Popularity Takeover (3 page)

4

MOVING CRIBS IS NEVER EASY

“I'M HOME!” ASHLEY CALLED, BUT
the only reply she got was from the butler who'd opened the door for her. Her footsteps echoed though the grand marble entryway as she marched toward the great room, the scene of her brilliant descent-by-trapeze a month ago. Ashley sighed with contentment at the memory of her total triumph. The entire seventh grade at Miss Gamble's had been blown away by her Super-Sweet Thirteen birthday extravaganza.

But now all everyone was obsessed with was this stupid S. Society and that even more yawnworthy S. List. Ashley knew what S really stood for—a load of crap!

But you couldn't really blame everyone for talking:
She
couldn't think about much else either. The nerve of that Sadie Nobody, turning up to school in argyle socks and booties! Ashley been planning the exact same thing for the Ashleys, and now she'd have to come up with something new. There was no way they could be fashion followers.

Ashley felt her face crumple into a frown, her mood suddenly as gray as the clouds rolling over San Francisco Bay—the view from the great room's twelve-foot windows. Why were other people so intent on spoiling Ashley's perfect life? They were all so mean and jealous. Well, at least she was home now, among her peeps. That is, her devoted parents, their huge staff, and her gorgeous labradoodle puppy, Princess Dahlia von Fluffsterhaus.

“Mommy!” Ashley shrieked, her voice echoing around the cavernous room. “Where are you?”

“She's upstairs, Miss Ashley.” The butler loomed in the doorway, the last of the afternoon sun glinting in his silver hair. “In
your
room, I believe.”

In
her
room? Ashley picked up her Saint Laurent tote bag and made for the broad staircase. She hoped her mother wasn't going through one of her let's-give-away-all-our-clothes-to-charity phases. The last time that happened, Ashley came home from school to find her
room a maze of black trash bags, all filled with clothes her mother thought she didn't need anymore.

Hello! Having clothes wasn't about need, it was about must—as in, must-have. It was about freedom of choice. Freedom! That's right, Ashley thought, growing more indignant with every step: Having a huge walk-in closet and dressing room (stocked with every fashionable brand on the planet, 150 pairs of shoes, a bag for every week of the year, and a forest of accessory trees) was her personal right as an American.

She didn't mind giving one of the maids a hand-me-down from time to time, but she totally objected to raids on her personal collection every time her mother got a pang of liberal guilt. Didn't Matilda Spencer realize that Ashley was under assault every day of her life by Ashley haters, the kind of people who were dying to see her in the same outfit twice, or—even worse—inadequately accessorized?

Ashley took the last two steps in one giant stride. Another raid on her personal space was quite possible: Ever since her parents told her that her mother was pregnant—ugh!—with another, unwanted-by-Ashley mini-Spencer, Matilda had exhibited all kinds of weird behavior.

In the last week alone, Ashley had seen her do the following: (1) weep uncontrollably at a TV commercial featuring puppies playing in a flowery meadow; (2) eat full-fat, non-organic vanilla ice cream straight from the tub; and (3) sit in the kitchen making a “Baby's First Trimester” scrapbook with the help of Maria, one of the maids, while Maria's wizened grandmother—flown in from San Salvador in a private plane, courtesy of Ashley's father—sat in a rocking chair crocheting baby booties from skeins of nonrecycled angora.

Everyone in this house had gone crazy! Matilda was probably upstairs right now, selecting all of Ashley's cutest outfits to be freighted to the needy throughout Central America. Well, Ashley had needs as well—something everyone in this house seemed to have forgotten.

“Don't even think of . . . ,” she began, charging through the double doors that led to her second-floor suite and almost tripping over the furry, reclining form of Princess Dahlia. But the scene that greeted her wasn't what she expected at all. Her closet doors was safely closed, and there weren't any black bags sprouting like rotting fungi all over the handwoven Turkish carpet.

Instead there were two maids, their arms full of her bed linen, and Enrico, the asthmatic handyman, who appeared to be dismantling her antique four-poster bed. Her mother, in a billowy peasant shirt and holey maternity jeans (since they were from when she was pregnant with Ashley), was holding a roll of paper against the wall, beaming at its butterfly pattern. Redecorating without discussion or permission! This was even worse.

