His finger pointed to a cascade of pale pink chiffon that tumbled to a terrified-looking blond model’s ankles like a cascade of bubble gum-flavored whipped cream. The dress had a huge, flouncing skirt, complete with a bright pink bow on the back. Sophie felt her face drain of blood as she stared down at the photograph. It didn’t matter in the slightest that the dress was Valentino, or that it was a couture piece, it was, bar none, the ugliest dress Sophie had ever seen—and there was no way she was going to be caught dead wearing it on the most important night of her life. Sophie leaned forward and pursed her lips, resting her hands on her knees.
“Ooooh, it’s absolutely darling!” Phyllis cooed, grabbing Sophie’s arm excitedly. “Randi, you’re an absolute genius!”
Randi blushed an alarming shade of pink that almost matched the horrific dress in front of them. Sophie stared at both of them incredulously. Had everyone gone totally psychotic? She’d look like a walking cupcake in that thing, a bridesmaid at some awful Long Island City wedding where the groom wore a white tuxedo and the cake was bought at a goddamn supermarket!
“Randi,” Sophie began, trying to be delicate, “I don’t think you really understand how important this night is for me.”
“Honey.” Randi laughed, showing off rows of teeth as white and large as tombstones. “I do four hundred of these parties a year minimum—I know exactly how important this night is for you.”
“Randi,” Sophie began again, trying to stay cool, “I don’t think you’re really listen—”
Sophie sighed exasperatedly as her mother’s phone began to buzz violently from the depths of her caramel Birkin bag. Phyllis shot Randi an apologetic smile, flashing her new custom shaded veneers.
“Excuse me for a moment, you two,” she said staring down at the screen of her metallic gold, D&G Razr while heading toward the door. “I simply have to take this.”
As soon as the door closed, Sophie knew she only had a few minutes to make Pinkberry listen to reason. Sophie smiled enthusiastically, dropping her voice and almost whispering. “I don’t know if my . . . mother mentioned this,” she began in a tone of voice that suggested that she alone had the info to Brangelina’s whereabouts at this very second, “but there is a serious VIP who’ll be in attendance that night . . . someone very important.” Sophie paused for dramatic effect, sitting back on the chair and crossing her legs.
The slightly miffed look on Randi’s face slowly gave way to something resembling interest. Way to be predictable, Sophie thought, watching the greedy expression slide over his face. Everyone was such a total starfucker.
“I’m adopted,” Sophie said, watching as the gossip-hungry look slid off Randi’s face and was replaced by a gaze of obviously practiced sympathy. “And my biological mother is Melissa Von Norton.”
Sophie watched as Randi’s face changed from fake sympathy to total starfucker in a matter of seconds. “Melissa Von Norton the actress?” Randi said with obvious excitement. “Oh my God, I just adored her in Pale Blue Sea!” Randi’s face flushed pinkly again, and he waved his hands in the air giddily, his heavily jeweled fingers flashing in the light.
“So, now you see exactly why this night is so special to me,” Sophie explained as the door opened with a squeak, filling the air with the scent of Bond No. 9’s Chinatown perfume, which always smelled to Sophie like a combination of flowery incense, and awful Indian takeout.
“Okay, I’m back,” Phyllis said brightly, reaching over and placing a hand on Sophie’s own, her face falling slightly when Sophie inevitably shrugged it off and tried to lean even farther away in her chair. “What did I miss?”
“Well, now that Sophie’s filled me in on her . . . celebrity connections,” Randi flipped the book in front of him closed with a flourish of his wrist, and stage-whispered suggestively, “I’m thinking of going in another direction altogether.”
“Celebrity connections?” Phyllis asked weakly the color slowly draining from her expertly bronzed face. As she watched her mother’s expression change from hopeful to a look that screamed utter despair, Sophie almost wanted to throw her arms around Phyllis and tell her that everything was going to be all right, that she forgave her. But the problem was the word “almost.” Almost wasn’t definitely, and, at that moment, Sophie felt anything but definite about the entire concept of family—much less ready to forgive her own.
“Sophie, here, has just informed me of her . . . parental situation,” Randi said smoothly as Phyllis turned deep red and contemplated her fingernails. “And that got me thinking at a whole new, infinitely more fabulous level!” Randi stood up and began pacing back and forth excitedly. “What if we did something a little retro—but with a modern twist? I was thinking that, as a theme, we could revisit Studio 54!”
