Casey stuck her spoon into the ice cream, moved over to the kitchen table, and sat down beside Nanna, placing the container between them and offering Nanna the spoon.
“So, what’s going on in the glamorous world of Upper East Side infighting?” Nanna asked, a smirk lighting up her soft, deeply lined face. “And what’s happened to your hair?” Nanna asked, melodramatic horror animating her voice as she reached out and smoothed a strand of Casey’s already-smooth locks.
“Madison took me to get it straightened,” Casey said defensively, reaching up to pet her own head. Every time she went to bed at night she still worried that somehow, when she awoke the next morning, the curls she detested so much would be back to torture her—like a monster in a fairy tale. “Why?” she asked suspiciously. “Don’t you like it?”
“It’s . . . fine,” Nanna said cautiously, peering closer. “But, Casey, honey—do you think it’s really you?”
“Who knows?” Casey sighed. “At least I don’t have to spend two hours in the bathroom every morning trying to make myself presentable anymore.”
“Thank God for that,” Nanna said dryly, a twinkle enlivening her blue eyes. “Now, let’s get back to the gossip!” She rubbed her papery hands together in undisguised anticipation.
“Well—you know that guy Drew who I’ve been hanging out with?” Casey said slowly, her hair momentarily forgotten.
“Is that what you kids call it these days?” Nanna snorted, sticking the spoon into the ice cream and pulling out a huge chunk. “In my day it was called dating,” she said, popping the ice cream into her mouth and closing her eyes as it melted. “Or keeping company.”
Casey giggled, licking vanilla ice cream off her freckled hand. “No offense, Nanna, but your day was like a million years ago.”
“Don’t I know it, honey,” Nanna said, sighing dramatically before passing the spoon to Casey. “So, did this young man do something stupid?”
“Not exactly.” Casey plunged the spoon back into the ice cream, waiting for it to soften up a bit more. “It’s complicated.”
“I’ve got all night,” Nanna said, prying off another chunk of ice cream and putting it in her mouth with a smack of her lips. “Since Arthur canceled our date, I’m a free agent.” Arthur was a retired Navy captain that Nanna had been seeing for about a month—almost as long as she’d been with Drew.
Casey pulled her bare knees up to her chest, resting her feet on the seat of the wooden chair, wrapping her arms around her knees. “Well, Drew has this ex-girlfriend, Madison.”
“You mean Madison Macallister?” Nanna inquired, swallowing hard. “The same Madison Macallister who lives directly above us in the penthouse?”
“The very same,” Casey said dryly, exhaling loudly. “And I think he still likes her. I was over at his place today helping him with this film he’s making about rich kids on the Upper East Side, and he couldn’t seem to keep his eyes off her—even when I left the room and didn’t come back.”
“It sounds to me like this Drew character might just be the kind of boy who can’t keep what he really wants straight,” Nanna said, poking a large-knuckled finger into Casey’s knee intermittently for emphasis.
“I guess not,” Casey said, wrapping her hand around her Nanna’s. Her grandmother’s hands were something that she had always loved. Holding them made her feel like a child again, sitting on Nanna’s lap and playing with the larger veins that stood up in relief under her weathered skin. Grabbing a hold of her Nanna’s hands now made her feel so much better—better than the cherry and vanilla ice-cream madness she had been shoving down her throat. “I think he thinks he wants me, but at the same time, he thinks he’s supposed to want Madison. Or at least that’s what everyone else thinks,” Casey continued, her brain so overworked by all the thinking about Drew thinking about thinking that she felt it would surely explode.
“Well, I’ll tell you what I think,” Nanna said, squeezing Casey’s hand with a strong, reassuring grip that belied the age and wear of her joints. “I think that this boy needs to be taught a lesson; needs to be shown a bit of humility. He needs to know that you know that he’s not the only rich, young, smart, attractive and eligible young man on the Upper East Side.”
“And how would I go about doing that? Based on what I know of the Meadowlark student body and the price of an iced soy milk latte at the coffee kiosk,” Casey said throwing her arms into the air, the panic of her voice making her gestures seem just that much wilder, “I don’t think there’s anyone who’s not worth dating around here, so to speak. Except for me, that is. So what am I supposed to do?”
