The Elite

by Jennifer Banash

  “What about you,” Madison snapped, willing Drew to look up and notice her. At that moment, almost as if she’d scripted it, Drew glanced at the doorway, his face draining of color as his blue-eyed gaze came to rest on his oldest friend—or worst enemy at Meadowlark. Madison smiled, lifting one hand to wave as her gold Louis Vuitton charm bracelet slid to her forearm. She couldn’t help taking a perverse amount of satisfaction in the way Drew’s expression suddenly changed, turning closed off and serious. He snapped his phone shut and walked quickly away from Casey, who stood there in disbelief, mouth open.

  Madison’s eyes narrowed as Drew approached. There was no way he was going to be able to exit the Dining Hall without passing her, and she was going to love every minute of his impending discomfort.

  “Going somewhere?” she purred, raising one perfectly arched blond brow.

  “Oui,” Drew said brusquely, preparing to brush past her. “French class—sucks to be me.”

  “In more ways than one,” Madison said sarcastically as Drew walked out the door, leaving Sophie and Phoebe exchanging shocked glances. Madison glared at his back, the adrenaline pumping in her veins from their brief encounter. Well, she had all day to get things back where they belonged—with her on top, figuratively speaking…

  “Well, that redefined the concept of ‘a quickie,’” Phoebe said as soon as Drew was out of earshot.

  “For real,” Sophie echoed. “It was the total definition of brief.”

  Madison sighed, surveying the line that stretched across the room at the Whole Bean kiosk as Casey approached, weaving unsteadily on her wedges, a bewildered expression still lingering on her freckled face.

  “Hey, guys,” Casey said, nervously shifting her unruly mess of curls off of one shoulder. Had this girl never heard of a flat iron? Or a hairdresser?

  “Hey, yourself.” Sophie smiled broadly, removing her hat to reveal her honeyed-hair clipped back neatly at the neck with a heavy silver barrette.

  “So, were you and the D-man trading fashion tips?” Phoebe grinned wickedly. “Or was there something a little more…personal going on?”

  “It was nothing much,” Casey said, biting her lip and looking at the floor.

  Right. As Madison took in Casey’s flushed face and slightly guilty expression she wondered why, if the conversation was so meaningless, couldn’t Casey seem to look her in the face?

  “He just wants to show me around town sometime,” Casey said in a rush, unable to keep a happy smile from creeping over her lips. “That’s all.”

  “Oh my God, that’s amaaaaaaazing.” Sophie squealed like Brad Pitt had just been let loose in the Dining Hall. “When are you going out?”

  “And more importantly,” Phoebe interrupted, pushing Solyphie aside with a shove of her elbow, “what are you going to wear?” Phoebe looked over at Sophie, a smile hovering over her lips.

  “AS LITTLE AS POSSIBLE!” they yelled in unison, slapping each other a high-ten.

  What the hell was going on with everyone around here? Madison thought grumpily. The day was getting worse by the second. Let’s recap: First she’d walked in on the new girl practically hooking up with Drew in front of practically the entire student body, and now her supposed “friends” were actually cheering this madness on? What ever happened to loyalty? Well, if this girl actually thought she could handle Drew Van Allen, she had another thing coming. Maybe, Madison thought, weighing her options, there’s some way I can help her out…

  Madison reached over and placed a manicured hand on Casey’s arm, squeezing gently. Her expression, she hoped, displayed exactly the right blend of concern and world-weary we’re-in-this-togetherness.

  “Forget fashion,” she said with a roll of her eyes and a smile, her voice hushed and secretive as she pulled Casey out of the Traitor Twins’ earshot. “You need some real advice—not makeup tips.” Madison turned and shot Phoebe and Sophie a deadly glare before continuing. “Now, I know Drew better than anyone, and what he really likes is when girls are kind of aggressive.” Madison watched closely as Casey nodded, clearly hanging onto her every word. This was so easy that Madison almost began to feel sorry for her.

  “He’s actually really shy underneath all his dumbass macho bullshit, so you totally have to make the first move. After all,” she added mischievously, “I dated him for like, forever, so I should know.” Madison giggled warmly, clutching Casey’s arm like they’d been best friends—or worst enemies—all their lives.

