Casey could only nod dumbly in agreement as she took in the giant silver crescent moon hanging from the ceiling—complete with a silver-clad go-go dancer riding astride it as it swung from one end of the dance floor to the other, her blond hair flying, her silver hot pants and high boots gleaming in the light. The scene beneath this discofied version of the dish, the spoon, and the cow jumping over the moon was no less spectacular. The room was packed with people, many clad in whites, pastels, and grays, the fabrics all likely smelling strongly of mothballs from the thirty-plus years since they’d seen the light of day, or, uh, a disco ball. But the crush of bodies and polyester was out of the closet, so to speak, limbs and hips moving to the four-four thump of old records, the silky strings and tinny synthesizers escalating to a fever pitch.
“Hey,” Phoebe said, her eyes having landed on a familiar-looking poof of white-blond hair, “there’s Warhol over there . . . and Edie Sedgwick, too!” She pointed in the direction of the dance floor, but Casey saw nothing except the artfully muscled flank of a gigantic white horse—one of five trotting about the room—its mane doused in silver and gold glitter, a disco cow-girl riding sidesaddle on its sparkling back.
“Warhol, horses, shirtless boys—this party is beyond ridiculous. Imma get my mingle on!” Phoebe cried with joy, one hand grabbing tightly onto Casey’s arm and dragging her off into the crowd toward a white spotlight near the bar. As Phoebe and Casey approached the bar, Melanie rushed up to them, grabbing Casey by the arm and sighing with pent-up exasperation.
“There you two are,” she said triumphantly, her red curls springing wildly around her head, making Casey grateful once again that her hair was now silky straight. Casey raised one hand to her head reflexively, smoothing down her yellow hair that now fell almost to her shoulders.
“Will you stop petting yourself like you’re a prize pony?” Phoebe laughed, slapping Casey’s hand away from her head.
“Sorry to interrupt such an important conversation,” Melanie said sarcastically, “but you girls have to come in the back so we can mike you for the show.”
“We have to wear microphones?” Casey asked, yelling over the blaring music streaming from the speakers directly overhead.
“How else do you expect anyone to hear you?” Melanie said, clearly annoyed. “And where’s your other friend—the model?”
“We haven’t seen her yet,” Phoebe shouted over the din. “But knowing Mad she’ll probably get here just before midnight—she’s always late,” Phoebe explained as a pair of hands snaked over her eyes from behind, and the crisp, floral scent of Marc Jacobs Blush perfume wafted through the air. Even if Casey had been struck suddenly blind, she’d still have known Madison was in the immediate vicinity—and the scent of her perfume, so delicious and innocuous on every other occasion, was now rapidly making Casey feel unbelievably nauseated. Or maybe you just don’t like Madison Macallister very much, her inner bitch said smugly, as Casey tried to smile.
“What’s up?” Madison inquired, her green eyes outlined in electric blue liquid liner, the top lids sparkling with Urban Decay eyeshadow in Chopper, the copper flecks embedded in the shiny powder catching the light. “Is this intense or what?” Madison, of course, looked stunning as usual in a cream, vintage Halston gown that featured a plunging V of a neckline that exposed about a mile of tanned bare skin. How is she even keeping her, umm, goodies inside that thing? Casey wondered, trying to surreptitiously take a better look. Did she use double-stick tape? Staples? Krazy Glue? Or maybe the gown just stayed up from the sheer gravity of Madison’s presence, the supernatural force that was Madison Macallister . . .
Before Casey or Phoebe could even begin to shout over the music, Madison turned to a tall, dark-haired man standing behind her and grabbed him by the hand, pulling him into the center of the group. “Phoebe, Casey,” Madison said, pointing at the man, who smiled, exposing rows of teeth so brilliantly white that there was no way they weren’t veneers, “This is Antonio—from Verve.”