Nanna laughed around the silver spoon that was carrying a decidedly ungrandmother-sized bite of ice cream into her small, rose-colored, grandmother-sized mouth. “Aren’t you going to some fancy shindig next weekend?”
“I have no idea what a ‘shindig’ might be,” Casey said with faux confusion. “I’m going to Sophie’s sweet sixteen on Saturday—but that’s a whole other problem. Did I tell you that it’s going to be part of that show My Spoiled Sweet Sixteen?”
“My spoiled . . . what?” Nanna mumbled, her mouth full of ice cream.
“You are such an ice-cream hog,” Casey said, prying the spoon from Nanna’s hand.
Nanna patted her tiny, round stomach, grinning widely. “How else do you expect me to keep my girlish figure?”
Casey rolled her eyes, digging her spoon into the half-empty pint, holding the rapidly melting ice cream poised before her open mouth. “So, My Spoiled Sweet Sixteen is this reality show on the Pulse Network where a TV crew follows around a bunch of ridiculously overprivileged socialites as they plan their sweet sixteen parties.”
“It sounds, quite possibly, like the worst show on television,” Nanna said, placing the cover on the ice cream firmly. “That’s about enough of you!” she admonished the half-empty carton with a wagging finger.
“It’s pretty close,” Casey said grabbing onto the container in mock horror and holding it to her chest protectively. “It makes me feel all dirty inside whenever I watch it. But more important, I was still eating that!”
“Not anymore,” Nanna said briskly, standing up and snatching the ice cream from Casey’s grip, and placing it back in the freezer. As the freezer door closed, releasing a cloud of smoke into the air, Nanna turned around to face Casey, her hands on her hips.
“So this party will be on television? Well, that doesn’t seem so bad to me.” Nanna said thoughtfully, leaning over the gray-speckled kitchen counter and resting her bony elbows on the granite surface. “And I still think you should give this Drew fellow a taste of his own medicine—dance with someone else, walk around and flirt a little!” Nanna stood up, throwing her arms in the air exasperatedly. “That’s what you’re supposed to be doing at your age!”
“Then why are you still doing it at your age?” Casey asked innocently, raising her eyebrows.
“You’re only as old as you feel,” Nanna snapped, waving her hand dismissively before standing up straight, both hands massaging the small of her back beneath her white cashmere sweater.
“Then I must be a hundred and fifty,” Casey said despondently, one finger tracing the gouges and knots in the wooden surface of the kitchen table. Ugh—she hated it when she sat around moping and feeling sorry for herself, but sometimes it just felt like no matter what she did, that the Madisons of the world would always win. Girls like Madison would always end up in the spotlight—with the Caseys of the world forever delegated to the background. She knew, even now, that at Sophie’s party she’d most likely end up a nameless party guest, while Madison shone in the spotlight. Sometimes Casey felt like she’d never be that girl with the perfect boyfriend, the perfect life—it would always be Madison that everyone else wanted to be or be with. And that thought, when she allowed herself to think it, was depressing beyond belief.
“Oh, cheer up,” Nanna said with a chuckle. “It could be worse—believe me. When Arthur came over last week he fell asleep o
n the couch in there like he was home in front of his own TV!” Nanna harrumphed, her hands back on her hips, indignant at the thought of her retired Navy captain boyfriend’s obvious narcolepsy—or senility. And at their age, let’s face it, what’s the difference? Casey thought with a smile.
“What did you expect him to do—throw you to the living room floor and make passionate love to you or something?” Casey shuddered at the thought—good thing she usually made it a habit to go out when Arthur came over . . .
“Don’t be silly.” Nanna snorted. “I have no time for any funny business—we were supposed to be playing backgammon!” She walked out of the room, shaking her head from side to side and muttering under her breath. “Give him a taste of his own medicine, honey,” Nanna yelled out before settling into the living room and picking up her knitting. From what Casey could tell from the amorphous red fuzzy ball, Nanna was either knitting a scarf, or some sort of weird, complicated doily. For her sake, she hoped it was the latter . . . the last thing she really needed at this point was to show up at Meadowlark all decked out in one of Nanna’s “creations.”
