Material Girls (13 page)

I gasped.

Each step brought pain.

The shoes—if you could call them shoes—were like a twisted punishment for a crime Ivy hadn't committed. From the surface of a stiff leather sole, thin elongated pyramids, painted a reflective red, grew upward like stalagmites. These dazzling protrusions were between three and five inches in height and rose northward into the flesh of Ivy's feet. The shoes stayed on with a series of transparent plastic straps, not unlike those on a gladiator's sandal.

“Distribution of weight makes these wearable,” Fatima had told her, thrusting the ruby sculptures at her that morning. “Like lying on a bed of nails.” But that was a lie. The points were arranged to achieve a platform heel shape, so the spiky pyramids at the rear were longer than those in front. As a result, the balls of Ivy's feet bore most of her weight. With each delicate step, she swore the points were going to pop through her skin and pierce bone.

The shoes would have been enough to keep her eyes perpetually watering at the Torro-LeBlanc runway show. But there was also the miniskirt of woven human hair, which itched like a rug of fleas. And the collar with the spiked spherical tassels that bounced against her back and released ticklish trickles of imitation blood when she moved. To catch the trickles, a detachable sponge had been snapped into her lace-up corset. The corset, black lace over red leather, with threaded boning, was bearable when she stood, but she swore it had rearranged her kidneys in the car ride over. She had no idea how she was going to bear sitting through the show in it—though at least she'd be off her feet then. The wrist shackles, thankfully, provided some movement. Although they were chained to metal garters locked onto her thighs, she could lift her arms to forty-five-degree angles. Not high enough to adjust the stretchy piece of shale that gagged her, but high enough to shake hands or sign autographs.

Ivy hadn't minded her original outfit for the runway show: a brown bodysuit embroidered with orange feathers, and a giant orange feather crown.
Much
taller than the one Lyric had worn at Scalpel, with stiff plumes exploding everywhere. Her nymphs had liked their feather dresses too. But Fatima had barged in with garment bags at the last minute and told everyone to strip. The feather craze was about to expire, she explained, and Torro-LeBlanc had sent over samples from their new line. It was unusual for anyone to debut a trend before it appeared on the runway, but “I convinced them to make an exception in this case,” Fatima told Ivy. “Torture is going to be so big, and
you
are going to be the one who makes it famous. You could use that kind of publicity.”

Ivy frowned. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing,” said Fatima, smiling broadly. “Just doing my job. Keeping you current. Let me lace you in.”

Ivy and her nymphs were certainly drawing stares in the theater lobby before the show. Her nymphs were done up in milder versions of the torture trend—no chains, no blood, and platform stilettos instead of the horrible shoes she wore. They all took cautious steps; the midday light from the tall windows made the already slick marble floor look like ice. Ivy waited for someone to raise an eyebrow, for someone to make a face or shake a head. No one did. People were studying her, but they nodded to their friends approvingly. The celebrities famous enough to talk to her passed on awed compliments as they inspected the corset, the chains, the hair skirt. Hilarie pulled the gag down so Ivy could reply, then pinched it back in place afterward. Ivy blinked away her tears and assured everyone that the clothes were a little painful, yes, but that the pain “kind of thrilled her.” Fatima had said this answer would go over well, especially with the press. It seemed to.

As usual, the lobby swarmed with magazine editors, as well as performers and other A-listers who wanted first peek at the new midspring lines. Clayton wasn't with her today; he was still in Isla Del Sol. Ivy hoped the vacation was helping him. On the ride over, she had been dreading running into Lyric Mirth at the show, but now she wanted to see her. Ivy's clothes were grabbing all the attention in the room. The skewed headlines after Scalpel still rankled—but let that beanpole try to outshine her here. Ivy scanned the lobby, but Lyric didn't seem to be in attendance. She wondered why not. She had a moment's panic when she imagined a better Sunday afternoon event going on somewhere else that Jarvis hadn't been able to get her into. No—that was crazy. Lyric was probably just rehearsing or something. For her
twenty-eight-stop
tour. That girl got under her skin.