  “Wow,” Casey said, looking up at Madison like she’d just succeeded in reinventing the wheel. “Thanks so much!” Casey leaned toward Madison and her voice dropped to an almost-whisper. “I was kind of worried that you might be…mad at me or something,”

  “Oh please,” Madison snorted, rolling her eyes. “Drew and I are the definition of O-V-E-R. Now, here’s what you need to do…”

  As Madison whispered into Casey’s ear, she felt almost guilty about her blatant lie—until she remembered that, until Casey came along, she was the one Drew was cornering daily in the Dining Hall. Besides, it would be totally embarrassing to lose Drew to some complete nobody from nowhereville—and Madison didn’t do embarrassed.

  She had to somehow make things go back to normal. Her life had suddenly gone all Shakesperean on her—like something out of Much Ado About Nothing—except she was no dumb, love-struck maiden. She was going to keep her wits about her. How else could she possibly strategize effectively? It was like that quote she’d learned in seventh grade by that Euphues guy…how did that go again?

  Oh yes: All’s fair in love and war.

  the

  gentle art

  of

  conversation

  Casey paused in the hallway, just in front of room 12A and attempted to compose herself before walking into French class. It was her first class of the day, and considering how totally stressful her morning had already been, she was going to need all the composure she could muster to fight her way through an hour of academic intensity in another goddamn language. Her experience of Meadlowlark so far had left her completely dazed. Not only did the entire student body dress like they were on their way to Bryant Park for the fall collections, but everyone was screamingly smart. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly through her nose, the way her mother had taught her during her whole spiritual phase last year, when she wore hideous, batik-printed caftans, took up Transcendental Meditation, and talked endlessly about global warming and solar panels. Except when Casey tried to exhale gracefully, she coughed on the lungful of pine-scented air she had sucked in from the immaculately polished hallway, choking slightly, her eyes suddenly wet.

  She bent over, coughing and hacking like a maniac until a total stranger whacked her decisively on the back before opening the door. Casey looked up into the face of a tall guy with dark hair that fell into his eyes, so thin the only way to describe him might be calorically challenged, who was dressed from head to toe in standard-issue Emo gear of black tight jeans and a faded gray T-shirt with the words My Bloody Valentine on the front outlined in silver. Great, Casey thought, smiling and waving thanks limply as he lurched away, I can’t even breathe right.

  She took another breath, this one decidedly more shallow, and walked into class, tentatively taking a seat in the back of the gleaming room—as far away from Emo-backslapping-boy as she could sit. Looking around the room made her feel like she was on acid: The sheen of the glossy, pale oak floors was so bright and vibrant that it practically sang. In fact, she could almost pick up the faintest melody of La Marseillaise. The tiered rows of aluminum desks and the huge window seat stuffed with black-and-white op art–printed cushions spoke more of a hip Soho loft than of advanced placement. Was this really high school? As she looked around at the other students who were busily talking and laughing, the girls all inspecting each other’s outfits, the guys punching each other randomly in the shoulders like testosterone-crazed lunatics, Casey couldn’t help but wish that she’d made it into the same section as Sophi
e, Phoebe, and Madison.

  Casey sat back in her ergonomic chair, inhaling the scent of fresh paint (the classrooms were retouched each August without fail), as Madame LeCombe, a French woman in her mid-thirties who looked like she put on her makeup with a trowel and consumed men instead of food, sauntered over to her desk in a tight, black pencil skirt and sighed heavily before walking over to a supply closet in the back of the room. When she returned, all Casey could see was the brand-new, shining titanium MacBook in her hands, her short crimson fingernails tapping the metal casing. She held the computer out to Casey, one excessively plucked eyebrow raised.

  “Voila!” Madame LeCombe said cheerily, pointing out the jack embedded in the desk where Casey could plug in. When Casey opened the laptop, it hummed and whirred like a happy kitten, and Casey felt suddenly worlds away from the battered PC her mom had bought her three years ago—and Normal High, where the students still took notes on arcane substances like paper and tired their hands out writing with ballpoint pens.

