In Too Deep (22 page)

Just as she was about to give up, she saw Drew pushing through the crowd, his face tight and angry, his cheeks reddened. Whatever had kept him away for so long clearly wasn’t good. He looked like he was ready to pick a fight and punch someone out, just for existing. Casey smiled as he approached, her heart pleading with her brain to convince her that everything would be all right, while her brain, realist that it was, knew better.

“I was getting worried,” Casey said jokingly, trying to keep her tone light, as if she didn’t mind being left alone for the past million years. “I was afraid you’d been kidnapped by Andy Warhol and the rest of The Factory and forced to do vile things with aluminum foil and Brillo boxes.”

Drew let out a laugh that came out like a cross between a bark and a cough, and looked down at the floor, agitated and clearly not amused by her attempt at seventies, avant-garde humor.

“Listen, Casey,” Drew began, and, as Casey heard the words come out of his mouth, her heart began to dip in her chest. She knew all too well—even from her limited experience with guys—that when a sentence began with “listen,” the news usually bordered on disastrous. “I’ve got to go. I’ll see you around, okay?” Drew’s eyes nervously searched the perimeter of the room, settling anywhere but on Casey’s face.

“But . . . you just got here,” Casey said, totally confused by Drew’s complete one-eighty.

“I know,” Drew said, shoving his hands in his pants’ pockets and avoiding her eyes.

Casey frowned, trying not to get screamingly annoyed and freak out all over him. What was she supposed to do? Yell? Tell him not to leave? Both? Unfortunately, neither option felt exactly right. If something was really wrong, why didn’t he want to talk to her about it? Or maybe he was too embarrassed to ask. After all, guys were definitely weird about any kind of emotional messiness.

“Do you . . .” Casey began, cringing slightly as the words left her lips, “want me to come with you or anything?”

“No thanks,” Drew answered in a voice so tight and clipped that she stepped back in shock, colliding with the Grace Jones clone who glowered at her from behind a pair of black sunglasses. “Listen,” Drew mumbled, “I’ve really got to get out of here. I’ll see you later.” He pushed past her without another word or an explanation, and headed for the front door of the club before she had time to think of anything else to say or do.

Casey stood there feeling completely dejected and dangerously close to tears before realizing that a camera operator standing a few feet away was pointing his lens right at her face. Casey looked straight into the lens, giving the cameraman a small smirk while simultaneously raising and extending the middle finger of her right hand—and then promptly turning around. It was bad enough that Drew—who was obviously not going to be her boyfriend any time soon—had just walked out on her in front of practically the entire school and most of the Upper East Side, but there was no way she was going to give Pulse’s entire drama-hungry TV audience the pleasure of seeing her cry on top of it. She’d already been humiliated once at Drew’s welcome home party a month ago, and once a year was enough for anyone—even Casey McCloy.

“Excuse me,” a timid voice interrupted. Casey turned around and practically knocked over undead Warhol, who was regarding her with a cool, disinterested expression underneath his shockingly white, messy wig. “Have you seen Edie? I’ve been looking for her simply
everywhere
,” he went on in a voice so breathy it suggested that he’d been doing laps around the dance floor instead of quietly surveying the crowded room.

“No,” Casey answered, fighting back the urge to burst out laughing. “I haven’t.”

“Oooooooooooooo—I adore your top—gold thread is so
sparkly
!” he cooed, nodding approvingly in the general direction of Casey’s shirt, although he was so spaced out it was hard to know what he was nodding at for sure. “Did you see the birthday girl?” he asked conspiratorially, leaning closer so that Casey could see the thick, white pancake makeup that was layered on top of his pale skin like Spackle. “Gee, what a beauty!” Before Casey could think up a witty response, Warhol shuffled off slowly—presumably to retire to his coffin for the evening.

“What was
that
all about?” a voice on the other side of the pillar she was leaning against asked in a tone that suggested that they, too, were about three seconds from totally losing it. A

scarily thin guy with a shock of black hair that fell across his forehead over one dark eye, wearing a vintage black Sex Pistols T-shirt and a white blazer with a pair of dark APC jeans stared back at her, his red lips curling into a smile.
Why did he look so familiar?
Casey wondered as he held out one bony hand for her to shake, his tight grip belying his frail demeanor. She was sure she’d seen him before somewhere . . . but where? Ugh. Casey wrinkled her nose, totally disgusted with herself. She hated when this kind of stuff happened to her—she was terrible with faces and even worse with remembering names. Whenever a situation like this arose, it almost always meant she was about to feel like an idiot.
I’m sure tonight will be no exception
, she thought with dismay as he let go of her hand, shoving his hands into the pockets of his blazer.

