dva1990: You know the place, you know the time, but just in case—Uncommon Grounds, 10 AM? Be there?
socialiez666: Definitely.
Madison logged off and leaned back in her chair, smiling happily. What an idiot she’d been to think that Drew was even remotely interested in anyone else. After all, there was only one Madison Macallister, and everyone wanted her. It would only be a matter of time before she had Drew back just where she wanted him—and then she could decide what to do next. She looked at her overstuffed closet, wondering what to wear. She needed an outfit that would make him drop to his knees when she walked through the door. A flounce of blue-and-white tropical-printed silk caught her eye. She was still mad at Drew, of course, but that didn’t mean that she had to punish her new Tracey Feith sundress, did it?
sibling
rivalry
Sophie St. John stared into the enormous Viking refrigerator in her parents’ apartment in The Bramford, completely and utterly confused. She could’ve sworn that she had a leftover spicy tuna roll from Nobu in here yesterday. Their maid, Marguerite, had left Sophie her usual daily snack of chilled raw carrots and celery sticks on a white Spode dinner plate. But Sophie didn’t want carrots—she wanted a spicy tuna roll. Ever since Madison had embarked on her turn-Sophie-into-Nicole Richie plan, she’d been trying to lose five pounds—not that it was going very well with all the mojitos she’d drank today. Where the hell was that spicy tuna roll, anyway? Sophie kicked off her pink Coach flip-flops and flexed her bare feet on the cool, Mexican-tiled floor. She leaned over and rummaged in the back of the fridge, digging behind some moldy lettuce. She was going to go seriously psychotic if she didn’t find that sushi.
“Find anything interesting?”
Sophie turned around to face her older (by one year—not that he ever stopped yakking about it) brother, Jared, who had entered the kitchen wearing green Billabong board shorts and a black T-shirt. Jared had the body of a swimmer—all tanned flesh and lean muscle, and was forever planning complicated surfing expeditions to Hawaii or the Great Barrier Reef in Australia. He already had plans to move out to Southern California next year so he could surf full-time. And considering that he just got kicked out of Exeter at the start of his senior year, it seemed as good an option as any. Not that anyone was talking about it. Her parents—and Jared for that matter—had been decidedly tight-lipped about the details surrounding his expulsion. All Sophie knew was that for the last two years she’d basically had the run of their immense apartment, and now that Jared was back, not only did he always seem to be home, but to add insult to injury, her food also began disappearing on a regular basis—something that really annoyed her. Despite her size-two figure, or maybe because of it, the one thing Sophie really loved was her food. Steal it and you were going to pay—big-time.
Sophie rolled her eyes as she took in her brother’s greasy hair and rumpled, dirty clothes. Jared was truly the king of multislacking, and, as a result he’d perfected the fine art of whiling his days away surfing the Web, watching random TV shows, and text messaging his loser friends—all at the same time. His greasy dark hair fell over one blue eye, and Sophie noticed immediately that he was chewing on something that smelled suspiciously fishy.
Sophie stood up, hands on her hips, her cheeks flushed with two burning circles of red. “That better not be my spicy tuna roll you’re stuffing in your face!”
Jared swallowed hard, his full, red lips stretching into a grin. “First come,” he said, flopping down on one of the supremely uncomfortable wooden chairs their mother had insisted on, and put his tanned, bare feet up on the shiny oak dining table, “first served.” Jared smiled, placing his hands behind his head and leaning back in his chair. Just looking at his smug, self-satisfied face made Sophie want to punch him—so she did just that.
“Ow!” Jared yelled after her fist had made contact with his washboard abs, “calm down, will you? It was just sushi.”
“My sushi,” Sophie yelled, pointing at her chest with an index finger. “Why are you always stealing my food?”
“What did you have for breakfast this morning?” Jared asked irritably. “Hater tots? And why are you so hung up on labels? Mine, yours?” Jared’s face was plastered with that holier-than-thou expression that drove her absolutely nuts. “We are a family, you know,” he said, looking her up and down, taking in her blond hair and burnished skin, courtesy of Mystic Tan. “Even if you are the only living proof that Mom’s had an affair.” Jared arched one dark brow, reaching out to pinch his sister’s leg. Hard.
