Nothing Can Keep Us Together

by Cecily von Ziegesar

  I’m beginning to read like the Wall Street Journal or something, aren’t I? Anyway, if you were out and about on Park Avenue last night the way I was, you might have noticed the fleet of sleek black cars being delivered to a certain Upper East Side garage. Looks like a few of us are getting what we asked for, except. … Dad, I asked for pink!

  They know you cheated

  For those of you who cheated on your final exams, we know who you are, and your teachers know, too. We saw how you finished early and spent the rest of the time writing notes and doing actressy face exercises—S!! They’re only overlooking it because they want to get rid of you. Why they even bother giving seniors finals is beyond me.

  A remedy for pregraduation jitters

  Of course, there’s nothing to be nervous about. All we have to do is look gorgeous and accept our diplomas. But we are nervous nonetheless. Maybe because we have to go through it with our parents watching. Maybe because we have no idea what comes next. You know how the school nurse always prescribes the same thing no matter what’s wrong with you? Chew a Pepto-Bismol. Gargle with salt water. Well, I’m the same way: champagne and a boy. Take one dose and then repeat every fifteen minutes until symptoms subside.

  Happy Graduation! See you at the party afterwards!

  You know you love me.

  gossip girl

  Pomp and circumstance

  Outside Brick Church on Park Avenue and Ninety-second Street, a throng of black town cars released women in Chanel couture and men and boys in Ralph Lauren Purple Label into the church to watch their daughters and sisters graduate in Constance Billard’s commencement exercises. It was a balmy June morning, and a pleasant breeze rustled the crab apple trees bordering the sidewalk, scattering petals and pretty green leaves onto the avenue. The lovely redbrick church with its sturdy white columns and creeping, well-tended green ivy looked like something out of a picture book. In fact, today the entire Upper East Side seemed picturesque and soaked in sun and apple blossom perfume, for today was graduation day.

  Hooray!

  Isabel’s mom, Titi Coates, craned her surgically enhanced neck to survey the well-dressed audience, nearly popping the buttons on her hot-pink-and-gold Versace cap-sleeved coat-dress. “I heard Harold Waldorf flew in from Paris with his flaming French boyfriend to see Blair graduate today,” she whispered to Lillian van der Woodsen, who was seated in the dark mahogany pew next to her. “He even had a red convertible Peugeot sent over in parts, with a special French mechanic to assemble it for her.”

  Mrs. van der Woodsen shook her head. She liked gossip, but only the harmless kind—about people’s dogs or their golf game.

  Harmless gossip? What would be the point?

  “Harold Waldorf is in Bordeaux, at a wine auction,” she corrected her tackily dressed neighbor in a polite whisper as she smoothed out the lilac-colored silk calf-length skirt of her simple-but-gorgeous Yves Saint Laurent suit. “I know for a fact because a dear friend of mine is bidding on a few bottles of Burgundy for us there. However, I know nothing about the car.”

  Around the corner, in one of the church’s outer chambers, the seniors lined up in size order, giddily awaiting the first few chords of “Pomp and Circumstance.” Kati Farkas and Isabel Coates were the shortest ones, in matching white Ferragamo flats and matching Carolina Herrera Mexican bridesmaid–style dresses with lace bows in the back and little white pom-poms hanging from the elbow-length sleeves. Desperate to be next to each other in line, they’d done a survey of all the girls in their class, asking what size heel they planned to wear for graduation. Even Doc-Marten-boots-wearing Vanessa had said she’d be wearing platforms, so flats were their best option. How cool was it that not only were they together in line, wearing matching outfits—they were first!

  Yippee!

  In her two-and-a-half-inch white kidskin Manolo dancing shoes, Blair was somewhere in the middle. Her white satin Oscar de la Renta suit had been flawlessly tailored, the jacket nipping in around her tiny waist and accentuating her excellent shoulders. None of the other girls had been creative or fashion-forward enough to even think of wearing a suit, let alone the shimmery coral pink Chanel lipstick she’d bought especially for the day or the simple pearls she’d chosen for her ears. She’d memorized her speech and kept reciting it over and over in her head, bouncing on the balls of her feet to keep her circulation going and her adrenaline level high.