  “Thanks!” Casey said, unable to keep the surprise from her voice. “Should I just give this back to you at the end of class?” Madame LeCombe blinked at her uncomprehendingly, and the girl sitting in front of Casey wearing an electric-blue Milly sundress and the highest silver wedge sandals she had ever seen giggled nastily. The girl’s chin-length blond hair bobbed healthily up and down as she laughed, and Casey felt her face fill with heat.

  “Non, non,” Madame LeCombe chided, wagging a jeweled finger in Casey’s face, “c’est pour vous!” Now she was really confused. Did she really just get to keep this monumentally expensive piece of equipment…just because she happened to be enrolled at Meadowlark Academy? Was this standard? It certainly looked that way, as every single student in the twenty-seat classroom had the exact same model MacBook opened up on the desk in front of them, and was staring at her like she was a world-class idiot.

  “We all get one,” said a voice directly behind her. Casey craned her neck around and came face-to-face with Drew—who was grinning widely.

  “Oh,” Casey said, turning her body so that she could see him more easily, “I didn’t know—nobody told me.” Twisted around like a pretzel, Casey felt like her diaphragm was doubled up and pushing into her chest cavity. Or was it just the elastic waistband of her underwear cutting into her overfull stomach? Maybe that second blueberry muffin she’d eaten while listening to Madison’s advice was a bad idea…

  “Yeah,” Drew said, removing his own laptop from his messenger bag and opening it onto the desk. “Well, get used to it—free laptops are just the beginning.” Drew rolled his blue eyes, smiling crookedly while he fussed with his computer. As she looked at him, Madison’s words rang out in her ears—be aggressive. The truth was, Casey hadn’t had that much experience with guys in general, much less with flirting, and she’d never made the first move either. It wasn’t that she liked playing hard to get or anything, she just didn’t have any experience playing—period. The only guys she’d ever flirted with had always approached her first…and she hadn’t exactly managed to come off as a femme fatale then either.

  “Commencez votre conversationz,” Madame LeCombe called out from her perch on the edge of her desk at the front of the room, her legs crossed, kicking one black stilettoed foot in the air. The chatter in the room suddenly reduced to a low hum, and Casey watched her fellow classmates pair up, turning in their seats to practice their French conversation skills with the person seated directly behind them—which, as far as she could tell, meant that she’d be practicing on…Drew.

  Casey’s pulse started racing so fast she was sure she’d probably have a stroke by the time the bell rang. What was she going to say? Her mind was a complete and total blank. Not only did she have to figure out a way to be aggressive, but she had to do it in French. It wasn’t like she was so great at flirting in English in the first place—and English was her mother tongue! To make matters worse, Casey hadn’t exactly paid rapt attention during her French classes back in Normal—mostly she’d stared out the window, dreaming of the day when some ridiculously cute guy would make out with her after school in the parking lot, the ultimate campus hookup spot.

  Casey smiled at Drew uncertainly as he closed his laptop, leaning forward, his elbows on the desk.

  “Voulez-vous parler avec moi?” Drew said with comic exaggeration, rolling his R’s around in his mouth like it was full of jawbreakers, sounding like a demented Pepe Le Peu.

  “Bien sûr!” Casey answered confidently. As long as they stayed at this kindergartenesque level of conversation, she could probably handle herself—even though talking to Drew in French felt really cheesy, like she should be wearing a beret, chain-smoking Gauloises, and carrying a baguette.

  “Que faites-vous cet après-midi?”

  What was she doing this afternoon? Was he asking because he was just curious and making conversation, or was he actually asking her out? Ugh, was there some kind of bizarro rule that made boys so totally mysterious on a daily basis, even in French? Be aggressive! her inner Madison screamed out. Don’t just sit there like a schlub!

  However uncomfortable it made her feel, she knew that she had to go for it—before she lost her nerve completely and ran out of the room. Casey leaned forward, feeling like a complete alien from the planet Don’t Date Me, and rested her hand on Drew’s arm, gently running her fingertips over his smooth skin. “Quoi que vous faites,” she answered, her eyes fixed on his face, her cheeks burning like she’d spent the day lying out in the park with no sunscreen.