“Ow!” Sophie yelled as his fingers made contact and twisted her slightly sunburned thigh.
“Payback’s a bitch,” Jared said airily, standing up and stretching his arms overhead, then he shuffled out of the room and down the hall to his bedroom, humming the new Fallout Boy song under his breath, just to annoy her. She hated Fallout Boy.
Sophie opened the fridge and looked inside again, then slammed the door, leaning against the cold fridge, crossing her arms over her chest. As she stood there, thinking that she should just order Chinese, Sophie wondered why she always felt like an outsider, even in her own home. With her honey-blond hair, skin that positively screamed for self-tanner, and light green eyes, Sophie couldn’t have looked less like an alien from space next to her tall, dark-haired family. Her parents, Alistair and Phyllis St. John, were both blessed with olive skin that tanned easily—just like Jared—while Sophie was small and resolutely, blandly blond, and, as a result, totally dependent on spray tans and level-50 sunblock.
Sophie knew that every teenager probably felt like an imposter around their family, but people had literally been stopping Phyllis on the street since Sophie was born and asking if she was adopted. “Oh, what a cute baby,” some Upper East Side robot would coo, waggling her jeweled fingers in Sophie’s carriage. “Is she yours?” Over the years, it had become something of a family joke—especially to Jared, who never tired of pointing out the fact that Sophie resembled Madison more than her own family. After a while, Sophie gave up and started tanning zealously—just so there wouldn’t be so many annoying questions. She’s even thought about dying her hair, but Madison told her she’d look totally washed-out as a brunette, and Sophie, after a few nights staring into the mirror with a black T-shirt over her head to simulate hair, had to admit that, as usual, Madison was probably right.
Sophie walked over to the pantry, grabbed an almost-empty box of Jared’s Cap’n Crunch and sat down at the kitchen table, digging her hand in the box and shoving a handful of the sugary cereal into her mouth. Payback was a bitch. As she chewed, she turned over her wrist, examining the faint white scars that streaked across her skin, running her fingers across the raised flesh. When she felt really bad or overwhelmed, it helped to cut herself—just a little. Sometimes she used a kitchen knife, sometimes a blade she pulled from her father’s razor. Sophie knew that it was wrong, and she always stopped when she saw the blood running over her wrist, staining her skin crimson. The shock of red was like waking out of a bad dream, and afterward, as she bandaged the wound, cleaning the cut out with hydrogen peroxide, the sting of the antiseptic, the clutch of the white bandage was always strangely, calmly reassuring.
When Phoebe and Madison finally noticed the scratches one day last fall during a nostalgic-for-their-youth moment at Serendipity 3 over frozen hot chocolate, Sophie had to think fast. “It’s Snowball,” she had said, blushing and stuttering as usual, “she gets so excited when we play.” Just then Snowball, a fluffy white Persian, slunk into the kitchen and meandered over to her water bowl, lapping at the water delicately with her small, pink tongue. Sophie watched her kitty drink and wondered how long her friends would continue to believe her—assuming they did already—if she kept cutting. As it was, Madison surveyed any fresh marks with a lethal combination of raised, perfectly waxed eyebrows, and steely silence…
Her last shrink, Dr. Breuer, a dark-haired woman in her forties who wore the same pair of black pants every week�
�even though she charged two hundred and fifty dollars a session—diagnosed Sophie with ADD and prescribed Adder-all, which made Sophie feel screamingly productive, but kind of spacey, too. “Try to focus on something or someone else when you have the urge to self-mutilate, Sophie,” she’d said, peering over her hideous horn-rimmed glasses. Sophie hated that expression—self-mutilate—it sounded so…serious. At least she wasn’t out all night long smoking crack. And it wasn’t like she cut herself every day or anything—just when things got, well, a little too much. Sophie wrinkled her forehead and leaned her elbows on the table, pushing the cereal box aside, her palms resting under her chin.
