“I still need a Mallory. I’m casting her tomorrow on the middle of the Brooklyn Bridge at dusk.” Secretly she wanted to don a wig and play Mallory herself, but then there’d be no one to hold the camera. The original Mickey and Mallory Knox had been played by the hugely muscular bald cowboy Woody Harrelson and the gangly doe-eyed Southern teen bride Juliette Lewis. Dan and Vanessa couldn’t have looked more different. But that was the fun of an adaptation—she could use the story and fuck with it.
“Anyone interested?” she asked. The question was a private little joke with herself. Vanessa knew no one in the room was even listening.
Blair’s arm shot up. “I’ll be the director!” she announced. Obviously she hadn’t heard the question, but Blair was so desperate to impress the admissions office at Yale, she was always the first to volunteer for anything.
Vanessa opened her mouth to speak. Direct this, she wanted to say, before firing a bazooka and blowing up Blair’s perfectly coiffed head.
“Put your hand down, Blair,” Mr. Beckham sighed tiredly. “Vanessa just got through telling us she is directing and writing and filming. Unless you’d like to try out for the part of Mallory, I suggest you focus on your own project.”
Blair glared sourly at him. She hated teachers like Mr. Beckham. He had such a chip on his shoulder because he was from Nebraska and had finally attained his sad dream of living in New York City only to find himself teaching a useless class instead of directing cutting-edge films and becoming famous. One day Mrs. McLean would probably make an announcement over the loudspeaker that Mr. Beckham had crawled into the space-saver oven in his pathetically tiny studio apartment and had never come out.
Or maybe Blair should just kill him herself and put him out of his misery.
“Whatever,” Blair said, tucking her dark hair behind her ears. “I guess I really don’t have time.”
And she didn’t.
Blair was chair of the Social Services Board and ran the French Club; she tutored third graders in reading; she worked in a soup kitchen one night a week, had SAT prep on Tuesdays, and on Thursday afternoons she took a fashion design course with Tim Gunn. On weekends she played tennis so she could keep up her national ranking. Besides all that, she was on the planning committee of every social function anyone could be bothered to go to, and the fall/winter calendar was busy, busy, busy.
Never mind all the murders she’d have to commit to keep up with Serena.
Vanessa flicked on the lights and walked back to her seat at the front of the room.
“It’s okay, Blair, I wanted a taller girl for Mallory anyway.” Vanessa smoothed her uniform around her stocky thighs and sat down daintily, in an almost perfect imitation of Blair.
Blair smirked at Vanessa’s prickly shaved head and glanced at Mr. Beckham. Would he notice if she pulled Vanessa’s ugly black turtleneck over her eyes and pushed her out the school doors in front of a moving Hummer?
Vanessa smirked back at her, wondering if she could get the Mason Pearson boar-bristle hairbrush sticking out of Blair’s Miu Miu handbag all the way up Blair’s ass before the bell rang.
Mr. Beckham cleared his throat and stood up. “Well, that’s it, girls. You can leave a little early today. Vanessa, why don’t you put a sign-up sheet out in the hall for your casting tomorrow?”
The girls began to pack up their bags and file out of the room. Vanessa ripped a blank sheet of paper out of her notebook and wrote the necessary details at the top of it. Natural Born Killers, a modern retelling of the violently romantic Oliver Stone classic. Try out for Mallory. Wednesday, sunset. Brooklyn Bridge.
She resisted writing a description of the girl she was looking for because she didn’t want to scare anyone away.
In the original, Woody Harrelson and Juliette Lewis were an oddly complementary couple. He was big and strong, while she was willowy and baby-faced. He looked like he could take on ten men and was totally smitten with her. She was the more brutal killer and doubted his fidelity. In her remake, Vanessa wanted to reverse the roles. Mickey would be frail, mentally unbalanced, and deadly. Mallory would be a statuesque beauty, confident and strong, and madly in love with Mickey. Like in the original, her Mickey and Mallory Knox would become icons of their own fucked-up world, a serial-killing Bonnie and Clyde. But the more they killed, the more they were doomed. Death hung around their necks like a boa constrictor, choking them. Vanessa wanted her film to be shocking and depressing and graphic and beautiful-—like the poetry Dan wrote, only grosser.
