Elite 03 Simply Irresistible

by Jennifer Banash

  “Maybe we were and maybe we weren’t,” he said coolly, the frozen core of his fury melting rapidly in the small room, the force it still held surprising him. “But either way, it’s not really any of your business.” As soon as the words fell from his lips, Drew felt immediately disoriented. Who is this person, he thought to himself as he watched a look of surprise moving over his father’s face like a heavy velvet curtain coming down between them, talking to my father like this?

  “Drew,” his father said gently, his eyes tired and red as if he’d been crying recently. When Drew had woken up early that morning, stumbling out to the kitchen for some orange juice, he’d found his father sitting in the living room, looking out at the dawn breaking over the Manhattan skyline, stroking his beard, clearly lost in thought. Looking at his father now, Drew wondered for the first time if he’d even been sleeping through the night since his mother had left for London. “You’re my son,” his dad said with a quiet finality. But strangely, in spite of his father’s calmness, his obvious exhaustion, Drew felt the anger inside him building, threatening to boil over completely, spilling, unchecked, out of his mouth before he could do anything to stop it. It was the way he had always reacted in moments like these. The more reasonable anyone became when he was pissed off, the angrier Drew inevitably got. “And what you do under this roof is most definitely my business. And this”—Drew’s father gestured at the rumpled bed—“just isn’t like you, Drew.”

  “Maybe it’s exactly like me,” Drew blurted out, his hands coming down to rest at his sides and balling into fists as he continued. “I mean, isn’t indiscreet sexual behavior kind of a Van Allen trademark?” he added nastily, the bitterness and sarcasm he’d been trying to bury inside him filling the room before he could put it in check. The part of Drew that was immediately sorry the minute the words left his mouth cringed as he watched his father’s face turn red as the beefsteak tomatoes waiting patiently on the kitchen counter. But the part of him that was still furious positively gloated at the marked change in his father’s expression.

  “Drew, listen,” his father barked, standing up and reaching toward him with one hand, his patience clearly at its limit. “I know you’re still angry with me, but this has got to stop.”

  Oh really? Drew thought with a smile that rapidly morphed into a grimace, is that what you told yourself when you were fucking Mrs. Reynaud? There were some things that, no matter how angry he might be, Drew would never dare to say aloud in his father’s presence. This was definitely one of them. Drew swallowed the unsaid sentence like a spoonful of bitter medicine, and shoved his hands into his pockets, looking down at the floor to avoid his father’s penetrating gaze.

  “Whatever you say, Dad,” Drew answered, his voice wooden and devoid of feeling. Drew looked at the foot or so of parquet that separated him from his father, and wondered how a distance so short had suddenly grown so wide. Just a few weeks ago he and his dad would’ve talked calmly about this whole thing with Mad—maybe even laughed about it. Now they were almost at blows—or, at least Drew was, his hands curled into fists at his sides. “But I think you’re the last person who should be judging anyone right now.”

  Drew grabbed his Timbuk2 messenger bag from the floor as he spoke, his voice shaking, and threw his black cashmere Marc Jacobs coat over one arm. He knew if he didn’t get out of here soon, one of two things might happen. He’d either cry, or break something, and right now, either option sounded equally terrible. If he didn’t leave now, he knew he might say something that he wouldn’t be able to take back—and that his father might never forget. Before his dad could say anything else, Drew walked quickly out into the hall and through the front door, slamming it behind him.

  As soon as the cold shock of outside air hit him, Drew felt his pulse begin to slow slightly, thrumming in his veins less and less insistently as he stood there on the sidewalk in front of his building, trying to just breathe. He looked up at the bright lights burning in his apartment, way up on top of the city he loved most in the world, and wondered how a place that had always felt so much like home could suddenly feel so otherworldly. Drew took a deep breath and tried to concentrate on the sensation of the icy air moving in and out of his lungs, trying not to think about what a mess his life was lately, and how he kept screwing everything up—first with Casey, and now with Mad—again. Now with his parents’ marriage in the toilet, his life seemed to be on a continuous loop of 24/7 bad.