“I’m Darin Hollingsworth,” he said, giving her that look—the one that basically screamed, “Why don’t you recognize me?” When that failed to ring any bells, Darin continued. “I slapped you on the back a few weeks ago in the hallway? You were choking or maybe having some kind of bizarre epileptic fit?”

Relief broke out over Casey’s face, and she smiled widely in recognition and relief. It was the Emo guy who had clapped her on the back outside of French class. She hadn’t thought about him one way or the other when it had happened, but now, looking at him standing there, she realized that he was . . . not bad looking at all. Actually, he was more than that—he was really sort of cute in a worshipping Conor Oberst, dyeing all his clothes black, and living in Williamsburg kind of way . . . Before she could process her own thoughts, alarm bells went off in Casey’s head, and she began to feel monumentally guilty. Was she even allowed to think another guy was cute when she was kind of involved with Drew? Except, she wasn’t kind of involved with Drew anymore—was she? And didn’t Nanna tell her that the best way to make a guy jealous was to play the field and give Drew a taste of his own medicine?
Besides
, she told herself,
I’m not doing anything. There’s no reason I can’t talk to the guy. It’s not like Drew has stopped talking to other girls just because we were kind of a thing. Unfortunately.

“So, are you loving this, or what?” he asked with a smirk that brought out an adorable dimple in his lower left cheek.

“It’s everything I dreamed it would be,” Casey said laughingly, relieved to be talking to someone who was obviously on her wavelength.

“I promised myself that I wouldn’t go to another one of these things this year—and yet here I am,” Darin said, holding his arms out helplessly. “Wearing a vintage blazer and waiting for someone to wheel out a cake. How do you explain this?”

“You’re probably a masochist,” Casey said with a giggle. “I don’t know how else to explain it.”

“You’re so right,” Darin said with a faux tortured sigh and a half-smile. “I hate sweet sixteen parties—and yet, I’m inexplicably drawn to them. It’s a conundrum, wrapped in an enigma—wrapped in bacon . . .”

Casey laughed out loud, throwing her head back. God, it felt good to talk to someone who saw this whole Meadowlark scene for what it was—totally phony. All at once she was a little disgusted with herself for trying so hard to fit in when it was probably a losing battle anyway. She wasn’t exactly to the manner born like Phoebe, Sophie, or Madison, and it was reassuring to know that there was someone else out there like Darin—who didn’t care about fitting in, and who seemed just fine with being a little different from every other Meadowlark robot draped in Prada and Gabbana.

“So, I know this music is pretty lame and everything,” Darin said with a grin, “but I think it would be pretty cool to get out there and show these future trustfund zombies how it’s done. You game?”

“Absolutely,” Casey said, taking Darin’s hand and following him out to the floor. As the colored lights streamed across their bodies and the music throbbed all around, reverberating off of the walls of the club, Casey felt her heart lift with happiness as all the messiness and unresolved things between her and Drew faded away into the background as Darin smiled down at her, pulling her close and bending her back into a deep dip that made her hair brush the silver, glittering floor.

And across the room, the Pulse cameras zoomed in, capturing every second on film before they cut to Madison’s lone figure, still standing at the bar, her eyes locked on the spectacle of Darin and Casey, a canary-eating smile creeping across her parted lips.

baby i’m a star

Sophie straightened her ivory fedora and turned
around in the expansive space of the private dressing room, checking her gleaming white suit. The dress she’d worn for her grand entrance was gorgeous—but she could hardly dance in it. The dressing room was usually reserved for acts like Britney Spears or Puff Daddy to chill in before they took the stage, and as a result, practically every wall was shimmering with mirrors. The room was designed for constant, relentless narcissism, but seeing herself reflected so many times in a relatively small space kind of freaked Sophie out. Could anyone really be that into themselves that they’d want to look at their body from every possible angle? It was a question she wasn’t sure that she really wanted an answer to . . .

