“The events-planning part sounds sort of cool—Vanity will definitely get elected, so we should start thinking of some parties,” Brittany whispered loudly to the girl she was seated next to.
“See what I mean about the Bitch Brigade?” Sydney gestured to Vanity, who was busy typing on her iPhone while whispering to her large-chested friend. “This whole school belongs to Vanity Laurent,” Sydney snorted.
Ignoring her, India stood up and power-walked her way down to Mrs. McLean at the podium. She wanted to be the first in line for the information packet so the headmistress would know how serious she was about the position.
At the front of the auditorium, Vanity rose slowly from her seat, flexing her calf muscles and noticing appreciatively how toned they were. She was glad she’d woken up early and gone to the studio for Madame Walters’ Rise and Shine barre class.
Leisurely she made her way to the stage. Mrs. M was standing behind an oak podium holding a stack of grape-colored folders that perfectly matched her suit. This student liaison thing sounded sort of boring, but it would be a good extracurricular to have on her college applications, and she’d be able to use the Willard budget to plan some cool parties. Besides, her friends had practically forced her to sign up.
As Vanity strolled among the groups of girls streaming out of the auditorium, she noticed Elisabeth Cort, a junior who’d run for and lost practically every leadership position since she’d wet her pants during seventh-grade student council elections, sprint up to the front. Vanity was about to tell her not to bother, but then thought better of it. She approached Mrs. M and smiled, picking up an application packet from the pile. Then she noticed that obnoxious India Cartwright marching up right behind her, a determined glint in her eyes. Vanity bit her lip knowingly. Elisabeth Cort didn’t stand a chance, and neither did the shoplifting island girl with the French Tourette’s sister. How lame of her to even try.
Hey, never underestimate the New England work ethic.
10
Baby frowned. Her sister hadn’t even acknowledged her when she snatched the information packet from Mrs. McLame after the all-school assembly was dismissed. Baby didn’t bother to stop by her locker and instead sprang out the royal blue doors and tore off her stupid, itchy navy blue blazer. She pressed 1 on the speed dial of her slim black iPhone, excited to hear Ace’s voice.
“Oh my God, so I had to go to Brazil on this exchange program my parents signed me up for, and I thought it would be, like, hanging out on the beach and partying in Rio. Instead we were supposed to build houses. Hello, who the fuck knows how to build a house? I’m from fucking New York,” Baby overheard one girl say to another as they strode down the steps. She had stick-straight brown hair and kept bumping into her friend as she walked.
The phone continued to ring, and Baby imagined Ace at his dented red locker in the crowded hallway of NHS. After school, everyone would be heading out to get a snack at the diner or to hang out at the beach a few blocks away. She counted ring number five as she flopped down on the school’s stone steps facing 93rd Street. Girls streamed out of the royal blue doors on either side of her. One almost clocked her with a silver Balenciaga bag as she flipped open her phone.
“Helloo?” Ace’s voice sounded warm and lazy and reminded her of summer picnics and rainstorms and music playing too loudly on the stereo in the muddy brown 1988 Monte Carlo he’d bought from his grandfather. He’d added leopard-print sheets to the back and had wedged a George Foreman grill under the hood for impromptu beachside barbecues.
Talk about pimping a ride.
“It’s me,” she said in a small voice and glared down at the blue and white uniform skirt spread out over her knees. If she were in Nantucket, she’d be wearing one of the hippie dresses from her mom’s closet, which always felt like a second skin. Here, she felt so stifled. The last time she’d worn a knee-length skirt that buttoned at the waist had been when she was five and had gone to tea at the Plaza with Grandmother India. “How was school?” she asked, trying to ignore the loud conversations going on all around her.
“I got fucking Funkmaster Smith for English again, which is going to blow, but at least I have a double study.”
Baby giggled, remembering Mr. Smith’s potent BO. She even missed that. Ace felt so far away. She wanted him close to her so badly it hurt.
