In Too Deep (7 page)

“Phoebe,” Andrea began, patting the overstuffed crimson loveseat and waiting for Phoebe to sit down. Phoebe walked slowly over to the sofa and plopped down with a sigh, folding her arms over her chest. Like her life wasn’t awful enough right now? Apparently not. Surely what she really needed was some overgroomed college drill sergeant telling her exactly what to do every day of her life until the end of senior year. The thought was almost enough to make Phoebe run screaming from the room, pack her bags, and run away somewhere hot and laid-back—like Brazil, for instance. “The SATs are coming up—fast—and we really need to whip you into shape in preparation. Of course,” she added, turning to Madeline, the lenses of her spectacles shining in the lamplight, “test scores aren’t the only thing admissions will be looking for—especially when it comes to an Ivy. Do you have any extracurricular activities we can play up on your application?” Andrea stared at Phoebe eagerly, waiting for her to respond.

Extracurricular activities
? Phoebe thought wordlessly. Unless Andrea counted making out with her best friend’s brother like a crazed monkey and power shopping as activities, Phoebe knew she was probably out of luck. And from the eager expression on Andrea’s tight, pinched face, Phoebe already knew without being told otherwise that these weren’t the kinds of answers she was probably hoping for.

“Not really,” Phoebe mumbled while furiously chipping the polish off her thumbnail.

“I see,” Andrea said frostily, turning to Madeline conspiratorially. “Well, it’s definitely clear why you need me.” Andrea pulled a black leather Hermès notebook from her Burberry tote, flipping through the pages. “Desperately,” she muttered distractedly as she unclipped a Montblanc pen from the notebook, and began to scribble furiously on the unlined, white page. “Now I recommend that Phoebe and I meet at least once a week—with two or three phone sessions thrown in for good measure, and there’s always my daily focus e-mails as well—to keep her on track. It’s so
easy
these days for young people to become
distracted
,” she added, smiling thinly at Madeline, who began to nod sympathetically, her pearl drop earrings from Van Cleef & Arpels pulsing whitely in the light.

Phoebe’s mouth fell open.
Kill me
, she thought, glaring at her mother, who ignored her, as usual, and continued to gaze at Andrea approvingly. “Does Dad know about this?” Phoebe asked her mother, her eyes narrowing. “It seems like there’s
a lot
he doesn’t know lately.”

“Your father and I have discussed it,” Madeline answered frostily, reaching up to pat her dark, shining hair, which was smoothed back in a French twist. “And he agrees that you are
clearly
in need of some direction.”

“I
have
direction,” Phoebe snapped. “I’m going to be a fashion designer—remember?”

“I’d prefer not to,” Madeline said dryly, flashing Andrea an exasperated smile. “You’re going to Harvard Business School just like your father—it’s all been decided.”

Phoebe felt herself deflate like the delicate chocolate soufflés at Le Cirque once you stuck a fork in them. Like every other girl in Manhattan, and probably the entire planet, Phoebe loved clothes. She adored everything about them—the way rough tweed felt under her hands, and the whisper kiss of the softest cashmere grazing her ear. Last winter her grandmother had taken her to the fall collections in Paris, and it remained the most exciting moment of Phoebe’s life. At the Dior show, the clothes swirled down the runway with a life of their own, the silk and brocade gleaming in the bright, white lights. At the end when John Galliano himself stepped onto the runway, blowing kisses at the audience as he pranced down the catwalk, Phoebe jumped to her feet and clapped furiously, tears springing to her eyes. At that moment, she wanted more than anything for her designs to grace that runway someday, to see a young girl in the crowd clapping excitedly over
her
creations. But if she was forced to go to Harvard Business School and spend her days in marketing class, and her nights making spreadsheets with Excel, Phoebe knew she’d probably never get the chance.

“We’ll start next week,” Andrea said, standing up and brushing off her skirt with one hand as if she’d been sitting on a hay bale instead of a twenty-thousand-dollar antique sofa with Baroque scrolled legs and gilt edging. “I’ll send you an e-mail with all the details sometime tomorrow, Phoebe,” Andrea said briskly, grabbing a Burberry trench from the arm of the sofa and throwing it over her arm like she was stanching a wound.