The perfect Mallory would be the kind of girl to make Dan glow, even though he never ate and walked around all day chainsmoking and looking half-dead. Mallory would be full of movement and laughter—exactly the opposite of Dan, whose silent, caffeine- and nicotine-fueled energy caused his eyelids to twitch and made his hands shake sometimes.
Vanessa hugged herself. Just thinking about Dan made her feel like she had to pee. Under that shaved head, that pale skin, and that impossible black turtleneck, she was just another neurotic, demonic, boy-crazy girl.
Face it: We’re all the same.
a power lunch
“The invitations, the gift bags, and the champagne. That’s all we have left.” Blair lifted a cucumber slice off her plate and nibbled at it thoughtfully. “Kate Spade is still doing the gift bags, but I don’t know—do you think Kate Spade is too boring?”
“I think Kate Spade is perfect,” Isabel said, winding her dark hair into a knot on top of her head. “I mean, think how cool it is to have a plain black satin handbag now instead of all those faux animal skins with zippers and chains. It’s all such… bad taste, don’t you think?”
Blair nodded. “Completely,” she agreed. “Plus, black doesn’t stain.”
Always a plus when you’re out and there’s a bloody murder weapon to stash.
“Hey, what about my leopard sealskin coat?” Kati demanded, looking hurt.
“That’s real seal,” Blair argued. “It’s different.”
The three girls were sitting in the Constance cafeteria, discussing the upcoming Kiss Me or Die benefit to raise money for the Central Park birds of prey. Blair was chair of the organizing committee, of course.
“Those poor birds,” Blair sighed.
As if she could give two shits about the damned birds.
Isabel withdrew a tube of Chanel Goldtrotter lip gloss from her bag and began to smear it over her plump, dry lips.
“Wait, isn’t that Nicki’s?” Kati asked.
Isabel shrugged her shoulders and tossed the lip gloss back into her bag. “I took it from her locker. It’s not like she’s going to use it anymore.”
The girls had heard through the Constance grapevine that Nicki Button had suffered a brain hemorrhage right after morning assembly and would no longer be attending school, because she was dead.
“I really want this party to be good,” Blair insisted, eager to get back to the topic at hand. “You guys are coming to my planning committee meeting tomorrow, right?”
“Of course we’re coming,” Isabel said. “What about Serena—did you tell her about the party? Is she joining the committee?”
Blair stared blankly back at her.
Kati wrinkled her pert little ski-jump nose and nudged Isabel with her elbow. “I bet Serena is too busy, you know, dealing with everything. All her problems. She probably doesn’t have time.”
Across the cafeteria, Serena herself was just joining the lunch line. She noticed Blair right away and smiled, waving cheerfully as if to say, “I’ll be there in a minute!” Blair blinked, pretending she’d forgotten to put in her contacts, even though she didn’t wear them.
Serena slid her tray along the metal counter, choosing a lemon yogurt and skipping all the other lunch selections until she came to the water dispenser, where she filled up a cup with boiling water and placed a Lipton tea bag, a slice of lemon, and a packet of sugar on the saucer. Then she carried her tray over to the salad bar, where she filled up a plate with a pile of romaine lettu
ce and poured a small puddle of blue cheese dressing beside it. She would have preferred a shaved horse meat and arugula sandwich in the Gare du Nord in Paris, eaten in a hurry before leaping onto the Eurostar train to London, but this was almost as good. It was the same lunch she’d eaten at Constance every day since sixth grade. Blair always got the same thing too. They called it the “starvation plate.”
Blair watched Serena assemble her lunch with compulsive precision, dreading the moment when the psychotic blonde would sit down next to her in all her glory and start trying to be friends again. Ugh.
“Hey guys.” Serena smiled radiantly as she sat down next to Blair. “Just like old times, huh?” She laughed and peeled back the top of her yogurt. The cuffs of her brother’s old shirt were frayed and bloodstained. Stray threads dangled in the yogurt’s watery whey.
“Hello, Serena,” Kati and Isabel responded in unison.
Blair lifted her head and forced the corners of her glossy lips upwards. It was almost a smile.
Serena stirred her yogurt and nodded at Blair’s tray, where the remains of her bagel with cream cheese and cucumber were strewn. “I guess you outgrew the starvation plate,” she observed.
