Fifth Avenue #1

by Fifth Avenue 1 (retail) (azw3)

  “I’ve just been stressed out recently. I thought hanging out with the mutts might do me good,” Marcelo said, walking quickly to match her stride.

  “They’re not mutts.” Baby glared at him. She wondered what spoiled Marcelo could possibly have to stress out about, but she decided not to ask. The sun was already beginning to set, lacing the brilliantly blue September sky with streaks of orange.

  “So, Baby, how’d you get that name?” Marcelo asked as Nemo stopped to sniff an elm tree on the corner of Fifth near the Frick Museum. The dog’s shaggy blond behind twitched eagerly back and forth.

  “Baby of the family,” she began, giving a condensed version of the story, which she hated. Even though Baby was all for happy-go-lucky, anything-can-happen bohemianism, it was always sort of weird that no doctor in Nantucket had figured out how many babies Edie was going to have. “I was an unexpected surprise. I’m a triplet and my mom thought she was having twins. What about you?”

  “Well, you ou know those overly-dramatic Spanish soap operas? My mom's obsessed with them,” he admitted. “One of her favorite characters was named Marcelo.”

  Baby stared at him, then burst out laughing.

  “Hey!” he said in mock protest as they crossed into the Park. Ahead of them, the path split in several directions. “I didn’t make fun of your name!”

  “I apologize,” she said gultily, pulling the dogs toward the grass. Darwin lifted a leg to pee, and Nemo crouched to take care of his business too. His butt was dangerously close to Marcelo’s Gucci sandal. “Shit!” Baby yelled automatically, then burst into giggles when she saw a coil of poop land on the shoe’s leather strap.

  “Shit!” Marcelo repeated, looking down; then he laughed too. He grimaced as Nemo looked up at him innocently. He slid the sandal off his foot and hobbled to the nearest trash can, next to a green and yellow hot dog cart.

  “You didn’t mean it, did you?” Baby cooed down at Nemo as the hot dog vendor glared warily at the drooling dog.

  “I think he did. Nemo has issues with me,” Marcelo growled menacingly at the dog, who looked noncommittally back at him with his doleful brown eyes.

  “It’s not all about you.” Baby turned, pulled the dogs back toward the bridle path, then looked back, smiling when she saw Marcelo standing helplessly by the trash can with only one shoe. “Come on—walking barefoot won’t kill you.” She pulled Marcelo’s wrist. “As for your dog here, when was the last time he ran?”

  “Ran?” Marcelo looked down at Nemo blankly.

  “See, your owner can’t even remember!” Baby said in a playfully accusing voice to Nemo, who seemed to be smiling up at her. She looked over at Marcelo. “He’s bored! Big dog’s gotta run!” She marched the dogs toward the fenced-in East Lawn, where people were sunbathing or picnicking, trying to enjoy one of the last warm-weather afternoons. She unhooked Nemo’s leash, and he bounded around the perimeter of the grass, woofing maniacally. “See, look!” She looked triumphantly at Marcelo, who was hobbling across the grass, one shoe on, one shoe off.

  “I don’t think dogs are allowed off the leash here,” he said nervously, gesturing at a green and white sign posted on one of the fences surrounding the lawn.

  “Live on the edge!” Baby burst into a run, chasing after Nemo and making barking sounds. Marcelo tore off his other sandal and took off after them, stepping on beach blankets as he crossed the lawn. Finally, he cornered Baby and Nemo by an oak tree, where Baby had collapsed, panting, with the drooling dog standing above her.

  “See, that’s the type of workout they want. Not just marching around the block,” Baby grinned up at Marcelo. The sky looked pretty behind them. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed an overweight bulldog trying to mount Shackleton. He was panting insanely and looked like his round eyeballs were about to pop out of his fat, smushed face.

  “I think you need to have a girl talk with this one,” Marcelo noted, handing Shackleton’s Louis Vuitton leash to her. His polo shirt had come untucked and he looked more casual and relaxed than the preppy red shorts-wearing guy Baby had met two days ago.

  “And I think you better start wearing closed-toe shoes,” Baby teased, leaning back against the oak tree. “So why’s a guy like you spending time with a bunch of dogs, anyway?” she couldn’t help asking. “Don’t you have anybody better to hang out with? Friends? Some possessive girlfriend?”

