The Elite (17 page)

The bouncer snapped to attention, the light glinting off the lenses of his glasses, obscuring his expression.

“Wait—you’re a Van Allen? Um, Okay. Let me see.” The bouncer looked down at his clipboard and crossed through a name with his red pen just as another couple stepped into the dark of the hallway and out of the bright lights of the kitchen.

“Excuse me, we have a reservation,” the man said timidly, adjusting his gold, wire- rimmed round glasses with one plump, pink hand.

“Good for you—tell the whole world,” the bouncer said over his shoulder, giving their Birkenstocks and tie-dyed

T-shirts a disdainful look, “but you’re not eating dinner here to night.” The couple stood there for a moment in shock, mouths open, before turning around and walking back toward the steel door.

“Okay, Van Allen,” the bouncer said, giving Madison’s legs 1 5 5

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the once- over, “follow me.” Madison trailed behind Drew as they meandered through the narrow hallway, ending up in a large, cavernous room decorated with dripping wrought- iron candelabras, imposing- looking metal gates adorning the walls.

“Wow,” Madison whispered, taking in the couples draped in Prada and Fendi seated at small tables scattered throughout the room, coolly watching over their large white menus as Madison and Drew were led to a table in the back. “I thought you were
kidding
when you said it was a vault.”

“What exactly were you expecting?” the bouncer snorted, pulling out Madison’s chair, “a décor reminiscent of your local suburban Taco Bell?” Madison rolled her eyes and picked up her menu as the bouncer slunk away—presumably to torture more patrons.

“So,” she said, smiling over the top of the menu and trying to be a good sport even though she felt about as sexy as a wet cat. Whatever—the wet look was totally back in . . . as of now.

Madison swept her sopping hair off her shoulders and surveyed the dungeonesque interior. Her soggy dress notwithstanding, she couldn’t be
too
mad about the situation. Drew had definitely gone to a lot of trouble to get them in . . . even if the restaurant was practically around the corner from the ninth circle of hell—

otherwise known as the LES—and had a stricter door policy than Bungalow. “What’s good here?”

“My dad says the ceviche is really good.” Drew perused the menu thoughtfully. “Also, the red snapper and the cilantro-lime sorbet.”

Twenty minutes later, after a black

leather–

clad waitress

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scribbled down their order in a way that personified bitchy, Madison was on her second margarita and was feeling no pain as she sipped at the salty, tequila-laced concoction. She loved

margaritas—it was like drinking almost frozen, slightly salty lemonade, only better. As she stared at Drew’s tanned face in the candlelight, she wondered if she was being too petty about everything. Okay, so he hadn’t called her this summer—or

written. And maybe their first time
was
a complete disaster, but when he smiled at her across the table, reaching out to clasp her hand in his and tickling her palm with slow, catlike strokes that made her want to curl up in the sun, purring like a kitty—all of a sudden the past just didn’t seem to matter anymore.
Yeah, right
, her inner bitch snapped,
that’s definitely the tequila talking
. . .

“So, what are you doing this weekend?” Drew asked as their appetizer of foie gras tacos arrived. “I thought I might go see the new Aldomóvar flick—if you want to come.”

Madison’s fork hovered in the air, and she shot Drew a look like he was seriously disturbed, her green eyes narrowing.

“Subtitles?” she moaned. “Aldomóvar? You must be kidding.” Madison put her fork down at the side of her plate decisively. “Haven’t we already had this conversation?”

“Yeah, but . . .” Drew protested before she held up a hand in front of his face, palm out, cutting him off.

“I know these pretentious art films are like your only reason for
living
and everything.” Madison picked up the fork again, this time plunging it into the mound of refried beans falling out of the taco. “But we do enough reading at
school
, Drewster.

And there’s no way I’m sitting in the dark for two hours in 1 5 7

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some stinky art

house theater. Movies are supposed to be watched anyway—not read!”

“
Some
movies,” Drew muttered, taking a large bite of taco and chewing loudly, a decidedly sullen expression replacing the happy grin he’d worn only moments before. Well, tough titty. She’d put up with a lot from Drew, but she really had to draw the line at foreign films . . .

