Fifth Avenue #1

by Fifth Avenue 1 (retail) (azw3)

  Trey glanced around at the collection of guys, most still in their Speedos, some with newly shorn eyebrows.

  “Okay,” Malik said, standing up on the bench and waving the open beer can around in the air. His ribs stuck way out, giving his chest an almost concave appearance. “I just learned that Reese Sterling, our captain and all-around good guy, has gotten his heart stomped on by a Seaton Arms girl.” A collective groan echoed across the locker room. “Now, I know as well as you that it happens to the best of us. And we know that Reese will find another girl. But until he gets one, I propose a challenge in the name of brotherhood.” He looked around grandly and cleared his throat. “Until Reese gets action, we won’t get action. And we will prove it by the beard.” He stroked his chiseled chin with his free hand and looked around.

  “What the fuck?” Ken Williams yelled. He weighed more than two hundred pounds and looked more like a linebacker than a distance swimmer.

  “We’ll all grow facial hair until Reese gets lucky with a lady. Until then, none of us are going to hook up, either. And Jenkins, that means no playing with yourself,” Malik yelled. “Who’s in?”

  One by one the swim team guys hooted and high-fived Reese, who sat on the bench, staring forlornly at the damp floor. “You don’t have to do that,” he mumbled. The guys’ support was sweet and all, but shouldn’t he be motivating them to do well at Conferences, not showing what a pussy he was about a girl?

  “If Reese doesn’t get any, neither do we!” Malik yelled.

  Trey scrutinized the guys, taking in Chadwick’s scrawny arms and Ken’s thicket of chest hair. He wondered if any of them actually could get any. Either way, he hoped this was more a hypothetical gesture of devotion and not an actual pact. Trey had never gone more than a week without kissing a girl.

  And we love him for it.

  “Thanks,” Reese muttered to Malik.

  “No problem.” Malik smiled. “Besides, my girlfriend is in California this year, so I’m in blue ball city with you, my friend.” One by one, the guys walked off, rubbing their prepubescent chins, as if they could massage stubble into being.

  Reese mustered a weak laugh and then turned to Trey. “I’d just feel so much better if I knew who the guy was,” he confided as the locker room emptied out. It was so quiet Reese could hear the hollow hum of the flickering fluorescent lights overhead. They made his arms look weirdly blue. “If you find the dude, can you just pull off his nuts for me?” He tried to laugh, but it came out as a horrible choking sound.

  “Sure,” Trey said, guiltily. “I don’t really know anyone...”

  “Yeah, I know, just if you hear anything. Or if you see her, maybe she’d talk. Just let me know if you find out anything. It’s all this guy’s fucking fault.” Reese stood and kicked his locker. It made a sharp clanging sound that echoed through the empty locker room.

  “Sterling, don’t break a bone over a lady,” Coach yelled from the tiny side office adjacent to the locker room. “And especially not one bone in particular!” he added with a cackle.

  Reese turned hot. Fuck. Even Coach knew he’d been dumped. Was there any way to keep the news from spreading?

  Get a team of cute boys to take a vow of abstinence. Who won’t be talking?

  14

  Tuesday morning before school, India slipped out of the Cartwright apartment, pleased that Baby wasn’t even awake. “Miss Cartwright.” The gray-uniformed doorman nodded briskly to her, and India couldn’t help smiling. The air smelled fresh, birds chirped noisily, and the sidewalks were glittering with water, even though India hadn’t remembered a rainstorm. That was what it was like in New York City—each day was a fresh start, the previous day washed away.

  And today was definitely a new day. Last night she’d locked herself in her room, putting together invitations to her tea party. She’d written all the invitations by hand on elegant Tiffany & Co. cardstock, and tied each card to the handle of a teacup. She’d thought it would be fun and unique but now, carrying two huge lavender Bergdorf bags filled with bubble-wrapped china, she wasn’t sure. She felt like she was bringing something in for show-and-tell.

  India approached the corner of 90th Street and spotted a group of junior girls she vaguely recognized from the assembly gathered on the steps of a random townhouse, the preferred smoke-and-gossip hangout of Emma Willard's upper school. The girls were already sucking furiously on their cigarettes, even though the first bell wouldn’t ring for another half hour. India felt a flutter of butterflies in the pit of her stomach, but grinned broadly.

