Fifth Avenue #1

by Fifth Avenue 1 (retail) (azw3)

  “I thought you were giving those up this year.”

  Vanity whirled around to see her boyfriend, Marcelo Cashman, strolling toward her. He was wearing a pair of khaki shorts and a neat, pink Brooks Brothers button-down. In his hand was a beat-up copy of An Inconvenient Truth, that boring book about global warming. He’d just come back from an expedition to the South Pole with his real-estate tycoon father, who was trying to ward off a slew of bad publicity by championing the environment.

  Vanity quickly stamped out the cigarette with the heel of her flip-flop. Marcelo hated that she smoked, and she usually tried to refrain in his presence, but how was she supposed to know he’d surprise her after class? And didn’t she deserve a teeny-tiny break when it was technically still summer?

  “Hi, beautiful.” Marcelo pulled her into him and she gripped his strong back as they kissed. He tasted like peppermints.

  Marcelo rested his hand on her fleshier-than-usual hip. While taking classes at the Paris Opera, Vanity had developed an addiction to the chocolate scones from the bakery down the street from her dormitory.

  “Wanna grab lunch?” he asked, easily snaking his arm around her waist. She stiffened under his touch, feeling like an extra-plump sausage in a pink leotard.

  Moving from a size zero to a two is such a tragedy.

  “As long as it doesn’t actually include food,” Vanity agreed, leaning against Marcelo.

  They walked hand in hand down Broadway toward Columbus Circle. The streets were crowded with families soaking up the last weekend of summer, and the air felt thick and hot.

  “So,” Marcelo began, gallantly slinging Vanity’s bag over his shoulder, “after the expedition, I was able to connect with this Columbia professor who’s working on sustainability, and I’m actually interning—”

  “Marcelo?” Vanity interrupted. “You didn’t tell me I look pretty.” She knew it might sound pathetic to someone else, but Marcelo always told her she looked pretty when he saw her. It was always the first thing out of his mouth and what Vanity loved most about him.

  Self-centered much?

  “Yes, I did. I said, ‘Hi, beautiful.’ That’s the same thing,” Marcelo responded, hardly looking at her as he held open the gleaming glass door of the Time Warner Center.

  True, Vanity reasoned. She hated to demand a compliment, but ever since she’d been kicked out of the Paris Opera program for drinking wine alone in her dorm room, she’d been feeling a little shaky. She’d come home early and spent the last two weeks at her friend Draya’s sprawling compound in the Hamptons. Drinking margaritas on the beach hadn’t been a bad way to end the summer, but feeling off during class this morning had brought back the memory of her Paris embarrassment and left her feeling raw.

  They took the escalator up to Bouchon Bakery, the casual bistro on the third floor, and sat at a table overlooking Columbus Circle. Cars were backlogged in the traffic circle, and tourists lounged around the fountain at its center.

  Now that she was back with Marcelo, Vanity felt her old confidence returning. So she’d have to eat salads for a few weeks and spend a few extra hours a week in the studio. Who cared? The most sought-after boy in New York loved her. They were all but destined to get married, live in one of his dad’s luxurious buildings, and take fabulous vacations to rest up from their equally fabulous lives. And in the meantime, maybe this year was finally the year they would do it. It it.

  That’d be one way to burn calories.

  They'd spent the entire summer apart, where he developed a social conscience and she developed a taste for pastries. Were they still as close as they were at the end of last year, when he would greet her outside ballet class with flowers? Or would they become even closer?

  The sound of the Nutcracker theme song suddenly erupted from Vanity’s pink ballet bag. She pulled out her phone and looked at the display. Her father again. She grimaced and pressed ignore.

  “Who’s that?” Marcelo asked, taking a bite of the grilled cheese sandwich a skinny, goateed waiter had just set down on the table.

  Vanity could feel her stomach growling. “Charles.” She shrugged and grabbed a fry off his plate. One wouldn’t kill her.

  “When was the last time you talked to him?” Marcelo frowned.

