The Elite by Jennifer Banash Page A

brusquely, all business now, and proceeded to the register. “That’s what Amex is for,” she called over her shoulder.
    “Or mommy and daddy,” Sophie trilled, shoving Phoebe in the ribs.
    “Or boyfriends,” Phoebe added slyly, pulling her white Chloé sunglasses off her head and down over her dark eyes.
    When Madison put the large black Barneys shopping bag into Casey’s hands, she felt like throwing her arms around the aloof, groomed- within- an- inch- of- her- life, Upper East Side princess she’d only just met, and giving her a giant hug. So, before she could think too much about it, she did just that.
    Maybe we’re going to be friends after all! Casey thought with no small amount of glee as she leaned in and grabbed Madison, wrapping her freckled arms around Madison’s slender frame. “Thanks so much!” Casey gushed, squeezing Madison’s alarmingly bony back. “This is so amazing of you!”
    Maybe we’ll even become best friends , Casey thought, lost in her own happiness and the smell of Madison’s Marc Jacobs perfume. Some random guy definitely wasn’t worth causing so much chaos — and shouldn’t girls stick together anyway? After all, the last thing she wanted to do was piss Madison off again, especially after she’d just been so nice to her for absolutely no reason she could think of.
    Casey was so lost in her own thoughts that she failed to 9 3

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    realize that Madison wasn’t exactly hugging her back until she pulled away. When she stepped back, Madison’s face was frozen into a polite smile. Whoops. Casey’s face fell slightly, and her grip on her shopping bag tightened, her knuckles turning white. Maybe befriending the most pop u lar girl in school wasn’t going to be that easy after all . . .
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    games
    people
    play
    Phoebe Reynaud sat smack in the middle of the enormous white shag rug covering the bleached oak wood of her bedroom floor, trying not to listen to the sound of her parents arguing. You’d think in an apartment the size of a football field the sound of raised voices wouldn’t be a problem—but you’d be wrong. You could probably hear them arguing all the way in Paris , Phoebe thought, turning up the volume on her iPod dock to help block out the shouting, filling the custom-designed, oval- shaped room with the soothing sounds of the new Feist CD instead. She wished she were back in Paris—the perfect place for someone like Phoebe, who not only wor-shipped fashion, but who also aspired to create it someday.
    She’d spent the month of June at her grandmother’s apartment J E N N I F E R B A N A S H
    just off the Rue Saint- Honoré, popping into Colette and Dior to try on jewel- toned velvet mini skirts and pairs of gorgeous Swarovski crystal– encrusted stilettos, or sitting at a sidewalk café with her sketch pad, drinking Perrier with lemon. If she could’ve even remotely concentrated with all the screaming and yelling going on around her, Phoebe would’ve grabbed her pad and drew the silk shantung blouse that had been haunting her since she woke up this morning, and that proceeded to linger at the back of her mind all day. Instead she was curled up on her floor in a ball, trying not to listen to the way her dad was hurling insults at her mother in his own bizarre blend of Franglish.
    Tu ne comprends pas la situation! You’re nothing more than a common slut! Rien!
    She couldn’t hear exactly what her mother screamed in return—but her accent was flawless. Even thought she’d spent at least a month of every summer since she was eight in Paris, Phoebe’s French skills were still rudimentary at best. Phoebe had no aptitude for languages whatsoever, and she tended to panic when someone asked her even the simplest question—
    much to her mother’s complete dismay. Her menu French was very good: She could order just about anything at a bistro or café with no problem, but her conversational French had always been lousy, no matter how