all the reasons why she wasn't qualified to be a model, or Stella blabbing it to their mum the next time she called from Tahiti. Lola wanted to be the one to tell her.

“I'm sure it's brilliant,” Lola insisted a little too loudly. But the waiter was already there.

“The salmon doesn't smell right,” Cate said, pushing the fish with her fork. She offered the plate to the waiter, but he didn't take it.

Instead, he narrowed his beady eyes at Lola. “I'm sorry,” he said, shaking his head. “But it's not the salmon.”

Lola pulled her hoodie tighter around her, trying to conceal the stench. But Cate was already leaning in, sniffing her like she was a container of yogurt that was past its expiration date. “Lola, is that
you?
”

At the other end of the table, Margot tried to change the subject. “Did I mention Walter ran a marathon last year? He's
very
active.” She patted down her stiff blond hair.

“Lola,” Stella hissed, grabbing her sister's arm and lifting it up. “You smell like a rubbish bin!”

“All right, luvs, let's not make a scene.” Margot let out an uncomfortable laugh. At the table next to them a couple in their forties watched in horror as Stella stuck her nose in Lola's armpit.

“You're dirtier than Margot's martini,” Cate said. Stella laughed loudly and a few other tables turned to look. “You better take a shower before tomorrow. I don't want you stinking up my”—she glanced quickly at Margot—“
town house.
”

Lola's nose twitched as she pushed farther away from the table. She knew Cate was talking about the bloody party, but she didn't care about it anymore. Kyle was online earlier, but when she'd asked him if he was actually coming tomorrow night he'd signed off. She pictured him cuddled up on a love seat, watching
Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire
with Imaginary Girl, holding her tight during the scariest part, when Harry is in the graveyard with Voldemort.
I love the way you smell
, he'd whisper, breathing in her Clinique Happy perfume.

Andie watched as Lola's eyes brimmed with tears. She'd noticed the stench too, but knew better than to say anything.
Last night, Lola confessed that part of the Gunther Gunta shoot involved not showering. While Andie washed her face Lola stood three feet away from the sink, as though she were the Wicked Witch of the West and would melt if she got a drop of water on her. “She can't take a shower,” she finally said, unable to stand it any longer. Maybe Lola hadn't wanted to tell them, but the only way to shut Cate up was to impress her. “Because
Gunther Gunta
told her not to—heard of him? Lola is modeling for him tomorrow.” She glanced at Lola and smiled.

Cate pointed a finger in Lola's face. “
You're
modeling for
Gunther Gunta?
”

“Yes,” Andie said proudly, answering the question for her.

Lola sat up a little straighter. Even if she smelled like a kitty litter box, there was something satisfying about Cate's reaction. Mainly that she was having one. She only talked to Lola to complain about Heath Bar puking chunks of Fancy Feast in her new Botkier bag. When they were in the kitchen together, or the den—or anywhere—Cate barely said a word, moving around her like she wasn't even there.

“Wow, Lola,” Stella said quietly. “Why didn't you tell me?”

“Please don't say anything to Mum,” Lola whispered to Stella. “I want it to be a surprise.” Last week, Emma had spent so much time planning the wedding Lola had barely seen her. Growing up, her mum was always busy with work, but now it was even worse. She had a new contract with Ralph Lauren, she had a new husband, and she had two new daughters. Lola couldn't wait for her to come home from the honeymoon so they could be alone. She would show her the photos from the shoot and they'd
talk about Gunther and his silly accent. Maybe they'd even be on Ralph Lauren billboards together—as mother-and-daughter models.

Stella pinched her nose as she popped a lobster dumpling in her mouth. “Oh she'll be surprised.” Her voice sounded like she had a cold. “But you have to take a shower. Otherwise we're going to quarantine you.”

“Let's just eat, okay?” Andie said, taking a bite of her spare ribs. Cate rolled her eyes in protest, but eventually everyone returned to their dinners.

Lola let out a deep breath, relieved. She didn't care if Cate called her Dumpster Diva or Stella forced her to wear a plastic hazmat suit around the town house. It didn't matter. Only one person's opinion counted: Gunther Gunta's. And tomorrow, with his help, she'd be a supermodel.

 

Late that night, Lola was twisted up in her blankets, unable to sleep. When she'd walked into her room after dinner, Heath Bar had hissed and darted under the bed, like she was a burglar with bad hygiene. The stench had now taken on a slight seafood odor, probably a side effect of her corn-and-crab soup. It was so awful she'd tried to stuff her nose with earplugs, but they kept falling out.

She rolled around, finally pulling her shower cap off. She'd hoped it would keep her pillowcases clean, but now her roots were slicked with sweat. Her leg was itching badly like it did when she'd gotten stung by a jellyfish in Mykonos.