“Let me walk you to the door, Andrea,” Madeline purred, standing up and straightening the hem of her nubbly cranberry Chanel skirt, the heels of her black Manolo Blahnik ankle boots tapping the hardwood floors like Morse code as they exited the room and moved into the hallway without so much as a backward glance.

Phoebe tried to fight the tears that were welling up in her blue eyes. She felt small, like her whole life had been shrunk down to fit perfectly in a tiny Kate Spade clutch, her dreams squashed to fit her parents’ unrealistic expectations. She felt like things were moving too fast lately, getting more complicated when all she wanted was for things to be simple—they way they used to be before she fell for Jared, before her family began to fall apart. As much as she wanted her life to slow down and just
stop
, it seemed to be speeding up faster and faster—whether she liked it or not.

And Phoebe knew that if she wasn’t very careful, it wouldn’t be long before her entire life became someone else’s, and her future spun completely out of her grasp.

secrets revealed

Casey plopped down on Sophie’s bed, kicking off her
scuffed, cream-colored Old Navy ballet flats, and grabbed one of Sophie’s oversized down pillows, hugging it to her chest like a teddy bear. “So, what’s up?” she asked, momentarily resting her cheek against the cloudlike surface. God, Sophie’s pillows and sheets were so supremely soft that she wouldn’t have been surprised if Sophie had informed her they were fashioned from the tender skin of newborn babies. Maybe that’s why high thread counts were so ridiculously expensive . . .

“Okay, before I start, you have to promise that you won’t say anything—to
anyone
.” Sophie sat down on the bed next to Casey cross-legged, leaning her elbows on her knees. Sophie wore a pair of butter-soft cashmere sweatpants in bright orange, and a plain white wifebeater with a rip in one shoulder strap. Even in her casual clothes, Casey couldn’t help noticing that Sophie was still stupidly pretty—which would’ve usually intimidated Casey to the point where she froze up and became unable to put words together like a normal human being. But despite her good looks, Sophie was the one member of The Bram Clan around whom Casey felt almost comfortable. There was something about Sophie’s wide-eyed grin and easy playfulness that made Casey feel like she wasn’t existing perennially on the very fringes of coolness, ready to topple into the abyss of loserville at any second. Around Mad or Phoebe, Casey felt like she always had something stuck in her teeth, or that her hair was threatening to branch out and take over the planet. With Sophie, she felt like it might just be okay to simply kick back and be herself.

“Sure.” Casey threw the pillow to the floor and crossed her legs, mirroring Sophie’s pose exactly. “Who would I tell, anyway?”

Sophie stared at Casey like she’d eaten a brain tumor for breakfast and rolled her green eyes, giggles sprinkling her words like nuts on a sundae. “You never know what might, ahem, ‘slip out’ in the heat of passion . . .”

Casey picked the pillow up off the floor and threw it at Sophie, who ducked it cleanly, smiling wickedly. Nothing was in danger of “slipping out,” though she’d rather bury herself in the noxious, gray cement they were using to repave Fifth Avenue than admit that to Sophie, but it was true—things between her and Drew were definitely not at the slipping out—or in—level yet. They were definitely getting there with every lingering, delicious kiss—but it wasn’t like they spent hours ripping off each other’s clothes every day after school or anything.
Unfortunately for you
, her inner dating Nazi snapped.

“I mean it,” Sophie went on, her face solemn. “You really can’t tell anyone—
especially
not Mad.”

Now Casey was
really
intrigued. Why would Sophie rather confide something so obviously important in her, and
not
the girls she’d known for her entire life? With uncanny accuracy, Sophie read the confused expression that must’ve been all over Casey’s face, and continued before Casey could even begin to verbalize her question.

“I can’t tell them—not yet anyway. The reason I’m telling you is because I
haven’t
known you forever. You know?” Casey nodded, though she still wasn’t sure exactly what Sophie meant. Sophie raised her arms over her head, pulling her streaky, honey blond hair back in a messy bun and securing it with a tortoise-shell clip plucked from the violet carpet, which stood out in sharp contrast to the lavender walls of Sophie’s bedroom.
Maybe
, Casey thought
, I don’t know anything about fashion—or interior design—but it kind of looks like Barney threw up in here
. . .