  “Hey, Brittany,” she greeted the junior with the smudgy charcoal-lined eyes.

  Brittany glanced up from her Vogue magazine, which she was furiously marking up with a purple pen. India smiled warmly. She knew Brittany hung out with Vanity Laurent, but with her black bangs hanging straight above her eyebrows and her wide brown eyes, she seemed like the friendliest girl out of all of them.

  “Oh, hi.” Brittany pushed her bangs out of her eyes and gave the other girls perched on the stoop a look that India knew, from years of giving her own looks, meant, What the fuck?

  India steeled herself and pulled the first invite out of the bag. “I’m having a party after school today. Just some girls, so I can meet everyone and talk about the upcoming school year.” India cringed. She sounded so ridiculously peppy. “And just hang out,” she amended.

  Can we bring our teddy bears?

  “Ohhh-kaaaay,” Brittany said slowly.

  India handed a teacup to her and pulled out another one.

  “Oh, fun!” Brittany exclaimed as she examined the delicate piece of china and spotted the invite tied to its handle. “Look at this, it’s adorable,” she said, passing the teacup to the girl sitting next to her, who had eyebrows so thin they were practically nonexistant.

  “I’m glad you like them!” India set her bag down on the cracked concrete steps, ready to dole out the rest. Already, a small crowd had formed around her. The Willard girls were loving the invites! She felt like somehow, somewhere, her grandmother was smiling down on her.

  “What are those?” India heard a voice behind her and whirled around to see Sydney, the weird girl she had been forced to sit next to at assembly yesterday. She was wearing a brown T-shirt that read YOUR RETARDED under her Emma Willard blazer.

  “Hi,” India greeted her awkwardly, still trying to hold the attention of the rest of the girls. “I’m just having a get-together. For the student liaison to the board of overseers thing. Not sure if you’d be interested.” She shrugged, hoping the answer would be no.

  “Tonight?”

  “Yeah,” India said as she handed an invitation to Draya, the large-chested girl who was friends with Vanity.

  “Thanks.” Draya took a teacup and shoved it into her orange bag, not bothering to look at the attached invite. She threw her cigarette on the ground, dangerously close to India’s black ankle boots.

  “Can I have one?” Sydney asked expectantly, stomping on the remains of Draya’s cigarette with her vintage Doc Martens.

  “Sure,” India handed a teacup to her, not wanting to be rude. Sydney was a Willard junior, after all, and who was she to judge? She just hoped that if Sydney did turn up, she’d change into slightly more feminine shoes.

  With a little less steel in the toe?

  “Thanks!” Sydney took the teacup and pretended to sip from it with one pinky raised.

  “See you all tonight!” India waved to the group of girls, still smiling, and turned to go. She quickly made her way down the street to the blue doors of Willard, wanting to make sure she gave out all the invitations before first period. By lunch, it would be all anyone was talking about.

  Sure, they’ll be talking about it, but what will they be saying?

  15

  Baby yawned loudly in Mr. Beckham’s last-period film class, causing other girls to titter. She rolled her wide brown eyes at them. Whatever. It was the last period of the day, and frankly, she couldn’t care less about Woody A
llen’s Manhattan. Hearing Mr. Beckham enthuse about how New York City was an integral character in the film just made her want to stand up and start screaming curse words.

  And it wouldn’t be the first time.

  The movie was so stupid, anyway. She had watched it once with her mother and hadn’t been able to stop wondering why someone young and cute like Mariel Hemingway would ever go for a geeky old loser like Woody Allen.

  “Do you have something to add to our discussion about the film, Miss Cartwright?” Mr. Beckham asked. He perched on top of her desk like an overgrown bird and grinned lecherously.

  Seems like the film gave someone some ideas.

  The bell rang. Baby practically pushed Mr. Beckham’s skinny butt off the top of her desk, threw her notebook into her lime green messenger bag, and bolted out the door. She was supposed to begin her Emma Willard punishment by helping Irene, the seventy-three-year-old lunch lady, go through the cafeteria suggestion box. Baby paused for a second and stared into the gorgeous all-mirrors-and-blond-wood cafeteria, tempting herself to see if at the last minute she would cave and try to be a good girl.

  No way. She turned on her heel and strode down the hallway and toward the big blue doors that led to freedom.

