After a full day of French, Trigonometry, History, and Sociology, Casey’s brain hurt, her eyes glazing over as she mindlessly flipped through her French workbook. I probably have drain bramage from reading too much, she thought, closing her sore eyes and rubbing her temples with her index fingers. Not that she could study even if she wanted to—not after the way Drew acted after she’d practically attacked him. Casey flipped open her battered Sprint phone and checked for missed calls…again. Predictably, there weren’t any. She snapped the phone shut and threw it to the end of the bed, where it landed with a thump, and picked up her violin from the floor, running her hands over the taut strings. Sometimes just holding the rich, reddish-brown-hued wood seemed reassuring—and right now she needed all the reassurance she could get.
She couldn’t stop thinking about the look on Drew’s face when she ran her hand up his arm—and the look that must’ve been all over her own when he had pulled away. And later that afternoon as he passed by her in the hallway, he just smiled, waved…and kept walking. She thought he would at least stop, say hi, and maybe ask how her day was going—but the way he waved so nonchalantly, his smile so tight, made it clear that stopping to talk, or calling her later was the last thing on his mind. Was she not aggressive enough? Casey couldn’t help but entertain the sneaking suspicion that maybe she’d be better off simply ignoring Madison’s dating advice. Why did making friends have to be so hard here? Back home in Normal, hanging out with her friends had been effortless, but since she’d arrived at The Bram, Casey couldn’t help but have the feeling that no matter how hard she tried to get along with Mad, no matter what she said or did, it wouldn’t make any difference. Why couldn’t they all just be friends without guys getting in the way?
Umm, maybe because you’re in lust with her ex-boyfriend, her inner pragmatist answered back matter-of-factly…
Casey sighed, placing her violin gently back on the floor and lying back on the blue quilt. The fabric emitted a noxious combination of mothballs and the Chanel No 5 Nanna had obviously sprayed all over it in an attempt to mask the hideous, medicinal scent. It was probably too much to hope for that the most gorgeous guy she’d ever seen would pick her over someone like Madison Macallister. Why couldn’t things be like they were in the movies, where the least popular girl always got the hottest guy in school? Casey sat up and opened her new laptop, popping her Pretty in Pink DVD into the side slot. There was no mistaking it—Drew was Andrew McCarthy to her (she hoped) slightly better-dressed Molly Ringwald, the girl from the wrong side of the tracks. Or maybe just the wrong floor. All she wanted was to cut to the final scene where they overcame their class differences and made out in the school parking lot after the prom…
Wait, Meadowlark didn’t even have a parking lot. Or a prom. A prom was a little passé when you’ve been spending most of your weekends since you were thirteen shuttling between Marquee and some exclusive party at the Met. Casey pulled her hair into a curly mop on top of her head, securing it with a rubber band. Okay, then, in her fantasy Drew would grab her in the Dining Hall, pressing his body to hers in front of the salad bar, the steel tongs glinting in the light, his lips lightly brushing her own, the mouth watering scent of organic bacon cheeseburgers in the air…
A sharp rap on the bedroom door snapped Casey out of her decidedly PG-rated thoughts, and she hit the spacebar to pause the movie. “Can I come in?” Nanna called as she pushed the door open and walked in before Casey could answer. Nanna was dressed for what she called “a night on the town,” in a silvery-gray cocktail dress that looked like it’d been buried in a time capsule in 1965 and dug up that morning. The triple-strand of creamy pearls she always wore on special occasions hung around her neck, and pearl-gray leather pumps encased her feet. Her legs shone with the gleam of sheer silk stockings, and her face was bare but for a dusting of light face powder and a slash of petal-pink lipstick Casey knew was called Antique Rose, because it was the only shade Nanna ever wore.
“I hope you’re not wearing that getup for me,” Casey said, smiling as her grandmother pirouetted once, showing off her outfit from all angles. “Because I have to hit the books to night if I’m going to have a shot in hell at keeping up at this fancypants school.”
