The Elite

by Jennifer Banash

  All day she waited for her cell to ring, checking her messages repeatedly, but as it got later and later her stomach began twisting into tight knots, and she knew—he’d left for Europe without calling her, without even trying to apologize. She ransacked her room looking for a note, anything to explain why he’d just left like that—there had to be a reason, right? Guys didn’t just stick it in and then vanish, did they? When she came up empty-handed, her heart sank in her chest.

  Later that night, over a platter of salmon nigiri, California rolls, and spicy tuna at Nobu with Sophie and Phoebe, her eyes kept filling inexplicably with tears. She spent most of the night running off to the bathroom, gently dabbing at her green eyes coated in Lancôme’s blackest black mascara with a hand towel as she tried not to break down in all-out sobs. She leaned on her elbows, looking into the slick surface of the mirror. Her hair was shiny and brushed back from her face, her skin clear, cheeks shimmering with the peachy-gold gleam of Nars Orgasm blush. What was wrong with her? Madison turned on the faucet as a tear crept out of one eye, sliding down her flushed and powdered cheek. It was their first time—and he didn’t even care enough to make it beautiful.

  “So, when are you going to hook up with the Drewster anyway?” Phoebe asked, screwing the cap back onto the polish and tossing it at Sophie, who immediately opened it and began stroking the fuchsia lacquer onto her shorter-than-short, bitten nails.

  “We’re not hooking up,” Madison said decisively, though she felt anything but sure. When it came to her and Drew, all bets were usually off—then on again.

  “I mean, how long can you possibly avoid him?” Phoebe wondered aloud as she lay back on her elbows, her luminous skin shining with a liberal coating of SPF 40.

  “As long as I want to,” Madison snapped, burying her head more tightly into her arms, careful not to smudge the MAC Lustreglass in Love Nectar coating her full lips. She sighed, breathing in the acrid scent of nail polish and the Clarins Self Tanning Milk Sophie used.

  “He’s so the total package,” Phoebe said dreamily, adjusting her wide-brimmed straw hat to further protect her luminous, creamy skin.

  “I know what I’d like to do with his package,” Sophie said with a giggle. Sophie’s whole problem was that everything she thought or felt was plainly visible on her open, heart-shaped face—whether she was happy or sad, if she loved or hated you, it was transparent as glass. It was one of Madison’s most and least favorite things about her. And right now, Sophie’s obvious lusting after her idiot ex-what ever was getting on her last nerve.

  Madison sat up, stretched her arms over her head and pinned back her hair while pretending to laugh along, but inside she felt horrible—like she’d somehow slept through the annual sale at La Perla, or lost her favorite pair of silver Manolo sandals. Drew was supposed to be the one guy she could usually count on—so then why didn’t he stay and spend the summer with her? Why hadn’t they run away to Paris and left everyone behind to live in some garret on the Left Bank, surviving on nothing more than stale croissants and love? Why wasn’t he there now, apologizing? Not as if she’d even consider forgiving him at this point anyway.

  Well, at least not right away…

  to

  grandma’s

  house

  we go…

  “Casey Anne McCloy! You’re finally here!”

  Casey winced as she walked into her grandmother’s slightly cramped, two-bedroom apartment, sighing heavily as she let go of her suitcases, which promptly hit the hardwood floor like a series of gunshots. She absolutely hated it when anyone used her middle name. It was so outdated and weirdly Southern—especially when it was paired with her first name. Casey Anne. It sounded like she should be one of the fringe characters in Steel Magnolias. And Casey loathed most chick flicks—she thought they were totally condescending.

  “Right,” her mother would’ve snorted. “They’re so much worse than those celluloid nightmares from the eighties that you’re so addicted to.” What ever. Casey had perfected the art of rolling her eyes and stomping off to her room whenever her mother started in with her feminist bullshit—and slamming her bedroom door loudly behind her for emphasis never hurt either…

  Elizabeth Conway—otherwise known as Nanna—moved into The Bramford in the fifties, and, as a result, the apartment was completely rent stabilized, which meant that she paid a fraction of the astronomical sums the other tenants in the building shelled out monthly. So, after her grandfather’s death a few years ago, Nanna just stayed on at The Bram. “Why should I go anywhere?” she’d sputter indignantly. “I have my friends and my clubs. You’ll have to carry me out of here in a box,” she’d add smugly, promptly removing one of her hearing aids so that no one could argue with her—and no one usually did.

