Material Girls (27 page)

Without waiting to see if any of them actually left, I hopped off the chair and continued up to the fourth floor.

Poking my head into the Junior Court judging rooms, I announced the strike, then gathered the judges in the waiting room. I expected the court directors to spring into action, but they regarded me with a mix of confusion and amusement. The drafters who were waiting with their dress forms didn't make eye contact with me.

Still, here I thought I had a shot. Surely, there were some judges who had been hanging around for a few years without a promotion and who could see the writing on the wall. But my speech was met with sneers. Desperately, I explained how the Silents had pressured me to take charge of the new Superior Court that morning.

“You're not going to run the court?” one of the judges asked.

“That's right. I'm not.”

“What kind of obsoloser gives up that job?” The boy narrowed his eyes at me in disgust.

“There are
nine
free seats on the Superior Court right now,” said a girl, talking to me like I was a baby. “We're sticking around.”

“You should leave,” another said.

Their words deflated me. I had never been like these kids . . . had I?

“Just wait,” I said. “You won't have jobs anymore when we win.” But my words sounded weak. I turned and headed down the stairs alone.

My uneasiness disappeared, however, when I emerged from the marble lobby and caught sight of what was happening outside. On the sidewalk and halfway into the street, slowing traffic, Torro-LeBlanc employees marched together in a giant circle. Protest signs fluttered in the wind. They were now chanting:

“One, two, three, four,

We won't take it anymore!

Five, six, seven, eight,

Torro must negotiate!”

Media vans lined the sidewalk. Cameras and reporters flittered about trying to capture footage of the strike. Kevin had done his job.

Just as I was wondering about the size of the crowd, about how it seemed larger than I'd expected, I heard the clatter of the elevated train coming to a stop around the corner. A moment later, a mob of reinforcements came into view. People, faces red from hustling, swarmed toward the circle. Its members absorbed them with welcoming handshakes and hugs. These additions were mostly older than I was. A couple of the women had babies in carriers on their backs.

I caught sight of Vivienne standing on a milk crate, directing her recruits. She wore the same fatigue jacket and pants and black military cap she'd had on at the Torro-LeBlanc runway show. She looked like a general.

I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned. It was Felix, beaming at me. He looked exhilarated. And so . . . good. I pulled him back into the lobby. My arms slid around his neck while he hugged my waist.

“We have work to do,” I whispered.

“I know.” His face was six inches away, then two. “But if you don't kiss me, I'm going to lose my mind.”

I leaned in. Everything fell away except the lovely feeling of his lips, slightly chapped, against my own. When we finally broke apart, both of us were grinning like idiots. We ran down the steps to join the march, my lapel pin shimmering in the midday light.

“I hear you're ready
to take ‘eco-chic' to the next level.”

Savannah Brown, the host of the popular morning show
Up & At 'Em
, sat in an armchair facing Ivy. She had on a red bubble dress, which Ivy knew Rudolfo had released recently. When Savannah had first come on the set to shake hands, Ivy had thought immediately of a walking lollipop.

“Yeah, that's right.” Ivy took a sip of tea from her
Up & At 'Em
mug. “Eco-chic is more than a trend. We kind of have to get serious about the environment. I mean, not kind of. We do. There's a lot of waste.” She stopped there.
Don't lecture,
Jarvis had warned her. It had been hard enough to convince him and Fatima that her splashy announcement on the morning show was a good idea.

“So you have a task for everyone tomorrow, yes?” prompted Savannah.

“Yeah. Tomorrow, show your support for conservation. Wear your favorite expired trend. There are vintage stores everywhere, some right here in La Reina. I got these prime clothes from one.” She crossed her legs and patted the linen pants, which she wore with a stretchy gold tank top. The plastic flower glittered proudly on her shoulder. A week ago, she wouldn't have been caught dead appearing at multiple events with a repeat accessory. Now it was her signature. “Or better yet, wear that look you have in your closet right now, the one you never threw away.” She leaned over and pushed Savannah's shoulder lightly. “You know what I'm talking about, Savannah. We all have them!” The host grinned uncomfortably. “Don't be afraid to mix and match,” Ivy continued, looking into the camera, hoping everyone in Millbrook could hear her. “Create something new. Be eco
and
chic!”