Ivy shook herself free of these thoughts. Her envy had distracted her momentarily from the mouth-to-toe pain. This was torture—literally. She stood on daggers; her waist and hips were starting to sweat, though her shoulders were getting cold. But everyone was staring at her in the dimly lit lobby, everyone watching and snapping and judging . . .

From across the lobby, one face shifted into focus. Dark hair. Thick eyebrows. A face that didn't belong in these surroundings somehow. Recognition clicked.

Her mouth fell open—as far as the gag would let it.

It was her schoolgirl crush from Millbrook, who had kissed her in the snow that frigid night. What on earth was he doing here? Of course—he worked for one of the Big Five fashion houses . . . and yes, it had been Torro-LeBlanc that tapped him, hadn't it?

She squinted. Or was she imagining things? He looked so serious—not the way she remembered. Was it someone else?

She tried to call out, but her gag distorted his name. She tried to wave, but couldn't raise her arms. She jingled her chains in protest, and Hilarie worked the gag out.

“What is it?” Madison asked.

“I thought I saw someone I knew,” said Ivy slowly. She took a few agonizing steps toward him but the lobby was packed full, and someone waved at her for a photo, and when she turned back after posing, his face had disappeared.

“I guess . . . I guess I was wrong,” Ivy said to her puzzled nymphs. Hilarie maneuvered the gag back into place.

An usher appeared in front of her. “Miss Wilde, I'm here to escort your party to your seats—whenever you're ready—please take your time,” he stuttered. Usually, Fatima had her wait until everyone was seated to make a grand entrance . . . but the thought of sitting down was too tempting. She nodded and said, “Now,” through the gag.

The usher held out his elbow, which Ivy gratefully grabbed. Her nymphs followed. Ivy leaned on him to take some of the pressure off her feet, and the usher willingly flexed his arm to support her. They entered the long, narrow auditorium—and, oh God, she'd forgotten. There were stairs down to the front row. Not many, but each shift in weight, one foot to the other, brought a bigger lump to her throat. “Slowly, slowly, please,” she tried to whisper through the gag, trying to smile, aware that people were watching her.

When they reached the bottom, Ivy collapsed into the chair at the end of the first row. Her feet instantly felt a wash of relief. That was it. She wasn't moving.

“Get this gag out of my mouth, Hil,” she mumbled. The words were incoherent, but Hilarie understood and pulled it off.

“Thanks,” Ivy announced to the usher. “We'll be fine here.”

The usher's forehead creased. “Oh, but Miss Wilde, we have excellent seats for you right on the other side of the catwalk, if you'll just follow me.” He gestured over the long stage. “These seats are actually for—”

“These seats are ours,” said Ivy. She shifted to scratch her rear surreptitiously on the chair bottom. “I'm not moving. Sorry. Deal with it.” She tried to cross her arms, but the chains prevented it. Annoyed, she settled for clenching her fists and resting them on her knees.

“Oh, but—”

“You heard her.” Not bound by chains, Madison crossed her arms successfully and stepped between Ivy and the usher. The others cocked their heads at him, full of attitude.

With a forced smile, the usher mumbled, “Yes, Miss Wilde,” and strode off, frantically scanning the room for an event coordinator. When he found one, he pointed and gestured, but the event coordinator was unfazed. Ivy watched the woman speak into her headset, nod, and dismiss the usher.

That was that. She wasn't Ivy Wilde for nothing, after all.

Delicately, she slid over two seats so she could sit surrounded by her nymphs. Hilarie reached over to fix her gag, but Ivy shook her head. “Leave it. It's hard enough to breathe as it is.”

The catwalk rose up before her, a glowing, polished white. She hoped the models didn't skid in their heels again, like the disaster a couple months ago at Zhang & Tsai. To her left, in a small cluster on a platform at the end of the catwalk, the fashion photographers were grouped, readying their equipment. At the far end, Karizma was setting up on a small round stage to the side of the catwalk entrance. She was glad to see them. Shows with live music were always more entertaining.

Her insides were starting to cramp. Next to her, Naia began chewing a P pill. The pills had helped Ivy with the pain a little this morning, but she had chewed four in a row while practicing walking in the shoes. She'd felt strung out and sloppy, and she'd cut herself off. Even now, the faint scent of strawberries from Naia's mouth was giving her a contact high—or at least making her mushy-headed again.