Sophie began to smile again. She loved anything retro or vintage, and Studio 54 had been the home of glamour and glitz all through the 1970s. And there were so many amazing designer options to choose from—she could already see herself draped in a Grecian-style vintage Halston gown, her face and hair sparkling with discreetly placed gold glitter . . .
“. . . red carpet and velvet ropes, busboys in hot pants, the most fabulous drag queens in Manhattan, and of course we’ll need to hire a few actors to masquerade as essential partygoers like Warhol and Grace Jones . . .” Randi went on talking faster and faster as Phyllis nodded her head dizzily, trying to keep up with Randi’s barrage of requirements. Sophie didn’t need to hear anymore—as far as she was concerned, it was a done deal.
“And, OH!” Phyllis yelled out, causing Sophie to almost jump out of her chair in fright. “I have something to tell you, darling!” Her mother turned to face her and placed a hand on Sophie’s arm, squeezing lightly—and this time she didn’t dare shrug it off. “The phone call a moment ago? That was the producers from the Pulse Network—your father pulled a few strings, and they want to film the party for a documentary series they’re doing on over-the-top sweet sixteens! Isn’t that just perfect?”
Sophie practically stopped breathing. She’d been watching My Spoiled Sweet Sixteen from the second it began airing over two years ago. Being able to have a completely amazing party, and be immortalized for future generations to envy was more than she’d ever dreamed of. Sure Madison’s sweet sixteen bash at Bungalow 8 had performances by Fergie and the Black Eyed Peas, and featured invitations engraved on the lenses of specially designed pairs of Prada sunglasses, but Sophie’s party was going to be legendary, and, to top it all off, not only were there going to be actual celebrities in attendance, she was going to be one herself—just like her mom!
“That’s amazing!” she cried, jumping to her feet and throwing her arms around her mother before she knew what she was doing. As Phyllis hugged her back, Sophie couldn’t help but feel grateful to her mother for knowing exactly what she wanted, even before Sophie knew herself. As she breathed in the scent of her mother’s heavy floral perfume, Sophie couldn’t help thinking that having two moms might not be so bad after all—even if the one currently hugging her was a liar . . .
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Dear Phoebe,
It was a pleasure to meet you yesterday, and I’m looking forward to a busy and productive school year!
I’ll be in touch with all of your teachers at Meadowlark, and will instruct them to send me weekly progress reports detailing your class standing and academic progress. I’ve also requested that your parents send me a complete copy of all your academic transcripts from sixth grade to the present. Unfortunately, your academic achievements before the sixth grade are not kept on file, so if you could supply me with the contact information for your instructors from kindergarten through fifth grade, I’ll get in touch with them personally. We’re getting a late start—I prefer to begin this process while the student is in the eighth grade—but I intend to more than make up for lost time! As soon as I review this material, I will formulate a program and e-mail you a copy of the ga
me plan. I’ve also instructed your parents to hire a tutor for your upcoming SAT exam.
Why don’t we do breakfast before school next week and discuss this further—say Wednesday at 7 A.M.? I’ll call with details and a tentative schedule later this week.
Best,
Andrea
bad hair day
Casey sat dejectedly on the front steps of Meadowlark Academy, pulling a strand of her newly shorn hair in between a thumb and forefinger, and stretching it as far as it could possibly go, willing the hair to magically extend past her shoulders. She should’ve known better than to follow Nanna to the hairdresser yesterday afternoon—from the minute she’d walked in the door of the tiny salon on Eighty-first, Casey knew she was in trouble. Henrietta’s Coiffure was filled with more old ladies than a church basement on a Sunday morning, all broiling what was left of their white, silver, or battleship gray hair under long lines of dryers. When Nanna suggested that she get “just the teensiest trim,” Casey should’ve run like her pants were on fire. An hour later her hair was two inches shorter—which wouldn’t have been a big deal if she’d been lucky enough to have been born with a normal head of hair. But on Casey the cut was an unmitigated disaster—her stupidly curly hair, that she tried every day to tame with a mind-boggling variety of brushes and serums, resisted the scissors violently, and now bounced up past her shoulders in corkscrew curls—in obvious protest of being touched at all. As a result, she now resembled a blond, slightly deranged Carrot Top.
