All That Glitters Page 6

  But I had to admit: It was pretty amazing to see her so riled up. Now all I had to do was figure out how to do it off the field.

  I expected to see Willa at Kennedy’s side, plotting their next attack against me, but Kennedy was picking the grass off her skirt alone, and Willa was nowhere to be seen. Finally, I spotted her crouched on the ground, groaning and clutching her side. Whoops. I guess maybe I hip checked her a little harder than I’d meant to. I jogged toward her to make sure she was all right.

  “Willa,” I said, leaning down. “Are you okay? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for things to get so rough.”

  I stuck out my hand to help her up. She stared at it for a moment like I was offering her some kind of contagious disease.

  “Well gee, thanks, Flan,” she said, deciding in the end to take my hand. She put away the fangs for a change and gave me a sugary sweet smile as she stood up.

  From the other side of the field, to the boys or to Ramsey it might have looked like we were just two teammates helping each other out. But when Willa got to her feet, I felt the hard grind of her cleat dig into my toe.

  “Oww.” I pulled my foot back and tried to do the same with my hand, but she just squeezed it tighter.

  “Can I just say one thing?” she asked, her voice still dripping saccharine. “That whole running-for-host thing that your little friends are trying to put you up to”—she clucked her tongue—“so not a good idea. You see, there’s an order to what happens at this school.” She finally released my hand and took a step away from me. “It’s like this: Everyone knows that I’m in line to be this Virgil Host. Hardly anyone even knows who you are. And if I were you, Flood, I’d keep it that way.”

  Chapter 10

  What willa doesn’t Have …

  I was so shell-shocked (and hip sore) by Willa’s utter scariness on the field that I nearly forgot that night was my monthly “Cheap Thai food and trashy movie night” with SBB. We’d started the tradition when SBB was in a slump over some bad press she’d gotten for Willow Walks with Wendy, a cheesy date movie she’d starred in with the fallen former child star Fenton McCallister.

  When the movie debuted, I’d spent days trying to convince SBB that even though the New York Post had called it “horrifyingly vapid,” that her own acting had been much more highly praised (relatively speaking) as “borderline inoffensive.” But the only thing that seemed to cheer SBB up in those days was to watch movies that she claimed were worse than Willow Walks.

  Somewhere along the way, bad movies and pad thai became a tradition. Now that we’d seen just about every Keanu Reeves movie in existence, it was almost a challenge to keep digging up disasters that would beat the one we’d watched the month before. But somehow, we always found one.

  By the time SBB rang my doorbell, I was stretched out on the couch with a heating pad slung over my hip.

  “Door’s open,” I called out. “I’m infirm and can’t get up.”

  SBB stepped into my living room wearing a geometric print bodysuit, bobby socks, and a high black babushka. More often than not, I wanted to crack up when SBB showed up at my house wearing something ridiculous. But I always had to remember to keep myself in check. If she was wearing it today, everyone on the street would almost certainly be wearing a toned-down version of it next month. Though in this case, I doubted very many people on the street could pull off a geometric print bodysuit. But a New Yorker could always try.

  “Grub’s here!” she called out, holding up a large paper bag that was filling the room with some very tantalizing smells. “And I brought Joe Versus the Volcano.”

  Then, when she got a glimpse of my position on the couch, SBB dropped the bag and darted over to me. “Oh my God, what happened to you? Don’t tell me you got in a catfight with Kennedy?” She surveyed my face. “At least she didn’t give you a black eye.”

  “It wasn’t exactly a catfight,” I said. “And it wasn’t exactly with Kennedy.”

  “Flan, you’re scaring me. Since when do you get into full-on brawls with unknown Manhattanites?”

  “Since I joined the field hockey team this afternoon. It just got a little bit, um, aggressive. And it was Kennedy’s best friend-slash-Satan, Willa. The two of us were a smidge too into the hip checking. Don’t worry, though, I’ll recover.”

  SBB was still stuck on one thing. “Willa Rubenstein?” she asked, eyes wide. “That cow.”

