Material Girls (28 page)

“Sorry,” said Ivy, “but
are
you happy now? I'd really like to know.”

“Happy,” the woman said as she put her coat on. “I work a seventy-five-hour week. What I make all year, you and your little Tap friends probably make in a couple of days. Good thing I have the added perk of being exposed to infectious diseases.” She paused, bag in hand, and her tone became less cynical. “The days I keep my head down and focus on the challenge of diagnosis and treatment, I like the work. A lot. If I turn on the TV or go online, though, the reality of my life comes rushing back. Sometimes, it's almost too much to bear.” She sighed and patted the shiny shale fabric of her coat. “At least I can afford my rent and one or two trends per season. No, I wouldn't say happy. But I . . . get by, I suppose.”

Though it wasn't a rosy picture, at least the doctor was honest. Ivy considered offering her some placidophilus pills but immediately checked the impulse. They were, technically, illegal—and it wasn't as if the doctor couldn't score some if she wanted. “Thank you for telling me this,” she said, rising. Another thought occurred to her. “Do you ever get over thinking it's unfair that you became an Adequate?”

“But it is fair,” the woman said simply. “I had a shot to get tapped like everyone else. I wasn't good enough.” She shrugged. “That's life.”

Ivy received an Unum message from Vivienne Graves that night.
Thank you for the endorsement,
it said.
We invite you to join us on the steps of the Torro-LeBlanc design house anytime tomorrow. We know you're busy, but your presence would help our cause greatly. In the meantime, good luck with your confrontation.

Fatima and Jarvis would never let her go to the strike, of course. As she drifted off to sleep, she thought about possibilities. Maybe she could call and talk to everyone through speakers or something. Maybe—and she got a thrill as she thought it—it was the perfect excuse to talk to Felix. She would have to make sure that happened somehow. She was a little surprised he hadn't called yet, seeing as her breakup with Clayton was now thirty-six hours old. She rolled over and hugged her pillow. She hoped Marla had remembered to give him her number.

Ivy had suggested Monterey Drive in front of the Pop Beat studios for the eco-chic photo op, and Fatima set it up without suspicion. Of her nymphs, Madison was crankiest about wearing old trends. As they dressed for the day, she chose a green-feathered blazer that had only just expired. “I don't know how long this eco-business is going to last,” she said, “but we may need to schedule an intervention soon. What's the point of being in an entourage if we don't get to wear prime clothes?”

“I like my vintage shoes,” said Aiko, pulling on a pair of fringe-topped moccasin boots from an old Plains Indian trend.

“Ugh—boots that someone else has stuffed their smelly feet in. Nasty.”

“Quit whining,” said Hilarie. “You could have gone to the vintage store with us and found something nice.”

“
Vintage.
Right,” Madison scoffed. “Face it, Hil, it's a store for poor people. I will
never
like dressing like a tree-hugging hobo.”

Ivy glanced at Fatima, but her publicist thumbed through a magazine, ignoring them. Ivy wondered whether she was actually distracted—or still peeved about the spontaneous announcement on
Up & At 'Em
and letting her take some heat
.
Someone needed to stand up to her most outspoken nymph. “That's too bad, Madison,” she said sharply. “Because eco-chic is here to stay. Watch.”

“Sure, sure,” mumbled Madison.

“You've got something on your face,” said Naia. As she reached over to brush Madison's cheek, Madison jerked away. Ivy saw a tiny flash. What looked like a little piece of gold thread seemed to be attached to the skin near her nymph's ear.

“What
is
that?” Ivy demanded. Madison was covering her cheek with her palm and staring at Fatima. No longer perusing the magazine, Fatima's attention was now fully focused on the conversation at hand.

“It's a treatment,” the publicist said after a pause. “Madison's cheeks were starting to hollow out, so we gave them an extra burst of collagen.” She put down the magazine and rose. “Leakage is a side effect. Let's get that fixed.” Steering Madison by the shoulders, Fatima led her out of the room.

“Gross,” said Hilarie.