“Or there’s this show at the Guggenheim that my mom told me about,” Drew said spearing a piece of charred onion and popping it into his mouth.

An art show? Madison raised one eyebrow—all those hours practicing in front of the mirror were definitely worth it—and swallowed a mouthful of ground pork. Madison knew how the day would turn out. Drew would drag her around some over air- conditioned, dusty museum, pointing out the great masterworks of avant- garde art and explaining the surrealist movement or some other dumb bullshit, when she could be out shopping the annual Jimmy Choo sale like a normal person. No, thank you.

“Well, it was just an idea,” Drew muttered, tilting his bottle of Sol back and swallowing rapidly. Madison smiled, looking down at the now- empty plate. The power of the raised eyebrow was that you could totally negate an idea without ever having to say a word: It was complete genius.

During the main course of herb- stuffed sea bass, Drew looked up from his plate, his eyes serious. “I kind of wanted to talk to you about something,” Drew said, taking a deep breath and then coughing loudly, clearing his throat. Drew always got 1 5 8

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so serious when he tried to get . . . serious—it was one of the things Madison liked best about him. “Before I left . . .” Drew stared down at the table, running one finger along the tight weave of the tablecloth. “I didn’t handle things very well . . .

with us.”

“That’s putting it mildly,” Madison snapped before she could stop herself. God, why was she such a raging bitch all the time? It was amazing—when Drew was around she always managed to blurt out the worst thing possible. “I’m sorry.”

Madison exhaled loudly. “I’ve just been a little . . . confused—

all this time.” Once the words left her lips, she knew they were true, and before she could stop them by thinking of something sarcastic to say, her eyes welled up with tears. She really hated having emotions in public—it made her feel all exposed and oogey—as if she was sitting in front of the whole room in nothing but her pink satin Victoria’s Secret thong. Maybe if she kept talking she’d feel better—anything to stop the tears that were threatening to leak out of her eyes at any moment.

“I mean, you didn’t even e-mail me. For the whole summer it was like . . . nothing. I almost started feeling like it didn’t even happen.” She took a deep breath, then looked down at the table, wishing she could just be magically teleported out of her chair and back into her bedroom where she didn’t have to suffer this kind of humiliation.
That’s right
—
home’s a whole
other kind of humiliation . . .

After Madison had counted the tines on her salad fork at least a hundred times, she finally looked up. Drew was staring back at her, his own eyes shining wetly in the dim light.

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“I know, Mad,” he said quietly, “and I’m really, really sorry.”

As much as she didn’t want to, as much as she had trained herself to never allow anyone off the hook with something as easy and simple as an honest, heartfelt apology, she knew that Drew meant it. He was sorry. And even more shocking, she could feel in the pit of her stomach that she was forgiving him—and that
wasn’t
the tequila talking.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry. Blah, blah, blah.” Madison smiled, taking a gulp of her margarita, trying to brush off the apology with her usual sarcastic banter and the much- needed sting of alcohol. When things got too heavy, she started feeling like there was a scarf wrapped around her neck, pulling tighter and tighter until she couldn’t breathe. She hated it—even if the scarf was probably from Hermès . . .

“No, really,” Drew said earnestly, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table. “I was wrong—and I want to make it up to you.”

Madison felt herself softening like the cilantro- lime sorbet Drew’s dad had recommended. What was he doing to her?

Now that he’d apologized, and, better yet, admitted that he was wrong, where could they really go from here? Madison wrinkled her brow, pushing her mostly uneaten fish around on her plate. Even if she did forgive him, was it enough? Her first time was supposed to be something she’d always remember, and there were no do- overs in virginity. She’d never be able to go back in time and fix it. Never.

Madison watched as Drew slid his credit card on top of the check and smiled at her across the table, the dimple in his chin 1 6 0

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crinkling. When they first started dating, she loved poking that dumb dimple with her finger, tickling him mercilessly so that he’d smile and that small indentation of flesh would appear.

Madison played with an almost- dry strand of her hair, curling it around her index finger. She already knew that she wanted him back—and the apology was just icing on the cake. Why was she fighting it?

