The Elite (21 page)

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T H E E L I T E

Casey turned around and faced the imposing edifice that was Barneys, watching as one well- heeled, impossibly chic woman after another walked through the doors before she reluctantly turned around and began wandering aimlessly downtown, watching as the numbers on the street signs sunk gra dually lower with every step she took—along with her mood. Her phone starting buzzing insistently against her leg, and she pulled it from the pocket of her new jeans, flipping it open.

“Casey,” Barbara’s clipped, Anglicized vowels blared thro -

ugh the phone. “How are you, love?”

“Okay,” Casey sighed, switching ears. It was so damn hot that her phone was already the temperature of a smoking grid-dle, and she’d only been on it for five seconds, tops. “I guess,”

she added, squinting into the sun.

“I’m on my way to what promises to be a completely
fascinating
lecture on medieval gossip, of all things, and I thought I’d give you a quick jingle before I go in.”

“Great,” Casey said dejectedly. What was the use of living in the most exciting city in the world if she’d never have the money to really enjoy it?

“London is so fabulous this time of year. Why, the other day I was at the National Gallery and . . .”

Casey only half- listened as her mother went on and on.

Sometimes she wished more than anything that Barbara was the kind of mother that she could go to with stuff like this.

Weren’t dates supposed to be the kind of female bonding hoo-ha that mothers lived for? There was probably no harm in just
asking
if she could use the credit card to maybe buy a new dress 1 9 5

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

for to night. Casey took a deep breath before interrupting Barbara’s endless stream of chatter.

“So, I’ve been invited to a party to night, Mom,” she began carefully, “by this guy that goes to my school.”

“What guy? Is this a
date
?” Barbara asked, a note of panic creeping into her voice.

“I don’t know,” Casey mumbled, ducking into a TCBY just to get out of the heat. “Maybe?” The cold air hit her skin like a wet blanket, and goosebumps immediately broke out on her arms. She felt like a wrung- out, damp dishrag, her thin tank sticking to her back like Velcro.

“Has Nanna met him? Who is he?” Barbara demanded.

Casey took a deep breath before answering as a tiny little girl dressed from head to toe in Baby Gap spilled her cup of chocolate yogurt on the floor and began wailing loudly, as if on cue. As she listened to her mother clear her throat halfway around the world, Casey was regretting opening her own mouth in the first place. No dress was worth Barbara’s own par tic u lar version of the Spanish Inquisition.

“No, Nanna hasn’t met him yet,” Casey said, exhaling in annoyance. “His name is Drew Van Allen—he’s just this guy I go to school with. His dad’s a chef and his mom’s some kind of paint er.”

“Van Allen,” her mother mused, momentarily distracted.

“That sounds familiar . . .” Barbara’s voice trailed off and Casey could hear the wail of sirens over the staticky trans -

atlantic line. “Wait,” she said excitedly, “you don’t mean
Allegra
Van Allen?”

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“I
think
so,” Casey said tentatively. “Why?”

“Are you sure you’re
actually
my child?” Barbara snapped.

“Casey, love, she’s only one of the most
important
abstract expressionists in
America
!”

“Then you should be
thrilled
that I’m going to a party at her house,” Casey said dryly. The vanilla frozen yogurt looked really good. Maybe she’d get a small cup as soon as Barbara was finished blathering on in her ear. With crumbled Oreos on top.

There was nothing like treating herself to a small reward for surviving yet another conversation with her mother.

“So I was wondering . . .” Casey paused, listening to the sound of her mother’s breathing. “I really don’t have anything to wear, and I was hoping I could use the emergency credit card to maybe get a new dress for to night.” Casey winced, closing her eyes as the line filled with silence. The quiet before the storm was never a good sign where her mother was concerned.

“What’s wrong with the
myriad
of dresses you brought with you?” Barbara asked, her voice mea sured.

“I’ve worn most of them,” Casey said hurriedly, “and the kids around here—”

“You have a perfectly adequate wardrobe, Casey, love. And besides—” Casey heard the squeaking sound of a door opening on the other end of the line, and then a rush of wind.

