The kettle in Tudor House’s bright, homey kitchen shuddered and clicked off as the water boiled. Tally poured it over her chicken and mushroom noodles and pushed them about with her fork, breathing in the cloud of savory steam. Mmmm. Instant lunch. Being allowed to cook meals for yourself instead of eating dining-hall slop was one of the best perks of junior year—even though “cook” was something of an overstatement, considering that the kitchen’s only appliances were a toaster, a kettle, and four painfully slow electric burners. That was all part of a conspiracy by Mrs. Traphorn, St. Cecilia’s headmistress, to coax the girls to eat in the cafeteria despite their so-called “independence.” “The community that dines together, shines together,” she was fond of telling prospective parents. Obviously she’d never had to eat the mush that the dinner ladies doled out.
As Tally prepared to take a mouthful of noodles, a piece of paper detached itself from the opposite wall, where it had been tacked, and fell to the floor. She picked it up. It was a photograph of Dylan Taylor—an absolutely hideous one. Dylan looked like a sea monster, with clumps of seaweed hanging off her ears, sand matted in her hair, one eye closed, and an entire nipple exposed.
Tally almost snorted her food up into her nose. There was no doubt about who was behind this little project. She placed the picture on the kitchen counter. There were probably dozens more copies of it plastered round the house. Sure enough, looking next door, she saw one hanging crookedly underneath an Atonement poster.
Just then, someone started clapping for attention. The charity meeting in the common room was about to start. Inside, the other girls in their class had already claimed seats and were fidgeting and screeching so loudly it reminded Tally of the pigeons in Trafalgar Square. Every chair was taken. Juniors were perched on the window ledges and on top of the radiator and scrunched cross-legged on the floor. Tally trod over Clemmie Lockheed and Farah Assadi. Clemmie, one of the biggest nerds in the class, was holding a pad and pen awkwardly over her knee, and looked poised to start scribbling notes.
With a gasp, Tally realized that the Dylan photo she’d seen from the kitchen really was only the beginning: The entire common room was smothered in color photocopies. She scanned the place. Dylan hadn’t yet arrived.
“You are such a bitch.” She shook her head at Alice, weaving her way toward the maroon sofa where Alice was saving her a seat.
Alice chuckled. Then, suddenly, seeing Gabrielle Bunter about to plop next to her, she slapped her hand down.
“Excuse me,” she hissed. “Taken.”
“Oh, sorry.” Gabby lumbered backward. She hunched against the wall, a frown line creasing her chubby forehead.
Alice rolled her eyes. There was no doubt about it, Gabby Bunter was the weirdest girl in the school. When they’d all first arrived at St. Cecilia’s, in sixth grade, she used to waddle about the grounds wearing giant Bose headphones over her stringy hair, preventing anyone from ever speaking to her. (Not that anyone wanted to.) One time, as an experiment, Alice and Mimah had snatched the headphones off her head and hidden them. Gabby had gone totally hysterical—so hysterical, in fact, that their housemistress, Miss Wilde, had threatened lockdown on everyone till the headphones were returned.
“That was close,” Alice whispered loudly as Tally dropped onto the couch next to her. “Scabby Gabby almost sat here.”
“She never gets any less freakish,” Tally muttered. “I can’t believe Mimah got stuck sharing a room with her. Anyway, what’s your news?” Tally and Alice had been at separate lessons all morning and hadn’t had time to chat. “What happened last night? Where did you run off to?”
“Everybody shut up!” a voice barked suddenly above the racket. It belonged to Sonia Khan. She was standing in front of a collage of four Dylan pictures, glaring round the room. The little diamond studs she wore in her ears flashed in the light from the windows behind her. Tally giggled. Sonia’s mean expression didn’t go with her dinky new button nose. She looked ridiculous, like a kitten trying to imitate a tiger. Tally still didn’t understand why Sonia had gone to the lengths of a nose job to fix something that hadn’t been all that bad to begin with, but Sonia insisted that all the women in her family got them; it was practically de rigueur once you turned sixteen. Besides that, she seemed convinced it’d help her finally find a boyfriend. And that would be a relief for everyone.
“Right,” Sonia was saying, “as I’ve been appointed Charity Representative, I need to let Sharko know by this afternoon what we’re doing for our October House Event. Obviously we’ll all have to agree on whatever it is. But my idea gets first consideration since I’m in charge.”
Tally rolled her eyes. She knew Sonia was going to suggest something to do with a film or a TV show. Sonia was obsessed with becoming a director, even though the only thing she ever shot on her £10,000 digital camera was footage of them all getting ready for parties or brushing their teeth before bed. “Real-world cinema,” she called it. Real-shit cinema, Tally thought.
“Here it is.” Sonia took a deep breath. She’d been planning this for the past two days and was desperate for it to go well. “Our very own version of Pop Idol, presented by… the junior class. Most people will play the contestants,” she rushed on, trying to get out all the details before someone butted in. “Everyone’ll sing a few lines of music and then be critiqued by the judges. At the end, the audience…”
“Hang on, hang on, this sounds complicated,” complained Farah Assadi in her low, grainy voice. A lot of boys said it was sexy. “Who exactly get to be the judges?”
Sonia stopped short. Of course it was Farah who’d cut her off. Skinny bitch, with her pretentious razor-chopped haircut and big, overly made-up eyes.
“We’ll decide later,” Sonia said, pursing her lips. Not that there was anything to decide. She already knew who the judges were and it wasn’t going to come as a surprise to anyone. There was no way in hell she was getting up and singing in front of the whole school. She stole a look at Alice. Pop Idol was just the kind of cool plan she’d love.