“A pleasure to meet you, ladies,” Antonio said, holding out his hand and shaking Casey’s and Phoebe’s hands in turn. As Casey stared at Antonio, a polite smile plastered all over her face, a tiny spark of hope began to catch fire in her heart. She took in the dark, obviously costly suit Antonio wore and the crisp white dress shirt, his sculpted jawline and the dark hair that flopped down stylishly over his forehead, the dark eyes that watched Madison’s every move, and, most of all, the way Madison was looking back at him—like she wanted to eat his suit for a light snack. Casey’s happiness ballooned larger still as Antonio reached down, taking Madison’s hand quietly in his own. Casey could barely contain herself, her body flooded with excitement and relief. Could she have been overreacting this whole time? After all, if Madison really was dating Antonio, there was no way she could still be interested in Drew—right? And from the way Madison was gazing adoringly up into Antonio’s face, it seemed that Casey had her answer. All she needed now was to find Drew . . .
“There you are!” Melanie exclaimed, placing one pale hand on Madison’s shoulder. Melanie had the deathly pallor of someone who hadn’t seen the sun for eons—basically, a Pulse lackey. Or a vampire. Same difference, Casey told herself, trying not to giggle out loud. “We really need to get all you girls miked up,” she explained, smiling flirtatiously at Antonio. “You’ll need to come with me for a few minutes.” Casey bit her bottom lip, trying not to smile. It was amazing how the mere presence of a totally gorgeous man could turn a witch like Melanie into an actual polite human being.
Madison rolled her eyes in annoyance, taking a quick glance down at her gown to make sure her prize assets were still in place. “Ugh.” She groaned. “I hate those ugly, bulgy battery packs—they make my ass look like the Titanic. But, whatever,” she laughed, her mood lightening as she gazed up at Antonio. “It’s a small price to pay for immortality.”
“No part of you could ever look anything less than perfect, cara,” Antonio said in his devastating, completely melodic Italian accent that made Casey think of water falling smoothly over stones, or some other romantic hooey. He brought Madison’s hand up to his lips and kissed it softly while staring into her eyes as if by simply gazing at her, he could somehow crawl inside her body. Phoebe turned to Casey as they began to follow Melanie toward the back of the club.
“Wow,” she mouthed, her silver eyeliner glittering under the colorful lights sweeping over the room. Just as they were about to follow Melanie into the ladies’ room, Casey saw Drew out of the corner of her eye. He was standing at the bar, craning his neck as he scanned the room, his eyes searching the crowded dance floor. If he’d ever looked cuter, she’d definitely blocked it out. Tonight he was wearing a vintage cream suit with a pink silk tie knotted at his throat. Just looking at him made Casey wish it could be 1976 forever. Who needed twenty-first-century stuff like cell phones and e-mail when your almost-boyfriend looked so totally hot in vintage?
Casey raised a hand above her head, waving frantically to get his attention. As his eyes locked on hers, Casey watched with relief as a huge smile swept over his face, his deep blue eyes lighting up with happiness. But just as she was about to ditch immorality for one night with her maybe-boyfriend, she watched as Drew’s gaze moved away from her, his expression darkening. Casey turned around to see Madison whispering into Antonio’s ear, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder as his hand circled her waist protectively. As Antonio leaned in, whispering back, Casey couldn’t help but notice that Madison’s eyes weren’t focused on the horse covered in silver glitter wandering around the room, or the faux celebrities who had somehow risen from the dead, but on her ex-boyfriend—the guy she wasn’t supposed to care about anymore. As Antonio probably whispered sweet Italian somethings into her seashell ear, Mad’s glossy, crimson lips parted slightly, her eyes narrowing in triumph as she took in Drew’s jealous gaze. For Casey, time stood still, the room moving in slow motion as she watched the guy she’d been crushing on since she came to Manhatt
an so obviously pining over his ex. It seemed like hours passed before Melanie appeared back at Madison’s side, pulling her into the ladies’ room once and for all.
“Well, are you coming?” Melanie said with obvious annoyance, turning around to face Casey, pushing back her tangled red curls speckled with silver glitter with one hand. Casey felt like her Choos were glued to the floor. How could she have been so stupid as to think that straight hair—or anything else—would make any difference at all when it came to getting (and keeping) Drew’s attention? You didn’t really think you could compete with her, did you? her inner bitch said nastily as her eyes smarted with tears.
