The Elite (19 page)

“Do you have a fella, Casey?” one frail lady asked, smacking her lips around her false teeth as she simultaneously shuffled her cards and poured tea into her mug.

“Don’t be stupid,” Nanna cackled. “My granddaughter is devoted to her studies. She doesn’t have time for
boys
.”

“She’s too young anyway,” another old bat yelled out, gob-bling down a cookie and talking with her mouth full of crumbs and chocolate. “Just look at her. She’s flat as a board!”

Casey felt her face turn red, and she wanted to grab a kitchen knife and put this crotchety curmudgeon out of her misery. She took a quick look at her chest—the old bat was right. It was hopeless. She was a flat- chested freak of nature who would probably never have a boyfriend.

“Nonsense,” Nanna snapped. Nanna was wearing what she referred to as her “good luck” ensemble—a vintage Pucci shift in the orange and blue that almost matched the veins streaking her pale legs. “I won a thousand dollars in Monte Carlo in nineteen seventy while wearing this dress,” she muttered distractedly, rubbing the worn sleeve before snapping back to reality.

“And Casey is just petite—she takes after me, you know,” she 1 7 5

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said proudly, slapping her cards down on the table and squeal-ing in glee. “I won again!” As soon as Nanna had slipped her the twenty, Casey was in the elevator as fast as her feet could carry her, breathing a sigh of relief as the doors closed.

As Casey followed the map she’d picked up at the ticket counter, walking uphill to the third floor where the Kiki Smith show was currently being exhibited, she wished some of Nanna’s luck would magically rub off on her. If only she had the chance to explain things to Drew! After the way she came on to him during French, he probably thought she was some kind of crazy, oversexed freak. What else did you call someone who went out of her way to attend an exhibition by an artist who was known for celebrating the female body . . . and all its various emissions?

Casey had learned about Kiki Smith from her mother, who blindly followed any artist that made work involving “women’s issues,” which, in the academic speak that Casey had learned to decipher at a young age, meant monthly cycles, babies, and all the other mystifying and possibly disgusting things women’s bodies were capable of. Generally, “women’s issues” were not Casey’s cup of tea, but her mom had dragged her to a Kiki Smith retrospective at the Art Institute of Chicago one year and, grudgingly, Casey had found herself falling in love with the strange-looking wax figures dipping and trailing God-knows- what out of their you- know- whats. As disgusting as the sculptures had initially sounded, she found the softly gleaming works of wax and bronze incredibly beautiful. And to her mom’s delight (and still to Casey’s slight horror) she declared 1 7 6

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herself a fan—which had resulted in a long, uncomfortable talk about “women’s issues” during the car ride back to Normal.

Thank God she’d be going to the Guggenheim by herself this time. And going to an art exhibition by herself made her feel almost cool—not to mention kind of . . . adult. All she needed now was a pair of huge black sunglasses and a pretentious art school boyfriend to deconstruct the lithographs adorning the white walls for her, and she’d be just like any other slightly neurotic New Yorker taking in some culture on a Saturday afternoon . . .

As Casey turned the corner and walked into the sculpture gallery with its pristine white floors, the first thing she saw beside a pair of enormous bronze sculptures of women stretching their hands to the sky was Drew standing directly in front of the bronzed form of a crouching woman . . . with yellow string trailing out of her, umm, baby- maker. Drew was wearing a rumpled pair of A.P.C. khaki shorts that looked like he’d slept in them, and another one of his seemingly endless supply of white T-shirts. His brown hair was almost standing on end, and his jaw was covered with a layer of stubble that was way too thick to even call five o’clock shadow—more like nine o’clock shadow. Even though he’d clearly had a rough night and was definitely fighting the hot, he was still everything she’d ever wanted in a guy—and maybe a little more.

Casey’s feet froze to the floor and her mind raced with pos-sibilities. Should she walk over and talk to him? Things hadn’t exactly went well the last time they’d hung out—if you could call a ten- minute conversation in the middle of a psychotic 1 7 7

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French class hanging out . . . And the room was big, but it wasn’t that big. There was no way she could pretend that he wasn’t there. In fact, there was no way she was going to be able to walk by without him—

Drew looked up, his bloodshot blue eyes locking with hers.

