Birthday Vicious (5 page)

She had to get rid of them without letting them see whom she was with. Quickly.

Lauren yelled back an excuse, hoping they would leave. One thing she could always count on was how self-centered the Ashleys were. They wouldn't hang out forever. Sure enough, they soon disappeared down the hallway. Lauren couldn't help but feel a little bad at being left behind so easily.

“You look so cute! I barely recognized you,” said Sadie, frowning as though Lauren's cuteness might be a bad thing.

“You look . . . um . . . just the same!” Lauren was telling the truth. Sadie might be taller now, with bigger (and thicker) glasses, but she hadn't really changed. She still looked beaky and awkward. Lauren was the one who'd changed.

“I can't wait to hear all the gossip. Does Sheridan Riley
still get those coughing fits? Does Guinevere Parker still eat erasers? And what about those mean girls—what were they called? The Ashleys? Are they still around?”

“Um,” Lauren stalled.

“Anyway, wanna have lunch? I'm so hungry. I remember how wonderful the food is here.” Sadie was smiling, as though coming back to Miss Gamble's and finding her old friend again was the best thing that had ever happened to her. “The food at Greenwich was awful. Some kind of stew every day. Does Cass Franklin still sit in quarantine?”

“No, and um, they changed the menu so the food's not so great here anymore.” Lauren felt icy cold, and then flushed and hot. Sadie clearly expected them to eat lunch together. They used to every day, once upon a time, when Lauren was still a frog and not a princess. How could Lauren explain to her that everything had changed? That now she not only looked like an Ashley, she sat at their table at lunch? That she was, more or less, an Ashley herself?

There was no way she could walk into the refectory in the company of Sadie Graham. Ashley Spencer would choke on her fat-free soy chips if Sadie came within ten feet of their table.

“Hey, let's go,” Sadie said, giving Lauren another wide, goofy smile. Lauren had forgotten how sweet-natured Sadie was. And this was her first day back after three years away. How could Lauren give Sadie the brush-off and let her eat by herself while Lauren sat with her new, über-uppity friends?

They started walking together down the long corridor toward the refectory. One thing was sure: Today they couldn't all eat lunch together. If Lauren walked up to the Ashleys with Sadie in tow, looking all owl-faced and frumpy, they'd turn their backs on her—on
Lauren
.

All her hard work this semester infiltrating their ranks would be for nothing. She'd be off Ashley's birthday party guest list quicker than you could say “Funyun-breath fatty.” And then Lauren would never be able to destroy them. They'd do all they could to destroy
her
. The refectory door loomed.

They were steps away. . . .

She had to do something. . . .

“You know what?” Lauren said, turning quickly to Sadie and speaking much too fast. “I really feel like a Gino's sandwich today. You want to?”

Sadie looked doubtful. “Gino's? Are we allowed?”

“Sure,” Lauren lied. Gino's was an Italian deli a few
blocks away that was a popular after-school hangout. School policy restricted off-campus privileges to the eighth graders alone. But Lauren would risk getting an infraction and late study hall for this. If they got caught, maybe that little lie she'd told Christian earlier would come true after all. Funny how that happens.

Sadie's hand hovered over the door handle, and it looked as if Lauren would have no choice but to enter the refectory with her old friend. But after a few moments, Sadie shrugged. “Sure. Gino's it is.”

IT WAS THURSDAY AFTERNOON AND
school was over, thank goodness, for the day. Ashley Spencer wandered into the sunroom of her family's palatial home, gazing idly out at San Francisco Bay and wondering if it was still warm enough for a spot of sailing. She hadn't taken her cute little Sunfish out for ages. There was just way too much to think about right now.

Princess Dahlia von Fluffsterhaus, the Spencers' labradoodle puppy, scampered into the room, and Ashley scooped her up, stroking the puppy's silky curls. In the week since their visit to Mona Mazur's mint-colored house, Ashley and her mother had made a little progress planning her Super-Sweet Thirteen on December ninth.
Mona had come over on Saturday to show sketches and discuss menu ideas, plus go over dull things like budgets. As if how much anything cost mattered!

