Take a Chance on Me

by Cecily von Ziegesar

  Because when you forget about something, it automatically disappears.

  cleaning out my closet

  “Baby?” Edie’s voice echoed through the hallway on Friday night.

  “Yeah?” Baby called, deftly stepping over their black cat, Rothko. She was deep inside her closet, not even knowing how to begin to follow Lynn’s orders. Vintage dresses were puddled in heaps on top of each other. Cardboard boxes she hadn’t bothered opening since they’d moved from Nantucket were precariously stacked against the back wall. Photos were scattered on the hardwood floor.

  “What are you doing?” Edie asked, stepping into the walk-in closet. “Oh!” She bent down and picked up a mustard yellow wool poncho off the floor. “This was mine!” she exclaimed tenderly, her voice muffled as she pulled it over her blond-bobbed head and modeled it for her Baby. “What do you think?”

  Baby critically appraised her middle-aged mom. Rather than making her appear shapeless, it actually accentuated Edie’s rail-thin frame and made her look almost cool.

  Relatively speaking, obviously.

  “Nice, Mom,” Baby said. “You want it back?”

  “No.” Edie shook her head. “This was from the year I worked on an organic farm in Vermont. It was a few years before you three were born. Too many memories.” Edie shrugged and pulled it off, shaking her head as if to get rid of any negative associations.

  “Really?” Baby asked, surprised. It sounded like Edie had been following Lynn’s advice, not to hang on to anything that caused her pain. Was it really just common sense?

  “Yeah. It just doesn’t work for me,” Edie said, ruffling her daughter’s hair. “Anyway, I know your brother and sister are out, so I’m just letting you know I’m heading out as well. I’m meeting Remington,” she added conspiratorially. “Will you be all right by yourself? You’ve seemed distracted lately. I’ve been meaning to ask you about it, but I know that you like to find your own answers. To stumble on the path. You’re a lot like me,” Edie added fondly.

  “I’m okay,” Baby said, meaning it. Or at least, she knew she’d be okay, soon enough. But she had to be the one to work through her problems—no therapist held the key. “But thanks, Mom.” Baby smiled. She glanced at her closet with renewed vigor, her eyes falling on the way too long Citizen jeans she’d stolen from Avery last year. She might as well give those back.

  “Good.” Edie smiled and glided out of the room. “Don’t wait up for me!”

  Baby sat down on the closet floor and pulled a box toward her. She opened the flaps and peered inside. There were dozens of old 45 records, a gift from her eighth-grade boyfriend, even though neither of them had had record players. Those could definitely go. Underneath the records was a marble-bound composition book. Baby quickly riffled through the pages. It was a scrapbook filled with photos, written-out lyrics, and ticket stubs that she’d made as a Valentine’s present for Tom, who had, in typical stoner style, never gotten around to taking it home. She wrinkled her nose. That could definitely go, too.

  Rothko stepped on Baby’s lap, swiping his paw at a piece of white gauzy material above him.

  “You helping?” Baby asked in a singsongy voice, burying her face in the cat’s soft fur. She pulled down the material he’d been swiping at. It was a beautiful white Rodarte dress with flowers hand sewn along the bodice. It was the dress she’d worn at the swim team benefit, the night she’d broken up with J.P. His mother had picked it out for her and while it was beautiful, Baby had spent the whole dance feeling awkward and stifled.

  Definitively, she threw it into the donation pile. It was beautiful, and hopefully for someone else, it would have only good associations. But it wasn’t for her. Rothko meowed indignantly, stalked over to the dress, and lay down on it.

  “You can have it.” Baby shrugged and smiled, not even feeling silly for talking to the cat. Instead, she felt a wave of relief flood through her. Seeing the pile forming on the “no” side of the floor reminded her that she wasn’t dating a stoner, or a preppy buttoned-up mogul in training. She was dating… herself. Because really, who was more important to please than that?

