Material Girls (6 page)

The three designers across the table looked at me. I didn't know what to say. Of course trends weren't stupid. A few, maybe, but just the extreme, impractical ones, like hairy boots. A few weird outliers didn't ruin the
idea
of trends. Trends were exciting and dynamic. Trends were what made fashion, well,
fashionable.

Felix mumbled something to Vivienne that I didn't catch.

“Not yet,” she said. “Marla, right? You just work on your sketches. Get good. It's the only way you'll stay here. And despite Felix's histrionics, I think you're going to want to stick around.”

Millbrook.

Ivy peered through the tour bus window at Main Street. She couldn't suppress a small smile. They had done everything they could to scrub and shine the downtown for her arrival. The storefronts were freshly painted, the sidewalks repaved, the crust of loose garbage and debris swept from the curbside. Flags printed with her new album cover hung from every lamppost, limp in the still air of the crisp February morning. The dividing lines in the center of the street had even been resprayed, one red, one black—her
Girl Gone Wilde
tour colors.

Despite the face-lift, not much had changed. The mall they had passed on the way into the city center did have a bulbous new addition. But the closed manufacturing plant still stood, waiting for demolition. The elementary school also looked exactly the same, as did the Flippin' Flapjack House, the gas station, Judy's Hair Paradise . . . and there was the statue of Skip McBrody on the green. Solemnly, Ivy held her breath as the tour bus passed it.

“So you grew up here.” Madison plopped down across from her on the gray velvet seat and grinned. “I bet you couldn't wait to get out.”

The comment caught her by surprise, but Ivy was quick to return the grin. “Totally. It's kind of a dump.”

“Were you expecting your Tap assignment?” Madison asked. “Mine was a total shock. I thought I was going to be picked up by a television studio. But this is way better,” she added, shifting to lie back on the seat bottom and cross her stocking feet against the glass of the bus window.

Ivy remembered the moment her Unum had flashed the words
industry: music.
Her pulse had begun to race; then:
organization:
the henny funpeck show
. It had seemed an eternity before the final line appeared:
role: performer
. Her Tap videos had been strong, she knew, but still, the last performer to come out of Millbrook had been Skip. It had been such a long shot. But she had done it.

“I kind of thought I had a chance, but I went nuts when I found out. It was a good moment.” Ivy put her forehead against the window and stared out at the street as the bus lumbered around a corner. Her thoughts turned to Constantine—he probably hadn't swallowed a single bite of cereal this morning. She couldn't wait to celebrate with him.

“Well, you totally deserved it,” said Madison. She yawned. “How many more minutes until we descend on Crustaceousville? Do I have time for a nap?”

Ivy and her nymphs climbed down the bus steps wearing the new space-age trend released by Zhang & Tsai: all shimmering silvers and whites, puffy moon boots, and spandex. Aiko even had on a helmet with a mirrored face shield. None of the nymphs had wanted to cover their faces, despite the saleswoman's entreaty to “Think of the mystery!” They'd drawn straws and Aiko had lost. Ivy found the helmet perfect for checking her reflection out of the corner of her eye.

Fatima hadn't been thrilled about Aiko's face being covered for the shoot. She'd tried to get Madison to switch outfits, but Madison threw a fit at the prospect of not wearing her galaxy hairclip, and Fatima backed down. No one ever came out and talked about it, but Ivy had noticed that the nymphs of white performers usually included one or two girls of different races. Personally, she liked having Naia and Aiko in her entourage. They made her seem more interesting. The five of them looked perfect in publicity shots, too—like a really prime clothing ad. Plus, the two girls were super sweet . . . so the whole thing kind of worked out.

Ivy was glad that the space-age trend was practical; it was brisk out, but her silver down jacket with the puffed shoulders kept her warm. On her head was the best piece of the line: a hat of slanted silver orbitals, as if someone had flicked the rings of a planet askew. At irregular intervals little lights blinked around each ellipse.

Madison blew into her cupped fists. “I miss La Reina,” she muttered. “Why would anyone live anywhere not warm enough for palm trees?”

Ivy didn't answer. While she and her nymphs struck their usual poses in front of the photographers and videographers, she looked around at the cordoned-off crowd for familiar faces. She was surprised by the heavy military presence. Was there an orange alert level or something stupid like that?

