The Exile of Gigi Lane Read online

  “I’m late, Heidi. I don’t have time to talk.”

  “Well, don’t let me keep you,” she says. “I was just doing my duty, paying my respects to the future of Swan’s Lake.”

  I shake my head. “You’re going to have to get over it, Heidi. You know there could only be three of us.”

  “And you let a dirty transfer in as your third.”

  “It wasn’t my choice.”

  Heidi laughs. “Oh, Gigi, I know Aloha was the least of two evils in your mind. A transfer, yes, but without my—what did you call it? Trademark desperation?”

  I step closer to her. “You’ll want to watch your tone, Heidi. Cheerleaders may be top tier, but they’re not untouchable.” I lower my voice. “Remember when we were first-years, and the you-know-whos got that Cheerleader convicted of tax evasion? She spent two years in jail, sharing soap and sleeping with a sharpened comb under her pillow, before her lawyers got her off. That’s the Network, Heidi. No one is untouchable.”

  “Oh, I know that, Gigi.” Heidi smiles, showing all of her teeth. “No one is untouchable.”

  “I … I’ve got to get to class.” I curse myself for stammering.

  “You … you do that,” she says, her smile too big for her stupid face.

  “I will,” I say, turning on my heel, the weight of her envy threatening to slow me down as I quicken my steps.

  I groan loudly when I see Daphne “Dog Face” Hall coming from the opposite direction. She sees me and flinches, dropping her hall pass. I walk quickly toward her, and by the time she’s picked up her pass, I’m standing right in front of her. “What are you doing?” I ask.

  She holds up the hall pass and gulps.

  “What are you, nine?” I snap. “That timid-little-girl act stops working once you get boobs. Now, I ask you again, what are you doing here?”

  “You … you don’t own the halls,” she stammers.

  I laugh in her face. “Right. You just keep telling yourself that.”

  “Why … why do you hate me so much?” she whimpers, fat tears pooling in her eyes and sliding down her cheeks.

  “Oh my God,” I groan, disgusted. “Don’t cry! What the hell is wrong with you? Why must you cry every time we have one of our little chats?”

  “I … I don’t know.”

  “Well, I do. You cry because you’re weak. Have you read my mom’s book?”

  Daphne shrugs.

  I shake my head and sigh. “I keep telling you, read Meet Your Tweet. It’ll change your life.”

  “Okay,” she says quietly, her gaze fixed on the floor.

  I reach out and lift her chin. “You said that last time, remember? Why should I believe you?”

  “I’ll … I’ll read it.”

  “Good. Buy a copy. Don’t get it from the library. My mom doesn’t get royalties if you get it from the library. Understood?”

  She nods.

  “Good. Now, run along.”

  As she turns, Daphne shoots me a millisecond-long glare of pure hate.

  I remind myself of what Fiona told me at our first private meeting. Their hatred isn’t real, Gigi. They hate us the way first-years hate duties. They act like they hate us, but they know this school would fall apart without us.

  Lunch period is the time when the kiss-butts show themselves. Since the Hot Spot spends lunch in the DOS, it’s our time for the teeming masses to pay their respects to the future leaders of Swan’s Lake.

  “Hi, Gigi!” I look up to see Margot Danesi standing at my elbow.

  I’m sitting with Aloha at our usual spot in the cavernous dining hall, waiting for Deanna to buy her lunch. I didn’t mention my altercation with Aloha to Deanna, and since then Aloha and I have kept a stony silence between us.

  I glance at Margot and go back to my salad. “Hello, Margot.”

  Margot is a Do-Good, one of those community-minded pretty girls with admirable dental hygiene who volunteer for things like reading porn to the blind. She’s a third-year and she’s set to take over the Do-Goods in the fall. She was first in line for the hair-donation fund-raiser, and since then has been growing out a pixie cut that exposes the nape of her neck in the most tawdry way.

  She’s dressed in the Do-Goods’ usual uniform: buttoned-up collared shirt, below-the-knee skirt in a fabric too heavy for the season, and the sort of sweet ballet flats first-years wear. She’s added a silk scarf around her neck.

  “You know, Margot,” Aloha observes, “I don’t think God would be that upset if you unbuttoned the top button on your blouse. After all, he gave you that rack, and I’m sure he wouldn’t object to you airing it out once in a while.”