  Strike two!

  She paused to stare at the bulletin board hanging in the main hall, reading the announcements for different clubs and activities.

  PRE-PRE-LAW SOCIETY. No.

  FLOWER ARRANGING CLUB. Nope.

  BASKET WEAVING CLUB. Yeah, right.

  What, no Disillusioned and Missing My Boyfriend Club? Maybe she should be socially responsible like her sister and start one.

  “Are you joining anything?” India sidled up to her and placed a large lavender shopping bag on the floor. She tucked her glossy hair behind her tiny ears and patted her vintage diamond studs.

  “Nothing’s really my thing.” Baby shrugged her tiny shoulders and looked at her sister. India was flushed and looked happy. Even her little diamond earrings sparkled a little brighter. “How was your day?”

  “So good!” India enthused. “I’m having a little get-together tonight at Grandmother’s house.”

  “Does Mom know?” Baby narrowed her eyes. How come India hadn’t told her about it last night? When she had gotten home, India had been in her room, and hadn’t even come out when Trey announced he was ordering his first authentic New York City pizza.

  “Yeah, it’s fine,” India said quickly. “Anyway, these are the invitations.” She pulled a china teacup out of the Bergdorf bag, and Baby instantly recognized the pattern. She had broken one when she was four.

  “Thanks but I don’t need a teacup.” Baby practically pushed it away.

  “So you’re going to come?” India’s brow creased.

  “Sure.” Baby nodded slowly.

  “Okay, well, I guess I’ll see you,” India continued uncertainly, as if they were strangers.

  Baby nodded and pretended to be engrossed in the red announcement flyers until her sister wandered off. Finally, she headed for Willard's royal blue doors, shoving her hands in her pockets. She felt the corner of something hard and slid the ivory business card out of her pocket and examined it. Had that guy been serious about her walking dogs for him?

  And did she have anything better to do?

  Baby walked down Fifth until she came to the address on the card. She looked up at the gilt back-to-back C’s hanging over the glass doors of the building. Three-foot-high brass letters spelled out CASHMAN COMPLEXES. Baby wrinkled her nose. It was even tackier than she’d imagined.

  Seeing is believing.

  The doorman sat behind an imposing black desk, wearing an elaborate blue uniform with gold tassels hanging from his shoulders and across his belly. He was older and looked like he’d been wearing the same uniform since he was sixteen.

  “I’m here for this guy.” Baby slid Marcelo’s wrinkled card across the counter. She hadn’t gotten used to doormen yet. They seemed like one of the relics from a different era, like scrunchies or handlebar mustaches.

  Don’t be so sure about that last one.

  “Use the private elevator over on the far left.” The doorman smiled in a grandfatherly way, and Baby smiled back. She pushed the button for the penthouse and caught her breath as the elevator whooshed twenty-six flights up, to the top floor. The doors opened and she tumbled out into the apartment itself.

  Marcelo was standing in the middle of a gold-tiled foyer, waiting. He wore khakis and a rumpled blue shirt, and his wavy hair was messy under his Riverside Prep cap, like he had just gotten up from a nap. He smiled at her softly, scooping up Darwin as the pug scampered through the arched, gilded doorway. He held up Darwin’s tiny paw and waved it at Baby. “You came,” he said warmly.

  “I came for this guy.” Baby scooped Darwin from Marcelo’s large hands and kissed him on his wet black nose. Shackleton and Nemo came running from some faraway room, their nails clacking and sliding as they ran toward her. “How can you not love a face like that?” she cooed, feeling better than she had all day. She placed the pug on the parquet floor next to his friends. They all looked up at her expectantly, wiggling their butts uncontrollably.

  “Have you recovered from the shitstorm?” Baby couldn’t resist asking, pleased when she saw Marcelo blush. He was the type of clean-cut, high-maintenance guy India would swoon over. Baby had always preferred the scruffy, bad-boy types.

  Doesn’t she mean stoners?

  “Thanks for bringing that up,” Marcelo replied sarcastically.

  Baby peeked past him and saw room after room, filled with ultramodern and antique furniture all thrown together. Did that door to the left lead to a basketball court? And was it...gold? Baby thought she saw a hoop.