She saw her parents, standing side by side in front of the rope, next to one of her bodyguards. Both dressed head to toe in fatigues, both beaming.

It hit her. Everyone was wearing the Rudolfo label's armed-forces trend. Well, not everyone—there were a couple of musketeer shirts in the crowd, and some feathered bags and gloves, and some shale bodysuits—but the majority of residents in Millbrook must have seen Ivy's photos on Maven Girl or some other hotspot, gone to the Rudolfo store, and forked over cash for the trend. Because she had worn it once. On a shopping trip. Like a creeping mist, the uncomfortable feeling from the dressing room at Torro-LeBlanc returned.

Unless they were knockoffs. She couldn't tell from here. She hoped they were.

For her parents, it was fine; her salary kept them quite comfortable. As she walked up to them, she could see the giant embroidered
R
on her mother's bag. That was no fake.

The videographer followed her as she approached her parents, his camera inches from her face. Ivy was used to this, but she sensed her mother stiffen. Christina was always awkward in front of cameras.

“Eva!” she said, too loudly, drawing Ivy into an embrace. “I mean, Ivy! Ivy! We missed you.” Her mother worked nimbly around the headpiece to give her kisses on both cheeks.

“Hello, sweetheart,” said George warmly, hugging her next. Ivy noted that his black beret covered his thinning hair nicely.

Ivy had no intention of going to pieces in front of the cameras and fans. Facing her parents' doting gazes, however, she suddenly felt like clutching them both and heading straight home. She blinked away tears; the videographer's lens came closer.

“Where's Constantine?” she asked, clearing her throat.

“He's already inside the stadium with the rest of the students. He's so excited,” said Christina. “He couldn't sleep last night.”

“I'm so sorry to interrupt,” said Fatima, delicately touching Christina on the shoulder. “But we have to keep to schedule. Ivy will be all yours as soon as the Tap is over. One night at home, no cameras, no entourage. Just a couple of bodyguards outside the house, of course.”

Christina smiled and grabbed Ivy's hand. “I've been cooking all day.”

“I can't wait,” Ivy whispered. Fatima led her to the line of fans holding out pens and Ivy Wilde paraphernalia to autograph.

Backstage, Aiko pulled off her helmet with visible relief. Fatima showed Ivy the stage from the wings. One of the roadies was checking the microphone. There was a giant digital time display upstage right; it read 2:25 p.m. Tap always took place at three in the afternoon.

“Get ready,” said Fatima, adjusting Ivy's hat and fluffing up the shoulders of her jacket. “We're bringing up the person who's going to introduce you. It's a Peter Drummond? He seems very eager.”

So Peter was going to introduce her. She should have known. Peter had been her sixth-grade drama teacher, and he had no scruples about taking credit for her Tap results. Yes, he had starred her in
Itsy Bitsy Betsy
and worked as her vocal coach. And yes, he had helped her mother film her Tap videos. She was grateful and all, but the truth was, she was now sixteen and an international pop star. She had moved way beyond Peter.

“Evangeline!” Speak of the devil. Peter hustled up to the group, grinning like a puppy. He had gained some weight, and his hair was a darker shoe-polish black than she remembered. “Oh, excuse me,
Ivy
,” he said, giving her an exaggerated wink and shaking her hand heartily. Ivy managed an aloof smile. “The proudest moment of my life was when little Evangeline was tapped,” Peter announced to her nymphs and Fatima. “Proudest moment. There hasn't been anyone like her since.”

“Little Evangeline. That's so cute,” said Naia, poking Ivy's arm gently.

“Thanks, Peter,” Ivy muttered.

“We go
way
back,” Peter continued. “Say, any chance your old teacher can get a copy of the new album? I'm dying to hear it! No leaks, I promise,” said Peter, raising his right hand in a pledge.

“Sorry—no advance releases,” said Fatima, steering him away and giving him specific instructions for the introduction. Ivy watched as Peter withdrew a folded piece of notebook paper from his pocket and handed it to Fatima. She unfolded it, scanned it quickly, and tore it into quarters, shaking her head. Ivy was relieved; Fatima had probably saved the crowd an earful about Peter's genius for developing young talent—and saved her a certain amount of humiliation as well. Seeing Peter's defeated expression, she did feel a twinge of sympathy for him but quickly shook it away. She had to focus on her performance.