  Marcelo shrugged, and eased down next to Baby by the foot of the tree. “These guys are easy to be around.” He ruffled Nemo’s blond fur. “What about you? Don’t you have anyone better to hang out with?

  “I just moved here, remember?” Baby retorted, pushing a stray lock of wavy hair out of her eyes. “Not that there’s anyone here I’d actually want to spend time with,” she muttered. She dug her heel into the grass.

  “Hey,” Marcelo said seriously. He leaned back against the tree and his warm hazel eyes searched hers. “Give New York a chance.”

  Sounds like he means give him a chance.

  Baby nodded slowly. Now that she was barefoot in the grass, the city seemed almost nice. If it weren’t for the bitchy girls, the awful uniforms, and leaving her boyfriend behind, she might actually like it here.

  Well, well. Look who’s having a change of heart.

  * * *

  From: Kiara.Talmadge@SeatonArms.edu

  To: Trey.Cartwright@StJudes.edu

  Date: Tuesday, September 9, 9:05 p.m

  Subject: Hi

  When can I see you again?

  xo,

  Kat

  * * *

  From: Trey.Cartwright@StJudes.edu

  To: Kiara.Talmadge@SeatonArms.edu

  Date: Tuesday, September 9, 9:15 p.m.

  Subject: RE: Hi

  I want to see you too, but it would kill Reese. I’m so sorry, but...we can’t.

  21

  On Wednesday evening, Vanity stepped demurely out of the Cashmans’ Lincoln Town Car. Vanity, Marcelo, and the Cashmans were headed to a restaurant Dick had just purchased, Round Table. It was on Charles Street, a cozy street in the West Village that, despite having been filled with celebrity families and investment bankers, still retained the feeling of a bohemian and artsy neighborhood. Marcelo looked stunning in his tailor-made suit, his hazel eyes sparkling and complementing his ocean blue Hermès tie. Vanity couldn’t resist leaning into him as they walked in, making sure they were several steps in front of Dick and Marcelo’s tacky Spanish mom, Tatyana.

  Vanity stopped by Marcelo’s this afternoon, hoping to spend time with him after not seeing him all week. He’d been out walking the dogs, but Dick had invited her to dinner, and now she was supremely glad she’d gone on a Barneys spree the day before school started, because she still had enough Fendi, Prada, and Miu Miu to last her through the month.

  Striding confidently down the cobblestone street, with her handsome boyfriend at her side, Vanity was feeling better than she had all week. India Cartwright had announced today that she was having a second party, but really, Vanity couldn’t care less. It was actually getting sort of sad. She almost felt bad for her.

  Almost.

  Inside, the restaurant had heavy round oak tables and red leather-covered wing chairs. It looked like the setting for an F. Scott Fitzgerald novel, except for the super-skinny, all black-wearing waitstaff. They looked like contestants in an episode of America’s Next Top Skinny Bitch.

  The hostess escorted them to the center see-and-be-seen table and presented them with a bottle of Cristal. As Vanity took a seat, her iPhone vibrated in her emerald green Chanel clutch. She slipped it out secretively and glanced at the small screen under the table.

  OMG HAVE YOU SEEN INDIA’S SEXY BRO! CHECK IT OUT! read the text from Brittany. Attached was a picture of an attractive almond-skinned guy with strong swimmer shoulders wearing a St. Jude’s uniform. At the bottom was one line: WE DEF HAVE TO GO TO HER PARTY!!!

  Vanity angrily slid her phone back into her clutch. Why the fuck were people so interested in Indi
a Cartwright and her lame attempts to be popular? There was no way that clueless wannabe even knew what a good party was.

  Vanity took a liberal swig of her champagne to try to calm her nerves. The bubbles danced down her throat, and she felt a tingly warmth spread through her. India didn’t know what a good party was, but Vanity would show her.

  How generous!

  “I’ve decided to have a party this weekend,” Vanity said, an idea forming. And then she had another brilliant idea. She was glad she had always been so polite to Dick Cashman, because this was the moment where it would all pay off. Perfect, she chanted to herself.

  “You are?” Marcelo asked.

