He shrugged. “You talk to Ruby?” He dug into his pockets and retrieved a battered old pack of Camels, lit one, and then lay back on Jenny’s lumpy, narrow bed. “I hope you guys made up. Life’s too short, you know?”
“Huh?”Vanessa asked lazily, lying down next to him. Ruby had sent a couple of apologetic text messages, but Vanessa was too mad to bother reading them all the way through. She could imagine Ruby squeezing Piotr’s back zits while they did it in his paint-splattered studio—aka her old room. She snuggled her almost-bald head into Dan’s ropy neck and whispered, “I can’t really deal with it now, you know?”
“That’s too bad,” he observed solemnly. “I always admired your relationship.”
“Sure.” She couldn’t resist giggling a little. “Are you feeling okay?”
Dan turned toward her so their noses were almost touching. Vanessa kissed his smoky-tasting lips. Her touched her face. “You know, I never realized it before, but happiness is, like, right there in front of you, you know what I mean? It’s like us—like you’re all I need to be happy, and you’re right here, in my house. I mean, I know you’ll have to work a lot and everything, but it’s so great. It’s actually so much easier to achieve happiness than it is to embrace ugliness.”
Vanessa bit her lip. She loved Dan, but she really hoped he wasn’t about to pull another embarrassing proclamation of undying devotion like he had at his own graduation. Some things were better left unsaid.
You can say that again.
“Did you learn that on the job?” she teased. “I didn’t know they offered free New Age self-help lectures at the Strand.”
“I’m not talking about work.” He sucked on his Camel hard and defensively. “I read Siddhartha during my break this afternoon. Life’s just so short.... I mean, we can only hope to find some meaning in this life, you know?”
The only book Vanessa knew him to have spoken as passionately about was The Sorrows of Young Werther, a creepy book about a moody, depressive guy who kills himself in the end because his girlfriend marries someone else.
“All right, I’m officially confused. What the hell are you talking about?” she asked. Her eyebrows furrowed as she looked into his light brown eyes.
“I’m talking about the meaning of life,” he replied simply.
Or was he talking about a certain perfectly perky round-butted blonde?
Disclaimer: All the real names of places, people, and events have been altered or abbreviated to protect the innocent. Namely, me.
hey people!
I’ve discovered something very important about myself: I’mtotally bi. It’s not what you’re thinking—I’m just torn betweenwhere I want to spend my summer and I’ve decided I reallywant to have it both ways. Thank God for Teterboro Airport. Aquick drive to the runway and I’m on the island in less than anhour. That gives me a chance to ogle the surfer boys and sayyes to every party I’m invited to here at home.
There’s something so exclusive about parties in the city duringthe summer. So intimate, with no unwanted guests. Well,almost. Not that we don’t like to have our picture taken; we’djust like to make sure our beach hair doesn’t have any actualsand in it before the flash goes off. Yes, I’m talking about thepaparazzi. Obviously they have to work all summer, and obviously they’re bored because they’ve been hounding the fewcelebs in town—me included—like every night was an MTVMusic Awards after-party at Lindsay’s loft.
But summer and the beach go hand in hand, and I could nevercompletely forsake the shore, but that heartthrob actor T has donejust that, abandoning his lavish spread on the North Shore (yes,the one you saw on that episode of Cribs) to spend a steaming-hot summer in sticky New York City. Now that’s dedication.
across the pond
I know we started out as an English colony, but we won the war(no hard feelings!) and therefore we do things a bit differently
on this side of the pond. I like the whole royalty thing— especially a certain heir to the throne and his party-monster redheaded younger brother—but there’s a lot about the English that I just don’t understand. For example, I hear that a certain young, foxy, blue-eyed American girl we all know and love has gotten herself mixed up with a titled gentleman who seems to have eyes for his, um, cousin? Apparently, in some grand old English families it’s perfectly acceptable to ask your cousin to move in for the summer, to hold her hand during intimate dinners at London’s finest restaurants, to slip away together to the thatch-roofed country house for a weekend foxhunt. How’s that for culture shock?
your e-mail
Q:
Dear GG,
My mom insisted that I take an internship at a glossy magazine this summer. She says it’ll help prepare me for the real world, but I feel like I’m the only one spendingmy summer cooped up inside the fashion closet, packing next season’s Marc Jacobs shoes into boxes and keeping track of the Me&Ro jewelry. It’s like working in retail,and besides, I have the rest of my life to work, don’t I?Shouldn’t I be chilling at the beach with my babeliciousboyfriend or something?
