Material Girls (29 page)

“Thank you. I mean it. You're the best,” Sabrina gushed.

Around lunchtime, an Adequate named Georgia Johnson from the Torro-LeBlanc Finance and Accounting Department stood beside Felix at the podium. Georgia, whom I judged to be forty—at least—talked about her interest in clothing design, which hadn't blossomed until she was an adult. She didn't think it was fair that she had no chance to follow her passion and change careers under Torro-LeBlanc's current setup. Felix, in turn, shared that he loved designing but also wanted to know more about business and finance. “After the makeover,” he said into the booming microphone, “Georgia and I will have the opportunity to share our skill sets. The gulf between Adequates and Taps will diminish. We hope other Adequates who think like Georgia will join us in our fight.” He spoke with knit brows, staring down the cameras. It was risky, a Tap coming out in support of Adequates. But he sounded outrageously confident.

Torro's Adequates hadn't joined us in one big swell, but some of them had trickled into the picket lines yesterday afternoon and today. From the cheers, I could tell his speech touched the crowd.

Afterward, I gave Felix a quick hug. “Did you see how intently everyone was listening?”

“Were they?” He shrugged. I knew he was pleased.

He introduced me to Georgia and we shook hands. “Thank you for starting this whole thing,” she said. “I'm beginning to think we might get through to some of the other industries watching at home, too. You never know.”

I nodded. “What you guys were talking about makes so much sense
.
”

At the end of the day, Vivienne shared some news with us. “A small group of workers from Bancroft House and another from Belladonna walked off their jobs today,” she announced into the microphone. I exploded in cheers, as did everyone around me. “We will welcome our compatriots if they choose to march with us tomorrow, and we support them in their fight. They are our brothers and sisters in revolution.” Again, cheers erupted. “We will
keep on marching
”—she pounded the podium—“until
all
of the design houses realize they cannot treat us like indentured servants. We are creative professionals who deserve fair pay for our hard work.”

Vivienne's ability to inspire stunned me. As I rode home that night, my mind swam with possibilities about what tomorrow would hold. The Silents had given us until nine a.m. to end the strike. If we made it past nine, would they break down and negotiate?

They wouldn't—couldn't—fire that huge crowd of people. I refused to believe it.

Karen drove away my daydreams in short order when I arrived home. Yesterday evening, though I'd tried to sound sure of myself, I had haltingly, ramblingly told her I'd turned down Torro's offer to lead the Superior Court and had instead led the workers in a company walkout. I knew she'd be upset—but I hadn't anticipated that the news would unhinge her in the way it did. At first she stood staring at me, completely speechless. That was the good part. Then she began screaming about all she had given up to raise her only daughter and how I was crushing both of our dreams with this “unfathomable decision.” Finally, she threw some food on a plate, thrust it at me, and told me to go to my room. I ate my dinner alone.

Tonight, Karen kept at it. She banged around the kitchen preparing dinner. “Disgrace” seemed to be the core theme of her ranting, which revealed she'd watched the news all day. Rebellions were disgraceful. This talk of Adequates and tapped employees working together was disgraceful. I had disgraced the family by giving that speech today, by
admitting
that I was feeble enough to give up a seat on the court, and by “spouting lunacy,” as she put it, in all those news interviews. And then, the kicker:

“Who's going to want to marry someone like that?”

I thought I hadn't heard her right. “You're worried about my
marriage
prospects?” I said.

“Like it or not, it's your future,” she said, wiping her forehead as she stirred the string beans. “I'm sure this seems like a fun little adventure, but it will end badly. Trust me. God knows after today you'll never
work
in this city again,” she muttered. “Calling off this strike nonsense now is the only way of preserving any shred of a reputation.” She replaced the pot cover. “I'm only thinking of you, Marla. You've got to listen to me. I've been around longer, and I know the way things are.”

I looked at my mother standing in her apron by the stove. “Karen, marriage is the furthest thing from my mind right now. Maybe I don't even want to get married.”

She groaned. “It's like talking to a brick wall.”

