In Too Deep (11 page)

Best,

Andrea

bad hair day

Casey sat dejectedly on the front steps of Meadowlark
Academy, pulling a strand of her newly shorn hair in between a thumb and forefinger, and stretching it as far as it could possibly go, willing the hair to magically extend past her shoulders. She should’ve known better than to follow Nanna to the hairdresser yesterday afternoon—from the minute she’d walked in the door of the tiny salon on Eighty-first, Casey knew she was in trouble. Henrietta’s Coiffure was filled with more old ladies than a church basement on a Sunday morning, all broiling what was left of their white, silver, or battleship gray hair under long lines of dryers. When Nanna suggested that she get “just the teensiest trim,” Casey should’ve run like her pants were on fire. An hour later her hair was two inches shorter—which wouldn’t have been a big deal if she’d been lucky enough to have been born with a
normal
head of hair. But on Casey the cut was an unmitigated disaster—her stupidly curly hair, that she tried every day to tame with a mind-boggling variety of brushes and serums, resisted the scissors violently, and now bounced up past her shoulders in corkscrew curls—in obvious protest of being touched at all. As a result, she now resembled a blond, slightly deranged Carrot Top.

Now, as she glumly sat on the steps outside Meadowlark, surrounded by the bustle of traffic and pedestrians, the blaring of horns, and the sweet toasty scent of roasted nuts wafting through the crisp fall air, all she could think about was what Drew would say when he saw her. Would he run screaming? Start dating Madison again immediately? Put a bag over her head? Casey sighed, wishing she’d worn a hat—or a ski mask. That would definitely solve a myriad of problems . . .

“It’s not
that
bad,” Sophie said with faux cheerfulness, pushing a curl out of Casey’s eyes, clearly lying through her teeth. “Really.”

Easy for her to say—Sophie never looked anything but predictably perfect—no matter how crazy her outfit was. For example, today Sophie was wearing an actual
beret
—something that Casey had previously thought only French girls and four-year-olds could get away with. Of course, Sophie’s beret was made from super-soft cashmere, and designed by Chanel—along with the tiny, black-and-white tweed skirt she wore, and the matching argyle knee socks. To top it all off, a tight white angora sweater hugged her chest, showing off her B-cups to perfection, and rows of long, creamy white pearls hung around her neck alongside delicate filigree gold chains accented by tinkling charms. On anyone else, it would’ve looked ridiculous, but Sophie somehow made it work—Frenchified beret and all.

“Don’t try and be
nice,
Sophie.” Madison giggled, sipping a cup of hot water and lemon she’d bought for lunch, placing the cup down on the cement step and pushing up the sleeves of her ivory sweater dress. “You can’t lie about stuff like this—besides, she knows you’re lying
anyway.
”

Casey nodded. For once, Madison was completely right. She knew she looked like crap—what was the use of pretending?

“Oh, please,” Phoebe said with a wave of her hand. “A few weeks in beauty seclusion and she’ll be as good as new.” Phoebe stabbed the tuna salad she held in her lap with a fork, bringing a bright pink piece of seared tuna to her perfectly outlined crimson lips. Phoebe resembled a pallbearer in her all black ensemble, which included a Peter Som wool jacket and matching skinny-leg wool trousers that ended in black, patent leather Manolo pumps. The bright red glossy lipstick should’ve made her look like one of the Emo kids that sat at the table in the dining hall farthest away from any windows—in case the weak rays of fall sunlight that streamed through the room somehow marred their scary, pasty flesh. But with her long legs and perfectly proportioned body—not to mention the delicate white-and-rose-gold padlock necklace she wore looped three times around her throat—she looked more like she’d just jumped off the cover of the latest edition of British
Vogue
than someone who moped around their basement whining along with the latest Death Cab for Cutie CD.

“I’m almost afraid to ask what exactly you mean by ‘beauty seclusion,’ ” Casey said dryly, scrunching up the bag of empty potato chips she held in her hand.

“It just means that you don’t leave the house for a few weeks,” Sophie mumbled, her mouth full of raw carrot sticks. “By the time you resurface, not only has your hair grown out a bit, but everyone’s moved on to the latest disaster, and you’re in the clear.”

“Sounds complicated,” Casey said, sighing loudly. “And not very practical—considering I have to go to school.”

