Free The Elite by Jennifer Banash Page A

fluffy white Persian, slunk into the kitchen and meandered over to her water bowl, lapping at the water delicately with her small, pink tongue. Sophie watched her kitty drink and won-6 8

    T H E E L I T E
    dered how long her friends would continue to believe her—
    assuming they did already—if she kept cutting. As it was, Madison surveyed any fresh marks with a lethal combination of raised, perfectly waxed eyebrows, and steely silence . . .
    Her last shrink, Dr. Breuer, a dark- haired woman in her forties who wore the same pair of black pants every week—
    even though she charged two hundred and fifty dollars a session—diagnosed Sophie with ADD and prescribed Adder-all, which made Sophie feel screamingly productive, but kind of spacey, too. “Try to focus on something or someone else when you have the urge to self- mutilate, Sophie,” she’d said, peering over her hideous horn- rimmed glasses. Sophie hated that expression— self- mutilate —it sounded so . . . serious. At least she wasn’t out all night long smoking crack. And it wasn’t like she cut herself every day or anything—just when things got, well, a little too much . Sophie wrinkled her forehead and leaned her elbows on the table, pushing the cereal box aside, her palms resting under her chin.
    Maybe they should go shopping tomorrow. After all, Casey could really use all the help she could get if she didn’t want to be crucified on her first day at Meadowlark, and there was nothing that Sophie liked better than doing a make over. Casey would probably even be pretty if they did something with that fugly- ass hair and got her some decent clothes. Besides, Monday was the first day back at school, and as Sophie mentally Rolodexed her closet, she realized she had absolutely nothing to wear. She was in desperate need of the perfect outfit—one that screamed confidence, style, and sophistication—in the 6 9

    J E N N I F E R B A N A S H
    most understated way possible, of course. Grabbing her phone from the table, she texted Phoebe, her fingers moving rapidly across the keypad.
    What up?
    Nada. You?
    Shopping tomorrow? Casey needs help! MAKE OVER!
    Sure . . . but . . .
    Sophie frowned at the colorful display screen of her iPhone. When she’d bought it six months ago, her father had actually yelled at her for the first time ever when he got the bill.
    “Four hundred dollars for a phone , Sophia?” he demanded, his face turning the same shade of salmon pink as the Hermès silk tie knotted at his throat. “What’s it made out of—rare, imported, gold- plated titanium?”
    “Oh, please, Alistair,” her mother had snapped, coming to Sophie’s rescue. “Let me remind you that I spend more money on a single pair of shoes—and I don’t hear you hollering about that .”
    “I might, if I thought it would do any good,” her dad mumbled, throwing his hands in the air in frustration and walking out of the room
    The screen stayed blank, and Sophie sighed impatiently.
    Phoebe loved shopping the way junkies loved heroin—so what was the problem? Actually, when Sophie stopped to think about it, there probably wasn’t much of a difference between the two—shopping was definitely a drug, not to mention one 7 0

    T H E E L I T E
    hell of an addiction. And Sophie intended on getting high tomorrow if it was the last thing she did . . .
    There was a brief pause, and then the phone lit up again with Phoebe’s ner vous reply.
    Mad’s not going to like it . . .
    Maybe not , Sophie thought, the corners of her lips turning up in a smile. But that didn’t necessarily mean they shouldn’t do it . . . did it? As far as Sophie was concerned, the fact that Mad would probably be totally livid meant they should definitely do it. Why, she wondered as she texted back, does it feel so good to be so bad?
    Barney’s at noon?
    K. J
    Sophie turned her phone off and dug her hand back into the box, grabbing the last handful of sugary cereal and popping it in her mouth, chewing