  Casey looked around the large living room, decorated in shades of ocean blue and white. White rag rugs were strewn across the blond wood floor, giving the impression of sea and sky instead of granite and steel. Plants in colorful ceramic pots were placed on every available surface. One wall consisted of a series of three large windows—shut tightly—and covered with sheer white curtains. Nanna, as usual, was always cold, and didn’t believe in air-conditioning. Great, Casey thought surveying the transparent panes of glass. She was probably going to suffocate in her goddamn sleep.

  “So, how was your trip?” Nanna grabbed Casey’s arm and propelled her over to the soft, powder-blue couch at the speed of light. Sometimes Casey thought that Nanna, at seventy, had way more energy than she did at sixteen. It was kind of ridiculous.

  “It was OK.” Casey noticed that Nanna was wearing a slightly moth-eaten black cashmere cardigan—despite the relentless heat—and a pair of white linen pants. Her feet were encased in the black Chanel ballet flats she always wore, and a rope of creamy pearls gleamed in the soft wrinkles of her neck. Her straight white hair was still full, chin-length, and brushed back from her face. A pair of gold bifocals hung from a pearl chain, and the room was thick with the powdery scent of Chanel No 5. Casey loved how Nanna always looked so put-together. “Quality,” she would always say, shaking her head at Casey’s mostly disposable wardrobe, “never goes out of style.”

  “Do you want to unpack your things?” Nanna asked. She retrieved her bifocals from her chest and put them on, so that her blue eyes were magnified. “Or would you like a cup of tea first?”

  Tea? In this heat? The thought made her dizzy. “Actually, Nanna, I met some girls in the lobby who go to my school, and I told them I might go hang out with them this afternoon—if you don’t mind,” Casey added quickly. She kind of felt a little guilty that she was planning to take off the minute she arrived, but it was her first day in Manhattan! What was she going to do? Stay inside with her grandmother all afternoon? Not likely.

  “Why should I mind?” Nanna said grandly, checking the slim, gold watch she wore on her left wrist. “I have a bridge game down at the club at four anyway.”

  Casey smiled. Guess Nanna wasn’t exactly going to be waiting with a plate of homemade cookies every day after school…not that she was complaining or anything.

  “Let’s put your things in your room, and you can unpack later,” Nanna said decisively, springing to her feet and picking up Casey’s suitcases like it weighed as much as a Nerf ball. Casey grabbed the other and followed her grandmother into the back of the apartment, where it was dark and cool.

  “This was my sewing room, until recently,” Nanna said with a smile, flicking on the overhead light. The room was small, bordering on claustrophobic, a twin bed with a quilt in blue and yellow dominating the space. An antique mirror hung over the bed, the glass wavy and slightly darkened. There was a small wooden desk in the corner, and oak shelves stuffed with skeins of wool, knitting needles, fabric scraps, and other miscellaneous equipment. All that stuff is going to fall down on me in the night, Casey thought, slightly horrified. I’ll probably be impaled on a pair of knitting needles. Good-bye, cruel world!

  The room resembled some demented s
enior citizen episode of Project Runway. Casey half-expected Tim Gunn to come strolling in from the living room screaming, “Make it work, Grandma!”

  “I know it’s probably not what you’re used to,” Nanna said worriedly, squinting at the room, “but feel free to put anything on the walls you like.”

  “It’s totally fine,” Casey said, dumping her suitcase onto the bed, which squeaked like no one had used it for years.

  “Well, I should be off soon,” Nanna said crisply, looking at her watch again and moving toward the door. “Who did you say you were meeting?”

  “These girls that go to my school.” Casey bounced on the bed a little to make it squeak louder. “I think one of them is named Madison?”