Except that Alice wasn’t listening. She didn’t even seem to have heard the idea. She was whispering intently to Tally, the side of her cheek slightly flushed. For a second, Sonia stopped hearing all the questions being shot at her from the meeting as she strained her ears and squinted toward her two best friends. What were they saying? And why wasn’t she in on the secret?
Alice paused, then leaned in closer to Tally. Someone was staring at her; she could feel it. “Listen, don’t tell anyone about me and T just yet,” she said softly. “I don’t want everyone gossiping.”
Tally waved her hand dismissively. “Okay, okay,” she rushed. “But how did it happen? Were you planning it for a while? I sort of suspected you had a crush—”
“Of course I didn’t!” Alice cut her off. “It was a total surprise. I mean, it’s Tristan. There we were, just having a spliff, and he jumped on me. Confessed he’s been in love with me for years and years. He was practically crying. I was like, ‘Oh shit.’ I didn’t know what to do. I swear I’d never even thought of him like that.”
Alice listened to herself; the story sounded good this way. Clearly Tristan had been thinking all these things even if he hadn’t said them, and that meant she was telling the truth.
Tally was shaking her head. “Oh my god, he’s so stoic,” she breathed. “I never would have guessed! When did it start, did he say?”
Alice considered gravely. “He didn’t really. But I think it might have been way back during that Easter of eighth grade when our families went on safari together. Remember? I got the feeling he was lusting after me the whole time.”
“Wow, poor T. That was almost three years ago. He must have really been pining for you.”
“I suppose so.” Alice raised her right eyebrow suggestively. “That would explain how passionate he was. He must have been so pent up!”
“Oh my god!” Tally squealed. They both started giggling.
“Shhh,” Alice choked out between laughs.
“Excuse me!” snapped Sonia’s piercing voice. She was rapping on the TV with the flat of her hand. “Order!” The noise in the common room died down. They’d still decided nothing. “Look, if no one likes the Pop Idol idea, then come up with some suggestions yourselves.”
People started shouting things out.
“Bake sale!”
“Borrring.”
“Oh please! Everybody does that.”
“We could make jewelry and sell it.”
“How about putting on a play?”
“What play? And when would we rehearse?”
“I have an idea,” Alice said loudly, raising her chin in the air. The room fell silent. She waited a beat. “We should do a fashion show. We’ve already got loads of clothes. All we’d need is a catwalk and I reckon we could sort that out.”
There were murmurs of approval.
“But a fashion show would just be us strutting round wearing our own stuff,” Zanna Balfour whined. “Who’d pay to see that?”
“I agree, we need an angle,” Farah Assadi chimed in.
“Here’s your angle.” Heads turned. The husky voice had come from the back of the room. Mimah Calthorpe de Vyle-Hanswicke was leaning against the door frame with her arms crossed. “Pashminas,” she said.
“Pashminas?” Sonia sneered.
“Yes. Congratulations, you speak English,” Mimah shot back. “We all wear them, don’t we? Between us, we must have hundreds in different colors. So we make a rule: The only things allowed down the runway are us, wearing our pashminas. Only our pashminas, wrapped around our bodies in as many ways as we can imagine. We work out dance routines. People will be talking about it for years.”
“Wicked idea!” Clemmie Lockheed chirped, clapping her hands.
“Pashminas to the rescue for charity. I love it,” Zanna cried.
“Hang on, that’s what we should call it!” Tally exclaimed. “‘Pashminas to the Rescue.’”
“If we can get permission,” Sonia mumbled. But by now people were nodding and talking all over the room. “Fine,” she conceded grudgingly. “Let’s put it to the vote. Everyone who likes the idea, raise your hand.”
Mimah looked to where Tally and Alice were sitting. They were smiling with their arms straight up in the air.
Perfect! Mimah laughed to herself. Those bitches. Did they really think she was going to sit back and let herself be dumped?
“Tell me I didn’t miss the meeting,” Dylan panted, clattering up to Mimah five minutes later as the juniors poured into the corridor. The room’s warm, stuffy smell rolled out after them.
“I could tell you that,” Mimah said, “but it’d be a lie. Where were you?” She stood in front of Dylan, blocking her way.
“In the art building talking to Miss Baskin about joining her class. Art’s my favorite subject. I’ve always loved sculpture.”
“Oh my god, really?” Mimah nodded exaggeratedly. “That is so fascinating. Tell me more.”
Dylan folded her arms. She didn’t get Mimah; the girl was as hot and cold as a pair of faucets. But she was the only person so far who’d even pretended to be friendly, so it wasn’t as if Dylan had much choice.
“’Scuse me,” she said, attempting to make her way into the common room.
“Why?”
“Umm, because I’d like to sign up for some charity stuff before it’s too late?”
She pushed forward.
“Wait,” Mimah blurted out. “Don’t go in there.”
“Huh? Why not?”
“It’s just… we should get lunch first. It’s fish and chips day. You can sign up later.”
“But we’re here now.”
Just then, three girls walked out of the common room. When they saw Dylan, they froze, gasping. Clemmie Lockheed tittered.
“Mimah,” Dylan narrowed her eyes. “What is going on?”
Mimah sighed. “You might as well see for yourself. Go on, have a look.”
Dylan stepped through the doorway. For a few seconds, she stood there, taking in the dozens and dozens of photos lining the walls. It was like her worst nightmare: bad hair. Bad face. Bad pose. Her fucking nipple.
No, actually it was worse than a nightmare—there’d be no waking up.
“Who the hell did this?” Dylan choked, ripping down the nearest photo and crushing it in her hand.
Mimah shook her head. “You mean you can’t guess?”