Survival of the Fiercest (2 page)

I
t was last-period study hall, and Lola had gotten through the entire day without being an awkward, clumsy twit. She'd woken up early to straighten her hair, and some eighth-year in gym had even told her it looked “hot.” At lunch, she'd eaten strawberry frozen yogurt with Andie and her best friend, Cindy, and in orchestra she'd been given a viola solo in “Themes from the New World Symphony.” For the first time since she got to New York, Ashton Prep was bearable.

Now she was in study hall, the girls around her hunched over their desks. A short brunette with too much eyeliner was reading
Pride and Prejudice
while another girl drew two sine curves on graph paper. Lola couldn't help thinking the sketch looked a little obscene, like a pair of knockers.

“Cookie?” the girl next to her asked, keeping her voice low. Technically, no one was allowed to talk during study hall. She offered Lola a plastic Tupperware container filled with lumpy cookies that looked greenish in the fluorescent light. “They're vegan.”

Lola took a bite of one. “Mmmm,” she said, pretending it didn't taste like cardboard. She only had two mates at Ashton Prep (if you counted Cindy)—she wasn't in a place to hurt anyone's feelings. “Thanks.” In the front of the room Mr. McGregor, their study hall proctor, looked up from grading papers and put a finger to his lips.

“I'm Thea,” the girl whispered. “You're in orchestra, right?” She had an auburn bob, and her blue button-down looked a few sizes too big. Lola recognized her from the cello section.

“Right,” Lola choked down the bite of cookie. “I'm Lola. Andie Sloane's stepsister.”

“I didn't realize that!” Thea cried, earning her another loud
shush
from Mr. McGregor. “I've known Andie since preschool.” Lola smiled. She always felt more confident mentioning Andie when she introduced herself. Everyone knew who Andie was, and everyone seemed to like her.

“Our parents just got married,” Lola added. She swallowed the last of the cookie, thankful it was gone.

“I noticed your necklace,” Thea whispered. “Do you ride?”

Lola felt for the gold horseshoe charm around her neck. “I
did
. I had a horse back in London.” She used to keep her palomino colt, Starlett, at Wimbleton Village Stables. She missed riding through the English countryside, looking out for the wild deer that always cut across their path. When they moved, they'd sold Starlett to a middle-aged man named Francis, who had red hair he wore in two braids, like Pippi Longstocking. Wherever Starlett was, wherever Francis was, she hoped he stroked her nose the way she liked and remembered to bring
her brown sugar cubes. “I haven't been riding since last May, though.”

“I ride horses in Prospect Park.” Thea's hair fell in front of her face as she tucked the Tupperware container back into her
SOY TO THE WORLD
tote. “You should come sometime.”

“That would be brilliant.” Lola clapped her hands. She imagined riding a tree-lined bridle path, trotting alongside Thea on a brown-spotted Appaloosa. Soon they'd be hanging out at Thea's apartment after school, or writing notes to each other on their orchestra sheet music. Lola was certain she could come to like vegan cookies. And if she didn't, it was worth scarfing one down every once in a while if it meant she'd have a real friend in school—and one to go riding with.

Mr. McGregor turned on the telly in the corner of the room. Betsy Carmichael was already on screen, sitting at a table with the Ashton Prep crest behind it. She shuffled the stack of papers in her hand. “Good afternoon, ladies of Ashton Prep. I'm Betsy Carmichael, and this is your
Ashton News
.”

As Thea and the rest of the study hall listened intently, Lola doodled a picture of Starlett on her notebook. Betsy kept on about the Ashton girls' soccer team, or how Shelley DeWitt had won first place in the six hundred at a track meet on Saturday.

“And now for the first-week-of-school highlight reel.” Betsy's voice echoed in the room. Lola finished Starlett's tail, but the drawing looked a little like a German shepherd. Stella was always the one who was good at art.