Now, as she glumly sat on the steps outside Meadowlark, surrounded by the bustle of traffic and pedestrians, the blaring of horns, and the sweet toasty scent of roasted nuts wafting through the crisp fall air, all she could think about was what Drew would say when he saw her. Would he run screaming? Start dating Madison again immediately? Put a bag over her head? Casey sighed, wishing she’d worn a hat—or a ski mask. That would definitely solve a myriad of problems . . .
“It’s not that bad,” Sophie said with faux cheerfulness, pushing a curl out of Casey’s eyes, clearly lying through her teeth. “Really.”
Easy for her to say—Sophie never looked anything but predictably perfect—no matter how crazy her outfit was. For example, today Sophie was wearing an actual beret—something that Casey had previously thought only French girls and four-year-olds could get away with. Of course, Sophie’s beret was made from super-soft cashmere, and designed by Chanel—along with the tiny, black-and-white tweed skirt she wore, and the matching argyle knee socks. To top it all off, a tight white angora sweater hugged her chest, showing off her B-cups to perfection, and rows of long, creamy white pearls hung around her neck alongside delicate filigree gold chains accented by tinkling charms. On anyone else, it would’ve looked ridiculous, but Sophie somehow made it work—Frenchified beret and all.
“Don’t try and be nice, Sophie.” Madison giggled, sipping a cup of hot water and lemon she’d bought for lunch, placing the cup down on the cement step and pushing up the sleeves of her ivory sweater dress. “You can’t lie about stuff like this—besides, she knows you’re lying anyway.”
Casey nodded. For once, Madison was completely right. She knew she looked like crap—what was the use of pretending?
“Oh, please,” Phoebe said with a wave of her hand. “A few weeks in beauty seclusion and she’ll be as good as new.” Phoebe stabbed the tuna salad she held in her lap with a fork, bringing a bright pink piece of seared tuna to her perfectly outlined crimson lips. Phoebe resembled a pallbearer in her all black ensemble, which included a Peter Som wool jacket and matching skinny-leg wool trousers that ended in black, patent leather Manolo pumps. The bright red glossy lipstick should’ve made her look like one of the Emo kids that sat at the table in the dining hall farthest away from any windows—in case the weak rays of fall sunlight that streamed through the room somehow marred their scary, pasty flesh. But with her long legs and perfectly proportioned body—not to mention the delicate white-and-rose-gold padlock necklace she wore looped three times around her throat—she looked more like she’d just jumped off the cover of the latest edition of British Vogue than someone who moped around their basement whining along with the latest Death Cab for Cutie CD.
“I’m almost afraid to ask what exactly you mean by ‘beauty seclusion,’ ” Casey said dryly, scrunching up the bag of empty potato chips she held in her hand.
“It just means that you don’t leave the house for a few weeks,” Sophie mumbled, her mouth full of raw carrot sticks. “By the time you resurface, not only has your hair grown out a bit, but everyone’s moved on to the latest disaster, and you’re in the clear.”
“Sounds complicated,” Casey said, sighing loudly. “And not very practical—considering I have to go to school.”
“Oh my God, whatever,” Madison snapped, draining the last of her water. “Get your mom to write a note or something. Mine said I had TB last year when that stupid bitch at Fekkai left the developer on my highlights too long, and they turned this totally bilious shade of green.”
Phoebe and Sophie cracked up, their laughter reverberating in the busy street as Madison glared at them. Sometimes when Phoebe and Sophie laughed like this—at someone else’s expense—they reminded Casey of the witches in Macbeth: bloodthirsty and vengeful, but with cuter outfits.
“It wasn’t funny,” Mad said, her voice like ice. “It totally ruined the fall quarter—I missed all the good sales and parties, and my hair felt like straw for a month.”
“Speaking of parties,” Sophie said breathlessly, snapping the plastic container of raw carrots and celery sticks she held in her lap firmly shut, “you guys are not going to believe what’s going on with mine!” Sophie reached into her bag and pulled out a dark blue velvet box with the words H. Stern written on the front in gold lettering, opening the lid to reveal a custom-made white-gold necklace molded into the shape of a letter peeking out of an envelope, minuscule writing looping across the sheet of white gold “paper” in perfect script. Phoebe reached out and grabbed the plush blue box from Sophie’s hands, and proceeded to read the tiny text aloud.