Ivy's hands went to her cheeks that the same time as her three nymphs prodded their own, as if testing for ripeness. Her cheeks were still firm, weren't they? She didn't have time to worry about treatments, on top of everything else.

We'd passed the twenty-four-hour mark
and the strike was still in force. Twenty-four hours—it felt like a hundred. Life since the walkout had whirred with activity. I couldn't get enough of it.

Monday's spontaneous marching had lasted until the sun began to set. Vivienne told everyone to go home and rest up for another day. That night, I called each of the fired Superior Court judges, inviting them to protest Torro-LeBlanc and answering their questions about the makeover. They all seemed a little dazed, but angry, too, so I was hopeful they'd join us.

Henry had been the angriest. He'd made me listen to a fifteen-minute rant about how, through Maven Girl, he'd been personally responsible for prolonging certain trends and generating massive profits for Torro. He'd told Julia all this when she'd called to demote him.

“And you know what she says? She says, ‘Honey, we've known it was you for years. Time to power down.'”

I told him that the ultimate payback would be for Maven Girl to come out in support of the strike.

“The site's
vanished,
Marla. They've pulled it offline. After four years, it's gone.”

Wow—they could do that? All his work . . . ethically questionable work, but still. He'd never found out that I wanted to blackmail him at the runway show. I was glad the exploding security tags plot hadn't happened the way we'd planned. The idea seemed sort of petty now. “Come march with us,” I told him.

Henry's expression turned resolute. “I'll be there.”

I'd even sucked it up and called Olivia. Relieved when she didn't pick up, I left a very short message. And although Sabrina had blown me off, I tried her number—but again, I had to leave a message.

On Tuesday morning, I wore my bottle pin again and joined the protesting crowd outside Torro-LeBlanc. There were even more signs. Kevin and a bunch of other people were holding a wordless poster with a fist clenching a giant needle. I thought at first that Vivienne had drawn it, but Kevin proudly disclosed that he was the artist.

I noticed Henry carrying a sign that read
OVER SIXTEEN AND STILL A CREATIVE GENIUS
. I gave him a huge wave.

We sent the demands to the Silents that morning from Vivienne's Unum. We also asked for a meeting. Vivienne ended our message with these words:
If you consent to our makeover, Marla Klein will lead a studio devoted to an eco-chic line. If not, Marla will take the trend elsewhere.
It was a little nervy, but I didn't argue.

We will not negotiate,
came the first Unum reply.
Return to work now or lose your jobs.

I imagined Adele, the chief executive officer, as the mind behind the words—or maybe it was Hugo, showing his true nature. Either way, the reply made me feel the weight of what we were doing. The strikers were real people, some, like Randall, supporting families. They were in danger of losing their income. It had to work.

“This is only the beginning.” Felix squeezed my hands when we stole away for a moment together. We didn't think the others had figured anything out yet, but he kept giving me looks that made me want to sneak us both into the abandoned Superior Court judging room. “Our contracts don't say
Terminated
yet, do they? They could have fired us all after work yesterday. They're afraid of even more negative press. They'll listen eventually.”

We tried:
Negotiate, or Marla will go public with your attempt to drug her.

We will not negotiate,
was the response.
This allegation is false. Furthermore, you have no proof.

Vivienne said it was unfortunate I hadn't taken a blood or urine test yesterday morning. Placidophilus stayed in the system for only a few hours. Felix pointed out that the Silents didn't know whether I'd gone and tested myself, but I didn't think it was smart to try to bluff them. But since they had called ours . . .

“I say we go public,” I said to Vivienne. I had some idea that she would send the
Times
a note about the drugged coffee to put in the paper.

“Good. We're putting you onstage,” she said instead.

So I spoke to the strikers. At the top of the steps, I stood behind a raised podium that Vivienne had ordered. I was glad I could clutch its sides for support. It was one thing to address drafters in the basement—it was another to speak when there were TV cameras around. Once again, I told the story of my meeting on the sixth floor. Speakers Randall had set up broadcast my voice up and down the block. I tried to ignore my dry mouth and the strange way the echo made me sound. As it turned out, the crowd made it easier. They booed robustly, then cheered when I told them that I preferred better pay and better working conditions for everyone than the highest seat on the court for myself. It was prime, the way everyone seemed to be on my side. After a while, I forgot about the cameras and mikes.

