The Cinderella Society (10 page)

I could barely contain my glee as we stood in line. I was in such a tiz that I almost missed seeing Heather pay for her drink and head around the side of the shack.

“Cherry Jubilee or Grapetastic?” SJ asked.

“Grape, thanks.” I handed her my money. “I’ll be right back.”

I stepped around the side of the building to catch Heather before she hit the stands again. I hadn’t seen her since the last day of school and didn’t want her to get away before we had a chance to talk.

I was almost around the back when I heard her voice. Not her, Heather, but
her
, Lexy.

I peeked around the back and saw Lexy, Morgan, and Tina—the Three Musketeers of the Wickeds—crowding around Heather like the menaces they were. Their backs were to me, so I could only see one pink-sleeved arm of Heather. Lexy’s voice was low, but a lifetime of drawing attention to herself made it impossible to muffle entirely.

“Quit acting like a baby, Clark Bar. A few more favors and you’ll be free and clear.”

Heather’s voice was drowned out by a massive roar from
the stands. I started to move toward them but hesitated. She’d already snubbed me once when I’d tried to help.

“Don’t forget what got you here to begin with. I can make it your worst nightmare or”—Lexy snapped her fingers over her right shoulder—“make it all go away.” They moved past Heather, knocking her arm so her soda landed with a splat on her Keds. “Don’t call us, Reggie. We’ll call you.”

Heather stood there shaking, looking pale and terrified. The orange soda soaked into her dirty shoes, turning the canvas to a mucky brownish swirl. She swiped at a tear, suddenly and with a ferocity I wouldn’t have imagined her capable of, and bent to grab the remnants of her battered cup.

I hurried over, beating myself up for playing the bystander. Since when did I hesitate to do the right thing? I’d let Lexy win. Again.

“Hey,” I said quietly, trying not to spook her. “You okay?”

She chucked the cup into a nearby trash can, not meeting my eyes. Her body was so tense I thought she might shatter.

I tried again. “If there’s anything I can do—”

“You
can’t,”
she cried, the tension fizzling into heartbreak. “No one can.”

I opened my mouth to tell her I could if she’d let me, but she was already darting around the building in the opposite direction Lexy and her cronies had gone.

Lexy had done her job. Heather looked as victimized as any target I’d ever seen.

“What was that about?”

SJ’s voice made me jump. How long had she been there? “Lexy and the crew,” I said, opting for brevity. “Ganging up on Heather Clark.”

“Any idea why?”

“She wouldn’t tell me jack.”

SJ chewed her lower lip and watched the puddle of orange carbonation sink into the grass. “They never do.”

“Why did Lexy call her Reggie?”

Lexy was known for nicknames. Clark Bar, I got. Thief—her favorite name for me—I understood too. But I’d thought Reggie was a Cindy term.

SJ’s eyes focused on me for a second, but several more ticked by before her brain seemed to follow. She glanced around to check our privacy status and leaned in close. “Reggies was originally their word, a derogatory name for ordinary people who could be manipulated because the Wickeds considered them weak. We adopted the same term in a positive sense. Ordinary can be extraordinary with the right motivation.”

That seemed like a pretty tall order. “The meek shall inherit the earth?”

“They’re not meek, but yeah. There are way more Reggies than there will ever be Cindys or Wickeds. The real power is in their hands, but they have to embrace it for it to do them any good.”

“Why not just let all of the Reggies become Cindys?” If every Reggie had access to our training and backup, the Wickeds would have no one to rule.
Bye bye, Lexy
.

“There’s no way we could train them all,” she said. “Besides, you don’t
need
to be a Cindy to have power. That’s what Gaby was trying to explain. Being a Cindy doesn’t make you superior.”

“But it gives you tools to fight them with, right? And a built-in support system?”

Sarah Jane looked uneasy now, so I wisely shut my mouth. I was the new kid here, not the boss of Sarah Jane. Instead, I asked, “Does Reggies cover everyone? I mean,
everyone who’s not a Cindy or a Wicked?”

“As far as girls go, yeah. Most guys are Reggies too, except for the ones who are all into the Wickeds and their mental games. Those are the Villains.”

“What about the good guys?”

“Like Ryan?” SJ teased. “Those are the Charmings.”