“Sophie St. John. The party of the century. The girl of the year. Saturday, October 24th. 9 P.M. Seventies couture requested.”
“Are those the invitations?” Casey asked, unable to keep the note of total incredulity from her voice. Gold necklaces as sweet sixteen invitations? She was officially not in the Midwest anymore, that was for sure . . .
“I think I’d rather walk down Madison Avenue naked than have to go to another sweet sixteen,” Madison said bitchily, raising one blond brow in Sophie’s direction.
“Well, you probably shouldn’t come then,” Sophie said dejectedly. “I guess we’ll just have to be on My Spoiled Sweet Sixteen without you . . .”
There was a moment of silence as the group took in the atom bomb Sophie had just dropped in Madison’s cashmere-covered lap. Casey looked at Madison’s astonished expression and felt almost smug. Good for Sophie—she’d succeeded in out-Madisoning Madison for once.
“Are you serious?” Phoebe asked in amazement, a note of excitement creeping into her voice. “We’re going to be on Pulse? I can’t believe it! What am I going to wear?” she worried aloud, scrunching her brow until horizontal lines appeared in her smooth, pale forehead. “More important,” she added, “what are you going to wear?”
“Something vintage—definitely,” Sophie answered confidently. “We’re doing a whole Studio 54 revisited theme—so think Halston, Betsey Johnson, vintage Ralph—anything that screams chic disco seventies.”
“That’s so cool!” Casey exclaimed, unable to stop herself. “Xanadu is one of my favorite movies of all time!” Casey wondered if showing up in a tube top and roller skates would be out of the question. Now if she could only figure out a way to feather her hair, she’d really be in business . . . Casey woke from her disco lovin’ roller skate-wearing fantasy to find the group staring at her uncomprehendingly. “You know,” she explained, “it’s that movie with Olivia Newton-Jo
hn where she plays this roller-skating muse? I think it’s a Broadway musical now, actually.”
“Broadway gives me hives,” Madison snapped, obviously miffed at not being the center of attention. “And isn’t Xanadu technically eighties anyway?” she said, dismissing Casey’s comment with a flick of her wrist like the vision of roller-skating muses itself annoyed her. “Anyway, the Pulse thing is great—it’ll be a good way to launch my new modeling career,” she added nonchalantly, sliding a pair of Dior aviators over her eyes and staring off into the street.
“What modeling career?” Sophie asked uneasily, looking like she was about to regurgitate her carrots at Madison’s black-booted feet.
“With Verve Model Management,” Madison explained in a bored voice. “It’s no big deal—they took some Polaroids and gave me a contract to look over yesterday. I have to show it to Edie this afternoon—she wants to have a ‘girls’ day’ at Elizabeth Arden. I may not survive,” she deadpanned, looking over out of the corner of her eyes to gauge Sophie’s expression, which was predictably crestfallen. “That reminds me,” she said, turning to Casey and pushing her shades on top of her head. “You should come along. My stylist can totally fix that.” Madison waved one pearly white-varnished nail in the direction of Casey’s hair. “And don’t worry.” Madison grinned like a contented cat. “It’s on Edie.”
Casey blushed, feeling like a total pauper. She might as well have been standing in the middle of Fifth Avenue with a harmonica and an ugly, flea-infested dog, begging for change. But, no matter how nasty she was, or how she made you feel, Casey knew that it wasn’t wise to say no to Madison Macallister—especially when she was offering to do something nice for you. All the same, Casey couldn’t help being a little worried about the prospect of Madison becoming a supermodel. If Madison suddenly appeared on the cover of every magazine in Manhattan, would Drew even want to give her the time of day anymore? What would he want with a frizzy-haired mess when he could be dating a world-famous cover girl? Ugh, Casey thought, remembering Sophie’s party and inwardly groaning. Just kill me now. The god-awful haircut she was currently sporting would be immortalized on TV if she didn’t take Madison up on her offer, and being dumped for a supermodel was one thing, but having a bad haircut preserved on video for all eternity was something else altogether.
In Too Deep Page 8