Maybe they should go shopping tomorrow. After all, Casey could really use all the help she could get if she didn’t want to be crucified on her first day at Meadowlark, and there was nothing that Sophie liked better than doing a make over. Casey would probably even be pretty if they did something with that fugly-ass hair and got her some decent clothes. Besides, Monday was the first day back at school, and as Sophie mentally Rolodexed her closet, she realized she had absolutely nothing to wear. She was in desperate need of the perfect outfit—one that screamed confidence, style, and sophistication—in the most understated way possible, of course. Grabbing her phone from the table, she texted Phoebe, her fingers moving rapidly across the keypad.
What up?
Nada. You?
Shopping tomorrow? Casey needs help! MAKE OVER!
Sure…but…
Sophie frowned at the colorful display screen of her iPhone. When she’d bought it six months ago, her father had actually yelled at her for the first time ever when he got the bill. “Four hundred dollars for a phone, Sophia?” he demanded, his face turning the same shade of salmon pink as the Hermès silk tie knotted at his throat. “What’s it made out of—rare, imported, gold-plated titanium?”
“Oh, please, Alistair,” her mother had snapped, coming to Sophie’s rescue. “Let me remind you that I spend more money on a single pair of shoes—and I don’t hear you hollering about that.”
“I might, if I thought it would do any good,” her dad mumbled, throwing his hands in the air in frustration and walking out of the room
The screen stayed blank, and Sophie sighed impatiently. Phoebe loved shopping the way junkies loved heroin—so what was the problem? Actually, when Sophie stopped to think about it, there probably wasn’t much of a difference between the two—shopping was definitely a drug, not to mention one hell of an addiction. And Sophie intended on getting high tomorrow if it was the last thing she did…
There was a brief pause, and then the phone lit up again with Phoebe’s nervous reply.
Mad’s not going to like it…
Maybe not, Sophie thought, the corners of her lips turning up in a smile. But that didn’t necessarily mean they shouldn’t do it…did it? As far as Sophie was concerned, the fact that Mad would probably be totally livid meant they should definitely do it. Why, she wondered as she texted back, does it feel so good to be so bad?
Barney’s at noon?
K.
Sophie turned her phone off and dug her hand back into the box, grabbing the last handful of sugary cereal and popping it in her mouth, chewing contentedly—the diet, Madison, and the scars on her wrist momentarily forgotten.
boys…
they’re not
just for
breakfast
anymore
Madison stood in the open doorway of Uncommon Grounds, her navy-and-white, Tracy Feith sundress swirling around her legs in the morning breeze. She walked into the coffee shop/restaurant, inhaling the tantalizing scent of roasting beans and freshly baked flaky pastries, pushing her hair from her shoulders with one hand while clutching her navy-and-white Fendi B bag with the other. The room was crowded with early-bird New Yorkers crouched over lattes, plates of free-range eggs, thick-cut organic bacon, and plump blueberry streusel muffins, the classic gray Formica-topped tables pushed up against bright yellow walls.
Uncommon Grounds had always been their place—the scene of countless fights and make-up breakfasts, late-night cups of ginger tea, and long talks over eggs Benedict and milky café au lait. It was where she and Drew had first held hands under the cramped table two summers ago, his fingers tentatively stroking her palm while Phoebe and Sophie bickered endlessly about how many fat grams were in a single brioche.
She craned her neck slightly until she spied Drew at a tiny table in the back of the room, a framed poster of an oversized coffee mug directly over his head. In his ancient olive cargos and black American Apparel T-shirt, he wasn’t exactly dressed to impress, but Madison thought he’d never looked cuter, even totally jet-lagged and moodily staring into his coffee, a decimated copy of the New York Times spread out in front of him. As she stared, she couldn’t help remembering all the fun they’d had last year—the movies they’d rented on random Saturday nights when there was nothing else to do, how he’d held her close as they sweated under the lights sweeping across the dance floor at Marquee. Just looking at him sitting there waiting for her, she finally admitted to herself just how much she’d missed him while he’d been away—and how much she might want him back.
Madison took a deep breath, forcing her white Dolce sandals to move forward. It wasn’t like the two of them ever had much in common—other than being beautiful, that is. Madison hardly expected Drew to be the house-in-the-Hamptons type of guy. She had never imagined marrying anything less than royalty. But now, watching the way a lock of dark hair fell over his forehead, she wasn’t so sure anymore. What if I was wrong, she thought, her brow crinkling. What if Drew really is the one? And then an infinitely more terrifying thought crossed her mind, and her pulse began to race, her heart beating loudly underneath her lavender Agent Provocateur bra, her stomach dropping to somewhere around her ankles.
