In Too Deep

by Jennifer Banash

  Drew popped a bite of blini into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “I don’t know,” he said, swallowing hard. “I only moved up here two years ago—I mean, I never felt like I had all that much in common with those kids. I didn’t grow up with all this.” Drew pointed at the room with his fork before plunging into another blini.

  “Are you kidding?” Casey said slowly with amazement. “You’re friends with all of them!” Casey blushed hard, her face pinkening the way it always did when she felt like she’d said too much.

  “I guess so,” Drew said grudgingly, studying his plate, a small smile hovering around his lips. “But my family definitely didn’t always have the kind of money we have now—or at least we haven’t always acted as if we did.”

  “But just because you didn’t grow up with all this”—Casey raised her fork, painting a circle in the air with the shiny silver tines to make her point—“doesn’t necessarily mean that you’re not like them now, does it?” Casey asked tentatively.

  “I guess I really don’t know,” Drew said, conceding the point, the smile sliding from his face, and the dark of his pupils deepening in thought. “At the end of the day, there’s probably no more money in this room than there is in the dining room of, say, WD-50. The difference between downtown and here is how you spend your money—how you show it. I mean, my life hasn’t all been champagne and caviar—but it could’ve been. My parents just don’t really function that way—they’re more from the $300-haircut-that-makes-you-look-like-you-just-crawled-out-of-bed school of being wealthy. And that shit doesn’t really fly here. I see some of these people walking around with their custom-groomed teacup rat dogs with handmade Italian leather collars stuffed into five-thousand-dollar tote bags and think—know—that they’re completely insane, that no one should be spending that much money on stuff like that. But I’m sure some people would look at my life, at my family, and think the same thing. I mean, let’s be real—I’m not exactly chucking it all away to go work for Oxfam, or adopting a pack of Ecuadorian orphans any time soon. So, maybe I should try to figure it all out, you know? Am I like everyone else up here?” Drew took a sip of water, his mouth dry from his admission, his pulse thudding loudly in his ears.

  Casey put down her fork and ran her fingers around the rim of her water glass thoughtfully. “Well, not everybody can be Angelina Jolie,” she said with a smile that illuminated her serious gray eyes. “But you’re right—you should figure it out. And making a documentary would be really awesome. I mean, who better to do it than you since you’ve seen both sides of the fence, right?” Casey’s eyes lit up as she considered the possibility, and Drew leaned slightly forward, resting his elbows lightly on the table.

  “You think?” he answered, reaching across the table and taking her hand again, tracing delicate patterns on her palm with the tips of his fingers. When she closed her eyes and sighed at his touch, he wanted to jump across the table and kiss her until they were both deliriously flinging sour cream everywhere. Somehow, he managed to control himself.

  “I think,” Casey said, opening her eyes and smiling, her gray eyes crinkling at the corners adorably. “Definitely.”

  “Maybe you could help me,” Drew said, reluctantly letting go of her hand so that he could take another bite of rich, caviar goodness.

  Casey shrugged her shoulders and looked confused as she ate the last bite on her plate and chased it with a sip of water. “I don’t know anything about making a documentary,” she said, blotting her full, naturally red lips with a white linen napkin. That was another thing he really liked about Casey—he didn’t have to claw through layers of goop just to kiss her. Mad had worn so much makeup that making out with her had sometimes felt like kissing one of those perfume inserts in Vogue—totally artificial. “Playing the violin is the only thing I’ve ever been good at,” Casey said, a wistful note coming into her voice.

  “I didn’t know you played the violin,” Drew said with surprise, leaning across the table and grabbing the salt, sprinkling it delicately over the tender, boiled potatoes that circled the edge of his plate. “How long have you been playing?” Drew could barely contain his excitement. Just when he thought he’d heard it all, Casey gave him yet another reason to like her even more than he already did.

  “Since I was six,” Casey said with an audible sigh. “But since I’ve moved here, well, not so much anymore. I used to think that I wanted to try to get a chair in a symphony somewhere, someday. But now I’m not so sure.” Casey looked down at the tablecloth, tracing invisible patterns on the spotless white fabric with the tip of her index finger.

  “Will you play something for me sometime?” Drew asked, his mouth full of potatoey goodness.

