Material Girls (15 page)

Winnie ignored me. “These three were at the runway show,” she said to Julia. “They sit at the same drafting table as Marla. Thick as thieves. I'm sure they were in on it.”

“
What?
” I said.

“Always watching,” Godfrey mumbled next to me.

Ivy stood. She took a step forward, nudging her spiky shoes out of the way with her bare feet. “It
is
you,” she said. Everyone in the room looked up. She was staring at Felix.

Felix's mouth was closed in a firm line. He didn't meet Ivy's gaze.

“Felix?” Ivy said.

He acknowledged her at last with a cool nod. “Yes, hello.”

“Felix and I both grew up in Millbrook,” Ivy announced. From my seat, I couldn't see Ivy's face, but I assumed her expression matched the warmth in her voice. I wondered how well the two of them had known each other—and why Felix hadn't seemed to care when he'd discovered the ink tags would hit her. I was surprised he had never mentioned anything.

“Millbrook, yuck,” one of the nymphs said, looking at Felix. “Sorry to hear it, buddy.”

Felix cleared his throat. “It was a long time ago. Ev—Ivy was friends with my little sister.” I waited for more, but it didn't come.

“So these three may have planted the devices along with Marla?” said Julia, eyeing the other drafters.

“No. That's impossible. You would never . . . Felix?” Ivy ended awkwardly, her defense fading into a question.

Julia approached me, her glossed lips stern. “Tell me who was involved.”

I swallowed. For a second I thought of spinning the truth, of claiming the other drafters had hoodwinked me, of shifting the blame. But no—that wasn't an option. I couldn't betray Vivienne or Felix or Dido.

I worded my defense in my head. “I . . . heard a rumor that someone was going to put security tags on the seats. So I checked during the show and saw them. And I wanted to collect them and throw them away before they blew up all over the place. That's what I was doing when they exploded.”

“You heard a rumor,” said Julia, raising her eyebrows. “Really.”

“Go ahead, Marla,” said Vivienne. “Just tell them the truth.”

I turned. Vivienne's face was stoic. She looked ready for combat in her fatigues, black cap, and boots.

“
I
planted the tags,” Vivienne announced. “Before the show. I smuggled them in my purse and stuck them on with putty.” She reached into her handbag and pulled out a putty wrapper. “See? Marla must have seen me. She obviously wanted to save poor Miss Ivy Wilde from the humiliation. Marla's the hero here.”

There was a silence. I wondered how Vivienne was going to play this out.

“Why did you do it?” Julia demanded.

Vivienne shrugged. “Pop music is for conformists.”

“I think she's telling the truth,” said Ivy. She looked at me. “This girl said something right before the tags exploded. I think it was ‘sorry.' I believe her—that she was trying to get rid of them, not plant them.”

I vowed then and there to buy every new Ivy Wilde album, no matter what they sounded like.

“And you worked alone?” said Julia to Vivienne slowly. “These two”—she nodded at Felix and Dido—“weren't involved?”

“Them?” Vivienne snorted. “Those two couldn't operate a trendchecker. As if I would trust them. Search them. They're clean.”

“Then you're fired,” Julia said coolly.

“Yes, I expected as much.”

“No!” I cried.

“Get her out of here,” Julia said to the agents. They steered Vivienne out of the room by the shoulders. She didn't look back.

I stared at the closed door. Vivienne's dismissal stung like a slap across my cheek. She couldn't really be gone . . . could she? I looked at Felix and Dido for help, but both of them looked as stunned as I felt.

“Now then,” said Julia, turning back to the gray-haired man.

“Ahem.” Godfrey cleared his throat. I felt his hand on my chair back. “This drafter is free to stay on, to be clear.”

Julia eyed me, then inspected Felix and Dido. “You three may continue your employment at Torro-LeBlanc in your present positions,” she said with a feline smile. “But we'll be watching you closely. Please leave the premises immediately.” She glanced at Winnie, who swung the door open with a smirk on her face. A CSS agent, blatantly trying to eavesdrop, took a brisk step back from the door frame.

Felix and Ivy lingered while the agent unlocked my handcuffs. Once freed, I rubbed my wrist and looked up at Godfrey. “Could I have a moment to clean up?”