  I shook my head. “No, she’s tiny. Too tiny to contain all that scariness, actually.”

  “Well she didn’t used to be,” SBB said, busily unloading the tubs of Thai food from the bag now that she’d been assured that my condition wasn’t life-threatening.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  SBB sat poised on the arm of the couch. “Back when her mother had fooled herself and a couple of agents from ACA into thinking Willa had a chance as an actor, we used to audition together. Willa always tried out for the chubby girl parts. And I’m pretty sure her dad even went so far as to pay off the casting crew just so she could try out. I think she did a commercial or two. But then that was it. Over.” SBB shook her head.

  “Well, she’s skinny now,” I said, spooling some noodles and broccoli around my chopsticks. “And completely evil. I don’t get it. You know, at least Kennedy and I have a history. We have a reason not to get along. Willa just seems to get a kick out of being nasty to someone she barely knows.”

  SBB dipped a spring roll into some peanut sauce and took a giant bite. “Maybe she’s threatened by you,” she said with her mouth full.

  “Yeah, right,” I said. “Class president, totally put-together, richest girl in school. There’s no way she’d be threatened by me. I’m the new girl who trips into whole pizzas, remember?”

  “The new girl who trips into whole pizzas and can bounce back, stand up, and laugh about it. Don’t underestimate yourself, Flan,” she said. “Clearly you have something that Willa wants.”

  I considered this. “She wants me not to run for Virgil Host. She made that pretty clear today,” I said, lifting up the heating pad to check on my hip. “I have the bruises to prove it.”

  “Well,” SBB said with a knowing look. “If Willa doesn’t want you to run, then obviously you have to run. And not only that, you have to win. What is this Virgil Host thing, anyway?”

  I shrugged. “It’s sort of like the party planner of the month. You basically arrange a swanky event with Dalton. And get this, there’s an actual election to decide who’s most qualified for the job.”

  “Well, if Willa’s so bitchy, who’s even going to vote for her?” SBB said. “You’ve already got a leg up on her just by being a nice person.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know if it’s about niceness at Thoney.”

  “Everybody likes niceness,” SBB said.

  In SBB’s movie version of my life, maybe this was true. Unfortunately, it didn’t look like real life followed the same script.

  “Not on the Upper East Side. It’s so cutthroat. Sometimes I can’t believe how ridiculous the code of conduct is at this school.”

  SBB put her hand up to stop me. “I usually don’t talk with my mouth full, Flan, but I need to interrupt you. It may be ridiculous to have to run for such an office, but this title sounds like it was made for you.”

  “No way.”

  “Yes way,” SBB said. “I’m still picking confetti off my clothes from the birthday party you threw me. You’re the best party planner I know.”

  “That was a pretty sweet party,” I said, thinking back to the two hundred balloons we’d floated on the pool at the Q hotel in Midtown for SBB’s last birthday. “But I’m not sure I could actually campaign for my party planning skills. It sounds a little intense.”

  Before I could argue any further, the front door of our house burst open and in pranced Feb with the wispiest, pixiest-looking girl I’d ever seen. Both of them were dressed entirely in black, and Feb had my Pomeranian, Noodles, cradled in a small tote bag under her arm.

&
nbsp; “Noodles!” I practically shrieked. “Thank God—I was wondering where you were!”

  “Sorry, Flan, I sent you a text when we got back from Cambodia. I had to borrow him for an hour. It’s just so French to port around a little pooch, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Huh?” SBB and I said at the same time.

  Feb gestured at the bob-headed pixie to her left. “This is Jade Moodswing. This is my sister, Flan, and her actress friend, Sara-Beth Benny.”

  “Is pleasure to meet you,” Jade said in a thick French accent. Her mauve-penciled lips were set in a deep frown as she began to move around the room, picking up my mom’s vases, clocks, and candlesticks. She gave everything a very discerning once over. Then, with exquisite ladylike elegance, she took a seat next to me on the couch and crossed one leg over the other like she was in a French spy film from the forties. She took a cigarette out of a slim silver case, looked around, seemed to think better of lighting it in our living room, replaced the cigarette, and sighed heavily, like she just remembered every boy she’d had to break up with since she was seven years old, and it was all too much to handle. I’d never seen someone look so beautiful while brooding before. It was more than a little bit mesmerizing.

