Don't You Forget About Me (19 page)

“Thank you.” Serena blushed as she signed one of the tourist’s matchbooks from Fred’s, Barneys’ ninth-floor restaurant, about to become even more famous because of her new film.

Blair watched as Serena signed one autograph after another, bowing her head humbly and graciously without so much as a glance in Blair’s direction. How could Serena drop a bomb like that and then move onto her worshippers, completely ignoring her? Blair seethed, manically twirling her ruby ring around her middle finger, as the crowd around Serena grew. A man dressed in an avocado-and-vermillion seersucker suit kissed Serena’s hand, and a suburban mom took her picture with her Nikon Elph. Next year Blair would be just another freshman at college, and Serena would be . . . a movie star. A movie star living in the same city as
her
boyfriend. How could she ever compete?

Her sandals hit the floor with a rude slapping sound as she turned her back on Serena and her idiotic adoring fans. Damn Barneys. Damn Serena. She was getting the hell out of town, but no fucking way was she leaving Nate behind.

That’s what we’ve always loved about her—the angrier she gets, the more ingenious she is.

who’s your daddy?

Blair sat in the half-packed bedroom, surrounded by overstuffed trunks and clutter so deep that the pee-stained sea-grass mats on the floor were only a faint memory. She stared at the mess, her whole body shaking. Serena wasn’t going to Yale with her. She was staying here in New York for another year with . . . Nate? No way was Blair was going to leave both of them alone in the same city next year—she’d rather stab herself in the eye with the stiletto heel of one of her new Fendi boots.

Ouch.

A pile of T-shirts fell off of the bed and landed on the floor with a soft thud as she angrily flailed around. She yanked her shoes off and threw them angrily at the wall, needing to hear an even louder sound. How could Nate resist Serena when she was a huge star, and right here in the same city with him?
No
. It simply could not happen.

She reached for her cell and held down speed dial number 4. Number 1 was 911 for an emergency, which this was, but whatever; number 2 was for Serena—definitely not who she was looking for right now; and number 3 was for Nate, the completely effed-up love of her life.

“H-Hello?” the male voice sounded waterlogged with sleep.

“Daddy, it’s me.” Blair spoke tentatively. If she was going to get what she wanted from him, she’d need to tread lightly. “I’m sorry—did I wake you?” She made her voice small. There was a long pause, and she could hear sheets rustling and the click of a light being turned on halfway around the world.

“Of course you woke me, Blair-Bear—it’s four a.m. here.” Her father sounded slightly annoyed—not to mention sleep-deprived. The sound of the two babies wailing in the background reached her ear. She rolled her eyes in disdain.

“Well, it’s
important,
” she whined.

“I’m sure that it is,” Harold Waldorf said with a sigh. “But important things are happening over here too. Giles has been up all night with the twins—just the nastiest case of colic. We tried this fabulous new vaporizer, but nothing is working.” There was a pause, and Blair could hear the guttural cooing of a baby over the line.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the twins before now, honey. But it was kind of a spur-of-the-moment acquisition.” He chuckled, and Blair could hear one of the sniveling brats cooing again. “But let me tell you, it was the best one I’ve ever made.” Burberry baby bib: fifty dollars. Hermès Pacifier: six hundred dollars. Cambodian babies: priceless.

“Blair,” her father cooed over the din of baby-speak, “Ping would like to say hello—say hi to your new little brother!” She heard a rustling sound as the little monster was held up to the phone, and then a series of gurgling noises that sounded like the baby was drowning in its own spit. “Pong is still sleeping, but when she wakes up she’ll say hi too.” Blair rolled her eyes. Ping and Pong?

Isn’t it technically called table tennis?

“Daddy,” she snapped.
“I need to talk to you!”

What happened to treading lightly?

“There’s no need to get
snippy
about it,” her father replied, rather snippily himself. “Just let me put the baby down.” Good. Maybe now he could pay some attention to his firstborn.

“You know how Nate and I were going to Yale together?” Blair plowed ahead, not waiting for her father to respond. She could hear the sound of him whispering in French to someone in the background. “Well, Nate didn’t get his diploma from St. Jude’s, and now it looks like he can’t go to Yale in the fall—they want him to repeat senior year instead.” “Oh, honey.” Her father’s voice was sympathetic now. “I’m so sorry.You must be devastated.” “Well, I
was.
” Blair picked up her Mason-Pearson hairbrush and whipped it through her smooth, chestnut-and-gold locks. “Until I remembered that you’re on the board of trustees. Isn’t there something you can do about it? Maybe talk to the dean of admissions and put in a good word for Nate or something? Everyone respects you
so
much, Daddy,” she said, back to her original plan of kissing ass. Her father sighed, and then there was more rustling.

