At this point, she wasn’t exactly holding her breath.
“So, my summer was…really weird,” she began, just as the waitress arrived with her latte. “I’m still getting used to my dad not being around anymore.” She took a sip of her latte before continuing. “And plus I had to spend most of the last six weeks in summer school—which was a complete suckfest, by the way. Not recommended.”
“Speaking of school,” Drew said, taking a slug of his coffee, which was probably ice-cold by now, “what’s the deal with that Casey chick you were hanging with in the park yesterday?”
Madison grabbed her cup, staring at him over the plastic rim. Was he fucking kidding? Here she was trying to get real with him about her screwed-up family life, and her horrendous summer locked in a stuffy classroom, and all he wanted to talk about was some frizzy-haired loser! Wasn’t he even going to mention the fact that he was, umm, inside her the last time they saw each other?
“Is that really what you want to talk about, Drew? Some frizzfest from the Midwest?” Madison spat back.
“Whoa, Mad. I was just asking.” Drew said, leaning back from the table as if the ferocity in Madison’s voice had pushed him physically. “Is small talk off limits with you today or something?”
“Why don’t we just cut to the chase, Andrew.” Drew’s face went blank, and he stared down at the tabletop like it was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mumbled, one finger tracing patterns in a spilled drop of mocha-colored coffee. Just then, the waitress—with the impeccable timing and the warped sixth sense of all servers—made the mistake of approaching their table, clearly unaware of the brewing intensity of their conversation.
“Can I get you two anything else?” she said, toying with her pencil and paper as she—as Madison saw it—obviously gave Drew the once-over.
“I think we’re fine,” Drew said, “but can I ask you something? Why is it that the coffee here is so, well, different. I mean, I just got back from a summer spent in Amster—”
“YOU’VE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME,” Madison screamed, throwing a five down on the table. The other diners turned around in their chairs, mild expressions of amusement crossing their faces. This was Manhattan, and stranger things than a couple having a random, caffeine-fueled blowout on a Sunday morning happened every day of the week. Madison stood up and faced the waitress, grabbing her bag. “Actually,” she said, her voice like honey spread on steel, “you can bring him a fucking shovel.” She pointed at Drew, who looked like he’d just been smacked in the face with a two-by-four. Don’t tempt me, she thought. Just don’t fucking tempt me. “He’s going to need it to dig himself out of the hole he’s currently in.”
As she stomped out of the restaurant, into the humid August air and walked slowly down the street, hot tears blurred her vision, smearing the navy Urban Decay liquid liner she’d applied so hopefully an hour ago. Madison couldn’t help looking over her shoulder as she walked, half hoping that Drew would run out of the restaurant and tell her to wait, that he was sorry, that he’d missed her when she was gone. Not that she would forgive him after the way he treated her today. She wanted something to happen just so things wouldn’t end this way—with her crying on the crowded streets of Manhattan, ruining her new shoes on the hot pavement and smearing her fucking eye makeup.
But, a block later, she’d twisted her ankle twice, and the only thing telling her to halt was the stoplight at the corner of Park and Ninety-first as it changed ominously from green to red.
shut out
and
shot down
Drew watched open-mouthed as Madison walked briskly to the front door of the restaurant, slamming it behind her. The waitress stood there motionless, the coffee carafe in the air, her passing hand halted over Drew’s empty cup.
“Wow,” she said, one blond eyebrow raised, “I guess she told you.” The amusement in her voice was almost more than Drew could take at that particular moment, and he shot her an annoyed look as he waited for a refill. He was never going to get through this morning without more coffee. Ever since Amsterdam, he’d developed a serious caffeine addiction. More like psychosis, he thought, replaying his stupid comment to the waitress that sent Madison running for the door. Maybe he should just get an IV inserted into his goddamn arm and start taking it intravenously…
The waitress leaned over, the wrinkles around her blue eyes softening as she took in Drew’s obviously miserable face. “So, do you want anything else this morning?” she asked, shooting Drew a look of pity as she refilled his cup to the brim. “Or have you had enough?”
