“So what’s going on with them?” Sophie asked as a shiny topcoat was brushed onto her now pearly-pink toenails.
“They just fight all the time—and I really hate that Bijoux has to hear it.”
Sophie smiled, picturing Bijoux’s round face covered by tiny Versace aviators. “Your sister is such a brat.”
“Oh, please—it’s not like your brother would win any prizes for Sibling of the Year either.” Phoebe threw Sophie a look that matched the skepticism in her voice, arching one dark brow as they broke into a mass of giggles.
Sophie rolled her eyes in agreement. “I know—having him home again is a total nightmare.”
“Why did he get kicked out of Exeter anyway?”
“Knowing Jared, he probably got the headmaster’s wife pregnant or something,” Sophie snorted, holding her feet up in front of a tiny, whirring fan. “Or failed Algebra.”
“It’s so weird,” Phoebe mused, “I haven’t seen him in, like, two years.”
“Lucky for you. I have to see his dumb ass every day—and it killing me. How does everyone expect me to adjust?” Sophie whined, crossing her arms over her chest. “I mean, he’s been gone forever, and I’ve had the place practically to myself. Now he’s back, throwing his stinky kicks everywhere, calling me ‘bra,’ eating all my food, and, worst of all, cluttering up the apartment with his stupid surfing magazines. I didn’t even know he could read.”
“Ugh,” Phoebe moaned as her feet were enveloped in a soft towel and rubbed dry. “You’re right—it sounds like a nightmare. I officially have no right to be complaining about anything. I’m sorry to break it to you, babe,” Phoebe said archly, “but your life is a total disaster.”
“I know it,” Sophie mumbled, slipping her feet into those delicate paper sandals that were the telltale sign of a girl post-pedicure. She knew that Pheebs had been joking, but she found herself wondering if her life really was a disaster right now…and if it might just be getting worse. The fact that she was adopted certainly answered a lot of questions on her current home front—but what about that other home she had somewhere, the home of her biological mother? With the way things were going lately, why would meeting her bio-mom actually change anything? And what if things just got even worse? Even if she met her real mom, that didn’t mean they were guaranteed to get along just because they happened to dip into the same gene pool. Plus, she’d be the weird girl with two moms now. Instead of the boring, totally normal family life she’d always thought she had, she’d have this bizarre, fractured family. If she met her bio-mom and they did get along, her life was bound to turn into a made-for-TV movie, where she’d see her real mother once a month on Saturdays or something. And what if her real mother wasn’t even single? Then she’d not only have a new mom, but a new stepdad, too…Sophie sighed, looking down at her gleaming toes. She could barely handle the family she had—what made her think she’d do any better with a new one?
As Sophie sat there waiting for her toes to dry, a weird prickly sensation came over her, and goosebumps sprung up on her bare arms and legs. As much as she wanted and needed to think positively about the whole situation, and as much as she hoped that her real family would make her feel like she finally fit in, Sophie couldn’t help wondering if finally belonging somewhere might just make her feel more like an outsider than ever…
love…
and
other
bodily fluids
Casey stepped through the revolving doors of the Guggenheim Museum, rolling around twice before finally stumbling out into the frigid air of the lobby. She hated revolving doors with a passion. The only purpose they served, as far as she could tell, was to make her feel even more gawky and uncoordinated than usual. Casey looked up, taking in the gently sloping floor and multilevel, all-white interior, which spiraled up like some sort of bizarre wedding cake. The museum was so cold, clean, and modern that Casey felt like she was encased in ice as she walked to the ticket counter, pulled out a twenty-dollar bill Nanna had slipped her from the back pocket of her much maligned, pink Abercrombie skirt, and handed it to the cashier.
The Guggenheim had one of the largest collections of modern art in the world, and, amazing as the permanent collection was, Casey wasn’t exactly kung-fu fighting with the revolving doors on that particular Saturday afternoon due to her undying love for all things artistic. She was there for two reasons. The first reason had to do with her mother calling her last night, specifically to inform Casey of the Kiki Smith retrospective opening today. When Casey had seemed less than enthused, the conversation had degenerated into Barbara screaming that it was her feminist duty to go and get some culture instead of hanging out with a bunch of brainless, bobblehead dolls, wasting her time on manicures, pedicures, or holistic, new-age enema cures. Casey didn’t know what was worse—the echo on the transatlantic line, the weirdly Madonnaesque British accent her mother seemed to be developing, or the headache Barbara’s diatribe instantly produced in her skull.
