“I’ve never been in here before,” Myra said, glancing around the fifth floor of Saks Fifth Avenue. A crystal chandelier hung over the Elie Tahari section, illuminating three mannequins in evening gowns. “It’s so…glamorous.”
Stella and Myra’s arms were piled high with Theory sweaters, Nanette Lepore dresses, and Marc by Marc Jacobs skirts, as though they were having a contest to see who could carry the most designer apparel. “I haven’t been here either,” Stella said. “It reminds me a little of Harrods.” Stella squeezed the clothes to her chest, thinking of the sweets counter in the massive London department store. It was packed with dark chocolate hearts, caramels, and yogurt-covered pretzels. She sometimes spent a half hour there, just trying to pick out truffles.
They approached the racks of Diane von Furstenberg dresses, and Stella rested her heap of clothing on the register. Behind it, a woman with over-lined lips was turned around, trying to inconspicuously pick a piece of pesto from her teeth. “Why, hello!” she cried a little too loudly, suddenly realizing Myra and Stella were there. She rang up the items one by one.
Just then, Stella’s mobile buzzed. “Who is it?” Myra asked. She tried to peek at the screen, but Stella pulled it closer to her chest as she read the message.
CATE: SO?!?!? HOW’S THE MAKEOVER GOING??!?! WHERE R THE PICS?!?!?
“It’s Cate—she’s excited you’re our Mu,” Stella lied. She’d secretly taken a photo of Myra after her haircut and one when she came out of the dressing room in her navy blue Marc Jacobs shirtdress, but she couldn’t bring herself to actually send them to Cate. She didn’t want her making any judgments based on some grainy mobile pictures—too much was at stake. Myra knew they had to get ready for tomorrow’s party, but she didn’t know that if she wasn’t ready…she was out. And Stella would hear, for the next ten years of her life, how she’d ruined Chi Sigma.
Myra laughed. “I never would’ve thought I’d be friends with Cate Sloane. Ever.” Whenever she smiled her brown eyes folded up in the corners, giving her momentary crow’s feet.
Stella tried hard to smile. Technically, they weren’t friends…yet. She imagined Cate circling Myra, appraising her like a Sotheby’s antique. She’d inspect her cuticles and check for split ends, trying to decide if Stella had done a thorough enough makeover.
As the sales clerk rang up the last Diane von Furstenberg dress, Stella slid her AmEx gold card across the counter. “The total is—”
“Wait,” a voice interrupted. Stella turned to see Blythe, with Sophie and Priya standing close behind her, all still in their gray uniform skirts. Blythe leveled her gray eyes at Stella as she threw a handful of plastic packages onto the counter. “You forgot these.”
Each one of the colorful sleeves displayed a glittery mesh thong. Stella froze, feeling like she’d swallowed a bowling ball. She hadn’t seen Cloud McClean’s face since last year, when Lola accidentally stumbled on her video “Love Cancer” on MTV. But there she was, winking at Stella from the front of each package, her white-blond hair styled in a sultry up-do.
“Did you want these?” the sales clerk asked, holding a fuchsia one up.
Stella stared at the package. Cloud McClean—unitard-wearing, glitter thong-endorsing, father-stealing Cloud McClean—had showed up in her life last year like a grenade, blowing her family apart. Every time Stella felt free, forgetful, Cloud appeared. There was no escaping her, even in New York, in a department store thousands of miles away from London.
Myra plucked the thong out of the woman’s hand and scooped the rest into her arms. Her face was contorted in anger, like someone had just stomped on Pythagoras’ tail for fun. “Absolutely not,” she snapped. “These are made by trash, for trash. The only person buying them is you.” She shoved them back into Blythe’s arms.
Blythe’s face turned a deep pink. “Whatever…Mug,” she muttered, obviously flustered. Blythe turned on her Tory Burch heel. She threw the glitter thongs onto a Theory table, toppling a tower of baby blue sweaters.
Stella grabbed Myra’s arm. She’d never seen Blythe speechless before. “Thanks,” she mumbled as the sales clerk swiped her card.
They both watched as Blythe and the Beta Sigma Phis disappeared down the escalator. “No problem,” Myra said. “I know how it feels to be teased.”
Stella suddenly felt the urge to apologize—for everything. Maybe she’d never called Myra “Mug the Slug” to her face, but she’d definitely laughed when other people did. She’d spent so much time staring at Myra’s bleached mustache, or rolling her eyes at her Don’t Drink and Derive key chain, she never noticed that Myra was funny…and genuinely nice. When every other Ashton girl was treating Stella like toxic waste, Myra sat next to her at lunch and was thrilled to be her lab partner.
Myra looped her arm through Stella’s. “Let’s go.” They took off toward the escalator, the shopping bags swinging on their arms. “I have my first fashion show to put on.”
“Voilà!” Myra said, throwing Stella’s closet door open in a dramatic reveal. Her blond hair was tucked neatly behind her ears, showing off two hammered gold hoops. The blue Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress looked like it had been custom tailored to her petite frame. As she spun around she looked prettier than Blythe, prettier than any of the girls at Ashton Prep who had laughed at her.
“You’re brilliant!” Stella cried. Myra spun around and her skirt flared out, exposing her rainbow knee-highs. Stella’s eyes settled on Myra’s toes, each one snuggled into its own colored pouch.
“Oh,” Myra followed Stella’s gaze. “I guess I should throw these away…”
“No,” Stella shook her head, smiling. She couldn’t tell Myra to get rid of them. It would be like telling Cindy Crawford to get rid of her mole. “Definitely not. They’re so…you.”
