Fifth Avenue #1

by Fifth Avenue 1 (retail) (azw3)

  “Yes, the name is Sterling,” Reese announced confidently. Wordlessly the woman gestured behind her to a tiny lilac and pink waiting room.

  They took seats on the pink leather couch and Trey flipped through magazines, glancing at Vogue while they waited for Reese to be called in. The couch was incredibly comfortable, and Trey felt surprisingly relaxed. No wonder girls loved going to the spa. They were playing the same type of relaxing, flowy music his mother listened to while doing yoga, and the air smelled great: a combination of lavender and cinnamon.

  “Ready?” a tiny, strong-looking Brazilian woman demanded, poking her head into the room. Her forearms were huge, as if she could bench-press two hundred, easy.

  “Go get 'em,” Trey called as Reese followed her into one of the waxing rooms. He looked down at his Adidas slides and noticed a patch of thick, curly black hair on his big toe. He experimentally tugged at one of the longer ones and was surprised at how much it hurt. Thank God he was only there for moral support.

  “Are you done with that?” A dark-skinned girl with her hair cut in a cool, asymmetrical bob that skimmed her chin gestured toward the magazine in Trey’s hand. Trey looked up and realized they were the only two people in the waiting room. She stood above him, and his eyes were immediately drawn upward to her chest. She was pretty, with toned, volleyball-player arms and a graceful collarbone. Not to mention some really terrific boobs.

  “Of course,” he said, handing her the issue of Vogue.

  “Thanks.” The girl took the magazine and sat down next to him, her calf briefly grazing Trey’s hairy leg. He pulled back self-consciously. “Do you come here often?” She raised one perfectly groomed eyebrow at him suggestively.

  “No, I’m just here with my boy, Reese. We’re on a swim team,” Trey explained. She would be cuter if her hair weren’t hanging in her eyes, he decided.

  “Really?” she asked, a smile playing on her coral lips. She pushed her hair back from her face as if reading his mind. “So what does that mean?”

  “Well, the extra hair can kind of slow you down in a race,” Trey began. “So if you want to get faster, you can shave off a ton of time by streamlining,” he parroted back Reese’s explanation.

  “That’s fascinating!”

  Trey couldn’t tell if she was kidding or not. He tried to imagine himself kissing her, his lips pressed against her coral ones, but couldn’t. He heard a riiiiiip sound from the other room, and that’s when it came to him: he should try to hook her up with Reese. It was perfect—they could go waxing together.

  The couple that waxes together stays together.

  Trey smiled and turned on the charm. “Yeah,” he said. “It was Reese’s idea. He’s an amazing swimmer. He’s the captain of our team,” he announced proudly.

  “Captain, huh? What school? I go to Darrow,” she named the small, redbrick hippie school down in the village where seniors were taught in the same classroom as kindergartners. Edie had been raving about it until India found their crappy college placement list online. Only one kid had gone to an Ivy League school in the last five years. The girl stuck out her hand and tucked her legs behind her on the violet couch. “I’m Astra. Astra Hill.”

  “Trey Cartwright. Nice to meet you,” he said. “And it’s not like he’s some dumb jock. He’s fucking brilliant. Like, probably the smartest guy I’ve ever met,” Trey went on randomly. He was thrilled to see a flicker of interest in Astra’s eyes.

  “How long have you known him?” she asked. With the soft music playing in the background and their hips practically touching on the cozy velvet couch, it felt like they were on a date at one of those restaurants that seated couples side by side.

  Trey thought back. “About a week.” He self-consciously touched the scruff of beard he was growing in solidarity with Reese. “It seems like so much longer.”

  “God, you must really like him,” Astra noted, looking a little disappointed. “Do people know?”

  “Know what?” Trey was confused.

  “About you guys?”

  “I guess so,” he said in confusion, not sure what she meant. Behind the desk the receptionist was flipping through a magazine and secretly listening to their conversation.

  “That’s great,” Astra said. “You know, I always thought these Upper East Side schools were so snobby and limited, but that shows that there’s really hope. Maybe you guys could come speak to our Queer and Questioning group over at Darrow. We’re always looking for people to share their experiences.” She nodded encouragingly.

