Sloane Sisters (12 page)

P
riya pulled a cucumber sandwich off the three-tier silver serving tray and leaned over to Sophie. “I cannot wait to see that silk dress in
Vogue
. I'm going to be like—
I
wore that!” She took a tiny bite out of the fluffy white bread.

“I know!” Sophie squealed. “I can't wait to see that tweed skirt I tried on.”

Stella stirred a teaspoon of sugar into her china cup and gazed up at the marshmallow clouds on the domed ceiling of the rotunda. The entire cab ride to the Pierre, Blythe, Sophia, and Priya had kept on about Marc Jacobs' new collection. Sophie had been so distracted, she'd almost left the dress Cate bought her in the cab. Stella glanced across the table at Cate, who was stabbing at her scone with her fork dejectedly. Stella took a sip of her raspberry tea.

It had never tasted so sweet.

“Should we vote now?” Stella cooed, looking around the table at the girls.

“Yeah, let's do it.” Sophie pulled a small black Moleskine notebook out of her quilted purse.

Blythe was smoothing some crème fraîche onto her scone but suddenly dropped her knife, her eyes fixed on something across the room. “Oh. My. God.” she squeaked.

All the girls turned. At the table by the far wall, a man with a mop of blond hair was sitting with a woman who looked like a young, pre-surgery Demi Moore. He wore a tight black sports coat and had cheekbones more defined than Webster's dictionary. Cate straightened up in her chair. “Is that…
Harley Cross
?” she asked, smoothing down her dark brown hair. A young waiter with a shiny black ponytail set down Harley's check, her face a bright pink.

“It
is
,” Priya cried, leaning her chin on her hand.

Sophie pinched her cheeks and pressed her lips together. “Wait—how do I look?” she asked. “Guys?” But no one took their eyes off Harley. He pushed his chair back and stood up, grabbing the woman's hand. The two of them headed toward the door as the table of overdressed Long Island girls next to them exploded in chatter.

“He's leaving?” Cate whined. She had been obsessed with Harley Cross since fifth grade, when she'd seen him in
Reinventing Simon Worth
, a romantic comedy about a first-grade teacher in England. Harley Cross was one of the most adorable actors in Hollywood
and
he had a British accent. British accents on funguslike stepsisters were annoying, but British accents on moppy-haired actors? Totally hot.

Harley glanced around the circular room, his eyes landing on
Cate. He held up one finger to the woman with him, then turned and started walking straight toward their table. Cate pulled at the silver locket on her neck, her pulse quickening. Harley ran a hand through his blond hair and tucked one finger in the front pocket of his dark-wash jeans.

Cate took her napkin off her lap, preparing to stand up and say hello, but as he got closer Cate realized he wasn't looking at her. He was staring at Stella, who was sitting in the chair beside her. He leaned down and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

“Hello, luv,” he cooed. “I thought that was you. I'm flying back to London in three hours, but I couldn't walk out of here without saying hello.”

“Hi.” Stella grinned, her cheeks a rosy pink.

“So how's mum?” Harley asked. Cate coughed, trying to draw attention to herself, but Harley was still staring at Stella intently. Cate could feel the chewed-up scone sitting in her stomach like cement.

“Quite well,” Stella replied.

Harley pulled back the bottom of his sport coat and rested a hand on his hip. “And your father…how is he keeping on?” he asked slowly, furrowing his brow in concern.

Stella looked down at the pink paisley carpeting, her eyes blurring from all the ornate swirls. “Um…fine,” she said after a beat, then let out an uncomfortable laugh.

“Right. Well, it was good seeing you, Stella. Do send everyone my love.” Harley squeezed Stella's shoulder, then walked off.

The second he disappeared from the rotunda, Sophie started shrieking. “Omigodomigodomigod!” she cried. Blythe tucked a
piece of dirty blond hair behind her ear and wiped her forehead, still glowing from her Close Encounter of the Celebrity Kind.