And what if he just isn’t interested anymore?
Just then Drew lifted his gaze from his cup and looked across the room, meeting her eyes. Immediately Madison forced her face into a dazzling smile and raised one hand in greeting. You’re being ridiculous, she told herself as she crossed the room, her long legs moving purposefully, confidence regained. After all, she’d practically made a career out of getting exactly what she wanted, from anyone she wanted. Why should Drew be any different?
Drew’s formerly sullen face broke into a wide grin as she maneuvered around the tables and chairs, and approached the cluttered table. He looked so goddamn cute that she wanted to shove the newspaper to the floor, throw him on top of the table, and force him to make out with her until they were both gasping for air. That would give Arts and Leisure a whole new meaning—not that she ever made it past the Style section…
But first things first. She needed coffee. Stat.
Madison sat down across from Drew, her knees bumping into his long legs beneath the table. Drew started gathering up the crumpled newspapers that surrounded them—so much potential history in sticky black ink—as the waitress approached, leaning down to take Madison’s order.
“I’ll have a skinny vanilla latte with an extra shot,” she said, smiling across the table at Drew, who stared into her green eyes, grinning back. All at once she remembered that she was still mad at him: The last time they really saw each other he’d left her naked in her bed, and he hadn’t even really apologized yet! He owed her a fucking litany of apologies. Losing her virginity was a moment she would never forget—and that memory wasn’t what it should have been. Why should she make it easier for him? Madison’s eyes narrowed further as the waitress shifted her weight impatiently.
“To go.”
The waitress scribbled something unintelligible on her pad and walked away, the smile sliding from Drew’s face like evaporating foam on a cappuccino. “So, you’re leaving already?” he said, one eyebrow arched. “You just got here.”
“True.” Madison dropped her bag on the floor and pushed the wadded-up sports section to the side. “But I think we both know that you’ll probably start pissin
g me off in a mere moment.”
“Touché,” Drew said, leaning back in his chair and running a hand through his already hopelessly tousled hair, causing it to stand on end in that cluelessly adorable way that made her want to climb into his lap and stay there. What the hell was going on with her? And why was it so hard to stay mad at him? Until he showed up yesterday at the park she was positively fuming, and now…now she didn’t know how she felt—except that she was completely confused.
“So,” she said coolly, leaning forward on her elbows, “how was your summer?”
“It was good, I guess.” Drew took a gulp of his coffee, grabbed a sugar packet, and dumped the contents into his half-empty cup. “The coffee here tastes like piss in comparison.” Madison smiled, remembering that Drew liked his coffee totally fagged out—with tons of cream and sugar. “My home base was Amsterdam, but I backpacked around a lot.”
“I bet you met a ton of people.” Especially ones with vaginas, she thought, trying to push her face into a smile and look interested.
“I met a few,” Drew said offhandedly, pushing his hair off his face, exposing his lightly stubbled jaw. “I met this girl in Barcelona—her name was Eva. Anyway, I ran into her at a café on the Ramblas, and she gave me a private tour of the city.”
Of course she did. Madison felt like her blood was steaming in her veins. Her ice-green eyes narrowed until they were practically slits, the color matching the sudden wave of jealousy coursing through her. What was he trying to do—give her an aneurysm? She tried to compose herself. It would totally suck to lose her cool so early in the conversation. So he hung out with some Eurotrash skank all summer. Big deal. After all, I’m me—and I’m here.
Madison looked down at her nails, painted with Chanel’s Black Satin polish—the choice for Upper East Side prep school girls gone bad—and contemplated her options. One: She could throw down her chair and storm off, slamming the café door behind her with a satisfying clamor of bells. Two: She could reach across the table and smack Drew, insensitive fuckhead that he was, full on in the face. Or three: She could do what she did best and steer the conversation back to the only subject really worth talking about—herself. Didn’t he care about her summer, or what she’d been doing? And was he ever going to apologize for the way he’d behaved before he left?
The Elite Page 6