The Elite

by Jennifer Banash

  Great. Was that cryptic boyspeak for “You’re a fat pig eating a burger the size of your head and I’m never going to kiss you?” Suddenly, her bare thighs protruding from her Abercrombie skirt felt enormous, and she tried to surreptitiously pull down the hem without drawing his attention to her undoubtedly pasty, bulbous legs.

  “No really,” he said, leaning over and touching her knee lightly with his hand. “I mean it. My dad’s a chef, so food’s a big deal in my house.”

  Drew’s words barely registered. Her head spun with the same thought playing over and over in an endlessly giddy feedback loop: Drew Van Allen’s hand is on my knee! She wanted to immortalize the patch of grass they were sitting on with a bronze plaque—and it went without saying that she was never washing her knee again. Okay, maybe she’d run a hot wash-cloth over it when it got really dirty…From somewhere far away Drew’s voice began to seep back into her lust-addled brain, and she forced herself back to reality, smiling like she hadn’t just been completely lost in outer space.

  “…and speaking of food, I’ve been meaning to ask you: Are you going to be able to make it to my party this Saturday? I think I told you about it last week? My dad’s new restaurant is catering and I need to get an idea of how many people are going to show.”

  “Um, uh…” Casey stuttered, her body desperately trying to pump some of the blood back into her throat to jump-start her vocal chords. “Of course I’ll be there. I mean, you don’t even want to know what Saturdays are like at my house when my grandmother’s crew of bridge buddies comes over. It’s terrifying,” Casey said, astonished at her ability to string enough words together to form a sentence just moments after Drew Van Allen’s hand had been on her knee. Her inner dating Nazi saluted her proudly.

  “Awesome,” Drew said. “But don’t expect too much. My parents love to put these parties together, claiming that they’re for me or for my second cousin twice removed or for the political refugees of Micronesia, but they’re just an excuse to get all their friends together who insist on telling me the same stories and cracking the same jokes every time. It can be exhausting.”

  “Well, I can’t imagine that it’s worse than the Saturday bridge game. I’m there.”

  “Sounds good,” Drew said, glancing down at his stainless D&G watch. “Shit, I’m supposed to go meet my dad to help plan the menu for the party. Between that and this burger,” Drew said, tucking the final bite between his so incredibly kissable lips, “maybe I’ll make it through until dinner.”

  Casey smiled as they both stood up and Drew began to walk toward the path. “I’ll see you at school—and hopefully on Saturday,” he said. “Oh, and my mom says to tell everyone to dress formal/casual, what ever the hell that means.”

  What ever the hell indeed.

  Casey watched Drew walk away, the green-tinted sunlight filtering down through the elms to bounce off the gleaming white of his T-shirt—and she would’ve been happy to just watch him walk for the rest of the day. Well, she thought as a couple on Rollerblades whizzed by, their legs encased in matching hot pink spandex bike shorts, he may never have called, but he finally asked me out…I think. A party definitely counted as a date—she was sure of it.

  Finally, she began moving toward Fifth Avenue, her feet barely touching the pavement as she played out the possible scenarios of next Saturday night in her head, picturing what she might say to Drew, and, more important, what he just might say back…

  keep it

  in the

  closet

  Phoebe Reynaud stood in her mother’s walk-in closet, surrounded by the holy trinity of Posen, Dolce, and Prada, her feet sinking into the pearl gray carpet as she surveyed the endless selection of couture—most of it intact, with the price tags still dangling. Madeline Reynaud’s closet was the size of a small studio apartment—if studio apartments resembled high-end clothing shops. The scent of cedar and lavender hung sweetly in the air, and the closet was stacked floor to ceiling with more clothes, shoes, and handbags than one person could possibly ever wear in a lifetime. And speaking of lifetimes, Phoebe’s would definitely be over if Madeline caught her rummaging through her stuff again…

  School that week had been stressful times infinity, what with Madison and Casey circling each other warily like sharks, and the killer History test she’d had on Wednesday. Now that the weekend was finally here, all Phoebe could think about was going to Drew’s party tomorrow night and blowing off some serious steam—along with her sobriety…