Oh crap
, Casey thought smiling hopefully.
There’s no backing
out now
. Her face felt like it was covered with glue. Smiling was almost painful when you felt like your face might just crack off at any moment from sheer anxiety. Casey willed her feet to move and walked over, positioning herself directly in front of the sculpture.

“Hey,” Drew said, turning to her and smiling. Was it her imagination, or did he not only look surprised, but almost happy to see her? “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, you know,” she said, pretending to examine the sculpture and bending down to inspect the yellow rope trailing out of it. “Just checking out the show.” Casey stood up and turned back to Drew.
Be cool!
her inner dating Nazi screamed,
and
don’t blow it this time!
“So,” Casey said, trying to look like she ran into guys she was massively crushing on every day, “what do you think she’s trying to
say
here?”
I really have to learn that
raised eyebrow trick Madison does all the time
, Casey thought as Drew thoughtfully contemplated the sculpture.

“I don’t know,” he mused. “Maybe it’s a commentary on the functionality of women’s bodies.”

“Hmmmm.” Casey pretended to consider Drew’s answer thoughtfully. Growing up with a mother who spouted pseudo- academic psychobabble every chance she got made her 1 7 8

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fairly confident that she could hold her own in the conversation. “Maybe you’re right,” she said slowly. “Or maybe she just had to
pee
really badly.”

Drew cracked up and Casey laughed along at her own joke, smiling shyly when they stopped. The short silence was broken by an insistent buzzing sound coming from Drew’s pants
. Of
course his pants are buzzing,
Casey thought as he pulled his cell phone from his front pocket,
he’s just that hot
. Drew checked the display, an annoyed expression crossing his face, switched the ringer off, and put the phone back in his pocket. Casey felt her stomach flip over. He wasn’t taking the call!
Don’t get too
excited
, she told herself,
it was probably his mom or something.

Still, if he wasn’t taking the call in front of her that had to mean
something,
didn’t it?

“So.” Drew shoved his hands into his pockets. “Did you just get here? I was actually just leaving.”

“Oh,” Casey said, the disappointment coursing through her. “Yeah, I just got here.” Casey exhaled, doing her best to smile like she didn’t care while blowing her hair—which was chronically misbehaving as usual—off her face. Just as she was about to make her probably ungraceful exit, her stomach erupted with a loud, menacing growl that practically echoed off the sterile, white museum walls. Dry cereal out of the box was definitely not much of a meal. Casey closed her eyes briefly.
Damn you, dry cereal
, she thought, opening them again, a sheepish expression on her face.

“A little hungry, are we?” Drew asked, clearly fighting a smile.

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“Yeah,” Casey mumbled, staring down at her pink Old Navy ballet flats. It was amazing—even if she didn’t sabotage her pathetic excuse for a dating life through speaking, her body was sure to run it into the ground for her. “I haven’t really eaten much today.”

“Well, I was just about to get some food myself,” Drew said. “But you probably want to check out the show, huh?”

Suddenly art couldn’t have been
less
important.

“Umm, I could come back later or something,” Casey said in what she
hoped
was a nonchalant tone. The last thing she needed was to come off too eager and blow it again.

“Okay, cool.” Drew smiled and slung his messenger bag over his shoulder. “I was thinking of hitting Shake Shack for a burger.”

Well, it

wasn’t a romantic dinner at Prive, but Casey guessed it was a start—and beggars couldn’t exactly be choosers. Especially not beggars who miraculously got second chances . . .

“Sure,” Casey said, pulling a hair elastic from her wrist, and shoving her hair back in a messy ponytail. “Is it close by?”

Drew smiled incredulously. “You’ve never heard of
Shake
Shack
? They’ve only got the best burgers in the city! People sometimes line up for forty- five minutes for them.”

