Material Girls (11 page)

“Be glad you have what you have,” she said. “Jarvis could definitely learn from Keane.” She thought for a moment. “Maybe they need to reinvent me. Like they did you when your voice changed, and when you grew the goatee.”

“No worries, Wilde. You're totally hot.” Clayton stretched his arms above his head. “Is it time yet?”

Ivy looked at her watch. “Five more minutes.” She felt the P pill's high begin to kick in. She had made a scene tonight, and Ivy Wilde's antics would be all over the papers tomorrow. Her new album rocked. That was all that really mattered.

Clayton shook out another pill from the tin and deposited it in his mouth. Chewing, he lay back on the floor and put his hands behind his head.

When my Unum buzzed
that evening after dinner, I knew it was Braxton calling to break up with me.

Sitting at my desk, gripping the underside of my chair with my free hand, I watched as he stumbled through his speech, filling it with the clichés I expected. “Look, you're a totally great person,” he began, “but I think we've kind of drifted apart over the past few weeks. I just don't think we're into the same things anymore. You know?”

I wanted to tell him yes, he was right—I was into things like loyalty, and he was a two-timing snake. But I didn't want it to get back to the Superior Court that I was bitter. I couldn't give them that satisfaction. “This wouldn't have anything to do with my being made a drafter, of course,” I said instead. I wanted to hear him deny it.

“Marla,
please,
” said Braxton. “Give me a little credit.” He exhaled dramatically. “I've been feeling this way for a while. Way before you were demoted—uh, moved downstairs.” On the screen, his eyebrows jumped. Suddenly, I despised the tic.

“Uh-huh,” I said. I had never wanted to tell someone off the way I did now. The insults came thick and fast.
You're a big fat liar and a cheat,
I wanted to shout,
and I hope you and Olivia choke on chicken bones, and she's
gotta
be an awful kisser with those thin little vicious lips, so enjoy that, and I bet Denominator demotes
you
any day now, so don't come crying to me after Olivia dumps you cold.

But I knew what Braxton would do after hanging up with me. He'd call Olivia to relay “how it went.” I thought of Olivia, listening with that smug grin, wanting to know whether “poor Marla” went to pieces. I swallowed my anger and forced my lips into a smile. Braxton needed to see that I didn't care.

“You know, Brax, this is for the best. You're right. I think we are growing apart. I've fallen in with this group of drafters. They're a little crazy, but I think they want to change the world.” I was surprised to hear myself say this. “Anyway, they're making me think about fashion—and everything, really—in a whole new way. It's like a fresh start.”

“That's good—that's really good,” said Braxton enthusiastically. I'd hoped he'd show a little more surprise at how quickly I was getting over him. Maybe he was just hiding it.

“Yeah. It is.”

“So—stay young, I guess. I'll totally see you around,” he said.

I'll do everything I can never to run into you ever again.
“Yeah, see you.” I pressed the button to disconnect and lay down on my bed, pulling my knees in to my chest. Perched on my pillows sat Braxton's gift, the stuffed bear. I jumped up, grabbed scissors from the desktop, and held them open around the bear's throat. But something held me back. I just couldn't decapitate it. It wasn't the bear's fault, after all. I put the blades together and gave it earring holes instead by stabbing repeatedly through the satin and stuffing.

Later, as I was brushing my teeth, it hit me that I wouldn't be giving Braxton a good-night call. I wouldn't be giving anyone a call now. I couldn't call Sabrina or anyone else from the Superior Court, of course. I could call someone from the local crowd—Emma, or one of the other daughters of Karen's friends—but the truth was, I didn't like them very much. When I'd been on the court, I'd stopped talking to them altogether. Come to think of it, if I did call now, I doubted they'd have a whole lot of sympathy for me.

“Don't cry,” I ordered my reflection in the mirror. I whispered the command again and splashed cold water on my face. As I was drying myself with a towel, I remembered what was on the top shelf of the medicine cabinet, tucked discreetly behind a container of cotton swabs. I opened the cabinet, reached up, and found my mother's small tin. Taking it down from the shelf, I could feel that there were at least a half dozen placidophilus pills still inside. I turned the tin upside down and looked at the expiration date. The pills had expired four months ago. They were probably still fine. They wouldn't kill me, anyway.

