Survival of the Fiercest (6 page)

T
hursday after school, Cate and Stella sat behind a long oak table in the Ashton Prep drawing room, a wood-paneled hall that smelled faintly of Pledge. A few candidates were lounging on the grand piano in the corner, like they were about to break into show tunes. As more girls trickled in, Cate thumbed through her red Moleskine notebook, wanting to seem poised and professional. She and Stella had stayed up late the night before, writing interview questions and deciding how to seem both intimidating and accessible. Cate had borrowed a gavel from the debate team, and Stella had stolen Margot's red Kate Spade reading glasses.

Cate scanned the room, which was now packed with more than forty girls. Stella had prepared her for a few inevitable disappointments—the flyers had been plastered all over the high school for everyone to see. Liza Bartuzzo and the marching band girls had shown up after all. And Kimberly Berth, the only member of the Ashton mascot club, dragged a purple duffel bag in
behind her. But with those few exceptions, the view was pretty good.

Eleanor Donner was there, her black hair falling to her shoulders in shiny barrel curls. Shelley DeWitt had worn a strapless metallic cocktail dress that made her pale skin look radiant. Even Paige Mortimer—a former member of the Chi Beta Phi blacklist—had gone all out, her brown hair swept to the side in a dramatic updo. Cate turned the sapphire ring on her finger, thinking of the time her mother had taken her to FAO Schwarz when she was a little girl. She'd spent two hours wandering the aisles, trying to pick out the perfect porcelain doll. The only difference was, those dolls came perfect. The girls in front of her needed a few
adjustments
to make them Chi Sigma-worthy. Still, it was a solid turnout.

She spotted a familiar face in the back of the room. Andie was standing behind Kimberly Berth, trying to seem inconspicuous. Cate narrowed her blue eyes at Andie. Last year she had discovered Andie and Cindy hiding in her closet during a Chi Beta Phi sleepover, eavesdropping on plans for their weekend trip to the Hamptons. It had always been that way: If Cate bought gray suede Sigerson Morrison boots, the next day Andie was wearing the same ones in black, insisting it was a coincidence. And when Cate got a body wave at Frédéric Fekkai, Andie started wearing her hair wavy too. She'd thought Andie's days of doing bad Cate Sloane impressions were over, but apparently she was wrong. Maybe imitation
was
a form of flattery. But when your little sister was doing the imitating, it felt more like a form of torture.

Cate banged the gavel hard on the wood table and all the girls
in the drawing room jumped. “Thank you all for coming,” she said, sounding anything but thankful.

“We hope you are all prepared to tell us why you should be the third member of Chi Sigma,” Stella said. “If you've brought a CV, we'll take those now. The rest of you can line up.”

Paige Mortimer set a black leather folder down in front of Cate and Stella. “Everything is in here.” She tapped it gently. “My résumé, my certificate from Junior Honor Society, my headshot from when I was a child actor along with a DVD of the Welch's commercial I was in, three recommendations from Ashton jun—”

“Your older sister doesn't count,” Cate interrupted. It was impossible to rely on Paige Mortimer, who was infamous for being two-faced. She changed faster than a braless sixth-grader during gym. Last spring she'd called Cate “stuck-up.”

“
Two
recommendations from Ashton juniors,” Paige corrected, pulling a piece of paper from the folder and crumpling it up.

Stella looked over the CV. Technically Paige had all the right credentials. But the last thing Chi Sigma needed was someone who'd insist they wear matching J. Crew flowered button-downs every Friday, or argue with Cate over which subway they should take to Columbus Circle. They needed a follower—someone who would be happy doing whatever she and Cate decided. And according to Paige's résumé (
captain of the Ashton Middle School swim team, editor in chief of the middle school newspaper
), she was used to being in the spotlight.

“Now”—Stella tried banging the gavel, just for fun—“we
appreciate you all coming, but we have very specific criteria to follow.” She pulled Margot's glasses down to the tip of her nose. The prescription was so strong they made the drawing room look like a Monet painting—everything blurred together.

“Yes,” Cate continued, glancing down at her notebook as if it contained important information. “We cannot, under any circumstances, consider any middle school girls.” Andie crossed her arms over her chest, obviously annoyed. “Sorry, C.C.” Andie left, followed by a girl with an unfortunate mole, and two fifth-graders who were so tiny they looked like they belonged in day care.

“And I'm sorry,” Stella added, “but we can't have any candidates affiliated with the Ashton Prep marching band, or the Ashton Prep mascot club.” Liza Bartuzzo & Co. slowly collected their flags and headed out, but not before Liza muttered something under her breath that sounded like “discrimination lawsuit.” Kimberly “Kimmy-Kim” Berth exited too, dragging her purple duffel bag behind her. The tail of the bobcat costume was sticking out the back, like she'd just bagged game on a hunting safari.

