Piotr smiled again, his whole face lighting up. “When we met, she tell me when she was—how you say? Small?” He gestured with his hands to indicate someone short.
Vanessa nodded, taking a sip of the dark beer. “You mean when she was a little girl?” “Yes!” Piotr said with relief. “Little girl. Anyway, she tell me how she and you”—he pointed at Vanessa with his full glass—”make tea party with apple juice?” She burst out laughing, trying not to spit a mouthful of
Guinness all over the table. That was not what she’d been expecting Piotr to say. She remembered how she and Ruby used to play dress-up in their mother’s closet for hours, putting together outrageous ensembles of feathers, beads, and long, tie-dyed hippie dresses before sitting down at the kitchen table to drink Red Cheek apple juice from their mother’s special china cups. They’d sit there for hours, talking in fake British accents and giggling as they said things like “Pass the bloody crumpets!” and “Hand me me bloomin’ bloomers!” even though that one didn’t even make sense.
“So, I look all day,” Piotr continued, refilling his and Vanessa’s now-empty glasses, “for antique tea set for her, and I finally find one this afternoon.” He looked up worriedly, his forehead a mass of wrinkles. “You think she will like?” Vanessa looked at the concern in Piotr’s blue eyes, the love that was so obviously there for her sister, and something inside her melted. He obviously loved Ruby—only a guy in love would run around New York all day to find a freaking tea set.
“Yes.” Vanessa nodded, raising her camera to her face and pointing it toward the stage to check the exposure, but mostly to hide the fact that she was touched. “I think she will like very much.” Seeing Piotr so obviously in love made Vanessa feel kind of . . . romantic. She closed her eyes for a moment and pictured Dan at home, sprawled out on the lumpy brown leather sofa, writing poetry in his beat-up notebook. She knew he’d been having a hard time with the poem for Ruby and Piotr’s wedding, and the idea of him trying so hard to find the right words for her sister warmed her chest.
You sure that isn’t the booze?
Maybe when she got home later they could really talk. She’d tried to be supportive of Dan when he’d come out, but seeing how uncomfortable he was at his surprise party, she still had her doubts . . . not to mention her hopes about his supposed gayness. Maybe she’d be able to tell him how she felt . . . and try to help him figure out what he was really feeling.
Yes, and just exactly how would she do this? Naked? Vanessa smiled as SugarDaddy took the stage in a clamor of guitars. Ruby wore her signature purple leather pants, her black, chin-length hair sticking out in every direction, like she’d blow-dried it upside down—or electrocuted herself with her blow-dryer. She spotted Vanessa and Piotr sitting together and waved. Then she stuck her tongue out between her pinky and pointer fingers. “What’s happening, fuckers!?” she yelled into the microphone, and the crowd cheered, wildly.
Vanessa smiled. Everything was going to be okay. Her sister was still her sister, her brother-in-law-to-be was weird and European but also sort of sweet, and she’d talk to Dan tonight. He’d tell her he was just confused, that he wasn’t gay, and that he’d been in love with her all along. And maybe someday, years from now, he’d be the one giving her an antique tea set.
She pointed her camera up at Ruby’s smiling face as she leaned into the microphone and began to howl.
“You stole my soooooooul, you fucking ass-hole!” Oh, how romantic.
Air Mail - Par Avion - August 17
obr den Dan!
I’ve been waiting to write, because I didn’t want to ruin the surprise, but Mom must have gotten there by now and I couldn’t wait any longer. I hope you don’t mind that I told her about your recent gaylicious discovery. It was just so nice to get to know her again this summer—did you know that she and Dad met at a Russian bathhouse in Moscow!?—and I thought maybe she should know about you too. . . .
Anyway, Prague is amazing. Staying solo at Mom’s flat (how very European of me, right?) is super-fun but a little lonely. I’ll be back soon to pack for Waverly (yay!), but until then, Na shledanou! (That’s “goodbye.”)
I miss you guys and I miss New York. Have a cupcake from our favorite place on Amsterdam for me. Make it a pink one!