  Vanity wrinkled her thin nose. Just because Marcelo was close to his own father and had gone on a freaking summerlong father-son Antarctic expedition, he assumed everyone should have the same type of jovial cross-generational relationship. Marcelo was perpetually positive, which Vanity loved, because it balanced out her tendency to freak the fuck out if someone got her order wrong at Starbucks. Now, though, she wanted his enthusiasm directed toward her. They could start by sitting in one of the luxurious leather seats in the screening room of the Cashmans’ apartment, watching some ridiculous French film and taking off one article of clothing every time someone lit up a fresh cigarette.

  She grabbed another fry. Just thinking about Marcelo’s hands on her body made her hungry.

  Um. Doesn’t she mean horny?

  “Let’s get out of here,” she whispered across the table, dragging her fingers across his upper thigh, pleased when she saw his hazel eyes widen excitedly.

  Check, please!

  5

  Reese dove into the tiled twenty-five-meter pool in the basement of his parents’ townhouse on 84th between Madison and Park. He propelled his body through the blue water, slicing it with his strong arms in a desperate attempt to sober up after an afternoon spent drinking with the new guy, Trey Cartwright.

  Aren’t you supposed to drink water to sober up?

  Reese felt seasick as he stopped to take a break at the other end of the pool. It didn’t help that the pool was decorated with distracting hand-painted art tiles depicting starfish, kelp, and octopus. He felt like he was drowning in some developmentally delayed five-year-old’s finger painting.

  He glanced at the large, fogproof clock above the teak doors that separated the pool from the rest of the basement fitness center. Seven thirty-five. His girlfriend, Kiara, was supposed to come over at eight, and they hadn’t seen each other since June. He’d been in Europe all summer, visiting the Welsh estate that had been in his father’s family for generations and spending most of his time at the local pub with his cousins or heading to London via private jet to watch soccer games. Kiara had been at her Orleans home on the Cape. They had talked on the phone, but less frequently than Reese would have liked. Between their different schedules and the time difference, they’d kept missing each other—she’d always call when he was asleep; he’d always call when she was at the beach or sitting down to dinner or just not there. Now that they finally had the chance to be together, Reese really didn’t want to be drunk.

  He ducked his head under the water and began a fast butterfly. As his strong arms knifed into the water, he got into a rhythm and began to feel better. Butterfly was his favorite stroke because it was both powerful and tender. You had to work with the water and against it at the same time. He’d always thought it was kind of similar to sex.

  Not that he would know.

  For the whole summer, all Reese had been able to think about was his and Kiara’s end-of-year promise: as soon as they saw each other again, they’d make love for the first time.

  Make love? Oh brother.

  Reese and Kiara had known each other since they were in the same highly selective kindergarten class at All Souls on Lexington. Even then, he’d asked her to be his Valentine, a moment Lady Sterling had caught on tape and replayed every February 14th on her show. They’d begun dating seriously at the beginning of ninth grade and now, like jazz music and red wine, they belonged together. Tonight, he sort of hoped he wouldn’t have to say anything. They’d be so excited to see each other it would just...happen.

  “Anyone here?” a voice called out through the steamy air.

  Reese stopped mid-stroke, surprised to see Kiara standing in the doorframe. She was early. She was beautiful. Just seeing the way the delicate gold
anklet he’d given her hung from her ankle made him feel like he was about to burst.

  “Hey.” She stepped toward the side of the pool, her arms wrapped around her chest.

  Reese pulled himself up from the ledge and grabbed her in a huge bear hug. Her hair smelled like apples.

  “Reese! You’re all wet!” she giggled, her face breaking into a sunny smile that showed her slightly crooked teeth.

  “Sorry about that.” He stepped back and picked up a towel from a nearby bench, knotting it right below his slim hips.

  “It’s okay,” Kiara conceded as she wrinkled her slightly upturned nose and planted a delicate kiss on his lips. She stepped back and wrung out the hem of her knee-length dress. “How are you?”

  “Good,” Reese murmured. “I mean, now I am.” Or at least, he would be soon. He had two bottles of Cristal chilling in his bedroom that he had taken from his banker father’s large stash. And he knew it was cheesy, but he had also gotten two dozen roses from the florist shop on the corner as he was coming home from the park.

  Nothing like drinking forties to bring out a guy’s romantic side.

