Authors: Cecily Von Ziegesar
Copyright © 2007 by Alloy Entertainment
All rights reserved.
Little, Brown and Company
Hachette Book Group USA
237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10017
Visit our Web site at
First eBook Edition: May 2007
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Gossip Girl novels created by Cecily von Ziegesar:
You Know You Love Me
All I Want Is Everything
Because I’m Worth It
I Like It Like That
You’re the One That I Want
Nobody Does It Better Nothing Can Keep Us Together
Only In Your Dreams Would I Lie To You
Don’t You Forget About Me
If you like gossip girl, you may also enjoy:
Bass Ackwards and Belly Up
by Elizabeth Craft and Sarah Fain
Secrets of My Hollywood Life
by Jen Calonita
by Alisa Valdes-Rodriguez
And keep your eye out for
by Tara Bray Smith,
Coming October 2007
There is only one thing in the world worse than being talked about,and that is not being talked about.
Disclaimer: All the real names of places, people, and events have been altered or abbreviated to protect the innocent. Namely, me.
It’s finally August, and you know what that means: New York City is officially
hot, hot, hot
. Not that I would actually know. My friends and I have spent the last month hiding out in our quaint beach houses in the dunes of Montauk and in little country cottages on Gin Lane in Southampton—and by
I mean eight bedrooms and five baths, of course—soaking up the summer sun and working on our Bain de Soleil tans.
So who are we? If you really have to ask, then the question is, Darling, where have you
? We’re the girls in batik-print Marni sundresses, nursing our hangovers with Veuve Clicquot mimosas under wide-brimmed straw Philip Treacy hats while we watch the show-jumping at the Hampton Classic. We’re the crowd skinny-dipping on Main Beach at daybreak, waking up at 2 p.m. and going to bed at 6 a.m.—who has time to sleep when there are so many poolside soirees to attend? We’re the ones you love to look at—not to mention talk about—and we’re at our summer best.
But summer’s almost over, and change is in the air. The Hamptons are emptying out, the jet-setters are jetting back from Europe (by private jet, of course), and our families’ decorators are already out there collecting samples for us to choose from for our dorm room décor. Yup, the countdown has officially begun: in just ten days the most recent graduates of Manhattan’s most exclusive private schools are headed to college. Pretty soon you’ll find us settling into our dorm rooms on Ivy League campuses across New England, the first fallen leaves crunching beneath our new, camel-colored Coach riding boots as we stride purposefully to classes with names like Explorations in the Romantics and Chaos Theory. No more back-to-school coffees on the steps of the Met, no more sneaking out of AP French class for a cigarette, and no more itchy poly-blend uniforms . . . unless you’re planning on driving all the frat boys wild by dressing up as a pigtailed schoolgirl for Halloween.
College is the time to reinvent yourself (read: your chance to pretend you weren’t a colossal loser in high school), so with only a little over a week left before we leave for those institutions of higher learning, it’s time to figure out who you’re going to be next. What color is your parachute, my dears? The options are endless, but let me help you eliminate one: the role of observant, fabulously chic Web-logging gossip is already taken.
And while we’re all busy reinventing ourselves, there will be a whole new set of gorgeous girls in our school uniforms and TSE cashmere cardigans trying on oversize tortoiseshell sunglasses at Barneys after school. It’s hard to believe, but we’ll soon be—
—replaced by the guys and girls who have been carefully studying us from afar. So consider this our last hurrah: it’s our chance to take the silver Range Rover LR3s we got for graduation for a ride at daybreak around Manhattan’s silent streets. Our last chance to wake up the investment banker next door with rooftop parties at our Fifth Avenue townhouses. To spend a fortune on Chloé bags and Marchesa gowns at Bergdorf’s on daddy’s black AmEx card. Ah, heaven. Speaking of which . . .
trouble in paradise . . .
Everyone who’s anyone saw or has heard about the spectacle of
’s birthday party up at her country house in Ridgefield, Connecticut, last month. But was I the only one who saw
standing out by her pool that night, dipping her toes in the water and wiping her face with the back of her hand after
disappeared upstairs? Were those real tears? Seems mighty close to a certain perfume ad if you ask me. . . . And what did she think of their early a.m. departure on her birthday morning?
may have sailed off into the sunset—literally: their sailboat was last seen due south of Hyannis—but how long can they really stay at sea? Something tells me there’s more drama on the sun-splashed horizon.
