Elite 03 Simply Irresistible

by Jennifer Banash

  Phyllis nodded, dabbing at the corners of her slightly reddened eyes with her fingers before she spoke, careful not to smear her dark gray liner. “Well, I suppose it’s obvious that I don’t like the idea . . .” With those words, Sophie’s stomach dropped a distance of what felt like fifty feet, disappointment flooding her body like water. “But I think I’m outnumbered here,” Phyllis continued with a grim smile.

  Sophie’s heart leapt in her body in a combination of relief and gladness, the disappointment suddenly banished. Before she could help it, she found herself grinning widely, her face stretching like taffy, hoping that Phyllis would smile back and let her know that everything was now all right. But instead, Phyllis reached over to the coffee table and picked up her untouched tea, cupping the paper-thin Mikasa china between her palms, and cleared her throat, suddenly all business again. Sophie had seen this kind of behavior before—more than once. Any kind of emotional outburst always made Phyllis feel exposed and vulnerable—so much so that she usually overcor rected the situation by immediately sealing off whatever emotion might bubble to the surface, and smothering it under a blanket of niceties and politesse.

  “Sophie may leave the day after Christmas and stay for approximately one week,” Phyllis said, her voice smooth and even now, her dark eyes blinking rapidly under her thickly lashed eyes. “But no more than that, for now.”

  “Agreed.” Melissa nodded, clearly satisfied with the arrangement. “We’ll take it slow,” she agreed. “Baby steps.”

  “Baby steps,” Sophie echoed, nearly beside herself with excitement, smiling happily at Melissa, but all of a sudden overcome with a wave of love for Phyllis. This must be so hard for her, Sophie thought, watching as her mother smoothed back her dark jaw-length hair, struggling to stuff her emotions away and act normal. Maybe even harder than keeping it a secret for all of these years . . .

  “So, I will make all the travel arrangements.” Melissa stood up, sliding her sunglasses back over her face. “And of course I’ll send a car for her at the airport.”

  Sophie sat there barely hearing a word, the high-pitched voices that rose and fell like the dipping of bird wings in mid-flight mixed together pleasantly as she felt her face breaking into a smile so big she thought her cheeks might split open entirely, spilling the sparkly fairy dust of her happiness across the length of the room.

  It was really going to happen—she was going to spend a whole week sitting down to breakfast with Melissa each morning, swimming laps beside her in the pool, and, of course, shopping Rodeo, bulging shopping bags from Kitson and Fred Segal slung over their shoulders, their identical blond heads tilted close together as they laughed at some private joke that only they understood, vanilla cupcakes from Sprinkles in their hands. Plus, she could visit the original Pinkberry, not to mention Les Deux! Maybe Melissa would even introduce her to Heidi and Spencer . . . It was all going to be so perfect that Sophie could barely contain her excitement.

  As she got up to say good-bye, and Melissa’s arms wrapped around Sophie briefly, gold bracelets jangling, her exceedingly floral perfume that smelled of roses and jasmine engulfing her like a wave, Sophie knew she was probably idealizing the trip, her mother, Hollywood—everything. But even if she was currently living in some kind of deluded slumberland, Sophie also knew that she didn’t ever want to wake up . . .

  secrets and lies

  Casey stood nervously outside the pair of ornately carved mahogany doors that led to the Macallisters’ penthouse apartment, the brass fixtures and knob polished to a blinding sheen, her pulse thudding out of rhythm in her veins, her heart skipping in her chest like flat rocks skidding across the surface of the boat pond in Central Park. She looked down at her faded Seven jeans and Gap red-and-navy tartan wool jacket that tied at the waist, and tried to quiet her breathing and stop the beads of sweat that were, even now, in danger of popping up on her forehead. This was ridiculous—she was as wracked with nerves as if she’d been granted a visitation with the Queen of England. Madison Macallister may not have ruled the British Isles as of yet, but she certainly dominated the entire Upper East Side—if not the whole impossibly tiny island of Manhattan—with a bling-encrusted fist. That being said, the last thing Casey wanted was to show up wearing anything that might cause Her Royal Crankiness to slam the door in her face as quickly as she’d opened it.