Mona had sat right there, on the cream-colored sofa in the sunroom, sketches and plans and photographs spread all over the slab-granite coffee table, and talked about the circus theme.

Ashley lapped up every word of it. All her worries that the circus theme was going to be too babyish and immature were dispelled once Mona started describing her vision. The house was going to be turned into a giant big top, with red and white canvas draping the ceiling. Fire-eaters on stilts would line the front path as guests arrived. A master of ceremonies wearing a black tailcoat and brandishing a whip would welcome everyone at the door. A swing would dangle from the mezzanine floor, so acrobats from Cirque du Soleil could fly through the air above everyone's heads.

In the main living room, inside a huge vintage lion's cage, the burlesque rockabilly band the StripHall Queens would perform, while the food would be served by gymnasts in glittery leotards riding unicycles. And her grand entrance would be on a Vespa painted with tiger stripes. She'd be dressed in a shiny, skintight acrobat's outfit, she
decided—at least for that portion of the evening, anyway. Ashley knew she'd have to change at least five times throughout the party. Hello! She couldn't just wear one color all night. It was her party, after all.

Ashley flopped onto the sofa and closed her eyes, Dahlia von Fluffsterhaus curled up in the crook of her arm. She could see it all now—the swooping spotlights, the glamorous acrobats, the speechless guests. The invitations to this party were going to be the hottest tickets in town. It was going to be the best day of her life. Until her birthday party next year, of course.

All the girls at Miss Gamble's would be clawing their eyes out to get invited. Too bad—not everybody could come! Especially not that little dork Sadie Graham, who had recently returned from the East Coast. Ashley had harbored a grudge against that girl ever since fourth grade, when Sadie had spread the rumor that Ashley was born a boy. For a harrowing few days, everyone called her “Ash-
he
” and snickered behind her back.

The rumor was sort of based on reality—Sadie's dad was Ashley's mom's doctor, and when Ashley was born, he'd mistakenly checked the wrong box for gender. All her old hospital pictures had her wearing blue caps and blue onesies on the first day. Ashley had wrought her
revenge by telling everyone she'd seen Sadie picking her nose and eating its contents. So maybe “Boogers” as a nickname wasn't too creative, but it did the trick.

Now that she was thinking about it, Ashley vaguely remembered that Lauren had once been Sadie's partner in crime. Had it actually been Lauren who'd come up with the she-man nickname? Whatever. That was all in the past. Lauren was one of them now. Even though the girl had skipped out on lunch with them three times in a row that week. Lauren had explained that she was missing lunch because she had a bunch of dentist appointments. Something to do with a loose filling and too much kissing—too much information, in Ashley's opinion.

Lili had mentioned she thought she'd seen Lauren sneaking off campus with her old friend, but Ashley completely dismissed the idea. Why would Lauren hang out with a wet rag like Sadie when she was one of the Ashleys now? Lili must have been seeing things. Besides, Lauren was a total goody-goody. She'd never do something as daring as break the rules. The girl was never even out of uniform.

“Hey, honey.” Her mother's voice interrupted Ashley's train of thought. Matilda plumped down at the
other end of the sofa, resting one soft hand on Ashley's feet. “I feel like lying down myself.”

“You're still not feeling well?” Ashley opened her eyes and looked over at her mother. Matilda was really not her usual beautiful, serene self. She was all bundled up in an eco-chic Elder Statesmen sweater and Lululemon leggings, a pair of angora socks swaddling her narrow feet. Her face was wan and splotchy, and she kept pushing her hair back from her face as though it was bothering her.

“Not really,” said Matilda, squeezing Ashley's cashmere-covered toes. She gave a deep sigh. “I'm sorry—I know it's a drag for you. I just feel so tired and run-down. And the thought of doing any painting makes me feel sick.”

“That's too bad,” Ashley sympathized, though she was secretly relieved about the painting bit. This wasn't a good time for her mother to be locked up in her studio painting her bizarre pictures of writhing Technicolor women. They had a major event to plan. Even with Mona Mazur in charge, there was still a ton to do. They hadn't even decided on the invitations yet, or auditioned any of the unicycle-riding gymnasts.