  Thank you for coming, ladies and gentlemen. And thank you to the senior class for electing me as its speaker. You know, some of us girls have been together since kindergarten. We learned to read together. We lost our baby teeth together. We learned how to get the most Oreos at recess together. And as the years went by, we learned not to crack under pressure together. Now here we are, college-bound, and we’re all still friends. How could we not be?

  There’s something else I learned at Constance that I wanted to share with you today: how to get what you want. …

  “Has anyone seen Serena?” Nicki Button asked loudly as she examined her beady brown eyes in a compact and tugged on her sweet, drop-waist, flapper-style graduation dress. “Can you believe I bought this at a children’s vintage clothing boutique?” she asked for the tenth time so everyone could remark on how tiny and skinny she was.

  “And what about Vanessa?” Laura Salmon added, sucking in her breath as she tried to tighten the semi-inappropriate lace-up bodice on her corset-style Alexander McQueen dress.

  “You’d think they could try not to be late just this once,” Rain Hoffstetter put in, helping Laura with her laces and trying not to bang into anyone in her inexplicably pouffy Christian Lacroix number.

  Blair looked around. She’d been so preoccupied with going over her speech, she hadn’t even noticed: Vanessa and Serena were missing.

  Hello?

  “It’s nearly ten-thirty,” Mrs. McLean announced urgently, clapping her meaty, freckled hands together to call the girls to order. “We’ll just have to start without them.”

  Blair spun her ruby ring around and around on the ring finger of her left hand. Serena and Vanessa were going to miss graduation?! But they’d miss her speech, and anyway, where the fuck were they??!!

  Mrs. Weeds, Constance’s frizzy-haired hippie music teacher, banged out a few chords on the organ, her fat shoulder blades jiggling in a strapless Laura Ashley number. “All right, girls, this is it!” Mrs. McLean shouted excitedly. “Your last hurrah as Constance girls.” She raised her freckled fist in the air, her red, white, and blue Talbots special-occasion suit wrinkling with the strain. “Make it a good one!” she added, looking dykier than ever.

  “Ooh!” the audience gasped as the girls began to march into the main hall of the church and down the lily-strewn center aisle in time to the music, looking like crosses between runway models and mail-order brides.

  Eleanor Waldorf Rose sat between her husband of less than one year, Cyrus Rose, and Blair’s twelve-year-old brother, Tyler. Eleanor was the only woman in the room wearing a wide-brimmed dove gray Philip Treacy hat with actual dove feathers in it.

  Exactly where did she think she was—England?

  Cyrus Rose was wearing a remarkably ugly avocado-colored double-breasted Hugo Boss suit and was jiggling Yale, Blair’s six-week-old baby sister, on his knee. Yale had on the Burberry kilt Blair had bought for her even before she was born and a white eyelet onesie that Blair had ordered from Oeuf, a baby boutique in Paris. Tyler looked hungover. Or maybe Blair just hadn’t seen him in so long, she’d forgotten what he looked like even though he was her brother. And Aaron appeared to be missing.

  Wonder why.

  When Blair reached their pew, Eleanor leapt to her feet and blew her a kiss, snapping away with her baby pink Nokia camera-phone while tears oozed down her overly rouged cheeks. “We’re so proud of you,” she gushed in a voice that was definitely louder than a whisper.

  Farther down the aisle Mrs. van der Woodsen caught Blair’s eye and beamed at her proudly, as if Blair were her own daughter.
Blair shrugged her shoulders apologetically, although she was pretty sure Serena’s mom hadn’t quite realized that Serena was missing. Poor Mr. and Mrs. van der Woodsen. Even Erik, Serena’s hot junior-at-Brown brother whom Blair had almost lost her virginity to over spring break, was there.

  Blair had never met Vanessa’s parents, but Vanessa had described them to her pretty well, and she didn’t see any gray-haired, inappropriately dressed hippies in the audience. She decided to keep her eyes on the chestnut brown ponytail of the girl in front of her in line, who happened to be Rain Hoffstetter, whom she happened to kind of hate. All Blair had to do was make her speech, which she’d memorized so thoroughly, she could recite it in her sleep, and then get her diploma. Then she was going to have the best graduation party anyone had ever been to, have sex with Marcus, take a carriage ride in Central Park, and then he’d ask her to marry him. … Her eyes misted over dreamily and she stepped on the back of Rain’s puffy white dress, nearly knocking her over.

  Focus, focus!