  Phoebe flipped through the white satin hangers in her mother’s stuffed closet, the scent of Joy—Madeline’s favorite perfume—wafting through the expansive space. There was the cutest Dior sundress in white eyelet and bright yellow stripes that she knew Madeline hadn’t worn and wouldn’t miss. Phoebe pulled the dress out and held it up to her own body, fingering the soft fabric. Besides, she knew that her mother was, at this moment, having her feet massaged at her weekly appointment at Elizabeth Arden, and by the time Madeline walked through the front door, Phoebe would be zipped up and long gone…

  Phoebe turned to look at the large wall devoted solely to shoes. It was weird: As meticulous as Madeline was about everything in her life, her closet was always a complete mess. Phoebe thought she remembered her mother bringing home a pair of Jimmy Choo canary-yellow satin sandals last week, but as she looked at the endless rows of shoes, she didn’t see them. Of course, she could always wear a pair of her own sandals, but what fun was that? Phoebe knew that she didn’t have anything that would match the dress exactly, and as much as she didn’t want to admit it, stealing from Madeline gave her a perverse thrill. Deep down she knew that getting back at her mother by taking her clothes without permission was childish and stupid, but she just couldn’t seem to stop doing it. And it wasn’t like Madeline would suddenly start treating her like a daughter instead of a rival, even if she started taking more of an interest in her own closet.

  There was also something about new clothes that Phoebe needed. Going out in a dress she’d worn before made her feel exposed and vulnerable—as if everyone was talking about her. She hated that feeling more than anything—and the whispering and giggling that came with it. A new outfit was armor, a kind of social protection, and the only kinds of stares Phoebe wanted to attract were those of envy. The pressure to keep up her fashion-plate image was enormous, and sometimes, when she was especially tired, Phoebe wondered what it would be like to wear sweats when she felt like it, and not wake up two hours early every morning to blow her hair out perfectly. Not that she’d be finding out anytime soon…

  Now where were those shoes? Phoebe narrowed her dark eyes, scanning the crowded shelves for the coveted footwear. A flash of bright yellow at the top caught her eye, and she smiled contentedly as she held onto the custom cedar shelves with both hands, kicking off her white Coach flip-flops and climbing up to the top, her fingers closing around the bright satin ribbons. Mission accomplished, she thought as her hand closed around the soft, cool satin. But just as she grabbed the shoes, her left foot slipped on the smooth shelving, and she fell backward, landing in a massive pile of Vuitton luggage with only one sandal grasped in her hand.

  That’s just great. Now I’ll have to climb up there all over again. Phoebe rubbed her tailbone—she’d landed right on a zipper—and pushed a suitcase out of her way. As she moved the soft canvas bag, a pile of crinkled envelopes spilled out, completely covering the floor in front of her. She picked up the envelope under her foot and turned it over. The front was blank. She opened it and pulled out a piece of folded white paper. A photograph tumbled out onto the carpet, landing faceup.

  Phoebe stared down uncomprehendingly. Madeline smiled into the camera, her hair pulled back in a twist that accentuated her fine bones. Phoebe recognized the ivory Oscar de la Renta silk gown her mother wore to last year’s Christmas party at the Met, but the man with the dark, close-cropped beard who held Madeline around the waist, his face half-hidden in profile, was entirely unfamiliar. There was a look
in Madeline’s eyes that Phoebe hadn’t seen in a long, long time—happiness. And everything about the photograph—from the body language to the expression on her mother’s face—told her that whoever this guy was, they were definitely more than just friends. Phoebe opened the letter, the words on the page rapidly blurring from the tears filling her eyes, her head jumbled with questions. Who had taken the picture, anyway? And how long had this been going on? Suddenly, all her parents’ recent arguments began to make sense. Of course her father was angry—and why shouldn’t he be? Her mother was having an affair. Phoebe opened the letter, her eyes scanning the page.