Cate glanced around the table at the Chi Beta Phis, who were all staring at Stella like she'd done a magic trick. She twisted her cloth napkin in her hands.
For my next trick,
she imagined Stella saying,
I will make all your friends disappear.

“That was amazing.” Priya turned her chair toward Stella. “How do you know Harley Cross?” A woman in an unflattering mauve frock sat down near the entrance to the rotunda and began to play a gold harp, moving her graying head in slow figure eights.

“We're old family friends.” Stella shrugged, as if to say,
There are more celebrities where that came from
. She smoothed down the front of her tan skirt, then looked around the table. Priya, Sophie, and Blythe were seriously impressed. This was better than bringing the basketball team to Jackson Hole, better than getting them into the Marc Jacobs designer showroom. She
knew
Harley Cross. And this was what they'd think about when they scribbled her name across their ballots. “Should we vote now?” Stella prompted again, smiling sweetly at Cate.

Cate balled up her white napkin in her hand and threw it down on the table. She couldn't let this vote slip away from her. She was the head of the Chi Beta Phis—she always had been, and she always would be.

Cate cleared her throat. “First we should voice any concerns we have about potential candidates,” Cate said carefully, leveling her eyes at Stella. “Sure, Harley Cross knows Stella, but how much do
we
really know about her?” At the table next to them,
a balding waiter leaned over and poured a scalding cup of tea, nearly searing off his eyebrows. Cate breathed in the minty smell, her whole body tingling with excitement.

“What do you mean?” Blythe asked, confused.

“Stella's father cheated on her mother with Cloud McClean—the same Cloud McClean that sings ‘Kick It' and wears metallic unitards. She didn't leave London because it was ‘so over,' and her parents aren't ‘best mates.'” Cate made quotes with her fingers to remind everyone of Stella's exact words. “She lied about that, and I'm sure she's lied about plenty of other things,” Cate finished. Across the table, Stella stared into her lap.

“Is that true?” Priya asked.

“So your father didn't get a job in Australia?” Sophie asked.

“No,” Cate answered the question for her. “He didn't.”

“And you said my dad ‘had issues'?” Blythe asked, digging her fingernail into the egg sandwich on her plate. “That was so…”

“Mean,” Cate cut in.

“Not cool,” Priya continued. “Why didn't you just tell us?”

“I—” Stella began.

“If you'd just told us, nobody would have cared. But you've been lying to us since we first met you.” Priya crossed her arms over her chest.

“My point exactly,” Cate said coolly. “Chi Beta Phis don't keep secrets from one another.” She appraised her stepsister. Stella's chin was quivering, and she still hadn't looked up. Whatever—it was time to vote, and Cate couldn't get all remorseful now. She grabbed Sophie's notebook and yanked out five pieces of paper, handing one out to each girl.

Finally Stella lifted her head. “Wait a second. I think it's my turn to
voice concerns
,” she said icily, staring up at Cate's purplish blue eyes. She'd make sure Cate regretted mentioning anything about her mum and dad. “Because frankly, I'm concerned Cate isn't able to keep things…
confidential
.” If Cate wanted to fight with secrets, Stella had a whole arsenal of them. “What's that you said about Blythe? That she's a spray tan addict? That she's never even been to Mexico?”

Blythe emitted a sound like a squeak toy.

“I—I didn't say that,” Cate stammered, sitting back down at the table. Her whole body was shaking.

“Oh, yes, you did.” Stella pressed on. “And then you kept on about how Sophie still plays with Barbies—how she keeps them under her bathroom sink.”

Priya covered her mouth with her hand and giggled. “You do?”

“I'm a
collector
!” Sophie yelled, pushing up the sleeves of her blue silk dress defensively.

“I'm not addicted,” Blythe said through gritted teeth. “And I was in Cabo just last spring.”

Priya was still giggling with her hand over her mouth, looking back and forth between her friends.