  “If you want.” Casey smiled, her face flushing pinkly.

  “And, by the way,” Drew said, swallowing hard, “I don’t know much about it either—making a documentary, I mean. I have a pretty high-end Canon that my dad got for Christmas a few years ago and I’ve cut some random footage in Final Cut, so I know the basic tech stuff. But you could help me set up the shots, write the interviews—you know?”

  “Okay,” Casey said excitedly as the waiter cleared their plates, her eyes shining. “It sounds like fun.”

  “Will there be anything else, sir?” The waiter stood there, pen in hand, as Drew stared across the table at Casey, their eyes locked on one another, and Drew found himself mesmerized by the way her gorgeous lips were beginning to curve into a smile.

  “I hope so,” Drew said, still staring at Casey. “Definitely.”

  meet your new mommy

  Sophie St. John threw a heavily distressed denim mini - skirt with a rip up the side to the floor of her plush, electric-violet carpeted closet, and sighed audibly. It was official—even after the relentless shopping she’d been doing lately as an attempt to wage warfare on her parents’ credit cards—the financial equivalent of a professional hit—she still had nothing to wear. Rationally, Sophie knew that her closet was stuffed to the point of ridiculousness with the best Fifth Avenue had to offer, but there was just nothing she felt excited about—and that made the act of getting dressed each morning seem like a chore rather than the total delight it should’ve been. Sophie pulled out an Isaac Mizrahi green-and-blue plaid skirt circa 2002, and stared at it in horror before kicking it behind a pile of weathered Coach monogram luggage piled against one lavender wall.

  Truth was, she hadn’t been excited about anything really since her parents broke the news about her adoption. After the initial euphoric high had worn off, depression had set in, and now she felt more lost than ever. Being her usual bright, bubbly self at school was really starting to take a toll—acting like you didn’t have a care in the world, when in reality you felt like you were carrying Trump Tower on your back, was completely exhausting. At first she’d been beyond excited about the prospect of finding out exactly who her bio mom was, and maybe even meeting her face-to-face. But now she wasn’t so sure how she felt—about anything.

  From deep inside her closet, she heard the unmistakable sound of knuckles rapping lightly on her bedroom door, and, in exasperation, threw the pair of black suede Fendi boots she was holding to the floor before answering. “Come in,” Sophie shouted, her tone matching her mood as she stomped over to the door and flung it open. Her mother, Phyllis St. John, stood in the hallway, a manila envelope in one hand, her face flushed and anxious. Phyllis had obviously just returned from one of her biweekly tennis lessons as she was clad in a demure, white Ralph Lauren tennis skirt with a matching cashmere tank, a cherry red sweater tied casually across her toned shoulders. Sophie wondered how her mother was able to play tennis for two hours straight and stay so spotless—not to mention sweatless. It was a complete and total urban mystery. In fact, someone should get the CSI team to swoop in and figure it out—pronto.

  “Can I come in?” Phyllis asked, looking worried that Sophie might say no and slam the bedroom door in her face. And, although the thought had crossed her mind, Sophie shrugged
her shoulders and opened the door wide, stepping away from the doorway and back into the womblike interior of her closet. Her mother stood there in the center of Sophie’s lavender room, tapping the envelope against one tanned leg, shifting her weight uncomfortably, her dark hair pulled back in a neat twist.

  “So, what’s up?” Sophie asked as she plucked a vintage Zandra Rhodes tunic in light pinks and yellows that positively swam on her from a hanger, and threw it at the discard pile. Phyllis sat on the bed, absentmindedly running her hand over the violet and slate blue silk comforter with one hand and crossing one slim thigh over the other.

  “I have some information for you,” Phyllis said quietly, then cleared her throat noisily before continuing. “About your . . . mother.” Sophie walked out of the closet and stared at her mother. It sounded so completely Twilight Zone to hear her mom describing someone else as her mother. The effect was totally disorientating, like something in her brain had shifted violently. Sophie looked at the manila envelope that Phyllis was nervously turning over in her hands.

  “Is that it?” She gestured at the envelope, her mouth suddenly crazy dry.

