The Elite (22 page)

Although there was no mirror in the dressing room, Casey imagined that if she could see herself or if anyone were watching her, it would seem that, by slipping off the dress, she was becoming someone entirely different—a freckled, frizzed- out tourist from Nowhere, Illinois—a person that she wasn’t sure she wanted to leave behind entirely.

It’s just a dress
, she reminded herself.
And an awesome one at
that
. She stepped into her plain- old outfit, threw the dress over one shoulder, and walked out toward the register, certain that she—Casey Anne McCloy—was going to look fantabulous at Drew’s party.

2 0 3

meet

the

parents

Drew leaned his elbows on the butcher- block top of the island that dominated the Van Allen kitchen, watching as his dad’s hands moved deftly around a ten- inch Wüsthof chef’s knife, reducing a pile of raw carrots to expertly cut cubes.

Drew smiled, taking a sip of his Kir Royale as he watched his dad work, his hands a blur. It was so totally predictable. Even though his dad’s new Cajun- fusion restaurant was doing most of the catering, Drew knew that his father would never be one of those guys who left the kitchen drudgery to someone else.

He was always sneaking in to rearrange piles of green, leafy salads, cutting perfectly executed garnishes with a paring knife, and helping the catering team dice huge bundles of root vegetables.

T H E E L I T E

“So, are you excited about to night?” His dad arranged a platter of baby lamb chops around a puddle of fragrant sauce on a bed of baby lentils, so that the entire plate resembled a bunch of flowers in bloom—or a gunshot wound, depending on how you looked at it.

“Uh, yeah.” Drew rolled his eyes, taking another gulp of his Kir as the champagne bubbles tickled his nose, making him sneeze. He’d gotten hooked on the combination of champagne and black-currant liquor during a champagne-and-

chocolate- croissant- soaked week in Paris this past summer. “I can barely contain myself.”

His dad pushed the finished platter to the side and looked Drew in the eye, his gaze deadly serious.

“Do I detect a note of sarcasm, Master Van Allen?”

“Very perceptive,” Drew answered, leaning over and topping off his glass with the cool, open bottle of Dom on the countertop.

“I’m
sorry
.” Drew’s dad cupped his ear with one hand and tilted his head, gesturing to the men working behind him who were stirring bubbling pots, and dicing onions. “Did you guys
hear
something?” His dad waved the chef’s knife around in Drew’s general direction, slicing the air and grinning mania-cally. The caterers shook their heads, trying not to laugh.

“That’s hilarious, Dad,” Drew deadpanned, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m
shaking
with laughter.”

“Seriously, Drew.” His dad poured himself a glass of champagne, draining it in one gulp and wiping his salt- and-pepper beard with the back of his hand. “Isn’t there
anything
2 0 5

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

about to night that you’re even remotely excited about?” His dad motioned to the platters of hors d’oeuvres covering every available surface in the kitchen. “Or has all of this hard work been for nothing? You do realize that I’m wasting my
golden
years
slaving
away in the kitchen for your benefit, don’t you?”

Drew shrugged his shoulders and finished his champagne.

“Nice try, Dad—you’re barely in your forties. Since when does that constitute your
golden
years?”

“I could go at any time!” his dad yelled out gleefully, twirling his chef’s knife in one hand, and attacking a bunch of spinach.

“Aren’t the Macallisters coming to night?”

“Don’t remind me,” Drew mumbled, popping a piece of prosciutto- wrapped melon into his mouth and chewing loudly.

“What? Are you and Madison on the outs again? You just got back in town!”

“I know,” Drew said morosely, swallowing the hunk of melon, which stuck like a lump in his chest. “That’s what makes it so tragic.”

Drew’s dad smiled, the spinach reduced to neat, finely shredded piles. “You know, Drew, you come from a
very
artistic family.”

“No,
really
, Dad?” Drew widened his eyes in feigned astonishment. “You can’t be serious.”

“As a heart attack.” His dad brought the cutting board over to the sink and swept it clean with a damp rag. “Madison
is
gorgeous,” he mused turning on the garbage disposal, which promptly ate the collection of vegetable scraps like a hungry mechanical monster.

