The Elite (9 page)

“I bet you met a ton of people.”
Especially ones with vaginas
, she thought, trying to push her face into a smile and look interested.

“I met a few,” Drew said offhandedly, pushing his hair off his face, exposing his lightly stubbled jaw. “I met this girl in Barcelona—her name was Eva. Anyway, I ran into her at a café on the Ramblas, and she gave me a private tour of the city.”

Of course she did
. Madison felt like her blood was steaming in her veins. Her ice- green eyes narrowed until they were practically slits, the color matching the sudden wave of jealousy coursing through her. What was he trying to do—give her an aneurysm? She tried to compose herself. It would totally suck to lose her cool so early in the conversation.
So he hung out with
some Eurotrash skank all summer. Big deal. After all, I’m me
—

and I’m
here.

Madison looked down at her nails, painted with Chanel’s Black Satin polish—the choice for Upper East Side prep school girls gone bad—and contemplated her options. One: She could throw down her chair and storm off, slamming the café door behind her with a satisfying clamor of bells. Two: She could reach across the table and smack Drew, insensitive fuckhead that he was, full on in the face. Or three: She could 7 6

T H E E L I T E

do what she did best and steer the conversation back to the only subject really worth talking about—herself. Didn’t he care about her summer, or what
she’d
been doing? And was he ever going to apologize for the way he’d behaved before he left?

At this point, she wasn’t exactly holding her breath.

“So, my summer was . . . really weird,” she began, just as the waitress arrived with her latte. “I’m still getting used to my dad not being around anymore.” She took a sip of her latte before continuing. “And plus I had to spend most of the last six weeks in summer school—which was a complete suckfest, by the way. Not recommended.”

“Speaking of school,” Drew said, taking a slug of his coffee, which was probably ice- cold by now, “what’s the deal with that Casey chick you were hanging with in the park yesterday?”

Madison grabbed her cup, staring at him over the plastic rim. Was he fucking kidding? Here she was trying to get real with him about her screwed-up family life, and her horrendous summer locked in a stuffy classroom, and all he wanted to talk about was some frizzy- haired loser! Wasn’t he even going to mention the fact that he was, umm,
inside
her the last time they saw each other?

“Is that really what you want to talk about, Drew? Some frizzfest from the Midwest?” Madison spat back.

“Whoa, Mad. I was just
asking
.” Drew said, leaning back from the table as if the ferocity in Madison’s voice had pushed him physically. “Is small talk off limits with you today or something?”

7 7

J E N N I F E R B A N A S H

“Why don’t we just cut to the chase,
Andrew
.” Drew’s face went blank, and he stared down at the tabletop like it was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mumbled, one finger tracing patterns in a spilled drop of mocha- colored coffee. Just then, the waitress—with the impeccable timing and the warped sixth sense of all servers—made the mistake of approaching their table, clearly unaware of the brewing intensity of their conversation.

“Can I get you two anything else?” she said, toying with her pencil and paper as she—as Madison saw it—obviously gave Drew the once- over.

“I think we’re fine,” Drew said, “but can I ask you something? Why is it that the coffee here is so, well,
different.
I mean, I just got back from a summer spent in Amster—”

“YOU’VE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME,” Madison

screamed, throwing a five down on the table. The other diners turned around in their chairs, mild expressions of amusement crossing their faces. This was Manhattan, and stranger things than a couple having a random, caffeine- fueled blowout on a Sunday morning happened every day of the week. Madison stood up and faced the waitress, grabbing her bag. “Actually,”

she said, her voice like honey spread on steel, “you can bring
him
a fucking shovel.” She pointed at Drew, who looked like he’d just been smacked in the face with a two- by- four.
Don’t
tempt me
, she thought.
Just don’t fucking tempt me.
“He’s going to
need
it to dig himself out of the hole he’s currently in.”

As she stomped out of the restaurant, into the humid 7 8

T H E E L I T E

August air and walked slowly down the street, hot tears blurred her vision, smearing the navy Urban Decay liquid liner she’d applied so hopefully an hour ago. Madison couldn’t help looking over her shoulder as she walked, half hoping that Drew would run out of the restaurant and tell her to wait, that he was sorry, that he’d missed her when she was gone. Not that she would forgive him after the way he treated her today.

She wanted
something
to happen just so things wouldn’t end this way—with her crying on the crowded streets of Manhattan, ruining her new shoes on the hot pavement and smearing her fucking eye makeup.