“—you need to learn that people like you for what’s inside—

not because you play into their capitalistic vision by supple-menting your already quite stunning wardrobe at every turn.”

Barbara’s academic- speak was so
annoying
. It wasn’t like she 1 9 7

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

was going to save the planet or anything by
not
buying a lipstick or a new dress. Casey rolled her eyes and tried not to accidentally press the END button.

“Easy for you to say when your whole life is a college campus,” Casey snapped. “And stop calling me love!”

“Sorry, love,” her mother said brightly. “It can’t be done.

Do keep me posted though. Ta now!” There was a click on the line and then silence as her mother’s voice disappeared.

Casey sighed and walked to the counter, ordering a small vanilla yogurt to go, relaxing visibly as the cool, frozen treat hit her tongue, melting in her mouth and soothing the fire in her head that trying to explain anything to Barbara always managed to produce. She should’ve known that trying to talk to her would be a mistake: Had she learned nothing from every conversation she’d ever had with her mother for her entire life before this moment? Casey spooned the creamy dessert into her mouth and walked to the door. The ten minutes she’d spent in the frigid air- conditioning had
almost
prepared her to face the steaming pavement again.

Just as she was about to exit TCBY, a store directly across the street made her stop in her tracks: Le Nouveau Boutique: Designer Resale & Consignment. Wait . . . did that mean it was like a thrift store for rich people? Casey’s clothes- induced funk began to lift as she pushed the door open and crossed the street. Le Nouveau’s display window featured a constipated-looking mannequin dressed in a nubbly black-and-

white

Chanel suit, a vintage pearl- handled Gucci bag in one out-stretched hand. Okay, this was definitely thrifting for the 1 9 8

T H E E L I T E

smart set. Even used, there was probably no way she could afford anything inside, but it wouldn’t hurt to take a look around, would it? Besides, if she had to stand out on the sidewalk much longer, she’d melt into a sticky puddle of evapo-rated Lancôme Miracle perfume and L’Oréal texturizing spray . . .

The inside of the store was cool and dark, and smelled vaguely like her grandmother’s closet.
Rich people sure must like
Chanel No 5
, Casey thought as she flipped through the racks, too terrified of the price tags to turn them over.

“Can I help you?” a kind voice from directly behind her in-quired. Casey turned around and smiled at a woman around Nanna’s age, a pair of bifocals hanging around a pearl-encrusted chain around her neck, dropping onto her exquisitely tailored white skirt suit. “Vintage Givenchy,” she said, winking one softly wrinkled brown eye and rubbing the lapel with one pearly polished fingernail. “I’ve had it for years.”

“It’s beautiful,” Casey said truthfully. The woman smiled, exposing rows of teeth so white and perfect there was no possible way they could be real.

“Well, enough about me,” she said, taking Casey by the arm. “What can I help
you
with today, dear?”

“Oh, nothing,” Casey stammered, her cheeks flushing. “I was just looking around. I don’t really need anything right now.” As soon as the lie left her lips, Casey couldn’t believe she’d said it. But acting like you had more than you needed was definitely preferable to confessing how broke you were—

especially in
this
neighborhood.

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“Nonsense,” the woman said briskly. “For instance
this
,”

she said, pulling out a robin’s-egg-blue silk sundress with splashes of yellow flowers on the skirt, “well, it could’ve been designed for you!” Casey reached out and touched the soft fabric of the dress, swooning at the feel of silk on her fingertips. It didn’t even look like it had ever been worn, the fabric still crisp under her hand, the colors bright. Casey pictured herself walking into Drew’s undoubtedly palatial apartment, the silk swirling around her legs. As she fondled the dress, the price tag flipped over, and Casey was shocked back to reality.

Four hundred dollars! For a
used
dress? Casey didn’t even want to know what it cost when it was brand- new . . . it might send her into sudden cardiac arrest.

“It’s a Stella McCartney original, you know,” the woman said conspiratorially. “I can’t tell you who she is, of course, but the young lady who donated this par tic u lar garment comes from one of the
most
powerful families in Manhattan.”

Whoop- de- do
, Casey thought, removing her hand from the dress reluctantly. It really didn’t matter if Tinsley Mortimer herself had worn it—there was no way she’d ever be able to come up with the four hundred dollars to pay for it.