If dating Drew was a game, Casey was painfully aware that she hadn’t had enough practice to understand the rules—and it wasn’t like they really mattered anyway, not to girls like Madison who did and got exactly what they wanted by breaking them. As Casey walked into the bathroom, she couldn’t help but look hopefully over her shoulder for one final glance at Drew—who had turned back to the bar and was now staring glumly into a bubbling glass of champagne, his almost-girlfriend seemingly all but forgotten.
it’s like thunder . . . and lightning
Drew stood at the bar, staring deeply into his glass of champagne, lost in thought. It was bad enough that he had to put on this white, Saturday Night Feveresque monkey suit just to get in the door of Sophie’s exclusive Studio 54 redux bash—but did he really have to watch his ex hang all over some totally random guy, too? If Mad wanted to date someone else, that was fine by him. They weren’t together anymore and, after all, he wasn’t exactly single himself—though the way his supposed girlfriend had run into the bathroom without even coming over to say hi was definitely more than a little weird. Had Casey suddenly become hot-and-cold girl—the type that acted as if she wanted you desperately one day and then couldn’t be bothered with your ass the next? If she was Madison, it would be par for the course—but he’d expected a lot more, and better, from Casey.
Drew ran a hand through his tousled dark hair, and stared out at the dance floor where a cowboy dressed in black leather chaps was attempting to climb into the saddle of one of the white horses milling around the club, clearly traumatized by the loud disco beats, and the crush of couture-covered bodies. That horse is probably on more Valium than Madison’s mom, Drew thought, scanning the crowd for a glimpse of Casey’s yellow hair.
God, he was such an unbelievable idiot for not running after her during the interview—and every time he’d seen Casey in the hall the past week, or thought about calling her, he just seemed to freeze, unable to pick up his cell, or walk over and apologize the way he knew, deep down, that he should. But if he actually apologized, then it was true—he really was acting a little too into Madison during that interview. Drew sighed, draining his glass of champagne and signaling the bare-chested bartender for another. Oh well, it probably wasn’t anything a drink or two couldn’t fix. And if that failed, he’d just keep on drinking until he couldn’t remember much at all . . . Even if Mad was a free agent, Drew couldn’t help feeling a little hurt—the other day during the interview, he’d thought she was definitely flirting with him, and, as much as he didn’t want to admit it, he found himself actually kind of liking the idea. He didn’t want to like the idea—even though his pants swore up and down that they were sort of in love with it. But his pants didn’t have the greatest track record when it came to dating. In fact, they always seemed to lead him in the wrong direction where girls were concerned.
Drew smiled tentatively as he spied Casey coming out of the ladies’ room and heading toward him. She was teetering on a ridiculously steep pair of heels, and rocking a pair of jeans so tight that they made her legs resemble those of a newborn colt. He still couldn’t get used to her newly straightened hair—every time he saw her, he found himself doing a double-take. With her hair falling sleekly around her face, her cheeks appeared less round, her face more angular and grown-up looking. Drew raised a hand, beckoning her over, and Casey flushed pinkly and walked over, her eyes focused on the glitter-strewn floor.
“Hey,” Drew said, leaning in and kissing her on the cheek. Close up, Drew noticed that Casey had covered up her freckles with makeup, and the sight of her perfectly smooth face made his heart sink a little. Without her freckles and curly hair, she looked almost like a department store mannequin—or every other girl who attended Meadowlark Academy. “You look great,” he said, giving her a slow smile.
“So do you,” Casey answered back, a little too quickly, then looked down at the floor again. “I like the suit,” she said, reaching up and smoothing his lapel with her fingers.
“I waved at you before,” Drew said, wrinkling his brow, “didn’t you see me?”
“Umm . . . yeah,” Casey answered, looking up and meeting his gaze. “I had to go get miked for the show.” Casey rolled her eyes and pointed at a battery pack sticking out in a giant lump beneath the tight denim of her jeans.
“Does that mean cameras will be following us around all night?” Drew said with a groan.
“I’m afraid so,” Casey grimaced, then smiled for the first time since she’d walked up to him. At the sight of her smile, Drew felt for the first time since the disastrous interview with Mad that everything might just be okay. When Casey smiled it was like the sun coming up—like she was smiling for you and only you. When she looked at him like that, her whole face lighting up like a kid on Christmas morning, it made him feel about ten feet tall, like he could do anything—and faced with that smile, at this moment the Madison Macallisters of the world suddenly didn’t seem to matter much at all.