Thea smacked her hand on Lola's desk, covering the drawing. “Look—it's Andie.” Lola glanced up as the screen flashed a picture
of Andie scoring a goal at last week's soccer game. The reel had been set to Pink's “So What,” and it continued, showing a girl with dreadlocks jumping off the high dive. Then there was a clip of Cate and Stella at Jackson Hole with the Chi Beta Whatevers. And that's when it started: footage of Lola tripping in the street, her uniform skirt flying over her head to reveal her days-of-the-week knickers. Betsy had taken the video on the first day of school, and now it had been edited so that Lola fell over and over again, endlessly flashing the camera. The room broke out in laughter.

Lola adjusted her cloth headband, making sure it held down the tops of her ears. She wanted to throw her pencil at the screen, right between Betsy's big bug eyes. She already felt like Super Klutz of the Universe. She didn't need some ninth-year announcing it to the entire school.

“Who is that?” Thea asked, squinting at the telly like she needed glasses.

“I don't know,” Lola lied. But a few of the girls in study hall had turned around, recognizing her. Lola had thought the footage had gone away, that Betsy would find a better story—bad mahimahi in the cafeteria or the librarian's stomach flu—to keep on about. But she was wrong.

Betsy looked directly into the camera and smiled. “And that, Ashton Prep, is your afternoon news. I'm Betsy Carmichael, signing off.” She blew a kiss and the screen went black.

Thea glanced around as the rest of the girls filed out of the room, still giggling. A few turned back and pointed in Lola's direction. “I couldn't even tell it was you,” Thea offered. “Want me to walk you home?”

Lola's nose twitched, the way it always did when she was about to cry. “That's all right,” she said, not looking Thea in the eye. She wasn't about to be a bloody mess in front of someone she'd just met five minutes ago. And she could forget being friends with her now. “I just need a second.”

“Okay…” Thea picked her bag up as if she were in slow motion. As she walked away, Lola could feel her eyes on her, but she refused to look up. Seeing the clips strung together like that it had been so bloody clear. Andie would always be the athletic sister. Cate and Stella would always be the popular sisters. And she would always be the klutz, with Dumbo ears and bowed legs, five inches taller than everyone else.

She sat alone and waited until the noise in the halls died down. She wouldn't go out there until everyone was gone
or
she was wearing a paper bag over her head. And she doubted Mr. McGregor kept a supply of them in his desk.

Ashton Prep made life in London seem easy. At Sherwood Academy, even the most popular bloke, Miles Conway, had helped her up the time she tripped over the roots of the old cherry tree in the schoolyard. Her best friend, Abby, brought an extra Scotch egg for her at lunch, and she'd been voted “Most Talented” in sixth year, for being the first-chair viola. But here it was useless. She could straighten her hair and wear some silly headband to hold down her ears—it wouldn't matter. She would never fit in.

As Lola picked herself out of the seat, she felt like she weighed thirty stone. She turned on her mobile, hoping her mum had called—or Abby—or anyone else she could actually talk to. There was one message.

A woman's voice spoke softly in her ear. “Hi, Lola. It's Ayana Bennington.” It took Lola a moment to recognize the name. Ayana was an agent at Ford, and the first person (besides her mum) who'd ever told Lola she was pretty. According to Ayana, she wasn't bony—she had exquisite “bone structure.” She wasn't too tall—she was “the perfect height” for runway modeling. “I'm calling because there's a casting this afternoon for Pacific Sunwear. I was hoping you'd be interested. Call me back at…”

Lola picked up her pen, copying down the number. When Ayana had said
Lola
—not Andie—was stunning, said
Lola
—not Andie—was high-fashion material, she'd never planned on doing anything about it. It was Andie's dream to be a model, not hers. But she hadn't planned on Betsy Carmichael showing that clip, either. For once, she just wanted to be like Cate or Stella or Andie—someone people didn't immediately roll their eyes at. Someone people looked up to…like a supermodel.

A
ndie took a deep breath, savoring the smell of freshly cut grass. She loved September, when the soccer fields in Central Park's North Meadow filled with high schoolers and the city cooled down just enough so you didn't break a sweat walking down the street. Andie sat on the sidelines, lacing up her dirt-caked cleats. On the opposite field, three Donalty girls practiced sprints, their glossy ponytails swinging back and forth as they ran.

