The Elite

by Jennifer Banash

  “Hey,” she said nervously, her cheeks reddening. “I guess I’m a little too early.”

  “Nonsense!” Drew’s dad bellowed, pouring Casey a glass of champagne and adding the barest drop of black-currant liquor. “Being fashionably early is the new pork belly!”

  Drew rolled his eyes at Casey. “Dad, what did we tell you about restaurant-speak in social settings?”

  “That it doesn’t work?”

  “Exactly.” Drew rolled his eyes at Casey, who smiled back tentatively. Why had he never realized how pretty she was before? He’d thought she was cute in that yellow thing she had on the other day, but now, in the blue silky dress she had on, which left her shoulders bare, she looked totally stunning. Drew peered at the dress closely. There was something about it that looked scarily familiar to him, jogging his memory. It was almost like he remembered it from somewhere. What ever, Drew shrugged, pushing the thought to the back of his mind, I probably saw it in one of Mad’s stupid fashion magazines. Drew grabbed the Kir from his father, handing it over to Casey—who immediately began warily eyeing the bubbly, slightly pink concoction.

  “It’s a Kir,” Drew explained, holding up his own glass and taking a sip to show his solidarity. “I got scarily addicted to them in Paris this past summer.”

  Casey raised the glass to her lips and closed her eyes as she swallowed. “It’s good!” she said with equal parts surprise and excitement, opening her eyes widely this time. “I don’t usually like the taste of alcohol,” she said apologetically to Drew’s dad.

  “Me neither,” Drew’s dad said with a chuckle as he poured himself another drink.

  “I’m sure you’ve probably figured this out already,” Drew said to Casey while placing his glass down on the countertop and pointing to his father, “but this is my dad, Robert Van Allen.”

  “I’m Casey McCloy.” Casey held out her hand and shook his dad’s hand with a firm grip, a determined expression on her face. Even though some people might think it was a little corny, Drew actually really liked the fact that she obviously wanted to make a good impression on his parents. She was the complete polar opposite of Madison, who avoided his parents—and parents in general—at all costs.

  “Pleased to meet you, Casey,” his dad said, holding out a platter of pea pod–wrapped shrimp to Casey and watching as she took a bite, her eyes widening with plea sure. “Though I have to say—if you’re hanging out with this one,” he motioned to Drew with a jutting thumb, “you might want to think about having your head examined,” he added smugly, popping a melon ball into his mouth.

  “Some people in this nut house are definitely in need of psychiatric attention,” Allegra Van Allen said as she entered the room in a flowing, white Grecian gown, her hair pulled back in a dark twist shot through with metallic gold cord in an intricate geometric pattern, “but I doubt our son is one of them.” Drew watched with a mixture of pride and embarrassment as his mom walked over and linked her arm through his father’s, staring up into his face with wide, dark eyes, a smile turning up the edges of her rose-colored lips.

  “You are an absolute goddess.” Drew smiled at Casey as they watched his father lean down and whisper into his mother’s ear. “Did I mention that I love you in unreasonable amounts?” he went on playfully as he bent even lower, biting her neck. Allegra rolled her eyes helplessly at Drew and Casey, then swatted her husband away with feigned exasperation and short, red-varnished fingernails.

  “Stop being such a pest,” she said with a half-smile, reaching one hand up and smoothing her hair. She turned to Casey, placing one hand on Casey’s bare arm. “Don’t get married,” she whispered conspiratorially, “they become pests overnight when you marry them.”

  Casey grinned. “I’ll try to remember that. By the way, my mom wanted me to tell you that she’s a huge fan of your work—and I can see why. Your paintings are gorgeous.”

  “I like this one, Drew.” Allegra nodded her head approvingly, the gold shadow on her eyelids gleaming in the light. “Smart and beautiful.”

  “A keeper,” his dad called out as he handed the first silver trays to the waiters lined up at the kitchen door.

  “Oh my God,” Drew said laughingly, “we have to get out of here—or they’ll keep this up all night.”

  “Why don’t you show her the view from the terrace,” his mother suggested with a wink. “The setting sun over the tops of the buildings is really…” His mother’s voice broke off as she stared dreamily at his father, who put down the tray he was holding and walked over, clasping her to his side.