This time he didn't look to Julia for consent. “Of course. The bathroom is out the door to the right.”

The agent ushered us out of the dressing room. I saw Julia turn back to the gray-haired man and continue her negotiation. As I left, I cast a final backward glance at Ivy Wilde, but the singer didn't look up. She was staring at the floor, fingers massaging her temples.

Once in the corridor, Felix told me he and Dido would wait for me. But it was a long train ride back to my high-rise, and I didn't want to go the whole way looking like I'd been dipped in a vat of paint. “You should go on ahead,” I told them. “I don't know how long I'll need in the bathroom.”

But Felix shook his head. “We'll be outside,” he muttered. He and Dido turned left and followed the agent down the hall.

I walked into the bathroom and turned on the tap. I looked in the mirror. Even though I knew what to expect, my green face still shocked me. Too bad it wasn't Halloween—I could go as a witch. Or a troll. In some places, where the ink had dripped, my skin looked like it was melting. My blouse was ruined—another trendy piece gone without a replacement—but I was wearing long sleeves, so the skin on my arms had been spared, at least.

I grabbed a paper towel, squeezed soap on it from the dispenser, and began scrubbing my face. The paper towel turned green—but the green on my face didn't seem to be fading. I scrubbed harder.

Suddenly the bathroom door opened. Ivy Wilde paused in the doorway for a second, looking at me, then disappeared into a stall. Her feet were still bare. Not knowing what else to do, I turned the water up so she wouldn't feel self-conscious. I soaped a new towel and returned to scrubbing.

Ivy came out of the stall carrying a heap of metal. She'd removed her linked wrist shackles and garters. Her spiked neckpiece was also gone, though the rubber gag still hung in a loose circle around her neck. She knocked the cover off the trash barrel and stuffed the entire heap inside. As she began washing her hands, she glanced at my reflection. “We're going to try rubbing alcohol at home,” she said. “My mother always used that on ink stains. That or baby oil should take it off.”

Fate was funny. This morning, if I'd told myself that Ivy Wilde would be giving me stain-removal tips in a runway-show bathroom, I would have questioned my sanity. I turned off the water. “Thanks,” I said, trying not to trip over my words. “I want to get enough off so I can walk out of here without looking like a total freak.”

Ivy smirked. “I'm letting my agent handle our escape plan.”

In the silence, I scrambled for something more to say. After all, in spite of the awkward circumstances, it hadn't been that long ago that Ivy and I had attended some of the same events. “I'm not sure you remember me, but we met at Fashion Week last fall,” I said, trying to sound casual. “I was on Torro's Superior Court then.”

Shaking her hands over the sink, Ivy squinted at me. After a pause, she nodded and reached for a paper towel. “Oh, sure.” Obviously, there was no recognition.

“I love your music,” I blurted out.

“Thanks a lot.” Ivy smiled a plastic smile. She probably heard that all the time. Now I sounded like a feeble fan-girl. Great. “Why did you throw your chains away?” I asked quickly.

Ivy stopped wiping her hands. “Do you know what it's like to wear that stuff?” she said, anger hardening her voice. “You work for Torro? How could you guys approve this trend?”

I swallowed. “Actually, the woman who was just fired? She designed most of your outfit. Those shoes were her idea. And the collar. And the chains.”

“Is she out of her mind?”

“No—she, well, did it to make a point about trends, I think. How . . . extreme they can be.” I chose my words with care. I didn't want Ivy to report back to Julia that I was anti-trends or anything. “No one thought they would get approved.” I certainly hadn't. I'd told Vivienne that the court never approved unwearable clothing. It wouldn't sell, and their job was to pass judgment on what would become popular. When she'd come back from the fifth floor, Vivienne had slammed her hand on the table. “It was unanimous!” she'd announced to the circle of our shocked faces.

“Oh.” Ivy pursed her lips in annoyance. “Well, I'm glad she was fired. If it was a joke, it was kind of thoughtless. Apparently, I'm the spokesmodel for the trend now, and I'm supposed to prance around in this crap all day long. I don't know how I'm going to stand it.”

I was surprised Ivy felt so irritated by the clothing. Sure, it was painful and all—but wasn't she used to crazy costumes? “Just . . . don't wear it, then,” I said.