I shook a little pink pill into my hand and held it between my fingers. It looked so small and harmless. What had Randall said—save P pills for a really bad day? Well, days didn't get much worse than this, did they? I was a drafter, I'd been dumped, I had no friends . . .

I put the pill in my mouth and started to chew.

The strawberry taste and smell were pleasant. It was just a piece of candy, really. I stood under the sharp vanity lights in the bathroom, watching myself chew in the mirror, waiting for something dramatic to happen, waiting for my sadness to transform to happiness with the flip of a switch.

Instead, the change came gradually. My rage at Braxton, my frustration, my self-pity—it felt as if something was tugging these heavy feelings out of my head. I found it harder to care that Braxton had left me for Olivia. But . . . I wanted to care. It
wasn't
okay. I resisted, trying to hold on to my outrage. But the something kept tugging, stronger and stronger, until I had an image in my mind of Braxton caressing Olivia's cheek and it didn't annoy me, didn't bother me at all. I saw Braxton leaning in for a kiss, and even that was just fine, just fine, until their lips touched, and suddenly, in a flash, a little part of my brain cried out that
no,
it was
not
fine. Although the something smothered the protest immediately, it was enough. The pill had dissolved on my tongue, but I spat into the sink basin repeatedly. Reaching for the mouthwash, I gargled until the scent of strawberries disappeared.

Even so, my brain felt full of cotton. I shook my head to clear it and blinked at my reflection in the mirror. I didn't want this numbness.

Braxton was a jerk. The courts at Torro pitied me. My life was in the toilet. But I didn't want to stop feeling. My hands trembling, I replaced the tin on the top shelf of the medicine cabinet behind the cotton swabs.

“Name me something that would never become a trend,” Vivienne said to me the next day at work as I was redrafting the rocker jeans.

“What?” I said halfheartedly. I was trying to keep a low profile today. No eye contact with the other drafters. I felt awful after what I'd said yesterday. Plus, I didn't want to deal with any remarks about my clothes, or about how I was a “princess.” I couldn't take it this morning.

“Something no court would ever approve,” Vivienne said. “Something you could wear on your body but has no chance of becoming a trend.”

I thought. “You mean like shoulder pads?”

She shook her head. “Shoulder pads
have
been trendy. Something new.”

“Why?”

Vivienne gave me a mysterious smile. “I want a challenge.”

In my head, I went through the worst designs I had encountered as a sifter. Besides badly drawn sketches, mostly really ugly, sloppy-looking garments didn't make it past the selectors. But then I remembered when bohemian and grunge had merged into the homeless trend. Then, the uglier the design, the better. Torro had even sold pants that were moth-eaten and caked in mud.

“I don't know. Anything could get approved.” I shrugged.

“Anything?” asked Vivienne.

“Well, maybe not something extremely painful, I guess. Like shoes that seriously damage your feet. Worse than high heels. Or something you couldn't move in or breathe in at all.” I thought about some of the choices the court had made while I had served as a judge. “Actually, you never know, the stuff might be approved. But it wouldn't really catch on. People would never wear, like, something painful. Something that draws blood.”

“They have before,” said Vivienne thoughtfully.

I raised my eyebrows.

“But I agree. That would be a long shot.” Vivienne reached for some blank sheets of paper. She tapped her pencil against her lips. “Mmm,” she said. “Pain.”

At noon, I walked to a food cart on Fifth Street. The air smelled like grilled meats, and the line for pita sandwiches curved like a fishhook. Usually, no one I knew at Torro got their food here—the reason I walked the extra couple of blocks—but today I caught sight of Felix about ten places ahead of me in line.

He was fiddling with his Unum but eventually lifted his head and looked around. Before I could look away, he caught my eye, held it for a moment, and, to my surprise, gestured with his head. “'Bout time you made it,” he said loudly. “I've been saving your place for ten minutes.”

It took me a second to get it. “Oh,” I said, and walked up to meet him. “You didn't have to do that,” I mumbled under my breath as I slid into line in front of him.

Felix tucked his Unum in his pocket and crossed his arms. “I guess even bitter fossils can have manners.”