Matters didn't improve when my father came home. “Marla, did you know you were on the news today?” Walter asked cheerfully. “I was doing invoices, but some of the folks at work were saying you made a speech or something?” He turned to my mother. “And last night you were worried that she'd made a bad decision!”

Karen looked as if she wanted to beat him with the meat mallet.

The next morning, I ignored the death stares from my mother and headed back to the strike. We all watched nine o'clock come and go. Torro-LeBlanc did nothing. No one came out of the design house to talk to us. All our contracts were still intact. Felix and I ducked behind some sound equipment and I slid my hands under his T-shirt, up his warm back. He twitched as I tickled him.

“Their silence has to mean fear,” he said.

I wasn't entirely convinced, but pressing my lips to his, I felt dizzy with hope.

The fans were alerted;
security was in place. Ivy and her nymphs emerged from their urban utility vehicle at the Pop Beat studios on Wednesday afternoon to a wall of screaming fans cordoned off behind a long rope.

Ivy wore a long green and yellow tie-dyed sundress from an old flower-child trend. She topped it with a denim jacket with
millbrook choral ensemble
printed across the back. Her mother had overnighted the jacket from home. Its arms were a little short, so she rolled them, and she could no longer button the front, so she wore it open. Since Fatima had thrown out her Millbrook sweats, it was the closest thing she had to an old favorite, and she insisted on wearing it. The plastic flower from Marla she pinned to an elastic band and wore around her wrist like a corsage.

The variety in the crowd was stunning. There were people in outfits like Madison's, complete trends that had only just expired. But others had dug up old looks Ivy hadn't seen in years. There was a football jersey from the athletic trend, a slinky dress from disco, polo shirts and plaid pants from the golf look . . . and on and on. So many different looks, like the world's best costume party.

And that wasn't all. Ivy squinted at a few strange-looking attendees. They might have raided their junk drawers or a sanitation facility for their outfits. One close to the front seemed to be wearing a garbage bag cinched at the waist. A mother-daughter duo had on vests that resembled armor; when Ivy looked closer, she saw they were plated with flattened Sugarwater cans. She marveled at the creativity. Around another woman's neck glittered a necklace with the same melted look as her flower pin.

A small group of people carried signs with
K.U.T.
printed on them. Ivy wondered what that was about.

She advanced toward the crowd a few steps and from her drawstring purse withdrew a trendchecking gun. Fatima had secured the latest model, platinum and sapphire-encrusted, with a long, shiny barrel. Ivy flicked it on and brandished it in the air with both hands like a sword. The crowd roared.

“Now, let's see who's
really
eco-chic!” Ivy yelled.

She approached one of the golf-trend fans and aimed the barrel at the back of her neck. The gun hit the tag through the fabric, and the light turned red. Grinning, Ivy shook the girl's hand and held up the trendchecker for the whole crowd to see.

She went down the line, scanning and shaking, as the crowd cheered. There were several moments when she could tell from the sheepish look on someone's face that some garment of theirs—their boots, or their jacket—hadn't yet expired. She simply passed them over. The point was to gain support for eco-chic, not to shame people. With one notable exception, of course.

“Scan us! Scan us!” two girls screamed at her, each holding a
K.U.T.
poster. Ivy approached them with the trendchecking gun.

“Careful,” Hilarie muttered.

“Oh my gosh, it's so amazing to see you again,” the first girl gushed. “I don't know if you remember, but Sandra and I”—she grabbed the arm of the girl next to her—“are co-managers of the Wildefan Chatlist.” Ivy recognized the round-cheeked smiles; these girls were a frequent presence in the front row of concerts, stretching their arms toward her as if they were starving children reaching for bread. She proceeded warily. There were always those who took fandom to a scary place, who styled their hair and wore colored contacts to look like her, or who stalked her family, or who, upon learning she liked polar bears, sent her a stuffed animal once a month. Once, in an autograph line, one had tried to snip a piece of her hair. Her bodyguards evidently had the same fear and moved closer.

“What's K.U.T.?” asked Ivy.

The first girl held the posterboard above her head. “You'll have to
kut
the shirt off my back!” she exclaimed.

