“Maybe we can go get lunch?” Serena smiled encouragingly. “At Fred’s?”
Blair glared at Serena. Was she totally dense? Did she actually have to spell it out for her? “I don’t think so.” She shook her head. “We’re not friends anymore.” She turned on her heel and angrily stomped off to the elevators.
Bitchfest at Barneys?
hey people!
everything old is new again
Maybe you dusted off your white Oscar de la Renta commencement dress and repurposed it for your angel costume this Halloween. Maybe you stole a few of your mom’s vintage Pucci dresses from her closet over Thanksgiving and now wear them to cocktail parties. Or maybe you just keep bringing up that story about how you used to be friends with Hollywood’s latest It Girl.
The point is, things that seemed same-old in high school take on a shiny newness in college. That rule applies to the people in our lives, too. Which is why I, for one, can’t say I’m surprised that S and N were spotted getting hot and heavy in a darkened corner of the Bass suite at the Tribeca Star on New Year’s Eve. So why was N seen leaving S’s Perry Street abode at the ungodly hour of 9 a.m. on New Year’s Day?
the walk of shame
N’s walk home reminds me: It’s time for a refresher course on graceful exits from overnight arrangements. While it may not be on the official college syllabus, the walk of shame is a test everyone must complete at least once. You’re practically guaranteed to run into someone you know. So hold your head up high, and remind yourself that they’re strolling the campus at 8 a.m. on a Sunday, too.
sightings
V and her boyfriend H having brunch at Egg, the inexplicably popular breakfast joint in Williamsburg, throwing around phrases like development exec and gross points. Could V be making the move to the big time? And will any of us be invited to make cameo appearances? Better get ready for your close-up! S at Doma, the coffee shop near her apartment, reading The New Yorker and looking forlorn—until she flipped a page, and her face lit up. Maybe poetry is good for the soul. A very drunk D and a ruddy-faced older Irish man at a pub on Upper Broadway, noisily reciting Joyce. Poetry may be good for their souls too, but can they keep it down?
your e-mail
q: Dear Gossip Girl,
Hello. I’m a sous chef at the restaurant of an exclusive downtown hotel, and we’ve been getting quite a few room service requests from the same patron. I was curious, so yesterday I delivered the order myself. She’s very beautiful, but looks very sad. How do I let her know that I would be happy to hang out while she eats her omelet without seeming creepy?
—topchef
a: Dear Top Chef,
I hate to disappoint you, but if you’re talking about the same tragic brunette beauty I know, I think what she needs right now is some time to herself. If you’d like to do something for her, I suggest a complementary order of cheese fries, onion rings, or any other too-bad-to-order foods all girls secretly love.
—GG
q: Dear Gossip Girl,
I can’t wait to get to college. Or at least get a college boyfriend. Should I graduate early? Show up at my sister’s campus, even though she never invites me? Advice please!
—mature
a: Dear Mature,
While it’s always admirable to aspire to a position greater than the one you currently occupy, why the rush? High school may seem tedious, and your uniforms may seem tacky. But trust me, you’ll miss it when it’s over.
—GG
q: Dear Gossip Girl,
My girlfriend and I are visiting her hometown, and she’s been acting kind of strange. She hasn’t introduced me to any of her old friends from high school. It’s like she’s trying to hide something. What do you think?
—New Boy
a: Dear NB,
There are a few possible explanations: Maybe she’s shy. Maybe she’s hiding some skeletons in her closet. Maybe she just wants to keep you all to herself. Or maybe she just doesn’t want to introduce a paranoid weirdo to her friends.
—GG
theory in action
In literary theory, a liminal space is somewhere in between—a place that’s neither here nor there. I think it’s safe to say we’re at a liminal space in our lives: We’re not teenagers, but we’re not quite adults. At times we’re being chastised by our parents for not calling; at others, we’re starting internships at companies we might want to work for someday, in our real, adult lives. My advice: Instead of worrying about who you were or what you’ll become, try to just enjoy the moment.