“Well, maybe I’ll wear them under my new jeans from now on.” Myra smiled at her reflection in the full-length mirror on Stella’s door. “Oh my gosh. The Mathletes are going to die when they see me.”
Stella laughed, imagining Myra swarmed by guys clutching protractors and pads of graph paper. Just then, there was a knock on the door. Stella opened it a crack.
Cate was standing in the hall, looking like she was about to break down the door. “Um…remember me?” she hissed. “What happened? Where is she?”
Stella glanced back at Myra. She was standing in the center of the room, smoothing down her blond bob. She was as ready as she’d ever be. “I give you…Myra Granberry: our Mu.” She flung the door open.
“Hi,” Myra said shyly.
Cate took in a deep breath, feeling like she’d been trapped underwater and only now come up for air. Stella had been right. Myra was Chi Sigma material; she’d just needed a little help. Her pale skin was flawless, and her cheekbones were dusted with a pale pink blush. Now that they’d transformed her into a Chloë Sevigny look-alike, there was nothing Chi Sigma couldn’t do. “You look amazing!” Cate cried. Myra’s face broke into a smile. Cate rested her hands on her hips and surveyed her one last time. “Welcome to Chi Sigma, Slug!”
Stella watched Myra’s face fall, her brown eyes suddenly dull. It was the same face Stella had seen that day in the drawing room, when Cate made fun of her facial hair. “Cate,” she said through clenched teeth. “Can I talk to you outside for a minute?”
“What?” Cate shrugged, her dark brown hair falling in her face.
Stella pulled Cate into the hallway, shutting the door behind them. “If Myra is going to be in Chi Sigma, you can’t keep on like that.”
“Like what?” Cate stared at the ceiling, like she was searching for the answer somewhere beyond the crown molding.
“No more Mug the Slug talk—no more calling her fugly mugly. She’s one of us now.” Stella rested her hands on her hips. Even if she and Cate were the original members of the sorority, there needed to be some ground rules. She didn’t make over Myra so Cate could torture her for the rest of the year.
Cate picked at her red nail polish. “Fine. But just do me a favor. Make sure she doesn’t ramble on about coordinate planes at the party tomorrow. I don’t want her embarrassing me in front of Eli.” Then she took off down the narrow staircase.
“She won’t!” Stella called. “You’re going to thank me!” She crept back into the room. Myra was sitting on the edge of Stella’s queen bed, knocking her heels against the black footboard. “Myra, I’m sorry. She didn’t mean that.”
“It’s fine,” Myra mumbled. But Stella could tell it wasn’t fine. Myra’s forehead was scrunched in concentration, like she was trying hard not to cry.
Don’t, Stella thought. Do not cry. She wanted to tell Myra that Cate was hard on everyone. She’d said Lola needed to gain two stone, she’d said Andie needed growth hormones, and every time she looked at Heath Bar she turned away in disgust, calling him “that morbidly obese thing.” She wanted to tell Myra that just last week she was taking insults from Cate Sloane, who’d all but ordered her to go back to London. If you were going to survive her friendship there was one rule to follow: Take nothing personally.
“Please don’t worry about Cate. She’s just a little…temperamental,” Stella finally offered. Maybe temperamental wasn’t quite the right word, but Stella didn’t want Myra thinking Cate was an awful person. They still had to be friends. “Now I have one more surprise for you. I was saving it for the party but…” She went into her walk-in closet, gesturing for Myra to follow her. She pulled a Saks box off the top shelf. “This is for you.”
Myra tucked her hair behind her ears, staring at the black and white box, tied with a red silk bow. “This is for me?” she asked, her brown eyes wide.
“I thought you might like it.” Stella grinned, squeezing Myra’s shoulder.
Myra opened the box and held the Marc Jacobs bag in the air like it was a trophy. “It has my initials on it!” She cried, running her fingers over the letters M.G. While Myra was getting fitted for new bras, Stella had picked out the hobo bag and gotten it embossed—without the U, to free her of her nickname. It was the perfect new alternative to her L.L. Bean knapsack. “Oh my gosh!” She threw her arms around Stella, pulling her into hug. “This is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.”
Stella hoped she was exaggerating, but as Myra squeezed her tight she had the sinking feeling she wasn’t. In the last three hours Myra’s mobile hadn’t rung once. No one had texted to see where she was, or what her plans were for Friday night. Every lunch period Stella watched her from across the cafeteria as Myra sat alone, reading a beaten-up copy of Plato’s Republic. It was as if Myra had spent years at Ashton Prep as a ghost, roaming the halls friendless, visible only to teachers, Mathletes, and anyone looking for someone to torment.
“You deserve it,” Stella said, smiling. “You’re a good friend.” She thought about Blythe’s smug face, and the glitter thongs, and how Myra had jumped to defend her, more loyal than a guard dog. Out of all the things she’d told Myra that afternoon—you look great in red, green shadow complements your eyes, you should always wear earrings—that statement was the most true.
TO: CSMGuestList@gmail.com
FROM: Cate Sloane
CC: Stella Childs
DATE: Friday, 5:33 p.m.
SUBJECT: Chi Sigma Mu Mixer
You’ve watched. You’ve waited.
You’ve wondered.
And now…you won’t believe your eyes.
Join Ashton Prep’s hottest new sorority as we induct our third member:
Myra Granberry
Chi Sigma Mu Mixer
This Saturday, 8 p.m.
The Sloane town house
50 East 82nd Street
Refreshments will be served.
Parents will be gone.
Be there or be jealous.