Ivy raised her eyebrows, and Sandra clarified. “We've decided to make eco-chic a lifestyle choice, just like you did, Ivy.
K-U-T
stands for ‘Keep Until Threadbare.' It's an online movement started by this superfan named Vivienne Graves. We've chosen four outfits, and we pledge to wear them as long as the clothing holds up.”

“It's for
real
environmentalists.” The first girl grabbed a television camera lens with both hands and pulled it toward her face. “Go to keepuntilthreadbare-dot-fan. Do it for Ivy Wilde and the environment!”

“That's insane,” Ivy heard Madison whisper to one of the other nymphs.

“Wow, you guys are really committed. Keep it up,” said Ivy, moving quickly down the line.

In talking to them, she realized how much the eco-chic momentum could snowball. She smiled to herself as she considered “superfan” Vivienne's insidious tactics. K.U.T.—a pledge to hold out against trends permanently. The majority of people would never go for it, but a little side group could still make a lot of noise. This crowd proved there were more people willing to ignore trends than she'd thought possible. What it meant, at the very least, Ivy thought happily, was more publicity for eco-chic and for her.

A black limousine pulled up in front of the guest entrance to the Pop Beat building. The entrance was roped off, and security kept the fans in line, but Ivy was free to go where she liked. Leaving her nymphs behind, she positioned herself in front of the stage door, holding the trendchecking gun ready.

Following Vivienne's advice, Ivy had gone over Pop Beat's broadcast calendar carefully. The publicity event was no accident. Lyric Mirth had an appearance on
Hot with Hyman
this afternoon.

Behind her aquatic-looking nymphs, Lyric emerged from the limo. She fluffed her blond hair, whose streaks of green and blue coordinated with her mermaid outfit. Ivy recognized it from Torro-LeBlanc's latest runway show. Lyric waved her arms high and the crowd roared.

Ivy seethed.

Before she could advance, another figure emerged from the limousine. A boy waved at the crowd and lifted his chin to give Lyric a quick but deliberate kiss on the cheek. So they had her dating the middle Angel brother, Danny. Ivy almost snorted. That feeble rock trio, with their cornball music. Good. They deserved each other.

Ivy took a deep breath.
“Lyric Mirth!”
she yelled, opening her arms wide from her perch on the stage door step.

Lyric, Danny, and her nymphs turned at the sound of her voice. Lyric's smile held, but her brow creased in surprise.

“Lyric, it is
so
good to see you here,” Ivy said, projecting as loudly as she could. “Thank you for coming and supporting eco-chic. Lyric Mirth cares about the environment, everyone!”

The crowd cheered again, but she could see a few people frowning and pointing. Clearly, they had previewed the new Torro line. Ivy didn't waste time. “Come over here and let me scan you.”

Lyric's smile faltered. She glanced at her publicist, an older woman who was just emerging from the limo, speaking into her Unum. The disengaged look on the woman's face told Ivy that she hadn't processed the situation yet.

“Come on! Don't be shy. Those expired trends are prime!” cried Ivy. She held the gun in her right hand, high above her head, and advanced toward Lyric. Danny Angel and the nymphs stood around her helplessly.

“I didn't think you meant—this is my first Pop Beat spot!” Lyric whispered. Her eyes searched Ivy's face, and Ivy felt their desperation, their plea for pity. But as in Scalpel, when she'd toppled over the Sugarwaters, her heart hardened. Lyric was the fly in the ointment; she had to be flicked away.

Ivy moved around Lyric and aimed the gun at her back where the dress zippered. She held the trigger until the gun beeped.

“Look everyone, it's—
oh.
” Staring at the gun, Ivy gasped dramatically and returned to the stage door step. She held the device at her side, shaking her head.

“Show us!” someone shouted. The crowd chorused in agreement.

Ivy filled her face with brokenhearted pity. Slowly, she lifted the green light high for all to see. Gasps punctuated the crowd, followed by a few jeers and boos.

By now, Lyric's publicist understood what was happening. She hustled the party toward the stage door as the boos crescendoed. Lyric masked her face with one hand. The fishtail skirt bound her ankles so that she moved in stiff, wobbling strides. Ivy hopped off the step to let them pass.