  “Sorry?” Trey asked. He’d been distracted by Astra’s cleavage busting out of her yellow sundress.

  For research purposes only.

  “I mean, I just thought that St. Jude’s might not want to have such an out and proud couple leading the swim team. But I think that’s great!” She sounded like she was praising a three-year-old for having done an exceptionally good job at putting his shoes on the right feet. She took his hand and squeezed it. “I call myself flexual, because I don’t want to label my sexuality and possibly limit an experience. You know, I really admire your bravery...” Astra trailed off, looking searchingly at Trey’s face.

  “Oh, it’s...we’re not...gay!” he stammered, feeling the tips of his ears turn hot.

  “Oh,” Astra said. She flopped back against the velvet seat and let go of his hand.

  “But...I mean...Reese has a lot of feminine qualities,” Trey tripped over the words. He meant that if Astra wanted a gay boyfriend, Reese was even better than a gay boyfriend because he was, well, not. It just didn’t make sense when he tried to say it out loud.

  “What do you mean?” Astra asked, her words clipped.

  “I mean, he’s just my boy,” Trey said, deciding to fall back on the truth. “Reese just got out of a long-term relationship so he’s a little fragile.”

  “Oooh, that’s terrible,” Astra cooed earnestly. “Why did they break up?”

  “Oh, just the usual. They, uh, wanted different things.” Trey tugged at the collar of his white-collared shirt. The room suddenly felt twenty degrees hotter. There was a stifled cry from one of the back rooms. He hoped Reese was okay in there.

  “Are you single?” Astra raised her eyebrows suggestively.

  “Nope. I mean, not really. One of those complicated situations.” He could feel Astra’s eyes boring into him. Lock it in, Cartwright, Trey thought as he willed himself not to think about Kat’s curvy body in his arms. He had to talk Reese up so this Astra chick would forget about her flexuality and realize that Reese had everything she wanted—in one convenient package!

  Somebody’s got a calling in online dating profiles.

  “Reese could have any girl he wanted, but he’s just a one-woman guy,” Trey continued. It was so awkward to pitch another guy’s great qualities. He really did sound kind of gay.

  “I like that. A one-heart, one-love man,” Astra nodded in approval.

  Reese suddenly emerged from the waxing room, looking completely bare, his skin blotchy under the lopsided, Super Mario-style stubble that stood out against the head-to-toe smoothness of the rest of his skin.

  “I just need to sit down.” He collapsed in the seat next to Trey. “And drink a bottle of hundred-proof vodka.” He smiled weakly, not noticing Astra.

  “Your friend is a big baby,” the waxer said disgustedly, pointing at Reese and handing him a small cup of water from the cooler in the corner. “But look at the improvement!” She pulled up his white Lacoste polo to reveal red, perfectly hairless skin on his chest, then slapped him, creating a painful red hand mark. Trey winced.

  “Oh, poor baby,” Astra cooed. “Want to come with me to Pinkberry? It’s important to have a positive sensation after a negative one, you know?”

  Reese smiled at Trey, and Trey gave him a discreet thumbs-up.

  “That sounds great, actually. Reese Sterling,” he said, extending his hand.

  Astra took it eagerly. They began to talk, and Trey pulled out his iPhone. Soon, h
e e-mailed Kat. A response immediately flashed back: Can’t wait.

  Trey smiled. Waxing was awesome. Totally fucking painless!

  “You.” The Brazilian woman pointed at Trey and beckoned him into a lilac-painted back room.

  Until now. Rrrrip!

  26

  Vanity climbed the stairs exiting the subway at Union Square on Friday afternoon. She was on her way to Peridance, where there was an afternoon professional-level barre class that only cost seventeen dollars a pop, or sixteen dollars each if you bought a book of ten. She was determined to stay in shape, even if it meant taking bargain-basement classes at grimy downtown studios. Her phone rang in her pocket as she crossed 16th Street.

  “Hello?” she answered curiously. She hadn’t recognized the number.

  “Dick Cashman here!” a voice boomed.

  Vanity hadn’t spoken to Marcelo at all today. He’d been moody and silent for most of dinner last night, and she had made up for it by allowing Dick to refill her wineglass a few too many times.