When I finished, the other drafters gathered around to congratulate me. “Well done,” said Vivienne, her black-rimmed eyes regarding me with fierce approval.

“That was kick-ass,” said Felix. He would have said more, I think, but some reporters requested follow-up interviews with me. This time, I figured I had nothing to lose and answered their questions. Afterward, Felix twisted his fingers in mine. “You're a rock star,” he said.

Later in the morning, news of Ivy Wilde's appearance on
Up & At 'Em
reached us. We sent a clip of the video around to the strikers and to the Silents.
Ivy Wilde just announced on national television that she is boycotting Torro-LeBlanc on our behalf,
Vivienne wrote.
Negotiate with us or lose her and other celebrity clients forever.
Again, I knew that the last line was a bit of an exaggeration, but it sounded so good. And we'd come this far.

End the strike by nine a.m. tomorrow and there will be no repercussions,
the Silents replied.

“Steady,” said Vivienne. “They're giving us the day? And no sign of the CSS? I think they're starting to get nervous.”

I pictured the Corporate Security and Surveillance agents I'd seen around the building. “I didn't think about that. Do you think they'll shut us down?”

“Don't worry. Torro won't call those fascists in yet.” She snorted. “They want to maintain the illusion that they are not an evil corporation.”

Vivienne told me that a
scab
is the name for someone who goes to work during a strike. I watched the sifters, selectors, and Junior Court judges attempt to pass the picket lines throughout the morning. The strikers didn't it make it easy to get into the building, jeering at the scabs. Then I noticed Olivia, walking into the building with her nose in the air. Now
there
was a true scab—scabby heart, scabby brain, scabby everything. As I watched her pass, I wondered what job she'd been given after her demotion. I hoped it was cleaning toilets.

I didn't feel any love for Olivia, and probably never would, but I realized I wasn't jealous of her anymore either. I understood her. It hit me that I was standing outside the building, not walking in, precisely because I had been made a drafter. Otherwise, I might have ended up like Olivia. Ignorant. I would have had nothing to do with a strike.

I remembered being surprised when Vivienne told me she wished she'd never been tapped. Well here I was, thankful that I'd been kicked off the court. Life is funny.

I was listening to Gwen the patternmaker rally the strikers when I felt someone touch my arm. I turned to find Sabrina standing next to me. As usual, she was dressed impeccably, but her concealer didn't quite cover the gray hollows under her eyes.

“Hi, Marla,” she said.

“You came.”

“I can't believe you had the chance to lead the court and you turned it down.”

I couldn't tell if Sabrina was impressed or if, like the Junior Court judges, she thought I was crazy. “Yeah, well. Once you're a drafter, you realize how unhappy everyone else is.”

Sabrina nodded. “They assigned me to the mailroom,” she whispered after a pause. “I almost didn't come to work on Monday, but I couldn't face staying home with my mother and my cat.”

I wanted to stay mad, I really did. But I couldn't help but feel real pity for her. To go from Superior Court judge to mail sorter . . . I didn't know exactly what the mailroom was like, but I imagined that the job didn't involve much creative expression.

“I just wanted to tell you that I'm sorry for being such a jerk that time on the train.” Sabrina spoke in a rush. “It was feeble of them to kick you off the court. Ivy Wilde's eco-chic look was killer. Obviously, they made a big mistake.”

I looked back at Gwen at the podium. “Maybe. I'm glad they let me go when they did.”

“No—er, right.” She gave me a small smile. “What you guys have done is really amazing. People are saying the sixth floor doesn't know what to do about us. That we might win.” She leaned in closer to me. “If we do win, maybe you could recommend me for one of the studios in the makeover? They sound prime.”

I was surprised that Sabrina so readily saw herself as part of
us,
the protesters. I looked into my old friend's hopeful eyes. Despite all that had happened between us, I didn't have any appetite for revenge. “Of course.”