Love,
Jenny
this would be really funny if it wasn’t happening to someone we know and love
Dan lay on the bed in Vanessa’s room, his notebook open across his lap. The empty white page was practically blinding him. It was the same story every night—he would sit there staring at a blank page for hours, trying to write a poem about love for Ruby’s wedding, until, completely dejected, he’d finally just pass out. He started to scribble.
Love. Above. Shove.
I love to shove you from above?
Kiss. Bliss. Piss.
Crap. This wasn’t working. Every time he tried to write, visions of himself as a kid, dressing up in totally gay outfits, sprang into his head. What could he possibly know about love when the only time he’d ever been in love was with Vanessa, who apparently didn’t qualify, since she wasn’t even the right gender? He looked over at the clock. One a.m. It had been a long day of shelving dusty books at the Strand and trying to hide from Greg. Luckily, their shifts only overlapped for an hour, so Dan had managed to completely avoid crossing paths. He dreaded the “special talk” Greg said he wanted to have, though he wasn’t sure how long he could put it off.
He sat up and a flash of gold text caught his eye. The anthology his mom had given him three nights ago was perched on top of the dresser. With its black cover, the book was almost camouflaged by the monochromatic, gray space—Vanessa had gotten permission from Jenny to redecorate, which for Vanessa meant making everything as dark as possible—but the gold title twinkled at him from afar, taunting him.
Oh, come now, you know you’re curious.
He reached over and grabbed the large volume, plopping back down on the bed with it. Maybe reading some gay love poems would help inspire him to write a straight one? He cracked open its stiff binding. The first page was the introduction.
Homosexual love has been a part of every society throughout the history of mankind, from the Ancient Greeks to modern day.
What was this, a history lesson? Already bored, Dan scanned down toward the end.
Read the poems aloud to your lover, as the spoken word is even more powerful than those printed on the page.You will feel yourself transported by the undercurrent of beautiful, corporeal, HomoSensual love.
Huh. That was interesting. He’d always found it helpful to read his own poems aloud to get a sense of the rhythm, but he’d never tried doing it with other people’s work. Maybe reading aloud would get the creative juices flowing, get him feeling the rhythm? Besides, he did have a great reading voice, as Greg had once pointed out.
He flipped the book open to a random place and chuckled when he realized he’d landed on page 69. No matter. He cleared his throat and began to read Shakespeare’s Sonnet 18: “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May. . . .” Dan paused to read silently to himself for a few lines, and then again read aloud. “So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this and this gives life to thee.”
As he uttered the last lines of his poem, the door swung open and Vanessa burst into the room, her camera bag slung over her shoulder.
Whoopsie.
Her eyes widened with surprise. Clearly she’d heard everything—or at least, enough. Dan could only imagine what it looked like. He was in bed all alone, reciting one of Shakespeare’s most romantic—and unquestionably gay—sonnets to himself.
Hello, awkward?
“Uh, sorry.” Vanessa quickly turned around and stared at the floor as Dan frantically grabbed for the book and closed it with a loud smack. He stood and attempted to put it on the cluttered desk.
“It’s not what it looks—ow!” The boo
k fell off the side of the desk, all ten pounds of it landing directly on his little toe.
“No, no. I should have knocked.” Vanessa’s head was entirely red as she bent over her bag, not looking at him.
“So.” Dan examined his cuticles as she continued to put away her camera equipment. “Where were you, anyway?” He tried to project an aura of calmness, grabbing a copy of
Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment from the nightstand and flipping aimlessly through its thick pages.
Like that’s the only thing he’s been reading.
Vanessa finally turned to face him. “I was filming Ruby’s last gig as a single woman,” she explained, stripping off a pair of expensive-looking wide-legged black sailor pants—likely something Blair had left behind during her brief tenure as Vanessa’s roommate. She was wearing an old pair of Dan’s green-and-white-striped boxers underneath. Then she pulled off her plain black T-shirt so that she was clad in only the boxers and a white Hanes tank top. Dan had always loved Vanessa’s fashion sense—or lack of it—and he couldn’t help noticing how sexy she looked. It was nice to see her wearing something of his. “Everyone was wasted. At the end of the set, Ruby’s drummer puked onstage.” “Gross.” Dan pulled off his army green Kafka T-shirt and scooted under the covers.