Andie and her soccer team were having an informal scrimmage against the Haverford boys. They did it every Tuesday and spent the rest of the week gossiping about Jake Goldfarb asking Amanda Kowalsky to go to see
Wicked
with him, or speculating about why Austin Thorpe complimented Taylor Kline on her new shin guards. “What up, Sloaney Sloane?” Clay Calhoun called out as he walked toward the sidelines. He was the one Haverford boy everyone always talked about and swooned over, whether he did anything interesting or not.

He flung his Nike backpack to the ground and sat down next to Andie. He was wearing his bright blue Haverford mesh shorts, and his shaggy blond hair fell in his eyes.

“Not much,” Andie mumbled, trying to force a smile. Clay had been flirting with her for the last year, after she'd stupidly agreed to go to the Haverford Middle School formal with him. He'd spent the entire time at the snack bar, making bets with his friends on who could eat the most bags of potato chips. When Andie danced with him, his breath smelled like a cheap barbecue restaurant.

“Yo—I just pantsed Brandon in Starbucks.” Clay grinned as he took a bite of his banana PowerBar. With shaggy blond hair and perfect white
I never needed braces
teeth, all signs pointed to hottie. It was practically a rule in the Ashton Prep handbook: All middle school girls must have crushes on Clay Calhoun. But looking into his bright green eyes, Andie felt nothing.

“That's great…” She leaned over her shin guards to stretch. Clay was always rambling on about all the stupid things he and his best friend, Brandon O'Rourke, did. Just last week they stole Twizzlers from a deli on Eighty-sixth Street, and the week before that they drank two bottles of Coke and ate three bags of Pop Rocks, just to see if their stomachs would explode. They didn't.

Clay stopped chewing. “The barista totally saw his wiener.”

Andie let out a small laugh. “That's crazy. Wasn't he wearing—”

“What are you up to Friday?” Clay interrupted. “Brandon and I are playing Ultimate Frisbee after school. We should hang out after.” Behind him, Austin Thorpe, a starter for Haverford,
passed out yellow and red jerseys. Everyone separated into coed teams.

“Umm…” Andie twisted her laces around her hand, turning her fingers a deep pink. She already saw Clay once a week—and that was one too many times. She was staring at a clover in the grass, trying to decide on a believable excuse (she had an eye doctor's appointment, she had to have dinner with Cindy's parents, she had to help Coach Higgins organize the sports closet) when she heard an unfamiliar voice.

“Andie!” From across the field, a boy with dark brown hair walked toward her. She shielded her eyes, just barely making out…Kyle Lewis. The last time she saw him—which was technically the first time she met him—she'd invited him to her dad's rehearsal dinner as her date. But she only did that to get back at Lola for stealing the spotlight during the meeting with Ford Models. Andie had always wanted to model, but Emma had been so busy with the wedding planning, there was never a good time to ask her about her new contract with Ralph Lauren, or how she'd met her first agent. So last week Lola had used her mom's name to get Andie an appointment at Ford, but it had been a complete disaster. The agent had asked
Lola
to come in for test shots. Andie had wanted to model, and Lola wanted to be Kyle Lewis's girlfriend. At the time, the trade-off seemed fair.

Of course, Andie had soon realized that Lola hadn't stolen her dreams at all—she revealed to Andie that she didn't even
want
to model. Now, Andie was thankful to have Lola as her stepsister. Maybe Lola was covered in orange cat hair, wore jeans that were an inch too short, and always tripped over her own feet. But
she wasn't anything like Andie's older sister Cate. For one thing, it seemed like Lola actually
liked
spending time with her. And Andie could still pursue her dreams—maybe just a little more quietly. As soon as Emma returned from the honeymoon, Andie was planning on asking for her help. She'd waited a whole year to model—what was one more week?

“Who's that?” Clay muttered, pulling his cleats out of his knapsack.

Andie ignored him. “Kyle?” she asked, as he walked over to the sidelines. He looked adorable. The sleeves of his gray Donalty T-shirt were pushed over his shoulders, and the bridge of his nose was tan, like he'd stayed out in the sun just a little too long.