  “Madison Macallister?” Nanna stopped in her tracks and looked slightly impressed, one eyebrow raised. “The Macallisters live upstairs—in the pent house.” Casey knew nothing about Manhattan real estate, but she did know that to live in the penthouse in a building like The Bram, you had to be completely loaded. “Well, well,” Nanna mused thoughtfully, pursing her rose-colored lips, “you’ve done very well for yourself on your first day in New York! You’re like me, Casey Anne,” Nanna said with satisfaction, taking Casey’s face between her soft, wrinkled hands and grabbing her chin playfully. “You’ve got moxie!”

  “I guess,” Casey mumbled, pawing through her suitcase and praying that there was a least one item of clothing that wasn’t impossibly wrinkled. She didn’t exactly know what moxie was, or if she even wanted it. She hoped it wasn’t contagious.

  “Well, I’ll leave you to it,” Nanna said brightly. “There’s a set of keys for you on the kitchen counter. The big brass one is for the top lock, and the little silver one is for the bottom.” Casey looked up from the total mess that was her suitcase, nodding distractedly. All she could think about was choosing the perfect outfit for lying out at the park.

  “I’m so glad you’re here, honey!” Nanna exclaimed, leaning down for a hug. Casey wrapped her arms around her grandmother’s comforting body for a moment before she stepped out of the room, her ancient Chanel flats tapping lightly on the wood floors. “I’ll be back around seven!” Nanna’s voice called out from the living room, and Casey heard the tinkling sound of keys being gathered, and then the door being shut tight, the locks tumbling in their cylinders.

  Casey wasn’t brave enough to wear an actual bathing suit, and, besides, it would take her all day to find it in this mess anyway. She pulled out a navy tank she’d bought at Express and held it up to her chest. The thin fabric was encrusted with little silver beads around the neckline that sparkled in the light from the open window. Perfect, she thought, digging further and retrieving her well-worn, distressed jean skirt from Abercrombie. She’d wear her pink ballet flats, too—for a little more color. Blue and pink could look sort of cool together, couldn’t they? And, besides, she really didn’t have the patience to dig through her suitcase to try to find anything else.

  casey

  strikes out

  Casey stepped out into the sunlight on Fifth Avenue, the humidity clinging to her skin like plastic wrap. Even from where she stood—just outside The Bramford on the sun-baked sidewalk—she could see couples lying out on blankets on the largest, greenest stretch of grass she’d ever seen. The buildings towered above her head, framing the cloudless blue sky in a blur of cement, steel, and glass that stood in sharp contrast to the lushness of the park across the street. “I guess we’re not in Kansas anymore,” she mumbled under her breath to an invisible Toto snapping at her heels, the corners of her lips turning up in a smile. “Or Normal.”

  She walked to the corner, and waited for the light to change before she ventured out into the street. Even so, a bright yellow taxi came close to mowing her down, the cab’s brakes screeching on the pavement, the driver leaning out the window screaming, “Get out of the freakin’ way, honey!” the horn blaring in her ears as she scrambled across the street, heart pounding.

  Even the act of simply taking a cab was new—and slightly terrifying. At the airport, she’d waited at the taxi stand in the longest line she’d ever seen for what felt like forever. The driver, a thin, East Indian man with a thick accent, had thrown her suitcases in the trunk without saying a word, and took off through the hazy New York streets like someone was chasing them. Casey had bounced all over the cracked, black leather seats, and rolled down the windows so she could see the skyline she’d been dreaming about for weeks, her blood racing through her veins like electricity.

  The park was packed with people throwing Frisbees, lying out on the grass, drinking large bottles of Evian. A small, white dog ran in front of her feet, furiously chasing a red ball. A group of cute guys in brightly colored board shorts—and not much else—passed a football back and forth. The sound of Nelly Furtado and Timbaland blared from someone’s CD player. Casey walked around, following the cement path until she saw Madison, Phoebe, and Sophie lying on their towels in the middle of the grass, near a large oak tree, huge sunglasses shading their eyes. Their bikini-clad bodies glistened in the sunlight, the silver thermos resting in the shade. Half-empty cocktail glasses filled with clear liquid and bright green wedges of lime sat on the grass, waiting patiently. Madison lay in the middle, of course, flanked by Phoebe and Sophie.