  My Darling Madeline,

  When I think it’s been ten hours since I’ve held you in my arms, I can barely stand it. Meet me tomorrow night, 8 o’clock at the Soho Grand. I’ll be waiting for you—as always.

  R.

  Phoebe slowly refolded the letter, placing it back in the envelope, absentmindedly smoothing out the creases with the palm of her hand. There was a rustling noise in the hallway outside the bedroom door, and Phoebe jumped up, pushing the pile of envelopes back into the suitcase as fast as she could, her heart pounding. Crap. She’s home. As Phoebe stood up, her cheeks flushed and pink, she practically ran into Madeline, who was standing in the doorway, tapping one bright red fingernail against the door frame, her eyes narrowed into a squint.

  “Hey, Mom,” Phoebe said nervously, unable to keep her voice from shaking, “aren’t you home kind of early?” Madeline’s mouth was set in a tight smile, and her glossy red lips shone above the white cashmere TSE T-shirt that exposed her prominent collarbones. Her thin legs were draped in white silk Ralph Lauren pants that swirled as she moved.

  “The real question, Phoebe,” Madeline began, her eyes sweeping the expanse of the closet, taking in the single yellow shoe on the floor, “is what you’re doing in my closet, when I’ve specifically asked you to stay out?”

  “I was just leaving,” Phoebe said quickly, squeezing past her mother, her nostrils filling with the scent of Serge Lutens Un Bois Vanille. “The Van Allens’ party is tomorrow night,” Phoebe said as she squeezed by, trying not to brush against Madeline’s clothes with her own body. “Are you going?” Phoebe stopped in the hallway, turning back to face her mother, who now had the offending yellow sandal in one hand, and was busily shaking her head in disapproval.

  “No.” Madeline walked over to her vanity and sat down, staring into the mirror with a dreamy, faraway expression on her face. Was it the fading sunlight coming through the huge bay windows, or did Madeline look almost rapturous sitting there? Phoebe had seen that expression before—it was the same look that came over Casey’s face whenever Drew walked by, the same look that lit up Sophie’s eyes when she told Phoebe about that ridiculous townie pool boy she had wanted to hook up with this past summer. “I’m simply exhausted,” Madeline said languidly, running a hand slowly over one cheek, a secret smile parting her lips.

  “Oh,” Phoebe said, backing out of the room, her stomach suddenly queasy. “Okay. Well, see you later.”

  Madeline nodded, picking up a MAC eyeliner brush as she leaned into the mirror. Just as Phoebe was about to make a run for it, Madeline suddenly spoke again, her eyes holding Phoebe’s with a glacial stare. “Oh, and Phoebe? Before I forget—do stay out of my closet from now on.”

  “Sure,” Phoebe said, swallowing hard and walking out of the room before Madeline could say anything else. As she walked the long hallway back to her own room, Phoebe’s head was swimming. She couldn’t believe it—her own mother, having an affair! Wasn’t she too old for this kind of stuff? And what about her father? Phoebe knew for a fact that her dad despised gossip and hated the idea that anyone might be talking about him or his family. This was not going to go over well at all.

  One thing was for sure, Phoebe thought as she walked into her bedroom, closing the door firmly behind her. She was going to make it her personal mission to find out both who her mother was seeing, and how long it had been going on—even if it tore her family apart forever.

  baby

  needs a

  new pair

  of shoes

  Casey meandered along Madison Avenue, peering into store windows, sighing in awe at the amazing white taffeta Chanel tutu-style dress hanging off the plastic, anorexic body of a mannequin in the front window of Barneys. She felt like a starving person herself—with her nose pressed up against a bakery window. Why did she have to be, well, her? And why did money always have to be such a problem? Umm, her inner mediator answered back in an infinitely reasonable tone of voice, because you moved to one of the most expensive cities in the world, and you’re attending an ultra-exclusive high school where the students all get new BMWs for their sixteenth birthdays—even though the cost of parking in New York is more outrageous than rent…

