Material Girls (9 page)

Next to me, Vivienne began sketching a sad clown. Fake nose, big shoes, and all. I frowned. Surely she wasn't going to submit that.

“I wonder if the Junior Court gave you a fair chance,” Vivienne said out of the blue a few minutes later. “They may have been told to reject you. It could be a power play. To make you remember where you belong now.”

“That can't be true,” I said. The entire year I'd served on the Junior Court, I'd never been told to vote one way or the other. But then again, I'd never had to evaluate a garment by an ex–Superior Court judge—because none who'd left had become drafters.

“I hope I'm wrong. For your sake.” Vivienne added rainbow curls to the clown's hair with colored pencils. “So you were close with the other judges on the Superior Court? You think they would support one of your ideas now?”

I squeezed my eyes closed. The bench would endorse my garments, wouldn't they? I imagined going before them—and immediately had a vision of the faces at the semicircular bench looking at me with pity. Or maybe I'd be lucky if I got pity. They might think I was a talentless freak, just as the Junior Court had. And I had to be honest with myself: Julia had nothing to gain by making sure my garment got a fair chance. “I really don't know,” I muttered.

Felix leaned toward us from across the table. “I have a question for you,” he said quietly, looking at me. “Think before you answer.”

“Okay.”

“Who do you think are the most powerful employees at Torro-LeBlanc?”

I didn't hesitate. “The Superior Court judges. Obviously.”

“And are the drafters the least powerful?”

I thought about it. The patternmakers weren't exactly royalty either. But they at least worked for salary, not commission. The other ex-Tap employees not involved in design—the PR reps, the runway-show producers, the court supervisors, all the departments I'd delusionally been convinced I'd join after my time on the court expired—all led if not fun then at least fast-paced and fashionable lives. There were some other dreary jobs: the budget and law offices were fully staffed with Adequates. But they'd never worked as children, so they probably didn't know what they were missing.

“What are you getting at?” I asked.

“Do you really think it's fair that the job of your dreams—and the most power you'll ever have—is behind you now?” asked Felix.

I looked down at my sketch. “You don't have to rub it in.”

He leaned in farther. “I'm not talking about your own personal tragedy, princess.”

“Felix.” Vivienne shot him a look. “She's not the enemy.”

His frown held a moment before breaking. “Right.” He shook his head. “I'm sorry. But it makes me angry. This whole system is ass-backward.”

My eyes widened—I couldn't help it. I glanced over my shoulder, but Winnie and Godfrey were well out of earshot.

“Think about it,” Felix went on. “The creative minds are at the
bottom
of the pyramid, while a bunch of snot-nosed prepubes sit at the top, pronouncing their divine judgment on
our
ideas?”

“But it works. The styles the court picks sell.”

Felix shook his head furiously. “It's a self-fulfilling prophecy. Everyone knows that kids pick the trends, so whatever Torro-LeBlanc puts out must be what's in. That's the way the Silents have designed it.”

I frowned again. The Silents held upper-level positions in the creative industries, but they mostly stayed in the background, overseeing things. I had never actually met a Silent, at Torro-LeBlanc or elsewhere. Growing up, they attended private schools and interacted mainly with one another. There didn't seem to be very many of them. There were always a few weird conspiracy theories floating around about them, but most people agreed they sort of kept things moving along efficiently, without interfering. “Oh, come on,” I said. “The Silents aren't controlling people like that. The Superior Court judges actually have really good fashion instincts.”

“So what happened to your instincts? Did they dry up on your last birthday?”

I couldn't believe his rudeness.

“Don't get me wrong,” Felix went on. “I love designing. Always have. But why should I be obsolete at eighteen?
I
should be deciding what gets mass-produced. And I should be paid well for my ideas.”

“You sound like a bitter fossil.” I blurted out the insult. “Sorry,” I added quickly.

“I got news for you,” he replied, undeterred. “You have a choice. Become a bitter fossil with me, or spend your life believing in a system that has no real use for you anymore.”

“Not so loud, Felix.” Vivienne put her hand gently on my forearm. “You think the Superior Court has real power, but they don't. They're as exploited as we are. They're used and then discarded. We were all plucked out of school when we were too naive to protest. Did you think it was okay to be passed over in the Tap?”