“It’s not so easy, Blair-Bear. . . . I can’t just make a diploma magically appear.” He whispered something in French to Giles, and Blair momentarily wished she’d actually learned the language in her AP French class. “I’d really like to help, but I can’t just snap my fingers and make Nate’s problems go away. Besides, with the new twins and all, this isn’t the best—” “Daddy, you
owe
me.” Blair cut him off midsentence with an exasperated sigh. “First you move to France during my
formative
years, and now you’ve replaced me with these twins.” She took a deep breath and tried to stop herself from completely losing it. Had everyone gone totally insane? First her mother had announced the family was moving to Los Angeles, next Serena and Nate had told her they were staying in New York, and now her dad was going to bail on her when she needed him most?

Blair heard footsteps in the hall, and suddenly the door swung open to reveal her stepbrother, Aaron, wearing electric yellow Quicksilver board shorts and a burgundy Harvard T-shirt, followed by his disgusting boxer, Mookie—who immediately bounded up to Blair and began covering her crotch in dog drool.

“Get off me!” she yelled, rubbing the wet, goopy places on her legs where Mookie had licked her. The dog trotted over to the corner where Blair had tossed her dirty laundry, picked out one of her pink Cosabella thongs, and lay down, the lace hanging from his jowls.

Well, at least
someone’s
interested in getting in her pants these days.

Blair rolled her eyes to the ceiling and threw a pillow at Aaron. He sat down on the floor next to the boxer and lit one of his foul herbal cigarettes, chuckling as Mookie ripped Blair’s expensive underwear to shreds. His normally pale face was tan, and his dark, short dreadlocks were streaked with copper, like he’d been living on a beach all summer. Aaron was annoying, but at least he didn’t look anything like his dad, Cyrus, who was the most revolting human specimen of a stepfather Blair had ever encountered.

“Daddy, are you still there?”

“I’m here, Blair-Bear—and I’ll try. But no promises, okay? I want you to be realistic about the situation. If it’s meant to be, it’s meant to be.” The babies started wailing again, and her dad offered a quick “Love you, see you in a few days!” before signing off.

Oh, it was meant to be, all right,
Blair thought as she tossed her phone down on the bed. You couldn’t stop destiny—and she and Nate were
destined
to be together forever.

“Thanks for the friendly welcome, Sis.” Aaron grinned and leaned up against Mookie, throwing his arm around the dog’s neck in a half nelson. Good. Maybe he’d strangle the thing by accident. Mookie offered him a wet lick across his face.

“Oh, right. Welcome back,” she said irritably. “And I told you to stop calling me that. Just because my mom married your dad doesn’t mean I’m your sister.” “Uh, no offense, Sis, but that’s exactly what it means.” Aaron smoothed down Mookie’s gross, slobbery fur with one hand and chuckled.

“Whatever.” Blair inspected her French manicure, which was now chipped. As if she needed one more fucked up thing in her life.

Poor baby!

“So, you getting psyched for Yale?” Aaron asked, lying back on the floor. Mookie promptly got up and sat on his chest, obscuring his face so that all Blair could see was his dreadlocks, and Mookie’s grinning, drooling muzzle. It was like they’d become one giant dog-dreadlock monster. Before Blair could answer, Aaron’s muffled voice continued. “Remember when I drove you up for your interview, and we stayed at that gross motel?” “Oh God—how could I forget?” Blair laughed bitterly. At the time, she’d thought her luck couldn’t get any worse. After a night of drinking too much beer and eating too much junk food from their motel vending machine, she’d overslept for her Yale interview, which had wound up being a total disaster. Now that she was into Yale, she could look back and laugh. If she hadn’t gotten in, Aaron wouldn’t be alive now to remind her of the story. “Anyway, how was your road trip? Pick up any interesting, homicidal hitchhikers?” He laughed. “No hitchhikers. It was good—I pretty much didn’t want to come back. But I guess I should probably pack up a few things before I leave for Harvard.” “Yeah, before the movers come and we become homeless,” Blair added angrily. She kicked the trunk at the foot of her bed for emphasis.