. . . and trouble on the home front
No one’s ever accused
of being happy, but I’ll be the first one to call him out on being pretty darn . . . gay. And not just the metrosexual, let’s-go-shopping at Thomas Pink kind—although his wardrobe could do with a little spruce-up—but the kissing-other-boys-kind. Is he ready to come out? Or will he succumb to
’s prickly-headed charms and go hetero once again? If not, I can always hire him to redecorate my bedroom . . . or not.
I was at
’s legendary pre-birthday bash in Ridgefield last month, and I could’ve sworn I saw her sneak out to
’s Aston Martin at, like, 6 a.m. and shove something in the glove compartment. Okay, so I’d had
too many Tanqueray gimlets, but it looked awfully suspicious. Whatever she had in her hand looked a lot like an envelope—but full of what, I wonder. Whatever it was was probably totally illegal, but I passed out before I could find out. Any ideas?
—Confused and Still Hammered
Confused is right. Our sweet
may have dated a rock star, but she does not party like one—at least not lately. I’ll bet anything what you saw in
s hand was a simple letter. So the real question is, What did it say? I’m one curious cat, and believe me, my kittens, when I find out, we’ll all be purring with contentment.
My dad is a producer here in Beverly Hills, and last night he screened a rough cut of
Breakfast at Fred’s
in our screening room, and all I can say is . . . wow! I always thought that
was just another ditzy, genetically blessed socialite, but that girl can really act!
—Beverly Hills Brat
Tell me something I don’t know. The buzz over
Breakfast at Fred’s
has reached the East Coast, too—I overheard two studio execs at an Amagansett cocktail party (and, no, I’m not divulging which one) agree that
is going to be the break-out hit of the fall season—can you say pull-out
cover? Buzzzzzzzzz. . . .
wandering all over New York City in a pair of enormous, quilt-patterned black Chanel sunglasses, feeding the ducks in
and going to old movies at the
by herself, looking rather lonely. I’m sure there are more than a few boys out there who’d be happy to keep her company. . . . A thirty-foot boat that looks a mighty lot like the
approaching the wharf at
one brunette girl and one sandy-blond boy aboard. S might have company sooner than she thinks. . . .
Barnes & Noble
on Eighty-third and Broadway, standing nervously in the checkout line, a book entitled
Love Me, I’m Gay
tucked under one arm. A little light summer reading? Our old friend
at the airport in Prague waving goodbye as a wild-haired woman in a turquoise caftan boarded a New York-bound plane. Isn’t
the one who’s supposed to be heading back? Maybe it’s an exchange program. . . .
the Conran Shop
on 60th and 1st, selecting dorm room furniture to be shipped to Rollins next week. Umm, word to the wise, girlies: you might not have room for that cherry-red Eames sofa in your ten-by-ten double unless you’re both planning on sleeping on it. . . . With those two, you never know.
Okay, my darlings, I’m off to the SoHo House rooftop pool with my favorite gossip rags in hand to enjoy the last days of this hot and sultry summer. Want to join me? Oops, too bad, it’s members only. Maybe you can sneak up the back stairway. After all, it’s almost time for that pre-college, back-to-school shopping spree at Barneys, and I want to look my tanned and freckled best for my dressing room debut. I’ve had my eye on a little ivory wool Stella McCartney jumper for months. And, as always, you know I have my eye on
You know you love me.
“Hello, Manhattan!” Blair Waldorf cheered, hopping off the
and onto the Battery Park wharf. A huddle of unnaturally tan bikini-clad girls stood next to their private yacht, the
, glaring at Blair while their hot, polo-shirted crew unloaded their bulging Coach duffels onto the weathered gray wood of the dock. The high-rises of Battery Park City stood in the distance, the bright August sun reflecting off thousands of windows. Across town, the South Street Seaport boardwalk bustled with tourists wearing unflattering horizontal-striped polo shirts with overstuffed fluorescent fanny packs, and aggressive rollerbladers weaving their way through the crowd.