“And Priya doesn't go to sleepaway camp in the Adirondacks,” Stella continued. “She goes to science camp. Isn't she
obsessed
with dissecting things?”

Priya fell silent.

Stella leaned back in her chair and smiled. She had just dropped a gossip bomb on Cate's perfect little world, blowing it to pieces.

Cate pressed her palms down on the table, leaning toward the girls. “I didn't say that—I swear,” she lied.

“You were the only one I told!” Priya cried.

Cate just shrugged, looking at the girls like she was just as surprised as they were. For now, she would use the strategy she always used when she was caught in a lie: deny, deny, deny.

“Forget it, Priya,” Blythe growled. “Let's vote.” She pulled a pen from the pile on the table and eyed Stella and Cate. Then she scribbled something on her makeshift ballot and folded it up.

“Yeah,” Sophie agreed, grabbing two pens and passing one to Priya. As the girls scribbled on their ballots, Cate was suddenly nervous. That hadn't gone
quite
the way she had planned. Yes, she had said those things about the girls, but they had all known she was never good at keeping secrets. In seventh grade she'd accidentally told her entire health class that Blythe shaved her toes. They wouldn't hold it against her, would they? She picked up a pen and wrote her name slowly in perfect script, crossing the
t
so hard she nearly ripped through the paper.

Blythe collected the votes from each girl, read them silently, and placed them facedown on the table so nobody could see. She looked at Stella, then at Cate, her face as expressionless as a world champion poker player's.

Cate smoothed down the hem of her dress and held her breath.

“Stella…” Blythe said slowly, looking across the table. Priya held her hands in a tight ball in front of her mouth. “You did
not
win the vote.” Stella's face fell, and she stared glumly at the serving dish of scones.

Cate exhaled and her arms sprang up in excitement. She was sorry for ever doubting her friends, for thinking they would vote for some British newbie over her. They were behind her,
always
, no matter what. Cate rested her hands on the table and stood up slowly, looking at Priya, Blythe, and Sophie. “Thank you,” she said. “And I'm so, so sorry for telling Stella all your secrets.”

“I'm a
collector
,” Sophie whispered again, to no one in particular.

“And I promise you,” Cate said, grabbing Blythe's orange arm, “this is going to be our best year at Ashton yet. You guys are the best friends anyone could ask for.”

Blythe smirked. “Thanks for the touching speech. But actually, Cate, you didn't win either—
I did
.”

Cate stared down at Blythe—the same Blythe who'd practically lived at her house last summer. The same Blythe who had insisted her mother escort both Cate
and
Blythe to Ashton Prep's mother-daughter tea. Cate grabbed the stack of votes from Blythe's lap and shuffled through them. Sophie had written Blythe's name in bubble letters, the same way she doodled on her notebooks. Cate recognized Priya's handwriting, then Blythe's. There were two other sheets of paper: one that said
Stella
, and one in her own handwriting that said
Cate
, a tiny crown drawn over the
C
. She crumpled the votes up in her hand.

“You were right…” Blythe continued. “I am tired of being so ‘behind the scenes'…‘in your shadow.'” Cate cringed when she heard her own words fired back at her. Blythe took a bite of a chocolate éclair and closed her eyes. “Mmmm…delish,” she hummed. Cate thought back to when she'd cornered Blythe in
the Jackson Hole bathroom like some small, frightened animal. While she and Stella were battling it out at Marc Jacobs, stupidly caught up in their sister war, Blythe had swept in and stolen the Chi Beta Phis out from under her.

Blythe glanced at Priya and Sophie. “Well, we should get going.” She stood up and dropped her napkin on the table, then leveled her eyes at Cate. “You'll get the check, right? I have a fake tan habit to support.”

“Yeah,” Priya said, “and I have to go hack up some squirrels.”

Blythe strode out of the rotunda, Priya and Sophie on either side of her. They were swinging their slick black Marc Jacobs shopping bags—with the dresses and shoes
Cate
had bought for them.