  Oh my God. Did she really just say: “What ever you’re doing?” More important, did she even say it right? Because he was looking at her like she was a total lunatic, then down at his arm, where her hand still rested. Casey grabbed his hand and turned it over so that the palm faced up, and with her favorite red pen, proceeded to write her phone number in large block letters on his skin. “Telephonez-moi ce soir,” she whispered in what she hoped was a sexy voice, feeling the sweat break out under her arms like it had been held back by a dam all this time. Drew looked up, his expression uncertain and slightly queasy-looking, and then back down at the series of numbers penned onto his hand. He had asked for her number in the Dining Hall just a half hour ago—did he have too many lattes at breakfast or something? What ever was going on, he looked totally uncomfortable, and when he pulled away with a weak smile and looked down at his desk, Casey’s heart felt like it’d just been drop-kicked from the top of the Chrysler Building.

  “S’il vous plaît ouvrez vos livres au chapitre l’un.” Madame LeCombe’s voice rang out in the classroom, and Casey turned around gratefully, opening her French book to the first chapter and staring down at a picture of a young French couple entwined on a bench at night, the Eiffel Tower sparkling in the distance. Casey stared dejectedly down at the page, acutely aware of Drew’s presence directly behind her, and of the way her skin was tingling like so many insects were crawling up and down her arms and legs. Casey looked at the kissing couple in the picture, and wished more than anything that her life might be even half as romantic as that of a couple of French teenagers. Why can’t talking be as easy as a kiss? Casey thought, as Madame LeCombe’s raspy three-pack-a-day voice crowded into her brain—along with all her uncertainty.

  after-school

  special

  Sophie stretched her legs out on the over sized coffee-colored leather sofa in the oak-paneled St. John family room, absent-mindedly fondling the remote with one hand, a Diet Pepsi sweating in the other. The first day back at school always made her want to veg out on the couch for at least a few hours…or days. Anything was better than locking herself in her room to tackle the immense pile of homework she’d lugged home in her Vuitton satchel. She was probably going to develop a hernia before she even lost her virginity…

  Homework on the first day is so totally passé, Sophie thought, switching over to MTV where Ludacris was jumping around with a bottle of Cristal in one hand, and a girl encased in the typical video-ho
gear of tight, faded jeans and ridiculously high stiletto heels in the other. The video slut’s outfit was a far cry from the Calvin Klein tank and Juicy shorts Sophie had changed into the minute she arrived home from school. Sophie studied the TV, pensively tilting her head back and downing the last of her Diet Pepsi as her father, Alistair St. John, walked into the room, followed closely by Sophie’s mother, Phyllis. Sophie sat up, folding her legs beneath her.

  “What are you guys doing home so early?” she wondered aloud as her mother sat down across from her in a leather chair upholstered in varying shades of tan and cognac, and crossed her long, still-shapely legs. Her parents never came home this early. Phyllis St. John—otherwise known as the Upper East Side’s own Angelina Jolie—was on the board of directors of UNICEF and the Fresh Air Fund, and when she wasn’t busy saving the planet by orchestrating elaborate fund-raisers at the Waldrof-Astoria or the Ritz, she spent most of her nights at the French Culinary Institute, where she’d recently enrolled in a series of gourmet cooking classes. For her mom to even set foot in The Bram before nine P.M. was seriously weird—but not as strange as the fact that her father was currently standing in front of her.

  Alistair St. John was a wildly successful real estate mogul whose career was largely built on the fact that his firm had “revitalized” the East Village, clearing out all the starving artists in the early nineties and erecting a series of ubermodern glass-and-steel apartment buildings. Her dad usually spent his days in complicated lunch meetings with Donald Trump, only to come home and immediately begin torturing her mother with just how gorgeous Trump’s new wife, Melania, was. But today her father didn’t look like he was in any mood for joking as he began pacing the length of the Bokhara rug in cream and beige that dominated the St. John family room, his salon-tanned forehead a mass of wrinkles no amount of Botox could smooth out.