Don't You Forget About Me (7 page)

Or
not
think.

His father swallowed and set his tumbler down on the armrest of his chair. “And there’s something else.” Something else? What other torture could his father possibly inflict on him? What could be worse than not graduating with the rest of his friends? Military school? Reform school?
Prison?

Nope, repeating senior year would be far more humiliating and way less exciting.

The Captain’s face was so somber that Nate had to lower his eyes to his father’s nautical-striped dress shirt in order to keep from completely panicking. Once a year his mother ordered a complete custom-made wardrobe from one of the exclusive men’s boutiques on Jermyn Street in London—new suits, ties, and dress shirts—all fitted to the Captain’s proportions.

“I want you to meet my friend, Captain Chips White,” his father continued. “I obviously haven’t gotten through to you, but if anyone can, it’s my old navy mentor.” Nate slunk down further in his chair. Not only did he have to get chewed out by his father, but this scary Captain Chips guy his dad was always going on about would be in on his demise too? Chips would probably use some archaic navy torture technique to teach him a lesson—hold him underwater until he nearly drowned, or take him sailing, cut off his nuts, and then throw him overboard to swim back to Manhattan through the polluted Hudson. Nate would probably grow an extra arm or a tumor on his back, and he’d go from being happy-go-lucky, easygoing Archibald to a hunchbacked, three-armed, no-balled freak. Blair would be all over him then.

Captain Archibald raised his glass with a smug smirk, and Nate felt his chin begin to quiver as he gripped the roach in his pocket.

Prison’s not looking so bad now, is it?

Disclaimer: All the real names of places, people, and events have been altered or abbreviated to protect the innocent. Namely, me.

hey people!

The days until we leave for college are tick, tick, ticking away, and our mailboxes are piling up with college orientation packets. You might be tempted to actually read those flashy booklets sent by your school in their collegiate colors, but really—get-to-know-you camping trips? Meet-and-greet on-campus sessions? Let me tell you, there’s no better way to be labeled a dork than to fall for that one. Do you really want to get introduced to that lax hottie down the hall with leaves in your hair and bear poo smeared all over your never-before-worn-and-never-to-be-worn-again North Face hiking boots? Honestly. Trust falls are for losers without trust funds. You’ve just got to trust me on this one!

So here’s my question, people: why can’t the deans figure out a way to make college orientation not a repeat of fifth-grade summer camp? As usual, it’s up to me to show those stuffy academic types the way.

suggestions for making college orientation fun instead of unbearably loserish

(1) Bonding activities.
Ban all camping trips, sightseeing tours, or campus scavenger hunts.
Nobody
wants to be dragged around a muddy forest, sit in a stale-smelling tour bus all day, or check retardedly obscure objects off a list as part of a “bonding experience.” If there’s one thing we know how to do, it’s bond. Just lead us to an open bar and leave us to our own devices.

(2) Age limits.
Any freshmen welcome event that involves adults—read: deans, RAs, and other people who will soon be responsible for getting us in trouble—is a total killjoy. IDs should be checked at the door, and anyone
over
the age of twenty-one should not be welcome!

(3) No more nametags.
They ruin every well-planned outfit and practically
invite
skeezy losers to stare at your chest. If you’re cute, I’ll tell you my name before you even ask.

While the college deans may not know how to throw a welcome party, Manhattan girls sure know how to throw
goodbye
parties. I’m so tired from last night’s festivities that if I don’t eat my morning H&H bagel (toasted, please, with extra butter) soon, I may just pass out on my keyboard. Too many vodka gimlets, too many floral-patterned silk wrap dresses from Biba and Diane von Furstenberg, and too many cute boys wearing yummy, sherbet-colored polo shirts. If there really can be too many. But the soiree all over the gossip airwaves is a goodbye blowout planned at the Met next week. What better place to say
bon voyage
than at one of Manhattan’s most timeless and exclusive venues? One thing’s for sure: when that night finally rolls around, we’ll all be looking like works of art.

your e-mail

A:
Dear GG,

I was walking past the boat pond in Central Park on Friday night when I saw
N
sitting on a bench smoking a doobie,
alone
, looking all worried about something. Does this mean that he and
B
could be over?

—Giddily Hopeful

A:
Dear GH,

The yumminess of
N
is totally undeniable, but unfortunately for all of us, I don’t see him breaking free from
B
’s siren song anytime soon. Look on the bright side—the city is positively crawling with sweaty, practically half-naked boys in need of a nice cool soak down. Remember, friends don’t let friends shower alone, especially during a heat wave. Conserve water—it’s all about the environment, people. So break out the Bliss lemon-and-sage body wash and lather up.

—GG

Q:
Dear GG,

My boyfriend is leaving for college soon, and I’m heartbroken. I’m only a junior, so I have another year to hang around, waiting to graduate, and I’m worried that he’ll be tempted by all those college girls. Do long-distance relationships really work? —Left Behind

A:
Dear LB,

In my experience, long-distance relationships are dicey—even if you only live across the park from one another. If that’s got you down, here’s my Rx: go to your kitchen and find some Godiva cocoa powder (you may have to dig around in back for the good stuff—the cook always tries to hide it), and whip yourself up an iced hot chocolate. Sip it while sitting at your iBook. Look—you’re multitasking! Don’t you feel better already? Now go to eLUXURY.com and buy yourself something fabulous. When that’s done, cruise all the cute guys on Facebook and MySpace and send the ones you like best some cleverly flirtatious e-mails. By the time the weekend comes, you’ll have a bunch of hot dates at your beck and call—and an even hotter outfit to wear! Trust me, by Sunday you’ll barely remember College Boy’s name. —GG

Q:
Dear Mme. Gossip Girl,

My darling son has recently had a sexual awakening and is coming to terms with his long-latent homosexuality. After not seeing my dear boy for some years, I want to be there for him in this most exciting time, but I’m not quite sure how to go about it. I’ve already given him some gifts relating to his new identity, but I want to do
more
. Hallmark doesn’t seem to make an “I love my gay son” card. Please help!