  “Race you?” She raised her eyebrow suggestively, like she knew a delicious secret. Reese had forgotten how infectious her enthusiasm was. He hated those girls who pretended to be too cool for everything, and Kiara was the total opposite.

  She bounded up the wide stairs to the main floor of the Sterling townhouse, which was built with broad, oak beams that made it seem more like an Old English manor house than a mansion on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. All of the furniture was heavy and dark and practical, rescued from various castles throughout Europe, making it look blandly stern, even in the daytime.

  As they raced up the wide, red-carpeted stairs at the center of the living room, Reese couldn’t tear his eyes away from Kiara’s golden brown legs and the easy swish of her dress. He said a silent prayer that his mother wouldn’t hear them. The last thing he needed was to get into a lengthy conversation about teen trends that would invariably be part of the back-to-school segment on Tea with Lady Sterling.

  Teen trend: losing your virginity on a bed of rose petals from the bodega on 79th and Madison.

  He beat Kiara up the stairs and hurled into his bedroom suite on the third floor. Quickly he lit the white candles he’d bought for the occasion and cued Bryson Tiller on his iPod SoundDock. He had just dimmed the lights as she slid through the doorway.

  Down boy!

  “God, no wonder you’re such a good swimmer. Those stairs are a workout,” Kiara sighed dramatically, pretending to wipe sweat off her forehead.

  Reese nodded, but was too distracted to smile. Normally he loved her goofiness, but now he wished she could be a little more serious.

  Kiara surveyed the dim room. “What’s going on?” Her eyes darted from the petal-covered bed to the sound dock to the candles on the windowsill. Reese quickly pulled the curtains so the summer sunset didn’t peek in. It suddenly seemed a little too over the top to try to have a romantic night together when it was still so light outside. “What’s all this for?”

  “I missed you.” He ran his hands through his still-wet hair, then awkwardly let them fall back to his sides, as if he didn’t know what to do with them. It was weird just standing there in his bathing suit while Kiara was fully clothed. It felt dirty, somehow. He wished that his brain didn’t still feel so foggy, and that he hadn’t gotten so drunk when he was hanging out with the new kid.

  “I want to show you how much I love you,” he continued, pulling her to him and kissing her. As his lips brushed against hers, the line replayed in his head. I want to show you how much I love you? Was that totally corny? He suddenly noticed that the water from his bathing suit was puddling on the walnut floor. He hoped it didn’t look like he’d peed himself.

  Nothing’s sexier than a good set of Depends.

  “That’s sweet.” Kiara pulled away and sat on the king-size bed, pulling her knees tightly to her chest. “Remember when we used to have sleepovers in first grade and your mom would always pull the curtains and pretend it was midnight when it was really only like six o’clock?”

  “Let’s talk about that later,” Reese whispered, kneeling next to her on the bed. He gently kissed her bare shoulder blade as he inched the strap of her dress down her shoulder. Maybe the setting was a little too over the top, but it was sort of nice with the sunlight pouring in. Kiara smiled mysteriously and Reese felt his insides flip-flop. He moved to kiss her collarbone and then her neck, and finally her lips. It was happening. It was finally happening.

  There was a loud tapping noise on the door.

  Reese pulled back a little, but he could still feel Kiara’s hot breath on his cheek. “Yeah?” he yelled cautiously.

  “Reese, darling, is Kiara here? I thought I heard her voice.” It was the strident voice of Lady Sterling, complete with a touch of an English accent, even though she’d been born and raised in Greenwich, Connecticut, and not Greenwich, U.K. Reese wondered if she knew what they were doing, or about to do.

  “Yeah, Mom,” he mumbled, pulling the towel back around his waist and shaking his head. His mom adored Kiara. Luckily, the feeling seemed to be mutual. If it wasn’t, Kiara never complained. It was one of the many things he loved about her.

  “How lovely!” Lady Sterling’s voice went up an octave in the actressy way it did when she was in front of the cameras. “Well, I would love to see you both in the sunroom for tea. I’m anxious to hear your thoughts for the back-to-school component of the show tomorrow,” she trilled from behind the door.