“Enough,” Drew mumbled, exhaling loudly. The waitress nodded and walked away before Drew could say anything else.
Drew tipped the silver pitcher of cream into the dark liquid until it lightened to a pale mocha. What had happened? He wished he could rewind the day and start over. It wasn’t even noon yet and he’d already screwed things up. Drew dumped four packets of raw sugar into his coffee, stirring the steaming liquid contemplatively. When he woke up this morning, he’d had it all planned out. He’d meet Madison for breakfast like they did every Sunday, and he’d apologize—really apologize—for the way he’d handled things the last time they were together.
He wasn’t sure how it happened, but when she walked in, backlit by the morning sunlight, that barely-there sundress swirling around her sun-kissed arms and legs, her hair a perfectly groomed blond mane—he went a little crazy. And before he could stop himself he was telling her all about Eva and Barcelona, even though nothing really happened. Eva was actually completely annoying—all she wanted to talk about was reality TV and Justin Timberlake, and when she finally leaned over at a tapas bar at two A.M. over toast points spread with chocolate and fleur de sel, and suggested that they go back to her place to drink some wine, he was totally over it. But, just looking at Madison, he completely lost his cool. He wanted her to think that he’d spent the whole trip fighting off Euro-hotness like it was his fulltime summer job. As she sat there, so distant and unflappable, he couldn’t help wondering if she’d really even missed him at all.
And it pissed him off.
As he sat there watching Madison pretend to drink her latte, he couldn’t help but get the sinking sensation that she no longer cared. She hadn’t written to him all summer—despite the fact that he hung out in Internet cafés checking his e-mail at least three times a week. And her silence fueled his silence until he was too scared to be the one to e-mail first—though an annoying little voice told him that he probably should have.
Drew watched as a guy at the table next to him leaned over and brushed his girlfriend’s dark hair behind one small, shell-like ear, his hand lingering for a moment on the smooth skin of her neck. Oh shit. Maybe he wasn’t the only one flirting in cafés all summer long. Madison was gorgeous, desirable, and—most important—available. It was entirely possible—no, probable—that there was someone else already. The thought made him want to dump boiling coffee all over himself and start screaming uncontrollably.
The waitress came back just then, setting his check down on the table and turning away, her hip accidentally knocking Drew’s shoulder, spilling his now lukewarm coffee over his clenched hand. “I’m so sorry,” the waitress said, offering Drew the stack of paper towels she had tucked away in her apron.
“Don’t worry about it,” Drew said brusquely, immensely irritated by the spill, by the fact that the coffee didn’t burn, by the fact that he wanted it to burn in the first place. He picked up the five-dollar bill Mad had left behind and slid it in his pocket. What was it exactly that Madison was doing to his mind? He needed to get a handle on himself. While he had never had a problem with feeling slightly controlled sexually by Madison’s enticing exercises in style that just covered this or showed almost too much of that, he was less than entertained that his lust had led to this current predicament.
Maybe it’s time to move on, to give up, he thought deject
edly while paying the check (skipping over the euros this time) and walking to the door.
Stepping out onto the street, he caught the eye of a plain but pretty girl as she stepped into the café, her pale red hair swinging around her heart-shaped face, a dusting of freckles strewn across her small nose like grains of nutmeg. She smiled at him as he held the door open for her, and when her gray eyes met his, he felt his heart rush. Ah, the thrill of flirting…how long had it been since he’d felt that way with Mad? Probably since the seconds before he popped the cork of that bottle of Dom in the park. But whether it had been his fault or not, he knew it was time for something new. The red-haired girl’s open smile flashed through his mind as he walked up the street toward home, and he found himself thinking of that new girl, Casey—she had the same cute spray of freckles across her cheeks…
Wasn’t she as not-Madison as anyone could possibly get? And wasn’t that exactly what he needed?
you’d better
shop
around…
“Oh my God!” Phoebe Reynaud squealed, holding up a Stella McCartney sundress in crisp white cotton with a splashy red hibiscus print. “I’m so buying this tout de suite!”
