Material Girls (19 page)

“It's a tight new image,” Kressley said, grinning. “So are the days of the ‘Wilde' child over?”

“I'm as ‘Wilde' as ever,” she affirmed. “Just in a prime new way.”

“So you're saying everyone should go all eco-conscious? Organics? Sandals with socks? Hemp T-shirts?” The slick grin was starting to irritate her.

“Not just eco-conscious.” The term came to her so suddenly she almost snapped her fingers. “Eco-
chic
. These clothes are environmentally friendly
and
beautiful. And so comfortable, let me tell you.”

She imagined the faces in the audiences contemplating their own pain, the points driving into their feet, the tightness, the itching. With any luck, torture would soon be dead. Thanks to her. The power made her fingertips tingle.

Next to the main camera, a crew member held up a Tabula with the words
Design House??
printed on its screen. Before she could puzzle out the meaning, Kressley spoke.

“No doubt. You've always been a trendsetter, Ivy. Can you let everyone in our audience know who you're wearing?”

“Oh. It's an original design by Marla Klein. She works for . . .” About to mention Torro-LeBlanc by name, she hesitated. They had been the ones behind torture, and, really, they deserved no credit for this outfit. “. . . one of the Big Five now, but I think she should split off and set up her own boutique, don't you?” she finished. The crowd worked their Unums, undoubtedly trying to locate Marla's online presence.
Good for her,
Ivy thought. The clothes really were prime.

“No doubt,” Kressley said again. His smile sparkled. “So down to business. Before we see part of your new video, tell us about your
Laid Bare
tour. And you're filming for your reality show again, yes?”

She completed the interview in a happy fog. She had actually done it—gone and reinvented herself. Felix would see that the sluttiness was fake. Her old Wilde child self was now a dried-up chrysalis; she couldn't wait to stretch her wings and see how high the new Ivy Wilde could fly.

“I could murder you,” said Fatima. She was pacing around the greenroom like a lion.

Ivy ignored her; not even a lecture from Fatima could kill her euphoria. She strode past her publicist to the sandwich table and began munching on veggie chips. With the interview over, her stomach had relaxed and her appetite had rumbled back to life.

“Do you realize how much damage control I have to do now?” barked Fatima. “For starters, the whole tour theme needs to be scrapped. We designed the stage to look like the circles of hell.
Hell
, Ivy. Do you know how much work it's going to take to change it to”—she motioned up and down in front of Ivy's clothes—“to this? From hell to Eden! All because you decided to grow an opinion!”

Ivy glanced at her nymphs for support. Arms crossed, Madison looked angry. Ivy guessed she felt excluded; Madison couldn't stand being on the fringe of things. Aiko and Naia stood by quietly with the rest of the
Hot with Hyman
crew, waiting for the storm to pass. Hilarie's eyes were still pink and watery. Ivy felt a twinge of guilt thinking of the way Fatima must have lit into her after she left. Still, it had been worth it.

She wiped her fingers on a cocktail napkin. “I'm sorry. But I kind of hated the torture trend.” She remembered the Torro-LeBlanc runway show, how the pain had driven her to smash the Tabula against her leg. “No, I
really
hated it. You and Jarvis never asked me if I wanted to wear that stuff.”

Fatima stared at her for a moment, then approached so that their faces were inches apart. “Our job is not to ask.” Her voice was a low growl. “Our job is to know what's made every star before you popular and to give you the same treatment. This is what we
do,
Ivy.” She tucked her thick black hair behind both ears, though it immediately resisted staying put. “Really, do you think your success happened by
accident?”

That didn't seem fair. Fatima wasn't the one on stage at concerts, firing up the crowd, and recording tracks again and again until they sounded perfect. “I'm a good singer—”

“So are a million other girls and boys,” Fatima snapped, then softened a bit as she registered Ivy's hurt expression. “You
are
a talented performer. But face facts. It took a lot more than talent to get you where you are. What do you think I've been doing for three years?” She stepped back and addressed the room, her arms spread. “Anyone around here who believes fame ‘just happens' is sorely mistaken.”

There was a beat of silence, and then Fatima's Unum buzzed so suddenly that everyone jumped. She grabbed it and thumped the screen with her thumb. “Jarvis! There you are. She's gone insane. Did you see the segment?”