  All afternoon she’d replayed the scene at lunch—Drew’s weird, nervous behavior, so different from the playful quips she’d grown accustomed to, the kind he’d entertained them with in Central Park when she’d laid eyes on him for the first time in all his red-eyed, jet-lagged scrumptiousness. When he’d asked if he could call her, just before walking away, it had taken all of her willpower not to scream out, “Yes!” at the top of her lungs, then tackle him to the floor, ripping off his stupid sweater in the process. The problem was, the longer they didn’t talk, and the more time she found herself spending with Darin, the more unsure she became about what she really wanted at all.

  Casey took a deep breath, pressed the gold buzzer to the right of the door frame, relieved for once that the film crew was off presumably making someone else famous for fifteen minutes, and shook her hair out one last time before the door swung open. Mad stood there wearing a short, black A-line skirt and ivory cashmere thigh-highs, her feet encased in black patent leather Tory Burch ballet flats, her slim torso swaddled in a black cashmere top that wrapped around her body enticingly. Casey realized with no small degree of horror that as over the top as the outfit was, it was probably Madison’s idea of after-school clothes—that is, if after-school activities took place at Pangea, Goldbar, or Bungalow—which, Casey knew all too well, wasn’t exactly out of the question where Madison Macallister was concerned . . .

  Madison smiled brilliantly, her teeth blinding next to her darkened hair. Casey still wasn’t used to Mad’s new look. It wasn’t that she looked bad—far from it. Madison Macallister could wear a bag over her head and still be so gorgeous that total strangers would follow her down the street, barking like dogs and making obscene gestures with their hands. Her hair, now the color of the deliciously sinful, pudding-rich hot chocolate at Jacques Torres, just made her look less like herself—whoever that was—and more like Sarah Michelle Gellar in Cruel Intentions, which, come to think of it, was basically Mad’s life story anyway . . .

  “Casey!” Madison said triumphantly, opening the door wide so that the Macallisters’ opulent Louis XIV-style foyer was revealed in all of its hushed, impeccably gold-leafed splendor. “I’m so glad you could make it!”

  Huh? Casey felt like she was dreaming as she followed Madison through the entryway in a complete and utter daze. She couldn’t help but wonder who the hell had kidnapped Madison Macallister and left this paradigm of niceness and virtue in her place. This had to be some kind of a joke. From the minute she’d moved into The Bram, Casey had always felt like Madison had been just barely tolerating her presence. Now here she was inviting her over, all smiles. It was definitely weird.

  You have now entered The Twilight Zone, Casey mono-toned to herself as she tried to suppress the fit of giggles that was threatening to bubble up in her throat as she took in the gilded fixtures, the amazing French doors just off the living room, the imported gray Italian marble floors, and the gently swaying crystal chandeliers that seemed to hang in every room. Wow. And double wow. The air in the penthouse even smelled different from the rest of The Bram—like a combination of lilies of the valley and fresh white sheets sprayed with lavender and dried in the hot sun. It made Casey want to curl up right there on the marble floor and take a big nap . . .

  “I just got back from Phoebe’s—my mom arranged for me to work with that college admissions counselor.” Madison made a gagging noise, as if the very thought made her physically sick.

  “So, how was it?” Casey couldn’t believe it. Mad was actually making small talk with her!

  “The very definition of purgatory,” Madison groaned, shaking her hair out with a brisk s
hake of her head. “My room’s through here,” Madison called over her shoulder as they navigated the Macallisters’ labyrinth of an apartment, her voice so light and innocuous without any traces of her trademark Madison bitchiness that Casey wondered again if she was in the right place. Hey, she wanted to say, you do know that it’s me, right? Casey McCloy? The girl you usually, ummm, can’t stand? She followed Mad into her room and closed the door behind them.

  Casey blinked rapidly as she surveyed the private lair of the Upper East Side’s reigning princess. Mad’s ultramodern bedroom couldn’t have been more different from the gilded excess of the rest of the apartment, with its chrome bed covered by a fluffy white Siberian goose down comforter, a modern white desk in the corner with chrome legs, and shiny hardwood floors the color of ripened honey. The ceiling above was painted the lightest sky blue, the color glazed, as if it had only been left to dry minutes before. Standing in the middle of all that white and blue made Casey feel as if she were standing on a cloud on a brilliantly bright day, the sun shining warmly on her face.