“It’s the hotness,” Sophie conferred, her blond head disappearing into a Ralph Lauren argyle sweater in luscious shades of turquoise and green. She pulled the soft wool down across the bright orange Marni dress she was currently wearing, and flounced over to the full-length mirror, her yellow Tory Burch flats slapping against the slickly polished floor. “Ugh,” she said, rolling her eyes and pulling the sweater back over her head, her hair crackling with static, “I look like a retarded librarian in this!”
“Oh right,” Phoebe snorted. “Like you even know where the library is.” Phoebe threw the Stella dress over one arm like it was a bag of potato chips, and began sorting through a bin of cashmere sweaters in lime green and burnt orange.
“True.” Sophie giggled, sucking at her cinnamon streusel iced latte and leaning into the mirror, sweeping her long bangs to the side with one hand while she inspected the metallic silver Too Faced liner streaked across her top lids. “But why go to the library when the Internet is so much more convenient?”
Casey held on to the venti Colombian iced coffee she’d bought at Starbucks before entering the Inner Sanctum otherwise known as Barneys, and pretended to flip through the racks stuffed with designer merchandise she’d only read about in the issues of In Style magazine delivered every month to her doorstep back in Normal: Nanette Lepore, Marc Jacobs, Prada, Dolce & Gabbana, and Versace.
Casey had to admit—being in a place like this made her kind of hate shopping—it was all about what she couldn’t have. As she stood there pretending to seriously consider a Free People beaded tunic in burnt sienna, Casey wondered how long she could stand not looking at the price tags. She was terrified that if all those extra zeros actually registered in her caffeine addled brain, she’d sink into a clothing-induced coma like some twenty-first-century Sleeping Beauty—except that instead of snoozing away peacefully in a glass coffin, she’d be buried under a pile of Ana Molinari kimonos. As if she wasn’t feeling intimidated enough at the present moment. Looking around at the minimalist décor (nothing to detract from the clothes s’il vous plait), and pricey garments hanging everywhere, Casey felt more like a bull in a china shop than ever around the acres of expensive, silky fabric.
Casey sighed, fingering a pair of buttery-soft Ralph Lauren leather pants in the perfect fall shade of burnt leaves. She hadn’t even worked up the courage to try anything on yet—not that Phoebe and Sophie had noticed. They were too busy walking back and forth, their arms loaded with skimpy silk dresses, flirty lace blouses, and sleek tweed pants, piling what seemed like the whole store in one of the huge, brightly lit dressing rooms like they did this every day of the week. And to be honest, they probably did. Casey couldn’t help but think about Marissa and Brandy as she watched Phoebe and Sophie horde clothes like there was an imminent nuclear attack on its way. If her friends back home were there with her, it would’ve been a totally different experience. They’d be clowning around, trying on clothes they knew none of them could afford—then throwing everything back on the crowded racks and walking into the mall to get ice cream, or browse in Best Buy for new CDs. Everyone would’ve left the mall equals, because they’d all be in the same, broke boat. As Phoebe’s and Sophie’s pile of clothing grew larger still, Casey began to worry about the moment they’d approach the register, the moment when Phoebe and Sophie would realize that she wasn’t really planning to buy anything at all, that she couldn’t afford to. Then they’d look at her with undisguised loathing—or pity. Casey wasn’t sure what was worse.
“Oh my God,” Sophie yelled out, holding a pair of black Dior hot pants up to her tiny torso. “I have so many pairs of these shorts—it’s like a fucking disease with me!” Phoebe giggled from the depths of a white cashmere sweater she was pulling over her head. “I’m trying them on anyway,” Sophie said decisively, throwing the shorts over her arm.