“It’s lovely,” Casey said, swallowing hard, “but I really can’t.”

“Let’s just try it on first, shall we?” The saleslady pulled Casey toward the row of dressing rooms at the back of the store, the dress thrown casually over one arm. What did these old ladies eat for breakfast, anyway? Ste roids? The saleslady opened up a small cubicle with a gold key and hung the dress 2 0 0

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up on a hook screwed into the light blue walls. “Just come out when you have it on,” she said brightly, “and call me if you need any help.”

What the hell
, Casey told herself as she pulled her blue American Apparel tank over her head, kicked off her flip- flops, and stepped out of her jeans. The dress fell over her skin like water, and she smoothed it down with her hands.
Damn you, mirrorless
dressing room!
Casey told herself as she opened the door and walked over to the full- length mirror on the adjacent wall.

As she stood in front of the reflective glass, Casey had to admit that the saleslady was right—the dress fit like it was made for her. Casey turned around, looking at the back of the dress and bunching her hair in her hands to get it off of her neck. It wasn’t just a good dress: It was perfect. Just like the Nanette Lepore dress Madison had bought for her, this dress made her look like someone else—someone who didn’t worry about money, a girl who would probably attend the Ivy League college of her choice and wind up marrying a stock-broker. Casey frowned, twirling around so that the full skirt twirled out in a circle. Wait—did she even
want
to be that girl?

As she stood there looking at herself, she couldn’t help but wonder what kind of deal with the dev il she was making by trying to become a member of the most pop u lar clique in school—maybe in all of Manhattan. But the dress
was
beautiful. It made her feel a little like Cinderella on her way to the ball.
Yeah
,
right
, her inner cynic snorted.
Just remember: That
joiner had to give the dress back at midnight
—
and the stupid coach
turned into a pumpkin . . .

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“I was right.” Casey jumped as the saleslady snuck up behind her and adjusted the thin straps along her freckled shoulders.

God, she hated her freckles—it was like constantly having an in-curable case of smallpox. “It’s perfect on you!”

“Yeah,” Casey said, surveying her reflection uneasily, “I love it, but . . .” Casey’s voice trailed off as she looked at the price tag dangling from underneath her arm. “But I can’t really afford it,” she said, meeting the saleslady’s eyes in the mirror.

“I should’ve told you that from the start.” As soon as she said it, she knew that it was true. Why was she all of a sudden pre -

tending to be someone else? What was wrong with just being Casey Anne McCloy? There was no way she was ever going to really fit in at Meadowlark anyway—or with The Bram Clan—

so why did she keep trying? She was always going to fail. And, as much as she wanted to fit in, she wasn’t sure she wanted to become some kind of Stepford clone of an Upper East Side princess.

“Thanks for letting me try it on,” Casey said, preparing to walk back inside the dressing room.

“Not so fast,” the saleslady said, grabbing Casey by the wrist, her dark eyes shining with amusement.

“I told you, really—I can’t afford it.” Casey glanced down at the chipped pink polish on her fingers.

“Well, what
can
you afford?”

“I, um . . . I can’t afford much at all,” Casey said, her face blushing with embarrassment at having to talk about being broke with such a put- together and kind old lady—not to men-2 0 2

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tion while wearing such a dress. “I’d be hard- pressed to give you a hundred bucks for it . . . and I know that’s just not enough.”

The saleslady smiled at her through the mirror and Casey could swear that she heard the gears in her brain cranking away. “Well, I’ll tell you what, dear. I’ll tell you what we’ll do.

Take the dress—it looks perfect on you and it would pain me to sell it to anyone else after seeing it on you. You give me fifty dollars for it now and then promise me—you have to promise—

that you’ll come help me sort through boxes of donations sometime in order to work off the rest.” The gears ground to a halt and a new, bigger smile crawled across her barely wrinkled lips, content with having solved the problem. “So that’s that!”

she cried, pushing Casey back into the dressing room before she even had a chance to think about the offer, much less muster any sort of reply. “We’ll wrap that beauty up and you’ll be on your way.”