Fifth Avenue #1

by Fifth Avenue 1 (retail) (azw3)

  Throw a fabulous party! she practically heard the Chanel suit whisper back.

  India stepped away from the Chanel jacket and wandered into Grandmother India’s expansive dressing room. She picked up a silver picture frame that housed a photo of Grandmother India when she was in her twenties, before her love affair with Chanel. She wore a boxy Yves Saint Laurent ensemble with Dior pumps. With her glossy hair, slanted eyes, and almond complexion, she looked eerily familiar. India turned to the full-length antique mirror, trying to mimic the elder India’s confident I can get anything I want look. Not bad. She looked glamorous and competent—clearly the right person for the position.

  But is it the right look for making friends?

  India wandered back into the bedroom. Two stuffed bears sat at the small pink and white hand-painted table set up in the corner. A china tea set was displayed on the table’s surface. It was silly and sentimental, a fixture in the nursery that both Edie and the triplets had played in as children. When Grandmother India had become bedridden this past spring, she’d asked for the toy to be placed in her room as a reminder of her own tea parties. She regularly entertained famous socialites and had won over all of New York’s best hostesses by out-hostessing them.

  India picked up a teacup. What better way to introduce students to her—and her past—than by holding an updated, totally cool and unique tea party? Practically skipping with glee, she ran down the stairs and into the dining room, flinging open the glass doors to Grandma India’s china cabinet.

  “What are you doing?” Karen snapped, holding a handful of files and squinting her lopsided blue eyes at India. India wanted to slap her.

  “I need these. Can you give me some packing materials?” she ordered, thrusting a china cup at her.

  “I’m not sure...” Karen hesitated.

  “My mother asked for them.” India felt like stomping her foot. After all, the teacups belonged to her family, not to Karen. “They’re ours,” she added insistently.

  “Okay.” Karen relented, scurrying off to find bubble wrap.

  Even though she knew it was childish and completely inappropriate, India stuck out her tongue at Karen’s retreating backside. The position at Willard was all about being a leader, not a follower, exactly like Grandmother India. When she was voted in, Grandma India, wherever she was, would be so very, very proud.

  When? Cocky much?

  12

  Vanity leaned back against the steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art as she sucked down the Splenda-sweetened dregs of her iced coffee. Brittany Bennett, Draya Coursy, and Trina Jenson were perched around her, smoking cigarettes and occasionally glancing down at the shirtless skater boys performing tricks on the steps below. This was where they always ended up hanging out when there was nowhere else to go, and even though it was kind of boring, Vanity felt totally at home. This was her junior year, when she would get the lead in The Nutcracker, be the queen of New York City, maintain an A-plus average, and finally have sex with Marcelo. It was all too perfect, and it was all about to come true.

  “So what was up with that girl in French?” Brittany asked as she turned her face to the sun and exhaled a cloud of smoke in the direction of the skaters.

  “Baby Cartwright?” Trina looked over and readjusted her glasses. “I don’t know. My mom went to Emma Willard like a million years ago with the Cartwrights’ mom though, and apparently she’s a total freak, too. She told me the reason they moved here is because India slept with the entire island—boys and girls. And then Baby is, like, this crazy, brilliant genius who’s mentally unstable and never washes her clothes. And apparently they also have a brother who swims up to Nantucket on the weekends in a Speedo.” Trina had practically nonexistent eyelashes and eyebrows, giving her a permanently startled expression. “But their grandmother was the India Cartwright, so, you know, they can’t, like, ban India and Baby from Willard...” She trailed off, sighing.

  “The India Cartwright? What does that mean?” Vanity asked. Talking about the Cartwrights was so boring. She’d rather talk about something interesting.

  Like herself, for instance?

  “You don’t know who India Cartwright is?” Trina looked even more surprised than usual. “She was, like, one of those old lady philanthropists. She hung out with Brooke Astor, Annette de la Renta...all them. One of my aunts was friends with her. Apparently, she had affairs with at least one royal in every European country. My aunt said it was her goal or something.” Trina nodded summarily.

  Thank you, Miss Town & Country.