She heard a rustle in the background. “I want the phone!” a girl’s voice whined impatiently. It was Kendra, one of the peripheral hangers-on whom Baby had known since kindergarten. They used to be friends, but ever since Kendra had become a raging stoner, her interests were now exclusively weed and the college guys who came to Nantucket to work at the restaurants for the summer and never left. “Hey, Ba-ay-bee,” Kendra drew out Baby’s name into three syllables, and Baby knew she must be pretty baked. “So, is there crazy shit going on down there? What’s it like living in New York?”
“Yeah, um, it’s fine,” Baby lied. “I’ll probably be back next weekend for the beach party, though.” Make that definitely, Baby silently amended as she saw a girl yelling at the driver of a sleek town car that had pulled up in front of the school.
“So soon? I’m sure there are much better parties in New York, right?” Kendra drawled lazily.
“Hey, can you put Ace back on?” Baby said shortly. She wasn’t in the mood for one of Kendra’s weed-induced hypothetical conversations.
“Sure,” Kendra agreed. “But don’t worry if something comes up. We’ll get by without you.” Baby heard laughing in the background. They were probably already piling into Ace’s car by now. She kicked at the stone step with her heel in frustration and jealousy.
“So, you think you really might be able to come on Friday? Don’t you have to go to a cotillion or an opera or something?” Ace asked in his sleepy-stoner voice.
“It’s New York, not the Deep South!” Baby smiled. She loved Ace’s utter lack of pretension.
And regional knowledge?
“Of course I’ll come. I can’t miss the first beach party of the school year.” Baby was counting down the hours. She couldn’t wait to sleep with Ace outside in her hammock, only a few steps from the ocean.
“Cool.”
Baby could almost imagine him nodding in agreement.
“Anyway, we’re all heading down to the dock, so I better get going. I miss you,” he finished.
“I miss you too,” Baby echoed, and hung up the phone.
She stood up and crossed the street, unsure of what to do with herself for the rest of the afternoon. She considered waiting for India, but her sister seemed to be intentionally ignoring her, so Baby decided to intentionally ignore her right back. She determinedly stepped off the curb.
“Watch where you’re going, baby!” a bike messenger yelled as he took a tight turn onto Madison and almost ran into her. Hearing her name yelled in a voice so angry and hard instead of warm and soft, Baby felt a red-hot surge of rage—at her mother, at her new school, at all of New York City—shoot up through her tiny frame.
“Fuck you!” she yelled angrily. A group of elderly ladies standing by the bus stop began whispering among themselves. Baby seethed. She hated New York. Everyone was the same. Those ladies were exactly like Vanity Laurent and her bitch crowd, except two hundred years older.
Mad at herself for even caring what they thought, she ducked into a nearby Starbucks and bought an iced latte from the over-caffeinated barista who shouted out every single order. As soon as she took a sip, she wanted to spit out the ultra-sweet liquid. Back in Nantucket, they would have already had her latte waiting for her by the time she walked down to The Bean, her favorite coffee shop. Chains like Starbucks had been banned on her beloved island.
Hello, they also don’t have Barneys. Or pretty much anything else anyone who’s anyone cares about.
As she pushed open the door to Starbucks and reemerged in the bright sun, she saw a huge yellow labradore pulling on its Gucci leash and dragging its owner, who was also trying to manage two small pugs in match
ing red and blue Marc Jacobs coats. She shook her head, feeling bad for the dogs, who looked as uncomfortable in their outfits as she was. Their owner was a nice-looking biracial boy with closely cut hair, hazel eyes, and broad shoulders. Baby zeroed in on his shorts. The claylike color was Nantucket red—something no one, not even Islanders, would ever wear. No one normal, anyway.
As she watched, the labradoodle deliberately arched its back and unleashed a large brown coil of poop on the guy’s leather sandal. It was almost like he was doing it for Baby’s viewing pleasure.
“Nemo!” the guy cried, looking down in disbelief. Just then, the dog broke free and took off, bumping into a woman’s stroller and excitedly weaving through streams of pedestrians on the sidewalk.