  “So what brings you to New York?” I asked her.

  “Pff.” Jade puffed a breath of air out of her lips. “Always work. But your sister is helping me plan my fashion show at The Armory Show. In fact—” She looked me up and down in the same way she’d just examined our Nambé candlesticks. Then, without hesitation, she reached forward and ran her thumb along my cheekbones. Normally, I might have jumped back at a virtual stranger doing that, but something about Jade doing it made me feel honored. Even if I had absolutely no idea what she was doing.

  She clapped her hands. “February,” she said, strongly pronouncing the first r. “I wonder if we have just found our model?”

  “Huh?” Now Feb, SBB, and I all spoke at the same time.

  Jade nodded as if whatever she was talking about had already been decided. “Your sister, she is … how do you say … so fetching, youthful, long-legged. Très Américaine. J’adore.”

  Suddenly, I heard a low rumbling purr sound. Confused, I looked around for a cat before I realized we didn’t have one—and then I figured out that the sound was coming from Jade. I could feel myself blushing when I said, “Seriously? Me?”

  “It’s not actually the most horrible idea in the world,” Feb said. She whipped out her iPhone, took a picture of me, then passed the phone to Jade, who proceeded to get up off the couch and play paparazzi. After a minute, they drifted out of the room, conferring over the photos.

  To my right, I heard a hmph! and looked over to see SBB with her arms crossed over her chest like a pouting three-year-old.

  “What’s that face?” I asked her, tucking my knees under my chin.

  “Nothing,” she sniffed, looking at the ceiling. Noodles jumped into her lap and licked her chin. “What face?”

  “SBB.” I said. “What’s wrong?”

  SBB swept Noodles’s poofy fur into a spiky ponytail between his ears. “I’ve been trying to get you to do fashion for years. Now some étrangère rushes in with the idea and suddenly you’re intrigued?”

  It was just like SBB to get possessive over me at a moment like this, and I had to remind myself that this was just her funny way of showing that she cared. As long as she could be included, SBB was my biggest supporter, no matter what I did.

  “I don’t even know if I’m intrigued,” I said as SBB gave Noodles another ponytail. He licked her again, then jumped off the couch.

  “You blushed, and I know what that means. That you’re sitting there thinking ooh la la, a French designer, an artiste, who is so fancy and French and way better at fashion than SBB.”

  “SBB—never! You are the most stylish person I know.” I swatted her arm playfully. “But it’s a little interesting sounding, I guess. It’s just that I’m not quite feeling comfortable yet at school, and maybe doing this modeling gig would be a distraction. Do you think it’s a bad idea?” I asked.

  Feeling needed once again, SBB instantly changed her tune. She cocked her head to one side and looked like she was thinking hard. “You know what,” she said after a pause, “if you’re looking for a way to feel more accustomed to your new school … a French fashion show at The Armory Show is totally Park Avenue. It’s so Uptown. It’s sooo Thoney.” She grinned at me. “And I’m guessing it’s something even Willa’s daddy can’t buy for her. Think how absolutely green with envy she’ll be,” she trilled, hugging a French silk pillow to her chest.

  SBB did have a point. It would be exactly the kind of thing that everyone at Thoney would find pretty impressive. And I wondered, if I started hanging out with Jade Moodswing a little bit, whether some of her cool Moodswing-ness might rub off on me. There was something about this that sounded strangely appealing.

  “I love black currant tea in glass tumbler,” Jade said as she drifted back into the room. “So, Flan, have you decided? Feb and I think you should say oui.”

  Feb brushed a tuft of dog fur off her dress. “You know how much I love a family affair,” she said with a wink in my direction, which was code for “You know how much I love the chance to boss my little sister around.”