“Of course not.”

“I didn't either. And now I wish I'd been an Adequate.”

I stared at her in disbelief.

“I do,” Vivienne went on. “I wish desperately I'd had more than a seventh-grade education. It took me too long to get back to reading and thinking, to start questioning the way things are. I'm twenty-four, and I've just now figured out what I believe in.”

“Vivienne's become something of a evangelist,” Kevin whispered. “Convincing, too.” Randall nodded. Next to me, Dido shook her head faintly as she colored in a denim jacket. I wondered whether the pigtailed drafter was on board with this craziness.

“So . . . you think the court should be made up of people like you and Felix?” I asked Vivienne.

She chuckled. “Felix and I don't exactly see eye to eye on the way Torro should be run.”

“What do you mean?”

“I
loathe
trends,” sneered Vivienne. “They're artificial and pointless. If it were up to me, we'd have a national dress code. I'll be generous. Four looks.” She counted them off on her fingers. “Work. Weekend. Sleepwear. Formal. All breathable, durable fabrics, elastic waistbands, cuffs that could be let down as children grow.” She smiled. “That's my heaven.”

Dido smirked. “Why even bother with formalwear in your clone world, Viv?”

“I am not without sentiment,” she replied wryly. “There will always be cause for celebration. People need something to get married in.” She cleared her throat. “And to be buried in.”

Everyone at the table laughed except me.

“Gosh, Vivienne,” said Kevin. “You're such a softy.”

“Wouldn't work,” said Felix, shaking his head. “People want to be different. It's human nature. If we had uniforms, people would roll up their cuffs or add trim or dye the cloth. May as well capitalize on their need for variety.”

“But . . . if people are so different, it's kind of funny that we follow trends,” I said slowly. I was thinking of my floral lapel pin, which I'd scanned the evening after I'd been fired from the court, and which had indeed expired. There was something vaguely unfair about not being able to wear it anymore. “You'd think we wouldn't care so much.”

Felix raised his eyebrows at Vivienne. “I think we made contact.”

“Maybe we can't avoid trends completely,” said Vivienne. “But it would be nice if we could all have a little more say in what we wear. To say nothing of what we watch and listen to. And, most important, what we do with our lives. Do you agree?”

I looked around at the drafters as I considered this. Vivienne, with her crusting makeup and funereal clothing. Bitter Felix. Forty-something Randall. Kevin, who thought that his jacket could disguise the fact that he'd worn the same shirt the day before. No. I wanted no part of whatever they were talking about. They were nice people and all, but I had been a Superior Court judge a month ago. I was
not
one of them.

“Please,” I said, “leave me alone. I love fashion, and I love Torro-LeBlanc. All I've ever wanted is to work here. Just because I'm a drafter . . . doesn't mean I'm miserable like the rest of you.” I felt mean and awful immediately—but I didn't take it back.

There was a silence. Randall cleared his throat and returned to his sketch. But Felix glared at me, his dark eyes insolent. “Remind me how that rejection felt again?”

“Felix, don't,” said Vivienne. She turned her pencil sideways and shaded a pool of water where the clown's tears fell. “Okay, Marla. Fair enough. Just let us know if you change your mind.”

I shoved my way out of the basement at five o'clock and sent Braxton a message telling him that I'd be riding home with some friends from the Superior Court. I looked around frantically and located Sabrina, chatting and laughing in a group of judges about thirty yards ahead. I followed her to the Fashion Row station, where the judges dispersed and headed toward their respective trains.

Sabrina was boarding my train with three other judges. Two of them quickly located some friends and waved a farewell. Ginnifer walked down the center aisle toward a middle seat. I caught Sabrina's arm before she could follow Ginnifer.

“Hey, Sabrina,” I said. “What's up?”

She turned, and I watched her smile fall. “Marla.” We grabbed the handrails for support as the train began to move.

Despite her obvious lack of enthusiasm, I tried to keep things cheerful. “How's it going? I haven't seen you on the train in forever. Are you taking an earlier one in the mornings now?”

“Oh. Yeah.” She didn't smile.