Cate stood there frozen, wondering if this was the last time she'd ever have lunch with her friends. After all, they weren't really
her
friends anymore—they were
Blythe's
.

L
ola followed Andie down Eighty-second Street, practically running to keep up with her. They'd walked the almost two miles home, and Andie hadn't said a word to her. Lola had apologized, but the truth was, she didn't feel
that
sorry. How was she supposed to know catalog work was for
America's Next Top Model
rejects? She had never seen the show!

Lola adjusted her headband and walked confidently toward the town house. She couldn't stop thinking about her meeting with Ayana Bennington. A chorus of
stunning! exquisite! stunning!
echoed in her head.

On the sidewalk ahead of her, a woman who shouldn't have been wearing spandex was kneeling down, letting her cocker spaniel practically French-kiss her. Lola looked at her Hello Kitty watch. It was five fifty-five. Which meant Kyle would arrive any minute. They were going to hang out in Central Park before the rehearsal dinner, and she would ask him to be her plus-one. Sure it was short notice, but boys didn't need that long to get ready.
Not ones as cute as Kyle, anyway. He could wear ripped-up jeans and a white Hanes T-shirt and still look perfect.

She smoothed down Stella's Juicy cropped jacket and imagined her and Kyle at the dinner, sitting next to each other at some restaurant called Capitale. They'd spend the whole time making fun of the wide-brimmed hat her grandmother insisted on wearing indoors, or shaking salt and pepper in Stella's drink whenever she turned around.

Andie threw open the wrought iron gate and stomped inside. Lola followed her into the foyer, the heavy black door nearly slamming her in the nose. There, right next to the staircase, was Kyle. “Hi!” she cried.

“Sorry to surprise you—your mom let me in.” Kyle looked around the expansive oak-paneled foyer, his warm brown eyes finally landing on Lola.

Andie stepped in front of Lola and stuck out her tiny hand. “Hi…” she cooed, tossing her shiny brown hair over her shoulder the way she'd showed Lola. “I'm Andie.”

Lola fiddled with the buttons on her jacket, suddenly nervous. She'd nearly forgotten Andie was there.

“Hey.” Kyle smiled, his face turning pink. He looked back to Lola. “Did you still want to go to the park?”

But before Lola could respond, Andie touched her Kate Spade wedge to Kyle's blue-and-white Adidas Gazelles, recognizing the indoor soccer shoes. “You play?” she asked.

“Yeah, I'm on the team at Donalty.” Kyle nodded.

“I play at Ashton.” Andie tugged at the highlight in her bangs, trying to ignore Lola's glare. Sure, flirting with Kyle was wrong,
but Lola deserved it. She'd stolen her chance at Ford. Maybe she didn't agree with everything Chi Beta Phi did, but after observing them for years, she'd learned the art of revenge. “A bunch of us scrimmage in Central Park on Tuesdays with some of the guys from Haverford,” she said casually, knowing that all the boys from Donalty worshipped Haverford's nationally ranked team.

“Sweet.” Kyle nodded. “Can anyone come? I'm actually—” he began, but Lola cut him off.

“We should get going,” Lola said shrilly, moving toward the door.

But Kyle didn't budge. “So are you excited for the wedding?” he asked Andie. “I think my parents are making me wear a tux tomorrow.” He pointed a finger gun across his chest. “James Bond style.”

Lola adjusted her headband. This was her chance.
Just say it,
she thought. “
I'm
very excited!” she cried, a little too loudly. “My mum said we could all bring someone to the rehearsal dinner tonight.” She looked into Kyle's chocolate brown eyes, waiting for him to realize that that “someone” was him.

“Yeah,” Andie added, stepping so close to Kyle they could've been Siamese twins. “Would you want to be my date?” She twirled a strand of hair around her finger.

Kyle glanced at Lola, as though he needed her permission. She wanted to say something but her mouth felt dry, like she'd just eaten a whole box of chalk.
No,
she thought,
don't!