  “So, you kids are all set for tomorrow night. We’ve got the bar up and running and a special section of rooms just for you. You should be good to go, Vanny baby!”

  “Oh, that’s too much,” she cooed appreciatively.

  Too much is never enough.

  “No problem, love helping out the ladies in my life. Now just don’t burn the place down. Insurance, you know.”

  He hung up and Vanity turned to walk in the opposite direction, back to the uptown subway. Who gave a fuck about ballet? It wasn’t like missing a few days of classes would matter. Besides, it was the weekend and she’d had a very rough week. There was an adorable pair of gray suede Manolo boots at Barneys, and she still had a gift card from her last birthday. She deserved a present.

  Feeling relieved, she hardly even noticed the subway ride back uptown. It was going to be so much fun to host a party with Marcelo, like the true power couple they were, and would be forevermore.

  BITCHES, WHERE ARE YOU? she texted Brittany as she emerged from the subway, feeling giddy. Coming to the Upper East Side from anywhere else in the city had always reminded Vanity of the moment in The Wizard of Oz where everything turns Technicolor. On the Upper East Side, the sidewalks seemed brighter, the buildings seemed shinier, and everything just seemed better.

  That’s because it is.

  JACKSON HOLE, Brittany texted back, which happened to be the grossest diner in all of Carnegie Hill. The air felt cooler all of a sudden, and Vanity pulled her black Ralph Lauren cardigan around her shoulders. Fall was her favorite time of year. It was a season for renewal, and her life was slowly getting back on track.

  She got to Jackson Hole on Second Avenue and 83rd Street, where Brittany, Draya, and Trina were crowded into a booth in the corner. “Party time tomorrow night, ladies,” Vanity grinned, shooing the middle-aged waiter away without ordering anything. This was not the weekend to get fat.

  “Where is it again?” Draya asked, flipping her shiny hair over her shoulder. Her white Calvin Klein blouse was buttoned up almost to her neck.

  “Cashman Lofts, in Tribeca,” Vanity grinned wickedly at them. In a way, she was grateful for pathetic India Cartwright and her attempts to become popular. She was the kick in the butt Vanity needed to stop crying over her misfortunes, get her shit together, and reassert her dominance over the social scene.

  “And I’m not having it at my house, because I don’t want you puking vodka cranberries on my mother’s bed.” Vanity narrowed her catlike green eyes at Draya. “Again,” she added, remembering how last year Draya had hooked up with another one of her father’s lame young actor connections who’d been in town for some experimental play reading. She’d gotten totally drunk and puked all over Vanity’s bathroom. It was disgusting.

  “Whatever, it’s not like you never got drunk,” Draya retorted as she bit into a large onion ring. The grease on the plate glinted in the late afternoon sun that streamed through the windows. Suddenly, Vanity felt uncontrollably hungry. She grabbed two onion rings and shoved them into her mouth, enjoying the salty taste.

  “Could we maybe stop by India’s party first?” Brittany rolled a slightly deflated cherry around her no-dressing salad and then popped it into her mouth. Brittany was perpetually on a diet to get rid of the five pounds that stood between her hips and her True Religion jeans.

  “Of course not.” Vanity felt a wave of annoyance. Why were they even talking about this girl? “Who actually wanted to go?”

  “Well, she has a fine ass brother.” Brittany shrugged.

  “Okay, so you go and hook up with the brother. Report back to us.” Draya pulled a cigarette out of her bag and lit up. She looked around, daring anyone to reprimand her.

  Just then, India Cartwright herself walked by, enormous shopping bags swinging on her slender arms. She looked as carefree as ever. Vanity narrowed her eyes. How could she possibly look so calm when her social demise was so completely near?

  “India!” Vanity called commandingly.

  India turned, her eyes opening wide in confusion. Her face appeared nervous for a second, but then she squared her jaw and marched over to the table. “Vanity.” She steeled herself and stood at the table. Anyone would think that they were all friends, a perfect picture of the New York City private school world. India surveyed the four girls, pleased when Brittany at least gave her a small half smile. Maybe they could all be friends? She smiled warmly back. All this situation required was some grace and poise, even though she felt Vanity’s hostility. What was her problem, anyway? It wasn’t like she was out to steal her boyfriend or anything.