“Darling!” Matilda called, her beautiful blue eyes sparkling, her long blond hair loose around her shoulders. “Come and look at this wallpaper! These are handcrafted imitation butterfly wings, woven from silk and dipped in gilt. Aren't they just precious?”

“Mommy,” whined Ashley, dumping her bag on the floor inches from her puppy's curly head. “I don't want new wallpaper. And I especially don't want butterflies! It's
très
juvenile. If we're going to redo the walls, I'd rather have a George Condo mural. Remember?”

“Oh, sweetie!” Matilda rolled up the paper and stepped toward her, skirting Enrico's unfolded tool kit. “You can have whatever you want. You know that!”

“Good,” said Ashley, smiling smugly. At last someone was listening to her. “Then maybe we could get matching panels for the bed, and one of those lacquered
armoires with gold handles.”

One of the maids scuttled past, carrying Ashley's favorite silk comforter out the door.

“Well, I'm not sure about that,” Matilda said, biting her lip. “The thing is, you may not have the space for this bed
and
a big armoire. In fact, Enrico thinks you won't even have room for the bed.”

Enrico scowled at the mention of his name and viciously stabbed at one of the bedpost joints with his screwdriver.

“Why not?” Ashley surveyed the room. They might have to move the flat-screen TV, or get rid of the antique dresser and relocate the chaise, but there was plenty of space in here, really. If her mother would let her rip out the window seats, as she'd been begging for
months
. . .

“Sweetie, we're moving you upstairs,” Matilda explained, one soft hand alighting on Ashley's arm. “Didn't we discuss this already?”

“No, we did not!” Ashley cried. Leave her room? Move upstairs? Hello? Dahlia von Fluffsterhaus woke up with a start and staggered over, rubbing against Ashley's ankles.

“Silly me!” Her mother sighed. “I'm forgetting everything these days. This is just how I was when I was
pregnant with you.”

Ashley ignored her mother's sappy smile. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes.

“Why don't you just send me away to live with Aunt Agnes?” she asked, meaning the Spencers' only living relative, a batty maiden aunt who lived on a sheep farm in Vermont. Ashley picked up Princess Dahlia and clasped the puppy tightly to her chest. Dahlia squirmed and yapped in protest, wriggling her way back to the floor. Great! Even Ashley's own dog didn't want her.

“Now, don't overreact.” Matilda dropped the roll of wallpaper onto the chaise, and the other maid took the opportunity to scurry out of the room, trailing a bundle of Ashley's four-hundred-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets. “When you think about it, you'll realize why we're doing this. Your room is nearer to ours, so it makes sense that the new baby sleep here.”

“Why can't you turn the music room or the second study into the baby's room? They're right by your room as well.”

“But they don't have this lovely light, or an en suite bathroom,” Matilda explained. “This is much nicer than any of the other rooms on this floor.”

“I know!” Ashley pouted, kicking off her school
shoes and secretly hoping that grumpy old Enrico tripped over them. “So why do
I
have to move?”

“Darling,” Matilda pleaded. “You know I'm going to have to get up in the middle of the night to nurse every couple of hours. You don't want me walking up and down the stairs all the time, do you?”

Ashley rolled her eyes.

“But you're hiring a baby nurse to do all that middle-of-the-night stuff!” She wanted to see Matilda try to get out of this one. But her mother didn't seem fazed at all.

“That's right.” She nodded. “A nurse will be here to
help
me. And that's another reason why we need this room. Your dressing room will be her sitting room, where she can rest and read while the baby is sleeping. It all makes sense.”

“Not to me it doesn't!” Ashley fumed. She wanted to throw herself on the floor and cry with rage. This sibling-in-the-making was already ruining her life!

“And you know how pretty and cozy the little guest room is. The George Condo mural you mentioned will look very striking in there. I'll send for it tomorrow, and . . .”

Matilda was still talking, but Ashley couldn't hear another word. She was being moved upstairs to the little
guest room? Not even the main guest room, which was reserved for the VIPs? The little guest room was little with a capital L! It was practically the attic.

