“Bear? Is everything okay? Did you hear from those fuck-heads at Yale yet? Are you in?” her father demanded as soon as he heard her voice.
Blair could picture him perfectly, naked except for a pair of royal blue silk boxer shorts, his sleeping lover—Francois or Eduard or whatever his name was—snoring softly beside him. Harold Waldorf, Esq. used to be managing partner at a major corporate law firm, married to society hostess Eleanor and living in a penthouse with his two lovely children, Blair and Tyler. Now he bottled his own wine from the vineyards surrounding his chateau, shopped at cute French boutiques that catered exclusively to tanned gay men, and swam laps in his pool while his tanned gay lovers attended him with fresh towels and glasses of cognac.
It was a luxe life, indeed.
“Guess where I am?” Blair boasted in the same tone she'd used to talk to Serena. In fact, talking to her dad was exactly like talking to one of her girlfriends. He didn't even mind that it was almost two in the morning in France and she had totally woken him up.
“Paris?” her dad asked hopefully. “I'll send a car for you. You'll be here in an hour.”
“No, Dad,” Blair whined, although she honestly wouldn't have minded being in Paris—as long as she could bring Nate and her suite at the Plaza with her. “I'm at the Plaza. I'm living here now. In a suite.”
“You go, girl!” her dad exclaimed. “I guess the penthouse might be a little crowded with the new baby and all.”
In the background Blair heard the sound of him pouring something into a glass. He was so into his latest batch of white wine, he probably kept a bottle chilling next to the bed exactly for occasions like this.
In Dirty Dancing Land, Baby's bitchy sister was performing in a stupid talent show, wearing a bikini top that was way too small for her. Blair muted the TV, spread another blob of caviar on a toast point, lit a cigarette, and sighed dramatically. “It's just that I'm almost graduating and I need space—you know, to do my work and think about next year and …”
All of a sudden she had a very clear image of herself as a sort of reclusive Greta Garbo-like movie star who rarely left her hotel room, communicating with the outside world only through the roles she decided to play. The staff would pick through her trash and steal her clothes, and tourists would stand on Central Park South opposite the hotel, just waiting to catch a glimpse of her. She'd be the talk of the town.
As if she wasn't already.
“Oh, I'll bet you're working,” her dad scoffed between sips of whatever it was he was drinking. “I bet that hunky boyfriend of yours is massaging your feet as we speak.”
If only.
Blair giggled and scarfed down another caviar sandwich between drags on her Merit Ultra Light. “Actually, Nate's on his way over,” she admitted. She contemplated the bottle of champagne she'd ordered, still chilling in its silver-plated ice bucket. Nate wouldn't mind if she opened the bottle and had one tiny glass before he arrived, would he?
Of course not.
“I thought as much,” her dad replied knowingly. “But you deserve it, sweetie. You deserve to have it all.”
As if she didn't already know that.
Blair grabbed the bottle of champagne and held it between her bare knees, expertly untwisting the wire keeper from around the cork and then inching the cork out of the bottle's neck, slowly … slowly … until …
Pop!
“Oh. My. God. You are so totally having a party!” her father exclaimed. “On a school night?” he added, pretending to be horrified, as if he were a strict parent who actually cared about things like that. “Let me talk to that hunky boyfriend of yours right now.”
Blair filled a champagne flute, guzzled the entire contents, and then refilled it. On-screen Patrick Swayze was face-to-face with Baby's dad. “Nobody puts Baby in a corner,” Blair mouthed the words, even though the TV had been muted. It was the cheesiest movie, but she still fantasized about Nate defending her in such a determined, angry way. Nate was seriously hot when he was angry, which was just about … never.
It's hard to get riled up when you're stoned all the time.
“I told you, Dad,” Blair corrected, “Nate's not here yet.” She gritted her teeth and took another gulp of champagne. Although who knew what was taking him so goddamned long. “Anyway”—she pouted her lips for the mirror or the camera or whoever happened to be spying on her through a telescope from the treetops in Central Park—“if I deserve to have it all, then how come stupid Yale hasn't let me in yet?”