  As he watched the light in his parents’ bedroom go out, the window turning rapidly dark, he turned in the bracing air and walked toward the park, his footsteps quickening as he moved, his nose running onto his upper lip. If he could just walk fast enough, maybe he could get far enough away from this whole mess so that it wouldn’t matter anymore. Maybe if his feet just kept moving, he’d be able to make some sense out of the thoughts that were crowding themselves together in his skull. He wiped his face with one hand and silently willed himself to get it together. It’s just the cold air, he told himself as he felt his eyes burning with unshed tears. He blinked them back rapidly, his dark eyelashes hitting his cheeks as he walked into the entrance to the park, the shuffling of his footsteps on pavement and the wind howling down the block almost drowning out the sound of his heartbeat reverberating in his ears.

  the breakfast club

  Madison sat at the round, highly polished mahogany table in the Macallisters’ buttercup-yellow breakfast room, a small, cut-crystal bowl of raspberries, blueberries, and low-fat vanilla yogurt in front of her. She dipped her spoon into the mixture repeatedly, covering the silver surface with gloopy yogurt, then letting it slide off the spoon back into the bowl, uneaten. She had absolutely no idea why Edie insisted on having a morning meal together one day a week, considering the fact that her mother could barely open her eyes before noon, much less participate in anything as banal as breakfast. Besides, the only things she’d ever seen Edie actually ingest on a regular basis were caviar, champagne, and Valium—not exactly the breakfast of champions.

  Madison looked over at Edie, who was seated clear at the other end of the glossily polished table, wearing a billowing black velvet floor-length Bill Blass robe with enormous bat wing sleeves that were sure to dip into her own bowl of imported toasted rice cereal from Italy, and skim milk that was so fat-free it looked totally blue against the white Limoges china it currently floated in. Edie’s blond hair fell to her shoulders, and without makeup her skin looked as white as an albino in a snowstorm. Edie reached for a prescription bottle in the center of the table, her sleeves dragging across the tabletop, and opened it, popping a few small yellow pills in her mouth and swallowing hard before looking up at her daughter and frowning. Well, as much as she could, considering her forehead had recently turned to stone with all the Botox injections she’d been getting in an attempt to ward off Father Time with poisonous chemicals. Madison knew that frown. It was the same look Edie had always given her when they were about to discuss something “serious,” and chances were it would definitely be something Madison had absolutely no desire to talk about. At all.

  “Darling,” Edie began, her voice husky with sleep, and probably too much champagne the night before. “I’ve made a decision. As far as I’m concerned, leaving your future in your own hands is absolutely suicidal. Which is why I’ve signed you up for a college admission training session with that wonderful tutor Phoebe’s mother has hired. You know”—Edie’s voice dropped to a whisper—“I hear she helped get Maxine Vandenberg into Princeton.”

  Madison rolled her eyes and pushed her bowl away, crossing her arms over her deep purple Marc Jacobs velvet blazer. Maxine Vandenberg was so hopelessly clueless that it was amazing she didn’t get flattened by a cement truck every time she crossed the fucking street. Thanks for the vote of confidence, Mom, Madison intoned silently. Okay, so she definitely wasn’t Albert Einstein or anything, but she wasn’t a drooling moron like Maxine Vandenberg either. There was a big difference.

  “Perhaps studying with Pho
ebe will help keep you motivated,” Edie added, raising a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice to her lips, then setting it back down on the table with a grimace. “And I’m certainly not leaving you getting into Harvard to chance.” Edie shuddered, an expression of distaste drawing the corners of her mouth downward. “In any case,” she added crisply, “your first joint session is this afternoon, and I think it goes without saying that you had better be there. Is that clear?”

  “Crystal,” Mad said grumpily, wondering exactly what Edie was going to do when she found out that instead of showing up at the Reynauds’ apartment for her “training session” she’d spent the afternoon being beautified at Bliss with a seaweed wrap and a hot stone pedicure. She’ll probably have an aneurysm, Mad thought with a slow, catlike smile.