“Well, I guess that tells me how you’re feeling about the move.” Aaron inched a little farther away, as if afraid she was going to kick him next. “What, are you worried you’ll miss all the good sales at Barneys?” “Yeah, actually.” Blair crossed her arms over her chest.

He nodded his dreadlocked head sympathetically and took another puff from his herbal cigarette, which smelled like boiled broccoli and Lysol. “So, how’s everybody been while I was gone?” His voice was muffled by Mookie, who was practically sitting on his face at this point. “How’s Vanessa?” “Can you move that disgusting mutt so I can see you?” Blair pulled her newly long hair back into a ponytail. Aaron shoved Mookie off of his chest. The dog whimpered and slid reluctantly onto the floor.

“So, how’s Vanessa?” He asked again, sitting up and crossing his legs Indian style. “Is she coming to the Met party?” “I think so.” Blair picked up a nail file from the floor and began furiously filing away at her ring finger. “But she’ll be coming from her sister’s wedding in Brooklyn, so she’ll probably get there late.Why do you care anyway?” “Who said I care?” Aaron raised one eyebrow and grinned mischievously. “Maybe I’m just curious.” True love never lies, part deux?

summertime, and the living’s easy . . .

“Your lemonade, Miss van der Woodsen.”

A crisp, British-accented voice woke Serena from her light slumber. She looked up to see a handsome waiter leaning over her, a gleaming silver tray with a tall, frosted glass of lemonade balanced perfectly on one hand. The turquoise water of the SoHo House pool sparkled behind him, casting a tint of blue on his entirely white uniform.

Serena sat up in her deck chair, tying up the straps of her white, barely there Marni bikini so that she wouldn’t flash him by accident.

That’s one way to tip!

“Thank you.” She smiled, pushing her white Chanel sunglasses to the top of her head. This was the life.

“Please let me know if you desire anything else,” the waiter offered with a polite little bow before leaving.

Serena smiled to herself as she leaned back on her pristine white deck chair, taking in the scene around her. The entire poolside area was furnished in white, with white lounge chairs, oversize white umbrellas, and white monogrammed SoHo

House towels. The stylish guests had taken it upon themselves to match the scenery, clad entirely in white bikinis, wraps, and linen pants. The pool was strikingly turquoise against the bright white, and the tops of Manhattan’s Financial District skyscrapers glittered in the distance.

She sighed, feeling the hot August sun warm every inch of her smooth skin. This really was the life. After their press conference at the Soho House on Tuesday, Ken Mogul had handed Serena and Thad the jet-black key cards to the penthouse and let them know the room was rented for a week. Since Thad had his own apartment in the city, he’d told her she could stay in the room the whole time if she wanted to. Serena preferred to stay in her own room at home—her parents were hardly ever home, though they wouldn’t exactly approve of her living in a hotel room on her own—but access to the exclusive, Meatpacking District, members-only rooftop pool came with the card, and she certainly wasn’t going to say no to that. The only thing missing was someone special to enjoy it with.

She picked up her cell and dialed a number she knew as well as her own.

“Hey stranger.” Nate picked up on the first ring, his slightly sleepy voice sending shivers up her spine. She pictured him still lazing in bed, no shirt on, just waking up from a dream—about her, of course.

“Hey yourself.” She grinned into the phone. “What are you up to right now?”

Twenty minutes later Nate bounded out onto the deck of the SoHo House pool, his brown leather flip-flops thwacking against the stone tiles, oblivious to the ogling female eyes that were fixed on his perfect body. In his green Billabong swim trunks and faded gray T-shirt, Nate was the only person on the entire roof deck not wearing white.

“Hey.” He smiled widely as he reached her deck chair, his golden brown hair falling into his eyes. A shiver of nervous goose bumps spread over her skin. He sank down into the chair beside her. “You look . . . comfortable.” “Cheerio, old chap,” Serena responded in a playful, mock-British accent, and held up the black key card, marked with only four letters—SHPH. “Soho House Penthouse,” she explained with a flirtatious wink.

Nate reached for the card to get a closer look, but she playfully swatted his hand away.

He shrugged and took off his shirt, settling into the plush white lounge-chair cushion. “Your British accent sounds faker than Madonna’s.” He picked up her glass of lemonade and took a long swig, smacking his lips in satisfaction as he put the half-empty glass back down.