  Okay, you’ve got a point, Casey thought, bringing her ridiculously priced, four-dollar iced latte up to her lips and sipping at the cool, milky drink morosely, which just reminded her that she was broke, broke, broke. Yesterday afternoon, The Bram Clan had decided to make a pit stop at Barneys after school, and Sophie and Phoebe hadn’t wasted any time talking Casey into buying the distressed pair of Seven jeans she was currently wearing. As a result, she was now almost completely tapped out. When she’d left Normal, her mother had given her what she called “enough money to last a few months,” but five hundred dollars was pocket change to the crowd she currently found herself in, and Casey didn’t know how she was ever going to keep up. She had to look amazing at Drew’s party tomorrow night—“fall to your knees and worship” amazing—but that was never going to happen if she wore anything from her moose-infested closet.

  First off, Drew had practically seen her whole wardrobe—and she’d only been in New York a few weeks! Casey drained her drink, sucking noisily at the straw and throwing the empty cup into a metal trash can on the corner. Maybe she could just buy a cute top and wear it with her new jeans—but it wasn’t like a top in any of the stores on Madison or Fifth would be any less expensive than buying a whole dress. Casey stared up at the blue cloudless sky and wiped away a film of sweat and humidity from her forehead. They didn’t call it the Baked Apple for nothing. Living in the Midwest had taught her to tolerate the heat, but with what it did to her hair—not to mention her constant sweating—she could never really learn to love it.

  Casey turned around and faced the imposing edifice that was Barneys, watching as one well-heeled, impossibly chic woman after another walked through the doors before she reluctantly turned around and began wandering aimlessly downtown, watching as the numbers on the street signs sunk gradually lower with every step she took—along with her mood. Her phone starting buzzing insistently against her leg, and she pulled it from the pocket of her new jeans, flipping it open.

  “Casey,” Barbara’s clipped, Anglicized vowels blared through the phone. “How are you, love?”

  “Okay,” Casey sighed, switching ears. It was so damn hot that her phone was already the temperature of a smoking griddle, and she’d only been on it for five seconds, tops. “I guess,” she added, squinting into the sun.

  “I’m on my way to what promises to be a completely fascinating lecture on medieval gossip, of all things, and I thought I’d give you a quick jingle before I go in.”

  “Great,” Casey said dejectedly. What was the use of living in the most exciting city in the world if she’d never have the money to really enjoy it?

  “London is so fabulous this time of year. Why, the other day I was at the National Gallery and…”

  Casey only half-listened as her mother went on and on. Sometimes she wished more than anything that Barbara was the kind of mother that she could go to with stuff like this. Weren’t dates supposed to be the kind of female bonding hoo-ha that mothers lived for? There was probably no harm in just asking if she could use the credit card to maybe buy a new dress for to night. Casey took a deep breath before interrupting Barbara’s endless stream of chatter.

  “
So, I’ve been invited to a party to night, Mom,” she began carefully, “by this guy that goes to my school.”

  “What guy? Is this a date?” Barbara asked, a note of panic creeping into her voice.

  “I don’t know,” Casey mumbled, ducking into a TCBY just to get out of the heat. “Maybe?” The cold air hit her skin like a wet blanket, and goosebumps immediately broke out on her arms. She felt like a wrung-out, damp dishrag, her thin tank sticking to her back like Velcro.

  “Has Nanna met him? Who is he?” Barbara demanded. Casey took a deep breath before answering as a tiny little girl dressed from head to toe in Baby Gap spilled her cup of chocolate yogurt on the floor and began wailing loudly, as if on cue. As she listened to her mother clear her throat halfway around the world, Casey was regretting opening her own mouth in the first place. No dress was worth Barbara’s own particular version of the Spanish Inquisition.

  “No, Nanna hasn’t met him yet,” Casey said, exhaling in annoyance. “His name is Drew Van Allen—he’s just this guy I go to school with. His dad’s a chef and his mom’s some kind of painter.”

  “Van Allen,” her mother mused, momentarily distracted. “That sounds familiar…” Barbara’s voice trailed off and Casey could hear the wail of sirens over the staticky transatlantic line. “Wait,” she said excitedly, “you don’t mean Allegra Van Allen?”