“That sounds awesome,” Kyle finally said, smoothing his Zac Efron bangs off his forehead with a smile.

Lola felt the tears welling up in her eyes. Kyle was going to the rehearsal dinner with Andie? It was like peanut butter with
pickles: just
wrong
. She bit her lip. She wasn't going to let Kyle see her cry.

She grabbed the front door and pulled it open. “Well, you better get ready then!” she snapped, motioning at the open door. “The dinner is at eight.”

“Um…what about the park? We still have time for a walk,” Kyle stammered, glancing at his watch. He inched toward the door nervously, waiting for Lola.

But instead of joining him, Lola pushed the door closed, nearly crushing him.

“See you tonight, Kyle!” Andie cried sweetly, waving.

Lola locked the door, with Kyle on the other side.

She turned to Andie and gritted her teeth.
See you never, is more like it
. “You know I fancy Kyle,” she hissed, wiping her face with the back of her hand. She wanted to grab the blue porcelain vase off the credenza and chuck it at Andie's head. Just when Kyle had started to like
her
—to think
she
was pretty—Andie had waltzed in and ruined everything.

“Well,
you
know how much I wanted to be a model!” Andie screamed, her face turning a purplish red. “I can't believe you told Ayana Bennington you'd come in for test shots!”

“Sorry if not everyone in the universe thinks I'm ugly!” Lola yelled back, hot tears streaming down her face.

“What's going on here?” Winston emerged from the kitchen, his suit jacket slung over his shoulder. “You girls are supposed to be getting ready for the rehearsal dinner.”

Emma followed close behind, in a gray silk dress and black patent leather heels. Her wavy blond hair was pulled back into
a messy I-don't-want-this-to-look-like-it-took-an-hour-but-it-did bun. “Lola,” Emma said, looking at her daughter's tearstained face. “What happened?”

Lola ran toward Emma, burying her face in the front of her silk dress. “I hate her!” she cried.

Just then the front door swung open.

“Well, maybe if you hadn't blabbed everything I said about them, things would have been different!” Cate yelled. She stormed up the stairs.

“Me?” Stella cried, following her into the house and slamming the door. “I was your bloody slave all week! You had me running around like some nitwit, organizing your closet!”

“Why on earth are you two yelling?” Winston asked, scratching the back of his neck so hard he left white marks.

Cate froze on the top step, Stella just below, as they realized they had an audience.

Stella squeezed the banister, annoyed. She didn't have time to explain to Winston how Cate had told all her mates about the scandal with Cloud McClean. The rag mags would probably be calling the house any minute, offering him money for an exclusive interview (
Emma's Fiancé Speaks!
).

“You just couldn't stand that your mates liked me better than you—could you?” Stella hissed.

“
You
don't know anything about
my
friends!” Cate clutched the silver locket around her neck and her eyes welled with tears. Stella had been in New York for a millisecond. Cate was the one who'd sat on the bench at swimming lessons and claimed leg cramps the first time Blythe got her period. Cate was the one
who'd been there the first time Priya put on makeup, and Cate was the one who'd taught Sophie how to shave her legs when her mom said she was too young. “Did you even have any friends in London? Or did you just run around stealing everyone else's?”

“Mum.” Stella turned to Emma. “I'm not going to the bleeding rehearsal dinner—not with
her.
”

Cate crossed her arms over her chest and glared at Winston. “Don't worry about it! I'm not going either!” she spat, storming up the stairs to her bedroom.

“Cate Sloane!” Winston called up the staircase. But she was already gone.

Emma put her fingers to her temples and winced like she had eaten ice cream too quickly and was having a brain freeze.

“She's bloody awful,” Stella muttered through clenched teeth. Then her gaze fell on Lola, who was still standing at Emma's side. “You nicked my shirts!” she cried, recognizing her cropped Juicy jacket. “Those better be back in my room in ten minutes or you're dead.” She pointed her finger at Lola and then turned and trudged up the stairs.