Nooo baaathing
. Gunther's voice echoed in her head.
One
with the guttaaaa
. She dug her nails into her calf and scratched the spot, but it felt even worse. She flipped on her bedside lamp and went into the loo, staring at the white claw-foot tub. She could just wash her leg and go back to bed. Just her leg. Gunther wouldn't be able to tell that her calf was any less “feelthy” than the rest of her.

She ran the bath and stepped in, hiking her pajama pants up to her knee. The warm water ran over her shin. She lathered up her hands, smelling the sweet scent of the Bath & Body Works Cucumber Melon body wash.
No baaathing!
The voice said again. She imagined Gunther Gunta with his arms crossed over his chubby belly, staring disapprovingly at her through the thick lenses of his glasses.
One with the guttaaa!!

She knew she shouldn't—she couldn't. But the body wash smelled so inviting, and the warm water felt so nice on her skin. She peeled off her pajamas and tossed them on the floor. With one quick turn of the tap the shower started, rinsing away the nasty green gutter water, the crab soup, and the horrible stench that had been following her around all day.
I zed no baaaathing!
the voice hissed. But Lola ignored it as she inhaled the fresh scent of Andie's rosemary mint Aveda shampoo. Showering felt
too
good. Tomorrow, before the shoot, she'd just have to find another way to be
one with tha guttaaa
.

 

 

 

 

S
tella bounded down the stairs, skipping every other step. She was supposed to meet Myra at Bliss for manicures and pedicures, and she was running late. Last night after dinner, she'd spent an hour in Barneys, picking out a pair of kitten heels to go with Myra's new dress. As she circled the shoe section for the fourth time, trying to decide if Myra would think feathered Manolo Blahniks were tacky, she suddenly realized: Myra hadn't even
worn
heels before. She was the complete opposite of any girl Stella had ever been friends with, and lately that felt like a very good thing.

After the e-mail from Bridget and Pippa, Stella couldn't stop thinking about their “friendship.” When the rag mags posted a picture of Stella's mum crying after the divorce Stella had spent a whole weekend in Bridget's room. She'd been furious, only to discover the same magazine under Bridget's bed. When she broke her arm at the Kew Gardens ice rink, Lola was the one who ran for help. Pippa and Bridget just stood there giggling,
convinced she was putting them on. Now Stella kept picturing that moment in Saks—with Blythe—and imagining what Pippa and Bridget would've said if
they'd
been there. The only answer she could come up with was…nothing.

Stella turned down the hall and raced toward the wide mahogany staircase. “Perfect timing!” Cate's voice called as she emerged from the den. “Can you be ready in ten?” She glanced at the notebook in her hand. “We need to go to Dylan's Candy Bar to get the M&M's, and I want to make a banner that says ‘Chi Sigma Mu.' Then, I was thinking of getting a few Polaroid cameras, that way everyone can take pictures. Which reminds me—we'll need somewhere for people to post them…” She trailed off, scribbling something in the book. “Maybe a corkboard or something? Is that too lame?” She chewed on the end of her pencil and stared at Stella.

“That sounds…brilliant,” Stella finally said. She glanced down at the shoe box in her hands. “But I made plans today with Myra. I should've met her five minutes ago.” She thought she and Cate had an unspoken agreement—Stella would prepare Myra for the party, and Cate would do everything else. Divide and conquer.

“Myra?” Cate snapped. “I told you. She looks amazing. Job well done. Now we have more important things to do.” She dug her thumbnail into the pencil, feeling the wood give. The whole point of Chi Sigma Mu was so she had a new group of friends—two people who could calm her down before musical auditions or tell her when she was being too mean to Andie. People who would stand beside her when Blythe, Sophie, and Priya passed
in the hall, staring her down like she was some sort of juvenile delinquent, out on parole. She didn't found the sorority so she could plan parties alone. “Just cancel.” Stella winced, as though that weren't an option. “Or invite her to come with us. Whatever. I
need
you.”

Stella imagined Myra waiting in the lobby of Bliss, nervously checking her mobile. They'd been so busy with the makeover, Stella had decided that today they would just relax. Myra would get her first pedicure, and they'd go to brunch at Sarabeth's—the cozy restaurant Stella kept passing on Madison Avenue that always smelled of pancakes. Stella planned on talking to her about Bridget and Pippa, and maybe even debrief her about Cate, who was bound to call Myra “Mug” again, or obsessively watch her upper lip like a Chia Pet, waiting for signs of growth. You could take the girl out of Chi Beta Phi, but you couldn't take the Chi Beta Phi out of the girl. “I promised her I'd be there,” Stella said slowly.

Cate stood frozen. “You're serious?” she asked.

“I'll help you this afternoon. Promise.” Stella offered a weak smile. If she had any chance of making her pedicure appointment she had to leave now. She headed down the stairs, glancing over her shoulder at Cate. “I'll be back so soon. It's not a big deal.” But as she darted through the foyer and out the door, she couldn't shake the feeling that to Cate, it was.