Ivy gripped the sides of the sink and leaned on it. “But I'm
Ivy Wilde,
” she intoned, staring at her reflection in the mirror. “I have to be wild and edgy and sexy.
The
wildest and edgiest and sexiest. That's how I stay popular.”

I looked at her reflection, at the pain in her eyes. “But . . . you're so famous,” I said. “Most people would kill to be you.”

“They shouldn't,” Ivy said, still staring at her own reflection. “No one gets it. It's a fake life. I don't even know who I am anymore.” She pulled at her gag, snapping the stretchy fabric against her neck. “I'm certainly not
this.
”

I tried to grasp the meaning of her words. So she wasn't really a party girl. I never would have guessed. I thought about living and breathing a fake personality all day long. It had to be tiring. It might even break someone down.

I searched for something comforting to say. “Well, you should reinvent yourself then. Lots of stars do that, don't they?”

Ivy blinked and shifted her gaze back to me. “It's funny, I was just saying that to Clayton the other day.”

Clayton Pryce. On second thought, maybe it
was
worth it. To spend time with Clayton Pryce, I would definitely consider strapping on the spiked shoes.

“I'd like to try something new,” Ivy went on, almost shyly, “but my agent is pretty stuck on the whole ‘Wilde' thing.”

“Just do it yourself, then.” The ink-tag plot, even with its miserable failure and Vivienne's getting fired . . . I had to admit that it had thrilled me to do something rebellious. Something without my mother or Julia presiding over every little detail.

“And be what? A slumber-party princess like Jelly Sanchez? Then I could wear pajamas all day long.” Ivy sighed. “Though, knowing Fatima, she'd have me in a steel nightgown or something.”

The idea came to me instantly. “No. You should go environmental. Your look could be all earth-mothery. Then you could wear flowing, comfortable trends instead of”—I waved at the hair skirt and corset, with its laces hanging loose—“this crazy stuff. And long, wild hair, maybe with a flower or two; that's always pretty . . .” I drew in my breath so quickly that I started to cough.
“Wilde,”
I managed to croak out, flapping my hands up and down in excitement. “It already works with your name. Instead of wild and crazy, you could be wild—like nature!
Ivy Wilde.
”

Ivy stared at me. “Ivy Wilde,” she repeated.

I waited. It was a prime idea, if I did say so myself.

“That's kind of brilliant.” Ivy's gaze moved glassily over the bathroom wall. I could see her mind working. Suddenly, she snapped out of it. “Are you any good?” she asked, turning to face me.

“Excuse me?”

“At designing?”

I widened my eyes. What? “Like I said, until a couple of months ago I was on the court at Torro. I'm a drafter now, but I can still design pretty well—I mean, I love to, anyway . . .” My words tumbled forth in a waterfall.

“Make an outfit for me,” said Ivy. “Earthy and comfortable, like you said. Don't tell anyone else. Just make it and send it to me. Can you? Will you?”

I almost choked again. “Yes
,
definitely, absolutely. I'd love to.”

Ivy smiled. “Let's see. You need to send it to me without Fatima opening it.” She thought for a moment. “Give me your Unum.”

With bumbling fingers, I rummaged in my bag and handed it to her. Ivy tapped the screen and spoke a strange-sounding name and an address into it. Then another name, another address.

She turned the screen toward me and pointed. “Put this as the return address. And don't send it to Ivy Wilde, send it to this name, at this address.” I squinted at the screen and saw
Evangeline Vassiliotis
. “Everyone'll think it's from my family, and they won't bother with it. Send me a message when it's on its way, too, okay?” She spoke her Unum number into the device.

“Okay.” I nodded, hoping I would remember everything. I hardly dared to believe what was happening.

Ivy handed the Unum back and smiled at me, a real one this time. “Our secret, okay?” She walked to the bathroom door and paused with her hand on the handle. “So . . . you work with Felix,” she said.

“Oh. Yeah.”

“How's that?”

“Um, fine, I guess. He was a jerk when I first met him, but I like him better now.” Immediately I remembered the touch of his hand on my wrist and felt awkward. “I mean, he can still be a jerk sometimes,” I added.