Casey got up with a sigh. If her life was one of the eighties movies she loved so much, Sophie’s party really would be the time to make Drew jealous—except she wasn’t sure you could actually make someone jealous who didn’t even notice when you left the room . . . If her life were a movie, then Drew would’ve followed her out of his room yesterday, caught up with her in the hall before she even made it to the front door, and told her that Mad meant nothing to him. Then he would’ve tilted her head back with one hand, and pressed his soft lips to hers while his Ecuadorean maid looked on with tears in her eyes, a pot holder clutched in her hands. Fade out . . .
Casey walked down the hallway to her bedroom and pushed the door shut to drown out the sounds of Alex Trebek’s annoying voice that told her that Nanna had begun her nightly ritual of watching Jeopardy! in the living room—at what some with normal hearing might consider a deafening volume. She pulled her cell phone from her pocket, checking for missed calls, her heart sinking in her chest as she glanced at the blank screen. Ring damnit, she pleaded silently with the inanimate piece of machinery. It was so ironic—cell phones were supposed to make it easier for people to communicate with one another and, right now at least, she felt more estranged from Drew than ever.
Casey sat down on her bed, flipping open her MacBook and checking her e-mail. Predictably, her inbox was empty. She reached for her violin, propped up against the side of the bed, and picked up her bow with the other had, closing her eyes and drawing the bow across the strings in a sweet, slightly mournful melody that made her heart ache with unexpressed sadness. The first notes of Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto had barely rang out in the room when Casey lifted the bow from the strings, and placed the instrument carefully back down onto the floor. Sometimes playing made her feel better—she could forget everything wrong in her life and escape into the music like a dream she never wanted to wake up from—but today it just wasn’t working.
Instead, she pulled her MacBook into her lap and opened iTunes, which was set on random, and immediately skipped to a song by Paramore—whiny, angsty, ihatemyboyfriend music—sadly, the perfect soundtrack to this scene in the movie of her life. And that was definitely the problem with Drew. As awesome as he was most of the time, he clearly didn’t understand nor recognize his responsibilities as the romantic lead in her movie. She played her part in his, and it was time for him to step up and do the same, but that didn’t seem likely to happen anytime soon. So maybe Nanna, for once, was right—maybe the only way to make him realize they were starring in their own personal teen romance was to cast someone else in the lead.
needles and pins
“It’s showtime, folks,” Sophie whispered into the mirror, turning around to study her made-to-order Yves Saint Laurent ivory silk pantsuit, the hem of her pants studded with silver pins. There was nothing more seventies than the pantsuit, and during the lost decade of sex, drugs, and disco, YSL had practically redefined the concept of menswear on women, creating long, lean, and impossibly fitted silk suits for women. The impeccable tailoring meant your legs looked longer than usual, your stomach flatter, your shoulders ramrod straight. Basically, these suits made normal women look as glamorous and thin as fashion models. And with her custom ivory fedora cocked to the side, Sophie knew that this outfit was going to do more than rock her grand entrance at Marquee on Saturday night—as soon as her calfskin Balenciaga stiletto boots touched the red carpet, she knew she was going to be legendary.
The dressing room at Yves Saint Laurent was bigger than most New Yorkers’ bedrooms, with pale gray carpeting and soft lighting that gave everyone’s complexion a rosy glow in the full-length mirrors that covered the walls like sleek sheets of ice. But that glow had been replaced by the shriek of halogen lights, and the usual serene calm of the store was now a mess of noise and bustle as the Pulse crew plugged long ropes of extension cords into walls. Assistants carrying black cables roped around their arms walked briskly around the perimeter of the shop as the producer, a plump, fortyish redhead named Melanie, spoke incessantly into her cell phone with a voice that had all the subtlety of nails ripping down a blackboard. Sophie had been around the craziness of filming a reality TV show for about a week now—long enough to realize that anyone who chose to produce a show like this for a living was probably bordering on clinically insane. She wondered how her biological mother was able to stay grounded. Living with a camera stuck in your face, documenting your every move each time you left the house would probably drive you to craziness—or rehab—if it dragged on any longer than a few weeks.