“Oh, Bear,” her dad sighed in his manly-but-motherly voice that made both men and women fall in love with him instantly. “They will, dammit. They will let you in.”
Blair reached for another toast point and discovered she'd eaten them all. Over the phone she heard someone mumble something in sleepy French.
“Look, Sugar Bear, it's late. I have to go.” Her dad spoke over the mumbling. “You're okay though, right? You just enjoy yourself.”
Blair looked askance at the half-empty bottle of champagne and the crumbs of caviar scattered on the white china plate. Dirty Dancing had ended. “Good night, Dad,” she replied, feeling a little sad. She hung up and dialed Nate's cell phone again. No answer. She dialed his house line. No answer, just his uptight admiral dad on the answering machine, reading from the actual instructions the machine came with that no normal person ever used: “You have reached the Archibald residence. Please leave a brief message and we will return your call as soon as possible.”
A Streetcar Named Desire, starring Marlon Brando and Vivien Leigh, was just about to start. Another old favorite. Blair put the white terrycloth bathrobe back on and fluffed up the pillows on the giant bed. Then she dialed room service again. “A hot fudge sundae, please. And a pack of Merit Ultra Lights.”
She sank back on the pillows and closed her eyes. When she'd left his house, Nate had been partying with a bunch of stoners, including an annoying French hippie chick named Lexique. That stupid, lazy asshole who so didn't deserve to go to Yale probably hadn't even noticed that Blair had left. Tears seeped out from under her closed lids. Nate hadn't changed. Nothing had changed—except the status of her virginity. She bit her lip and fought back an angry sob. Well, so what? Nate didn't deserve sex. Besides, eating a hot fudge sundae in a Plaza Hotel bed while plotting her revenge on her asshole-of-a-loser-soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend was even better than sex.
Way better.
K And I Take Their Jobs Super-Seriously
Dear Seniors,
We are so excited for next Friday, which as you know is Senior Cut Day, now known as the first day of SENIOR SPA WEEKEND!!!!! Yes, it's a school day. Unfortunately we'll be too busy getting ready for our hot-stone facials and seaweed body wraps to remember to show up! Please don't be worried about getting into trouble—not that you really are. Senior Cut Day is an ancient Constance Billard School tradition, and no one's ever been expelled or even punished for it.
So here's what's happening:
Thursday night at 6:30 P.M. we'll board the Archibald family's big sailboat, which is docked at Battery Park City. The Archibalds are having their annual benefit cruise to the Hamptons, and they've generously offered us a ride. As soon as we dock in Sag Harbor, we'll be picked up by a fleet of limos, which will whisk us off to Isabel Coates's totally amazing beach house, where the biggest, bestest girls-only slumber party will take place. NO BOYS ALLOWED. In the morning we'll have breakfast by the pool, catered by … TBA (we're working on getting the chef who helped Julia Roberts lose all that weight after having her twins). After that, a day of treatments brought to us by Origins. And everyone will get an Origins gift bag valued at three hundred dollars to take home with her totally refreshed and revitalized new self!
Dress: Resort casual. Towels, hairdryers, bath, and beauty products galore will all be supplied. No dogs, please, even if they're really small. And NO BOYS!
Let's hear it for an amazing weekend of bonding with the girls!
Big Smoochies!!
Love,
Your classmates Kati Farkas and Isabel Coates
P.S. We put a suggestion box in the senior lounge, so your ideas are welcome, not that we haven't already planned the most perfect day!
P.P.S. Two, four, six, eight, only one month till we graduate!!!
Gossipgirl.net
Disclaimer: All the real names of places, people, and events have been altered or abbreviated to protect the innocent. Namely, me.
hey people!