  “Whatever,” Draya said loyally. She leaned back on her elbows so that her big boobs stuck out for the viewing pleasure of the Frisbee-toting St. Jude’s guys walking past. “It’s not like she can win that election thing anyway, right? You’re going to do it.” Draya shaded her eyes from the sun and squinted over at Vanity. Last year, Draya had been Vanity’s best friend. But Draya had spent the summer with her producer dad in L.A., where she’d had a less-than-five-minute fling with Breck O’Dell, the star of some stupid summer movie. Now she was completely full of herself. Not like Vanity was jealous or anything. Having a fling with a B-list movie star was bordering on tacky.

  “You definitely should do it. You’d get to do something about the auditorium and the mirrors and the uniforms, and you’d be responsible for social events—we could totally have a huge, school-funded party with the Riverside Prep boys. Or maybe St. Jude’s. What do you think?” Brittany asked eagerly as she pawed through the purple information packet detailing the position’s duties. She wore two ponytails on either side of her head in some sort of farm girl look that was an attempt to be edgy but actually made her look like a poodle. “You’d probably want to do a party with Riverside Prep because of Marcelo, right?”

  “Probably.” Vanity smiled. For the first time, the position didn’t sound like some sort of lame, résumé-padding activity. Getting the school new uniforms and planning parties could actually be pretty cool. And since she was competing with Elisabeth Cort, that weak-bladdered, unfortunately truck-shaped girl whose breath always smelled like tuna fish, and the klepto India Cartwright, she doubted there’d be much campaigning necessary. Bagging the position would ensure an absolutely sparkling high school transcript, as well as allow her to be even more socially active than she already was, without lifting a finger.

  “Oh my God, Breck just messaged me! He said he’s going to be in the city this weekend!” Draya squealed, pulling out her iPhone and blushing as Trina and Brittany crowded around the screen’s display.

  Vanity rolled her eyes. “Okay, I’m out.” She stood up, brushing the back of her skirt. She would go home and change, and spend the afternoon with Marcelo. Unlike Draya, she had a real boyfriend.

  * * *

  Vanity walked home to 63rd between Fifth and Madison, smiling as she caught sight of the stately ivy-covered townhouse with window flower boxes and an artfully curving front entrance. But as she approached, she paused. Two moving trucks stood outside. Her mother gripped the wrought-iron railing that bordered the front steps, chain-smoking as if her life depended on it.

  “Mother?” she asked, a terrible suspicion gnawing at her. Vivienne’s eyes were as red as her hair, and mascara streaks had dried into awkward rivers down her olive face. Vanity walked closer and stood below her mother on the stoop. “Mom?” she said again, and looked around. Had they decided to redecorate? Three overweight men without shirts were sweating onto the polished surface of their dining room table as they heaved it out the entranceway.

  “Your father...” Vivienne sobbed noisy, racking, French-accented sobs as if she were auditioning for Phèdre, the French tragedy they had read last year in Madame Rogers’s class. In it, a Greek queen plots revenge on her ex-lover before completely going off the deep end. “He has sold the house and the furniture. All of it. All is gone.” She blew into her red silk handkerchief and sniffled. “Bâtard!” Her face clouded menacingly.

  Two more movers were smoking Newports danger
ously close to Vanity’s four-poster canopy bed. Her bed always made her feel like royalty. Its pristine white bedspread had slipped off and was now lying in a heap on the cracked pavement.

  “We’re...homeless?” Vanity exclaimed in disbelief. Maybe her mother was overreacting. It wouldn’t be unusual. Whenever she spoke to Vanity’s father she threw the phone against the wall. She’d been through six iPhones this year.

  “We will live in the upstairs garret,” Vivienne said. “It will be like when I was a girl, living in the cinquième arrondissement and going down the hall for water. It is what we must do. An artist must always suffer,” her mother finished dramatically as she gestured with her still-burning cigarette.

  Vanity narrowed her eyes. The garret was a collection of rooms on the top floor of their townhouse. In the past, her father, who now worked as an investment advisor, had threatened Vivienne with living up there if she didn’t stop spending money. It had become a sort of joke between Vanity and her mother: they used it as storage space for some of the more extravagant and rarely used items they purchased on shopping binges with Charles’s credit cards.