Stella looked down at the list of questions, searching for the perfect opener.

“What is
Mug the Slug
doing here?” Cate hissed in her ear. Stella's head snapped back like a Pez dispenser. Myra Granberry had snuck in the side door, filing in line next to Paige Mortimer. Her thin blond hair was smoothed back into a ponytail, and she had changed into a purple button-down shirt.

“It is an
open
call,” Stella whispered, suddenly nervous. She'd
completed her biology lab with Myra this morning, labeling all the different chambers of the heart on a worksheet. Myra had talked about her Mathletes practice, the ABC special she'd seen on insomnia in mice, and her dad's prototype for the underwater guitar, but she hadn't mentioned anything about the Chi Sigma rush. Stella was hoping she'd forgotten.

“Sorry I'm late!” Myra said cheerfully, offering Stella a small wave. Myra pulled up her red and white-striped knee-highs, smiling.

Stella cringed. There was no way she was telling her to leave—not now. But if it wasn't for her, Myra would've never showed up in the first place. “So let's begin.” Stella adjusted the glasses. “Why do—”

“Wait.” Cate interrupted, a smirk creeping across her face. She leveled her deep blue eyes at Myra. “I'm sorry, but we can't accept any candidates with facial hair.” Paige Mortimer laughed loudly. Myra glanced from Cate to Stella, tears welling in her eyes.

“She didn't—” Stella tried to find the right words. But before she could say anything else, Myra covered her lip with her hand and stormed out.

“Cate,” Stella hissed under the chorus of giggles. “You didn't have to be so harsh.”

“Since when are you friends with the Slug?” Cate brushed her dark brown hair out of her eyes, shooting Stella her most innocent
Was it something I said?
look.

“She's my lab partner,” Stella snapped. She knew lab partner didn't equal best friend, but suddenly she couldn't stand thinking about Myra sitting alone in the loo, dabbing her eyes with cheap
squares of toilet paper. “I'll be right back.” Stella darted outside, feeling Cate's stare burning a hole through her back.

“Myra!” she called. “Myra!” The hall was empty except for a few creepy papier-mâché sculptures. The short, abstract blobs looked vaguely like headless children.

“Myra?” a familiar voice asked. Stella whipped around to see Blythe and the Beta Sigma Phis turning the corner. They were in matching red Juicy Couture pants and their hair was pulled back into sweaty ponytails.

“Have you seen her?” Stella asked, peeking into the photography room. Molly Lambert, Ashton's only goth, was hanging framed pictures of a boy in a long black trench coat. “She was just at the open call.”

“Are you kidding?” Blythe put a hand on her hip and stuck out her boobs, which she did whenever she felt threatened, the way porcupines shot quills or skunks sprayed that foul musk. “You think
Mug the Slug
is Chi Sigma material?”

“Why not?” Stella asked, already knowing the answer to the question. There were unspoken rules in high school. You didn't wear red and white-striped socks, you didn't talk loudly about your pet ferret, and you definitely didn't walk around with a thick white mustache.

“Oh, come on.” Priya tilted her head so that her nose ring caught the light. “Yesterday I heard her telling Mrs. Perkins about her sea monkeys. She's bizarre.”

“Well,
I
like her.” Stella rested her hands on the top of her gray uniform skirt. It wasn't like Myra was hopeless. She just needed some…
guidance
. Instead of shopping with her inventor
dad, picking out weird socks and ugly patterned sweaters, she needed go to somewhere like Bloomingdale's, or Saks. “With a few adjustments she
could be
Chi Sigma material.”

“I'll believe it when I see it.” Blythe laughed.

Stella narrowed her eyes. That sounded like a challenge, and Stella
never
backed down from a challenge. When Robin Lawrence told her she was too young to have a painting in a gallery in London, she'd spent two weeks dragging her abstract self-portrait around Chelsea, until she found a small place that would exhibit it in their “Emerging Artists” show.

“Just watch.” Stella smiled. “I'll turn Myra Granberry into one of the most popular girls at Ashton.” With that, she turned on her heel, her blond curls bouncing as she strode back into the drawing room. She would use a little green shadow to bring out Myra's brown eyes, and her mustache would come right off with a good threading. They'd find the perfect Cynthia Rowley dress for her petite frame. The makeover would be easy.

Convincing Cate to let Myra be the Mu to their Chi Sigma?
That
would be the hard part.

A
fter the open call, Cate sat in the packed Haverford gymnasium. The fans were all holding red-and-blue pom-poms or flags, like they'd just looted the school store. The Haverford Devil, a twiggy boy dressed in a skintight red bodysuit, aimed something that looked like a grenade launcher at the crowd. A whole row of sixth-grade boys pounded their fists in the air, their faces painted bright red. “Over here!” one called, opening his hands. “Me!”