Ivy heard Jarvis ask to speak to her. Fatima shoved the Unum at her and walked around to stand over her shoulder. To Ivy's surprise, Jarvis didn't look upset. He was actually smiling.

“You disobedient little minx.” He shook his head. “First off,
never
do anything like that again. Okay? If you think of a new idea, tell us. Fatima and I are on your side, remember?”

Ivy glanced at Fatima. As she'd just made clear, Fatima obviously wouldn't have been on her side with the reinvention, especially with the tour approaching. But maybe Jarvis would have listened. It wasn't as if he'd ever openly rejected an idea of hers before. But he'd never asked for her opinion on anything either. Which didn't exactly encourage suggestions. “Uh-huh,” Ivy said.

“It could have been a catastrophe. Instead”—his grin widened—“you may have worked a miracle.”

“What?” Fatima spat.

“What do you mean?” asked Ivy.

Jarvis's face got bigger as he leaned closer to his device. “Kiddo, the hotspots are going crazy. Have you seen? You just got off the air and already everyone's buzzing. Look at these headlines.”

Fatima's Unum screen divided into quadrants, each revealing an article. Fatima peered closer to look. Ivy read the headings:

New ‘Eco-chic' Look for Wilde Refreshing

Wilde Takes Glamorous Stand for Environment

Wilde Announces: ‘Torture Over. Eco Now Chic.'

Green Trend Could Be ‘Wildely' Popular

She glanced up at Hilarie and the others and read the last headline aloud. Hilarie's cheeks rounded in a smile.

The screen flashed back to Jarvis's image. “And that's not the best news. We just sold out Oreland. Ticket sales had been sluggish—I was afraid we were going to have to cancel the show. Instead, and I don't want to promise anything, but if this gets big, we might be able to add another stop or two on the tour.”

It was all Ivy could do not to jump up and down. Take
that,
Lyric Mirth. She grinned at Jarvis.

“Let me talk to Fatima. We've got to line up some publicity appearances for your new look. Get ready. Say—how did you come up with the environmental angle?”

Ivy thought quickly. It had been Marla Klein's idea in the bathroom, of course. But everyone was looking at her. Now was not the time to loosen her grasp on everything she had just seized. “I've always cared about the environment,” she said. “It felt natural. And it kind of worked with my name already.”

“It's
good,
” said Jarvis. “Has real staying power. Okay, give me Fatima. Stay young.”

At home, Ivy kept her new clothing on as the cook served dinner. She tucked a giant cloth napkin into the front of her shirt to catch any Alfredo sauce spatters. After corsets, the elastic waistband on the skirt was pure comfort to eat in.

Madison was slow to forgive Ivy for going behind her back with the whole eco-trend thing. “If it hadn't gone well, I didn't want to get you guys in trouble,” Ivy explained, twirling pasta around her fork. “I told Hil only because I needed someone to help me out. You remember the story about CeCe Sunburst's nymphs helping her elope with the landscaper. Their careers were over afterward.” The CeCe excuse was only half of the truth. She hadn't told Naia and Aiko because she didn't trust their poker faces. And she hadn't wanted Madison to know because Madison was bossy and might have tried to talk her out of it. Or worse, laughed at her. Fortunately, as she sweetened the excuse with apologies, Madison and the others bought it.

That evening, as usual, Ivy and her nymphs sat in front of the television for the primetime lineup. Chewing a placidophilus pill and studying the headlines on her shirt, Ivy suddenly decided that
Clone Valley
wasn't very interesting. She told her nymphs she was tired, but instead of heading to bed, she grabbed her Unum and sashayed in a haze down the red-wallpapered hall on the first floor. The fabric of her skirt brushed lightly against her legs. Maybe it was the pill, but she felt different—as if these clothes were rustling awake something inside her.

Ivy entered the music room and closed the door gently. It was within these insulated walls that her vocal coach, Suzette, went over new songs with her before she hit the studio. But tonight she didn't stand by the long mirror as usual. She sat down at the electric piano bench, raised the lid, and pressed the On switch. With her right hand, she played a G major chord.

She'd taken piano lessons in Millbrook but hadn't played much since. She didn't write the songs on her albums. Yes, she embellished them with runs and grace notes—but even those were mostly guided by Suzette.