  Margot turns bright red. “Oh, Aloha, you card!” She laughs uncomfortably. “I swear you’re going to get me in trouble!”

  I sigh. “Oh, Margot, you know you never swear. Jesus hates a potty mouth.”

  “That’s true,” Margot murmurs in agreement.

  “Hey, Margot!” Deanna says, sliding her tray onto the table and sitting down. “How’s the pious life treating you?”

  “Great!” Margot answers. “How are you?”

  “Did you need something, Margot?” I ask, smiling, before Deanna can answer. “Because we have, you know, business to attend to.”

  Margot’s eyes widen. “Oh, of course. Business. I was just saying hello.”

  “I’ll make a note of it.”

  I peek out one of the basement windows, its bottom sill just inches above the asphalt of the student parking lot. It’s past eight at night, and in the purple light I can see three dozen first-years and seniors spreading manure in the flower beds on the far side of the lot. That’s the other thing about the first-years’ last duty—seniors always show up to help them finish. It’s an added bonus for the sophomores, who are stuck in that awful middle-child position of not being the youngest or the oldest in school. This way they get to think up a task gross enough to punish both the babies and the seniors.

  “Aw, look at the little kittens pushing the poop!” Deanna laughs, getting up on her knees to look out the window next to me. We’re sitting on a stack of old gym mats, watching Aloha try to fix the furnace.

  “Do you really think old Gertie had this in mind when she talked about the ‘service of sisterhood’?” Aloha’s voice echoes from deep inside the furnace. “I thought she meant giving soup to dirty people and mercy-killing stray dogs.” She steps back, her face smudged with black ash. “I can’t see a damned thing in there.”

  “Well, look again.” I hand her down a flashlight and fight a yawn. “There has to be a reason it’s not working.”

  “I don’t understand why we need a furnace in summer.” Aloha ducks back in for another look. “Carlisle’s the only one that’ll be here, and I bet she doesn’t wash her hands after she goes to the bathroom anyway.”

  “Is the flue open?” Deanna asks, looking again at an ancient set of instructions we found jammed into a crack by the furnace.

  “Is your flue open?” Aloha snorts, standing up again.

  “Don’t be dirty. The flue, it’s like the opening chimney thing.” Deanna leans forward to hand Aloha the instructions. Aloha glances at them and throws them over her shoulder.

  I sigh and slide off the mats. “Step aside.”

  “Gladly.” Aloha yawns, climbing up next to Deanna.

  I stick my hand in, feel for the little lever described in the instructions, and pull. “It’s stuck.” I grunt, pulling harder this time.

  “Oh crap,” Deanna gasps.

  I just stand there looking at the dirty metal lever in my hand.

  “I think that’s supposed to stay in the furnace.” Aloha laughs.

  I groan, squatting down on my heels, dropping the bar, and holding my head in my gritty hands.

  “Gigi?” I hear Deanna slide down from the mats onto her good leg. “Are you all right?”

  I nod and hold up one finger, still covering my face with my hands. “I just need a second.” Affirm and confirm. That’s all I have to do. Affirm and confirm. I’m Gigi Lane and—

  “Why’s she mumbling?” I hear Aloha jump off the mats. “She’s not freaking out, is she? Because she can’t freak out—the Founder’s Ball is only four days away, and we still have to find the DOS if we want to get sworn in. Gigi!” I flinch as Aloha claps her hands right next to my ears. “Gigi! Snap out of it!”

  I peek between my fingers to see Deanna crouching down next to me as best she can, with her bad leg sticking out in front of her. “We’re really close, you know that, right? Just a few more days and we’ll find the DOS and get sworn in, and then rushing will be over forever.”

  “But the thing broke!” I cry, raising my head and limply lifting the broken lever. “And I don’t know how to fix it and I don’t know why we have to in the first place! I don’t know why we have to do any of the things they’ve made us do!”

  Deanna pats my shoulder. “Aw, buck up, camper! It hasn’t been that bad.”

  “Hasn’t been that bad!” I jump up, tears pricking at my eyes, motioning wildly with the lever. “Cassandra forces Aloha to do her accounting homework, like some common playground bully!”

  “I do hate the spreadsheets,” Aloha grumbles.