“Usually, we're all trying to
avoid
that red light on the trendchecker.” Savannah gave a toothy laugh. Ivy could see the silver braces on the backs of her teeth.

As if by magic, the perfect quip landed on her tongue. “Well, maybe it's worth considering which is more important—a green light or a green earth?”

Savannah's smile dissolved. Repositioning herself in the cushy armchair, she cleared her throat. “Everyone's talking about the Torro-LeBlanc strike that began yesterday. Any thoughts?”

Ivy had seen footage of Felix and Marla on TV last night, marching in an endless circle with their giant cloth banners. She chose her words carefully.
Definitely
don't take sides in the strike
,
Jarvis had warned her. It was too inflammatory. But she remembered her conversation with Marla, and her promise. “I've heard the workers have good reasons for striking. I hope they can come to an agreement,” she heard herself say. It wasn't enough. She thought of Marla and the other eager design-house employees, waiting for her words of support, and of Vivienne, who had given her the idea of a day celebrating expired trends. She thought of the waste in her closet. She thought of Felix, watching her. “Some friends and I have decided not to buy clothing from Torro-LeBlanc while the strike is going on,” she blurted out. She couldn't see Fatima from where she sat but imagined her publicist's gaze searing the back of her neck.

“Oh?” Savannah shifted and looked at her producer standing next to the camera. Ivy saw him give a wide-eyed shrug. After an awkward silence, Savannah's training kicked in; she gazed straight into the camera and smiled. “Well, we here at
Up & At 'Em
are on board with Ivy Wilde's ‘Eco-Chic Day,'” she said. “We look for ways to support the environment whenever we can. In fact, take a photo of you and your friends in your outfits, and send it to the show. We'll put the best looks on the air!”

“That's prime,” said Ivy, nodding her approval.

Savannah switched gears. “Now, I know it's a sensitive subject, but your relationship with Clayton Pryce has recently ended. Is that correct?”

Ivy put on her best serious face and continued the interview.

After the lights came up and a stagehand unclipped Ivy's microphone, Fatima barreled toward her. She held up her Unum. “Torro-LeBlanc just called. I didn't pick up, but I'm sure they want to know why you and ‘some friends' have decided not to buy from them after modeling their clothes for years.”

Ivy didn't want to explain things to anyone, least of all to Fatima. She cupped her hands around the now cold mug of tea and took a sip. “I think I'm coming down with something,” she lied. “My throat hurts.”

“It does not. You sound fine.”

“It was all I could do to finish that interview.” She rubbed her neck. “Besides, what does it matter if I pissed off Torro? I'm wearing vintage stuff anyway.”

“For now,” said Fatima. “Believe me. You do not want to alienate one of the Big Five design houses.”

“Tell them I'm still mad that I got sprayed with ink at their runway show.”

“Ivy.” Fatima put her hands on the arms of Ivy's chair and looked her in the eyes. “I think we need to have another talk about the way things work. The blindsiding has got to stop.”

Why?
Ivy wondered. Why was it that every little thing that came out of her mouth needed Fatima's stamp of approval? She put her hand to her forehead. “Can it wait? I really think I'm getting sick.”

“Don't lie to me.”

“I'm not! I'm thinking about my tour. I want to be in good voice for all the rehearsals coming up.” It was an easy lie. She really did want the new eco-themed tour to be phenomenal.

Fatima stood up and regarded her with a skeptical expression. “Fine,” she said, after a long pause. “I'll call a doctor. Go wait in your dressing room. I'll send Madison in.”

Ivy had no interest in listening to Madison's opinion of her
Up & At 'Em
interview. “Why? I don't want to get her sick.”

Fatima's scowl deepened.