I blushed, despite knowing Sarah Jane would never blab about my crushing ways. Ryan
definitely
did the name justice.

Sarah Jane turned to go, handing me my grape freeze. I took it from her, humbled by how lucky I was to know the Cindys had my back. It seemed impossible that I’d gone from total loner to full-fledged Sister in a matter of days. I wished Heather could too. Or at least that I could offer real protection from whatever Lexy was grinding into her.

We headed over to squeeze in near Kyra and Mel and watch a very close baseball game. I tried not to ogle Ryan’s fine form as the teachers pulled off a victory with a home run by Mr. Darden, the football coach. The crowd began to disperse with plenty of good-natured—or mostly good-natured—ribbing, and Kyra and Mel waved off as they headed over to tease Ben.

Fake Blondie had plastered herself to Ryan’s side, so I turned around to search the stands for Heather. Not surprisingly, she was nowhere to be found. I would’ve bailed too.

We found Mark in the crowd and followed the masses out to the main parking lot. I felt like a genuine part of the gang, hanging out with Sarah Jane and Mark as people stopped to gab about tomorrow’s Summer Slam obstacle race. I might be a tagalong, but at least I
was
along. That was a step up already.

When everyone had scattered to the winds and Mark had deposited us back at the convertible, Sarah Jane turned to me and said the words I’d been dying to hear.

“Are you ready to play Cinderella?”

Chapter 6

SAFELY ENTRENCHED BACK
in the nearly empty Club—most everyone else was probably off hashing out makeover plans at the mall—I pulled out my
CMM
and dug in. If I needed to try out some signature style ideas before we could launch my makeover, I was all over it. I’d promised Mom I’d be home for dinner and to help her in the nursery, so I didn’t have all night.

I settled in next to Kat and reviewed the appearance section. The overview was like a style bible itself, supported by articles written by everyone from top designers to Hollywood makeup artists. It didn’t take me long to devour words of makeup wisdom from Bobbi and figure-flattering advice from Stacy. But the coolest part of all? Some of the big names had gotten together and created a
CMM
style quiz just for the Cindys.

But I had to tackle my first project before I could hit the computer and pay a visit to Quiz City.

I knocked on the door of Gaby’s office, and she lifted her nose from a binder to rival SJ’s. “Back from the front lines?” she asked.

“I got here half an hour ago. You were on your cell, so I didn’t want to disturb.”

“Sorry.” Gaby rubbed her eyes. “I’m trying to finish my
final Beta project. I’m also going for the Girl Scout Gold Award®, so it’s more juggling than I’m used to.”

“You’re in TCS
and
in Girl Scouts?” Talk about a girl-power one-two punch.

Gaby nodded. “I’m usually fine with balancing them, but I’ve got a bunch of things hitting at the same time right now. I’ll get it done, though. Somehow.”

Overachiever, thy name is Gaby. “I heard you’re shooting to be the youngest Gamma in the history of TCS,” I said, not bothering to mask my awe.

“That’s the goal. Some girls have done it the summer between sophomore and junior year, but I skipped second grade, so I’m a year younger.”

Dang
. Brilliant after skipping a grade? Einstein had nothing on Gabrielle Winston. “Your parents must be really proud of you being the youngest soon-to-be Gamma.”

Oh. Except they probably didn’t know.

Gaby chuckled at the look on my face. “Yeah, I wish I could tell them. I’m kind of overshadowed by my sister, Angie. She was born eleven minutes before me, and she’s been the one to watch ever since. She’s on the fast track to Juilliard as a dancer.” She rolled her pencil between her fingers. “A little advice? Don’t treat your sibs like two halves of one person. Every twin is a whole person all by themselves, even if parents forget that.”

I felt bad that I let my resentment toward Mom and Dad spill over onto the babies. It wasn’t the twins’ fault they’d have things I never had—parents who were actually there for them, a place to really call home. Plus, they weren’t even born yet, so how petty was I? At least I’d never had to fight with anyone for my parents’ attention. When they were
paying
attention, I mean.

I told Gaby I’d keep her advice in mind, then shifted back into
CMM
mode. “The binder says I need to get materials for my Signature Style Portfolio from you?”