But, a block later, she’d twisted her ankle twice, and the only thing telling her to halt was the stoplight at the corner of Park and Ninety- first as it changed ominously from green to red.

7 9

shut out

and

shot down

Drew watched

open-mouthed as Madison walked briskly

to the front door of the restaurant, slamming it behind her. The waitress stood there motionless, the coffee carafe in the air, her passing hand halted over Drew’s empty cup.

“Wow,” she said, one blond eyebrow raised, “I guess she told you.” The amusement in her voice was almost more than Drew could take at that par tic u lar moment, and he shot her an annoyed look as he waited for a refill. He was never going to get through this morning without more coffee. Ever since Amsterdam, he’d developed a serious caffeine addiction.
More like
psychosis,
he thought, replaying his stupid comment to the waitress that sent Madison running for the door. Maybe he should T H E E L I T E

just get an IV inserted into his goddamn arm and start taking it intravenously . . .

The waitress leaned over, the wrinkles around her blue eyes softening as she took in Drew’s obviously miserable face. “So, do you want anything else this morning?” she asked, shooting Drew a look of pity as she refilled his cup to the brim. “Or have you had enough?”

“Enough,” Drew mumbled, exhaling loudly. The waitress nodded and walked away before Drew could say anything else.

Drew tipped the silver pitcher of cream into the dark liquid until it lightened to a pale mocha. What had happened? He wished he could rewind the day and start over. It wasn’t even noon yet and he’d already screwed things up. Drew dumped four packets of raw sugar into his coffee, stirring the steaming liquid contemplatively. When he woke up this morning, he’d had it all planned out. He’d meet Madison for breakfast like they did every Sunday, and he’d apologize—really apologize—for the way he’d handled things the last time they were together.

He wasn’t sure how it happened, but when she walked in, backlit by the morning sunlight, that barely- there sundress swirling around her sun-kissed arms and legs, her hair a

perfectly groomed blond mane—he went a little crazy. And before he could stop himself he was telling her all about Eva and Barcelona, even though nothing really happened. Eva was actually completely annoying—all she wanted to talk about was reality TV and Justin Timberlake, and when she finally leaned over at a tapas bar at two A.M. over toast points spread with chocolate and fleur de sel, and suggested that they go 8 1

J E N N I F E R B A N A S H

back to her place to drink some wine, he was totally over it.

But, just looking at Madison, he completely lost his cool. He
wanted
her to think that he’d spent the whole trip fighting off Euro- hotness like it was his full- time summer job. As she sat there, so distant and unflappable, he couldn’t help wondering if she’d really even missed him at all.

And it pissed him off.

As he sat there watching Madison pretend to drink her latte, he couldn’t help but get the sinking sensation that she no longer cared. She hadn’t written to him all summer—despite the fact that he hung out in Internet cafés checking his e-mail at least three times a week. And her silence fueled his silence until he was too scared to be the one to e-mail first—though an annoying little voice told him that he probably should have.

Drew watched as a guy at the table next to him leaned over and brushed his girlfriend’s dark hair behind one small, shell-like ear, his hand lingering for a moment on the smooth skin of her neck.
Oh shit.
Maybe he wasn’t the only one flirting in cafés all summer long. Madison was gorgeous, desirable, and—most important—available. It was entirely possible—no, probable—that there was someone else already. The thought made him want to dump boiling coffee all over himself and start screaming uncontrollably.

The waitress came back just then, setting his check down on the table and turning away, her hip accidentally knocking Drew’s shoulder, spilling his now lukewarm coffee over his clenched hand. “I’m so sorry,” the waitress said, offering Drew the stack of paper towels she had tucked away in her apron.

8 2

T H E E L I T E

“Don’t worry about it,” Drew said brusquely, im mensely irritated by the spill, by the fact that the coffee didn’t burn, by the fact that he wanted it to burn in the first place. He picked up the five- dollar bill Mad had left behind and slid it in his pocket. What was it exactly that Madison was doing to his mind? He needed to get a handle on himself. While he had never had a problem with feeling slightly controlled sexually by Madison’s enticing exercises in style that
just
covered this or showed
almost
too much of that, he was less than entertained that his lust had led to this current predicament.

Maybe it’s time to move on, to give up
, he thought dejectedly while paying the check (skipping over the euros this time) and walking to the door.