  “Hola!” A large Hispanic woman entered the room from one of the many mirrored doors surrounding the large entryway. Her thick black hair was pulled up into an eighties supermodel-style updo. She strode across the floor in her electric blue Prada pumps and hugged Baby, practically suffocating her in a cloud of spicy perfume. “Welcome. Mi casa es su casa,” she said grandly in a heavy Spanish accent as she gestured to the rooms with her long nails.

  “This is my mother, Tatyana,” Marcelo made the introduction. “Mom, this is Baby Cartwright. She’ll be walking the dogs.”

  “Yes, I am his mother, and he is my beautiful, beautiful son!” Tatyana cried, kissing Marcelo and leaving a trail of red lip imprints on his mocha cheek.

  “Nice to meet you,” Baby said politely, resisting the urge to take a picture of Tatyana with her phone and send it to Ace. “You have beautiful dogs!” she added awkwardly.

  “I know! I love zem like zey are my babies. And they are so great because unlike zees boy, zey always need their mother!” She bent over to smother Nemo in a perfume hug, her round butt sticking up in the air.

  Baby sneaked a glance over at Marcelo. He smiled sheepishly and gave her a small shrug.

  “I always need you.” A large, beefy man strode out of a room on the left as if on cue, playfully smacking Tatyana’s freakishly perky butt. She giggled. He was wearing a tiny-looking cowboy hat on his dark, bald head. He took one of Baby’s tiny hands in his pudgy one and aggressively pumped it up and down.

  “Dick Cashman,” he boomed. He gave Baby a once-over, looking at her dirty white flip-flops and the T-shirt she had worn under her blazer. She had picked it up at a flea market in Cape Cod. It featured a picture of an alligator eating a tiger. “I love that shirt! Great message there—don’t feed the alligators: if you do, they’ll just bite you in the ass!” Dick cried, grinning.

  “Hey, Dad, so this is Baby—” Marcelo began.

  “Baby? Like, ‘Nobody puts Baby in a corner’? Maybe they wouldn’t have to if you actually dressed up!” Dick roared, slapping his knee.

  Baby smiled politely, even though she had heard that line fifty million times before, and she didn’t even like the movie Dirty Dancing.

  “You’ll be looking after the bitches, then?” h
e continued, patting Nemo furiously on top of the head.

  “Uh, yeah,” Baby said uncomfortably. She felt like she had stepped onto the set of some bad reality TV show.

  The Richest Loser?

  “I think Baby should probably get started,” Marcelo said, handing her three matching, monogrammed Louis Vuitton leashes. “I just have something for you in the kitchen, and then I’ll see you out.” He smiled awkwardly at his parents. “Sorry about that,” he whispered as he guided Baby through a bright hallway. The enamel-like walls were lined with paintings of green globs that looked suspiciously like boogers. When they reached the ultramodern kitchen, Marcelo grabbed a cup emblazoned with the two C’s and handed it to her. “I noticed you left your drink when you chased after the dogs yesterday. It’s a latte,” he said almost shyly.

  “Thanks.” Baby smiled, touched. She took a sip. It tasted much better than Starbucks, and a little bit like home.

  “I actually don’t really know what that is, but I hope you like it,” Marcelo added. “Raphael, our chef, made it.”

  “Oh,” Baby muttered, pulling the cup away from her lips. Of course his chef made it.

  And that’s supposed to be a bad thing?

  “I could come with you if you wanted,” Marcelo offered, still standing in the kitchen door.

  Baby took a few steps back. “No, I’m fine on my own,” she said definitively. She let out a piercing whistle and the three dogs came running. “See you.” She quickly clipped their leashes to their collars and navigated her way back through the booger painting-lined corridor, into the gold foyer, and down the twenty-six flights.

  The doorman tipped his patent leather hat as she walked by. “See you again soon, Miss,” he called.

  And hopefully often!

  16

  Vanity sat in a low-slung booth at the Star Lounge in the trendy Tribeca Star Hotel. Even though it was only five o’clock and outside the cobblestone streets were filled with shoppers enjoying the warm afternoon, in here it was dark, with candlelight flickering off the rich oak walls. Vanity loved lounges when they were empty; she sort of felt like some glamorous spy. She needed the escape from her life, where her father was ignoring her phone calls and it appeared more and more likely she’d have to apply for financial aid for college.