  “It’s everything you need to know,” her mother said with a sigh, her shoulders slumping as if she’d been rapidly deflated, a pained expression crossing her unlined face courtesy of bimonthly Botox injections, thank you very much. “If you want to see it, that is.” She held out the envelope hopefully, her platinum and sapphire eternity band glittering in the light.

  “I guess I’ll take a look,” Sophie said, trying to sound like she didn’t care. But on the word “look,” her voice cracked, and she almost burst into tears. As her fingers closed around the smooth paper, she had to concentrate hard, fixing her eyes on her typed name on the label affixed to the front so she didn’t break down. There was no way she could handle crying in front of her mother right now—the whole thing would just turn into some teary mother/daughter bonding experience when all Sophie really wanted was for Phyllis to leave the room so that she could read about her bio mom in peace. It felt way too personal to share with anyone else—even the woman she’d thought of as her own flesh and blood for almost sixteen years.

  “Well, I have to meet your father for dinner, so I’d better get changed,” Phyllis said with forced brightness, averting her blue eyes from her daughter’s face and walking briskly to the bedroom door. Sophie could feel her mother’s pain—it was practically sucking all the oxygen out of the room—but she felt helpless, like there was nothing she could do about it. Sophie had spent most of her life so far putting other people’s feelings before her own—but for some reason she just couldn’t do that now. Even for the person who had raised her, who she was supposed to love more than anything. But maybe that’s the point, Sophie thought as she watched Phyllis walk stiffly out of the room. She’s not my mother. Not really. But what made someone a mother anyway? Was biology absolutely everything? Maybe she was placing too much importance on some random collection of eggs and sperm . . .

  As soon as the door closed behind her, Sophie sat down on her bed, staring at the envelope in her lap, and trying to breathe regularly as she contemplated opening it. She hadn’t cut herself since her parents had told her she was adopted, and, at times like these, it was really hard not to simply walk into the bathroom, pop the blade in her razor from its casing, and dig into her own flesh until she cried tears of relief. What she missed the most about cutting was the calm that followed, how she’d feel all quiet inside herself, ready to move on to the next disaster. Nothing about her life was calm anymore, but since she hadn’t run to the bathroom yet, she supposed the combination of going to therapy when she felt like it and meds was finally helping. Sophie put her index finger in her mouth and began to gnaw on her nail instead. That stupid fucking envelope was like Pandora’s box—once she opened it, nothing in her life would ever be the same again. But things are already different, she thought as she took a deep breath, running her hand over the slick paper, the sharp edge slicing the tip of her index finger. And even if I don’t open it, there’s no going back.

  Sophie opened the envelope and stared blankly down at the eerily familiar face of an attractive woman in her late thirties, Sophie’s own honey blond hair cascading past her shoulders, and bottle-glass green eyes shining in her angular face. As Sophie perused the rows of typed information, her mouth fell open in shock when she arrived at the name written at the bottom of the sheaf of legal documents: Melissa Von Norton.

  “Holy crap,” Sophie whispered as she traced a finger over the smooth contours of her mother’s face. Melissa Von Norton was one of the most highly recognizable and respected actresses in Hollywood—more Meryl Streep than Julia Roberts—who was known for her relentlessly angelic beauty, as well as her penchant for accepting roles in gritty, independent films. She’d even been nominated for an Oscar one year, but lost out to Dame Judi Dench in the final moments.

  Sophie closed the envelope and sat on the edge of her bed in shock. Whoa. This was big—bigger than she’d ever dreamed possible, and there was no way she was going to be able to keep it a secret anymore. She had to talk to somebody. And fast.

  Sophie grabbed her phone and opened her call list. Madison was definitely out. At least until she knew more—like whether or not her mother even wanted to see her. With that thought, a spasm of fear wracked Sophie’s heart, squeezing it with cold fingers. How could she not want to meet her own daughter? It was kind of like asking how a mother could possibly give birth to a child, then give it away without a second thought. Sophie shivered, her spine convulsing with the idea. Better not to think of that now—or she’d never go through with any of what she was about to do.

