From the book...

Casey Strikes Out

Casey stepped out into the sunlight on Fifth Avenue, the humidity clinging to her skin like saran wrap.  Even from where she stood—just outside The Bramford on the sun-baked sidewalk of Fifth Avenue—she could see couples lying out on blankets on the largest, greenest stretch of grass she’d ever seen.  The buildings towered above her head, framing the cloudless blue sky in a blur of cement, steel, and glass that stood in sharp contrast to the lushness of the Park across the street. “I guess we’re not in Kansas anymore,” she mumbled under her breath to an invisible Toto snapping at her heels, the corners of her lips turning up in a smile.  “Or Normal.” 

She walked to the corner, and waited for the light to change before she ventured out into the street. Even so, a bright yellow taxi came close to mowing her down, the brakes screeching on the pavement, the driver leaning out the window screaming “Get out of the freakin’ way, honey!” the horn blaring in her ears as she scrambled across the street, heart pounding.  

Even the act of simply taking a cab was new—and slightly terrifying.  At the airport, she’d waited at the taxi stand in the longest line she’s even seen for what felt like forever. The driver, a thin, East Indian man with a thick accent, had thrown her suitcases in the trunk without saying a word, and took off through the hazy New York streets like someone was chasing them.  Casey had bounced all over the cracked, black leather seats, and rolled down the windows so she could see the skyline she’d been dreaming about for weeks, her blood racing through her veins like electricity.  

The Park was packed with people throwing Frisbees, lying out on the grass drinking large bottles of Evian.  A small, white dog ran in front of her feet, furiously chasing a red ball.  A group of cute guys in brightly colored board shorts—and not much else—passed a football back and forth.  The sound of Nelly Furtado and Timbaland blared from someone’s CD player.  Casey walked around, following the cement path until she saw Madison, Phoebe and Sophie lying on their towels in the middle of the grass, near a large oak tree, huge sunglasses shading their eyes.  Their bikini-clad bodies glistened in the sunlight, the silver thermos resting in the shade.  Half-empty cocktail glasses filled with clear liquid and bright green wedges of lime sat on the grass, waiting patiently.  Madison lay in the middle, of course, flanked by Phoebe and Sophie on either side. 

Casey took a deep breath and pushed her hair back as she approached.  She could almost feel her hair reacting to the heat and light, frizzing on contact.  She wondered for the millionth time if she’d be better off just shaving her head than dealing with this mess every day.  God, she hated her hair. 

‘Hey guys!”  Suddenly it felt totally weird to be completely dressed.  She felt so covered up next to Phoebe, Madison, and Sophie in their tiny, colorful string bikinis.  Phoebe sat up and immediately placed a huge, black straw hat on her head to protect her porcelain skin from the relentless glare. Madison and Sophie lay motionless on their towels, giggling quietly. 

“Hey . . .Casey, right?”  Phoebe asked, her voice drowsy and soft.  “Come sit down!”  Casey noticed that, as Phoebe spoke, Madison reached out and elbowed her—hard.  There was a clamor of whispers as Casey sat down on the grass next to Phoebe’s yellow towel. 

Madison sat up and pushed her huge, black D&G sunglasses on top of her head.  Madison Macallister was one of those girls who would never participate in anything as vulgar as sweating.  She looked like there was some invisible contraption above her had that just gently misted her all day, so that her tanned skin softly glistened in the light.  Casey took in the rings sparkling on Madison’s fingers, and the slim, gold chain around her neck that held half a broken heart with the letter M engraved on its glowing patina.  The heart, Casey knew, was of course from Tiffany.  She’d seen Scarlett Johansson wearing the exact same one in Glamour magazine that morning on the plane. 

“So, Casey,” Madison began coolly, stretching her golden arms above her head like a cat.  “Where’s your bathing suit?”

Casey felt like the intense heat was melting right through the powder and lip gloss she’d applied before leaving the apartment. “Uh, I think I left it back home,” she stammered, the lie spreading heat across her cheeks and throat, “I dug through all my bags, but couldn’t find it. I guess I’ll just have to go to Target and pick up a new one sometime this weekend.”

Madison looked down at her own bikini and then flashed her eyes at Phoebe and Sophie who were taking long sips from their cocktail glasses in attempt to stifle their laughs. “Target?” Madison said, “You and your grandmother are going to have to get an apartment in Queens if you want to keep shopping there—you’ll need some threads to match the address, honey. Hello, you’re living in the Bram now.”