“You want to make it up to me?” she purred.

“Totally,” Drew said as the waitress swooped by like a black leather– clad bird of prey, snatching up the check with her long, black-varnished nails.

“Hmmm.” She sighed, her eyes wandering around the room, playing her well- rehearsed “I don’t give a fuck” act.

Sometimes she wondered when exactly she was going to stop rehearsing all the time, and just be
herself
—whoever that was.

“I’ll have to think about it,
Andrew,
” she said with a smile and a wink. She might have forgiven him, but that certainly didn’t mean that she couldn’t continue to torture him. Actually, it seemed all the more appropriate now.

The waitress was back with the check and Drew reached forward to sign it, but Madison was already up, bag in hand and turning toward the door. “But for starters, let’s get some Pinkberry . . . I’m
starving.
”

1 6 1

skipping

dessert

Drew wra pped one ar m around Madison’s non ex is tent waist as they walked down Ninety- fourth Street toward the hulking outline of The Bram. He had wanted so much to impress her with La Esquina—and the food
was
really good—

but she’d hardly touched her plate. Whatever—he’d seen this routine before more times than he could count. Madison’s idea of eating was cutting her food up into tiny, bite- sized pieces and pushing them around on her plate until the whole mess looked more like abstract art than a tasty meal. It was kind of ridiculous: He was the son of one of New York’s most well- known chefs, and he was dating a girl who didn’t eat. Adding insult to injury was the fact that Madison thought Pinkberry frozen yogurt and vanilla lattes were basically two of the four food groups.

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“Did I tell you what happened between Phoebe and that boy she met this summer out in the Hamptons?” Madison asked, taking a bite of the so- called frozen yogurt, which they had waited on line two hours for. Pinkberry was almost harder to get a taste of than the tacos at La Esquina. “Well, there was this guy she met at the beach and he was, like, totally into Phoebe, and . . .”

Drew nodded along, half pretending to listen and half actually trying to follow along with Madison’s story. While her par tic u lar brand of cattiness was de rigueur for Madison, Drew was more than familiar with these occasional bouts of girl talk, during which Mad gave a play- by- play reenactment of events occurring at some party or club or beach house or equally fabulous and exclusive place. When he was younger, Drew had always considered being exposed to this kind of blabber a sort of occupational hazard of knowing and dating girls. But as he walked up the street with Madison that night, he found himself wondering if that was the case. There was no doubt in his mind or, um, pants that he was completely, totally, stupidly attracted to Madison and while he had more than a bit to make up for in the in- the- pants department—

considering what happened the last time they tried to bump and it got ugly—he was quite certain that the bedroom end of things would improve quickly if they tried again. But this
SophietalkedtoRyanwhotalkedtoJessicawhotalkedtoJohnwhowenttosee
Beth . . .
bullshit made him wonder if the epic party in his pants that a mere glimpse of Madison incited was actually worth his while. And she wouldn’t watch Almodóvar! If the 1 6 3

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line had to be drawn somewhere—and it most certainly did—

wasn’t that where to draw it?

Madison stopped talking as she paused on a corner to fix the strap on her shoe, her slender back arching as she reached down for the small silver buckle, a streetlight a block behind throwing her ass and the dipping curve of her hips into silhou-ette. Drew stopped thinking for a moment . . . and then a few moments more. The tiniest bit of drool rolled out of the corner of his mouth, as his feet shifted uncomfortably.

“So anyways,” Madison went on, “it was this totally crazy thing because . . .”

Drew was back in the land of the living. Or maybe the land of the blind or impotent. He wasn’t quite sure.
But what’s a life
without Woody Allen!
his head screamed. Madison positively hated Woody Allen. How could he seriously date a girl who hated practically everything he loved? His pants just shrugged in reply. They could deal.

Drew, on the other hand, finally decided that he could not.

“Listen, Mad,” Drew said, his first words spoken in nearly five blocks, “I think I’m going to have to call it a night.” They were standing on the sidewalk in front of The Bram, and Madison had begun to tug expectantly at his hands.