  One by one the girls filed in and seated themselves in the first three rows of pews. Thirty-four seniors in total, not counting the missing two. Mrs. McLean stood at the pulpit, waiting to address the outgoing class and their families. Blair would give her speech directly afterwards, and then the guest speaker, “Auntie Lynn,” some old lady who’d basically founded the Girl Scouts or something, was supposed to talk. Auntie Lynn was already leaning on her metal walker in the front row, wearing a poo-brown pantsuit and hearing aids in both ears, looking sleepy and bored. After she spoke—or keeled over and died, whichever came first—Mrs. McLean would hand out the diplomas.

  Mrs. Weeds crashed through the last few chords of “Pomp and Circumstance.” “Let us pray,” Mrs. McLean directed somberly and bowed her head. The headmistress had become deeply religious after her husband, Randall, had died in a deep-sea fishing accident in the Florida Keys. At least, that was the story the girls told, along with the one about Mrs. McLean’s girlfriend, Vonda, who lived in Mrs. McLean’s country house up in Woodstock, New York, and drove a tractor. Mrs. McLean had the words Ride me, Vonda tattooed on her inner thigh. There was even a rumor that Vonda used to be Randall, but none of the girls knew for sure.

  “I heard Serena and Nate eloped to Mustique. That’s why she’s not here,” Rain whispered to Laura. “She’s wearing her graduation dress as a wedding dress. Remember how we saw her trying on that veil in Vera Wang?” she added knowingly.

  “And I heard Vanessa is pregnant,” Laura replied. “She’s up in Vermont with her parents, dealing. I guess she’ll probably still get her diploma anyway.”

  Blair tried unsuccessfully not to listen, but of course she was dying to know where Serena and Vanessa were herself. Had Vanessa gone off somewhere with Aaron? Or Dan? Had Serena and Nate really eloped? It was such a crazy day and such a crazy time in their lives, she wasn’t sure what to believe.

  “And now, I’m delighted to introduce Blair Waldorf, our senior class speaker,” Mrs. McLean announced. With a bob of her Raggedy Ann auburn head, she stepped away from the podium to make way for Blair. Blair stood up, smoothed out her swishy, pleated white satin Oscar de la Renta skirt, and climbed daintily over the pointy white-shoe-clad feet of her classmates, growing steadily more and more enraged as she overheard snatches of their whispers and mutterings.

  “Serena is so totally not going to Yale next year.”

  “Vanessa is in L.A. Didn’t you hear? She’s making a movie with Brad Pitt.”

  Blair mounted the steps to the podium—a vision of perfection with her Oscar-tailored satin suit, her smooth and shiny dark bob, her long-lashed bright blue eyes, her glittering coral-colored mouth, and her exquisite white shoes. She cleared her throat, trying to tear everyone’s attention away from the subject of the two missing girls.

  “Thank you,” she began. “First, I’d like to congratulate my class. We made it!” she cried with exaggerated glee. But none of her fucking classmates were even looking at her.

  Who cares? Who cares? Who cares? She was graduating today, she had an amazing new boyfriend who just happened to be an English lord, and in the fall she was off to Yale. That was all that mattered, she told herself as she continued her speech. And that she looked seriously hot in her sleek Oscar de la Renta suit while all the other girls looked like Little Bo Beep in their frilly white dresses.

  “Now here we are, college-bound, and we’re all still friends,” Blair declared determinedly.

  Sure they are.

  oh, the places you’ll go!—not

  Daaah, dee-dee-dee, daaah, daaah …

  St. Jude’s didn’t bother renting out a church or lining their boys up in size order. They just held a small, solemn ceremony in the school’s rooftop gym, wished the boys well, and then sent them on their way. The usually cavernous-looking gym seemed smaller now, filled as it was with folding chairs, mothers in Chanel jackets and over-the-knee linen skirts, and dads in Brooks Brothers summer-weight gray flannel suits.

  Nate had been waiting for this day forever, and to mark the occasion, he and his buddies had gotten good and high at Charlie’s house beforehand. Then they’d put on their burgundy-colored school ties and their navy blue wool school jackets with the dorky brass buttons that they’d never, ever have to wear again, and walked over.

  He glanced over his shoulder at his parents, seated stiffly across the aisle and six rows back. Captain Archibald met his gaze and waved the graduation program angrily in front of him, stabbing at the list of graduates with his index finger, his gray-blond eyebrows knitted together in outrage.