“. . . it's not
that
much smaller than this room, you know,” Matilda was saying. “Sure, it doesn't have a closet, and you have to walk across the hallway to the bathroom. And the ceilings are a little lower, and there's not room for a window seat—”

“Mom,” Ashley interrupted her. “You would make a terrible salesperson, okay? You're making it worse, and it's already bad enough.”

“Now, now,” Matilda chided, smiling. “Just remember, people in Japan live in houses that are much smaller.”

“Great!” shrieked Ashley. “Why don't you just give me a roll-up futon and a block of wood for a pillow and stick me in a cupboard!”

Her mother was totally missing the point. It wasn't that the guest room was really tiny, or that it was on another floor. It was that Ashley's domain was
here
, where it had always been, every day of her life. And now she was being ousted by this new baby. It was like the new baby got the top of the podium and she, Ashley, was being shoved into the silver-medal position. If there was one thing Ashley hated, it was being number two.

First the S. Society, now this. A month ago Ashley was on top of the world, soaring on a trapeze and zooming off on a Vespa with Cooper. Now she was ousted from the bench outside Miss Gamble's and evicted from her bedroom. She was a dispossessed person. How could she maintain her top-dog status when she was basically homeless and under attack from all sides?

Ashley felt a tear roll down her cheek. This wasn't life as she knew it, not anymore. Did she still have what it took to be Ashley Spencer?

5

YOUR MISSION, SHOULD YOU CHOOSE TO ACCEPT IT

IT WAS THAT TIME OF
year again. Usually Lauren didn't look forward to it at all, but this year was different. She was one of the Ashleys now, and no matter how many secret societies were forming around them, trying to knock them off their perch, right now was the best time of year to be an Ashley. It was Congé time.

Sure, she could join the S. Society—they seemed just as intent on bringing down the Ashleys as she was, except they weren't doing it for the right reasons. Sadie and Sheridan just wanted to replace the Ashleys, whereas Lauren wanted something more life changing. She wanted not only the Ashleys, but the very
idea
of
the Ashleys—that some girls were more equal than others—totally destroyed.

Besides, better to stick with the devil you know than the devil you don't, Lauren thought. The members of the S. Society were upstarts, and Lauren wanted to enjoy herself just a little bit longer as part of the ruling class. Just for once, couldn't she participate in the annual Mother-Daughter Fashion Show, where the Ashleys were always the star models on the runway? Instead of sitting in the back, picking at her salad, and wishing it was over?

And just for once, couldn't she be on the Congé Committee?

Congé was a French tradition adopted by Miss Gamble's, a “free day” in the middle of the spring semester that was a secret surprise for the whole school. Ever since the fifth grade, the Ashleys had ruled the Congé Committee: They got to decide where to take the whole school for the day. Sure, there were older girls on the committee, too—but the Ashleys were so bossy they always ended up getting their way.

Lauren wasn't sure if she'd go that far . . . but the idea of sitting on the committee? Terribly exciting. Every year the Ashleys didn't just know where the school
was spending Congé—they were the only ones aware of
when
it was taking place. All the teachers at Miss Gamble's tried to throw students off the scent by assigning a ton of homework and threatening all kinds of arduous tests on that day. But the Ashleys always secretly blew off all the extra work, because they knew it was all a sham. For the first time, Lauren would be in the know as well. For that reason alone, she wanted to stick with the Ashleys at least until the end of the semester.

After classes ended on Wednesday, the Ashleys assembled in the oak-paneled school library. The last time Lauren had been in this room for a meeting, she was defending Ashley against the Honor Board. She'd triumphed then—getting Ashley out of a suspension and persuading her obstinate “client” to invite the entire seventh grade to her birthday party.

Now Lauren slid into one of the black-leather chairs surrounding the vast wooden table and gazed up at the ornate chandelier, trying to suppress a smile. Who knew? Maybe she could triumph again. All she needed to do was come up with a brilliant idea for Congé, and she'd practically rule the school. Maybe then she could call the shots, even among the Ashleys. It was going to be
so nice
, being on the inside of things for once.

“Where is Miss Charm?” complained Ashley, who had been snappy all week. The only thing that seemed to cheer her up was the rain that morning, because it meant that
nobody
could sit on the bench by the school's front steps—even though she insisted that she intended to drag Sadie and Sheridan off it by force if they ever dared sit there again. “Doesn't she know our time is valuable?”

