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looking mannequin dressed in a nubbly black-and-white
Chanel suit, a vintage pearl-handled Gucci bag in one out-
stretched hand. Okay, this was definitely thrifting for the
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smart set. Even used, there was probably no way she could
afford anything inside, but it wouldn t hurt to take a look
around, would it? Besides, if she had to stand out on the side-
walk much longer, she d melt into a sticky puddle of evapo-
rated Lancôme Miracle perfume and L Oréal texturizing
spray . . .
The inside of the store was cool and dark, and smelled
vaguely like her grandmother s closet. Rich people sure must like
Chanel No 5, Casey thought as she flipped through the racks,
too terrified of the price tags to turn them over.
Can I help you? a kind voice from directly behind her in-
quired. Casey turned around and smiled at a woman around
Nanna s age, a pair of bifocals hanging around a pearl-
encrusted chain around her neck, dropping onto her exquis-
itely tailored white skirt suit. Vintage Givenchy, she said,
winking one softly wrinkled brown eye and rubbing the lapel
with one pearly polished fingernail. I ve had it for years.
It s beautiful, Casey said truthfully. The woman smiled,
exposing rows of teeth so white and perfect there was no pos-
sible way they could be real.
Well, enough about me, she said, taking Casey by the
arm. What can I help you with today, dear?
Oh, nothing, Casey stammered, her cheeks flushing. I
was just looking around. I don t really need anything right
now. As soon as the lie left her lips, Casey couldn t believe
she d said it. But acting like you had more than you needed
was definitely preferable to confessing how broke you were
especially in this neighborhood.
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Nonsense, the woman said briskly. For instance this,
she said, pulling out a robin s-egg-blue silk sundress with
splashes of yellow flowers on the skirt, well, it could ve been
designed for you! Casey reached out and touched the soft
fabric of the dress, swooning at the feel of silk on her finger-
tips. It didn t even look like it had ever been worn, the fabric
still crisp under her hand, the colors bright. Casey pictured
herself walking into Drew s undoubtedly palatial apartment,
the silk swirling around her legs. As she fondled the dress, the
price tag flipped over, and Casey was shocked back to reality.
Four hundred dollars! For a used dress? Casey didn t even want
to know what it cost when it was brand-new. . . it might send
her into sudden cardiac arrest.
It s a Stella McCartney original, you know, the woman
said conspiratorially. I can t tell you who she is, of course, but
the young lady who donated this par ticular garment comes
from one of the most powerful families in Manhattan.
Whoop-de-do, Casey thought, removing her hand from the
dress reluctantly. It really didn t matter if Tinsley Mortimer
herself had worn it there was no way she d ever be able to
come up with the four hundred dollars to pay for it.
It s lovely, Casey said, swallowing hard, but I really
can t.
Let s just try it on first, shall we? The saleslady pulled
Casey toward the row of dressing rooms at the back of the
store, the dress thrown casually over one arm. What did these
old ladies eat for breakfast, anyway? Steroids? The saleslady
opened up a small cubicle with a gold key and hung the dress
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up on a hook screwed into the light blue walls. Just come out
when you have it on, she said brightly, and call me if you
need any help.
What the hell, Casey told herself as she pulled her blue Amer-
ican Apparel tank over her head, kicked off her flip-flops, and
stepped out of her jeans. The dress fell over her skin like water,
and she smoothed it down with her hands. Damn you, mirrorless
dressing room! Casey told herself as she opened the door and
walked over to the full-length mirror on the adjacent wall.
As she stood in front of the reflective glass, Casey had to
admit that the saleslady was right the dress fit like it was
made for her. Casey turned around, looking at the back of the
dress and bunching her hair in her hands to get it off of her
neck. It wasn t just a good dress: It was perfect. Just like the
Nanette Lepore dress Madison had bought for her, this dress
made her look like someone else someone who didn t worry
about money, a girl who would probably attend the Ivy
League college of her choice and wind up marrying a stock-
broker. Casey frowned, twirling around so that the full skirt
twirled out in a circle. Wait did she even want to be that girl?
As she stood there looking at herself, she couldn t help but
wonder what kind of deal with the devil she was making
by trying to become a member of the most popular clique in
school maybe in all of Manhattan. But the dress was beauti-
ful. It made her feel a little like Cinderella on her way to the
ball. Yeah, right, her inner cynic snorted. Just remember: That
joiner had to give the dress back at midnight and the stupid coach
turned into a pumpkin . . .
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I was right. Casey jumped as the saleslady snuck up behind
her and adjusted the thin straps along her freckled shoulders.
God, she hated her freckles it was like constantly having an in-
curable case of smallpox. It s perfect on you!
Yeah, Casey said, surveying her reflection uneasily, I
love it, but . . . Casey s voice trailed off as she looked at the
price tag dangling from underneath her arm. But I can t really
afford it, she said, meeting the saleslady s eyes in the mirror.
I should ve told you that from the start. As soon as she said
it, she knew that it was true. Why was she all of a sudden pre-
tending to be someone else? What was wrong with just being
Casey Anne McCloy? There was no way she was ever going to
really fit in at Meadowlark anyway or with The Bram Clan
so why did she keep trying? She was always going to fail. And,
as much as she wanted to fit in, she wasn t sure she wanted to
become some kind of Stepford clone of an Upper East Side
princess.
Thanks for letting me try it on, Casey said, preparing to
walk back inside the dressing room.
Not so fast, the saleslady said, grabbing Casey by the
wrist, her dark eyes shining with amusement.
I told you, really I can t afford it. Casey glanced down
at the chipped pink polish on her fingers.
Well, what can you afford?
I, um . . . I can t afford much at all, Casey said, her face
blushing with embarrassment at having to talk about being
broke with such a put-together and kind old lady not to men-
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tion while wearing such a dress. I d be hard-pressed to give you
a hundred bucks for it . . . and I know that s just not enough.
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