“You’re less than ten blocks from the greatest modern art museum in the world!” Barbara had shrieked as Casey held her phone away from her ear so that she wouldn’t go spontaneously deaf. “Take advantage of it!” And after a glamorous morning spent eating dry cereal out of the box and moping around the apartment, taking in some art didn’t seem like such a bad idea. After all, it wasn’t like she had any other exciting options…
The second—and most important reason—was that Nanna’s apartment had been infiltrated by a gaggle of bloodthirsty old bats who probably were, at this very moment, gambling like a pack of drunken sailors on a twenty-four-hour shore leave. From the moment Nanna’s weekly bridge game with “the girls” began, Casey knew that she needed to flee the scene ASAP. “The girls” weren’t exactly girls at all—but a decidedly unruly group of blue-haired old ladies who promptly took over the apartment with the force of a tsunami—and were, unfortunately, all about brewing endless pots of tea, munching on chocolate chip cookies from Dean & DeLuca, and asking a ridiculous number of embarrassing questions.
“Do you have a fella, Casey?” one frail lady asked, smacking her lips around her false teeth as she simultaneously shuffled her cards and poured tea into her mug.
“Don’t be stupid,” Nanna cackled. “My granddaughter is devoted to her studies. She doesn’t have time for boys.”
“She’s too young anyway,” another old bat yelled out, gobbling down a cookie and talking with her mouth full of crumbs and chocolate. “Just look at her. She’s flat as a board!”
Casey felt her face turn red, and she wanted to grab a kitchen knife and put this crotchety curmudgeon out of her misery. She took a quick look at her chest—the old bat was right. It was hopeless. She was a flat-chested freak of nature who would probably never have a boyfriend.
“Nonsense,” Nanna snapped. Nanna was wearing what she referred to as her “good luck” ensemble—a vintage Pucci shift in the orange and blue that almost matched the veins streaking her pale legs. “I won a thousand dollars in Monte Carlo in nineteen seventy while wearing this dress,” she muttered distractedly, rubbing the worn sleeve before snapping back to reality. “And Casey is just petite—she takes after me, you know,” she said proudly, slapping her cards down on the table and squealing in glee. “I won again!” As soon as Nanna had slipped her the twenty, Casey was in the elevator as fast as her feet could carry her, breathing a sigh of relief as the doors closed.
As Casey followed the map she’d picked up at the ticket counter, walking uphill to the third floor where the Kiki Smith show was currently being exhibited, she wished some of Nanna’s luck would magically rub off on her. If only she had the chance to explain things to Drew! After the way she came on to him during French, he probably thought she was some kind of crazy, oversexed freak. What else did you call someone who went out of her way to attend an exhibition by an artist who was known for celebrating the female body…and all its various emissions?
Casey had learned about Kiki Smith from her
mother, who blindly followed any artist that made work involving “women’s issues,” which, in the academic speak that Casey had learned to decipher at a young age, meant monthly cycles, babies, and all the other mystifying and possibly disgusting things women’s bodies were capable of. Generally, “women’s issues” were not Casey’s cup of tea, but her mom had dragged her to a Kiki Smith retrospective at the Art Institute of Chicago one year and, grudgingly, Casey had found herself falling in love with the strange-looking wax figures dipping and trailing God-knows-what out of their you-know-whats. As disgusting as the sculptures had initially sounded, she found the softly gleaming works of wax and bronze incredibly beautiful. And to her mom’s delight (and still to Casey’s slight horror) she declared herself a fan—which had resulted in a long, uncomfortable talk about “women’s issues” during the car ride back to Normal. Thank God she’d be going to the Guggenheim by herself this time. And going to an art exhibition by herself made her feel almost cool—not to mention kind of…adult. All she needed now was a pair of huge black sunglasses and a pretentious art school boyfriend to deconstruct the lithographs adorning the white walls for her, and she’d be just like any other slightly neurotic New Yorker taking in some culture on a Saturday afternoon…
As Casey turned the corner and walked into the sculpture gallery with its pristine white floors, the first thing she saw beside a pair of enormous bronze sculptures of women stretching their hands to the sky was Drew standing directly in front of the bronzed form of a crouching woman…with yellow string trailing out of her, umm, baby-maker. Drew was wearing a rumpled pair of A.P.C. khaki shorts that looked like he’d slept in them, and another one of his seemingly endless supply of white T-shirts. His brown hair was almost standing on end, and his jaw was covered with a layer of stubble that was way too thick to even call five o’clock shadow—more like nine o’clock shadow. Even though he’d clearly had a rough night and was definitely fighting the hot, he was still everything she’d ever wanted in a guy—and maybe a little more.