Madison took a delicate sip of her drink while the other girls continued to laugh—only without any attempt to cover it up. Casey just sat there, the heat gone from her face, dropping down to form a cold stone in the pit of her stomach. She looked at the ground, at the drinks, at anything but Madison’s cutting gaze, trying to think of something to say. Madison finished off her drink and went to pour herself another, making it clear that the silence was awkward for Casey alone.

“And speaking of which,” Madison went on, “How did you get into Meadlowlark anyway?  It’s kind of exclusive, you know” she finished, her eyes narrowing as she gave Casey the once-over.

“My grandmother knows someone on the board of directors from her senior center, “ Casey said nervously ripping up soft green blades of grass with one hand—grass that was the exact color of Madison Macallister’s piercing gaze. The truth was, she’d gotten in on dumb luck—and the fact that she’d been a straight A student all her life hadn’t exactly hurt her chances either. Meadlowlark admitted a certain number of students on full scholarships each year—probably to meet some dumb quota, Casey mused as she’d surveyed Meadowlark’s admissions packet three months ago. It was so thick and detailed that it looked more like a novel than an application to attend high school.  Casey’s mother had faxed the school her official transcript and popped a tape of Casey sawing through Wieniawski’s violin concerto No. 2 into the mail to the headmistresses—who was, luckily for Casey—the daughter of Nanna’s senior friend. The next thing she knew Casey was holding an acceptance letter in her hands and frantically packing her bags.

“Cocktail?” Sophie said, thrusting a drink towards Casey, effectively changing the subject, the cold glass covered with tiny beads of condensed water. If only my sweat looked that refreshing, Casey thought as she reached for the glass, thinking of it more as a life preserver than anything else.

“Sure. Thanks,” she said, reaching for the drink and immediately taking a large gulp, then nearly spitting it out as the rum burned its way through her throat. She had never drunk much hard liquor before—she didn’t much like the taste of it, or the way it went all burney down your throat.  In fact, the sum of her drinking experience had consisted of bottles of Boone’s Farms and sips off of 40 ozs handed to her by cute boys at bonfires. “So do you have like fake IDs or something?” she said after recovering from the shock of the rum, “None of my friends in Normal had fakes—you have to go to Chicago to get one—but we’d sometimes get older boys to buy beer for parties and stuff . . .”

“Come on, Casey,” Phoebe said, cutting her off, “When you’ve had a rack like Madison’s since age thirteen, you don’t need a fake. Fakes are totally for fugs.”

“Oh . . . fugs. Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Casey said, desperately wishing she hadn’t blown it again. Could she say nothing right? And Sophie didn’t look like she was going to throw her any more lines—she was too busy digging through her white quilted-leather Chanel tote, trying to find her cell phone, which was beep-beeping a muffled, high-pitch rendition of Sexy Back—something Casey clearly needed to bring a bit of herself if she was ever going to compete with the Bram Clan.

“That was Drew,” Sophie said, having found her metallic gold phone and spoken into it for only a matter of seconds. “He’s headed over to say ‘what up?’”

“Kill me,” Madison said with less emotion than a cadaver, pulling her shades down and covering her eyes.  “And I was honestly beginning to think that I wouldn’t have to deal with his Aberzombie-ass until Monday.”

“I know—it’s like a miniature herd of embroidered moose make their home on the clothes on his back. He should win an award for animal conservation or something,” Sophie said, carelessly tossing her cell in the general direction of her bag. 

Casey rearranged herself so she could oh-so-casually drape her arm across her thigh, covering up the formerly tiny moose emblazoned on the hem of her skirt that now seemed larger life.  Obviously, the A&F stuff would have to go to.  I’m going to have to burn my entire wardrobe, she thought with no small degree of horror.  She looked up from her doomed skirt to see a tall boy with thick, disheveled brown hair and blue eyes shot through with red standing behind Madison’s head.  Casey couldn’t help but notice that he had the most adorable dimple in his chin, and that the arms poking out of the sleeves of his T-shirt were golden, and faintly muscled. 

“Observe,” he said mockingly in a terribly rendered Australian accent, “as the rare species of Uppereastsidiusgirlius basks in the sunlight of their natural habitat.” He squatted down to pull off Madison’s sunglasses. “Like dolphins with their love of sex, these are one of the only species of mammals that hunt men and buy clothes for pleasure.”

He wore Diesel jeans and a fitted white T-shirt, a brown leather bag slung over one shoulder; a hip, modern James Dean for her Natalie Wood with a perm and a decidedly—and unfortunately—more spindly figure.  It was lust at first sight.

“Drew,” Madison said, coolly turning her face away in order to keep her sunglasses in place, and as she did so Casey got that feeling that, behind those dark shades, Madison hadn’t even opened her eyes to recognize his presence. “When are you going to learn that trying to get a rise out of me is never going to get me interested in the, ah-hem, rise you get from seeing me in a bikini.”