  “And Poppy forces you to have lunch with disgusting Whompers and Gizmos!” I say to Deanna.

  She laughs. “They’re not that bad, Gigi.”

  “Those people are cretins!” I screech. “And Poppy just makes you talk to them because she thinks it’s funny!”

  Aloha points at me and looks at Deanna. “Make her chill out!”

  “I’m chill!” I yell at her. “I’m just … I’m just having a moment, okay? Is that allowed? Am I allowed to have one moment when I’m not absolutely perfect? Now, hand me the damn instructions!”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Die, You Swiney Vine!

  Climbing vines take over South Gate

  (Whompers, out with your swords!)

  The envelope is there, on the pillow next to me, when I open my sleep-crusted eyes. I stare at it for a long time, my head ringing with lack of sleep. It’s Founder’s Ball day, and I know what the envelope means. It means it’s been worth it. And it means my trials are over. The envelope is a smooth, solid weight in my hand. I flip it over, my heart jumping as I run my fingers over the red wax seal. A flame. Of course. It cracks in half when I lift the flap, and before I take out the card inside, I carefully peel off the two sides of the seal and lay them on my bedside table.

  7:30

  Basement

  “It’s really happening,” I whisper aloud, pressing the card to my chest, trying to ignore a strange prickling feeling of coming doom. Lack of sleep, I tell myself, pasting on a smile and hoping it takes root. “It’s really going to happen.”

  My cell phone rings.

  “Gigi?” Deanna squeals. “Did you—”

  “Yes!” I echo her tone, giving a fist punch in the air for effect.

  Deanna squeals again, and I can hear the bedsprings squeak as she bounces. “Aloha, too! She just called me! We’re coming over!”

  Deanna is still in her polka-dot pajamas when she pulls up to the gate at the foot of my driveway in the JFM. She comes running up the flagstone path, clapping and jumping into my arms. My dad comes outside, looking like he slept in his scrubs, a crease from his pillow across his unshaven face.

  “Urgl …” He clears his throat and rubs his eyes. “Everything okay, girls?” He blinks at the morning sun, as though he’s trying to remember what day it is.

  “Everything’s great, Dr. Bruce!” Deanna grins.

  My dad looks at me questioningly. “What’s the good news, Gigi?”

  “We’re just pretty sure we got into the Spirit Society for next year, that’s all.”

  “Aw, that’s great, honey,” my dad coos, hugging me. I rub my cheek against the fabric of his scrubs, a feeling I have loved since I was a little kid. “I have no idea what that means, but I assume it’ll look good on your college applications, so good for you.”

  “Whaddup, you tarts!” We all turn to see Aloha sauntering her way up the path to the front porch, twirling her car keys on her finger.

  “Hey, Dr. Lane.” She winks at my dad. “How’re tricks?”

  My parents have never been big on Aloha’s marked lack of respect for her elders. “Things are fine, Aloha. And how are you? How are your parents?”

  “They’re fine. Getting ready to book their Hawaiian vacation this summer. You know, their annual celebration of my conception.”

  My dad tries to cover his grimace by smiling. “And what will you be doing while they’re in Hawaii?”

  Aloha shrugs. “Hanging out.”

  He shoots me a look to let me know that is not what I’ll be doing all summer. “Gigi will be working on her college applications this summer, and volunteering at the clinic at the hospital.”

  “Bummer.” Aloha shrugs. “You guys eat yet?”

  “I’m going to get a few more hours’ sleep before my shift.” My dad lays his hands on my shoulders. “Your mom and I expect lots of pictures of you in your Founder’s Ball gown tonight. We know you’re going to look beautiful.” He gives me a kiss on the forehead and goes inside.

  “So I guess they don’t care that we haven’t found the DOS yet.” Aloha winks at me. “Lucky for you.”

  “Lucky for all of us,” Deanna corrects firmly. “None of us could find it.”

  Aloha shrugs. “Whatever. What’s the deal for hair and makeup?”

  “We have to be there at seven thirty tonight.” I lean against the banister and cross my arms, pressing my hands up under my armpits to keep from scratching out Aloha’s eyes. “That means we can still keep our four o’clock hair and makeup appointments, but then we’ll only have, like, an hour to come back here and put on our dresses.”