“Can you chew in that direction?” Ivy asked, pointing away. She rubbed her hand over her stomach—or rather, over the stiff boning that pressed her stomach flat as a cutting board. With apologies, Naia switched spots with Madison.

Slowly, the seats around her filled in, and the buzz of voices in the hall increased. Ivy watched the Torro-LeBlanc Superior Court file down the stairs in the opposite corner. Light gray and turquoise cards with
judge
printed on them hung from lanyards around their necks. They sat in a row directly opposite her and her nymphs, on the other side of the catwalk. They, too, wore items from new lines—a fringe dress, a gold jacket—although no one else was featuring torture, she noticed. Maybe that was Fatima's doing. As always, the judges gave modest little shrugs and hand waves. Really, though, they radiated self-importance.
Feeble,
Ivy thought. Anyone could pick out clothes. It took
real
talent to do what she did.

The lights dimmed, Karizma's drummer clacked his sticks together twice, and the show began.

As the first model strutted down the catwalk, Ivy and her nymphs reached under their chairs for the provided Tabulas. Lit screens popped on throughout the darkened theater, although glare deflectors kept the glow to a minimum. Still, Ivy could see that most Tabula users were consolidated in the front rows. She entered her ID code on the intro screen, which sent her measurements and charge-account number to Torro-LeBlanc, and sat back to watch the show.

To her surprise, Karizma's sound wasn't as heavy as usual. They were playing one of their ballads, “To Love Is to Hurt.” She saw that the models' steps were roughly keeping time with the light drumbeat.

The first models were showcasing some kind of superhero trend. It featured capes, leggings, underwear as outerwear, and vinyl bodysuits. Ivy thought it was a pretty obvious attempt on Torro-LeBlanc's part to capitalize on the popularity of Bancroft House's new shale fabric. The stretchy, sleek finish was definitely in. She still wore those ridiculous, squeaky pajamas to bed per Fatima's orders.

The male models were styled to look like Clayton Pryce clones. Their pompadours made Ivy smirk. The female models were the usual fare: No matter their real age, they had the bodies of twelve-year-olds. Long limbs, no hips, breasts no bigger than teacups. She recognized Carmen Michelle modeling the final superhero look: a shiny black catsuit stitched together with gold thread. Her figure was almost boyish. Looking down, Ivy wondered if her own breasts looked too large in the corset top. They weren't crazy big or anything, but they had gotten bigger every year since she'd been tapped. She shuddered at the thought of reduction surgery. She'd heard that an old model, Leena Elise, had bound hers at night to stop developing, but she couldn't remember if the method had worked or not. She should ask around. Maybe it was worth a try.

Her Tabula showed a grid of images of the individual pieces featured on the runway. Underneath each image were other colors the item came in and any variations. Temptingly, next to each item glowed a big green button that said
buy!
Her revulsion for shale didn't inspire her to purchase anything from this collection. She clicked under one slate gray clutch and saw the coordinating purse and full handbag—but decided that she didn't really love any of them.

Her stomach gurgled unhappily. She sat up as straight as she could, trying to diminish the pressure. She felt the spiked tassels weep blood down her back as she shifted. She reached up to scratch the trickle—again the chain impeded her. Her face contorted in the darkness, and her eyes watered with frustration.
Keep it together,
she told herself.

Looks from the next trend were coming down the catwalk. Space-age was clearly still going strong. Unlike Zhang & Tsai's line, the palette was more gold than silver, but the looks resembled the outfits she and her nymphs had worn at Millbrook, with fresh tweaks and deviations.

The images on her Tabula flashed and tempted her, but how was she supposed to concentrate on anything when her organs felt like they were being slowly crushed in a vise? Her shoulders were still freezing, and the chains were now cold to the touch. She looked toward the stairs. Should she try to creep out to the lobby? But, oh God, that would mean walking on those spikes again. This was misery.

Some flapperish looks were coming down the runway now. The models wore boas and had feathers in their headbands and on their bags, but their garments were waistless and fringed. So the feather trend had morphed. Predictable.