  “Because I have absolutely no qualms cutting you off financially if you fail to get into an acceptable college,” Edie said mildly, bringing a spoonful of cereal to her mouth and chewing thoughtfully as she stared into the distance.

  “And I suppose acceptable means Harvard, right?” Madison snapped, feeling a wave of apprehension so deep it felt almost like nausea. Cut her off? Was she serious? When it came to Edie, one could never be sure. Edie spent most of her waking hours in such a deep chemical haze that she was utterly unpredictable. One day she’d be planning a trip to a Buddhist retreat in Oregon, and then the next week she’d be waxing ecstatically about some new mud bath in Tahiti she’d read about, Oregon and Buddhism apparently long forgotten.

  “Of course!” Edie snapped back, rolling her hazel eyes that were so bloodshot they looked almost entirely red in color. “Really, Madison—is that even a question?”

  Madison sighed loudly, watching as her mother began to stare dreamily into space, humming to herself, her “morning vitamins” obviously kicking in. Whenever Madison thought about the next year, the ridiculous frenzy of applying to colleges, she wanted to drink straight vodka until she threw up, then take a big nap that would stretch on until she was twenty-five—at least. What was the point of going to an Ivy League school in the first place when she had absolutely no idea what she wanted to do with her life? When she looked into the future, try as she might to see some kind of career for herself, she saw nothing but a looming, dark space—and that complete and total lack of information was one of the only things that scared Madison Macallister shitless.

  How am I supposed to know if I want to go to Harvard, when I don’t even know what I want to do with my life, she brooded silently, refusing to make eye contact with her mother, who blinked vaguely at her over the enormous centerpiece of white lilies and roses that dominated the center of the table, the overly sweet stench of the flowers making Madison’s stomach turn crazily. Maybe it’s time you found out, a little voice at the back of her brain whispered, as she stood up, teetering unsteadily on her heels, before you wind up as whacked out as Edie.

  “Oh, and don’t forget about the Holiday Gala at the Guggenheim next week,” Edie called out just as Madison was about to walk out of the room.

  Madison stopped dead in her tracks, placing her hands on her hips, which were covered in a matching purple Marc Jacobs tweed mini, and spun around, her black Cesare Paciotti ankle boots skidding on the parquet floor, her legs covered in black textured Dior stockings she’d borrowed from Edie’s well-stocked lingerie drawer. “But that’s the night De-Luxe premieres on Pulse!” she wailed, unable to comprehend the depth of Edie’s horribleness.

  The Holiday Gala at the Guggenheim was the most unbelievably boring event on earth. Like she really needed to stand around with a bunch of tight-ass Upper East Side debutantes again this year, and listen to them yak on endlessly about where they were applying for college, and how high their GPAs were this term. The thought of it made her want to drive a butter knife through her own skull, just to avoid the whole thing. She could almost picture herself convalescing in the hospital, her room filled with flowers, a white bandage wrapped around her perfectly coiffed brunette head as she stared blankly into space, a glazed expression in her lushly mascaraed eyes. Drew would be sitting at the side of the bed, his head in his hands, a worried expression creasing his gorgeous face. Please, Madison, she could almost hear him whispering as she lay there, totally unresponsive, staring up at the ceiling, I’m sorry for being such an ass face, but now I know that I want to be with you forever. Won’t you please, please come back to me?

  Edie smirked, raising the orange juice to her lips and finally taking a sip. “That’s why God invented TiVo.”

  Madison stomped off, her chocolate brown hair flying around her face as she slammed the front door behind her, hoping to God that the Guggenheim had exceptionally dull butter knives. She planned on calling the hospital in advance, to make sure they had the TiVo set to record.

  california dreaming

  Sophie St. John hurried up the steps of Meadowlark Academy, tripping over the slick granite while silently cursing the pristine and slippery soles of her new winter-white Tod’s ankle boots. But they were so infinitely cute that she couldn’t not wear them—especially when she had the most gorgeous Marni faux-fur jacket in eggshell to match . . . Sophie exhaled loudly, blowing her honey-colored bangs from her face, irritated to find that despite the fact that she’d showered less than an hour before, she was already kind of damp and sweaty from practically running the five short blocks to school.