Casey’s feet froze to the floor and her mind raced with possibilities. Should she walk over and talk to him? Things hadn’t exactly went well the last time they’d hung out—if you could call a ten-minute conversation in the middle of a psychotic French class hanging out…And the room was big, but it wasn’t that big. There was no way she could pretend that he wasn’t there. In fact, there was no way she was going to be able to walk by without him—
Drew looked up, his bloodshot blue eyes locking with hers. Oh crap, Casey thought smiling hopefully. There’s no backing out now. Her face felt like it was covered with glue. Smiling was almost painful when you felt like your face might just crack off at any moment from sheer anxiety. Casey willed her feet to move and walked over, positioning herself directly in front of the sculpture.
“Hey,” Drew said, turning to her and smiling. Was it her imagination, or did he not only look surprised, but almost happy to see her? “What are you doing here?”
“Oh, you know,” she said, pretending to examine the sculpture and bending down to inspect the yellow rope trailing out of it. “Just checking out the show.” Casey stood up and turned back to Drew. Be cool! her inner dating Nazi screamed, and don’t blow it this time! “So,” Casey said, trying to look like she ran into guys she was massively crushing on every day, “what do you think she’s trying to say here?” I really have to learn that raised eyebrow trick Madison does all the time, Casey thought as Drew thoughtfully contemplated the sculpture.
“I don’t know,” he mused. “Maybe it’s a commentary on the functionality of women’s bodies.”
“Hmmmm.” Casey pretended to consider Drew’s answer thoughtfully. Growing up with a mother who spouted pseudo-academic psychobabble every chance she got made her fairly confident that she could hold her own in the conversation. “Maybe you’re right,” she said slowly. “Or maybe she just had to pee really badly.”
Drew cracked up and Casey laughed along at her own joke, smiling shyly when they stopped. The short silence was broken by an insistent buzzing sound coming from Drew’s pants. Of course his pants are buzzing, Casey thought as he pulled his cell phone from his front pocket, he’s just that hot. Drew checked the display, an annoyed expression crossing his face, switched the ringer off, and put the phone back in his pocket. Casey felt her stomach flip over. He wasn’t taking the call! Don’t get too excited, she told herself, it was probably his mom or something. Still, if he wasn’t taking the call in front of her that had to mean something, didn’t it?
“So.” Drew shoved his hands into his pockets. “Did you just get here? I was actually just leaving.”
“Oh,” Casey said, the disappointment coursing through her. “Yeah, I just got here.” Casey exhaled, doing her best to smile like she didn’t care while blowing her hair—which was chronically misbehaving as usual—off her face. Just as she was about to make her probably ungraceful exit, her stomach erupted with a loud, menacing growl that practically echoed off the sterile, white museum walls. Dry cereal out of the box was definitely not much of a meal. Casey closed her eyes briefly. Damn you, dry cereal, she thought, opening them again, a sheepish expression on her face.
“A little hungry, are we?” Drew asked, clearly fighting a smile.
“Yeah,” Casey mumbled, staring down at her pink Old Navy ballet flats. It was amazing—even if she didn’t sabotage her pathetic excuse for a dating life through speaking, her body was sure to run it into the ground for her. “I haven’t really eaten much today.”
“Well, I was just about to get some food myself,” Drew said. “But you probably want to check out the show, huh?”
Suddenly art couldn’t have been less important.