“I'm starving,” A. A. moaned, pushing her chair back so she could stretch her long legs. “Does anyone have any ideas, by the way? Lili?”

“What?” Lili glanced up from her phone. She'd been frowning at it since they arrived.

“You know, ideas? For Congé?” Ashley gave her ponytail an impatient toss. “Or do I have to do everything, as usual?”

“Hello, girls!” Miss Charm, the etiquette teacher and seventh-grade class adviser, swept into the room, the heavy door clanging shut behind her. She paused for a second to glance at her reflection in the bookshelves' glass doors, lovingly patting her graying beehive. Ashley rolled her eyes, and Lauren tried not to giggle. “Glad to see you all here promptly. We have important things to discuss!” she said brightly.

Lauren sat up straighter, feeling excitement ­building
in her chest, while A. A. only yawned. The other two Ashleys looked just as bored. Lili was putting away her phone, a wistful expression on her pretty face, and Ashley was scowling at Miss Charm, as if she were planning to have her removed from the school and exiled to some retirement home in another state.

“An exciting time.” Miss Charm nodded, lowering herself into the chair at the head of the table and setting a powder-pink spiral notebook on the table in front of her. Ashley was right, Lauren thought: Those mock Chanel suits favored by Miss Charm really had to go. “And this year is a time of change.”

“Change?” Lili looked up. “What do you mean, ‘change'?”

“Yeah, are the eighth-graders actually interested in planning this with us this year?” A. A. asked.

“Oh no, you know our ‘seniors' are too busy with prep school applications to bother with this trivia,” Miss Charm assured. “But, my dears, I'm afraid all good things must come to an end.”

“Not Congé!” gasped A. A., who earlier that day had confided in Lauren that Congé was her favorite thing about Miss Gamble's, especially since the refectory had stopped serving gourmet Italian macaroni and cheese.

“Oh no,” Miss Charm reassured her, tapping her clipped nails on the table. “Don't worry about that. But our little committee. Er, there's been some suggestion that we're not quite inclusive enough.”

“We're totally inclusive!” Ashley cried. She pointed across the table at Lauren. “We have a new member this year! Whom we invited! Even though she's not, you know, an Ashley!”

Lauren forced a smile. She hoped that Ashley was referring to her first name, not her status within the group.

“Be that as it may,” Miss Charm said, holding up one wizened hand, “some
other
students have petitioned the headmistress. They feel, and I'm not saying they're right or wrong, but they feel the Congé Committee has been—how shall I put it?—an exclusive domain for too long.”

“Of course it's exclusive!” Ashley made a face. “Duh!”

“If we let in too many people, it'll be harder to keep the whole thing a secret,” Lauren pointed out. Taking a practical approach, she decided, might be more effective with teachers—even someone as flighty and irrational as Miss Charm.

“We're at maximum capacity as it is,” added Lili briskly.

“I know, I know.” Miss Charm closed her eyes and clasped her hands together, as though she were about to
lead them in prayer. “But the administration of our wonderful school believes that it's only fair if other people have a voice in the planning of the event.”

“So that's why I've come up with a viable solution. Rather than make the Congé Committee too large and unwieldy with additional members, I have suggested a compromise. This year there will be two Congé committees.”

“What?” Ashley was indignant. “
Two
committees?”

“And whichever committee comes up with the best plan for the day will be awarded the job of organizing it. We will reveal to both committees the week in which Congé is scheduled, but not the specific date. When your plan—or the other plan—is accepted, then I will reveal that date to the winning committee and all final plans will be made. Is everything clear?”

“Clear as mud,” grumbled A. A., tearing out one of her hair bands. “How can we make plans if we don't know the specific date?”

“And how can you trust this other so-called committee not to blab it around the whole school?” Lauren added. She was starting to get a sinking feeling about who this rival committee might be.

“Please, girls,” Miss Charm pleaded, looking very
flustered. “I can reveal to you now, in total confidence, that Congé is scheduled between March 10 and 15. To fully prepare, your committee leader must present your plans by next month.”

“That's me,” said Ashley, looking at Lili, who only shrugged.