  Aye-aye, sister!

  hey people!

  party patrol news flash

  We interrupt your regularly scheduled partying to bring you this bulletin: A certain auburn-haired socialite and the star of tonight’s show is gone. Don’t put out the Amber alert or anything—I think we can safely say she left willingly. But a little after midnight, the face of the green movement was nowhere to be found. Most curious was her partner in crime: girl reporter A, known to be J’s frenemy, seems to be missing, too. Hmmm. Caviar-toast points and a jungle theme just weren’t cutting it for J? It’s my party and I’ll ditch if I want to?

  So I guess it’s official, then: Leaving early is the new staying out all night. Unless you want to be seen as a friendless loser who has nowhere else to go, make sure you leave a party before the witching hour—when the bartenders stops serving drinks, girls are found not so subtly taking naps on the furniture in the ladies’ lounge, and the bouncer is kicking people out instead of letting them in. Remember, it’s not a competition, and you’re not winning points for being the last one tottering around in your Manolos.

  sleeping over

  Of course, this time of night is when the afterparties start. If you’re hosting, proceed with caution. Sooner or later, your guests are going to fall asleep—most likely with each other. And the morning-after drama is not for the faint of heart.

  So where does that leave you? You could be like some and skip the party to clean out your closet. At least you’ll be popular with your maid. Or you could host a hippie hempfest at your town house, like some others. Whatever you’re doing—whether you’re in the VIP room, knee-deep in couture, or getting wasted with your new BFF—have fun tonight! Or at least, with what’s left of it. There are about five hours till sunrise, which is when even I hang up my dancing shoes….

  sightings

  B outside her apartment building, throwing away armfuls of clothing and other trinkets. Spring cleaning in October?… A and J drinking five-dollar pitchers of Bud Light at some divey bar on Lispenard Street, around the corner from the Cashman Lofts—did the party change location? J stumbling into a cab, stumbling back into the lofts, then stumbling into an elevator with J.P.—and an army of photogs. Seems like one couple won’t be getting very much sleep… and not for the reason they’d hoped. O getting takeout at some Chinese joint on third, then hurrying home—solo. What a shame, especially since we all know what an aphrodisiac greasy Chinese food can be. R paying some pizza guy outside his apartment. I know prices have gone up, but the cash he slipped him seemed to more than cover a couple pies.

  your e-mail

  q: Dear Gossip Girl,

  You’re cute. Tell you what. Meet me at the Waverly, 8 p.m., Monday. I’m gonna make you a star, kiddo.

  —sunglassesatnight

  a: Dear SatN,

  Thanks for the invite, but I’m pretty content with my current star wattage.

  —GG

  q: Dear Gossip Girl,

  I’m a guidance counselor at Harrington, a private, independent, all-boys boarding school in the UK. I received an application from one young man’s parents. He goes to an excellent school in Manhattan and has a stellar academic record. That’s all well and good, but we do like to get a sense of our boys through their peers so we’ll know if they’ll be a good fit into our community. If you can vouch for him, then we’ll let him in immediately. Cheerio!

  —RugbyandCrew

  a: Dear Rugby,

  Sadly, I don’t think this bloke will be able to be pulled away from New York—or his mother’s greenhouse—any time soon. The climate of the UK isn’t so good for the type of growth he wishes to do. Although he certainly gets along with diverse groups!

  —Gossip Girl

  All right. Back to the afterparty.

  You know you love me.

  gossip girl

  r gets cle
an

  “Cuddle party, man!”

  Rhys woke up on Saturday morning to something thudding against his chest. What the fuck? He’d just been having a dream that he was living in the bakery section of Zabar’s, in a self-constructed hut of baguettes. It was a pretty good dream actually. Now he opened one eye to a brilliant blue sky, with clouds floating above him. Where the fuck was he?

  Hint: not an Upper West Side food emporium.

  “You’re awake!” a gleeful voice called. Suddenly, the tanned face of Lucas appeared above him, grinning.

  “Guh,” Rhys burbled. It was too hard to actually form any words. He opened one eye again. His eyes felt weird and crusted together. Lucas was standing above him, clad in one of Rhys’s dad’s kilts, sans shirt. He was holding what Rhys recognized as his parents’ custom-made sheets from the Monogrammed Linen Shop in London above his head like a tent.