Sophie turned around, inspecting the back of the suit in the mirror as the videographer, a cute, bearded guy named Mitch, mouthed “sorry” as he moved in for a closeup of her face. Sophie smiled for the camera, placing one hand on her waist and cocking a hip as she danced in front of the mirror. It was weird how totally comfortable she’d been in front of the camera ever since this whole sweet sixteen thing had begun. At first, she’d almost kind of been dreading it—the video crew, the relentless cameras following her around The Bram, to Randi’s office, to her wardrobe fittings. She’d thought the minute the camera turned on that she’d freeze up, go blank. But the strange thing was that as soon as the lens pointed in her direction, she all but forgot it was even there at all. Maybe it was in her blood—after all, her mother was one of the most famous movie stars in the entire world . . .
“Sophie, can we have you try on the dress?” Melanie barked, looking harassed by the wireless headset clipped to one ear half-hidden by a tangle of red curls. For Sophie’s grand entrance, she was planning to wear a vintage Halston gown in metallic gold that fell to her ankles and plunged down almost to the crack of her ass in the back, leaving a mile of skin exposed. It expressed Sophie’s personal style perfectly: It was demure from the front, and very, very naughty in back.
“Actually, Melanie, I’d rather not,” Sophie said, turning around to face her. “I want to keep it a surprise until the party.”
Melanie shot her an annoyed look, badly camouflaged by a tight smile. “Fine. Whatever.” Melanie turned toward the crew, motioning with one hand. “Let’s move into the other room then, guys. Sophie, are you ready to show your friends this outfit?”
“No problem,” Sophie said sweetly, turning and giving her suit one last once-over before walking out into the spacious glass- and light-filled showroom, placing the hat atop her head. Sophie never saw any reason to be rude about things—you caught more flies with honey than vinegar. And she had found over the years that the calmer she stayed in the midst of a stressful situation, the more unreasonable everyone else ended up looking. Madison, Phoebe, and Casey lounged on a long, buttery soft gray suede sofa, half-read issues of In Style and Vogue discarded and tossed onto the polished hardwood floor at their feet.
“So, guys,” Sophie said as she made her grand entrance, her Balenciaga boots clicking authoritatively.
“What do you think?” Madison, Phoebe, and Casey looked over at the same time, Phoebe jumping to her feet in excitement, her ballet flats sliding soundlessly across the floor.
“You look amazing!” Phoebe exclaimed, rushing over and grabbing Sophie’s hand, her eyes sweeping her outfit appreciatively. “That suit is the bomb!”
“It’s the hotness,” Casey agreed, walking over and squeezing Sophie’s arm through the satiny silk jacket. Who was this freckly person resembling Casey McCloy? Casey never said things like “the hotness.” It’s about time, Sophie thought, walking over to Mad, who was still lounging on the couch, her booted feet tucked beneath her. Now if we could just do something about her clothes, we’d be in business . . .
“What do you think, Mad?” Sophie asked proudly, doing a pirouette, her hands on her hips.
“It’s so hot it’s practically nuclear,” Mad said, her green eyes glittering. “I feel like such a backseat buyer right now.” Mad smiled her slow, catlike smile, grinning into the camera and then dropping her eyes bashfully to the floor. A backseat buyer was someone who got totally jazzed over someone else’s purchases. If Madison’s a backseat buyer, Sophie thought suspiciously, then Casey’s the Queen of England . . .
Sophie threw Madison a smile, but inside, she was more than just a little confused. What the hell was wrong with Mad lately? It’s like Invasion of the Socialite Snatchers around here, Sophie thought, walking over to a full-length mirror. A manipulative, scheming Madison, she could take. A sniping, bitchy Madison—that was just a typical day. But a nice, supportive Madison was just too much for Sophie to bear. And ever since she’d become the next big thing, Madison had been acting almost disgustingly, cloyingly sweet—not to mention humble. And in Sophie’s opinion, Madison Macallister and humble went together about as well as milk and orange juice . . .
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