You know you love me,
gossip girl
boys should always ask for directions
Nate lumbered into the kitchen of his town house Friday morning, in search of food. His raging booze and pot hangover had finally dissipated enough for him to roll out of bed. He felt disgusting, like one of the frogs that lived at the bottom of the pond at Deep Springs.
How far our golden boy has fallen….
He opened the door to the Sub-Zero refrigerator and pulled out a Jell-O chocolate pudding snack pack. Not bothering to get a spoon, he tore open the foil wrapper and licked the top of the pudding. It was good. And simple. Just the way life should be. Life only got complicated once you started interacting with people. But who needed that when he had food, shelter, and plenty of pudding and Pop-Tarts?
Nate reached into the pocket of his cords and pulled out the roach that had been stuck in the folds of his pocket. He’d slept in them last night because it had seemed like too much effort to change. This was the last of his supply. He’d definitely have to call Jeremy or Anthony for a hookup, which was unfortunate, because he didn’t want any human contact. He wasn’t very good company right now. Chips was dead. He’d hurt Serena. Blair had a boyfriend. The three people he cared about most in the world, and he couldn’t reach out to any of them.
The past few days had gone by in a blur. He liked the way the hours bled into each other in front of the television, especially after he fired up his bong. Oprah had featured teen entrepreneurs the other day. There was one kid who made jellyfish tanks instead of going to college. Maybe he could drop out of school and do something like that.
Nate inhaled deeply from the joint. He sat at the large marble island in the center of his family’s French country-style kitchen, feeling contented. Maybe this was happiness.
And maybe someone needs to change his pants and climb out of his pot haze?
Just then, the doorbell rang a pleasant three-tone chime. Fuck. Nate ignored it and took another hit. Then he felt his iPhone buzzing in his pocket. He slipped it out and glanced at the display. Chuck.
“Hello?” Nate croaked.
“Open the door,” Chuck said.
“No,” Nate said lamely. He didn’t want Chuck to see him in this state. “I’m in the shower,” he added nonsensically.
“No, you’re not,” Chuck responded matter-of-factly as the chime filled the house again. It didn’t sound pleasant at all anymore. It made Nate feel like his brain was going to explode.
He sulkily pulled open the large oak door and crossed his arms. Chuck pulled off his Gucci aviators and coolly appraised Nate. “You’re a mess,” he said finally.
Thank you, Mr. Observant.
Chuck brushed past him through the entryway and into the kitchen. Nate trailed behind. It wasn’t like he had a choice. Chuck wrinkled his nose at the disarray. A joint lay on the counter, a pizza box and some random takeout containers were shoved in the sink, and a pile of dirty shirts formed a messy trail from the kitchen to the winding staircase that led to Nate’s room. This was what happened when he was left to his own devices. His parents had gone on their annual vacation to St. Barts a few days ago—they’d postponed their trip because of Chips’s funeral—and their maid, Regina, was on vacation until tomorrow.
“What are you doing here?” Nate asked lamely as he kicked one of the T-shirts out of the way.
“Inviting myself over for a cocktail?” Chuck said sarcasticall
y. He shook his head in annoyed frustration, as if he were disappointed in Nate. Join the club. Nate was disappointed in himself.
Chuck walked to the stainless steel Sub-Zero refrigerator, pulled out a Corona, and pried the cap off with his teeth, a trick all Deep Springs students learned their first week on campus. “This will do,” he said, taking a small sip and holding it out to Nate in a mock toast.
“Can I offer you something?” he asked politely, as if Nate had just randomly shown up in Chuck’s kitchen.
“No.” Nate shook his head. “Listen, Chuck, I’m kind of busy. Why are you here?”
Chuck raised an eyebrow. “You know, Nathaniel, I’ve been thinking a lot about you,” he began, as if he were ready to barrel into a speech on philosophy, like he usually did after a few ginger beers back at Deep Springs. “You won’t answer my calls. I saw you partying pretty hard on New Year’s. And you look like you haven’t stopped,” Chuck said, taking note of the empty cans on the granite counter. “What the fuck is up?” He perched on one of the stools and raised a dark eyebrow.