—In the Closet
A:
Dear In the Closet,
How do you think I feel? I’m still here, albeit with the A/Ccranked and a chilled bottle of Dom next to the computer,hard at work, serving all your gossip needs. But seriously:help yourself to something Guccilicious from the sunglassdrawer. You deserve it! (And no one will notice if you throwsomething in for your boyfriend, too.)
—GG
Q:
Dear GG,
Does that guy N have a long-lost brother? I think I saw him at the Oyster Shack on the Island, but it couldn’t have been the same guy; this guy was dressed like a construction worker and hanging out with some skanky-looking but undeniably hot townie chick. Any idea what’s going on?
—Double Take
A:
Dear Double Take,
There’s definitely only one N. If he’s in the construction game now, I suggest you hire him to come over and build you a deck. Maybe he’ll work up a sweat and then you can invite him to go skinny-dipping!
—GG
sightings
B getting into a tiff with the mousy-looking handbag clerk at Harvey Nichols. They’ve got waiting lists in London, too, but some girls have never learned that patience is a virtue. S wandering around an unfamiliar part of the Upper East Side—really far from the park—looking forlorn and buying Purina cat chow at the deli. Maybe she’s trying some crazy new diet? N strolling along Catachungo Road in Hampton Bays, wearing a Yale baseball cap and standing quite close to a mystery girl wearing a pink tube top embellished with Old Navy logos. I must have missed their Hamptons store opening. V settling into a maroon leather barber chair at an old-school barbershop on the Upper West Side, ignoring the men-only rule. Maybe someone should tell her that she’s definitely not in Brooklyn anymore. D curled up on a bench in Union Square, reading a thick paperback book on kundalini yoga while smoking a cigarette. Is he planning to write an epic poem about yoga positions for lung cancer patients? Who wants to know? I know I do.
And you know you love me.
gossip girl
townies are people too
Nate guided his trusty Schwinn off the gravelly road and onto the dirt shoulder in front of the Oyster Shack, managing to avoid a replay of his humiliating wipeout yesterday. After their ice cream, Tawny had taken him to get his tire fixed at Bob’s Gas ’n’ Dogs and it was as good as new. He breathed in the fresh air appreciatively. He’d only smoked a third of a joint that morning, so his head was clear.
That’s a first.
Even though it was only six o’clock, the Oyster Shack was crowded with kids in shorts and halter tops eating fries and drinking canned Bud. Leaning the bike on the kickstand, Nate ambled over to the barnred picnic bench where Tawny sat smoking a Virginia Slim, a devilish little smile on her full, opalescent peach–glossed lips.
Normally Nate would have felt kind of stupid meeting a girl on a bike, but he kind of enjo
yed the workout, the breeze in his face and the wind in his hair. Of course, he could enjoy the wind in his hair behind the wheel of his dad’s powder blue 1978 vintage Aston Martin convertible parked in his garage only twenty minutes away, but the car was the Captain’s pride and joy, and Nate wasn’t allowed to drive it alone, much less into one of the Hamptons’ less desirable neighborhoods, like Hampton Bays.
After they’d shared an innocent ice cream cone and gotten Nate’s bike fixed yesterday,Tawny had suggested they meet up for dinner today. Nate hardly needed convincing; like a good ex-girlfriend, Fate always pulled through for him, right when he needed her. Just when his loneliness had started to get him down, he’d happened to meet confident, sexy Tawny.