“Not unless your name happens to be Arthur—and you’re a retired captain in the Air Force!” Nanna cackled, her eyes glittering, and Casey wondered for the millionth time how somebody so old could possibly have so much energy. Nanna stepped in front of the mirror hanging over the bed and smoothed down her silvery bob. Genetics weren’t fair. How was it that Nanna was blessed with stick-straight hair while everyone else in the McCloy family had to contend with locks that looked more like a tangled mass of spaghetti than anything remotely resembling the hair of an actual human being?
“So, how was the first day?” Nanna asked, sitting down on the edge of the bed, arranging the silky fabric of her skirt with one hand so she wouldn’t wrinkle. “Brutal, I take it?”
“That would be one way of describing it.” Casey pulled her hair down and scratched her head with both hands, her brain pounding in her skull. Not only was her hair a nightmare to deal with on a daily basis, every time she put it up the sheer mass of it gave her an instant migraine.
“You want to talk about brutal?” Nanna pointed at the slim Cartier watch on her wrist, tapping the worn mother-of-pearl face with one antique, rose-polished fingernail. “In exactly forty minutes, I’ll be sitting at Tavern on the Green, trying to look interested as Arthur drones on about planes and flight specifications while fussy waiters call me ma’am and try to run away with my plate before I’ve finished eating.”
“Yeah, that sounds just awful.” Casey smiled. “Being forced to eat an expensive three-course meal in a gorgeous restaurant in the middle of Central Park.” Casey rolled her gray eyes and smiled. “Arthur is your date, I take it? And a pi lot, too? Wow, Nanna,” Casey lay back on the bed, her arms under her head, “my heart really bleeds for you.”
“Was a pi lot, Miss Smarty-Pants,” Nanna said, standing up and smacking Casey on the hip with the palm of one hand. “He’s retired—or haven’t you been paying attention?”
Ow. Nanna’s skeleton hands hurt when she got feisty. Casey rolled her eyes, rubbed her hip, and glared at the ceiling. It was so depressing. Here she was sitting home by herself feeling like the biggest loser on the planet, and even her grandmother had a hot date. Okay, well maybe not exactly hot, but at least it was an actual date.
“Well, have fun,” Casey said with a sigh. “Don’t stay out too late.”
“No need to worry about that,” Nanna scoffed. “These old guys are used to falling asleep in their chairs in front of the TV by ten o’clock—I’ll be lucky if he makes it past the appetizers!” Nanna cackled again, cracking herself up, then placing her hands on her hips, she peered at Casey as though at any minute she might turn into a bug straight out of a Kafka story. “Casey Anne McCloy, are you just going to mope around here all night long?”
“Probably,” Casey moaned. “My life is a disaster. And don’t call me Casey Anne—it makes me sound like one of the fringe characters in Deliverance.”
“How can your life be a disaster?” Nanna demanded while walking to the door and placing one hand on the knob. “You just got here!”
“Exactly,” Casey said, sitting back up and closing her laptop. “It’s a talent I have—making a mess out of my life in forty-eight short hours…”
“You kids these days are so dramatic.” Nanna rolled her eyes and glanced quickly at her watch. “Why don’t you open that thing up”—Nanna pointed to Casey’s closed laptop—“and kill a few hours on YouSpace or MyTube?”
Casey burst out laughing, drawing her knees up and hugging them to her chest. “Nanna, its MySpace and YouTube.” Casey stopped laughing and looked at Nanna incredulously. “And how do you know about stuff like that anyway?”
“Casey, honey,” Nanna said, a mischievous look in her blue eyes, “I’m old—I’m not dead.” Nanna pul
led the door open and waved over her shoulder, a powdery, scented cloud of Chanel No 5 trailing behind her. “Don’t wait up!” she called out before shutting the door firmly. The metal clicking of the locks turning sounded like a cell door closing—and from the sorry state of Casey’s New York love life, she was clearly being sentenced to a lifetime in unpopular, dateless Loserville.