“I then will discuss it with my fellow teachers, and we will let the successful committee—and the successful committee alone—know forty-eight hours before Congé takes place.”

“Sounds good,” Lili said confidently. Lauren had heard that it was usually Lili who came up with the Ashleys' Congé plans: She was more organized than Ashley and more focused than A. A. Last year, it had been her idea to book a private steam train through Napa Valley.

“But why do we have to have competition?” Ashley complained.

“Think of it as a new challenge for you!” declared Miss Charm with a nervous smile. “I'm sure you girls are up to it. I have full confidence in you.”

“Hello!” said Ashley, pushing her chair back from the table in aggravation. “Of course you have confidence in us! We're the Congé professionals. Who is this other amateur committee, anyway?”

Miss Charm cleared her throat and flipped open the spiral notebook sitting on the table.

“I believe they are known as . . . ah yes, here it is. The S. Society.”

Ashley groaned. “
Just
as I suspected. Well, at least one thing's for sure—we'll definitely win this competition. If we're talking about those idiots, they haven't got an original idea in their heads.”

“Now, now, dear,” said Miss Charm absentmindedly, gathering up her notebook and heaving herself out of the solid chair. “There's no need for such language. But remember—not a word to anyone!”

As soon as the teacher had left the room, Ashley didn't seem quite so gung ho. “Those little . . . ,” she ranted. “It's not a society—it's just Sheridan and that copycat Sally!”

“Sadie,” A. A. corrected. Lauren said nothing, shrinking into her seat. The last thing she wanted right now was anyone drawing the connection between her and her awful creation, Sadie Graham.

“Whatever! How dare they try to muscle in on Congé?”

“So we have competition—we'll blow them out of the water,” Lili reassured Ashley. But Lauren observed Lili looking a little worried.

“I just thought of something terrible,” A. A. moaned, her head lolling back in despair. “If we
don't
win, we'll be just like all the other girls in this school.”

“Fashion-backward and lame?” Ashley asked.

“No, I mean out of the loop! We'll have to study for the tests and do all the extra homework that week, because we won't know
when
exactly Congé is going to happen.”

“I can't do any more than I'm already doing,” Lili whined, pulling out her phone.

“Could everyone please
focus
?” thundered Ashley. “This is a crisis, in case you've forgotten!” She turned to Lauren. “This is all your fault, by the way!”

“Mine?” Lauren protested. How did Ashley know? Of course it was all her fault. She'd created this mess by convincing Sadie Graham that she could be as chic and confident as any of the Ashleys, not realizing that Sadie would instantly turn against her. But how could Ashley know her secret plan?

“You were the one who talked me into inviting these nobodies to my birthday party. No wonder they're all having delusions of grandeur!” Ashley accused.

Lauren tried not to look too relieved. Ashley was just being overdramatic as usual. She didn't
know
. But she
was pretty close to the truth. Lauren had to act quickly to throw off any suspicion. “I have an idea,” she declared.

“It better be a good one,” Ashley snapped.

“What I . . . what I was thinking was,” Lauren said, trying to sound more assured than she felt, “I could try to infiltrate the S. Society. You know, Sadie and I used to be friendly. I could try to find out what they're planning. I'll be an undercover agent.”

“Like Keri Russell on
The Americans
!” Lili seemed to like the idea.

“Isn't Keri a KGB spy? She's the enemy!” said A. A.

“Lauren will be our enemy if she fails in this mission,” said Ashley, gifting Lauren with a particularly threatening smile. “Here's the plan. Lauren, find out what the stupid S. Club is up to. If you don't, you might as well find other people to sit with at the ref.”

“She doesn't mean it,” A. A. said. Lauren tried to laugh.

“Shut up! The rest of you, start coming up with brilliant ideas for Congé. Our quality of life at Miss Gamble's totally depends on it! If we don't win Congé, we may as well drop out of school.”

After this sobering warning, they all filed out of the library in silence, Lauren bringing up the rear.

Unlike A. A., Lauren knew full well that Ashley wasn't joking. She wasn't sure how she was going to do it, but she just had to infiltrate the S. Society and find out what they had planned. Otherwise
she
would be out—out of the Ashleys entirely. So much for all her grand plans this semester.