“You made it,” she chirped, stubbing her cigarette out on the table and tossing the butt in the grass behind her. She was wearing a peach-colored bikini top and a black jersey wrap-around skirt that showed off her tanned, round, but firm thighs. Her hair was down, grazing her freckled shoulders, and her peachy lips matched the bikini straps that were falling off her shoulders. “Without falling.”
“Yeah, no accidents this time.” Nate laughed, shaking his head. He flipped down the collar of the clean but faded light blue Brooks Brothers shirt he’d changed into after work and slipped onto the bench across from her. “So I’d say the day is going pretty well.”
“How was work?”Tawny asked as she smeared some goopy vanilla-scented stuff on her lips. Nate could smell it from where he sat.
“Just the usual: backbreaking manual labor.” He’d spent all of yesterday and today nailing new shingles onto Coach Michaels’s roof. His hands were riddled with calluses and his arms ached. “I’m working for my coach, so it’s not like I can slack off. He’s kind of an asshole. I guess it’s just like practice.”
Only without the stick. And the ball. And the rest of the team.
“You must really like him, though, to want to work for him all summer,”Tawny countered.
Nate shrugged, rubbing his hand over his stiff neck. “I guess.” No need to tell her about the stolen Viagra and the withheld diploma, right?
Best not.
“Poor boy,” she cooed. “Maybe you need a massage. I can practice on you. I’m totally going to be an LMT after I graduate.”
He had no idea what she was talking about. LMT?
Low-class mega-slut townie?
“A licensed massage therapist, silly! I can’t believe you didn’t know that. Anyway, I talked to these people at this spa in Sag Harbor and they might let me do an actual internship. You know, practicing on real people? I’m so psyched.” She leaned in across the table and began massaging Nate’s forearm, using both of her hands and applying a surprising amount of pressure, her long manicured fingertips scraping his skin like ice scrapers on a car windshield. “See?” she asked. “Doesn’t that feel good?”
It did feel good, sort of, but Nate was much more interested in the view: Tawny was leaning so far forward that her impressive pear-shaped boobs were totally visible.
“So, um, you’re still in high school, then?” Nate mumbled, remembering that it was his turn to say something. “I just graduated.” Saying that felt good. It made him feel manly.
Oh boy.
“I’m graduating next year,” she explained, moving her hands from his forearm to his chest, which was tight from hammering. “I can’t wait. I’m so sick of high school. I figure I’ll get my certification, you know, get a house in the Bays. If you’re good, you can make such awesome cash from the summer crowd you don’t have to work the rest of the year. That’s totally my plan: make a good living mooching off summer people.” She laughed.
“Cool.” Nate was having trouble concentrating on what Tawny was saying because her boobs were practically in his lap. He’d tuned her out so completely she sounded kind of like the parents in a Peanuts cartoon. Wah-wah-wah-wah-wah. Her lips looked so full and peach-colored and shiny, and she smelled like vanilla.
He pitched his head forward and lightly kissed her, touching her cheeks gently. Her mouth tasted like Diet Coke and some sort of artificial but totally delicious fruit.
After a few moments she giggled and pulled away. “We can do that all night, but I want to know about your plans too,” she went on, sitting back down and taking his hand. “You can tell me all about it over dinner.”
“Sure, yeah.” Nate stood and patted his pocket to make sure he’d remembered to bring his wallet. He wondered if the Oyster Shack accepted platinum American Express. He licked his lips, which tasted sort of slick and fruity now themselves and would probably make his beer taste like piña colada. “Let’s get something to eat and I’ll tell you my whole master plan.”
Nate Archibald has a master plan?
“Sounds impressive.” Tawny giggled again as she stood and gathered up her cigarettes, her lighter, and her gold pleather XOXO clutch with buckles all over it.
“Well, I’m starting Yale in a couple of months—”
“Yale? Really? Damn, that’s a good school.” She linked her arm with Nate’s. “And expensive.”
Then again, education is like a Birkin bag—how can you put a price on such things?
b is for betrothed
Blair Waldorf crossed her legs and leaned back in the deep-brown high-backed leather chair. Lifting the white Spode porcelain teacup to her lips, she took a dainty sip of lukewarm Earl Grey tea and smiled at Jemima, the salesgirl who was hovering over her. “Miss Waldorf,” Jemima tittered, handing Blair a small navy blue leather portfolio. “Whenever you’re ready.”
