The Elite by Jennifer Banash Page A

countertop. “. . . And you’re telling me that you’re just not interested ?” Drew thought he could make out the beginning of a smile peeking out from beneath his dad’s beard as he grabbed the bread from the counter and broke off the tip, smearing the crusty loaf with truffle- infused goat cheese deliciousness. Yum.
    “Yeah, Dad,” Drew mumbled after he’d taken the first bite,
    “that’s exactly what I’m telling you.”
    “I thought so,” his dad said triumphantly, sliding the mass of brightly colored chicken parts reeking of curry onto a large, oval serving platter. “Well, don’t come crying to me later when you realize your mistake.”
    “Don’t come crying to me when you get food poisoning from that mess,” Drew smirked, gesturing toward the chicken with the end of his bread. Drew grabbed a knife from the bam-boo cutting board and sliced the baguette down the middle lengthwise, then spread the bread thickly with the entire round of soft, fluffy cheese. He reassembled both halves together like a monstrously large goat cheese Subway sandwich. All he really needed was this sandwich, a nap, and he’d feel like a human being again—maybe he’d even figure out what to do about Madison.
    “Oh, by the way.” His dad arranged two portions of chicken on plates with scientific precision, then grabbed a 5 2

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    squeeze bottle so he could arrange the accompanying bright yellow sauce in little squiggles and swirls that decorated the plain white china like one of his mother’s paintings. “We’re having a welcome home party for you two weeks from today—
    you know, just you and a hundred of your closest friends.
    Boudin is doing the catering.”
    “Great.” Drew took a huge bite of baguette and rolled it around in his mouth. This was just what he needed right now.
    He couldn’t have been less stoked if his underwear was on fire.
    Even the fact that his dad’s newest Cajun- fusion restaurant was doing the catering did absolutely nothing to cheer him up.
    “Do I have to be there?”
    “What do you think?” Allegra Van Allen swept into the room in a brown and blue batik- printed caftan and a haze of the Egyptian Musk she always wore. A thick stack of gold bangles jangled at her wrists, and bronze, Roman- inspired sandals were laced up her tanned ankles. Her black hair hung loosely down her back, and spots of magenta paint dotted her forearms like measles. From far away, his mother looked about twenty- five, but when you got up close, the small lines feathering out from the corners of her eyes couldn’t help but give her real age away.
    “I’m an artist ,” she was fond of proclaiming loudly at parties when the subject of Botox came up, “not a socialite.”
    Technically she was kind of both, but Drew knew better than to argue with his mother—she usually won.
    “I think I’m horrified,” Drew said, shoving more bread into his mouth, his jaws working furiously.
    “Well, get over it.” His mom smiled as she swung open the 5 3

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    refrigerator door, pulling out a frosty bottle of Blue Moon lager and prying the top off with a bottle opener, the muscles of her forearms flexing.
    “Who did you invite, anyway?” Drew muttered, shoving the rest of the sandwich into his mouth in one huge, greedy bite. “The whole Upper East Side?”
    “Basically.” His mom grinned, her blue eyes sparkling as she grabbed two frosted mugs from the freezer and poured the beer. “And some of Soho, too.”
    “Great,” Drew said glumly. This was just what he needed right now. “Did you invite the Macallisters?”
    “Did you manage to kill all your brain cells in Amsterdam?”
    His mother’s brow wrinkled as she feigned confusion. “Of course I invited the Macallisters! Don’t tell me you have a problem with that—not after all the time you spent with Madison last spring.”
    “What’s going on with you two, anyway?” His dad picked up the plates and moved into the