“I guess,” Blair said. She smashed a lump of cream cheese into her paper napkin with her thumb, staring at Serena’s sloppy cuffs in bewilderment. It was fine to wear your brother’s old clothes in ninth and tenth grade. Then, it was cool. But now, with the cuffs so obviously bloodstained, it just seemed unsanitary.
“So my schedule totally sucks,” Serena said, licking her spoon. “I don’t have a single class with you guys.”
“Um, that’s because you’re not taking any APs,” Kati observed. “I’m surprised you didn’t have to repeat your junior year.”
Serena frowned. The teachers at Hanover who’d given her Cs had boosted her grades when she’d asked them to. Right before they died.
“My grades were okay.”
“You’re lucky you’re not taking any APs,” Isabel sighed at her untouched bagel. “I have so much work to do I can’t eat.”
Luckily the trend this fall is “fatally thin.”
“Well, at least I’ll have more time for fun.” Serena nudged Blair’s elbow. “What’s going on this month, anyway? I feel so completely out of it.”
Blair sat up straight and picked up her plastic cup, only to find there was no water left in it to drink. She knew she should tell Serena all about the Kiss Me or Die party and how Serena could help with the preparations and how fun it was all going to be. But somehow she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Serena was out of it, all right. And Blair wanted her to stay that way.
“It’s been pretty lame. There really isn’t much going on until Christmas,” Blair lied, shooting a warning glance at Kati and Isabel.
“Really?” Serena said, disappointed. “Well, what about tonight? You guys want to go out?”
Blair glanced at her friends. She was all for going out, but it was only Tuesday. The most she ever did on a Tuesday night was rent a movie with Nate. Leave it to Serena to make her feel boring.
“I have to study for my AP French test tomorrow.” Blair stood up. “Actually, I have a meeting with Madame Rogers right now.”
Serena frowned and began to chew on her raw thumbnail, a new habit she’d picked up at boarding school. “Well, maybe I’ll give Nate a call. He’ll go out with me.”
Blair picked up her tray and resisted hurling it in Serena’s face. Keep your hands off him! she wanted to scream, jumping onto the table ninja-style. Hiyeeh-yah! But she’d already killed one person in plain sight today.
Speaking of which…
“Did you hear what happened to Nicki Button?” Blair said, her voice laced with acid.
Serena shook her head. “What about her? I haven’t seen—”
“Gone,” Blair interrupted her. “For good,” she added with a smirk.
Serena stared at her.
That’s right, S. You created a monster.
“I’ll see you later, guys,” Blair told the other two girls, and walked stiffly away.
Serena sighed and flicked a piece of lettuce off her plate. Blair was being such a bitch. When were they going to start having fun? She looked up at Kati and Isabel hopefully, but they were getting ready to leave too.
“I’ve got a stupid college advisor meeting,” Kati said.
“And I have to go up to the art room and put my painting away,” Isabel said.
“Before anyone slashes it?” Kati joked.
“Oh, shut up,” Isabel said.
They stood up with their trays.
“It’s so good to have you back, Serena,” Kati said in her fakest voice.
“Yeah,” Isabel agreed before they walked away.
Serena twirled her spoon around and around in her yogurt container, wondering what had happened to everyone. They were all acting like freaks. She plucked at a blood-soaked thread dangling from her shirt cuff and bit it off with her teeth. She needed to get happy. Everyone needed to get happy. And she of all people knew just what to do.
When in doubt, throw a party.
hey people!
TWO PARTIES TO CHOOSE FROM AND IT’S ONLY TUESDAY NIGHT
Looks like S didn’t come home to lie low. Tonight she’s ringing in the fall season with a pajamas-and-papaya-peppertinis soiree at her house, complete with tiki torches, and there is no guest list, so you can bring your little brother and his nose-picking friends and get them drunk for the first time, and her maid will even clean up afterwards. Or, you can go to B’s house because now that S is having a shindig, she’s throwing a bigger and better one with a DJ, full bar, and catering. Not that we mind. These are the sort of choices we live for. Until one of us dies, which is inevitable.