“Think you can handle it?” Casey asked flirtatiously as he reached down and took her hand in his own.
“Guaranteed,” Drew answered, closing his fingers around Casey’s small hand, and feeling his world, which had been tilting crazily on its axis a moment before, had somehow righted itself. “Let’s boogie,” he said, pulling her toward the dance floor as the music crashed around them, and some washed-up seventies singer demanded that they better knock on wood. But just as they finished pushing through the crowd and reached the edge of the dance floor, the music faded out and a spotlight steadied on the DJ booth at the far end of the room as Randi Gold appeared, wearing a bright pink leisure suit with a magenta and silver tie knotted at his throat. His hands sparkled with jeweled rings on each finger and a pair of pink-tinted vintage Dior aviators covered his eyes.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” his booming, slightly effeminate voice yelled out, “I give you the Queen of the Night, the birthday girl herself, Miss Sophie St. John!” The spotlight panned up to the ceiling, and, instead of the go-go dancer, it was Sophie who sat astride the flying crescent moon as it swung crazily back and forth over the immense crowd. Drew had never really thought Sophie was that pretty—he’d always considered her kind of generic, like every other clone on the Upper East Side—but tonight even he had to admit that she looked stunning. Sophie’s gown fell to her ankles in a sheaf of liquid gold, a long slit up the side displaying a flash of pearly thigh. The dress tied halter-style around her neck, and was cut down in the back almost to her butt, exposing a large swath of smooth skin. Her honey-colored hair was styled like Farrah Fawcett circa 1975, in buttery dips and peaks that framed her heart-shaped face and murky green eyes outlined in dark liner, the lids a glittering, shimmering gold.
The crowd erupted in a cheer that seemed to shake the whole club—even over the remix of Donna Summer’s “Last Dance” that was now blaring through the speakers. As exciting a moment as it was, Drew was becoming rapidly aware that the three glasses of champagne he had thirstily downed now needed a quick exit from his painfully overfilled bladder. Drew let go of Casey’s warm hand, leaning over and yelling into her ear so that she’d hear him over the screams of the crowd and the thumping bass beat.
“I’ll be right back,” he yelled. “Stay right here so I can find you again.” Casey nodded, a smile lighting up her face as she clapped her hands together along with
the crowd. If she’d ever looked more beautiful, he’d clearly blocked it out. Impulsively, Drew leaned over and kissed her on the mouth, her lips parting at his touch. When he pulled away, they were both grinning at each other like lunatics before he reluctantly turned around and walked quickly toward the bathrooms, the smile that was plastered over his face a moment ago rapidly disappearing as he caught sight of what looked like his father, standing in a darkened corner near the restrooms, immersed in a heated conversation with a woman Drew could only see from behind—a woman who had clearly disregarded the party’s theme by wearing a short, nondescript black dress, her dark, shining hair pulled back in an elaborate twist. His father, on the other hand, fairly screamed seventies bridge-and-tunnel in a white suit that looked like an exact copy of the one John Travolta made famous on the dance floor in Saturday Night Fever. Drew watched as if hypnotized, his feet stuck to the sticky, glittery floor as his dad reached out a hand, smoothing a stray lock of hair back from the mystery woman’s face, then leaned in, enfolding her in a passionate, lip-locked embrace.
Drew felt like he could barely breathe, the air catching in his chest with a sudden pain that radiated through his torso, then down through his limbs like an out-of-control fire. He blinked hard, trying to clear his vision and make the image of his dad making out with someone who was definitely not his mother disappear completely. But when he opened his eyes again, the same image burned through his brain, and at that particular moment, what Drew felt more than pain, than anger even, was complete and utter shock—mixed with a healthy portion of disbelief. There had to be some kind of explanation. His parents had been madly, crazily, obsessively in love for as long as Drew could remember, and there was no way his dad would just throw it all away for some random, badly dressed and terminally bored Upper East Side housewife, who happened to be impressed by his dad’s culinary pedigree. Would he?
In Too Deep Page 15