Stepping out onto the street, he caught the eye of a plain but pretty girl as she stepped into the café, her pale red hair swinging around her heart- shaped face, a dusting of freckles strewn across her small nose like grains of nutmeg. She smiled at him as he held the door open for her, and when her gray eyes met his, he felt his heart rush. Ah, the thrill of flirting . . . how long had it been since he’d felt that way with Mad? Probably since the seconds before he popped the cork of that bottle of Dom in the park. But whether it had been his fault or not, he knew it was time for something new. The

red-

haired girl’s open smile

flashed through his mind as he walked up the street toward home, and he found himself thinking of that new girl, Casey—

she had the same cute spray of freckles across her cheeks . . .

Wasn’t she as not- Madison as anyone could possibly get?

And wasn’t that
exactly
what he needed?

8 3

you’d better

shop

around . . .

“Oh my God!” Phoebe Reynaud squealed, holding up a Stella McCartney sundress in crisp white cotton with a splashy red hibiscus print. “I’m
so
buying this tout de suite!”

“It’s the hotness,” Sophie conferred, her blond head disappearing into a Ralph Lauren argyle sweater in luscious shades of turquoise and green. She pulled the soft wool down across the bright orange Marni dress she was currently wearing, and flounced over to the full- length mirror, her yellow Tory Burch flats slapping against the slickly polished floor. “Ugh,” she said, rolling her eyes and pulling the sweater back over her head, her hair crackling with static, “I look like a retarded librarian in this!”

“Oh
right
,” Phoebe snorted. “Like you even know where T H E E L I T E

the library
is.
” Phoebe threw the Stella dress over one arm like it was a bag of potato chips, and began sorting through a bin of cashmere sweaters in lime green and burnt orange.

“True.” Sophie giggled, sucking at her cinnamon streusel iced latte and leaning into the mirror, sweeping her long bangs to the side with one hand while she inspected the metallic silver Too Faced liner streaked across her top lids. “But why go to the library when the Internet is
so
much more con ve nient?”

Casey held on to the venti Colombian iced coffee she’d bought at Starbucks before entering the Inner Sanctum otherwise known as Barneys, and pretended to flip through the racks stuffed with designer merchandise she’d only read about in the issues of
In Style
magazine delivered every month to her doorstep back in Normal: Nanette Lepore, Marc Jacobs, Prada, Dolce & Gabbana, and Versace.

Casey had to admit—being in a place like this made her kind of hate shopping—it was all about what she
couldn’t
have.

As she stood there pretending to seriously consider a Free People beaded tunic in burnt sienna, Casey wondered how long she could stand
not
looking at the price tags. She was terrified that if all those extra zeros actually registered in her caffeine-addled brain, she’d sink into a clothing- induced coma like some twenty- first-century Sleeping Beauty—except that instead of snoozing away peacefully in a glass coffin, she’d be buried under a pile of Ana Molinari kimonos. As if she wasn’t feeling intimidated
enough
at the present moment. Looking around at the minimalist décor (nothing to detract from the clothes s’il vous plait), and pricey garments hanging everywhere, 8 5

J E N N I F E R B A N A S H

Casey felt more like a bull in a china shop than ever around the acres of expensive, silky fabric.

Casey sighed, fingering a pair of buttery-soft Ralph Lauren leather pants in the perfect fall shade of burnt leaves. She hadn’t even worked up the courage to try anything on yet—

not that Phoebe and Sophie had noticed. They were too busy walking back and forth, their arms loaded with skimpy silk dresses, flirty lace blouses, and sleek tweed pants, piling what seemed like the whole store in one of the huge, brightly lit dressing rooms like they did this every day of the week. And to be honest, they probably did. Casey couldn’t help but think about Marissa and Brandy as she watched Phoebe and Sophie horde clothes like there was an imminent nuclear attack on its way. If her friends back home were there with her, it would’ve been a totally different experience. They’d be clowning around, trying on clothes they knew none of them could afford—then throwing everything back on the crowded racks and walking into the mall to get ice cream, or browse in Best Buy for new CDs. Everyone would’ve left the mall equals, because they’d all be in the same, broke boat. As Phoebe’s and Sophie’s pile of clothing grew larger still, Casey began to worry about the moment they’d approach the register, the moment when Phoebe and Sophie would realize that she wasn’t really planning to buy anything at all, that she couldn’t afford to. Then they’d look at her with undisguised loathing—or pity. Casey wasn’t sure what was worse.