Forty minutes and one sweaty cab ride later—during which all Casey could think about was the fact that her nose was probably shiny, and that she really needed to buy some serious sunglasses—they were sitting side by side on the soft grass in Madison Square Park, watching a group of little kids tied to a 1 8 0

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length of red string wander through—undoubtedly on their way to some museum or other horrifically cultural “outdoor activity.” Casey stared down at the paper plate in her lap that held the biggest cheeseburger she’d ever seen, and wondered how the hell she was ever going to get her mouth around the thing without getting ketchup on her face—or God forbid in her
hair
.

Casey was a notoriously messy eater. Her dad always joked that when she was little, her parents used to wrap a bedsheet around her before they’d even
attempt
to feed her strained carrots or what ever other gross- ass concoction Barbara had whipped up in the Cuisinart. In any case, this burger was a dating disaster waiting to happen. Wait, were they actually even on a date? Casey wrinkled her brow and sucked her vanilla milkshake hard through her straw. Or was this just a getting-food- with- a-friend kind of thing? Either way, she was going to have to figure out a way to eat this burger without becoming covered in ketchup and grease, and without getting up and grabbing a knife and fork like some Park Avenue priss.

“You just kinda have to go for it,” Drew said with a grin, the dimple that tortured her on his MySpace photo winking adorably. Casey had to practically sit on her hands to keep from reaching out to touch it. Drew raised his dripping cheeseburger to his mouth and took a huge bite, rolling his eyes and moaning with exaggerated plea sure.

Casey giggled and took a deep breath, pushing up the sleeves of her white, Old Navy cardigan, grabbing onto the gargantuan burger with both hands, and raising it to her lips.

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She opened her mouth as wide as she could, and bit down into a heavenly mix of ground beef, tomatoes, and pickles, chewing like she was a contestant in a competitive eating contest.

“It’s good, right?” Drew said, putting his half- eaten burger down on his plate and wiping his lips with one of the paper napkins.

“Mmmhmm.” Casey nodded furiously, her mouth stuffed with cow. And, actually, it was just about the best burger to pass her lips in all of her sixteen years. It was unbelievably juicy and phenomenal—just like Drew’s lips . . . And speaking of juice, Casey froze as she felt a trickle of it running down her chin. Before she could grab for the pile of napkins and wipe her face, Drew laughed like it was no big deal, leaned over with his napkin, and blotted Casey’s face carefully. Casey could feel the heat from his hand through the flimsy paper, and she swallowed hard, grabbing her shake again for another sip to wash down the half of a steer she’d just managed to ingest, and to cool off her suddenly raging lust.

“Sorry,” she said, trying not to feel like a total loser who couldn’t eat without spilling—which, of course, she was. “This burger is beyond awesome, but messy.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, shrugging off her comment and leaning back, balling up the napkin in his hand before she had time to get really embarrassed. Drew stared off into the traffic clogging Twenty- Third Street, a wistful expression coloring his face. “When I lived downtown I used to come up here after school all the time for a cheeseburger or some frozen custard. Sometimes I kind of miss it.” Casey nod-1 8 2

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ded, her cheeks indented from sucking on her straw so hard—

she felt almost dizzy. Was it the sugar rushing headlong through her veins, or the fact that she was breathing the same air as Drew Van Allen? Drew turned to face her, a smile playing at the corners of his lips. “It’s nice to see a girl actually—” he gestured at the remains of her burger, “—you know—
eat
.”

Great. Was that cryptic boyspeak for “You’re a fat pig eating a burger the size of your head and I’m never going to kiss you?” Suddenly, her bare thighs protruding from her Abercrombie skirt felt enormous, and she tried to surreptitiously pull down the hem without drawing his attention to her undoubtedly pasty, bulbous legs.

“No really,” he said, leaning over and touching her knee lightly with his hand. “I mean it. My dad’s a chef, so food’s a big deal in my house.”

Drew’s words barely registered. Her head spun with the same thought playing over and over in an endlessly giddy feed-back loop:
Drew Van Allen’s hand is on my knee!
She wanted to immortalize the patch of grass they were sitting on with a bronze plaque—and it went without saying that she was never washing her knee again. Okay, maybe she’d run a hot wash-cloth over it when it
got
really dirty . . . From somewhere far away Drew’s voice began to seep back into her lust- addled brain, and she forced herself back to reality, smiling like she hadn’t just been completely lost in outer space.