Blair opened the book; inside were her black American Express card, a receipt, and a pen, which she grabbed, signing the dotted line without glancing at it.
“Lovely. Now, I’ve had your parcels packed up and they’ll be off to Claridge’s shortly. Can I do anything else for you? Fetch a taxi, perhaps?”
“No, thank you.” She smiled gracefully. “I think I’ll walk.”
She had been sitting comfortably in a private back room in a new boutique called Kid in West London for an hour, keeping Jemima, a pretty brunette with terrible teeth, busy fetching every style of boot they stocked. As she tried on the twenty-plus pairs of boots, she’d had two cups of tea, glanced at the new issue of French Vogue, and made a telephone call to Lord Marcus. Voicemail. She wondered if he was working, or if he was off with Camilla somewhere, buying new croquet mallets, or ...
Or what?
Blair didn’t give up easily and she was determined not to let yesterday get her down. Maybe Marcus and Camilla needed to get their cousinly bonding thing out of the way. They’d undoubtedly soon tire of each other’s company. Besides, Marcus was likely to forget Camilla’s name when he caught a glimpse of Blair in her new knee-high black python-skin boots and her new black lace Gossard corset and matching boy shorts, which she planned on modeling for him that very night in between courses during the champagne-and-chocolate room service dinner she’d planned.
Tucking the still-warm credit card back into her new Smythson billfold, Blair dropped her wallet inside the limited-edition hand-painted Goyard bag she’d picked up the day before and walked out of the store and onto the quiet stretch of Press Street. She’d been to London only once with her family, when she was twelve. They’d stayed at the Langham Hotel just off Regent Street, visited Old Ben and Buckingham Palace, seen the crown jewels, watched the changing of the guard, drunk tea, and eaten scones. As far as she could remember, she’d spent most of the trip listening to Madonna on her iPod. But that was London as a tourist. Now that she lived here, things were totally different.
Everyone said London was gray, overcast, foggy, and depressing, but it had been clear and sunny all week. The trees were in full bloom, there were lush gardens on every block, and every building was ornate and beautiful. Everyone also said that the English were standoffish, with bad teeth and thick accents, and although their teeth and accents were distractions, so far every person Blair had spoken to had been unfailingly polite.
/> Of course they had been—she’d only talked to salespeople who worked on commission.
Blair checked her cell again: no messages. She tossed the phone back into her bag. She understood that a gentleman had to pay extra attention to his guest—family was very important to the English upper class—and Camilla was lovely, really. She really was. Even if she did look like a blond cartoon freakworm. And Blair understood, really she did. But she was ready to spice things up a little, and the more Lord Marcus made her wait, the more fidgety and eager she got. Maybe the whole thing was just a ploy to turn her on as much as possible?
Um, maybe.
Strolling down the street in the general direction of her hotel, Blair felt like a cross between Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman—the scene where she goes shopping in a giant black wide-brimmed hat and has all the Rodeo Drive salespeople waiting on her hand and foot—and Audrey Hepburn in My Fair Lady, the beautiful Cockney waif who rises from obscurity on the streets of London to become the toast of the town. Except Blair was neither a prostitute nor a waif from the gutter.
Details, details.
She glanced up and down the street, but every store window, every awning, looked familiar. Had she really made it to all the stores in the neighborhood? Finding great clothes in London was easy, and the exchange rate made it even better. Blair noticed it the minute she arrived; she had to get cash for a taxi and was surprised at how many bright, pretty pastel-colored bills she got in exchange for her boring old U.S. dollars. The teller at the bank even gave her a handful of change—including an oversize penny that was worth two cents, not just one, a funny hexagon-shaped coin, and a bunch of thick, heavy coins that were worth a whole pound each. If the English used coins for the same thing Americans used bills for, clearly this was a place to find great bargains. Not that she needed to find bargains.