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mother, her nostrils filling with the scent of Serge Lutens Un
Bois Vanille. The Van Allens party is tomorrow night, Phoebe
said as she squeezed by, trying not to brush against Madeline s
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THE ELI TE
clothes with her own body. Are you going? Phoebe stopped
in the hallway, turning back to face her mother, who now had
the offending yellow sandal in one hand, and was busily shak-
ing her head in disapproval.
No. Madeline walked over to her vanity and sat down,
staring into the mirror with a dreamy, faraway expression on
her face. Was it the fading sunlight coming through the huge
bay windows, or did Madeline look almost rapturous sitting
there? Phoebe had seen that expression before it was the
same look that came over Casey s face whenever Drew walked
by, the same look that lit up Sophie s eyes when she told
Phoebe about that ridiculous townie pool boy she had wanted
to hook up with this past summer. I m simply exhausted,
Madeline said languidly, running a hand slowly over one
cheek, a secret smile parting her lips.
Oh, Phoebe said, backing out of the room, her stomach
suddenly queasy. Okay. Well, see you later.
Madeline nodded, picking up a MAC eyeliner brush as she
leaned into the mirror. Just as Phoebe was about to make a
run for it, Madeline suddenly spoke again, her eyes holding
Phoebe s with a glacial stare. Oh, and Phoebe? Before I
forget do stay out of my closet from now on.
Sure, Phoebe said, swallowing hard and walking out of
the room before Madeline could say anything else. As she
walked the long hallway back to her own room, Phoebe s head
was swimming. She couldn t believe it her own mother,
having an affair! Wasn t she too old for this kind of stuff? And
what about her father? Phoebe knew for a fact that her dad
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JENNI FER BANASH
despised gossip and hated the idea that anyone might be talk-
ing about him or his family. This was not going to go over well
at all.
One thing was for sure, Phoebe thought as she walked into
her bedroom, closing the door firmly behind her. She was go-
ing to make it her personal mission to find out both who her
mother was seeing, and how long it had been going on even
if it tore her family apart forever.
192
baby
needs a
new pair
of shoes
Casey meandered along Madison Avenue, peering into
store windows, sighing in awe at the amazing white taffeta
Chanel tutu-style dress hanging off the plastic, anorexic body
of a mannequin in the front window of Barneys. She felt like a
starving person herself with her nose pressed up against a
bakery window. Why did she have to be, well, her? And why
did money always have to be such a problem? Umm, her inner
mediator answered back in an infinitely reasonable tone of
voice, because you moved to one of the most expensive cities in the
world, and you re attending an ultra-exclusive high school where the
students all get new BMWs for their sixteenth birthdays even
though the cost of parking in New York is more outrageous than
rent . . .
JENNI FER BANASH
Okay, you ve got a point, Casey thought, bringing her ridicul-
ously priced, four-dollar iced latte up to her lips and sipping at
the cool, milky drink morosely, which just reminded her that
she was broke, broke, broke. Yesterday afternoon, The Bram
Clan had decided to make a pit stop at Barneys after school, and
Sophie and Phoebe hadn t wasted any time talking Casey into
buying the distressed pair of Seven jeans she was currently
wearing. As a result, she was now almost completely tapped
out. When she d left Normal, her mother had given her what
she called enough money to last a few months, but five hun-
dred dollars was pocket change to the crowd she currently
found herself in, and Casey didn t know how she was ever go-
ing to keep up. She had to look amazing at Drew s party
tomorrow night fall to your knees and worship amazing
but that was never going to happen if she wore anything from
her moose-infested closet.
First off, Drew had practically seen her whole wardrobe
and she d only been in New York a few weeks! Casey drained
her drink, sucking noisily at the straw and throwing the empty
cup into a metal trash can on the corner. Maybe she could just
buy a cute top and wear it with her new jeans but it wasn t
like a top in any of the stores on Madison or Fifth would be
any less expensive than buying a whole dress. Casey stared up at
the blue cloudless sky and wiped away a film of sweat and hu-
midity from her forehead. They didn t call it the Baked Apple
for nothing. Living in the Midwest had taught her to tolerate
the heat, but with what it did to her hair not to mention her
constant sweating she could never really learn to love it.
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THE ELI TE
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 gradually
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 fasci-
nating 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
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JENNI FER BANASH
for tonight. Casey took a deep breath before interrupting Bar-
bara s endless stream of chatter.
So, I ve been invited to a party tonight, 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
particular 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 painter.
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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THE ELI TE
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
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