My words came in an awkward gush. “I shouldn't have called you that.”

Felix shrugged. “Yeah, well. It's true. Being a drafter really unleashes the cynic. Not that what goes on in the other industries is any better. Sometimes, I get so angry I can't control what comes out of my mouth.” He paused. “I should . . . try harder, though.”

He was looking straight at me. His tone held a twinge of remorse, and I wondered if this was his version of an apology. For intimidating me, and calling me “princess,” and all that. I took a breath. “I guess I have a control problem too. I was kicked off the Superior Court for saying something I shouldn't have.”

Felix's dark eyes studied me. “Really.”

We approached the cart counter and ordered our sandwiches.

“So what happened?” Felix asked while we walked back to Torro-LeBlanc.

Between bites of my sandwich, I told him about my final days on the court and about Julia's warning. I described the fateful day of judging, when I hadn't been able to conceal my admiration for Vivienne's dress. Felix listened without interrupting.

“That story says a lot,” he said at last, holding open the heavy front door of the design house for me. “You know what Torro must like even less than a judge who's lost her touch? A judge who doesn't listen when she's told not to make waves.”

I thought about his comment as we returned to the drafting table. Vivienne, Kevin, and Dido returned together, with doggie bags from Prehistoric Bistro. Randall came in a moment later, munching on a bag of potato chips. When everyone had settled in, I took a deep breath. “So, I just wanted to say,” I began, “that I'm sorry for what I said yesterday about you—um, about drafters being miserable. It was really rude.”

The others lifted their heads to look at me. My hands were shaking a little bit. I clasped them together and hid them in my lap. Vivienne kept her design covered by the crook of her arm and waited for me to continue.

“I think she finally woke up and realized we're all she's got,” Kevin said, nudging Felix and smirking. Felix didn't reply; instead, he gave me a faint nod.

“Don't be a jerk,” said Dido, tossing a crumpled sketch across the table at Kevin. “It's okay, Marla. Go ahead.”

“Yes. Apology accepted,” said Randall, giving me a small wink.

“Um,” I began again. I felt Vivienne's dark eyes scrutinizing me and shifted on my stool. “I love fashion, and I love Torro-LeBlanc. I do. I was just thinking . . . it would be nice not to have my career end at sixteen, you know? Like you said. It's not fair.”

Vivienne waited. She was making me nervous.

“So, just out of curiosity,” I went on, “what exactly were you all getting at the other day?”

There was a pause. Vivienne flipped her sketch over in one swift movement and placed her palm on the paper.

“Here it comes,” muttered Dido.

“We want to organize a strike.” Vivienne said it quietly but with confidence. “If the Torro-LeBlanc employees unify, the Silents will have to listen to our demands. Basic labor theory. Some of the key patternmakers are on board. But we need the Superior Court to participate.”

A strike? I had to think for a moment to remember what the term meant. It was when workers walked off their jobs illegally, I was pretty sure. The idea stunned me. A million questions popped into my head. I wondered where Vivienne had learned about labor theory—whatever that was. And why she thought the Silents would change anything. And why the Superior Court mattered.

“Are you serious?” Vivienne's face gave me her answer. “And . . . why does the Superior Court have to be involved?” I decided to start with that one.

“Well, you won't have heard about them, but there
have
been attempts at drafter strikes before. The Silents crush them almost immediately, and they get no press, but you can find whispers about them online. The problem is,” Vivienne continued, her finger pressed to the tabletop, “leverage. Drafters don't have much. We could get every drafter in here to walk out right now, and Torro would most likely replace us with scribbling monkeys within the hour. But if children on the upper floors were visibly involved in the strike, the company would be paralyzed. If it got out that Torro doesn't have its courts, the label would be dead.”

I nodded slowly. Vivienne had a point. Everyone believed that the Superior Court and three Junior Courts were composed of elite trendsetters, tapped for their love of fashion, trained at Torro-LeBlanc, and assigned to serve only after they had perfected an eye for trends. If the judges decided not to work anymore . . . but this whole line of thinking was useless. Why would the judges
ever
stop judging? I wouldn't have quit for anything—I was sure of it. How on earth did Vivienne expect . . .