“Oh my God,
whatever
,” Madison snapped, draining the last of her water. “Get your mom to write a note or something. Mine said I had TB last year when that stupid bitch at Fekkai left the developer on my highlights too long, and they turned this totally bilious shade of
green
.”

Phoebe and Sophie cracked up, their laughter reverberating in the busy street as Madison glared at them. Sometimes when Phoebe and Sophie laughed like this—at someone else’s expense—they reminded Casey of the witches in
Macbeth
: bloodthirsty and vengeful, but with cuter outfits.

“It wasn’t
funny
,” Mad said, her voice like ice. “It totally ruined the fall quarter—I missed all the good sales and parties, and my hair felt like straw for a
month
.”

“
Speaking
of parties,” Sophie said breathlessly, snapping the plastic container of raw carrots and celery sticks she held in her lap firmly shut, “you guys are not going to believe what’s going on with mine!” Sophie reached into her bag and pulled out a dark blue velvet box with the words H. Stern written on the front in gold lettering, opening the lid to reveal a custom-made white-gold necklace molded into the shape of a letter peeking out of an envelope, minuscule writing looping across the sheet of white gold “paper” in perfect script. Phoebe reached out and grabbed the plush blue box from Sophie’s hands, and proceeded to read the tiny text aloud.

“Sophie St. John. The party of the century. The girl of the year. Saturday, October 24th. 9 P.M. Seventies couture requested.”

“Are those the
invitations
?” Casey asked, unable to keep the note of total incredulity from her voice. Gold necklaces as sweet sixteen invitations? She was officially not in the Midwest anymore, that was for sure . . .

“I think I’d rather walk down Madison Avenue naked than have to go to another sweet sixteen,” Madison said bitchily, raising one blond brow in Sophie’s direction.

“Well, you probably shouldn’t come then,” Sophie said dejectedly. “I guess we’ll just have to be on
My Spoiled Sweet Sixteen
without you . . .”

There was a moment of silence as the group took in the atom bomb Sophie had just dropped in Madison’s cashmere-covered lap. Casey looked at Madison’s astonished expression and felt almost smug. Good for Sophie—she’d succeeded in out-Madisoning Madison for once.

“Are you serious?” Phoebe asked in amazement, a note of excitement creeping into her voice. “We’re going to be on Pulse? I can’t believe it! What am I going to wear?” she worried aloud, scrunching her brow until horizontal lines appeared in her smooth, pale forehead. “More important,” she added, “what are
you
going to wear?”

“Something vintage—definitely,” Sophie answered confidently. “We’re doing a whole Studio 54 revisited theme—so think Halston, Betsey Johnson, vintage Ralph—anything that screams chic disco seventies.”

“That’s so cool!” Casey exclaimed, unable to stop herself. “Xanadu is one of my favorite movies of all time!” Casey wondered if showing up in a tube top and roller skates would be out of the question. Now if she could only figure out a way to feather her hair, she’d really be in business . . . Casey woke from her disco lovin’ roller skate-wearing fantasy to find the group staring at her uncomprehendingly. “You know,” she explained, “it’s that movie with Olivia Newton-John where she plays this roller-skating muse? I think it’s a Broadway musical now, actually.”

“Broadway gives me hives,” Madison snapped, obviously miffed at not being the center of attention. “And isn’t Xanadu technically eighties anyway?” she said, dismissing Casey’s comment with a flick of her wrist like the vision of roller-skating muses itself annoyed her. “Anyway, the Pulse thing is great—it’ll be a good way to launch my new modeling career,” she added nonchalantly, sliding a pair of Dior aviators over her eyes and staring off into the street.

“
What
modeling career?” Sophie asked uneasily, looking like she was about to regurgitate her carrots at Madison’s black-booted feet.

“With Verve Model Management,” Madison explained in a bored voice. “It’s no big deal—they took some Polaroids and gave me a contract to look over yesterday. I have to show it to Edie this afternoon—she wants to have a ‘girls’ day’ at Elizabeth Arden. I may not survive,” she deadpanned, looking over out of the corner of her eyes to gauge Sophie’s expression, which was predictably crestfallen. “That reminds me,” she said, turning to Casey and pushing her shades on top of her head. “You should come along. My stylist can totally fix
that.
” Madison waved one pearly white-varnished nail in the direction of Casey’s hair. “And don’t worry.” Madison grinned like a contented cat. “It’s on Edie.”

