“Do I look okay?” India whispered anxiously to Baby, once she was a safe distance away from the group of younger girls.
“Yeah, sure,” Baby said distractedly, stopping to examine the trophy case that sat in the middle of the main hall.
“I’m going to run to the ladies’ room,” India decided. She needed to make sure she wasn’t having some type of makeup crisis and wanted to redo her lipstick, re-brush her teeth, and make sure her hair didn’t have any of those weird flyaways. “We have French in five minutes!” she added with a nervous screech. Baby just waved in the direction of the bathroom.
* * *
India stood in front of the mirror above the row of sinks and washed her hands even though she didn’t need to. To the left and right of her were girls she guessed were her classmates. She smiled in the mirror at one girl with straight black bangs who was applying way too much MAC blush. It was a flattering color on everyone—but not if you caked it on.
“Hi, I’m India,” she blurted, surprised by her boldness. But there was something sort of friendly in the girl’s brown eyes.
“Brittany.” The girl smiled briefly, but then returned to frowning at her reflection. India quickly dried her hands with a paper towel, unsure whether the girl was being nice or had totally blown her off.
As she emerged from the bathroom with only a minute to spare, India glanced down at the schedule taped into her pink leather planner. ROOM 125, AP FRENCH WITH MADAME ROGERS.
Room 125 was just down the hall. She walked in, passing Baby, who was sitting by the exit. India wanted to sit front and center.
“So, Vanity left Paris early to hang out in Sagaponack?” she overheard Brittany ask as she walked further into the room. She sat down next to a large-chested girl wearing a cream-colored puff-sleeve Calvin Klein blouse.
“Yeah,” the busty girl said in a bored voice, playing with the two chunky Hermès bangles pushed past her elbow. “I was only in the Hamptons for a few weeks. I’m kind of over the whole East Coast thing.”
India smiled. Everyone sounded so sophisticated. But Vanity...wasn’t that the name of that bitch from Barneys? India calmly smoothed her hair. It was probably just a really common Upper East Side name, like Chloe or Madison.
Or Baby?
The bosomy girl looked in her direction expectantly. India smiled back, feeling giddy.
“Steal any more bags yesterday?” India heard a voice behind her. As she turned around, she found herself face-to-face with her own reflection, winking back at her from the brass buckle of a Givenchy satchel. She slowly looked up. Standing there, smiling down at her, was Vanity Laurent, wearing beige Louboutin pumps and a perfectly worn-in uniform, looking even taller and bitchier than she had yesterday.
“Um, hi,” India mumbled, avoiding eye contact, as two words—oh and shit—ran through her head.
“Next time, you might want to check out the Barneys outlet in New Jersey,” Vanity announced, smiling at the two girls behind India. “Also, you’re going to have to move, because you’re in my seat.” Vanity unpacked a notebook and a sleek silver pen from the satchel and spread them territorially across the desk. “You can sit over by the door, in case you need to make a run for it,” she suggested in a syrupy fake voice. “After you steal Madame Rogers’s purse or whatever.”
Her face flaming, India picked up her bag and looked around for another seat. The classroom had filled up quickly, and the only place available was right next to Baby, who hadn’t taken off her sunglasses and was carving something into the wooden desk with her pen. With her wrinkly blazer, tousled hair, and dark shades, she looked like Naomi Campbell in the rehab years. India slowly walked over to join her. She loved her sister, but there was something undeniably dorky about sitting next to each other on the first day of school, like they had no other friends.
Do they have any other friends?
“Hey.” She slid into her seat.
“Who was that?” Baby asked, pushing the sunglasses off her face and onto her head so she could examine the pretty, olive-skinned girl glaring at both of them. Baby smiled fakely at her and waved. The Upper East Side was so full of bitches, she thought. “What’s her problem, anyway?” she asked loudly.
India could practically feel all eyes on the two of them. This was not the way she wanted to meet her new classmates. “I don’t know,” she whispered back. She hadn’t told Baby about the Barneys debacle yesterday, knowing Baby would never let her live it down. She pulled her black cashmere cardigan on and buttoned it, just in case her hives began to flare up.