  “Romantic,” his father finished, taking his mother’s hand between his own and bringing it up to his lips.

  “Okay, we’re out of here,” Drew said briskly, grabbing Casey’s hand. “Before I throw up.”

  “Can we go check out the terrace?” Casey asked excitedly, her voice a low whisper. Drew looked over at her happy, glowing face. Another thing he was really beginning to like about Casey was the way everything was so new to her. She was capable of finding plea sure and surprise in something as small as a cheeseburger—or a terrace.

  “Of course,” Drew said confidently as he led Casey through the living room, where waiters in tuxedos were beginning to set up the long table filled with food, and out onto the terrace, where the last streaks of purple, yellow, and pink lit up the rapidly darkening sky.

  strangers

  in the

  night

  Phoebe walked into the Van Allens’ apartment with Sophie trailing close behind her, craning her neck to search for Madison over the crush of bodies. The room glowed softly from the ivory candles in sparkling cut-crystal holders that dominated every available surface. Who were these people anyway? she wondered, looking over the mostly unfamiliar sea of faces. Through the large, floor-to-ceiling windows in the Van Allens’ living room, Phoebe could see delicate strings of white Japanese lanterns illuminating the terrace. A pyramid of champagne glasses dominated the long buffet table set up in front of the windows, golden liquid frothing and bubbling around the thin crystal glasses.

  “I don’t see Mad anywhere.” Sophie scanned the well-dressed crowd, her green eyes flitting back and forth like luminous, fighting fish. Phoebe snorted, dismissing Sophie’s ridiculous comment. If years of experience had taught them both anything about Madison, it was that she made it a point to be chronically late. Even if she were there, she’d no doubt be holding court in the center of the room, guys buzzing around her like bees pollinating a rose. She wouldn’t exactly be hiding in a corner. In fact, she’d probably be getting totally random guys to fetch her blinis from the buffet table, or a Diet Coke from the bodega down the street.

  Not that Phoebe was jealous or anything. She knew that she was pretty, but she also knew that she didn’t have Madison’s seemingly bottomless self-confidence. Whenever guys talked to her, she felt decidedly stupid. She never knew what to do or say—or even how to act. And even though she’d spent years watching Madison wrap Drew—and everyone else in the near vicinity—around her little finger, Phoebe didn’t feel like she’d made much progress on the dating front. Whenever a cute guy came up and talked to her, Phoebe always felt like her mouth was glued shut with peanut butter. It was completely annoying—not to mention embarrassing.

  “Wow,” Sophie whispered behind her as she took in the candlelit room and the murmuring hum of the crowd. “Maybe we can meet some cute artist guys or something.”

  “Right,” Phoebe said sourly. “Use your eyes—they’re all, like, thirty!”

  “So what?” Sophie smiled, pushing her bangs away from her left eye with exaggerated movements while simultaneously admiring her candy-pink Tocca mini dress. “I could be down with dating an older guy.”

  “Uh-huh.” Phoebe rolled her eyes and played nervously with the leather fringes on her cream-colored Balenciaga motorcycle bag. “And can you imagine your mom’s reaction when she found out?”

  “She doesn’t have much room to criticize my actions right now,” Sop
hie answered cryptically, as her usually open, rosy face darkened. “Ugh, I really have to pee,” she said crankily. “And I always forget where the bathrooms are here. Drew’s apartment is like an art-infested labyrinth of pretension where all the toilets are ‘installations’ or something.”

  “True.” Phoebe sighed as they pushed their way into the room. “I think there’s definitely one over there,” she said, pointing to the hallway leading to the kitchen and beyond.

  “Okay,” Sophie said with a smile, her skin glowing with Guerlain’s Terracotta bronzing powder. “I’ll be back in a sec. Meet me by the food?” Phoebe nodded, smoothing down her white Ralph Lauren sheath with sweaty palms. Why did she always get so nervous at parties? It wasn’t likely that this one would be any different than the million other stupid Upper East Side soirees she’d been forced to attend since she was in diapers.