There was no way Casey was trying anything on—that was for sure. Not only was it pointless, since she really couldn’t afford to buy anything, but she’d probably wind up ripping a Missoni sweater as she pulled it over her enormous head, and that the salesgirls, wherever they were hiding, would beat her with old issues of Vogue until she surrendered her credit card, which her mother had given her in case of emergencies only. Pulling a ruffled Theory sundress in ocean blues and greens from the overstuffed rack, Casey wondered if a back-to-school outfit might be just the kind of emergency her mother was referring to…
Sophie’s phone began to beep nosily from the depths of her Marc by Marc Jacobs cream leather tote. She dug it out distractedly and surveyed the waiting text message. “Its Mad,” she said, dropping the pile of Ralph Lauren plaid skirts she was currently holding to the floor in a heap of tartan. “She’s coming to meet us.”
Casey’s stomach immediately dropped to her beat-up green Pumas. Perfect. Ever since that scene in the park yesterday, Casey had been dreading this moment. Madison made Casey feel like a second-grader with chocolate-pudding-stained hands, or like she had a giant booger hanging out of her nose at all times. And what was she going to say anyway—nice dress, but I think I like your boyfriend? Yeah, that would undoubtedly go over stunningly—like everything else that came out of her mouth lately. Casey looked down at the American Eagle dirty-wash capris and the plain white tank she’d bought at the mall before she’d left the Midwest, and wondered how long it would take Madison to say something less than supportive about her disaster of a wardrobe. Well, it could’ve been worse—at least she wasn’t wearing Abercrombie again…
When Madison walked in, giant blue-tinted Betsey Johnson shades covering her eyes, the sweet rosy scent of Marc Jacobs Blush perfume trailing in her wake, Casey wanted to run and hide under the tall racks of clothes the way she did when she was four and her mother would drag her shopping. But somehow Casey knew that diving under a pile of Diane von Furstenberg wrap dresses wouldn’t exactly solve her problems. If she was ever going to break through the thick ice surrounding the impenetrable Madison Macallister, she was going to have to suck it up and face her new frenemy—head on.
“What up?” Mad intoned with as much excitement as the computer in 2001, air-kissing both Sophie and Phoebe so as not to risk smudging the shiny pink DuWop gloss coating her lips. “How’s the make over going?” Madison stared at Casey from over her shades with a sweeping glance that registered every thing from Casey’s out-of-control curly head, to her dirty-sneakered feet. “Or haven’t you started yet?”
Casey noticed that even though Madison’s voice dripped sarcasm, as usual, that she immediately started biting her bottom lip while flipping through racks of clothes, the hangers clanging against each other with every angry flick of her obviously practiced wrist. Was she still mad about yesterday? Did she want to shove a hanger in Casey’s eye, blinding her instantly so she could no longer moon over her
not-really-maybe-sort of boyfriend anymore? What ever the case, it was obvious to Casey that this girl had mastered the art of being pissy. In fact, Casey thought, watching Madison survey a printed halter top, then flick past it, shuddering lightly, she could probably offer a master course on bitchy clothes-flinging at the New School—Diva Dressing 101.
“How about this?” Sophie said, holding up a Nile green linen sheath dress. “With flat gold sandals, I think it would rock.”
“Uh, yeah—if she were going to Tavern on the Green with her fucking parents, maybe,” Madison snapped, pulling the dress from Sophie’s hands and shoving it back on the rack. “Not Meadowlark on her first day of junior year.” Sophie shrugged her shoulders daintily, shooting Casey a smile that said, “She can’t help being such a bitch—but we kind of love her anyway.”
Better you than me, Casey thought, as Phoebe ran over with a pair of Paper Denim and Cloth jeans, and a white Imitation of Christ tank embellished with rhinestones.
“I’ve got it,” Phoebe purred, setting the clothes on the rack directly in front of Madison and smoothing her sleek, dark ponytail with one hand.
“Got what?” Madison said, cackling, running one hand over the super-soft cotton of the tank. “Dementia? She’s not going gallery hopping in Chelsea for fuck’s sake!” Madison tossed the jeans to the floor and prepared to do the same with the tank. “Hang on a minute,” she said, holding the shirt up to her chest and walking over to the full-length mirror. “This wouldn’t be half bad on me, actually,” Madison mused, turning from the left to the right, and examining her predictably perfect self in the long sheet of reflective glass.
The Elite Page 7