  Hey, lizard-skin Gucci boots need to go somewhere in the summer.

  “Your father said he tried to warn you, but you never returned his calls. He said I had my chance. He never saw that I was an artist! An artist cannot just work. What, he wanted me to go to an office, answer phones?” Vivienne wailed, wringing her small hands. Her tiny dancer’s body had once been limber and elegant but now looked positively frail. One of the moving men raised his eyebrows at the other, who was pulling up his butt crack-revealing pants.

  “You knew he was going to do this?” Vanity cried. She thought of her ancient Nigerian father, his much younger wife, and the stepbrats living in the Perry Street townhouse. Assholes.

  “Well...yes,” Vivienne admitted. The smoker’s lines on her forehead creased.

  “And what am I supposed to do?” Vanity screeched, gripping the iron railing for support. She felt like she was going to throw up.

  “Ah, cherie.” Vivienne stood and enveloped her in a hug. Vanity could feel every one of her vertebrae and the cloying smell of far too much Chanel No. 5. “It will be good for you to learn how to suffer.” Vivienne pulled away and disappeared up the ivy-covered service entrance with a grand flourish.

  Vanity watched her mother’s unnaturally delicate frame retreat in disbelief. One of the movers huffed as he carried a chair from the living room out of the doorway. How could they be so nonchalant? Didn’t they realize they were moving away her life?

  Vanity tried to compose herself. In dance class they’d once had a meditation session where they learned to calm audition nerves by choosing one word and repeating it in their heads. She tried to do that now by imagining her spine in alignment, and her one word: perfect. The instructor had wanted her to choose another word—like fight or focus—warning her that perfection was impossible to achieve. She’d chosen it, anyway.

  “Hello!”

  Vanity turned to see a tiny girl bound down the steps. She looked about five years old and wore a pink tutu and matching wings. Vanity narrowed her eyes at the innocent little girl. A new family was already living in her house? Her parents could have as many dramatic fights as they wanted, but how could he just put Vanity up in the attic, like some antique castoff?

  Or some lizard-skin boots?

  Vanity closed her eyes and massaged her temples, hoping that when she opened them the little girl would be gone and her life would be back to normal.

  “My name’s Satchel! I live here now!”

  Vanity’s eyes flew open. The little girl danced above her on the steps. Her steps.

  “Satchel?” she croaked in disbelief. She glanced down at her Givenchy purse. The sight of the buttery leather comforted her, and she was thankful she had some dignity left. She straightened her shoulders and elongated her neck. Perfect. She would just book a room at the St. Claire. Unless...unless...unless her father had also canceled the credit cards?

  Quelle horreur!

  13

  “Okay, guys! I know it’s the first day back but you’re looking slow,” Coach Siegel yelled from atop the rickety metal lifeguard stand at the 92nd Street Y, where the St. Jude’s team practiced every day at 3 p.m. He blew his shrill-sounding whistle while he discreetly checked out his abs in the stand’s reflective surface. He was twenty-five, had graduated from Stanford only a few years before, and still had oats to sow, as he mentioned to his swimmers at every opportunity.

  In lane three, Reese was listlessly swimming the crawl. He felt Trey pass him, leaving him in his wake as he charged toward the pool wall. Even though he was used to being the fastest, Reese couldn’t get himself to care. Instead, he glided leisurely toward the end of the lane.

  “Sterling, stay behind a second.” Coach hopped off the stand and walked over to Reese, his Adidas slides making a squishing sound against the wet deck. He had a square jaw, skinny legs, and a buff chest that he claimed the ladies loved.

  Reese dragged himself up on the damp pool deck with a sinking feeling in his stomach.

  “Sterling.” Coach Siegel ran his hands through his polished fade. “You were late,” he stated.

  Reese nodded and glanced down at the water pooling on the tiles. One puddle looked sort of like a heart. He put his foot in it, and the water scattered across the blue tile in runny droplets.