2 0 6

T H E E L I T E

“Don’t remind me,” Drew answered while rolling up the sleeves of his white Gucci dress shirt.

“But she’s a little . . . boring,” his dad said thoughtfully.

“Then it’s a good thing
you
don’t have to date her,” Drew snapped.

“Maybe you need someone a little more . . .
challenging
.”

“Trust me, Dad—Madison’s
plenty
challenging.”

His dad turned around, wiping his hands on the clean chef’s towel he always kept draped over his left shoulder.

Except to night it looked completely ridiculous, considering that he was wearing gray Paul Smith dress pants in a slightly textured wool, and a black dress shirt he’d had custom- made on their family trip to London last spring.

“I meant
mentally
, Drew.” His dad threw the towel back over his shoulder and crossed his arms over his chest. “Maybe she’s just not creative enough for you.”

Drew walked over to the fridge and got out another bottle of Dom, staring at the condensation on the green bottle as if the tiny droplets of water could somehow tell him what to do next. Maybe his dad was right—as much as he was attracted to Madison, maybe the only thing they really had in common at the end of the day was the fact that they were the couple that was most likely to couple. It wasn’t like they routinely sat around sharing their deepest feelings with one another, or engaging in heated debates about the upcoming presidential race. When he first moved uptown, the only thing that had made him feel like he even remotely fit in anywhere anymore was his relationship with Madison. Before that, every spare 2 0 7

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

moment was spent downtown with his old friends—he wanted nothing to do with the people he saw every day at Meadlowlark. But the girls were another story . . . and that, he could see now, was where this whole mess had begun. For a while, knowing that he was dating the most gorgeous girl in school, the girl every other guy in Manhattan dreamed about nightly, had been enough. Now, he just didn’t care.

Besides, dating Madison made him feel like a character in some awful teen movie where everyone had perfect smiles and exceedingly shiny hair, got in to the Ivy league school of their choice without so much as breaking a sweat—stepping all over everyone else in their pointy stiletto heels in the pro cess. There was no denying it—Madison had been a huge part of his life during the past two years, and he still really couldn’t imagine his day- to- day existence without her in it in some way. But that was the past. And try as he might, Drew couldn’t seem to block out that little voice inside his head that told him that Casey just might be his future. But if this thing with him and Casey was going to happen, he was definitely going to take it slow this time—if he’d learned anything from his experience dating the emotional tsunami that was Madison Macallister, it was not to rush into a relationship—or what ever it was they’d been to one another—so fucking fast.
And one date does not a relationship
make,
he reminded himself as the doorbell sounded, shattering his thoughts.

Drew’s dad looked down at the gleaming mother-of-pearl face of his Cartier Panther watch, his forehead wrinkling into a frown. “Whoever it is,” he said dryly, “they’re
extremely
early.”

2 0 8

T H E E L I T E

Drew heard the sound of his mother’s voice in the hallway, high- pitched and welcoming, and then the tap- tap of heels as the first annoyingly overpunctual guest approached the kitchen door. Casey walked into the bustling room wearing a sheepish expression and a blue dress splashed with yellow flowers that made her mass of curly golden hair shine in the light. Her legs extended long and bare from the silky fabric, and her face was brushed with just a dusting of powder so that her freckles showed through. All at once, Drew was filled with the impulse to pull her to him and lick the small brown dots that peppered her cheeks and nose—just to see if they were as cinnamon-sweet as they looked. Drew felt his breath catch in his throat as he stared at her, unable to pull his eyes away.

“Hey,” she said ner vous ly, her cheeks reddening. “I guess I’m a little
too
early.”

“Nonsense!” Drew’s dad bellowed, pouring Casey a glass of champagne and adding the barest drop of black-currant liquor. “Being fashionably early is the new pork belly!”

Drew rolled his eyes at Casey. “Dad, what did we tell you about restaurant- speak in social settings?”

“That it doesn’t work?”

“Exactly.” Drew rolled his eyes at Casey, who smiled back tentatively. Why had he never realized how
pretty
she was before? He’d thought she was cute in that yellow thing she had on the other day, but now, in the blue silky dress she had on, which left her shoulders bare, she looked totally stunning. Drew peered at the dress closely. There was something about it that looked scarily familiar to him, jogging his memory. It was 2 0 9

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

almost like he remembered it from somewhere.
What ever
, Drew shrugged, pushing the thought to the back of his mind,
I probably saw it in one of Mad’s stupid fashion magazines
. Drew grabbed the Kir from his father, handing it over to Casey—who immediately began warily eyeing the bubbly, slightly pink concoction.