Sincerely,

Loving Mother of a Gay Son

A:
Dear LMGS,

I’m going to give you the same advice I give to anyone looking to celebrate something exciting and new: have a party! And invite
everyone
. There’s no better way to say “I love you.” Plus it’ll give your son the chance to get all dolled—er, dressed—up. Here’s to partying the gay (I mean day) away!

—GG

sightings

B
in the
La Perla
store on Fifth Avenue buying a sky blue bra-and-thong set. Can the flames of desire between
B
and
N
be waning already? We hope not—although I’d be happy to help him out if he’s bored with monogamy. . . .
N
sitting outside his town house looking contemplative—or maybe he was just under the influence as usual. . . .
V
at the
NYU bookstore
on Washington Place, asking if they had any school logo T-shirts in black instead of their trademark purple. Not exactly the school spirit,
V
! . . .
K
and
I
shopping for their back-to-school wardrobes at
TSE,
buying armloads of cashmere sweaters—even though they’re going to school in Florida? Well, cashmere
is
nice over a bikini. . . .
C
at the
Shake Shack
in Madison Square Park, chomping down on a cheeseburger and feeding that spoiled little white monkey of his French fries with extra ketchup. I wonder if they get cited for health code violations. If so, we’ll know why.

It’s time to watch some
Laguna Beach
reruns—gotta love to hate those ridiculous nouveau riche kids—before I skip out for my mani/pedi appointment at Elizabeth Arden Red Door Spa. Nothing like buffing up and staying silky smooth for the dog days of summer—not to mention the devilishly handsome French waiters at Pastis. . . . Down, boys!

Vouz m’adorez, ne dites pas le contraire,

gossipgirl

TO: undisclosed-recipients

FROM: [email protected]

Subject: Dan’s gay—hooray!

Dear recent graduates of Riverside Prep: I hope you don’t mind my abusing your school yearbook’s contact list, but I’m sure you’ll be happy when you find out why: I’m writing to invite you all to a momentous occasion, the coming-out party for your dear classmate and my dear son, Daniel Jonah Humphrey. After four years of going to school with Dan, I’m sure you’ve all been waiting for this big day!

Please be our guests in apartment #9D, 815 West End Ave., this Saturday (tomorrow!) at 2 p.m. Food and drink will be served, and it’s sure to be a merry time. But hush-hush—it’s a
surprise
! Whatever you do, don’t tell Daniel!

Hope to see you all on Saturday! Please dress your colorful best for the occasion.

Love and rainbows,

Jeanette (Daniel’s mom)

TO: [email protected]

FROM: [email protected]

Subject: Get ready for your close-up . . .

. . . because it’s showtime!

Due to the fact that even the fuckhead critics love my film, the release date for
BAF
has been moved up to September. Sweetheart, you are about to be a
star
, thanks to me.

That freakworm Bailey Winter is probably peeing himself trying to sew you a choice of couture gowns for the NYC premier next month, lucky girl. You’ll have to wear your own clothes to the press conference, though. You and that queen Thad are scheduled to do press this Tuesday at 5 p.m. in one of those tacky penthouses at SoHo House. Don’t worry, I’ll handle all the questions—I just want you two to sit there look and pretty. Think you can handle it?

See you Tuesday.

KM

honesty is totally overrated

“So,
why
can’t you come over?” Blair couldn’t keep the irritation out of her voice. She was annoyed. Actually, she was more than just annoyed—she was totally fucking pissed. At Nate, and at pretty much everyone else—
especially
her stupid, traitorous, moving-to-L.A., dysfunctional
mess
of a family.

No, please, tell us how you really feel.

She sprawled out on her stepbrother Aaron’s old bed, rubbing her legs against the all-natural, organic, puke green hemp comforter cover he’d bought at some hippie supply store last winter. Even though Aaron had moved out of the room ages ago—he’d been on a road trip all summer doing God knows what, leaving his bedroom to Blair, since hers had been turned into Yale’s nursery—it still smelled of boy sweat and Mookie, Aaron’s disgusting boxer dog. Then, to make matters worse, Blair’s cat, Kitty Minky, had decided to move in and mark her territory—spraying everything until the whole room reeked of cat pee, wet dog, and the herbal cigarettes Aaron was always smoking. Blair loved her baby sister, but really, did she have to get displaced from her own beautiful bedroom and into this shithole?

“There’s um, some
stuff
I have to get done. It, like, can’t really wait,” Nate mumbled. Blair could always tell when he was lying—he sounded even more incomprehensible than usual. She picked at the rough cloth of the comforter with her French-manicured fingernails. Blair loved surprises, but somehow she didn’t think Nate was hiding anything fun.

“Well, I’ll just come over there then.” She rolled over onto her back and held a strand of shining chestnut-colored hair in front of her face, mentally reminding herself to book an appointment at Warren Tricomi—she desperately needed a trim. The tips were bleached and parched from all the sun and salt water from when she was at sea.

Poor thing.

“No,” Nate answered quickly, “I mean, uh, you can’t come over here.”
Excusez-moi?
They just spent a month together on a boat, totally in love, and now they’d been home for twenty-four hours and he didn’t want to see her? She sat up and impatiently switched the phone from one ear to another. She was probably going to get brain cancer from talking on her cell so much. Then Nate would be sorry.