Some recent observations
The castaways
I honestly don't know what's gotten into a certain group of people lately. I mean is it okay to just, like, disappear?? Apparently a bunch of boys we all know and love (at least most of the time) have hijacked a very large, well-appointed sailboat and are headed into the Atlantic. It could be just another senior prank, except that half the boys on the boat are juniors. It's kind of a random time to take off, especially when all of us girls could use a little entertainment. Just who do they think they are—Christopher Columbus?
You heard it here first
They have their choice of guys, but for whatever reason, models can't get enough of guys with guitars. Rumor has it the latest couple of the moment is a certain blond-haired Fifth Avenue-dwelling senior girl and the lead guitarist from the Raves. How, when, and where they met is a complete mystery, but talk about a perfect couple!
To Gap or not to Gap?
Don't even try to pretend it was someone else: I saw you sneaking into the Gap on Eighty-sixth and Madison and actually trying on a plum-colored imitation Juicy Couture terrycloth zip-up hoodie in the kids' section. Okay, I'm a snooping bitch. But the reason I'm ratting you out is I tried the very same hoodie on, and, unlike you (although I know you wanted to), I bought three of them! Why not? They're cute, and we're going to need lots of terrycloth cover-ups to wear après le pool this summer. Plus we'll probably spill Campari or crème de menthe or something equally devastating all over ourselves, so we'll need more than one. Besides, terrycloth is terrycloth, and what better way to show off your new white jacquard Gucci bikini than with a cute plum-colored hoodie? Think of this as a get-out-of-jail-free card: you're still not allowed to buy your jeans there—heaven forbid—but you now have my permission to purchase certain necessary items at the Gap.
Your e-mail
Q: Dear GG,
Are you ever going to tell us where you're going to college next year? Have you even decided?
—qrs
A: Dear qrs,
That's for me to know and you to find out. But let me ask you this—do I strike you as the indecisive type?
—GG
Q: Dear GG,
I heard Damian Polk from the Raves used to live in the same building as that blond model you're always talking about. They've known each other since they were babies and they used to hook up in the elevator in the middle of the night, while the doorman was napping.
—ob-v-us
A: Dear ob-v-us,
That's a great story, but I heard Damian's family lived in Ireland until he was like thirteen. Hence his funny accent and the reason why he always seems a little drunk.
—GG
Q: Dear GG,
I run the crew on a sailboat that belongs to a prominent New York family. The son, who I hear has been in lots of trouble before, took off in the sailboat yesterday evening and hasn't returned. I'm afraid his ass will be grass whenever he gets back, because his dad is kind of tough.
—captain
A: Dear captain,
His ass is already grass, for more reasons than that!
—GG
Sightings
S and an unidentified blond hunk—possibly her brother or possibly that guitarist from the Raves—at the Central Park Zoo, feeding left-over sushi from lunch at Nicole's to the sea lions. B buying two La Perla nighties at Barneys. She seems to have developed an addiction to lingerie, but what else can one wear while lounging alone in a Plaza Hotel suite, waiting for one's boyfriend to turn up? D at Yellow Rat Bastard on lower Broadway, trying on every hat in the store. V purchasing a new lip ring—ew!—at a piercing place in Williamsburg. J in Barneys Co-op trying on every pair of Seven Jeans in the store and ignoring the salesperson's suggestion that she'd have better luck finding jeans that fit in Bloomingdale's children's department. K and I at Jackson Hole again, scheming again. N—not. Where the hell is N anyway?
Don't worry, I'll find him.
You know you love me,
gossip girl
Models Who Date Rock Stars
“How come no matter what I wear I always look like a cartoon character?” Jenny complained to her friend and Constance Billard School classmate Elise Wells. It was Saturday night and they were getting ready for Dan's gig with the Raves at Funktion, a new music venue in a revamped fire station on Orchard Street. Jenny glanced at Elise. “And you always look so normal.”