“Ash, I've been thinking.” Her mother sounded
all dreamy and distant. “How would you feel if we decided to scale the party down a little? It's just, I'm so under the weather right now, and your dad and I were talking—he'd kind of prefer a smaller, family thing as well.”

Ashley sat bolt upright, spilling Dahlia von Fluffsterhaus onto the rug. The afternoon sun pouring through the plate glass suddenly made
her
feel sick too. Had she fallen asleep? Was this some kind of nightmare?

“You know,” her mother was saying, “it would still be a lovely party. Chef could make all your favorite food. We'd hire that great DJ we met at the art museum benefit, and you could have a few friends here. We'd just roll back the carpet in the living room and turn it into a dance floor, and we could use this room to store all your gifts. It'd be fun and festive. What do you say?”

Ashley swallowed hard: She wasn't sure whether to laugh, cry, or scream. A DJ? A few friends? Rolling back the carpet?
Fun and festive?
What was this—some bad teen movie where kids danced next to lampshades and puked on the Oriental rugs?

“But Mom,” she pleaded. “I've already told everyone
about
everything
. Like the Vespa, and the acrobats, and the StripHall Queens! Everyone at Miss Gamble's knows every detail. If we change it now, it'll look like I was lying! Or even worse—like we can't afford it!”

Matilda sighed deeply and shook her head.

“Oh, Ashley,” she said. “It doesn't matter what other people think. I'm telling you that I don't feel up to having some big gang of people take over the house and turn it upside down for days on end.”

“But it's just NOT FAIR!” shrieked Ashley, totally losing her composure and feeling like stamping her feet in distress. “Don't you even care about how I feel? Just a little bit?”

“Darling, don't be that way, you'll still have a lovely party,” her mother said firmly.

“No, I won't!” Ashley started hyperventilating. This was the worst possible thing her mother could have said to her. This was even worse than the time her parents told her she was too young to fly to Bali with them. It was even worse than the time they put a stop on her credit card.

Her birthday was over before it even began! “It's all or nothing. If I can't have the party you promised me, I don't want any party at all!”

Matilda gave another long sigh, then slowly stood up. She turned to face Ashley, hands on svelte hips.

“Okay, then, if that's what you want. You'll have no party at all.”

What—no party? Her mother looked serious. Ashley was incensed.

“That's really not funny, Mom.”

“That's because it's not a joke. You say it's all or nothing—well, I guess it has to be nothing then. End of discussion.”

And with that, Matilda left the room.

Ashley sat for a while, tears forming in her eyes, fuming as she listened to her mother's footsteps plodding up the stairs. How dare Matilda casually decimate her life like this? She reached for her puppy, but Dahlia von Fluffsterhaus had already wandered off, annoyed at getting pushed off the sofa.

So instead Ashley grabbed an Indian silk cushion and hugged it, squeezing it so hard she thought the stuffing might pop out. A few minutes later she heard her father playing the guitar, picking out some dinky folk tune her mother liked—he was always playing to her these days, because she said it made her feel more relaxed and centered. Whatever! What about their own
daughter and her shattered life? Nobody in this house cared one iota.

That was it. Ashley just had to get out of the House of Horrors. She picked up the sneakers she'd cast off earlier, stomped over to jerk open the French doors, and made sure she slammed them as loudly as possible on her way out. At the bottom of the terraced garden was a pathway that wound all the way to the marina. After ten minutes of good, angry stomping, complete with intermittent sobs and occasional petulant squeaks, Ashley was there.

Even the weather didn't care about her terrible situation. It was still sunny, the breeze light and playful. Maybe she'd take out her Sunfish after all and whiz around on the bouncing waves for a while. She was supposed to tell her parents or a member of the staff whenever she was planning to sail, but Ashley didn't care. They didn't care about
her
, anyway. They'd probably be happy if she drowned or sailed off forever to some faraway island where the natives were cannibals.

She walked along one of the bobbing docks lined with large, pristine white yachts till she reached her parents', the
Matilda
, where her own little boat was tied up. How typical of her father to name the boat after his wife
rather than his only daughter! Message to Ashley:
They don't really love you.