Ivy figured she had pushed her luck far enough. She left, moving as quickly as she thought someone sick would move.

The doctor was a young, thirtyish woman with thick, curly brown hair. When she entered the dressing room, she treated Ivy the way that some people did—deliberately not staring, as if Ivy weren't a big deal, and then stealing a glance or two when she thought Ivy wasn't looking. The doctor removed her designer coat to reveal blue scrubs and a stethoscope.

Ivy wondered if she should admit she'd been faking.

“So, a sore throat?” the doctor said, and began feeling Ivy's neck before she had the chance to say anything. She took Ivy's temperature, inspected her throat, looked in her ears, and listened to her breathe.

“It's not bacterial,” she said after completing her examination. “So no antibiotics. I can give you a decongestant or an expectorant, but truthfully, I'm not hearing much congestion at all.”

Ivy gave her a weak smile. “Maybe I'm not actually sick. Maybe I'm just tired.”

The doctor studied her. “But your throat hurts?”

“Um, not really.” She suddenly felt stupid. “I feel okay.”

“What am I doing here, then?”

The doctor's blunt tone surprised Ivy. People who attended to her were usually nauseatingly polite. “Uh, sorry,” she said. “Here . . .” She hopped up from her chair and grabbed a signed headshot from the pile on the dressing table in front of the lit mirror. The producers of
Up & At 'Em
had slipped one under every audience seat. She held it out to the woman.

The doctor stared at the black-and-white photograph. Just when Ivy was certain she was going to say she didn't want it, she took it. “You know, I have four siblings whose families would love these too,” she said.

“Oh, yeah, sure,” said Ivy, grabbing a small stack and handing them to her.

The doctor tucked them gently in her medical bag. “My niece got passed over in the last Tap. She loves you,” she said without smiling. “I hope this cheers her up.” She draped her coat over her arm.

Ivy's thoughts went to Constantine. She wondered how he was holding up after the vandalism and theft. Those had to be low points. It got better for him from here, didn't it? She looked at the woman in front of her. “You're an Adequate, right?” she asked, slipping back into her chair.

The doctor's eyebrows went up. “Of course I am.”

This woman was put together and seemed to have a decent enough job. “And you're happy?”

The woman frowned at her. “Excuse me?”

“I mean,” Ivy said quickly, “you liked school and everything? You like working as a doctor now?”

The woman looked at her for a long time. “I'm going to pretend your condescension isn't intentional. I'm going to pretend it's an unfortunate side effect of idle curiosity.”

Ivy wasn't sure she understood. “What?”

“Why are you so interested in my life?”

She could feel herself beginning to blush. “It's my brother. He didn't—he just found out he's an Adequate too, and he isn't handling it very well.”

“No kidding.”

“So I want to know he's going to be okay.”

The doctor stared down at her. “You want to know what it's like growing up?” She laughed unpleasantly. “We sit in classes during the day and go home and watch Taps like you on television at night. Some we might even know. Do you know what it's like to watch kids your own age performing everywhere? To think,
That could be me right now, but I wasn't good enough
?”

Ivy had never heard an Adequate be this direct. The doctor's response upset her. Constantine wasn't interested in performing, of course, but with every new video game released he might feel the frustration of knowing other kids got to work on it. “But did classes get interesting, eventually?” she asked.

“Biology was,” the doctor said. “That's where I first started to think about medicine as an alternate career once I was passed over. I had a great teacher who made us do a lot of work on cell structures, and I got hooked. So when my friends were settling down and having families, I kept working. Still not married.” She held up her left hand. “But you never forget what you wanted to be pre-Tap,” she continued. “You spend your first thirteen years obsessed with the creative industries. It's a long time before anything else excites you in the same way.”

Ivy wondered if something would strike her brother's interest in school. She tried to remember what classes there were: science and language arts and math. Maybe he would develop an interest in chemistry like her father had. It would take time, of course.

“Well, as you seem to be in fine health, I should get going,” the doctor said. “Stay young.”