“Thanks for inviting me—this looks cool.” He dug the toe of his cleat into the grass and looked around. By the goalpost, Taylor Kline warmed up by juggling the ball with her thighs.

Andie's mind raced.
What was he talking about?
Then suddenly she remembered: In the midst of her fighting with Lola, she'd invited Kyle to the scrimmage, too. Only she never thought he'd actually come…and Lola definitely didn't either. She'd cried when Andie had just
asked
Kyle to hang out. If she knew they were spending an afternoon together, she probably wouldn't get out of bed for a week. Andie tugged on the blond highlight in her bangs, which she did whenever she was nervous.
Lola can't find out about this
, she thought.

“Is there room for one more?” Kyle asked. He glanced at Clay, who was working at a knot in his laces with his teeth.

Kyle was standing on the field, wearing his shin guards and ready to play. They were on Ninety-seventh Street—she couldn't
tell him to go all the way back to Tribeca now. And besides, it was only one soccer scrimmage—what was the harm in that? Andie looked into Kyle's warm brown eyes, the flecks of gold visible in the late afternoon sun. “Yeah,” she heard herself say. “Definitely.”

 

Two hours later, Central Park was still filled with people. A pack of bicyclists zoomed past, looking like speedy sea turtles in their kelly green Lycra suits and helmets. In the East Meadow, a man with a goatee played catch with his rottweiler, throwing around a suspiciously lifelike bone. A shirtless old man ran past Andie and Kyle, his sweat splattering everything within a two-foot radius around him.

They watched him disappear down the tree-lined path ahead of them as they continued walking. “Why is it always the oldest, saggiest, and sweatiest guys who don't wear shirts?” Kyle's smile revealed a dimple.

Andie laughed, but before she could answer, Clay appeared at the edge of the field, his shaggy blond hair sticking out in every direction. “Hey, Sloane, where you headed?” His white T-shirt had a big red stain on the front of it from when he'd poured a fruit punch Gatorade over his head in celebration.

“Gotta go,” Andie called over her shoulder. “I'll see you next week!” She turned back to Kyle. Usually after every scrimmage Clay walked her home, but today she just couldn't listen to another word about Brandon O'Rourke's wiener.

“What about Friday?” Clay asked, but Andie just kept walking, pretending she didn't hear.

“We killed it,” Kyle said, brushing his sweaty bangs off his forehead. “You were awesome.” During their Tuesday scrimmages Andie was always quick on the field, determined to show the Haverford guys that she could hold her own. But today was different. She ran faster, her touch on the ball was perfect, and she didn't let a single player near their goalie. Having a new person watching her play made the game feel important, special, and every time she passed to Kyle she got an extra jolt of energy.

“Me? You're the one who scored three goals!” Andie twirled her ponytail around her finger. Before she met Kyle, she'd always assumed he was a massive dork. The Kyle Lewis that Lola talked about played the baritone horn, collected old Superman comic books, and had once tried to build a lunch box out of Legos. Even though she could tell right away he wasn't
that
high on the dork meter, for the first ten minutes of the scrimmage Andie had watched him nervously, afraid he might trip over himself or mention Kal-El or Krypton to Austin Thorpe. But after he nailed a corner kick—his second goal—it became clear that this Kyle Lewis was not the one Lola described. This Kyle Lewis was…cool. Even Jake Goldfarb, the other team's goalie, was impressed.

“Did you see Austin's face when you got the second one past him? He's not used to losing.” Andie pushed her sleeves over her shoulder as they walked past the reservoir. She suddenly wished she were wearing her turquoise Elie Tahari silk dress instead of her old pit-stained Adidas T-shirt. She knew it was silly—she wore her soccer clothes more than she wore dresses. But this was
the first time she was hanging out with Kyle, and she didn't want him to think she was a
complete
tomboy.

“I actually know Austin from Battle of the Bands.” Kyle tugged at the gray sweatshirt tied around his waist.