 

Just being in Dylan's Candy Bar gave Cate a stomachache. There were giant plastic lollipops stacked to the ceiling, bar stools designed to look like peppermint candies, and every wall was
a rainbow of jelly beans, gummi bears, and M&M's. Cate
hated
sweets. She hated chocolate cake, oatmeal raisin cookies, lemon drops, and anything else with sugar in it. And right now she hated Stella for making her come to this Willy Wonka crack den alone.

After Stella left for Bliss, Cate had sat in the den, feeling more rejected than a tone-deaf cross-dresser on
American Idol
. She'd reviewed her to-do list and tried to estimate how long, exactly, it would take Stella to get there, have a manicure and pedicure, and get back. But after two hours and not one single text, she'd finally given up and left. The M&M's weren't going to customize themselves.

Cate stood at the end of a long line of tourists, their arms piled with candy bars, Disney Pez dispensers, and tins of malt balls. A little girl with a sparkly
DIVA
shirt sucked on a rainbow-swirl lollipop the size of her head. Cate turned away, disgusted by her sticky blue mouth. That's when she spotted them. In the back corner, eating ice cream sundaes at a table by the window, were Blythe, Priya, and Sophie. They were laughing.

Sophie pulled her plastic spoon back and aimed, as though she were about to launch some chocolate ice cream right in Blythe's face. “Don't you dare, Sophie!” Blythe hooted, so loudly the people at the next table turned to watch. Cate tried to hide behind a spinning rack of candy bars. It was bad enough she had walked down all of Third Avenue alone—the last thing she needed was Beta Sigma Phis knowing.

“Do it!” Priya yelled, egging Sophie on.

Blythe was smiling as she pushed her chair farther and far
ther from the table. “I swear, Sophie. You better not.” Cate gazed longingly at the empty seat beside them. Just a few weeks ago Sophie was chasing
her
around with a glass of Crystal Light, threatening to pour it over her head. Once she'd waited under Cate's bed for a whole hour, only to scare her half to death by grabbing her ankles. Sophie's immaturity always seemed like this annoying thing Cate had to put up with, but now she missed it most. It made everything—sleepovers, brunch, or just gym class—more fun.

Sophie finally turned the spoon on herself, launching the ice cream into her mouth. As she wiped her lips with a napkin she noticed Cate peering out from behind the candy bar rack. Priya and Blythe both followed her gaze.

Cate picked up some peanut brittle and read the nutrition label, feeling like she'd just gotten caught spying on them through Priya's bedroom window. It didn't matter if she was alone—they had already seen her. And if she didn't want to look like some sort of creepy Peeping Tom, she needed to save face immediately.

She took a deep breath and strolled over to the table. “I thought that was you guys,” she called, trying to sound breezy. She rested her hand on the back of the empty chair. Even if she'd wandered around alone all morning, she'd spent the last three years in the Ashton drama club. Acting was something she knew how to do. “I was just shopping for some candy for tonight. Everyone's calling it the biggest party of the year. I can't believe all the e-mails I've gotten.” Cate shrugged, trying to seem breezy.

“Why are
you
shopping for candy?” Blythe narrowed her
gray eyes at Cate. “You hate candy. Where's Mug and Stella?” She glanced around the store. Two little boys were doped up on sugar and chasing each other through the chocolate section.

Cate swallowed hard. When Cate was friends with the Chi Beta Phis, they knew each other's whereabouts at all times. Priya sent a mass text when she broke her foot at gymnastic practice and had to go to the St. Vincent's emergency room. Sophie had written regular e-mail updates from the Hamptons last summer, complaining of her grandmother's bridge and pinochle parties. And Blythe and Cate kept in the best touch. When they weren't physically together, they called each other three times a day to consult on Barneys purchases, or gossip about Eleanor Donner's germaphobia, or talk about how Cate's dad was acting like a seventh-grader with a bad crush. But it was different with Stella. She and Mug (correction—
Myra
) could have been on a British Airways flight back to London at that very moment. Cate had no idea. Sometimes it felt like Stella didn't even need her. “There's so much to do for tonight, we had to split up. Myra and Stella really didn't want to, but I insisted.”

“Well, let's hope Myra's up to par for the party.” Priya dug her spoon into her banana split. “Our sneak preview yesterday still left much to be desired.”

“She will be,” Cate said. “Don't worry.” She stood there a moment longer, trying to remind herself that Blythe had gone out on a date with Eli last night.
Her
Eli. She told herself, again, that Priya and Sophie were like sheep, following anyone who would lead. The three of them were
not
her friends anymore—they were dead weight.

“Is that all?” Blythe asked. She glanced at Cate's hands, which were still holding on to the back of the empty chair.