  Phoebe stood in front of the buffet table, pretending to contemplate a silver platter of toast points piled with Beluga caviar and crème fraîche, awkwardly crossing her arms over her chest and simultaneously praying that someone she knew—anyone—would come up to talk to her. The artfully arranged platters of food smelled delicious, but over the years she’d made it a rule to never eat at these things. The last thing she needed was to get stuck in a conversation with some totally yummy random guy with a dripping toast point in one hand and a glass of champagne in the other. A mouthful of fish eggs was definitely the anticute. And speaking of cute, the hottest guy she’d ever seen was looking right at her.

  He was standing a few feet away, his blue eyes boring into her white dress like he had X-ray vision. She hoped for her sake that he didn’t—otherwise he’d not only know that she was wearing an ivory lace bra and thong set from La Perla, but he’d also know just how cute she thought he was. His tanned arms hung loosely from a crisp white dress shirt, which he wore untucked over dirty-washed A.P.C. jeans. A bright blue silk tie hung loosely around his neck, and dark, silky hair hung down into his startlingly blue eyes. His full, red lips curled into a smile as her gaze met his. Phoebe nervously looked down at her silver Dior sandals, trying to keep her heart from beating its way out of her chest. When she looked up, he was standing right in front of her, grinning widely.

  “Hey,” he said, his eyes locked on her face. “Now that we’re face-to-face, I can see that it’s a good thing I came over,” he answered, smiling confidently. He reached over and picked up a toast point from the platter on the table, popping the whole thing in his mouth. It was amazing how cute guys were always so totally un-self-conscious—they ate like pigs in front of girls and never even thought twice about it. As he leaned in, Phoebe practically swooned. He smelled like a tropical beach on a hot day. His body gave off the enticing aroma of citrusy cologne mixed with something salty-sweet—and completely delicious.

  “Why is that?” Phoebe asked nervously.

  He swallowed the mouthful of caviar and toast, and grabbed another off the tray. “Well, you’re much too pretty to be standing here all by yourself.”

  Phoebe smiled, biting her bottom lip to keep from collapsing into a pile of nervous giggles. The cutest guy she’d ever seen was totally flirting with her—and she didn’t have the faintest idea of what to do or say next. Life was totally unfair. Phoebe got almost as much male attention as Madison, but the difference was that Phoebe seemed to always end up blowing it by laughing or saying something stupid at the most crucial moment…

  “Are you a friend of Drew’s?” Phoebe asked, looking away from the intensity of his gaze.

  “Sort of,” he said, popping the toast point into his mouth. “Actually, he’s more my sister’s friend than mine.” If she could’ve had a direct conversation with God, she would’ve asked him to create this guy. He was practically redefining the definition of hot with every passing moment.

  “So why are you here then?” Phoebe asked, reaching over and grabbing a glass of champagne to play with. At least she’d have something in her hands to distract her from the fact that she wanted to kiss this guy—whoever he was—more than she’d ever wanted to kiss anyone in her entire life.

  “For the free gourmet snacks, of course.” He shoved his hands in his front pockets, grinning widely. “And the pretty girls,” he added, looking her slowly up and down. Okay, Phoebe thought, inhaling deeply, this guy is definitely trouble. He probably consumed girls like her the way he ate toast points—daily. Wait, check that—maybe hourly. She was in completely over her head and way out of her league. Looking into his eyes—the blue of the Caribbean—she thought, inexplicably, about her mother. If the adrenaline rush she was feeling right now was anything like what her mother experienced each time she met her “friend”—or what ever he was—Phoebe was beginning to see why deviating from the sanctity of marriage might be more than just a little compelling, not to mention dangerous.

  “You don’t remember me, do you?” the boy said, a smile curling up at the edges of his all-too-kissable lips, and then under his breath, almost to himself, he mumbled, “and maybe that’s a good thing…”

  “Where would I remember you from? I don’t know you, do I?” Pheobe said, hoping that she wasn’t in the midst of some massive faux pas that would result in her losing any chance at even five minutes with this guy in an extremely dark room. But how on earth could she possibly forget someone like him? “Do I know your sister or something?”