Without thinking, Baby abandoned her latte on the sidewalk and dashed down the street, desperate to catch up with the puppy before it got run over by an MTA bus or an errant town car.
“Get a leash!” Baby heard a woman cry behind her.
Finally she caught up with the dog just as it was about to bound into oncoming traffic on Fifth. It blinked dolefully at her with its warm brown eyes.
“You’re okay,” Baby whispered to the dog and firmly clasped its collar. She picked up its leash, reminded of the scene in Annie where orphan Annie befriends Sandy, the cute stray dog who becomes her best friend and follows her everywhere.
At least she’s made one friend.
“I know you wanted to get away from him, but I have to bring you back to your owner, okay?” She pulled the dog around the corner to Starbucks. Standing outside was the dog’s owner, hopelessly trying to scrape the crap from the top of his foot with a black plastic bag. The pugs had wrapped their leashes around his legs and were sniffing the flower boxes outside the coffee shop.
“Here’s your dog. Except I really don’t think you deserve him,” she said self-righteously as she handed over the leash.
He smiled. He would be cute, she thought, if she went for that handsome, privileged, Upper East Side spoiled type.
And didn’t have a boyfriend?
Nemo sat down next to his owner with his head cocked expectantly. The guy held out the hand that was holding the bag of dog poop, then thought better of it and pulled it back. “Sorry. Normally I would shake hands but...” He shrugged. “I’m Marcelo Cashman. And these monsters”—he glanced down at the dogs, who were now sitting obediently in a neat row, blinking up at Baby and looking not at all monstrous—“are Nemo, Darwin, and Shackleton. I promised my mother I would take care of them for the next few weeks.”
“I’m Baby.” She held out her small hand. She didn’t want to add to the general New York City rudeness.
Clearly.
“Baby,” he repeated, raising his eyebrows.
She narrowed her eyes at him. Her name had been challenged enough today. “Better name than Shackleton,” she said, nodding at the pug in the blue coat.
“My dad’s really into explorers. Real and imaginary.”
“Cute.” Baby petted the dog’s coffee-colored fur. It drooled in appreciation.
“I think maybe we started off on the wrong foot.” Marcelo looked down at his shit-encrusted toes and laughed, surprising Baby. She’d thought he would be more upset about his soiled mandals. Maybe Mr. Red Shorts wasn’t so uptight after all.
Well, you know, shit happens.
“So, you must go to Willard.” Marcelo’s hazel eyes flicked down to her skirt.
Baby blushed and nodded, feeling like a walking advertisement for Upper East Side snobbery.
“I go to Riverside Prep. On the West Side. I’m a junior.” Marcelo glanced up expectantly.
Darwin squirmed toward her. His eyes were bulging so much he looked like a cartoon dog silk-screened on the front of a T-shirt or something.
“Hey, puppy, it was nice meeting you, too,” Baby patted the dog and gazed into his huge trusting eyes. If only people could be so simple. “Good luck,” she told the guy doubtfully, and started to walk away.
“Hey, wait!” Marcelo yelled to her retreating back. “So, all the dogs really seem to like you, and I need some help. Our dog walker ran off with our gardener.”
Baby stopped walking. Was he kidding? She turned to face him again, curious.
“No, seriously. It’s sort of sweet, actually. They got married last week and are on their honeymoon in Niagara Falls. So, anyway, now the dogs are my responsibility, but would you want to help out?”
Baby opened her mouth, ready to say no. Talk about typical. He wanted her to do his dirty work?
“We’d pay you, of course.” Marcelo smiled broadly, as if that solved everything.
Baby considered it. Okay, so this guy’s outfit was totally lame, but his dogs were adorable. Besides, it had to be better than moping around feeling sorry for herself.
Or embarrassing her sister in front of their new classmates.
“Sure,” Baby agreed. “But I don’t need your money. I’ll consider it charity work.”
Marcelo’s face lit up. “I’ll find a way to make it up to you,” he continued, all business. “If you could meet me tomorrow at three at my house? I’m at 68th and Fifth.” He pulled a thick ivory card out of his pocket and handed it to her.