Drew nodded to Sophie and Phoebe, and began to speak again, sans accent, as his eyes meet Casey’s, completely impervious to Madison’s insults: “I didn’t learn much Dutch on my trip,” he said, “that is, except for one phrase: hallo mooi meisje.”

“What’s that mean?” asked Phoebe.

“Hello, beautiful.”

“Drew, get over yourself,” Madison half-screamed as Sophie and Phoebe laughed. But Casey just sat quietly, feeling the shame of her Target faux pas slip away under a wave of giddy delight, for he was still looking straight at her—the pickup line, as pathetic as it might have been, was for her, not Madison.
“So, Madison, who’s your new friend?” Drew asked after managing to steal her sunglasses and cover his own eyes with their gigantic frames. “Do these make me look more Chelsea?” he added, as Phoebe and Sophie giggled helplessly.

Madison’s perfectly tan veneer was beginning to crack under the barrage of Drew’s playful jabs—from listening to only a few minutes of their banter Casey could tell that Drew knew how to hit all of her buttons, while Madison’s image of absolute perfection was tarnished by that fact that she didn’t know how to hit any of his. But they did have chemistry—that was undeniable.
“I’m Casey,” she chimed in, “Casey McCloy. I just moved in with my grandmother at the Bramford.”  Great. Why did she say that?  She sounded like she was five years old and rolling around in a playpen, a sippy cup in one hand and a pacifier in the other. 

 “Well, welcome to Manhattan. Would you like a private tour?” Drew said, raising one eyebrow.

“What did you have in mind?” Casey quipped, completely shocked by the fact that she was flirting with Madison’s pseudo-boyfriend. Was it the mojito? The noxious cloud of spray tan floating around her head and into her nostrils? It had to be something.

“I’ll start by showing you around school on Monday and we’ll go from there,” Drew said, taking off Madison’s glasses, perching them on her head and standing up to leave, “And now we leave this pack of Uppereastsidiusgirlius,” he whispered, again in the Australian accent, as he slowly backed away towards the cement pathway, “and what an incredible encounter it has been.”

The four girls remained silent until Drew was out sight. But the silence was decidedly different that the hush that fell after the Target bikini incident. Madison had lowered her sunglasses, but in spite of the way they masked her expression, Casey could positively feel Madison’s eyes burning holes in her shirt from behind the smoky lenses.

“Well somebody would like to get him some Normal,” Sophie said after what had seemed like hours.

“Yeah,” Phoebe chimed in, slipping a white cashmere tank from TSE over her head.  “And no Abercrombie anywhere.  Guess he’s over it.” 

“Casey,” Phoebe said, grabbing her arm and squeezing excitedly, “He couldn’t keep his eyes off of you.  He was completely adorkable!”  She turned to Madison, smiling slyly “I mean did you see him Madison?”

  Madison sat in stony silence. Her face behind her huge sunglasses was impassive, and all at once, Casey’s pulse began to race. Madison delayed her responses for so long that it gave the impressions that she was—as always—the one leading the conversation; the one in charge. And this subtle reminder was making Casey massively uncomfortable. She took a deep breath in and let it out, furiously searching her pink Coach wristlet for a hair-tie—just to have something to do.  Great, she thought, picking at her cuticles so she wouldn’t have to look at anyone.  I’ve only been here one day and I’ve managed to alienate the most popular girl in school.   

“Sure I saw him,” Madison said, the words slowly slipping out of her lusciously curved lips as her gaze slowly traveled the length of Casey’s body, taking in the Express tank and Abercrombie skirt. “Drew’s had a thing for slumming every since he lost me.”

Casey froze, her head coming up like a startled deer, her cheeks growing redder by the second.  God, she hated the fact that she blushed when she was embarrassed—it made it so easy for everyone who cared enough to look to know just how she really felt. And what she felt right now was the sting of humiliation. 

“Oh come on, Madison.”  Sophie said, coming to her rescue.  “Like it or not, she’s a Bram girl now. And as long as she is, she’ll have to look the part. I only have one word for you, girls: makeover.”

“Totally,” Phoebe replied, “I mean, with hair and clothes like that, she’ll be eaten alive at Meadowlark.”

Am I even still here? Casey asked herself, pretending to contemplate her pale knees while wishing the ground underneath her legs would simply open up and swallow her. 

“Phoebe, honey, I’m afraid you’re confused: we’re the only ones who do the eating around here,” Madison clarified with a smile, the sun glinting off the sharp points of her perfectly polished white teeth.   

("The Elite" is available on Amazon.com.)