Nate sighed. Chuck obviously wasn’t going to leave until he’d heard his life story. “I hooked up with Serena the other night,” he finally admitted.
Chuck raised a hand up for a high five, impressed. Nate kept his arms firmly at his sides. Chuck shrugged, lowering his hand. “I fail to see why that’s a bad thing. After all, you’ve known her forever, you lost your virginity to her, she’s always been there for you…. I mean, what’s the problem?”
“I know.” Nate sighed heavily and sat at the table, his forehead cradled in his hands. He was just so fucking confused. Serena was great. Blair was great. Blair had a boyfriend. Both of them hated him.
“Technical difficulties?” Chuck asked.
Nate shook his head. “The next morning, I brought up Blair, and Serena just totally closed off and kicked me out. She probably thinks I still have feelings for Blair.” Nate paused. “And I guess I do, even though Blair has a boyfriend.”
“You have a hard life, Nathaniel,” Chuck scoffed.
“I know I’m being a pussy. But every time I come home, I make a mess. Maybe I’m better off not coming home. Just leaving New York totally,” Nate said bluntly. Only a year ago, it would have felt extremely gay to talk about his emotions with another guy. But now, after all his time at Deep Springs, he was okay with it. Maybe he needed to get back there—and never leave.
“What would El Capitan say?” Chuck prodded.
Nate sat up, suddenly remembering the letter Chips’s sister had given him. He hadn’t felt ready to open it before. He’d needed more time to process things.
And by “process” he means smoke and drink himself into oblivion.
“The letter,” Nate said simply. Maybe Chips did have something to say. For the first time since the funeral, he felt optimistic.
“Good idea. I’ll let you be alone,” Chuck said, finishing off his beer and sliding off the stool. “Look, I’m heading to Aspen tomorrow. You should come. Or at least promise you’re not going to freak out again. Okay?” Chuck locked eyes with Nate.
“Thanks, man.” Nate walked him to the door. “I’ll think about Aspen,” he lied to Chuck’s retreating back. Then he ran upstairs and yanked open the top drawer of his Chippendale desk. He pulled out the wrinkled cream envelope. It felt weighted and heavy. Instantly, Nate knew what it was.
He slid his index finger under the envelope flap, ripped it open, and allowed Chips’s antique silver compass to drop into his palm. It looked tarnished and worn and felt reassuringly heavy. Chips only trusted his compass, believing computer navigational systems made people lazy and made them forget what it was like to trust their own minds. Nate had been freaked out at first to head out onto the ocean with no computer system, but soon realized that Chips was right: When you had nothing else to trust, you had to trust yourself.
He pulled out the ivory card stock that accompanied the compass, written in Chips’s spiky-scrawly handwriting.
Nathaniel—
Thanks for coming on the journey, and I’m glad you learned something from this old man. Remember: Read the compass, and stay the course.
Nate sighed, disappointed. All of Chips’s lessons were summed up in two sentences. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting.
A self-help manual?
He knew what Chips meant: that the compass only gave you directions—it was up to you to interpret the directions. He wished charting his life was as easy as following a map. He glanced down at the compass, which had led Chips in the right direction for years. Maybe it did have some sort of power. Maybe he could use it to help him figure things out.
He held the compass in his hand and squeezed his eyes shut. If it pointed to W, it would mean Waldorf. If it pointed toward S, it would mean Serena.
And if it points to N, would that mean Not a Good Idea?
The thin red needle swung back and forth, first wavering on N, then slowly falling down. It wavered uncertainly before settling right on the letter W.
Nate smiled. Everything seemed absurdly simple for the first time in a while. He needed to find Blair.
Let’s hope he finds the shower first.
you’ve got mail
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Your Poem
Hi Dan,
I’m hoping this is the same Dan Humphrey who went to Riverside Prep, and who wrote Serena in The New Yorker? It’s Serena van der Woodsen, from high school. How are you? I just read your poem and loved it. Would you want to meet me for coffee sometime?
SvD
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Your Poem
Serena,
Hey! It’s really great to hear from you. How’ve you been? I’d love to meet up for coffee, where and whenever.