  “Come on, feel the love, brother!” a female voice slurred in a half-stoned, half-drunk monotone. Rhys suddenly noticed a strange weight on his arm. He looked over to see Lisa slung across it, her hairy armpit raised to the sun as if in salutation.

  That’ll wake you up in the morning.

  Rhys hurriedly pushed himself up into a standing position. He felt seasick, like the time he and his parents had spent a month cruising on the Aegean, then stopped abruptly on some random island. As soon as he’d stepped ashore, he’d thrown up, even though he’d never once felt sick on the boat.

  “You don’t look so good,” Lucas said in concern. “You need a bowl.” He pulled his pipe out of the back pocket of his cargo shorts.

  “No!” Rhys yelled, practically ready to hurl as he stood up. Lucas shrugged, then lay in the spot Rhys had been, snuggling next to Lisa. Lucas closed his eyes and immediately seemed to fall asleep. Rhys glanced wildly around, feeling his heart beat faster and faster. What the fuck had happened last night? He looked around the terrace. There was a pyramid constructed out of empty Tecate cans, and, inexplicably, the Italian greyhound sculpture from downstairs.

  “What did we do?” Rhys mumbled weakly, though it wasn’t like anyone was listening. He wobbled down the narrow staircase from the terrace to the rest of the house. Maybe they’d just spent the whole time on the terrace. Maybe it wasn’t too bad.

  Or maybe it’s a million times worse.

  “What’s going on?” Rhys called tentatively, walking into the kitchen. Tins of caviar were open and strewn across the Italian marble island in the center of the room.

  “Dude, I think your fridge is broken. The milk tastes funky.” Vince shook his head sadly, pulling away from the refrigerator. Rhys looked down and realized half the hardwood floor was covered with four inches of water.

  “Man, that party rocked,” Vince continued, seemingly un aware water was pooled up to his ankles. Rhys nodded tightly. As long as the damage was confined to the kitchen, it wasn’t that bad.

  “Dude, you’re such a fucking good swimmer. You were tearing it up on the float last night.”

  Sitting on the floor, among the corgis’ food bowls, was a kid Rhys had never even seen. He was stacking a pile of scones into a tower, furrowing his brow in consternation. Rhys gripped the countertop for support. All of a sudden, images from last night flashed through his mind. Bobbing for his mom’s tomatoes in the pool. Making bongs out of the tomatoes. Smoking up. Sharing a sloppy kiss with Lisa on the balcony. Raiding the kitchen cabinet and the wine cellar. Oh no.

  “I’m gonna be sick,” Rhys announced, turning and bolting to the bathroom. Inside, tomato juice stained the delicate rose-printed wallpaper. A guy and a girl were both sleeping peacefully in the tub, the guy holding a bong protectively against his chest like a long-lost friend.

  “Out!” Rhys yelled. Even yelling hurt. All he wanted to do was take a long shower and hope this was a long, weird, trippy nightmare that would soon be over.

  The phone rang.

  “’Lo?” Rhys could hear Vince answer from the kitchen.

  “Out!” Rhys bellowed again to the sleeping couple in the tub before tearing out and grabbing the phone, his heart pounding.

  “Rhys, darling? Who was that?” Lady Sterling trilled on the other end of the line. She sounded even more British than usual.

  “Um, the… delivery guy,” Rhys finished lamely.

  “Darling, really? Why’s he answering the phone?” Lady Sterling asked in confusion. “Ah well, your father and I will be home this evening. I just wanted to let you know. We had a delightful time but then your father’s awful brothers got into the old family business and we just couldn’t be bothered,” she finished.

  Rhys cringed. “Sure, Mom,” he said automatically, noticing Vince curiously picking up a delicate glass daisy-filled vase from a small end table in the corner.

  “Put that back!” Rhys hissed.

  “Rhys?” Lady Sterling asked questioningly.

  “I’m—I have to go.” Rhys rushed to hang up the phone. He wasn’t even sure how many people were still in the house.

  Where there’s smoke, there are dirty hippie stoners….

  the dawning of a new day

  Jack tossed and turned on the organic cotton sheets stretched tightly over the horsehair- and felt-filled California king-size mattress. No matter what, she just couldn’t get comfortable. She’d woken up half an hour ago, still in her white Dior gown, but was way too dizzy and nauseated to get up and take it off.