ABOUT THOSE VIOLENT, INEXPLICABLE DEATHS
Is it just me being paranoid, or is this neighborhood getting weirdly and wildly unsafe? I heard that New Jersey arms heiress is having a yard sale. Hopefully all the pretty purse-sized handguns won’t sell out before I get there. Although I haven’t a clue how to use one. Maybe I’m more the hunting-dagger-in-a-thigh-holster type. Or I could just get a big dog with teeth the size of steak knives. We girls have to protect ourselves—from each other.
WHERE THE BOYS ARE
Thanks for checking in, although most of you had little to say about S or B. Too scared to talk? You’d much rather talk about boys. Wouldn’t we all?
YOUR E-MAIL
q:
Dear gg,
D sounds sweet. Whys he so hot for S? Shes just a ho.
—Bebe
a:
Dear Bebe,
I happen to know that D is not that sweet and innocent. Try reading over his shoulder. That’s some kinky shit.
—GG
q:
dear GG,
what does N do at lunchtime?? i go to school near him, and i wonder if i see him all the time without realizing it. Yikes!
—ShyGirl
a:
Okay, if you want to know so badly, then I’ll tell you.
St. Jude’s lets its senior boys out for lunch. So right now N is probably headed up to that little pizza joint on the corner of Eightieth and Madison. Vino’s? Vinnie’s? Whatever. Anyway, they have good slices and one of the delivery guys sells pretty decent pot. N is one of his regulars. There’s usually a group of girls from L’Ecole standing around outside the pizza place, so N will stop and flirt with this one girl who I’ll call Claire, who acts all shy and pretends she doesn’t speak English, but she’s actually really bad at French and a huge slut.
N has this cute little gag where he buys two slices and he always offers Claire one. She holds on to it the whole time they’re talking and finally takes a little weensy bite off the tip of the slice. Then N goes, “I can’t believe you did that, you’re eating my pizza!” and swipes it out of her hands and eats the whole thing in like two bites. This makes Claire laugh so hard her boobs nearly pop out of her shirt. The L’Ecole girls all wear really
tight clothes and short skirts and high heels. They’re like, the ho’s of the Upper East Side school system. N likes to flirt with them, and so far that’s as far as it’s gone. But if B leads him on any longer, he might start giving Claire more than just a bite of his pizza. This time, though, Claire surprises him by asking if he’s heard about S. Claire claims to have heard that S not only got pregnant last year, but that she gave birth in France. Her baby’s name is Jules and he is alive and well and living in Marseilles.
As for D—well, he’s sitting in a dark corner of the Riverside Prep courtyard again, reading a book of Sylvia Plath poems and drinking a ninety-nine-cent cup of coffee. I know that sounds extremely sad, but don’t worry about D. His time is about to come. Stay tuned.
SIGHTINGS
K was seen returning a suede zebra-print Betsey Johnson handbag at Saks Fifth Avenue. Personally, I thought the bag was cute. But someone must have changed her mind for her. Heaven forbid she change her own mind.
See you at B’s party. Bet you’re too scared to go to S’s.
Aren’t we all?
You know you love me,
the naked and the dead
“Hey, Nate. It’s Serena. Just calling to see if you’re planning to stop by my pajama party tonight. Hope so. There are real torches. Can’t wait. Love you. Bye.”
Serena hung up. Some party. She’d spread the word around school and posted an open invite online. She’d changed into a pair of gold Chanel short-shorts and a smiley face–embellished pajama tank top she’d had since eighth grade. The cook had filled the bathtubs with ice and pepper-flavored vodka and papayas. The maid had lit tall tiki torches in every corner. Serena’s favorite party playlist was on, a slow three-hour build from acoustic guitar to dance music. Now, the acoustic part was almost over, but so far no one had shown up.
Her room was quiet. Even Fifth Avenue was still, except for the occasional passing taxi. From where she sat on her big canopy bed, she could see the silver-framed photograph of her family, taken on a chartered sailboat in Greece when she was twelve. They were all in bathing suits. Her brother, Erik, who was fourteen at the time, was making a big fart kiss on Serena’s cheek while their parents looked on, laughing. Serena had gotten her period for the first time on that trip and Erik had swum ashore, stolen a Vespa, and bought her some maxipads. He came back with them in a little plastic bag, tied on top of his head, her hero. Serena had thrown her ruined underwear overboard. They were probably still there, stuck on a reef somewhere along with the remains of some of the boys she’d killed.
Gossip Girl, Psycho Killer Page 8