  Nate picked up the program where it had fallen between his Church’s of London tan suede lace-ups and studied it to see if he could figure out what his dad’s problem was. Forty-three boys’ names were printed neatly in navy blue in two concise columns. The very first name on the list had a tiny asterisk next to it, and at the very bottom of the program, next to a matching tiny asterisk, was the note, Diploma pending. Nate squinted, wondering if his thoroughly baked brain was playing tricks on him, but there it was again, an asterisk next to his name—Nathaniel Fitzwilliam Archibald. * Diploma pending.

  Fuck!

  Father Mark, the ancient former pastor who’d been the St. Jude’s principal since at least 1947, hunkered over the podium set up in the front of the gym, his hands shaking as he began to read out the boys’ names. Of course Nate was first. “Nathaniel Fitzwilliam Archibald!”

  Nate stood up and walked to the front of the gym, keeping his eyes on the black and blue lines duct-taped to the floor for hoops and floor hockey. “Way to go, man,” a bunch of guys whispered sarcastically. Nate’s neck burned with shame. There was an asterisk next to his name.

  Father Mark handed him a square navy blue faux leather folder and shook his hand just like he was supposed to, without any acknowledgment of the asterisk. Nate turned around and walked back to his seat, nearly colliding with Coach Michaels, who was blocking the aisle in his frigging red Lands’ End windbreaker. He grabbed Nate’s shirtsleeve and lunged forward to whisper in his ear. “I’ve got your number, boy,” he wheezed, then patted Nate roughly on the shoulder before letting him go.

  “Aw. Isn’t that sweet?” somebody’s mother cooed, mistaking Coach’s threat for a congratulatory embrace.

  Nate returned to his seat, breathless and sweaty. “Anthony Arthur Avuldsen!” the old principal croaked, impatiently waving the blue folder containing Anthony’s diploma over his white-peach-fuzz-covered head.

  Anthony lumbered over Nate’s khaki-pants-clad knees with stoned concentration. Nate clapped his friend on his muscular back. “You made it,” he murmured weakly as the now-familiar choky, about-to-cry feeling welled up in his throat.

  “Charles Cameron Dern!” Father Mark croaked hoarsely.

  “Dude,” Charlie murmured to Nate as he stumbled by, “what’s with the little star?”

  Nate was too perplexed to cry. He just sat there in stoned numbness, his father’s furious stare burnin
g holes in his back as his fellow classmates collected their diplomas. The blue leather folder lay closed on his lap. He nudged it open with his thumb just a crack. Just as he’d suspected: The folder was empty.

  Oh, boy.

  Directly behind old Father Mark was the black metal door with the words PHYSICAL EDUCATION DEPARTMENT stenciled on it in white. Nate stared at the door, his glittering green eyes blinking in consternation. Did the asterisk have something to do with Coach’s Viagra?

  Finally, he’s catching on!

  D could use a little more love

  “So in conclusion, who needs college—at least, right now? I’ve got my whole life to get educated. Just like John Lennon of the Beatles once wrote, ‘Love is all you need. Love is all you need. Love is all you need.’”

  Dan surveyed the audience as he finished his speech, standing behind the wooden podium at the front of the stage. Riverside Prep’s informal graduation ceremony was held in the school auditorium and felt very much like one of the off-kilter plays the drama department put on twice a year. Behind him, Dan’s forty-one other classmates were seated on folding chairs, their mouths hanging open in shocked surprise. Even Larry, their desperate-to-be-down-with-the-boys senior homeroom teacher, kept chuckling nervously and glancing down at the thirty rows of faculty, parents, and relatives seated in the gray velvet movie-theater-style seats below them, as if he were wondering if he should explain that Dan’s speech was just another one of those goofy senior pranks he and his boyz were always pullin’.

  In the last row of seats, Rufus’s head was bowed, his fuzzy salt-and-pepper hair tied with the festive orange ribbon that had come tied around the neck of the bottle of Veuve Clicquot champagne he’d bought for them to drink later. Jenny was holding his hand. She looked up, meeting Dan’s gaze across the rows of heads with her soulful brown eyes. You asshole, how could you do this to our sweet, well-meaning Dad? her expression seemed to say. In case you didn’t remember, education is everything to him.