  Mad sat down on the king-sized bed and patted the space next to her, indicating that Casey should follow. Casey took a deep breath and tried her best to act like sitting on Mad’s bed with her was the most natural thing in the world, instead of the weirdest. She kicked off the pair of navy Tod’s loafers she’d borrowed from Sophie last week that were just the teensiest bit too big, and sat down on the bed, crossing her legs beneath her. Madison toyed with a lock of her hair that was currently held back from her feline face by an ivory satin headband, and looked over at Casey, her green eyes quietly glittering.

  “So . . .” Mad began slowly, “I kind of wanted to talk to you about Drew.”

  Casey’s heart stopped dead in her chest. In the momentary lull, she imagined smacking herself vigorously on the sternum in order to revive her failing heartbeat like some crazed para medic on one of those Rescue 911-type shows Nanna was so addicted to. Ever since Drew’s welcome-home party at the beginning of the year when Mad had called her out in front of the entire Upper East Side and make her look the fool, Casey had been positively dreading this moment and simultaneously hoping they could somehow clear the air between them and start all over again. Casey swallowed hard and tried to think of what to say, but no matter how many different possibilities she turned over in her brain, none of them seemed likely to make it to her mouth.

  “There’s . . . some stuff going on that I think you should know about,” Mad said carefully, her voice low and measured. She looked down and to the side, the sharp sweep of her perfectly applied black eyeliner clearly visible above her lash line. “I mean, I’d want to know if I were you.”

  “Like what?” Casey asked nervously, her voice wavering a little, despite her achingly deep desire to come off as cool and collected as possible. God, first her heart had come to a dead stop, and now it felt like it was trying to find a way out of her chest through her mouth. Get up and leave! Her inner pragmatist screamed. Don’t sit here and let her tell you something that’s just going to make you feel bad! Why give her that satisfaction?

  Good point, Casey thought, her brow wrinkled in equal parts thought and horrified anticipation. But what if she’s just looking out for me? She invited me over here, didn’t she? Maybe we’re finally going to be friends . . .

  You are so deluded, her inner pragmatist intoned smugly. Since when does Madison Macallister care about anyone else but herself?

  Before Casey could come up with a convincing reason as to why her inner pragmatist was wrong this time around, Madison cut off her train of thought and began to speak. “I met Drew at Space a few nights ago—he said he wanted to talk.” Madison took a deep breath and looked Casey square in the face. “We ended up back at his place, and, well . . . things just kind of happened.”

  Now instead of feeling like her heart was about to stop completely or explode, a wave of coldness ran through Casey’s body, a feeling so intense that she almost, just for a second, thought she might throw up all over Madison’s pristine white rug.

  “Was that the first time you guys . . .” Casey’s voice trailed off. She was unable to bring herself to finish the sentence. Jesus Christ, she thought, feeling her cheeks flush brightly red with horror and embarrassment, the cold rapidly replaced with heat. I’m sitting in a penthouse talking to Madison Macallister about her sex life. What’s wrong with this picture? And if that wasn’t bad enough, the sex in question just happened to be with the boy she couldn’t seem to stop thinking about—no matter what he did.

  Madison’s steely green gaze softened momentarily and she looked away. As bad as Casey felt, Mad suddenly looked even worse. She dropped her head and bit her bottom lip, her usually smooth, expressionless face suddenly reddened. “Not . . . exactly. And then the other night after we’d . . . well, he just kind of shut down in typical Drew fashion and I stormed out. He never even called me afterward, if you can believe that. And then, well, you saw the way he acted at lunch today! I totally wanted to call the moron police and have him cited for reckless abandonment.”

  “Macking and running?” Casey said, forcing herself to crack a joke, if only to hide how bad she actually felt.

  “Definitely,” Madison snapped, recovering her edge and reaching up to smooth her already glossy hair. “He’s such a player.” Madison’s eyes were hard now, the glimpse of vulnerability that had risen so briefly to the surface now hidden behind a wave of anger.