Casey blushed, feeling like a total pauper. She might as well have been standing in the middle of Fifth Avenue with a harmonica and an ugly, flea-infested dog, begging for change. But, no matter how nasty she was, or how she made you feel, Casey knew that it wasn’t wise to say no to Madison Macallister—especially when she was offering to do something nice for you. All the same, Casey couldn’t help being a little worried about the prospect of Madison becoming a supermodel. If Madison suddenly appeared on the cover of every magazine in Manhattan, would Drew even want to give her the time of day anymore? What would he want with a frizzy-haired mess when he could be dating a world-famous cover girl?
Ugh
, Casey thought, remembering Sophie’s party and inwardly groaning
. Just kill me now
. The god-awful haircut she was currently sporting would be immortalized on TV if she didn’t take Madison up on her offer, and being dumped for a supermodel was one thing, but having a bad haircut preserved on video for all eternity was something else altogether.

“Thanks,” Casey said, watching out of the corner of her eye as Drew exited the front door of Meadowlark and stood on the pavement, squinting into the sunlight. “That would be great.”
Please don’t let him come over here, please don’t let him come over here,
she said silently to herself as Drew turned in their direction, a smile breaking over his face.
Shit,
Casey thought, raising a hand and weakly waving at his approach.

“What’s up, ladies?” Drew said with a smile, looking adorable as usual in a pair of brown cords and a military-style khaki jacket. Casey pulled on her hair frantically, praying to anything out there that he wouldn’t notice how completely awful she looked.

“We were just discussing Madison’s modeling career,” Phoebe said proudly, while Madison looked off into the heavily trafficked street as if she couldn’t care less.

“What modeling career?” Drew asked, clearly confused by the recent turn of events. Casey watched with something not unlike horror as his blue eyes swept over her face, lingering on her hair, the shock registering on his face like a slap.

“She’s signing a contract with Verve,” Sophie said woodenly, still stunned at the way she’d been so swiftly dethroned.

“It’s so
not
a big deal,” Madison said while stifling a yawn, her pink, glossy lips widening as she delicately placed a hand over her mouth. “Excuse me,” she said apologetically, “I was up late talking about all this with Antonio—my manager.”

“Who’s Antonio?” Sophie asked. “Is he Spanish?”

“More important,” Phoebe interrupted. “Is he hot?”

“No . . .” Madison said with a slow grin. “And, yes.”

“What happened to your
hair
?” Drew blurted out, motioning to Casey’s head with one hand and trying like hell to get a word in. Sophie and Phoebe began to giggle, as if on cue, and Casey couldn’t help but notice the satisfied expression that moved across Madison’s face—an expression that Casey knew would quickly disappear as soon as Drew looked in her direction.

“I got it cut,” Casey replied, wishing that the ground—or one of the girls—would simply open up and consume her. Why couldn’t there be a trapdoor under your feet, specifically for these kinds of boy-related, completely humiliating moments?

“
Obviously
,” Madison quipped, giggling behind splayed fingers.

“It looks . . .” Drew paused helplessly, trying to find the right words when there were clearly none that could explain how bad she currently looked. “. . . nice,” he added weakly, trying to smile.

“It’s a hot mess,” Madison smirked flirtatiously. “Kind of like you, Drew.”

“Whatever.” Drew laughed as he rolled his eyes playfully at Mad. “By the way, I wanted to ask you something. I’m making this documentary—well, it’s really more of a short film—about rich kids on the UES, and I wanted to see if I could interview you, maybe sometime this week? If you’re not too busy with your jet-set lifestyle, that is,” Drew added, his voice filled with sarcasm, but his eyes saying something else altogether.

“I’ll see if I can fit it in,” Madison said airily as she pulled her beeping phone from her Furla tote and scowled at the display.

Casey’s stomach turned—the tuna sandwich she’d managed to scarf down in the dining hall before Mad, Pheebs, and Sophie appeared started spinning queasily in her stomach as she watched her kind-of boyfriend stare at his completely gorgeous ex-girlfriend. She felt herself shrinking up and fading into the background as Drew walked away, raising a palm in the air with a halfhearted wave in her direction, before slipping into the front door of Meadowlark, and fading out of sight altogether.