—Dan
P.S. Glad you liked the poem. Sorry for stealing your name for the title.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Re: re: Your Poem
Great! Four o’clock at Doma on Perry Street on Fri? I remember you love coffee. Hope that hasn’t changed!
Xx S
the curse of the creative power couple
“This is it?” Vanessa asked Hollis dubiously on Friday morning. They were standing outside one of the tall, glass-box, personality-less skyscrapers near Grand Central for their meeting with the executives of Streetscape, a small indie studio. -Hollis was taken by the idea of making a movie out of Vanessa’s life, and had immediately set up a meeting with some people he knew. Vanessa was excited, but suddenly a little nervous. She’d imagined the Streetscape offices would be in Dumbo or SoHo or some other artsy neighborhood, not a random Midtown office building.
Hollis nodded as he gestured for her to go first through the varnished chrome revolving door. The lobby floor and walls were black marble, and men and women in crisp business suits were hurrying back and forth like worker ants. If Vanessa had known she was visiting a corporation, she’d have worn something other than jeans, a black, vaguely Western button-down shirt she’d found at Beacon’s Closet, and a pair of Chloé flats that Blair had left behind in high school.
Hollis squeezed her hand reassuringly and pulled her into the elevator. It whooshed up to the nineteenth floor. “We’ll have fun,” Hollis promised, readjusting his fedora, which had now become his trademark.
Hollis pushed open the glass door that led to the reception area. A petite blond girl in a black dress glanced up. She looked like a banker. Vanessa smiled, reminding herself not to be so judgmental.
“Andra, great to see you!” Hollis said warmly. The banker got up from behind the desk and hugged him.
“It’s been too long!” She smiled, her eyes flicking up his tall, lean form. “You look good.”
“Hi.” Vanessa said pointedly to the girl. Was she flirting with her boyfriend? While Vanessa wa
s right there?
Aw, can’t we all just get along?
“Oh, hi! You must be Vanessa,” Andra said warmly. “Hollis told me so much about you, I feel like I know you!” she cooed. Vanessa smiled despite herself. It was nice that Hollis was talking about her when she wasn’t around.
“Anyway, I’ll let everyone know you’re here,” Andra said, sitting back down at the desk and picking up a receiver. “Stacy, they’re here!” she yelled into the phone. When no one answered she padded down the carpeted hallway to tell them.
“You’ll be great, champ,” Hollis said, squeezing Vanessa’s shoulder as he led her to one of the low-slung couches set up along one cream wall.
“Thanks,” she whispered. She usually prided herself on being ultraindependent, but right now, she was glad Hollis was right by her side. He did this kind of thing all the time, but of course Vanessa was nervous. This was her chance. And so what if it was a little more corporate than she expected? After all, this wasn’t some student film produced by a purple-haired, multipierced grad student. This was Streetscape, an actual production company.
Just then, a skinny guy with an asymmetrical haircut emerged from a labyrinthine hallway.
“Hollis!” He hug-patted her boyfriend.
“Zach, what’s up, man?” Hollis said enthusiastically. “This is my girlfriend, Vanessa. She’s an amazing filmmaker. I can’t wait to see what happens when she and Stacy get together in one room. Vanessa, this is Zach, Stacy’s assistant.”
“Hi Vanessa.” Zach smiled. Vanessa grinned back. This was more like it. Zach looked like the guys in her film class: smart, a little pretentious, and fiercely devoted to making movies. Vanessa understood these people. They were her people. “So, you guys ready to come on back?” Zach asked rhetorically as he walked at breakneck speed through the hallways and toward an empty glass-walled conference room. Vanessa glanced at the large production stills framed on the walls and recognized one from Between the B and the A. It was a scene where Blake, the main character, stands forlornly on the roof of his East Village apartment complex, looking out at the buildings surrounding him and feeling so small and insecure and unsure of himself. Vanessa squeezed Hollis’s hand. She wanted to scream to everyone that that was her boyfriend’s brilliance, immortalized on the walls.
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