  As confused and horrible as she felt, Casey couldn’t help but take comfort in the fact that she wasn’t the only one getting the shaft from Drew. Well, not literally in her case. It was kind of comforting to realize that not even the Madison Macallisters of the world were safe from this kind of boy-induced heartbreak and confusion. If Drew was capable of treating Madison so callously, maybe the fact that they really hadn’t said more than ten words to one another since Sophie’s party meant she was better off without him . . . But if that was true, then why didn’t she feel better off?

  Casey sighed, wondering what to say next. Should she commiserate? Offer to take Mad to brunch on Sunday? Brush her hair? Start sobbing uncontrollably? All Casey knew was that despite the bomb Mad had just dropped, she didn’t feel lucky—she just felt tired, not to mention completely emotionally deflated. As hard as she tried, she just couldn’t seem to wrap her head around it: How could Drew just go back to Madison like he and Casey had never even been together at all? Well, maybe in his mind, they hadn’t . . . Casey wasn’t sure which thought made her feel more hopeless. It was clearly a tie.

  “I just thought you should probably know,” Mad said, fully recovered. “I mean, I know you’re with Darin now, but if you were thinking about getting back with Drew . . .”

  “I’m not with Darin,” Casey said exasperatedly, unable to keep the irritation from her voice. “I mean, I don’t really know what’s going on, but we’re not, like, a thing. At least I don’t think so . . .”

  “You sound really sure about that,” Madison mused with a small smile, reaching up and pulling her headband off, running one hand through her hair. Casey smiled weakly, still feeling a bit like her stomach was going to leap out of her body and project its murky contents all over the floor. “Anyway,” Madison said, waving one pearly pink manicured hand in the air like she was chasing away a pesky insect, “I’m definitely cutting him off. I mean, how could I not?”

  “I guess . . . I should, too,” Casey mused, feeling like every word was sealing her doom. But how could she really give any other answer? Casey was jolted out of her convoluted thoughts as her cell phone began to buzz frantically. When she pulled it from her coat with an apologetic smile and stared at the tiny, glowing screen, her pulse quickened like she’d just been zapped with a cattle prod when she saw Drew’s name illuminated.

  “Who is it?” Mad said with annoyance, reaching out to grab the phone from Casey’s hand.

  “It’s just my mom,” Casey said quickly, hitting the ignore button with her thumb and sliding the
phone back into her pocket before Madison could get her paws wrapped around it. Now she was really turning into a cardiac patient. Could seventeen-year-olds have heart attacks? Casey looked back at Mad, who had grabbed a nail file from her bedside table, and was now furiously shaping her already perfect nails.

  “Want me to do yours next?” she asked without looking up.

  “I’m not really a nail polish kind of girl,” Casey said weakly, holding out her hands in front of her and surveying her horribly bitten nails, fingers splayed.

  “Ugh,” Mad said, looking up briefly and taking in Casey’s chewed fingers. “We’ll definitely have to do something about that.” Madison reached beneath the bed and pulled out a chrome basket full of Chanel, YSL, Hard Candy, Essie, and Dior polishes, and threw them down on the bed between them. “Pick,” she commanded, waving her file in the air like stabbing Casey for noncompliance was a distinct possibility.

  Casey pawed through the cornucopia of polishes, the glass bottles slick beneath her sweaty fingers. It was totally surreal—not only was Madison confiding in her, but she was going to do her nails! This is what she’d wanted ever since she’d moved to New York, to fit in, to really feel like she belonged. Maybe they could somehow learn to put this whole Drew thing behind them and become real friends . . . But Casey couldn’t help but wonder if the price was just too high. She just wasn’t sure that she wanted to put Drew behind her—or if she was really capable of turning her back on him, and giving up on the idea that they’d ever be able to get back together again.

  At least maybe not yet . . .

  coffee . . . date?

  Drew stirred an obscene amount of cream into the cup of hot black coffee on the table in front of him, watching as the inky black liquid turned the color of wet sand, and warmed his hands around the chipped porcelain cup. With everything that had been going on lately, Uncommon Grounds was one of the few places that felt like home anymore, that made him feel like he belonged in the plant-filled room, sitting in the familiar cracked red leather booths in front of the plate glass windows, and resting his elbows on the slightly greasy Formica tabletop.