“Totally,” she agreed, climbing under the sheets beside him and switching off the bedside light. Hopefully the darkness would hide her embarrassment and confusion. They lay in uncomfortable silence, and Vanessa couldn’t help but give in to her feeling of total dejection. After her conversation with Piotr, she’d felt so . . . hopeful. She’d thought she might be able to work things out with Dan, but if he was spending his free time home alone reciting romantic gay poetry to himself, there really wasn’t any question about his sexual status now. She sighed heavily, looking up at the dark ceiling.
Dan tried hard to think of something to say. He’d never had trouble talking to Vanessa before—she was his best friend. In fact, she was one of the only people he really could talk to. In less than a week he’d be driving out to Evergreen College in Washington State to start a new life—in a 1977 Buick Skylark, no less—and he had to figure all this out before he got into that car and drove away. Why couldn’t he talk to her now, when he needed her the most?
Maybe because she just walked in on him reading in iambic pen-maneater.
“So . . .” he whispered into the dark. “Are you doing okay? I mean, with Ruby’s wedding and everything?” Vanessa snorted. Dan could picture the face she was almost certainly making—her eyes rolled to the ceiling, a wry twist turning up the corners of her lips.
“Yeah,” she breathed. “I just have to film the clusterfuck.” He heard her exhale heavily into the warm, humid air before she spoke again. “You’re the one I feel sorry for—I mean, you have to come up with some meaningful, epic fucking love poem about those two morons.” “Thanks,” Dan mumbled sarcastically. “You’ve filled me with confidence.” He turned over to face her, wanting to look at her even though she was turned away. He could hear the small, quiet sound of her breathing in the dark room and could feel the warmth of her almost-naked body. She was always so warm at night. The ridiculously soft skin of her bare arm grazed his. One of the things he’d always loved about Vanessa’s body were its contrasts—her stubbly scalp next to the softness of her skin. The pillowy feel of her lips and cheeks . . . Dan smiled and moved ever so slightly closer to her warm, sleepy flesh.
Vanessa felt Dan’s hot breath tickle her neck as he lay inches from her on the bed. Being in such close quarters with him when all her hopes had been so recently dashed was killing her. “So, how’s Greg?” she asked softly, hoping the note of rejection in her voice wasn’t as clear to him as it sounded to her. She moved toward the edge of the bed, shifting so that her left foot hung off the side. Anything to escape the torture of feeling Dan’s skin on hers.
“Umm . . . he’s fine,” Dan mumbled. Greg. Right. His boyfriend. As Vanessa inched further and further away from him on the bed, it became obvious that she wanted nothing to do with him. And why should she? He was a confused pink-disco-suit-wearing, cream-puff-eating, gay-poem-reading idiot who still seemed to be in love with his ex-girlfriend despite the fact that every person in his life had apparently been waiting for him to come out since he learned to use the potty. Dan sighed and flipped over onto his back dejectedly, more puzzled than ever as he slipped into a sweaty, troubled sleep.
To be or not to be . . . gay—that is the question.
Disclaimer: All the real names of places, people, and events have been altered or abbreviated to protect the innocent. Namely, me.
hey people!
You know what they say about New York—it’s the city that never sleeps . . . and neither do I. Not when there’s this much good gossip to keep me up at night! Okay, and there may have been that little end-of-summer bash at One keeping me out till the wee hours last night, but it’s all in service to you. I’ll have to trade my snakeskin Jimmy Choo stilettos for Gucci leather riding boots soon enough, so now’s the time to stay out late, dance with a gorgeous stranger, and, most importantly, expose as much bare, sweaty flesh as possible. And the same goes for you girls and boys—as if you need a reminder!
hollywood shuffle
This morning, as I was walking to fetch my skinny vanilla latte and natural-grain bagel, I couldn’t help but notice that a certain very blond actress’s picture has been plastered everywhere overnight—bus stops, the sides of buildings. That’s right, our very own S is poised to become a major Hollywood star—not that we ever doubted it for a second. S is being touted as a fair-haired, modern-day Audrey Hepburn. And that means, cats and kittens, that we’ll soon be purring contentedly as we gaze up at S’s celestial face on the big screen. Either that, or we’ll be clawing our plush velvet seats in envy. . . .