  “It does sound fun,” I said timidly. “But can I take a few days to think about it and let you know?” As intrigued as I was, I knew modeling was so not my turf. I was the girl who skinned her knee rollerblading along Chelsea Piers the week before. Tonight I got totally down and dirty on a field hockey court. I tripped over pizzas for God’s sake. How could I be expected to handle a catwalk?

  But Jade just shook her head. “I knew I would find my model today. Voilà, it is settled. Now, Flan, will you get me more tea? I like it very much boiling, please.”

  Chapter 11

  Screened Out

  By my third day at Thoney, I was finally getting the hang of things. English was scaring me less and less, and I could navigate the hallways without the use of Camille’s rumpled napkin map. Even the social “rules” of the first day of school were starting to feel a little bit more natural, mostly because I realized that I didn’t have to let them stop me from being myself. After all, I had to remind myself, being myself was fun.

  It was only lunchtime and I’d already succeeded in helping a sophomore girl pick up her dropped books in the stairwell, complimented Olivia on her awesome feather headband when I passed her in the courtyard, and made a girl named Faiden’s day when I told her in social studies that I’d always wanted to name my daughter Faiden.

  Not that I was tallying my niceness points or anything, but maybe SBB was right. Maybe there was something to just being a good person. Maybe I could use my personality to my advantage and secure this Virgil Host thing. Hmm …

  When I got to the cafeteria, I took a quick glimpse at the menu offerings and remembered right away that the mac and cheese and the fries had been preapproved by Camille.

  I grabbed a bottle of green tea and an order of the mac and cheese and decided to take a last-minute gamble on the split pea soup. At the register, a girl behind me with giant plastic earrings shaped like rosebuds was eyeing my tray.

  “Sometimes I think if I have to eat another fry,” she said, “I’ll turn into a potato.” She laughed and shook her head. “It’s stupid, but I’m scared to branch out—is that soup any good?”

  “I haven’t tried it yet,” I told her, counting out change from my Lancel wallet. “I’ll let you know, though. The mac and cheese is always a safe bet, too.”

  The girl nodded emphatically, like I’d said something really insightful. “Thanks,” she said, lifting a serving of the cheesy pasta off the lineup of mostly scary-looking foods.

  “No problem.” I smiled and made my way to the third table where my friends were waiting, wondering: What Would Willa Have Done? Probably tripped Plastic Earrings and laughed.

  “Hey, Flan,” a voice called out as I walked to my table. I
looked over and was kind of excited to find that the speaker was one of Shira Riley’s senior friends.

  “Hi, Anna,” I said, noticing that she was sporting the same Comptoir des Cotonniers satchel that Jade Moodswing had had with her last night. “Cool bag,” I said, feeling a little impressed with myself that I recognized the French designer. “I love their new line.”

  “Me, too,” Anna said, nudging Shira, who was sitting behind her. “Looks like Patch’s little sister has some taste.”

  As I walked past them, I started thinking about how long it had been since someone referred to me as “Patch’s little sister.” There was a time when it used to bug me, like I wasn’t my own person. In fact, I think Patch’s shadow was a big part of the reason why I wanted to try out Stuyvesant. But now that I had that experience under my belt, I’d learned a couple of key things. For starters, I knew I was my own person—and I also knew that whatever fashion sense I did have definitely did not come from my wrinkled T-shirt-wearing brother.

  Finally, I spotted Camille, Harper, Morgan, and Amory and gave them all a big smile. Even though the cafeteria was a flurry of activity—Bill Blass heels clicking, cell phones ringing, and one very insane-looking janitor gathering all the soda cans out of the trash bins and muttering to himself about who knows what—the third table felt like a total mecca of serenity. It was so great to know that I had thirty-five blissful minutes to just relax with my friends and chow down.

  “How’s it going, girls?” I said, plopping down in an empty seat next to Camille. Harper was dusting her eyes with gold shimmer, Morgan was tapping a beat with her fork on the table, and Amory was memorizing her monologue for the upcoming play tryouts.

  “Well, I’m basically in awe watching you, Flan,” Camille said, shaking her head. “Here you were, all nervous about coming back to private school, and within three days, it’s like you already know everyone.”