“So . . .” Casey said, leaning forward. “What’s going on?”

Sophie took a deep breath, picking up a manila folder at the foot of the bed and opening it across her lap, her hands placed strategically over the contents. “A few weeks ago my parents told me that I’m adopted,” Sophie said quietly, her voice emotionless, her gaze level and direct.

“Oh my God,” Casey murmured. “Are you okay? I mean, what did they
say
?”

Sophie looked away, blinking rapidly. “Oh, some bullshit—apparently they were having problems getting pregnant after my idiot brother was born, so they adopted me as some sort of deranged consolation prize for
not
going through a round of IVF.” Sophie took a deep breath and let it out slowly, still looking away.

“Wow. Umm.
Wow
.” Casey felt like she’d suddenly become a drooling idiot—in the blink of an eye, her whole vocabulary reduced to a rapid succession of one-syllable words. The problem was that she just didn’t know
what
to say. What was the correct response to something this personal and deep? “I’m sorry” didn’t exactly sound right, and “bummer” definitely wasn’t going to cut it.

“And that’s not all,” Sophie continued, moving her hands away from the open manila folder and placing it in Casey’s lap. “Look,” Sophie said, pointing at the photograph pinned to the top of the thick sheaf of legal documents. “That’s
her
. My mom.”

Casey stared down in disbelief at the face in the photograph, goosebumps popping up on her arms. “Melissa Von Norton’s your
mom
?” Casey looked up at Sophie, her mouth falling open. “I saw
Playback
in the theater five times last year!”

“Me too,” Sophie said, staring down at the photograph, seemingly lost in thought, her fingers tracing the planes of her mother’s face. “I can’t believe I never noticed the resemblance—though I guess you never really go around looking for your own face in anyone else’s.” Sophie leaned back against the immense pile of pillows that were mounded up at the head of her bed. “My mom knows her—if you can believe that—they were in the same acting class together when my bio mom was just starting out. They were friends—a long time ago.”

“Are you
serious
?” Casey asked, unable to keep the amazement from her voice. Casey looked into Sophie’s eyes, noticing immediately that they were the exact same shape and color as her biological mother’s—and that Sophie also looked dangerously close to crying. “Sophie, that’s just
crazy
,” Casey said softly, mostly because she just didn’t know what
else
to say. Casey sat there for a moment in the silence that had fallen over the room, winding a curl around her index finger, and wondering how it would feel to wake up one day and find out that your whole life had been a lie. Casey stared at Sophie, who was busily picking loose threads from her comforter, her face set in rapt concentration.
She must be so lonely right now
, Casey thought, reaching out to touch Sophie on the shoulder. Sophie jumped like she’d been burned by Casey’s touch, and gave Casey a weak smile. “So,” Casey said, removing her hand, trying to bring the conversation back someplace vaguely practical. “What are you going to
do
?”

“What do you mean?” Sophie took the folder back and closed it, tossing it to the floor.

“I mean you have to
call
her or something!” Casey bent over and grabbed the folder off the floor and opened it again. “Or meet her. Isn’t there a number for her in here?”

“No.” Sophie sighed, pointing an index finger at the bottom of the first page and tapping it with her nail. “Only an e-mail address.”

“Then you have to e-mail her!” Casey exclaimed, grabbing the folder and walking over to Sophie’s MacBook, sitting down at her white lacquered, ultra-mod desk.

“Hang on,” Sophie cautioned before Casey’s hands could so much as hit the keys. “I don’t even know if she wants to hear from me—much less see me!”

“Then isn’t it time you found out?” Casey asked, turning to face Sophie, who had her arms crossed over her chest defensively. “Come on,” Casey said softly, reaching out and touching Sophie’s arm. “This is your
mom
we’re talking about—don’t you want to
know
her?”

Sophie opened her mouth, then closed it, biting her bottom lip as she mentally weighed the pros and cons of making such a ballsy move. That was the thing about e-mail—once you let your words loose in the unruly world of cyberspace, you could never really take them back or, more important, delete them.

“Does she want to know
me
is the question,” Sophie muttered, releasing the clip from her hair so that it fell down around her shoulders.

“And why
wouldn’t
she?” Casey retorted. “You’re her daughter, aren’t you?”