“
Such
an obsoloser,” she said aloud to her nymphs. “Can someone get me a Diet Sugarwater or something?”

When he walked to the standing microphone a few minutes later to a steady crescendo of applause, Peter said simply: “To celebrate our Tap this year, we are honored to have a very special guest artist performing today.” The applause turned into screeching cheers, and Ivy saw that Peter couldn't resist winking at the crowd. “Put your hands together for Millbrook's very own . . . Miss Ivy Wilde!”

As was their preperformance routine, Hilarie squeezed Ivy's hand backstage, and Aiko held her shoulders. When Peter stepped away from the mike and extended a hand toward her, Ivy took a deep breath, ran her tongue over her teeth, and walked onstage, arms raised and waving. The roar of the crowd, that swollen pulse of sound, throbbed its way into every pore. She never took placidophilus pills before she performed—who needed them when she had this? She reached the center of the stage, gripped the microphone, and screamed, “What's up, Millbrook?” The crowd screamed back.

Fatima had chosen a ballad off her first album for the performance. “Sharpen Your Teeth” was always a crowd pleaser. And perfect for simple gigs on the road because it didn't require a crew of backup dancers. With her middle finger, Ivy pushed in her earbud to hear the accompaniment over the crowd noise. She began to sing:

Each time I dream,

I dream of your face,

The only thing beautiful

In this dumb place.

As she settled into her performance, she looked out into the crowd. Usually, with the stage lighting flashing in her eyes in indoor stadiums, she didn't have the luxury. But it was the middle of the day, and the bright winter sun illuminated the brown-green military garb. She wondered if everyone would run out to the Zhang & Tsai store tomorrow to go space-age. She resisted the sudden urge to fling her hat into the wings like a Frisbee.

The adults sat in three sections of raised bleachers that formed a U facing the stage. The students had the seats on the lawn, though nobody was sitting. They stood on their chairs, swayed, and sang along as she began the chorus:

Sharpen your teeth,

Paint your skin white,

'Cause I'm feeling wild,

Wild tonight.

Roar at the moon with me

Race through the wood—

Next morning, dried bite marks

and blood.

As usual, the children were arranged in order of descending age. Those closest to the stage were the biggest—the seventh-graders, about to get tapped in a few minutes. As she began the bridge, Ivy scanned their faces, trying to locate Constantine. Not on the right; was he there in the center? No, that kid's hair was too light . . .

Then she saw him, standing off to the left in the second row, a virtual statue between the manic classmates on his left and right. He looked up at her with his mouth slightly open, a look of half awe, half amusement on his face.

She took the mike out of its stand as she finished the bridge, walked across the stage, and, ignoring the other outstretched hands, gave him a high-five. His face broke into a full grin. She watched as his classmates rattled him with hugs afterward.

The song ended. Ivy took a bow and, as Fatima had instructed, ignored the requests for encores. She replaced the mike in its stand and threw up her hands.

“Thank you!” she said, igniting the ovation once again. The power felt so good; she could keep them cheering all day if she wanted. Forget Lyric Mirth—she was adored. She glanced at the giant digital projection off to her right: 2:57. Better get everyone prepared. She held up her palms like a traffic cop. After a moment the cheers started to fade.

“Three minutes till Tap,” she announced into the mike. “Good luck, sevens. Make Millbrook proud.”

She took a few steps back so she could watch the fun. The crowd noise evaporated as the seventh-graders in front of her took out their Unums. One girl looked sick to her stomach; a boy stumbled off his chair and had to sit with his head between his legs.

She thought of how much was about to change for them. She remembered her best friend Marisa Garcia, whom she had promised she'd stay friends with no matter what happened, whose hand had gripped hers at the very moment their Unums started buzzing, who had been tapped as a nymph for the actress Junie Woo . . . She hardly spoke to Marisa anymore now. The seventh-graders were saying goodbye to school friends, to slicers, to summer vacations. But it was worth it. She didn't have Marisa, but she had her nymphs. And her fans. And Clayton Pryce. It was worth it.