  Casey took a deep breath and pushed her hair back as she approached. She could almost feel her hair reacting to the heat and light, frizzing on contact. She wondered for the millionth time if she’d be better off just shaving her head than dealing with this mess every day. God, she hated her hair.

  “Hey guys!” Suddenly it felt totally weird to be completely dressed. She felt so covered up next to Phoebe, Madison, and Sophie in their tiny, colorful string bikinis. Phoebe sat up and immediately placed a huge, black straw hat on her head to protect her porcelain skin from the relentless glare. Madison and Sophie lay motionless on their towels, giggling quietly.

  “Hey…Casey, right?” Phoebe asked, her voice drowsy and soft. “Come sit down!” Casey noticed that as Phoebe spoke Madison reached out and elbowed her—hard. There was a clamor of whispers as Casey sat down on the grass next to Phoebe’s yellow towel.

  Madison sat up and pushed her huge, black D&G sunglasses on top of her head. Madison Macallister was one of those girls who would never participate in anything as vulgar as sweating. She looked like there was some invisible contraption above her head that just gently misted her all day, so that her tanned skin softly glistened in the light. Casey took in the rings sparkling on Madison’s fingers, and the slim, gold chain around her neck that held half a broken heart with the letter M engraved on its glowing patina. The heart, Casey knew, was of course from Tiffany. She’d seen Scarlett Johansson wearing the exact same one in Glamour magazine that morning on the plane.

  “So, Casey,” Madison began coolly, stretching her golden arms above her head like a cat. “Where’s your bathing suit?”

  Casey felt like the intense heat was melting right through the powder and lip gloss she’d applied before leaving the apartment. “Uh, I think I left it back home,” she stammered, the lie spreading heat across her cheeks and throat. “I dug through all my bags, but couldn’t find it. I guess I’ll just have to go to Target and pick up a new one sometime this weekend.”

  Madison looked down at her own bikini and then flashed her eyes at Phoebe and Sophie, who were taking long sips from their cocktail glasses in an attempt to stifle their laughter. “Target?” Madison said. “You and your grandmother are going to have to get an apartment in Queens if you want to keep shopping there—you’ll need some threads to match the address, honey. Hello, you’re living in The Bram now.”

  Madison took a delicate sip of her drink while the other girls continued to laugh—only without any attempt to cover it up. Casey just sat there, the heat gone from her face, dropping down to form a cold stone in the pit of her stomach. She looked at the ground, at the drinks, at anything but Madison’s cutting gaze, trying to think of something to say. Madison f
inished off her drink and went to pour herself another, making it clear that the silence was awkward for Casey alone.

  “And speaking of which,” Madison went on, “how did you get into Meadlowlark anyway? It’s kind of exclusive, you know,” she finished, her eyes narrowing as she gave Casey the once-over.

  “My grandmother knows someone on the board of directors from her senior center,” Casey said, nervously ripping up soft green blades of grass with one hand—grass that was the exact color of Madison Macallister’s piercing gaze. The truth was, she’d gotten in on dumb luck—and the fact that she’d been a straight-A student all her life hadn’t exactly hurt her chances either. Meadlowlark admitted a certain number of students on full scholarships each year. Probably to meet some dumb quota, Casey mused as she’d surveyed Meadowlark’s admissions packet three months ago. It was so thick and detailed that it looked more like a novel than an application to attend high school. Casey’s mother had faxed the school her official transcript and popped a tape of Casey sawing through Wieniawski’s Violin Concerto No. 2 into the mail to the headmistresses, who was, luckily for Casey, the daughter of Nanna’s senior friend. The next thing she knew, Casey was holding an acceptance letter in her hands and frantically packing her bags.

  “Cocktail?” Sophie said, thrusting a drink toward Casey, effectively changing the subject, the cold glass covered with tiny beads of condensed water. If only my sweat looked that refreshing, Casey thought as she reached for the glass, thinking of it more as a life preserver than anything else.