Madame Rogers walked in wearing an elegant black pantsuit. She was in her sixties, but had aged well. She put her books on the desk and surveyed the roomful of girls. “Welcome back,” she said. “Vanity, as always, a delight to have you here,” she added, noting Vanity seated front and center, practically on top of her desk. It was impossible not to notice whomever was in that seat, India thought bitterly. “Since we have some new girls in the class, we will begin by introducing ourselves in French. Vanity, can you take notes on the board?”
Vanity stood up. “Of course. Is there a piece of chalk I can steal?” she hissed in India’s direction as she gracefully sashayed to the front of the room, her auburn hair swinging.
Madame Rogers spotted India and Baby and clapped her hands together as if seeing them was the most thrilling thing she had ever experienced. “Nos nouvelles étudiantes!” she cried. “Peut-être voulez-vous vous présenter?” Our new students! Perhaps you’d like to introduce yourselves?
India cleared her throat, trying not to look too eager. She knew exactly what she was going to say; she’d been running the introduction through her head all morning. My name is India Cartwright. I just moved here from Sconset, Nantucket, and am so excited to be living here. My hobbies are—
“Peut-être pourraient-elles commencer par nous parler leurs choix interessants vestimentaires?” Vanity suggested innocently, before India or Baby could get a word out. Maybe they could begin by telling us all about their interesting fashion choices? She held the piece of chalk up to the board as if they might not notice the sarcasm in her tone and actually respond.
“Quelle bitch!” Baby burst out, partially covering her words with the tail end of a very fake sneeze. India’s head whipped around to glare at her sister. Did Baby just curse?
“Excusez-moi?” Madame Rogers’s aristocratic face grew appalled.
“Excusez-moi.” Baby smiled.
Très apologetic.
“Mais, comment dit-on bitch?” Baby continued, speaking in perfect French. “Parce que je pense que c’est le meilleur mot pour décrire cette fille.” She pointed at Vanity.
India quickly parsed the words. Baby had spoken rapidly, like a true native speaker, which was impressive. Except that she had just announced that Vanity Laurent was a total bitch.
“Je m’excuse,” India quickly broke the shocked silence, not even looking at Baby. What the fuck was her sister doing?
“Sortez!” Madame Rogers demanded. “To Mrs. McLean’s office, please,” she added more softly, obviously trying to maintain her composure and regain control of the class.
“Au revoir.” Baby grinned and collected her enormous messenger bag. Winking at India, she sauntered out of the classroom.
India looked over at Mrs. Rogers, frantic to fix the mess her sister had made. “It’s her first day of school and she gets nervous. It’s sort of a disorder. Like, French Tourette’s syndrome,” India announced in desperation.
“That was your sister?” Madame Rogers asked, looking at the roster and dropping any pretense of speaking French. India nodded, even though she was ready to disown Baby at this point. “And you are?”
The room was silent. Vanity was still standing with her chalk poised, waiting to write down the proceedings like a court transcriber.
“India Cartwright. Again, I apologize. It’s not her fault,” India lied. Let Baby sound like a freak. At least the other girls would feel sorry for India for
putting up with a challenged family member. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a broad smile creep across Vanity’s face.
“I apologize, Madame Rogers,” Vanity said primly. “I didn’t realize I would upset her so much. I met India the other day, and if I had known they were sisters, I would have been a little gentler. I know India has some issues, too,” she finished, frowning in concern, like the Cartwright sisters were the saddest girls she’d ever encountered.
The rest of the glass giggled and turned to stare at India.
“Attention!” Madame Rogers tapped her ruler against the wooden desk at the front of the classroom. “I do not want to hear another word from anyone this morning. We’re going to have a verbs quiz instead.”
There was a collective groan as blue books were passed down each row. India could feel twenty sets of angry eyes on her. The girl in front of her thwacked a pile of blue books on her desk; some fluttering to the floor. As India bent down to pick them up, she spotted a hastily scribbled note stuck inside one of the books, obviously intended for a girl down her row. Is the new girl ON something? Think the other one is as much of a freak? The answer was underlined twice in purple, bubbly script: YES.