  Phoebe, as much as Sophie loved her, would only end up blabbing to Madison. Pheebs possessed a lot of admirable qualities but, unfortunately, keeping secrets wasn’t one of them. It totally sucked, because Phoebe was exactly the kind of listener she needed right now—quiet, attentive, and usually pretty helpful. Why didn’t she know anyone else like that? Sophie furrowed her brow and gnawed on the nail of her pinky finger, effectively destroying what was left of her manicure. Was there anyone she could count on to be completely impartial, to not blab to everyone at Meadowlark? Sophie’s eyes widened as she opened up her text messages, her fingers flying over the slick surface of her iPhone.

  Can u come over?

  Now?

  Yeah. Busy?

  No! Be up in a sec.

  Sophie signed off, and opened the envelope again, her eyes transfixed on the serene planes of her mother’s celestial face as she waited for Casey’s knock at the door.

  a model life

  Madison strolled down her favorite stretch of pavement on the entire Upper East Side—Madison Avenue, the street she was named for—her cognac-colored Gucci boots clacking on the sidewalk like the hooves of the sleek Arabian horses she used to jump when she was eleven. She remembered waking at the ridiculous hour of six A.M. to run out to the stables in the park and ride through the sun-dappled paths for hours, the wind in her then naturally platinum hair, the clicking of hooves on the well-traveled paths ringing in her ears. Madison sighed, pushing her white-blond hair behind her ears so that it wouldn’t get caught in the MAC Lipglass that coated her full lips in the most delicious, iridescent rose-gold sheen. Things were so much simpler back when she spent her time falling in love with horses instead of boys . . .

  Madison stopped in front of Prada, mesmerized by the truly bizarre window display that featured several bald, naked mannequins surrounded by stuffed wolves, black alligator bags hanging from their thick, furry necks. Why would you need wolves to sell purses? Mad thought, taking a sip of the iced vanilla latte she held in her left hand. Why wouldn’t you? her inner fashionista answered soberly. Good point, she thought, smiling at the red, lolling tongues hanging out of the furry creatures’ mouths. A soft tap on her shoulder shook Madison from her couture-dominated reverie, and she spun around, startled. A tall, dark-haired man in his late twenties stood in front of h
er, a smattering of five-o’clock shadow decorating his impossibly square jaw, his dark eyes boring into her own.

  “Scusi,” he said apologetically. “I did not mean to disturb you. I was hoping to ask you a question,” he added softly in lightly accented English.

  “Yes?” Madison said, still a little freaked out, her adrenaline pumping through her veins in a rush that felt vaguely illegal.

  “Are you a model, by any chance?”

  Madison laughed, relieved that he wasn’t some random, totally gorgeous psychopath. He was just horny, and in Madison’s, albeit limited, experience horniness made guys do stupid things—like walk up to total strangers and annoy them with a bunch of dumb questions. “No,” she said, throwing her hair back as it whipped around her face in the cool breeze. “I’m not.”

  “Well,” he said, his smile revealing rows of straight, white teeth that shone in their close proximity to his olive skin, “would you like to be?”

  “That depends.” Madison angled her body closer and smiled coquettishly. “Who are you, anyway?”

  The dark-haired hunk of gorgeousness in front of her held out his hand apologetically, and bit his full lower lip sheepishly before answering. “My name is Antonio Phillipe—I am a scout for Verve Model Management.” Madison took his hand, which was so large that it made her giant man hands feel tiny by comparison. That was the worst thing about being tall—everything about her was larger, including her Jolly Green Giant-sized hands and feet. Whenever she had to shake anyone’s hand, she practically broke out in hives from the fucking stress of it all. “Perhaps you have heard of us?” Antonio inquired, still clutching her hand like it was an inflatable raft and they were lost at sea.

  “Of course,” Madison said, trying to come off like she met scouts from world-famous modeling agencies every day of her life. Verve had represented Cindy Crawford at the absolute height of her career, and Naomi Campbell, aka, The Body—or the phone-wielding lunatic, whichever you preferred. Standing there with Antonio’s hand in her own gargantuan paw, Madison had the feeling of absolute rightness, the sense that some great destiny was being fulfilled right there in the middle of the traffic and bustle of Madison Avenue. And why shouldn’t it? After all, she had, in one way or another, been preparing for this moment for her entire semi-adult life. Now it was here—and she wasn’t about to blow it. Not by a long shot.