The two girls regarded their reflections in the full-length mirror on the back of Jenny's closet door. Jenny was wearing a stretchy red top with cap sleeves and a plunging U-shaped neckline that made her breasts look gargantuan. She was barely five feet tall, and her very first pair of Seven jeans had been way too long for her when she bought them at Bloomingdale's, so she'd had the lady at the dry cleaner's on Broadway and Ninety-eighth shorten them about ten inches. Now she noticed that the purposely “antiqued” spot on each leg where her knees were supposed to be fell at mid-shin. The only acceptable part of Jenny's body was her head. She liked her big, far-apart brown eyes, her clear white skin, her red lips, and her curly brown hair with its straight, severe bangs across the forehead. As Serena once told her, she looked like a Prada model—with oversized breast implants and stumps for legs, although Serena would never have said that part.
Elise's body was totally the opposite. She was seven inches taller than Jenny, with long skinny legs, long skinny arms, and a flat chest. Nothing was ever too tight on her, except maybe in the belly region, which had a sort of doughnut roll around it. But that was easily hidden beneath a shirt. There was really nothing Jenny could do to hide her chest. Then again, Elise was covered with freckles—there were even freckles on her eyelids—and she had chin-length straw-yellow hair that was so thick and so coarse, she could barely fit it into a rubber band.
Well, nobody's perfect. Except for maybe a very select few of us.
“Let's trade tops,” Elise suggested. She pulled off her black V-neck T-shirt and handed it to Jenny.
“Okay,” Jenny responded dubiously, and pulled off her red one. Elise's shirt was from Express, and hers was from Anthropologie, which was slightly nicer, but Jenny didn't want to hurt Elise's feelings by saying anything. Besides, the results were astronomical. Jenny's chest looked almost modest in the black top, and the red top made Elise's hair gleam with strawberry highlights neither of them had even known she had.
“I bet Serena van der Woodsen doesn't even look at herself before she goes out,” Jenny declared. She dropped down on her knees and started crawling around the room. “She probably doesn't even have to try stuff on, except for maybe shoes.”
Elise put her hand on her hips. “What are you doing?”
“Wearing in the knees on my jeans,” Jenny replied, still crawling. “Did you hear about Serena and Damian from the Raves?”
Elise nodded. Everyone had heard.
Jenny crawled across the matted pink carpet to her closet to select a pair of shoes. Of course, Serena never had to crawl around like a dog in an attempt to make her jeans look normal. “I don't know how she does it.” She pulled out her new Michael Kors gold toe-ring sandals and slid them on. Her dad said the sandals looked like something a belly dancer would wear, but she'd gotten them for free at the W photo shoot, and they were the nicest shoes she owned.
How strange that she'd had that little moment of super-stardom—that photo shoot with Serena—and now she was back to being plain old her, a fourteen-going-on-fifteen-year-old girl with big ambitions and an even bigger chest. It w
asn't like her life's ambition was to quit school at the age of fourteen and become a supermodel, but it would have been kind of nice if someone had asked her to.
Jenny stood up and brushed off the knees of her jeans. They were completely, disappointingly unfaded and, except for the wonky placement of the distressed part of the denim, completely uninteresting—just like everything else in her closet. Serena's clothes were always so perfectly frayed, faded, and worn, belying the colorful and mysterious history of their wearer. Jenny couldn't help but wonder whether her own clothes would fade and develop character too if she got kicked out of Constance and sent to boarding school.
“Ever thought about going to boarding school?” Jenny wondered out loud.
Elise made a face. “Eat school food three meals a day and live with your teachers? No way.”
Jenny frowned. That wasn't how she pictured boarding school at all. In her mind boarding school meant freedom: from her manic-depressive Mr. Poet Rock God brother, from her maniacally overprotective and embarrassingly unkempt dad, from Constance Billard's horrendous school uniforms, from her dusty old bedroom, and from the everyday boringness of doing the same old same old now and for the next three years. It also meant opportunity: to live and go to school with boys, boys, boys, and to be the girl she'd always aspired to be—the girl no one could stop talking about.