The word on the street is that, due to phenomenal early reviews in Variety, Vanity Fair, and Esquire, the release date for Breakfast at Fred’s has been pushed up! The fun begins tomorrow at the luxurious Soho House, the part members-only club, part hotel, where they’re holding a big Breakfast at Fred’s press conference. S will be meeting up with her yummylicious co-star T, aka my new boyfriend (shhhhh . . . don’t wake me up! If anyone can make him like girls, I can) who is, in case you’ve been residing on Mars, currently in possession of the hottest six-pack abs this side of the Hudson. Too bad he pitches for the other team. Anyone who’s anyone on the gossip circuit will be there to watch as A Star is Born—our little S is all grown up!—and you know that means I’ll find a way in. . . .
It’s time to zip yourself into that purple tapestry Calypso sheath, don your Dior shades, raise one hand in protest to the glaring flashbulbs while exclaiming, “Gentlemen! No pictures, please!” For those of you who don’t know the drill, some helpful advice from yours truly:
do’s and don’ts for attending your first press junket
(1) Do bring sunglasses, preferably large Chanel or Gucci ones, even if the event takes place at night. Especially if it takes place at night. Those flashbulbs really are blinding! And besides, nothing creates an air of mystery like a pair of oversize shades.
(2) Do escape to the ladies’ room for frequent makeup touch-ups—nobody likes a shiny nose on camera. Besides, where better to overhear the latest gossip about the premiere—and spread some of your own.
(3) Wear indelible lip color, or a sealant over your favorite shade: getting lipstick on your teeth during an interview is so gauche—and totally avoidable. Red-carpet red is always a classic choice.
(4) Do feel free to have a fling with your leading man—after all, the suite is booked for the night! And don’t worry—we won’t tell.
(5) And, most importantly, bring the hotness! After all, it’s all about you!
sightings
N at the NY Yacht Club having cocktails with some old guy in a sailor suit. Does N have a new dealer? Odd. Whatever the case, we’re guessing he won’t be joining the navy anytime soon. . . . D at
his home-away-from-home, the Strand bookstore, secluded in a dusty corner furiously turning the pages of Queer Culture: A Way Out of the Closet. From what I hear about a certain surprise party, he’s already way, way out. . . . V, back in Williamsburg, filming her sister R’s show at the Galapagos Art Space, a leather-pants-wearing blond guy by her side . . . S’s picture in Times Square on a huge billboard featuring nothing but her flawless face and the words TRUE LOVE NEVER LIES. S herself, clad in all black, entering N’s Park Avenue town house dressed like she’s auditioning for a role in the next 007 film. B sitting outside, waiting for her. With all three supposedly going off to a certain ivy-covered campus in just a few short days, it’s certain that we’ll have oodles of rumors to discuss—so keep those catty, info-packed e-mails coming!
Speaking of interesting e-mails, I hear roommate assignments are in the mail, so don’t be surprised if you receive an introduction from your soon-to-be suitemate. My heart bleeds for all of you who’ll inevitably get stuck with some freshman calculus major who wants nothing more than to wake up at 6 a.m. every morning to study while you’re just nodding off and trying not to hurl last night’s excess of keg beer (ah, college) all over your La Perla peignoir. My roommate will, of course, be my long-lost twin—perfect, just like me!
You know you love me.
gossip girl
don’t hate her because she’s perfect
“Serena! Serena, over here!”
Flashbulbs exploded in front of Serena’s face like bursts of fierce white lightning. She smiled and plucked a perfectly ripe raspberry from the flute of Cristal she held in one hand, popping it into her mouth. She’d never expected the press conference for Breakfast at Fred’s to involve so much pampering, or to be so breathtakingly fancy—not to mention so well attended. Throngs of reporters and photographers surrounded her and her totally yummy costar, Thaddeus Smith, as they sat out on the sun-drenched terrace of one of the SoHo House’s top-floor penthouses. Maybe the life of a movie star was all it was cracked up to be.
Don't You Forget About Me Page 9