  “Yes. But I don’t know where to have it that will be appropriate. You know, this isn’t just a regular party, it’s to announce my intention to run for student liaison to the board of overseers. It’s a new position at school to uphold private school traditions, so I want somewhere that reflects convention but also modernity.” Vanity smiled confidently as she parroted Dick’s new tagline for the Cashman Lofts, a luxury property in Tribeca that was set to open next month. She couldn’t help congratulating herself on her quick thinking. “Cipriani is so overdone, and I don’t want to rent out a club, which seems so sophomoric,” Vanity said as she drained her glass of champagne.

  Tatyana nodded absently, blinking her vacant eyes and pretending to listen as she sneaked a whole roll into the small dog carrier. It was incredible that Tatyana and Dick had managed to have a kid who was as good-looking as Marcelo. Maybe that was why they’d only had one kid—they didn’t want to hedge their bets.

  “Hold on...convention and modernity,” Dick said, grabbing half a roll and slathering it with butter, ruining the butter pad’s delicate, flower-shaped design. He stuffed the hunk of bread in his mouth and gestured with the knife. “What about the Cashman Lofts?” His eyes gleamed as he snatched up the rest of the baguette.

  “Oh, I couldn’t,” Vanity said sweetly as the waitress refilled her champagne glass.

  Yes, she could.

  “It’ll be great publicity. I’d love to have you kids make a splash. What do you think, Marcelo?”

  “It’s not my party.” Marcelo shrugged and took one of the rolls in the center of the table.

  “It’s our party, Marcelo,” Vanity giggled, giving Tatyana an aren’t guys silly but we love them anyway look right before she shot Marcelo a what the fuck glare. “The lofts sound perfect, Dick.” She smiled, still feeling sort of squeamish uttering his name, even after all these years.

  “Great, so it’s settled!” Dick boomed. “Guess we have lots of things to celebrate, huh? I personally can’t wait to try the steak—they’re supposed to be getting the cows from the Cashman Ranch, but I’ll be the judge to see if those Texas cattle are up to Cashman snuff,” he declared jovially. “So, how many people are coming to this little shindig, anyway?” He gestured to the waitress, who quickly walked over, followed by the chef and his two sous chefs.

  “Oh, you know,” Vanity began, not sure if she should lie and say the party was going to be an intimate gathering. While Dick and Tatyana proceeded to order everything on the menu, she turned to Marcelo. “You could show a little more interest, you know,” she hissed, annoyed that he was acting so blasé about the party, as if he had better things to do. Did he have better things to do? “And where were you this afternoon, anyway? I’ve hardly seen you this week.”

  Marcelo’s eyes shifted guiltily around the restaurant. Finally, they landed on Vanity’s manicured fingernails digging into the white linen tablecloth. “I had to walk the dogs. For my mom,” he explained, even though that didn’t really explain anything. Since when did Marcelo give a fuck about those fleabags?

  Just then, Darwin bounded out of his Louis Vuitton carrier and tore across the table to Vanity, immediately planting a sloppy kiss on her face. She tried to push him away but the pug lunged at her again, scratching her cheek with an errant Swarovski crystal that was coming loose from his Gucci collar.

  “Oww!” Vanity cried. She put a hand to her cheek, shocked when she saw a splotch of blood on her fingers. “Marcelo!” she screeched, pushing the dog across the table at him. For all Vanity knew, she had rivulets of blood gushing down her face.

  “You scared him,” Marcelo muttered, picking up the dog from the top of the table. He cradled him protectively, petting his wrinkled face.

  “I am bleeding,” Vanity seethed. People turned to look, waitresses stopped in their tracks, and the head chef stood there looking positively horrified.

  “Oh no,” Tatyana said, fanning herself with a napkin.

  Vanity pulled her own red silk napkin up to her face and held it tightly, in case she was hemorrhaging. She was practically dying while Marcelo soothed a stupid dog he’d always said he hated.

  “Aww, hell,” Dick said as the waitress dashed to the back. “Tatyana doesn’t do well with blood. You okay, Vanny, baby?” he asked, coming over to her side of the table.

  “I’m fine,” Vanity said through clenched teeth. Marcelo wasn’t even looking at her. Instead, he was looking at his mother, who was hyperventilating as if she might faint at any moment.