  The guy’s seemingly unbreakable cool cracked just slightly at her question, a cloud passing quickly over his eyes, his hands grabbing at another toast point to jam into his maw in an attempt to cover his uneasiness. Phoebe was thrown off by this complete one-eighty. Had she done something wrong? Said something wrong? I didn’t even move, she thought, again feeling perplexed, wondering how she could salvage a conversation that was proving to be more confusing than an episode of Lost. He looks exactly how I feel, Phoebe thought, wondering just what the hell was going on.

  “Um, you’ve probably seen her around, you know…I mean, everyone kind of knows everyone up here, right?”

  “Well, what’s her name?” she asked, wanting more than ever to get to the bottom of this. The guy shifted his weight from right foot to left, his face coloring deeply as he looked at her, unable—or unwilling—to speak.

  “There you are!” Sophie proclaimed as she broke the awkward silence between them and walked up to Phoebe, regarding the guy—who Phoebe had silently nicknamed Total Hotness—with obvious disdain. “What are you doing here?” she asked, her tone radiating utter dislike. “Isn’t it bad enough I have to live with you without you showing up here and molesting my friends, too?”

  Sophie turned to Phoebe, a fierce expression taking over her usually placid features. “Was he bothering you?” she demanded, her hands on her hips. Phoebe opened her mouth to protest, but just as she was about to speak, Sophie waved her hand dismissively, cutting her off. “Don’t answer that,” she added, the diamond studs in her ears glinting in the candlelight. “Of course he’s bothering you—he’s my brother, he can’t help it.”

  “Oh, so now I’m your brother?” the guy asked with a mischievous smile. Phoebe felt like her brain had been washed in battery acid. This gorgeous guy was Sophie’s brother? The last time she’d seen Jared was two Christmases ago when he’d organized some ridiculous lacrosse game in the St. John family room with a bunch of sweaty boys in boxers and plaid knee socks—and she’d been decidedly unimpressed.

  “Okay, okay,” he said, smiling sheepishly. “I guess the cat’s out of the bag.”

  “What are you talking about?” Sophie asked irritably.

  “I’m Jared,” the guy formerly known as Total Hotness said, holding out his hand. Phoebe grabbed on in a state of shock, moving her wrist up and down in a daze. “Sophie’s brother.”

  “Ugh, you are not my brother, so just get over it,” Sophie snapped, rolling her eyes.

  “Whoa—chill out, bra,” Jared said soothingly, placing one hand on his sister’s shoulder—a hand that Sophie shrugged off immed
iately.

  “Stop calling me bra!” Sophie grabbed a glass of champagne and downed it in one long swallow. “I don’t even know what that means. And why are you introducing yourself to Phoebe anyway. I’ve only known her since I was two.”

  “I didn’t recognize him,” Phoebe said in what she hoped was a placating voice. She felt like she was walking on eggshells—or land mines. She’d never seen Sophie this cranky. She’d never even seen her angry. Sophie generally had the ecstatically happy, slightly crazed disposition of a game show host. “He’s been gone for a long time, Soph.”

  “Not long enough,” Sophie snorted, grabbing another glass of champagne, sipping more slowly this time. Sophie grabbed Phoebe by the hand and pulled her toward the terrace before she could say good-bye, before she could even speak. As they reached the large French doors, Sophie turned around to face Phoebe, a strange expression on her face.

  “You don’t…like him or anything, do you, Pheebs?” There was almost a pleading note in Sophie’s voice, and all at once Phoebe felt terrible, like she’d been flirting with someone else’s boyfriend—or brother.

  “What do you mean?” Phoebe asked nervously, playing with the leather fringes on her bag. “Of course not.” Sophie’s face relaxed into a smile, and she squeezed Phoebe’s hand, momentarily reassured. Phoebe got a sinking feeling in her stomach. As soon as the words had left her lips, she knew they were a lie.

  “Come on,” Sophie said happily, pushing her bangs from her eyes. “Let’s go outside. I think I see Casey.” Phoebe allowed Sophie to lead her out the door, but she couldn’t help turning back one last time to look at Jared, who stood right where she’d left him. As she looked back at his beautiful face, he winked, and a spark of electricity went through her as the blood rushed to her face.