A woman in tortoiseshell Gucci glasses sat in front of Cate, looking on in disapproval. She grabbed her husband's arm. “I don't know whose idea it was to get him that T-shirt cannon. He's going to kill someone.” As the players made their way down the court, the Devil shot a balled-up shirt into the bleachers. It careened over the boys' heads, hitting a white-haired man squarely in the chest. He held up the blue Haverford Basketball T-shirt and the crowd cheered. “I should call the dean,” the woman continued. “Really.” Cate wished Stella was there, but
Ashton's headmistress had called her into a lame
How are you adjusting?
meeting after the rush. She needed someone to roll her eyes with—someone to sit beside her when Eli glanced up into the stands.

She imagined wearing a Haverford Basketball T-shirt next weekend, when she was helping Eli unpack his room. He'd pull her close and kiss her forehead, a thank-you for supporting his team. “I don't know.” Cate leaned forward, interrupting their conversation. “It could be kind of…
fun
.” The woman shook her head, like Cate had just told her she supported school-sponsored bungee jumping.

On the court below, Eli chest-passed to Braden Pennyworth, his arms glistening with sweat. Cate smiled. She'd worn her dark wash J Brand jeans and bright red Madison Marcus silk top, which she hoped would send a clear message to Eli:
I am enthusiastic about your athletic pursuits, but I am also fashion forward
. She'd only been to one Haverford basketball game before, when she was twelve, and that was because her dad had dragged her. While she loved being part of the Ashton drama club, or heading the fall formal committee, she'd always thought sports functions weren't for her. But as she watched Eli dribble up the court, his toned arms flexed and his black hair an adorable sweaty mop, she knew she'd been wrong. At the very least, she could enjoy the view.

Eli did a layup and the ball swished through the net. As he high-fived his teammates, the stands erupted in cheers. The boys with the red faces chest-bumped each other and the Devil shook his skinny butt at the crowd, his pointed tail swinging back and
forth. “Yes!” Cate shrieked. She waved her Haverford flag so fast she nearly poked the Botoxed mother next to her in the eye. “Go Eli! Yes!”

When she sat down, the woman was staring at her. Her skin was completely smooth, like she hadn't made a facial expression in years. “That's my next-door neighbor,” Cate explained. She couldn't wait for the moment when she could officially call Eli her boyfriend. It was only a matter of time. Earlier today Danny had overheard him mentioning a “cute freshman from Ashton Prep.” It was practically a done deal.

The clock counted down the last second of the first half and the team exchanged pats on the back. Eli walked off the court and took a swig from his water bottle. His eyes scanned the stands.

“He's looking for you,” the woman whispered, pointing a manicured nail at Eli. Cate felt like her whole body was on fire. Every moment she'd thought about him, pored over the “Green Club” folder, memorizing his schedule, or Google Earthing his address in Westport, was now worth it. Because every moment she'd been thinking about Eli,
Eli
had been thinking about
her
.

Cate watched Eli's brown eyes searching the sea of faces.
I'm over here
, she thought. She sat up straighter and pursed some color into her lips.
Over here
. The Haverford Devil had picked up the T-shirt cannon and was aiming it at the stands again. He pulled the trigger, sending a red ball flying in Cate's direction. She saw her opportunity and stood up, feeling Eli watching her from the court below. The T-shirt sailed closer and she reached up, ready to grab it as it flew by.

“I've got it!” she cried. All the people around her, even the
woman with the tortoise glasses, cheered as it came closer. She stood on her tippytoes, as it came closer still, but it flew right between her hands.

“No—
I've
got it,” a voice said. Cate whipped around. Blythe, overly tanned Boobie Blythe, was in the stands a few rows back. Sophie and Priya were next to her, and they were all a mess of Haverford paraphernalia. Not only were they wearing Haverford warm-ups, they had every accessory you could possibly buy—pom-poms, foam fingers, and flags. Blythe was wearing devil horns, which suited her perfectly. “Eli!” she yelled, holding the T-shirt up. “Look!”

Cate turned back to the court where Eli was standing, smiling and waving at Blythe. She dug her nails into her palm. That smile. It was so genuine, so adorable, and so
not
directed at her.

Blythe blew a kiss to him. “Isn't he the best?” she asked, leveling her eyes at Cate. “We have a date tomorrow.” She leaned to her right, trying to look around Cate. “Do you mind? You're blocking my view.”

Cate clenched her fists tight. Blythe had a date with
her
next-door neighbor,
her
crush,
her
future boyfriend. She already had Priya and Sophie. Now she was taking Eli Punch too?