  “No, you’re not,” Dick retorted, and Vanity felt one of his pudgy fingers rest on her skin and his yeasty breath near her face. She felt like she was going to throw up. “Honestly, I can’t stand those fucking dogs myself, although she didn’t mean any harm. It was just one of their damn decorations that Tatyana insists they wear on their collars.” He continued to examine her face. “Marcelo, could you help Vanity clean up? I’ll take care of your mother.”

  “Of course.” Marcelo rose from his chair and held his hand out to Vanity. He was the perfect gentleman as always, but Vanity thought she detected a note of exasperation in his voice.

  Vanity’s chair made a loud scraping sound as she pushed it back and held on to Marcelo’s hand, gingerly walking to the ladies’ room and smiling at the rest of the restaurant’s patrons. She was injured, but she was going to make it.

  Somebody get her a Purple Heart.

  22

  “I must admit, I don’t know what Reese is planning with the ridiculous costume he’s wearing, but I would love to film it for the show,” Lady Sterling said confidentially to Trey on Wednesday evening. Reese had sprinted out of the locker room and asked Trey to meet him as soon as possible. He hadn’t said anything about costumes, though, and Halloween was weeks away.

  Lady Sterling ushered him into the expansive foyer. “Trey, dear, please do tell your mother I would love to see her. So glad she’s come back to the fold, as they say!” She clicked down the hall, humming to herself.

  Reese appeared at the top of the red-carpeted stairs. “Glad you could make it, man!” he greeted Trey enthusiastically. He was wearing a cheap, light green suit that looked like it had come from the sale rack at Kmart. A patchy mustache was taped to his already stubbly face.

  “What are you up to?” Trey demanded nervously. Did Upper East Side boys enjoy playing dress-up?

  Only when it involves Upper East Side girls!

  “I told my mom this was a swim team initiation. It’s a little complicated,” Reese explained cryptically. He gestured Trey to come upstairs. His bedroom was cluttered with heavy antiques, making it look more like a guest room in a British manor than a sixteen-year-old boy’s room. “First, clothing,” he said, holding a powder blue suit up to Trey.

  Trey shook his head in disbelief. “You have to explain what that suit is doing in your closet.” The suit was so stiff, it looked like it could stand up on its own. Trey held it up and looked at himself in the mirror in Reese’s white-tiled bathroom, then noticed the shelves of neat products lined up in size order over the sink. He picked up a red tube called You Rebel by Benefit and sniffed it cautiously. What was it for?

  Rebellion, obviously.

  “The suit? It’s something my mom won from some charity auction. They auctioned off a complete Saturday Night Fever wardrobe.” Reese shrugged.
>
  “Okay, good.” Trey walked back into the bedroom, relieved he hadn’t actually bought the suit. “So what am I supposed to do with it?”

  “Well, you’re going to put it on, and we’re going to take a walk over to Kiara’s apartment. Eees the perfect disguise,” Reese said in a weird accent that sounded like he had drank six tequila shots after having his wisdom teeth removed. He pretended to scratch his balls and smiled broadly. “Bro, I just need to know what guy she’s with,” he explained in a normal voice.

  “And then you’re going to take him on in pants that are twenty-three sizes too small?” Trey asked, looking at the hem of Reese’s ridiculous pants. They were about six inches too short.

  “No, it’s just that I don’t want her to recognize me,” Reese said, as if it were the most logical plan in the world. “You said you’d come. Dude, I’ll buy donuts,” he offered.

  Trey looked into Reese’s imploring eyes, thinking about the e-mail Kat had sent him yesterday. God, he wanted to see her, but Reese had actually cried into his beer the other night. What else could he do? “Okay,” he nodded, even though he knew it was a very bad idea.

  “Thank you,” Reese said, now all business. “So, I have this.” He began, pulling out another fake mustache from a heavy chest of drawers. The hairs had matted together in several places and looked like a collection of mating spiders.

  “This is supposed to go near my mouth?” Trey demanded. The hairs on the mustache looked suspiciously pubelike.

  “Yeah.” Reese grabbed it back and squirted a thin trail of a gluelike substance on it, then passed it back to Trey.

  Trey shook his head and attempted to paste the nasty moustache to his upper lip. Next he changed into the awful suit. I’m doing this for my boy, he reminded himself as he pulled the tight powder blue bell-bottoms over his striped cotton boxers.