India crumpled the note and dropped it to the floor. So much for making a good impression. Her life at Emma Willard was already very over.
India: 0. Vanity: 2. But it’s only the first day. There’ll be plenty of time for a rematch.
7
Trey slouched down at his desk in Ms. Kendall’s small, blue-carpeted art history classroom at St. Jude’s School for Boys. It was his last class before lunch, and he couldn’t wait to bolt out the door and undo the tight top button on his pressed white dress shirt. He squirmed in the worn wooden chair, his overly starched khakis rubbing against the backs of his knees.
“Has anyone felt like that?” Ms. Kendall, their young art history teacher looked ecstatically at a slide of Caravaggio’s Conversion of Saint Paul.
Trey studied the painting and imagined explaining it to Kat. He’d had a dream about her again last night, and now he couldn’t get her off his mind. He examined the picture again, looking at how the light was streaming in the window and onto Saint Paul. That was how it had felt. One moment he had been just himself, and then he had seen her and...
God, he was horny.
“Mr. Cartwright, would you like to come to the front of the room and explain some of Caravaggio’s most prominent techniques?”
“I think Duke’s got it,” Trey mumbled as he glanced over at super-scrawny Duke Randall, whose hand was wildly waving in the air. Already he’d heard that most guys had crushes on Ms. Kendall. There was even a rumor that she would invite her favorites back to her office for some “extra studying.” He couldn’t believe these guys were so desperate they were fantasizing about their teachers. She had about six coarse black hairs sticking out of a pear-shaped mole on her chin.
Hot.
As all five feet, five inches of Duke walked up to the large white screen at the front of the room, the bell rang, signaling the end of class.
“Okay, gentlemen. Remember, in art, as in life, it’s all about desire!” Mrs. Kendall clapped her hands and blushed furiously.
Reese paused beside Trey’s desk as he was packing up. “How 'bout we get some grub?” he asked him.
“Sure,” Trey answered as they walked out of the classroom together. The hallway was packed with guys in identical blue, gold-buttoned blazers.
“Okay, I’m gonna head down to my locker. Back in a sec.” Reese turned right and headed toward his locker.
Trey continued down the hall and glanced at the two short guys on either side of his own freshly painted gray locker. They looked like they were headed to meetings on Wall Street rather than calculus class. Trey's cell suddenly beeped and he slid it out of his pocket, hoping that Kat could have somehow found his number.
How about his name?
WORST DAY OF MY LIFE, the text from India read. He grinned at his sister’s tendency to exaggerate. She’d probably found out there were no hair dryers in the locker room or something.
He leaned against the cool metal of the locker and glanced down the hallway. His eyes landed on a pair of legs. Girl’s legs. He traced their familiar bend, up past a shapely thigh, over a plaid pleated knee-length skirt and white starched oxford shirt. And then he saw her.
Kat.
The illusion walked closer to him and Trey yelled out, despite himself, “Kat!”
She looked over in confusion and then broke out into a sunny smile. Her caramel-streaked hair was effortlessly shiny, her eyes animated and bright. Even in the drab fluorescent lighting of the school hallway she looked radiant.
“Reese!” she squealed.
Trey whirled around. Reese himself was just turning the corner behind him.
“Hey!” Reese pulled Kat into a hug while Trey looked on, feeling like he was witnessing a car crash. “Trey, this is my girlfriend, Kiara,” Reese said, resting his arm on her slender shoulder. Trey stared at the girl. It was Kat. His Kat.
Or, uh, Kiara.
Reese looked back and forth between them. Kiara looked like she’d seen a ghost.
The ghost of summer’s past?
“Do you guys know each other?” he asked.
“I don’t know him.” Kiara stepped away from Reese as if she had been slapped. “I wanted to surprise you and he pointed me to your locker. What was your name again?” She looked at the linoleum in front of Trey.
“Trey,” he choked out. He felt like he was trying to talk under water. What the fuck was going on?
“It’s nice to meet you,” Kat said to his feet.