  Next to her, J.P. was sprawled out facedown, still wearing his black Harris loafers. So much for passionate sex. She and Avery had ditched the party sometime after midnight and gone to a totally divey bar, where they were the only girls. They’d drunk pitcher after pitcher of crappy beer, done shots with some off-duty cops, and actually had fun. Jack had glanced at her phone around 2 a.m. only to find ten frantic messages from J.P. and his dad, wondering where she was. She’d gotten Avery into a cab and returned to the lofts, where she was immediately whisked away for more photo opportunities, more introductions to totally boring people, and more interviews with dorky cable channels.

  And more drinks?

  Because she’d disappeared for two hours, Candice and Jean-nette wouldn’t even let J.P. and Jack out of their sight until 4 a.m., when the party finally wound down. Then, they’d insisted that a NY1 reporter follow them up to the apartment to do a final closing interview. Jack sincerely hoped she didn’t sound like a complete idiot on it. Actually, thinking about it, she didn’t really give a fuck. She closed her eyes again. Maybe when she opened them, she’d feel less hungover.

  Unfortunately, being the face of the Cashman Lofts doesn’t come with superpowers.

  “Ughhh,” J.P. moaned, and flung his arm over Jack’s chest in a dreamy haze. Rather than being turned on, Jack was completely turned off. Why couldn’t he stick to his side of the bed?

  She queasily swung her feet to the ground, practically stepping on Magellan. The little dog gave a low-pitched whine of indignation as she jumped onto the bed.

  “Off,” Jack hissed, pushing the puppy off the bed. She glanced around the loft. Overnight the hammered-steel countertop in the kitchen had become flooded with gift baskets and bottles of wine. When had that happened?

  She wobbled over to the counter and snatched a blueberry muffin from one of the gift baskets. She took a bite. It was totally stale.

  “Gorgeous?” J.P. croaked, rolling over and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. His hair was sticking straight up and there was a red pillow indent on the side of his face.

  “Morning.” Suddenly, Jack had a vision of herself and J.P., fifty years later, still living in the Cashman Lofts. Still waking up to him calling her gorgeous. Still getting way too drunk on champagne and then eating stale muffins the next morning.

  “You okay?” J.P. asked, obviously noticing Jack’s falling expression.

  Jack glanced over at J.P. They’d been together since ninth grade, when they’d met at the Silver and Gold Ball. She’d immediately been attracted to his low-key confidence, the fact th
at he didn’t need to prove himself, that he was fine floating through life at an even keel. Jack had loved that about him when they’d started dating, since it offset her tendency toward drama. But now she wanted just a little bit of intrigue. Everything—their entire future—lay before her like a really predictable movie. One that probably wouldn’t even air on Lifetime, it was so boring. Jack sighed.

  “I don’t think this is working,” she said in a rush, taking another large bite of muffin so she wouldn’t have to explain. She didn’t even know where that had come from.

  J.P.’s mouth dropped open in an O of disbelief.

  “I mean, the apartment’s not working,” Jack added, her mouth still full. “I mean, there’s so much pressure and so many people watching us. And it’s just a lot of time together, and maybe not in the right way. I mean, have you noticed everyone treats us like we’re married?”

  “Yeah.” J.P. paused. “It’s kind of nice.”

  Jack took a deep breath. “I think we need to slow down. It’s great and all that your dad offered me this apartment, but… it’s too much. I mean, we’re only sixteen, you know? I’m moving to my father’s place downtown,” she said, surprising herself. Hopefully her dad would take her in. But she knew it was true: She couldn’t stay here anymore.

  “I’m going to take a shower. I think I need some alone time.” She turned and stalked to the bathroom, hoping he wouldn’t be there when she got out.

  If he knows what’s good for him.

  problems solved

  Baby was jolted awake by her phone. She was glad she’d had the apartment to herself last night and had spent the entire evening organizing her closet, her photos, and her old notebooks. It was weird, but now that her room was neat, she did feel a little more in control. She’d even put some of Avery’s clothes back in her closet where they belonged.