Sophie took a deep breath, staring into the nearest wall of mirrors to calm her admittedly jangled nerves. So far the party was more than a total home run—it would definitely be remembered as the party of the year. But all Sophie could think about was her bio mom and why she hadn’t shown up yet. And as the night got progressively later and later, Sophie started to wonder whether or not Melissa would even bother to make an appearance at all. Maybe she didn’t really want to see her. After all, Sophie told herself, she could’ve just said she’d come to be polite.
She doesn’t owe you anything,
Sophie whispered into the mirror, her eyes filling with tears. But
didn’t
she? Didn’t she owe her
something
—even if it was just an appearance at her sixteenth birthday party?

Her cell phone began to beep noisily, breaking her thoughts as she pulled her iPhone from her ivory Balenciaga motorcycle bag and pressed TALK.

“Sophie, honey, I think you’d better come down now,” her mom said, her voice sounding strained, like she’d been crying. “Randi’s going to bring out the cake soon, and . . . there’s someone here who wants to see you.”

Sophie’s heart skipped a beat, and then stopped dead in her chest.

“She’s here?” Sophie whispered. “She’s really here?”

“Just come down, hon,” Phyllis answered, obviously refusing to offer any more information. “I love—”

Sophie pressed END before Phyllis could finish, feeling like she was in a daze. “This is it,” Sophie whispered to herself, taking one last look into the mirror before walking out into the club. The next time she looked in the mirror, she wouldn’t be the same hopeful Sophie who was looking back at her now. She might be better off or she might be heartbroken, but all Sophie did know for certain at that moment was that whatever happened when she went downstairs and walked up to her mother for the first time, she’d definitely be
different.
This moment was going to change everything, and, if she went through with it, nothing would ever be the same again.

As she descended the stairs, Sophie felt like she was vibrating—it was the same kind of feeling she’d get sometimes when she’d had too many lattes. She couldn’t seem to stop shaking. She wasn’t scared exactly, or nervous, but the tension of not knowing what to expect was definitely starting to get to her.
Maybe Casey and Mad were right
, Sophie thought, her green eyes anxiously scanning the crowded room.
Maybe this is putting too much pressure on just one night . . .

“Sophie!” a voice called out as she reached the bottom of the stairway. Sophie watched as Phyllis parted the crowd and moved toward her, a tight smile on her lips. As she approached, Sophie felt her breath catch in her throat as she realized that the woman trailing behind her mother—accompanied by a mass of cameras and lights—was none other than Melissa Von Norton, her real mom. Phyllis stopped right in front of her, the sounds of the crowd and the reporters clamoring for Melissa’s attention buzzed like a pesky mosquito in Sophie’s ear. Phyllis grabbed onto Sophie’s arms, staring up at her with red-rimmed brown eyes, obviously in the kind of pain Sophie could neither soothe or forgive. But Sophie’s heart couldn’t help but soften as she looked at the woman who had raised her all these years, who had always gone out of her way to provide Sophie anything she could ever ask for—even if it was done out of guilt rather than love—and she almost wanted to ask everyone to go home right then and there, to call the whole thing off so that her life could go back to the way it was, when she thought things were normal. And then—as if in slow motion—Melissa moved from behind Phyllis and stood in front of Sophie like a mirage, a soft smile curving the corners of her full, exquisite lips. She stared at Sophie in wonderment, reaching out one hand to touch a lock of Sophie’s hair that echoed the same golden color as her own honey-hued locks. Melissa grinned her hundred-watt movie star smile, her teeth shining brilliantly against her pale, peaches-and-cream complexion as she reached up, tweaking Sophie’s fedora with an index finger.
She has the same hands as me
, Sophie thought incredulously, unable to take her eyes off of them.
The exact same hands
.

“Happy birthday, kiddo,” Melissa said, her voice low and gravelly. Sophie was speechless. All she could do was stare at her mother, her eyes greedily taking in the impeccably cut white wool pants she wore, and the black silk shirt, the gold and pearl Chanel necklaces looped endlessly around her long, pale neck, the pearl crosses and gold double-C charms hitting her abdomen. Her face was even more striking in person that it was on film—perfectly oval with deep-set murky green eyes the exact shape and color of Sophie’s own. Her hair hung to her shoulders in loose, honey-colored waves, and her skin was as pale as milk.
It’s like looking into a mirror
, Sophie thought, paralyzed.