  “Sounds great, Lady S!” Kiara called back. She smoothed her sundress and hooked her long, caramel-colored hair behind her small ears.

  Lady Sterling’s heels clicked away, growing softer as she made her way down the staircase.

  “We should go down there.” Reese shrugged helplessly. “I’m sorry. Are you mad?”

  “No,” Kiara said, getting up from the bed. “It’s okay. Another time.” She swooped over to the adjourned window and blew out a candle. “I’ll go entertain your mom. You can meet us when you get changed,” she added, kissing him on the nose.

  Reese blew out the remaining candles as Kiara shut his bedroom door. Was it just him, or did she not seem that upset at the interruption? He walked into the adjacent bathroom, turned on the water, and let the steam overtake the room. Maybe it was all in his head. He was still sort of drunk, after all.

  Maybe. But you know you’re in trouble when there’s more steam in the bathroom than the bedroom.

  6

  “Are you sure you’re going to be okay?” India asked her seven-minutes-younger sister, Baby, who was clutching her homemade extra-large latte and staring fixedly down at her dirty white flip-flops. They turned onto Madison and walked toward the redbrick building on East 93rd Street that housed the Emma Willard School for Girls.

  “Yeah,” Baby responded, annoyed. Her sister was the one who had been freaking out and had made them leave their apartment at 7 a.m., a full hour before school began. “I don’t think I’m going to stay too long, anyway,” she added mysteriously as she pulled her wavy, shoulder-length hair into a messy ponytail and knotted it into itself. Baby had the type of hair that looked better the less she brushed it. Or washed it. Which meant she didn’t do much of either. If India didn’t ambush her once a week with detangling mist and a boar-bristle brush, she’d have dreadlocks by now.

  Paging Doctor Pantene. If only he made house calls.

  “Can you take off that sweatshirt? It stinks.” India glared at the blue Nantucket High sweatshirt Baby had refused to take off since Ace left. India loved romance, but why couldn’t Ace have left something normal, like a Tiffany necklace, for Baby to remember him by? “Please?” India asked again, more sweetly this time, seeing that Baby had no intention of taking it off.

  Baby crossed her eyes and stuck her tongue out at India as she pulled the hoodie off to reveal a tie-dyed T-shirt, a relic from their mother’s hippie day
s. India sighed in frustration. Was her sister really that determined to make all their couture-wearing classmates hate her?

  Baby rooted around in her oversize neon green messenger bag and found her blue Willard blazer. “I’m only doing this for you.” She smiled sunnily at India as she pulled the blazer on and stuffed the sweatshirt into her bag.

  “There, that’s so much better,” India sighed, satisfied. Thankfully, the blazer obscured most of Baby’s ridiculous tie-dyed shirt. Together, they turned the corner on 93rd and approached the three-story redbrick building.

  “Here we go,” India said under her breath as they walked through the massive royal blue double doors of Emma Willard. She looked around nervously at the sea of girls in seersucker skirts with their gleaming, freshly done hair. How could she possibly know which girls to befriend? Her confidence fell for a second, and she almost wished she were back at Nantucket High, where last year she’d been voted best dressed and most likely to succeed in the senior superlatives section of the yearbook—even though she’d only been a sophomore. How could she possibly stand out here?

  Where there’s a will, there’s a way.

  “Okay, freshwomen! We have a tour in five minutes!” a large woman with a round, flat face boomed as she grasped India’s shoulder and shepherded her over to a group of short, nervous-looking girls huddled in a corner.

  “I’m a junior,” India protested. Did she look that young? With a black leather headband perched neatly atop her glossy head, new navy blue Louboutin slingbacks, and her lucky pearls from Grandmother India, she certainly didn’t think she did. As she looked around, she saw that each girl was carrying the exact same Louis Vuitton purse she’d tried to replace yesterday at Barneys. It practically screamed clueless! She blushed.

  “Welcome to Emma Willard. I’m the headmistress, Mrs. McLean,” the woman boomed, the purple buttons of her pantsuit straining against her voluminous chest. “A student guide will be with you shortly for first-year orientation.” She patted India’s head distractedly and turned on her heel to follow a diminutive teacher with a short haircut.