I took a deep breath. “Do you have a minute? I thought we could catch up. I have so many stories about the
obsolosers
in the basement. You wouldn't believe it down there.” I pointed at an empty pair of seats. “Want to sit?”

Sabrina glanced back at Ginnifer. “Look, Marla. No hard feelings, but we're not really friends anymore. I'm still on the court and you're . . . not. So . . .” She shrugged her shoulders.

My face got hot. “Look, I'm a drafter—but I'm not a
drafter
drafter.” I forced a laugh. “I mean, it's still me. I'm still Marla.” I tipped my feathered hat at her. “No fossil in sight, right?”

Sabrina sighed. “I don't think you understand. And you need to. I feel bad about what happened to you, but it kind of changes things.”

“You can't be serious.” I couldn't help myself. “We're friends!”

Sabrina glanced back again. “Look,” she said, lowering her voice, “how about this. I can get you tickets to the next Torro runway show.”

I relaxed. “Oh. Prime. It'd be fun to go together.”

“Oh no, you won't be sitting up front with the
judges.
” I saw a ripple of guilt pinch Sabrina's face. “I mean, maybe you and some of your new drafter friends can go together. Okay?” She reached up to pat my shoulder—then seemed to think better of it and turned the gesture into a wave. “Stay young.”

Sabrina walked away down the center aisle. She sat down with Ginnifer, and the two began whispering intently. Feeling sick, I stepped into the adjacent car to get away from them.

I caught sight of Braxton in the compartment. I was about to call out when he leaned over to the girl sitting next to him—leaned over until their foreheads touched. I froze. He whispered something, and the girl grinned and giggled. He reached up and stroked the girl's cheek with his fingertips, then grabbed a piece of her hair and twirled it around his finger. His eyebrows flicked up and down.

I blinked. The girl sitting with him was none other than Olivia, the youngest judge on the Torro-LeBlanc Superior Court.

Scalpel was already rocking
by the time Ivy arrived. The remixed music was fresh, the nightclub dance floor packed. As the strobe light flashed, she moved and swayed with Clayton, transported by the raw rhythms. He was a great dancer.

Ivy wore a Torro-LeBlanc tunic of peacock feathers with purple leggings. It had a high neck, and she had to stop herself from scratching her chin. Her nymphs and many others wore feathers of some sort, too. Strays floated in the air and made the dance floor look like a snow globe—but with the flashing lights, it kind of worked. Every so often, though, one of the hard feather shafts pricked her torso as she moved.

She was catching her breath and taking a Sugarwater break with her nymphs when Lyric Mirth entered Scalpel.

A mob of flashing cameras and shouting reporters instantly jammed the club entrance. Ivy narrowed her eyes. There had been a scene when she'd arrived too—but she was Ivy Wilde, not some newcomer who'd had one feeble hit. She watched Lyric's bodyguards wrestle back the crowd so that she and her nymphs could pass.

Lyric was wearing a white dress so thin it looked to be made of rice paper. It had feather-embellished straps and feathers hanging in three tiers from the hem. On her head she wore a headband, from which shining gold feathers stuck straight up in a semicircle from ear to ear. It was supposed to evoke a halo, Ivy realized spitefully. Saintly little Lyric. She wanted to laugh at the stupidity—but the whole ensemble did succeed in making Lyric look like some kind of sun goddess. It was definitely eye-catching. Perhaps, Ivy thought darkly, even more so than peacock feathers.

From behind her, she heard Madison shaking the P pill tin questioningly. Ivy shook her head. “I'm fine,” she snapped.

It was unavoidable; the club was one long tunnel, and even in the darkness, Lyric caught Ivy's eye. Ivy watched her gasp in surprise, wave furiously, and make straight for her.

“Here she comes,” warned Naia, stiffening.

“Ivy!” said Lyric, displaying a dazzling white grin—Lyric was really all teeth, wasn't she. And so freakishly tall for her age, too. She bent over to give Ivy a hug and an air kiss, and Ivy gave her shoulder two weak pats. She sensed her nymphs tighten around her and felt a surge of fondness for them. They were ready to beat the smile off Lyric's face if she gave the word.