“Umm, I could come back later or something,” Casey said in what she hoped was a nonchalant tone. The last thing she needed was to come off too eager and blow it again.
“Okay, cool.” Drew smiled and slung his messenger bag over his shoulder. “I was thinking of hitting Shake Shack for a burger.”
Well, it wasn’t a romantic dinner at Prive, but Casey guessed it was a start—and beggars couldn’t exactly be choosers. Especially not beggars who miraculously got second chances…
“Sure,” Casey said, pulling a hair elastic from her wrist, and shoving her hair back in a messy ponytail. “Is it close by?”
Drew smiled incredulously. “You’ve never heard of Shake Shack? They’ve only got the best burgers in the city! People sometimes line up for forty-five minutes for them.”
Forty minutes and one sweaty cab ride later—during which all Casey could think about was the fact that her nose was probably shiny, and that she really needed to buy some serious sunglasses—they were sitting side by side on the soft grass in Madison Square Park, watching a group of little kids tied to a length of red string wander through—undoubtedly on their way to some museum or other horrifically cultural “outdoor activity.” Casey stared down at the paper plate in her lap that held the biggest cheeseburger she’d ever seen, and wondered how the hell she was ever going to get her mouth around the thing without getting ketchup on her face—or God forbid in her hair.
Casey was a notoriously messy eater. Her dad always joked that when she was little, her parents used to wrap a bedsheet around her before they’d even attempt to feed her strained carrots or what ever other gross-ass concoction Barbara had whipped up in the Cuisinart. In any case, this burger was a dating disaster waiting to happen. Wait, were they actually even on a date? Casey wrinkled her brow and sucked her vanilla milkshake hard through her straw. Or was this just a getting-food-with-a-friend kind of thing? Either way, she was going to have to figure out a way to eat this burger without becoming covered in ketchup and grease, and without getting up and grabbing a knife and fork like some Park Avenue priss.
“You just kinda have to go for it,” Drew said with a grin, the dimple that tortured her on his MySpace photo winking adorably. Casey had to practically sit on her hands to keep from reaching out to touch it. Drew ra
ised his dripping cheeseburger to his mouth and took a huge bite, rolling his eyes and moaning with exaggerated plea sure.
Casey giggled and took a deep breath, pushing up the sleeves of her white, Old Navy cardigan, grabbing onto the gargantuan burger with both hands, and raising it to her lips. She opened her mouth as wide as she could, and bit down into a heavenly mix of ground beef, tomatoes, and pickles, chewing like she was a contestant in a competitive eating contest.
“It’s good, right?” Drew said, putting his half-eaten burger down on his plate and wiping his lips with one of the paper napkins.
“Mmmhmm.” Casey nodded furiously, her mouth stuffed with cow. And, actually, it was just about the best burger to pass her lips in all of her sixteen years. It was unbelievably juicy and phenomenal—just like Drew’s lips…And speaking of juice, Casey froze as she felt a trickle of it running down her chin. Before she could grab for the pile of napkins and wipe her face, Drew laughed like it was no big deal, leaned over with his napkin, and blotted Casey’s face carefully. Casey could feel the heat from his hand through the flimsy paper, and she swallowed hard, grabbing her shake again for another sip to wash down the half of a steer she’d just managed to ingest, and to cool off her suddenly raging lust.
“Sorry,” she said, trying not to feel like a total loser who couldn’t eat without spilling—which, of course, she was. “This burger is beyond awesome, but messy.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he said, shrugging off her comment and leaning back, balling up the napkin in his hand before she had time to get really embarrassed. Drew stared off into the traffic clogging Twenty-Third Street, a wistful expression coloring his face. “When I lived downtown I used to come up here after school all the time for a cheeseburger or some frozen custard. Sometimes I kind of miss it.” Casey nodded, her cheeks indented from sucking on her straw so hard—she felt almost dizzy. Was it the sugar rushing headlong through her veins, or the fact that she was breathing the same air as Drew Van Allen? Drew turned to face her, a smile playing at the corners of his lips. “It’s nice to see a girl actually—” he gestured at the remains of her burger, “—you know—eat.”
The Elite Page 14