Gaby pulled out a large, chunky envelope and handed it to me. “Instructions for the Signature Style Portfolio are inside, and magazines are in the storage cabinet in the lounge. But I have three words for you:
Zen is queen
. If a style gives you even the tiniest twinge of nerves, it’s not for you. Make Zen your mantra and you’ll do great.”

“Whatever it takes, captain,” I said. I’d make
Lexy is queen
my mantra if it meant getting to my makeover faster.

The butterflies revolted at the mere thought.

Okay, maybe not that. But I’d do just about anything else to rock this project. My social status depended on it.

*   *   *

The Signature Style Portfolio was broken down into sections: Styles I Admire, Styles That Make Me Nervous, and Styles for the Real Me. For each one, you had to find examples in magazines that fit that particular statement for you. Then you cut them out and created a collage, along with words to represent each section, like
carefree
for things I admired or
dramatic
for things (and people) that made me nervous.

My chameleon ways were having a fit.

Instead of gluing my heart out and writing words and slogans in curly script, I mostly just shuffled my pictures around among the three poster-board cards. Just when I thought I’d finally figured out the difference between styles I admired and styles that were really me, Gaby’s mantra would pop into my head:
Zen is queen
.

And I’d realize that the “real me” page was actually the “really
think
this should be me” page. Which is not at all the same.

Good thing I hadn’t been gluing, changing my mind, and peeling things off the whole time. My boards would’ve looked like a three-year-old had been learning to use a glue stick. Instead, my trusty glue stick sat next to me, still capped, waiting for me to commit.

Kat’s chair squeaked as she sat back, rolling her shoulders in slow circles to loosen up her neck. Without even thinking, I started doing the same thing to ease the crick in mine. Sitting hunched over for long stretches did not make muscles happy.

“Pretty amazing stuff, don’t you think?” she asked.

“Amazing and then some,” I said, leaving out the
and also insane-making
part. “I don’t know what I’ll look like when I’m done, but I can’t wait to see the new me.”

“Do you think they can make me look like Halle Berry?” Kat joked. “Only shorter and heavier and without the knockout cheekbones?”

“If they can, maybe I can get a Leighton Meester makeover.” I glanced over at her. “Have you done a full-out makeover before?”

“Nah. My dad doesn’t believe in that stuff. He says everyone should just be happy with what God gave them.”

Easy for him to say. Kat’s dad was former Hollywood stuntman Roscoe Walker. He was a dead ringer for Dwayne Johnson (aka The Rock), so what God gave him was pretty darn nifty. Even if Kat got embarrassed every time someone told her that her dad was a hottie.

“He’s my
dad,”
she’d groaned when someone joked about it at Overnight. “It’s just … ack, you know?”

Kat flipped her
CMM
shut and stood to go. “But I figure God wants us to make the most of what He’s given us, right? I can be the best me, inside
and
out. Nothing wrong with getting a little help from our friends,” she added, with a wink.

Especially when those “friends” were people like Bobbi and Stacy.

I looked at my watch as she left, shocked to see that more than two hours had gone by. I’d never make it home in time for dinner. A quick negotiating call to Mom that involved me promising extra nursery painting plus a dreaded outing to Babies “R” Us as a bribe, and I was off the hook for the night.

I fished around in my locker to check my cash situation and settled on a ham and cheese panini. I popped my head in to see if Gaby wanted anything. Her bleary eyes were ready for a break, so I ordered for both of us.

I’d almost decided to just cut out every photo of Reese Witherspoon to make my “admire” page complete when Audrey came to the door with savory food and lively company. Gaby came out of her office, her nose leading the way toward our most excellent yummage, and Audrey asked if we minded if she took her dinner break with us.

Cut. It. OUT.

What alternate universe had I fallen into where a former supermodel chummed with two sixteen-year-olds over a panini and a Cobb salad? I glanced down to see if my clothing had suddenly transformed into ubercool threads. Sadly, no. Apparently this dimension also had red-tag clearance sales at Target.

We got to talking about most embarrassing moments for some reason—or Audrey and Gaby did—and I sat there stunned at what they were tossing around like they didn’t have a care in the world. Audrey mistaking a hot new fashion designer for the coffee runner at Fashion Week and getting screamed at by the prima donna live on the Style Network. Gaby strutting around the entire cafeteria with a tampon wrapper clinging to her pant leg. I would’ve crawled under
a very heavy rock to avoid giving the details on something like that.