Free Sloane Sisters by Anna Carey Page B

another box on the top of the stack.
    â€œNo…” Andie said, pressing on. “I guess I just wanted to—”
    Stella threw down a pair of Anlo jeans and put her hands on her hips. “Now is not a good time, C.C.,” she sighed. “I’m in crisis mode.” She disappeared back into the closet and lifted up a pair of Jimmy Choo heels, as if a cardboard box could be hiding underneath them.
    Andie stepped back, stung. C.C. She had been hoping that was filed in the back of Stella’s brain, along with every other thing Cate had called her ( midget, wannabe, poser, Munchkin ). But apparently it was right up there, front and center.
    She walked out of Stella’s room, defeated. She’d been silly for thinking she could talk to Stella about modeling—three days might have passed, but nothing had changed.
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    Stella sprawled out on her bed, staring at the ornate crown molding. Clothes and boxes were spread out on her floor, like her closet had thrown up all over her room. Not only did she have zero friends in New York, now she didn’t have any dress tops, either. Not that she felt like wearing them, anyway. She’d texted Bridget and Pippa five times, but it was nearly twelve o’clock in London, and neither of them had answered. She tugged at a golden blond ringlet until her scalp hurt.
    Someone cleared her throat. Lola was perched in the doorway, scanning the room as though Stella were the victim of some horrible natural disaster. In her hand was a small bag from somewhere called Duane Reade.
    â€œDoes this look like your room?” Stella muttered, sitting up.
    â€œSorry,” Lola said quietly. She stared at the ripped cardboard box in the corner. “What are you doing?”
    â€œMourning the loss of my favorite Madison Marcus silk top.” Stella frowned. Then she narrowed her eyes at Lola. “Did you steal a box of mine?”
    â€œNo, no.” Lola shook her head. “I already unpacked my clothes.” She wandered into Stella’s room, stepping over a colorful pile of Chanel nail polishes. On Stella’s dresser was a framed photo of their family from Boxing Day. They all had thin paper crowns on their head in light green, purple, and pink. Lola pressed her finger into her dad’s grinning face, feeling like she’d swallowed a brick. It had taken a month before they’d found out about Cloud.
    Lola smoothed down her frizzy hair and turned to Stella, chewing the ChapStick off her bottom lip. “Stella?” she asked. She wanted to tell her about the cab incident this morning, and how’d she’d eaten her lunch in the courtyard with Birdy, one of the Ashton security guards. She wanted to tell her how Kyle—geeky, I-shoot-peas-out-of-my-nose-at-dinner Kyle—was cool now. And more than anything, she wanted to ask how Stella could walk by that picture every day and not feel like she’d been run over by a tank. She set the frame facedown on the dresser.
    Stella leaned back against her headboard, watching Lola’s freckled nose. It always twitched when she was about to cry. She knew that Lola hated talking about their dad—she hadn’t said a word about him all summer in Tuscany, and refused to talk to him whenever he called. It made it easier for Stella to be nice to him—Lola was mad enough for the both of them. Yes, he had made a massive mistake, but he was still their dad.
    Just then Stella’s iPhone blared its techno ring. She picked up the phone and looked at the vibrating screen. Cate.
    â€œLola,” she said holding up one finger. “I have to get this, hold on.” She picked up her mobile. “Hello?” she asked. Cate had only ever called her once—and that had been three days ago.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” Cate asked.
    â€œJust unpacking my clothes—”
    â€œAlone?”
    Stella eyed Lola, who had walked back toward the door, swinging the red and