  Because really, who would do that?

  “India,” Draya dripped sweetly. “So glad to see you.”

  India was suddenly reminded of a documentary she’d seen about shark attacks; they surround their prey before tearing them apart.

  “So, where are you off to?” Vanity asked. “Don’t you have something to steal or some Emma Willard community service to go to? Oh, right,” she pretended to remember. “That’s your sister.”

  India smiled sweetly, keeping her cool. “I was just picking up a few things for my party tomorrow night. I would love it if all of you came.” She looked directly at Vanity. She could feel her heart thumping in her chest, but her voice was steady. Grandmother India would have been so proud of her grace under pressure. She saw Brittany nod, and felt a glimmer of promise. If she could get Brittany, maybe the other girls would follow.

  “I know that in Nantucket you were Miss Crab Queen or whatever, and don’t worry, you’ll probably still hold that title here,” Vanity began.

  Draya and Trina giggled. India flushed. Back in eighth grade she’d been crowned Miss Nantucket Lobster Queen. How had Vanity found out about that?

  “And I got the memo that your grandma was a big deal in the fifties. We all saw the costume retrospective at the Met three years ago. Who cares? Go write a book about her or something, but stop trying to be her.” Vanity stood up so that the two girls were facing each other, eye to eye.

  India seethed. Fine, Vanity could be a bitch to her, but to make fun of her dead grandmother? She felt her eye begin to twitch, a warning sign that tears were about to flow. “The party is at eight. Here’s the information.” She coolly handed out the printed flyers Sydney had helped her make in the Willard computer lab during lunch. She had to admit, they looked fun, edgy, and totally professional—much better than her teacup gimmick.

  “Saturday?” Vanity pretended to study the purple and white flyer. “As you’ve undoubtedly heard by now, I’m having my own party that night, otherwise I would have loved to come. But you and Sydney will have fun together, I’m sure.” Vanity took a celebratory onion ring from Draya’s plate and chomped on it, blinking at India with a bored smile.

  “Have fun at your party,” India said calmly, amazed at her poise. “If any of you change your mind, you’ve got the info. See you.” She stalked off, ignoring the giggles behind her. She made it half a bloc
k over to Park Avenue before the tears began to fall.

  She leaned against a sandstone building to collect herself. When she looked downtown, she could see the graceful arc of the Chrysler building reaching up to the sky. She squeezed her eyes shut, the tears blurring her vision so that all the buildings radiated light. Grandmother India wouldn’t just give up. She’d turn up at Vanity Laurent’s party looking fabulous and poised and steal all the desirable men from Vanity and her friends. Or she’d make sure the party never happened in the first place.

  India marched determinedly downtown to the empty townhouse and booted up her computer, realizing how stupid it was not to own a fucking phone. Nantucket social engagements could be planned in a day planner, but here, she needed something immediate. She logged onto the Emma Willard home page and searched the directory for the address of Vanity Laurent, half hoping it would be in some godforsaken place like Queens or the Upper West Side. Instead, the address was listed as 63rd between Fifth and Madison—right by her grandmother’s house.

  She flew out of her building and practically ran down to Vanity’s. She rang the doorbell, pressing her pink-polished finger against the bell over and over again. Finally, a little girl wearing a silver tiara and a flouncy purple tutu over a patterned dress came to the door. Her long puffy hair was pulled into a neat braid down her back.

  “Is Vanity home?” India asked sweetly, hoping she had the right house.

  “Who’s Vanity?” the girl asked in confusion.

  India stared at the girl and realized that she looked nothing like Vanity. She felt her face start to heat up again. “Vanity Laurent?” she asked in confusion. “Is your mother home?”

  “Is Vanity the name of the lady who lives in the attic?” the girl lisped, chewing on the end of her braid with her one front tooth.

  “I don’t think so...” India trailed off. The attic?

  A tall, stunning woman wearing high-waisted pants and a crisp white button-down came to the door. Her flawless skin made her look like she’d stepped out of an Estée Lauder ad. She squinted at India in the late afternoon sun.