  She wasn’t sure how it happened, but no matter what she did, she was chronically late. It was a total mystery, considering that every night she set her baby pink Hello Kitty alarm clock for seven A.M. without fail, and every morning she found herself rolling over and sleepily hitting the snooze button—then jumping out of bed a half hour later, her heart knocking in her chest. She would then inevitably wind up racing to the bathroom and jumping into the shower whispering a chorus of shitshitshit under her breath while she rubbed L’Occitane lavender shower gel over her body so fast it almost gave her the spins. The perfect gloriousness of her morning culminated with running around her room dripping wet and throwing clothes around like an escaped mental patient on a shopping spree at Barneys. “I should learn to meditate or something,” Sophie mumbled under her breath and she reached the top of the steps, stopping to push her now dampened hair from her face. Just as she was about to push open the heavy blue doors, a horn beeped loudly behind her.

  A black limousine idled at the curb, exhaust poofing discreetly from the rear exhaust pipe in quiet, gray plumes that drifted through the early morning air like fog. The driver’s-side door opened, and a man in a sleek black uniform stepped out, a black cap covering his graying hair.

  “Miss St. John?” he yelled out, cupping his hands, encased in black leather gloves, around his mouth. He motioned with one arm for Sophie to approach the car, and she tripped back down the stairs, her brow wrinkling with confusion. Was this maybe one of those drive-by kidnapping cases she’d heard about on the news lately? Although she couldn’t imagine that kidnappers would rent a black limo for the sole purpose of snatching a young girl off the streets of the Upper East Side, would they? As Sophie approached the car, the black, tinted window on the passenger’s side rolled quietly down, revealing the sleek, blond head of Sophie’s biological mother, Melissa Von Norton, her hair streaming like a waterfall to shoulders that were wrapped in a crimson Pashmina, her sharply chiseled face half-hidden by an enormous pair of Roger Vivier python sunglasses with shiny gold buckles adorning each earpiece. But behind the dark lenses, Sophie knew, were bottle-glass green eyes, the exact same hue and shape as her own.

  “Sophie,” Melissa said, her slightly raspy voice like chocolate dipped in caramel. “Would you get in for a moment? I’d really like to speak to you.”

  Sophie crossed her arms over the immaculate wool of her Marni jacket, tucking her hands firmly under her arms. “I’m late for school,” she answered, trying to make her voice sound as neutral as possible. But despite her best efforts, when the sentence left her lips it still came out clipped, awkward, and slightly a
ngry.

  Melissa removed her dark shades, and her eyes glowed out of the darkness of the limo like twin green spotlights. “I’ll write you a note,” she said smoothly, swinging open the car door. “Isn’t that what mothers do?” she added with a half-smile.

  “How would you know?” Sophie shot back as she shifted her weight from one booted foot to the other. She could already tell that by the end of the day, no matter how cute they were, her Tod’s boots were going to be the bane of her existence—her feet would probably be covered in blisters that would force her to hobble around the halls like an uncoordinated moron.

  Melissa sighed heavily, looking down at her perfectly glossed fingernails that were painted the palest shade of pink. “I don’t know, Sophie,” she said finally, looking up and locking eyes with her daughter. “But I am trying to learn—if you’ll give me a chance.”

  Sophie stood there, the irritated expression she’d been wearing moments before rapidly sliding from her face. A million different emotions swept through her at once—fear, anger, and doubt in the lead, but confusion ultimately winning out, rapidly replacing all three in an instant. It was so totally typical of the mess that was currently her life—just when she thought she’d made up her mind to hate her biological mother, Melissa showed up and said something that made the entire enterprise seem utterly impossible.

  “I have five minutes,” Sophie said grudgingly, giving in and climbing into the backseat, determined to hold on to the memory of her anger no matter what Melissa had to say.

  “Okay,” Melissa said, a relieved expression sweeping over her face as Sophie sat back on the plush leather seat, crossing her arms over her chest again, ready for battle.