“It’s a Kir,” Drew explained, holding up his own glass and taking a sip to show his solidarity. “I got scarily addicted to them in Paris this past summer.”

Casey raised the glass to her lips and closed her eyes as she swallowed. “It’s good!” she said with equal parts surprise and excitement, opening her eyes widely this time. “I don’t usually like the taste of alcohol,” she said apologetically to Drew’s dad.

“Me neither,” Drew’s dad said with a chuckle as he poured himself another drink.

“I’m sure you’ve probably figured this out already,” Drew said to Casey while placing his glass down on the countertop and pointing to his father, “but this is my dad, Robert Van Allen.”

“I’m Casey McCloy.” Casey held out her hand and shook his dad’s hand with a firm grip, a determined expression on her face. Even though some people might think it was a little corny, Drew actually really liked the fact that she obviously wanted to make a good impression on his parents. She was the complete polar opposite of Madison, who avoided his parents—and parents in general—at all costs.

“Pleased to meet you, Casey,” his dad said, holding out a platter of pea pod–wrapped shrimp to Casey and watching as she took a bite, her eyes widening with plea sure. “Though I 2 1 0

T H E E L I T E

have to say—if you’re hanging out with this one,” he motioned to Drew with a jutting thumb, “you might want to think about having your head examined,” he added smugly, popping a melon ball into his mouth.

“Some people in this nut house are definitely in need of psychiatric attention,” Allegra Van Allen said as she entered the room in a flowing, white Grecian gown, her hair pulled back in a dark twist shot through with metallic gold cord in an intri-cate geometric pattern, “but I doubt our son is one of them.”

Drew watched with a mixture of pride and embarrassment as his mom walked over and linked her arm through his father’s, staring up into his face with wide, dark eyes, a smile turning up the edges of her rose- colored lips.

“You are an absolute goddess.” Drew smiled at Casey as they watched his father lean down and whisper into his mother’s ear. “Did I mention that I love you in unreasonable amounts?” he went on playfully as he bent even lower, biting her neck. Allegra rolled her eyes helplessly at Drew and Casey, then swatted her husband away with feigned exasperation and short, red- varnished fingernails.

“Stop being such a
pest
,” she said with a half- smile, reaching one hand up and smoothing her hair. She turned to Casey, placing one hand on Casey’s bare arm. “Don’t get married,”

she whispered conspiratorially, “they become pests overnight when you marry them.”

Casey grinned. “I’ll try to remember that. By the way, my mom wanted me to tell you that she’s a huge fan of your work—and I can see why. Your paintings are gorgeous.”

2 1 1

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

“I like this one, Drew.” Allegra nodded her head approvingly, the gold shadow on her eyelids gleaming in the light.

“Smart
and
beautiful.”

“A keeper,” his dad called out as he handed the first silver trays to the waiters lined up at the kitchen door.

“Oh my God,” Drew said laughingly, “we have to get out of here—or they’ll keep this up all night.”

“Why don’t you show her the view from the terrace,” his mother suggested with a wink. “The setting sun over the tops of the buildings is really . . .” His mother’s voice broke off as she stared dreamily at his father, who put down the tray he was holding and walked over, clasping her to his side.

“Romantic,” his father finished, taking his mother’s hand between his own and bringing it up to his lips.

“Okay, we’re out of here,” Drew said briskly, grabbing Casey’s hand. “Before I throw up.”

“Can we go check out the terrace?” Casey asked excitedly, her voice a low whisper. Drew looked over at her happy, glowing face. Another thing he was really beginning to like about Casey was the way everything was so new to her. She was capable of finding plea sure and surprise in something as small as a cheeseburger—or a terrace.

“Of course,” Drew said confidently as he led Casey through the living room, where waiters in tuxedos were beginning to set up the long table filled with food, and out onto the terrace, where the last streaks of purple, yellow, and pink lit up the rapidly darkening sky.