  “Do you think they’ll have the dresses delivered here?” Deanna asks. One of the privileges of being Head Hottie is that you get to choose the dresses that the Hot Spot and the Hottie Incumbents wear for the Founder’s Ball, so that when we make our entrance, we are a vision of uniformity.

  “I’m sure of it,” I answer. “Fiona asked me where we were getting ready, so she knows we’ll be here.”

  “Cool.” Aloha stands up and stretches. “It’s settled, then. Let’s go stuff our gullets at Friendly’s.”

  It’s one of the happiest days of my life. We scream our heads off on the way to Friendly’s, windows rolled down, singing along with one of Deanna’s old Set It Off! playlists she used to listen to before gymnastics competitions. When we get there, Deanna is mobbed by the Saturday breakfast crowd, and she poses for picture after picture, looking adorable in her pajamas (“It’s kind of like a senior prank,” she says, even though she’s the only one wearing them), and the cooks in the kitchen decorate her pancakes with an American flag made out of strawberries, blueberries, and whipped cream. Aloha stifles her inner wench, and we manage not to fight for the entire breakfast.

  Once we get to Jean-Claude’s salon, however, it’s a different story.

  “How’s your mom doing, love?” Jean-Claude asks as he lays his cool, dry hands on my cheekbones, straightening my head and studying my bangs before moving behind me to comb out my hair.

  “She’s good,” I answer. “She just left on a summer seminar tour.”

  On either side of me sit Deanna and Aloha, deep in conversation with their own stylists. Blythe, who is so obviously a former Glossy (beautiful face, mannish hands), is working on Aloha. She nods as Aloha explains the intricacies of her split ends. Deanna’s stylist is a woman named Leech who wears tangerine-colored T-shirts she cuts the collars out of in order to show her chest tattoos.

  “Good for her.” Jean-Claude pulls his fingers through my hair. “So, what are we doing to your gorgeous hair for the big dance?”

  I repeat exactly what Fiona said in her voice mail this afternoon. “Romantic updos, please.” My stomach jumps at the thought of what dress might match such a sophisticated hairstyle.

  Leech makes a barfing sound. “That go for you, too, Dear Heart?”

  “Yep, just leave the pixie point.”

  “I cannot wait until I can chop that thing off.” Leech scowls at Deanna’s bangs, which come to a sharp point between her eyebrows.

  “Chillax, Leechie!” Deanna chirps. “In a few months we can burn my contract and my bangs.”

  “Thank God,” Leech groans. “Those devil-juice people can’t be paying you enough to keep this.”

  “Hey!” I huff, faking offense. “First of all, it’s called Razzmatazz Energy Elixir, and second of all, I gave Deanna that haircut.”

  Leech wiggles her tongue ring at me. “You should be shot for it.”

  I gave Deanna her first pixie point by accident in third grade, right before a competition. She won, the gymnastics press lost their minds over her haircut, so she kept it. When she got super famous, all of her sponsors put it in her contract that she had to keep the pixie point. It’s seriously, like, against the law for her to get a haircut.

  “Blythe,” Jean-Claude says, glancing at Aloha’s stylist. “Are you all set for a romantic updo?”

  “We’re doing edgy rocker,” Blythe answers. Aloha smiles at me in the mirror. Blythe, watching her own reflection, pulls at Aloha’s locks with her hairy knuckles, making it hang straight.

  “Excuse me?” I ask, trying to swivel my chair, but it’s all jacked up and my feet aren’t touching the ground. Jean-Claude comes to my rescue and turns my chair for me so I can glare at Aloha. “Not doing romantic updo? You heard the message from Fiona!”

  Aloha doesn’t have Blythe swivel her chair. Instead she just turns her head to smile at me. “Gigi, do you really think Fiona cares? Seriously, what’s she going to do? Disband the you-know-whos because I refuse to get a cliché of a hairstyle? It’s not like I’m Lydia Jarmush or something.”

  I’m speechless, a prickly, angry heat shooting up my neck to my cheeks. “Don’t joke about Lydia Jarmush,” I finally hiss.

  “Seriously, Aloha,” Deanna scolds, “it’s superbad mojo to say her name in mixed company.”

  Leech sighs. “Fine. I’ll ask. Who the hell is Lydia Jarmush?”