This guy had business cards? She glanced at it briefly, expecting some ridiculously fake-sounding title, but it simply listed his name and address in neat black block lettering. He lived in the penthouse of the Cashman Complexes. Of course his building would share his last name.
But of course.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said crisply, turning on the heel of one flip-flop and stuffing the card into her skirt pocket. Behind her, one of the dogs let out a low-pitched whine.
Sounds like someone’s got a case of puppy love.
11
India didn’t bother looking for Baby after school. If Baby wanted to act like a freak, she could do it all by herself. Instead, she hailed a cab and immediately commanded the driver to bring her to her grandmother’s townhouse on 61st and Park. The house was a four-story pale-peach Italianate-style building that looked more like it belonged in Charleston or San Francisco than on the Upper East Side. India loved how it stood out from the other redbrick buildings surrounding it, like a reminder of how unique and one-of-a-kind India Cartwright the First had actually been. India the Second hoped she had inherited some of that spunk. She’d need it, especially after today’s rocky start.
She pushed open the heavy iron door and groaned when she saw Karen, the mousy-looking paralegal with a penchant for mismatching Ann Taylor separates from the clearance rack. She had been sent by Meyers & Mooreland, the law firm that was handling the Cartwright estate, and had set up a makeshift office right in the middle of the front room to manage the cataloguing and appraisal of Grandma India’s valuables. India hated the way the lawyers had taken over the house. When she’d first found out her family was moving, she’d begged her mother to let them live here, instead of the penthouse on Fifth, but the lawyers and Edie had agreed that it would be easiest and most efficient if the Cartwright family lived elsewhere until the house had been properly catalogued. No matter what, their present penthouse, with its vague smell of cat pee clinging to the bedroom and the tacky, impossible-to-remove Yale sticker on the inside of the medicine cabinet, didn’t feel like home the way Grandmother India’s house did—at least when Grandmother India’s house was devoid of lawyers. The first time she’d stopped by with her mother, India had rescued a dozen vintage French Vogues from the trash.
A true Samaritan. Until she sells them on eBay in exchange for that vintage Hermès Birkin she’s been yearning for.
“Hey!” Karen called cheerfully, not looking up from her laptop.
India ignored her and tromped up the stairs and into her grandmother’s large bedroom suite. She headed straight into the expansive walk-in closet, breathing a sigh of relief as she turned on the muted lights. Row upon row of Chanel suits hung before her, lined up according to color and length. The eighties had
been all about tight leather minis and silk halter tops by Valentino and Nina Ricci, but in her later years Grandmother India had never left the house in anything but a knee-length suit and Ferragamo pumps, her wrists and neck adorned with tasteful jewelry. India closed her eyes, wishing that when she opened them Grandmother India would be there. She’d always known what to say to make India feel better. But when she opened her eyes, all she saw was a closet full of lifeless clothing.
“Can I borrow these when I grow up?” five-year-old India had asked once, holding up a handful of diamond-encrusted pendants and bangles that were a gift from the Count of Lichtenberg.
“No,” her grandmother said as she firmly removed a particularly large diamond and ruby dinner ring from India’s finger. “Diamonds like that are only for women over thirty. And the only diamond that looks better than the one a man gives you is the one you purchase yourself.” With that, Grandmother India had brought young India on her first trip to Tiffany & Co., where she’d been allowed to hand over the platinum AmEx herself after picking out a simple rose drop pendant in a platinum setting.
India touched the buttery linen of a pink suit and sighed. She wished Grandmother India were here so they could have a cup of tea and plan the best way for her to win the position at school. Ever since the assembly today, she knew she had to get elected as student liaison to the board of overseers (aka SLBO). But the liaison would be chosen by the student body, and all the girls seemed completely biased against her. Not only that, but she had less than a week to win them over.
“What should I do?” she whispered, running a finger down the sleeve of a powdery gray suit.
Fifth Avenue #1 Page 6