Winston and Emma stood stock-still, as though someone had just driven a truck through the foyer and smashed everything to pieces. Winston looked at Andie, his skin splotchy, the way it always was when he was stressed. “What happened?” he asked again, glancing from her to Lola.

 

An hour later, Cate sat on the leather couch in the den next to Lola, Stella, and Andie. She peeled off her petal pink manicure, trying to pretend she was anywhere but here.

She'd sat in her room for half an hour frantically texting Priya, Sophie, and Blythe. She'd tried apologizing
(IM SO SO SORRY, U HAVE NO IDEA HOW SORRY I M)
, flattery
(U HAVE THE BEST TAN AT ASHTON, SRSLY)
, and even bribery
(SHOPPING ON MONDAY? ON ME?)
but none of them had responded. She'd tried to distract herself by organizing her shoe closet, half expecting her dad to knock on her door and force her to go to the rehearsal dinner. But he hadn't. Instead he and Emma had called a “family meeting,” asking the girls to come into the den “to talk.”

Winston and Emma stood in front of the leather couch, their hands fused together. Cate glanced at her Tiffany watch. It was seven thirty, and the rehearsal dinner was supposed to start at eight. But Emma had changed out of her gray silk gown and into blue terry-cloth pajamas that even Cate's nana wouldn't have worn. Her eyes looked puffy and red, like she was having an allergy attack. Cate hoped that was the case. Her stomach tightened.

“We need to talk about what's been going on with you girls,” Winston said sternly. His eyes scanned the couch.

Emma wrung her hands and looked at her oldest daughter. “Stella,” she began, “what were you two keeping on about? I've never seen you act like that before.”

Stella glanced sideways at Cate. Cate had followed her home from the Pierre, reciting point by point why she was right and Stella was wrong. If Stella had to hear—one more time—how she was a fungus on Cate's life, she was getting on the next plane back to London. She would call the cab herself. “Nothing,” Stella lied. “Just forget it.”

“I will not forget it,” her mom said, raising her voice. She pinched her earlobe, at the pressure point her acupuncturist had told her would relieve headaches. “Cate?” Emma pressed. “Can you tell me what's going on?”

Cate peeled the polish off her pinkie nail and flicked it on the floor. “I really don't want to talk about it,” she said flatly, staring at the sapphire ring on her finger. Emma could sleep in the master bedroom, but she'd never be her mother—Cate didn't have to answer any of her questions. “We'll go to the rehearsal dinner, if that's what you want.”

“That is not the point!” Winston snapped. “Tomorrow at four o'clock Emma and I are supposed to get married. And you girls can't even look at one another.” He let out a deep breath. Then he turned to Andie and Lola. “Do you girls have anything to say for yourselves?”

Andie bit her lip and stared at her dad. After a few hours of solitary confinement, she did feel a little badly about the whole Kyle thing. But every time she thought about Lola modeling for Ford, standing on a beach, her hair blown back by a giant fan, a knot formed in her throat, like she'd swallowed a softball. Lola had agreed to test shots. And then she'd cried to Emma, saying she
hated
Andie.

“Why don't you ask Lola about her meeting with Ayana Bennington?” Andie said crisply, crossing her arms over her chest. She couldn't wait to see how Emma would react when she found out precious, innocent Lola had been dropping her name all over Manhattan.

“Lola!” Emma cried sharply. “What is
that
about?”

“I did that for you!” Lola growled at Andie, pressing her fists into the tops of her thin legs.

“That is quite enough!” Emma cried. “Quite enough.” She slapped her hand on the coffee table.

Winston wrapped his arm around her. “We can't get married like this—we won't,” he said sadly, looking across the couch at the girls. He shook his head as though four strangers had walked into his house, masquerading as Lola, Cate, Andie, and Stella. “The wedding's off.”