“Wait—” Andie said, stopping in the middle of the gravel path. A three-year-old on a tricycle rode between them, pushing the pedals with great effort. “You played at Battle of the Bands? The one in June—at Arlene's Grocery?” Every year, Arlene's Grocery, a former bodega turned concert space, let the local high school kids compete for a chance to play at one of their Friday night shows. Usually Andie and her best friend, Cindy Ng, cheered for Austin's band, Nightlight Destroyers, even though their music sounded like screeching tires.

“Yeah, just the one for middle schoolers,” Kyle said. “You've heard of it?”

Andie grabbed him. “I was there!” She looked at her hand on his arm, feeling her cheeks flush. She pulled it away and continued walking, keeping her eyes on the sidewalk. It was just too much of a coincidence. He'd probably been standing only a few feet away from her that very night. It was strange she hadn't realized it sooner. “Which band are you in?”

“The Wormholes?” Kyle asked, his cheeks a deep red.

“No way.” She stared at him in shock, like he had just told her he spent last fall touring with Death Cab for Cutie. In June she and Cindy had not only seen the Wormholes, they had become obsessed with them, listening to their album
Spacetime
on repeat for five days straight. But she hadn't recognized Kyle at all. Suddenly it dawned on her: The lead singer K.L. always wore avia
tors and a headband, swinging his head back and forth to the music. “
You're
K.L.?” Andie felt goosebumps prickling up on her arms, something that only happened when she was freezing or insanely nervous.

“Yeah, it's kinda my band.” Kyle laughed. He noticed Andie's goosebumped skin as they crossed Fifth Avenue. “Here—you look cold,” he said, passing her his sweatshirt.

“Thanks,” Andie managed. She wrapped it around her shoulders gratefully. Kyle Lewis, a.k.a. K.L., wasn't just the lead singer of the Wormholes—he was a minor celebrity at Ashton Prep. After the Battle of the Bands show, every seventh-grader started following the Wormholes on Twitter. Cindy had discovered “K.L.”'s profile on Facebook, which said he was an eighth-grader at Donalty. Still, both of them were too embarrassed to actually friend him—they didn't want to seem like groupies.

“Uh…Andie? Isn't this your house?” Kyle had stopped against the wrought iron fence.

“Right.” Andie had been so busy studying Kyle's face, trying to picture him in aviators and a headband, she hadn't realized where they were. She walked up to Kyle, close enough that she could see the tiny freckles that covered the tip of his nose. “Thanks for the sweatshirt,” she said, pulling it from her shoulders.

“No, you can borrow it,” he said, pointing to her bare arms, which still looked like a plucked chicken. “You're freezing.”

“Thanks.” She wrapped it around her shoulders and looked up into Kyle's brown eyes. She couldn't believe this was the same Kyle who, just three days ago, was standing in her foyer. “So I'll see you again next week?”
Say yes
, she thought, imagining them
together every Tuesday, jogging around the reservoir and stopping for Pinkberry on their walk home.
Just say yes
.

“For sure.” Kyle ran his thumb along the strap of his Adidas duffel bag. “But maybe we can talk before then—online?”

Andie tried to steady her voice. “Definitely. My screen name is Sloane28.”

“Cool, I'll remember that.” Kyle stepped out onto the sidewalk and smiled, a deep dimple in his right cheek. Then he took off toward Fifth Avenue, his bag swinging behind him. Andie pulled the sweatshirt off and held it in her hands, just staring at it. It was
Kyle Lewis's
sweatshirt. The same Kyle Lewis whom Lola had grown up with in London, skating in Hyde Park and playing Ghost in the Graveyard in their parents' gardens. The same Kyle Lewis Lola had gone to Madame Tussauds with just last week. And the same Kyle Lewis who was K.L.—the only boy who made Andie wish she went to Donalty.

It was wrong of her to think his dimples were adorable. Or that he was talented and sweet and all the things she wanted in a boyfriend. It was wrong of her to
like
him—but she couldn't stop herself. She hugged the sweatshirt to her chest, smiling as she breathed in a mixture of boy scent and Old Spice deodorant. If it was so wrong…why did it feel so
right?