She played the chord again, then lowered the third to make it minor. She had sung very few songs in minor keys, she realized. Pop was major. Majorly major. Minor sounded haunted. Disturbed. Right now, she liked it. Starting with her pinky on the fifth, she played four notes in a descending scale. And again, this time doubling each note. The blurred headline on her extended right arm caught her eye:
massive oil plumes plague gulf
. She had some vague memory of studying the spill in class when she was younger. She tried to remember the photographs she'd seen of the toxic sludge, spreading like a blob in the water. Everyone took for granted that the environment mattered, but she didn't really give it much thought in her daily life anymore. She probably needed to change that—especially given her new image. After thinking for a bit, she replayed her melody and sang along:

I wonder how they let the oil—

Tentatively, she played a C minor chord with her left hand and sang a new line:

Cover the sea in blackness

Her Unum on top of the piano buzzed, and Ivy whipped her hands away from the keys as if she'd been caught. Calming herself with a nervous laugh, she picked up the device. A moment later, Clayton Pryce's beaming face, deeply tanned, appeared on the screen.

“Wildness! What's up?” said Clayton. “I leave for a month and you explode! You're all over the hotspots tonight.” He sounded good, better than he had in a while. His voice had lost its usual cloudiness.

“Yeah, I experimented with my look a little. It seems to have worked.”

“I'll say. My agent's already talking about greening up my tour. Making the crowd bring refillable water bottles or something.”

“Prime.” She couldn't believe the eco trend was catching fire this fast. “So how was your trip?”

Clayton's grin grew even larger. Ivy noticed his nose was peeling at the tip. “
So
relaxing. I didn't want to come home. The beach was killer, and it was great to be with my family. I didn't realize how much I miss my brother and sisters. They're grown up enough to be fun now.”

Ivy laughed, remembering the big smiling family photo that was the home screen on Clayton's Unum. “The press wasn't bad there?”

“
No!
The hotel management was amazing at sniffing them out. They have crazy laws there, like jail time for loitering or something. It was a sanctuary. You've got to go.”

She imagined swimming with Constantine, alone, with no crowds and no cameras. That settled it. After the tour, once she'd secured her stratospheric status, she would insist on a family trip. Maybe she could get back in touch with Marisa Garcia and take her along too. And if Marisa was going . . . Ivy pushed the distracting thought out of her mind. “It must have been hard being away from James,” she said.

“Yeah. But we talked every day, and we're definitely going to try to go down there together next year. He'd love it.”

“I bet.”

“So what's going on with you?”

The second part of the plan conceived at the Torro-LeBlanc runway show returned to mind. “I was going to call you, actually,” she said. She paused for dramatic effect. “Clayton,” she said, unable to prevent herself from giggling, “we need to talk.”

Ivy Wilde was on
Hot with Hyman. Wearing my clothes.
And she mentioned me by name.

When it happened, the drafters in Felix's common room piled on top of me in a happy huddle. The full effect of the outfit had surpassed my expectations. In the studio lights, everything seemed to glisten and shimmer in such a beautiful way. Maybe my leopard-print dress had been a little tacky . . . but this outfit I would stand by forever. I hoped Vaughn and Neely had been watching.

That evening, Dido kept forwarding us articles that announced the sudden extinction of torture and the birth of a new “eco-chic” trend. One even contained a line about the “unknown designer Marla Kline” who had “dreamed up Ivy Wilde's new look.” I could live with my name misspelled. It blew my mind that I might have single-handedly started a new trend even though I wasn't a judge anymore. But the articles also reminded me that the thing I had done was now very public.

Julia left a video message an hour after the show aired. She looked composed, her lip gloss perfect. Her voice sounded the way it always did, soft and silky and deceptively pleasant, as she told me I was fired. I sat at my desk, staring at my Unum in thick disbelief. I accessed my contract in the Torro-LeBlanc database and found the word
terminated
visible across the top in red. But before I'd fully drowned myself in despair, Julia called again. I panicked and ignored the call, and Julia left another message, this time asking me to call her back. “We recognize your years of service and don't want to act in haste,” she said. When I checked my contract again, it read
under review
.
I decided to avoid the whole issue by going to bed.