“No,” Cate snapped, letting go. She straightened up, searching for the right words. She wasn't going to let Blythe Finley, spray-tan addict, decide when the conversation was over. “I wanted to offer my condolences in advance. Tonight is Beta Sigma Phi's funeral.” She watched Blythe's face harden. Priya threw her spoon into her sundae as Sophie squeezed a fistful of her flattened brown hair. With that, Cate stalked off toward the register. There was something satisfying about threatening Blythe. She just wished she was completely convinced of it herself.

 

Saturday afternoon, Stella rapped her knuckles on Cate's door for the third time and still, no one answered. She finally pushed it open. Three Cynthia Rowley dresses were strewn over her bed, along with a Jenga-like tower of shoe boxes. But Cate wasn't there.

She whipped out her mobile. As she texted away, she remembered Cate's face before she left for Bliss, feeling the slightest pang of guilt. Her blue eyes had been wide, like those of a puppy who was being abandoned at the pound.

She felt like a member of the CIA, sending encoded messages. The translation being: READY TO FORGIVE ME? She hoped the answer was yes.

Stella was as excited as Cate was, she just wasn't worried about silly details like customized M&M's and Polaroid cameras. She and Cate already had the two ingredients every good party needed: a parentless town house and fabulous hosts. And because of Stella's good work, there were now
three
of them.

Her iPhone buzzed.

Stella bounded down the stairs. As she strolled into the living room, she could hear the squeaky sound of markers on poster board. Behind the couch, Cate was finishing a Chi Sigma Mu banner, complete with the Greek letters. Tiny pink bags were piled up around her,
CHI SIGMA MU
printed on their fronts. She looked up at Stella, her pale face tense with worry. “Well look who decided to help out. Did you shut the door? We can't let Margot see this.”

Stella swallowed hard, eyeing the gift bags. Cate had obviously started the party planning without her. “I'm ready to go to Dylan's Candy Bar…” she said in a small voice.

“Don't worry about it,” Cate muttered. “I already went.
And
I picked up the cupcakes from Magnolia Bakery
and
the Polaroid cameras
and
I'm making the banner. Everything is done.” Cate pressed down hard on the magenta marker, coloring in the last of the
U.
She couldn't stop thinking about what had happened at Dylan's Candy Bar, how Blythe, Priya, and Sophie had all looked so happy without her. Even if Blythe had staged a coup last week, she never would've chosen some hairy Mathlete over Cate. She'd
been there for every moment in Cate's life—since forever. When Cate cried on her first day of kindergarten, Blythe gave her her Polly Pocket to play with. Blythe was Cate's campaign manager during the eighth-grade election, and when Cate met Emma for the first time Blythe was standing right next to her, squeezing Cate's hand twice to secretly tell her she approved. Maybe Blythe had competed with her for the Chi Beta Phi presidency and for Eli too—but when they'd been friends, they'd actually been friends.

“Cate,” Stella continued. “I'm sorry about this morning. But I had to meet Myra. She was waiting for me.”

Cate stood up and snatched her black and white Balenciaga bag off the couch. “You didn't have to do anything,” she blurted out. Her deep blue eyes were wet. “I can't hear another word about you being BFFs with Myra Granberry.” As she said the name, she made little quote signs in the air. “I have to go to Frédéric Fekkai to get my hair done, then I have to finish stuffing these gift bags, then hang that banner. That way when Blythe, Priya, and Sophie arrive, it'll at least
seem
like I have friends.” Cate threw her bag over her shoulder and darted into the foyer, her Theory platform slides making a clacking sound against the marble floor.

“Cate!” Stella called, just as she heard the door slam. “You
do
have friends.” But she knew the truth. She'd ignored Cate's text yesterday about Myra's makeover, and while she was at Bliss, watching Myra squirm in her chair as the woman tickled her feet with a pumice stone, Cate was stuffing five boxes of cupcakes into a cab. Tonight was Cate's chance to show the Beta Sigma
Phis her brilliant new friends, but Stella and Myra had formed a two-person faction without her.

Stella climbed onto the credenza, clutching the banner in her hand. Maybe she
had
been MIA for the last twenty-four hours. Maybe she
hadn't
helped Cate decide if they should get pink M&M's or purple. But it didn't matter. When the new Myra showed up in her Diane von Furstenberg dress, the three of them would have a dance party in the living room, or sit around the kitchen table laughing about the five-page petition Paige Mortimer e-mailed to Cate explaining, again, why she should be the third member. Betsy Carmichael would snap a million pictures of them for the
Ashton News
website, and by the end of the party Cate would find Myra's “goshes” and “gollies” so endearing she'd want to buy a pair of rainbow knee-highs of her own. By the end of the night everyone—including Cate—would finally see Chi Sigma Mu for what it was: the best sorority at Ashton Prep.