  “Sorry, I just had some things to take care of,” he said, not looking Coach in the eye. In fact, he had spent the first fifteen minutes of practice crying in the rarely used bathroom near the upstairs science labs while he looked through all the pictures on his phone that he’d taken with Kiara last spring. She’d looked so thrilled to have his arm around her shoulders. What had gone wrong?

  “Oh-kaaaaay,” Coach Siegel said slowly, drawing the word out to several syllables.

  Reese winced. It wasn’t enough that his girlfriend had stomped all over him, but now he was getting heat for it at practice?

  “I know it’s the first day of school and stuff comes up, but it’s not just you missing the first few minutes. You were off the whole practice. The new kid, Cartwright, clocked you!” Coach Siegel narrowed his eyes at him, waiting for more of an explanation.

  “Sorry, I’m dealing with some personal stuff,” Reese mumbled. The phrase there’s another guy kept banging around his head. Was that true? Who could it possibly be? Some Cape Cod kid? A Riverside Prep guy she had met at a party?

  “Lady trouble?” Coach perked up.

  “No, just...school stuff,” Reese said quickly.

  “Okay, well, hopefully this was just a rough start, because I can’t have my captain perform like you did today.”

  Reese nodded and Coach clapped him on the back.

  “And let me know if it’s lady trouble. Girls can kill you,” he said knowingly.

  Yeah, but we’re so worth it.

  Reese trudged to the locker room, where Jeff Kohl and Ian McDaniel were passing around a silver flask of alcohol. The room was super-humid and smelled like chlorine, BO, and feet.

  “Is niiiiiiiice,” Ian did a ridiculously bad Borat impression as he offered the flask to Trey.

  Trey shook his head. Just then, Reese stormed through the door and tore open his locker. “So, bro, I sucked,” he said. He pulled a Vitamin Water from the side pocket of his overstuffed Speedo swim bag and took a long swig.

  “You seemed fine.” Trey wrung out his towel distractedly. Now that he was out of the pool, he found it impossible to stop thinking about Kat or Kiara or whatever the hell her name really was. How long had she and Reese been dating? Were they in love? Was that why she hadn’t even told him her name? Did Reese have any clue she’d been unfaithful to him this summer?

  “No, I really sucked,” Reese repeated.

  “Hey, bro, you need a beer,” Malik Moore, a muscley junior, yelled. He threw a Budweiser over from the next row of lockers. The can hit the floor, sputtering as it released a hiss of carbonati
on and foam.

  “Not now, man,” Reese said, knowing that, as captain, he should give some half-assed speech about how they weren’t supposed to drink in season, let alone in the locker room. Except he really couldn’t get himself to care. Instead, he wanted to cry.

  Again.

  “So, you know the girl I introduced you to at lunch? Kiara?” Reese asked, his face contorting as he sat down heavily on a worn wooden bench.

  Trey nodded and rubbed water out of his eyes. How could he forget? He pretended to root around in his Speedo bag, not looking at Reese. On the other side of the locker room Malik, Ian, and a few other guys grabbed Chadwick Jenkins, one of the freshmen. “We’re going to shave off your eyebrows, man!” they shouted gleefully, pulling the terrified ninth grader over to a row of sinks.

  “So, she broke up with me right after you left,” Reese said woodenly, not even caring who heard. “She said there was another guy.”

  Trey dropped his Speedo bag on the floor and sat down next to Reese. Kat—Kiara—had broken up with him? She was single again? There was someone else? Did that mean...?

  “Wait, your girlfriend broke up with you?” Malik repeated in disbelief, releasing Chadwick. He sat down next to Reese on the locker room bench. “Lay it on me.” He draped a companionable arm around Reese’s shoulders and opened another can of Bud, unleashing a stream of spray that landed at Trey’s feet.

  “I don’t know what to say. It was out of nowhere. She said there was someone else...and I don’t know who it could be, unless it was some asshole she met on the Cape. Whoever it is, I’ll break his fucking face,” Reese muttered.

  Trey had to stop a smile from spreading, feeling elated and guilty at the same time. Had Kat broken up with Reese because she wanted to be with him?

  And guys are supposed to be so clueless.

  Malik nodded supportively. “This is serious.” Droplets of water from his arm cascaded down Reese’s chest. “Hey guys? Come over here.”