Casey opened her laptop and logged onto MySpace, plugging Drew’s name into the Search feature. When his page came up, featuring a picture of Drew, sunburned and screamingly cute, sitting on some very Euro-looking bridge with a cluster of boats and barges in the background, she felt more depressed than ever. Especially when she noticed that Drew had more than one thousand friends, while Casey’s page, embarrassing as it was to admit, only had a hundred—tops. It was official: She was clearly a friendless loser. Even Nanna was out getting wined and dined, and here she was sitting in her room, mooning over some guy’s MySpace page.
Ugh, Casey thought, tracing the contours of Drew’s face with the pad of her index finger, it’s a pretty sad state of affairs when your grandmother’s love life is hotter than your own…
date night
Madison held tightly onto Drew’s hand as he helped her out of a cab on the Lower East Side. She couldn’t believe she’d actually agreed to this—coming all the way downtown just to eat Mexican food at some ridiculous restaurant at the bottom of a fucking vault—but here she was, stepping out of a cab, her new black patent leather Manolos landing squarely in a puddle as a late summer shower rained down on their heads.
Drew had wisely waited to inform her that they were heading downtown until after she’d stepped into the cab and he’d presented her with a single gorgeous white lily, his dimple wrinkling adorably. It wasn’t like Madison had anything against downtown, really, but she had nothing for it either. Besides, it wasn’t like the Upper East Side was exactly suffering from a lack of great restaurants—there was really no reason to ever come down to this haven for hipsters, poseurs, and trust-fund junkies. Ever.
“Come on!” Drew shouted over the downpour, his fingers closing tightly around her own as he pulled her across the street toward the restored steel dining car on the corner, the thunder cracking loudly above their heads. Fucking great, Madison thought, reaching up and patting her hair with her free hand. She’d spent two hours putting it up, securing every last wayward, blond strand, and now it was completely soaked through—along with her black silk Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress. As they stood under the huge red neon sign that proclaimed La Esquina, catching their breath, Madison couldn’t help but feel a little pissed off as she surveyed the wreckage of her outfit—a look that took her hours to put together. This was supposed to be their makeup date, and she looked like a drowned rat. Attractive, Madison muttered under her breath, reaching up and pulling the pins from her hair, shaking it around her shoulders in a rain-soaked frizzy mess.
Madison peered inside the plate-glass windows of the dining car in disbelief, taking in the fast-food counter, the fluorescent lighting, and the hungry crowds munching away on beef tacos. Where was the candlelight, the chilled white wine, the white linen tablecloths and soft music? Who did he think she was anyway—Casey?
“You’ve got to be kidding me, Drew!” Madison erupted angrily. “You dragged me all the way downtown in the pouring rain to eat at a taco joint? My dress is ruined!”
“It’s just a little rain, Mad. It’s not going to kill you.” An annoyed expression crossed Drew’s face and he brushed his wet hands off on his Seven jeans, and straightened his black Paul Smith blazer.
No, Madison thought, silently thanking God that she was wearing waterproof mascara, but I just might…
“And I told you—it’s not just a taco joint. Come on.” Drew grabbed her hand again, and against her better judgment she allowed him to lead her around the side of the building, the rain pelting her in the face to a battered gray door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY.
“What are you doing? We can’t go in there!” Madison grabbed his wrist as he pulled the door open. Had he suddenly lost his mind? Or maybe all of his IQ points had just been washed away in the torrential rain flooding the streets.
“It’s cool,” Drew tossed nonchalantly over his shoulder, “I promise.” Madison sighed and followed Drew into the building, and down a dark set of sinister-looking stairs that were a serious fucking challenge if you were lucky enough to be wearing flip-flops—much less Manolos. When they came out into the light, Madison blinked her eyes at the sudden shock of overhead lighting illuminating what could only be the restaurant’s kitchen. Mexican cooks wearing chef jackets paid them absolutely no attention as they busily worked the grill, the smell of onions and chilies perfuming the air.