Trey knew he couldn’t look at her. He didn’t want to see her eyes looking at Reese the way she’d looked at him that night on the beach. Had she been lying when she said it was her first time?
“So, I guess me and Kiara are just gonna hang out during lunch. Sorry to bail on you,” Reese said, completely oblivious to the fact that both Trey and Kat were staring at the same spot on the ground. He pulled Kiara’s hand up to his lips and kissed it, as if he wanted everyone to see how in love he was. Trey had already gotten the picture.
“Hey, can we get out of here?” Kiara whispered urgently. Reese could feel her hot breath in his ear. It reminded him of last night, and he found himself getting a little excited, even though it was only twelve thirty and they were in the bland, gray-lockered hallways of St. Jude’s.
“Yeah,” he replied eagerly, then noticed how alarmed her face was. “Are you okay?” He reached out and touched her forehead in concern. Maybe she was getting sick.
“Yeah.” Kiara shrugged her shoulders, and her heart-shaped mouth curved into a smile. “Just, you know, first-day-of-school jitters.”
Or two-timing stress?
“Nice meeting you, Trey,” she said purposefully, not making eye contact.
“You too,” he muttered, shuffling down the hall and resisting the urge to kick something.
* * *
Reese and Kiara walked down the concrete steps of St. Jude’s and turned toward East End Avenue. Without asking, Reese stopped by the vendor on the corner and bought them each a cup of coffee, black for him and two Splendas with 1 percent milk for her, from a metal cart on the corner. He always felt a little manly when he could take care of her, even in little ways.
What more could you want in a guy?
Wordlessly they walked to a wooden bench in Carl Schurz Park and sat down, facing the East River. The park was empty except for one elderly lady shuffling along the promenade with her red sweater-clad Yorkie and a few Rollerbladers noisily skating back and forth. Normally, the river looked totally gross, and you really could imagine bodies floating downstream. But with Kiara by his side, it was almost romantic. Reese sighed in contentment as he draped his arm around he shoulders. He wondered if he could reserve a suite at the Mandarin for after school on such short notice.
“I was thinking about yesterday,” he began. “I was thinkin
g—”
“I was thinking too,” Kiara interrupted, the steam rising up from her coffee cup. He couldn’t wait until later, when they would pour each other glasses of champagne and toast the first night of the rest of their lives. “I was thinking that I need to tell you something,” she continued.
“What is it?” Reese asked. She sounded so serious. The Yorkie had sat down on the ground, but its oblivious owner was still shuffling along. He poked Kiara, hoping she would laugh. She didn’t notice.
“I don’t think we should see each other anymore,” she told him flatly, staring straight ahead at the river.
Reese furrowed his forehead.
“I’ll always love you,” she continued. She put her coffee cup on the ground, balancing it awkwardly on a patch of grass.
“What happened?” Reese demanded. His eyes were stinging, and he could feel blood rushing to his ears. They were supposed to be the golden couple. She was whimsically artistic. He was painfully polite. They were childhood sweethearts. Their relationship was even given a seal of approval by Lady S herself. So what happened? Did she get cold feet?
Or was she looking for more heat?
“There’s someone else,” Kiara said in a rush of words.
“What?” Reese dropped his coffee cup. The brown liquid formed a pool that began seeping toward her vintage black and white Prada flats. Someone else? Someone besides him?
“Oops!” Kiara said as she pulled her feet up to her knees and laughed nervously.
Reese caught a glimpse of her thighs under her skirt, but they weren’t his to look at anymore. They were...someone else’s. He couldn’t think of any words to say. A tear trickled down his face, followed by another, and he angrily brushed them away.
“If you cry, I’m going to cry,” Kiara whimpered. “This is really hard for me, too. I didn’t want to hurt you, but then you were in Europe and I was on the Cape all summer, so...” She trailed off, looking at the water, and then turned to face Reese, tears in her eyes. He realized he had never seen her cry before. “I’ll always love you, but it would be dishonest if we stayed together.” With that, she got up and walked out of the park.
Fifth Avenue #1 Page 4