“This way,” Drew said authoritatively, leading her through a maze of hallways that ended abruptly with at a thick steel door fronted by a sleek black podium, a small pin light attached to the top. The podium looked completely out of place, considering the exceedingly sewerlike surroundings. Behind it stood a rail-thin bouncer, tightly gripping the black square of a clipboard, the white of his hands and face standing out in stark contrast to the darkness of the hall. Drew walked up to the podium, lightly clearing his throat, but the bouncer didn’t budge, and continued to stare at the clipboard like it was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen. Drew cleared his throat again, this time loud enough for the sound to echo off the dank walls.
“What is this, fucking Madame Tussauds?” Madison whispered. The bouncer let out a small chuckle.
“If this is a wax museum, then you two must be some bridge-and-tunnel types, looking for a big, bad night on the town.” He still hadn’t raised his eyes from the clipboard.
“Don’t mind her,” Drew said, leaning forward onto the podium, “we’re here for the menudo. I hear it’s tremendous.” Madison’s exquisitely manicured fingernail dug into his shoulder as she squeezed out her anger.
“Menudo? I thought this was a restaurant, not a concert venue for some tired Latin pop group.”
“Mad, please…”
“Menudo on Sundays only. You’ll have to come back.”
“Just give us a table,” Drew said, “we’ll drink until midnight. And I know you guys start stewing that tripe on Friday.” A look of surprise briefly crossed the bouncer’s face. Madison smirked with satisfaction. Dating a guy whose father was in the restaurant business often came in handy at places like this.
“I see—so you’re a bridge-and-tunneler who trolls eGullet for lack of anything better to do,” the bouncer said dryly, his eyes drifting back to the clipboard, shoulders relaxing, shutting off all body signals for future communication.
“Are you really going to make me recite all twenty-six ingredients in the shrimp ceviche?” Drew said with an eyebrow raised. “Or can we just cut to the part where you show us to our table before I have to get my father on the phone. His name’s Robert Van Allen. Maybe you’ve heard of him?”
The bouncer snapped to attention, the light glinting off the lenses of his glasses, obscuring his expression.
“Wait—you’re a Van Allen? Um, Okay. Let me see.” The bouncer looked down at his clipboard and crossed through a name with his red pen just as another couple stepped into the dark of the hallway and out of the bright lights of the kitchen.
“Excuse me, we have a reservation,” the man said timidly, adjusting his gold, wire-rimmed round glasses with one plump, pink hand.
“Good for you—tell the whole world,” the bouncer said over his shoulder, giving their Birkenstocks and tie-dyed T-shirts a disdainful look, “but you’re not eating dinner here to night.” The couple stood there for a moment in shock, mouths open, before turning around and walking back toward the steel door.
“Okay, Van Allen,” the bouncer said, giving Madison’s legs the once-over, “follow me.” Madison trailed behind Drew as they meandered through the narrow hallway, ending up in a large, cavernous room decorated with dripping wrought-iron candelabras, imposing-looking metal gates a
dorning the walls.
“Wow,” Madison whispered, taking in the couples draped in Prada and Fendi seated at small tables scattered throughout the room, coolly watching over their large white menus as Madison and Drew were led to a table in the back. “I thought you were kidding when you said it was a vault.”
“What exactly were you expecting?” the bouncer snorted, pulling out Madison’s chair, “a décor reminiscent of your local suburban Taco Bell?” Madison rolled her eyes and picked up her menu as the bouncer slunk away—presumably to torture more patrons.
“So,” she said, smiling over the top of the menu and trying to be a good sport even though she felt about as sexy as a wet cat. Whatever—the wet look was totally back in…as of now. Madison swept her sopping hair off her shoulders and surveyed the dungeonesque interior. Her soggy dress notwithstanding, she couldn’t be too mad about the situation. Drew had definitely gone to a lot of trouble to get them in…even if the restaurant was practically around the corner from the ninth circle of hell—otherwise known as the LES—and had a stricter door policy than Bungalow. “What’s good here?”
The Elite Page 12