You Just Can't Get Enough

by Cecily von Ziegesar

  “You can have the rest—I’m not that hungry,” Jiffy offered with a slight hint of a sigh.

  Genevieve and Sarah Jane walked over and sat down. Genevieve yawned loudly. “Something needs to happen,” she announced.

  “There’s that St. Jude’s party coming up,” Jiffy suggested cheerfully, eyeing Jack’s French fry consumption like a hawk. Since she’d grown up as almost an only child, she tended to be a little possessive. “My sister thinks it’ll get a lot of attention from the media.” Jiffy’s eyes gleamed. “Maybe we could go to Barneys and look for outfits? Or maybe Bergdorf’s?”

  Suddenly Jiffy jumped, making a pained face like she’d been kicked. “Ow!” she whined to Genevieve. She looked over at Jack guiltily. “Um, I don’t need anything, actually. Maybe we could just… hang out after school?” she finished lamely.

  “Or, if you need something, Jack, we could always run to the fashion closet at Bella,” Sarah Jane offered, naming the major fashion glossy that her mom edited. “No one would notice. If they did, it’d just be blamed on some assistant.” Sarah Jane shrugged, taking her black-rimmed Prada glasses off and inspecting them.

  What? Jack’s eyes narrowed. Since when did Sarah Jane offer up fashion closet privileges? Jack glanced over at Genevieve, who suddenly seemed extremely preoccupied with her reflection in one of the cafeteria’s mirrored walls.

  And then it hit her: Genevieve must have told everybody that Jack was a destitute loser. Bitch, Jack thought furiously.

  “Thanks,” Jack said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. She looked around the table, but no one would make eye contact. Sarah Jane grabbed her yogurt cup, reading the nutrition label while Jiffy idly played with a fry. Now they wouldn’t even look at her? She randomly thought of Moby-Dick. Maybe getting on a boat and going to the middle of the ocean wasn’t such a bad idea. She’d get so tan and skinny that everyone would be way jealous, even if she was a poor loser. “Thanks a lot, Genevieve. I can’t believe you told them.”

  “Jack, you’re freaking. I just thought they should know. Seriously, there’s no need for this drama.” Genevieve sighed in exasperation. “If I wanted drama, I’d just go to LA and hang out at Les Deux.” Genevieve took every opportunity to bitch about LA, but it inevitably made her sound like Joan Crawford or some other million-year-old actress bemoaning the demise of Old Hollywood.

  “Besides, I am sick of Barneys,” Jiffy offered lamely, smiling slightly. Jack felt herself soften.

  “Yeah, right.” Sarah Jane snorted in disbelief.

  “It’s true!” Jiffy bleated, examining her hair for nonexistent split ends. “We’re your friends, right?” Jiffy asked Jack. It was a genuine question, and Jack smiled. They still liked her. They cared about her. They wanted to be her friend, musty garret and all.

  “Thanks, guys.” Jack sighed. “It’s only temporary.” She felt a lump in her throat. Fuck. It was one thing to be poor, but to start crying? That would really ruin her reputation.

  “Hey guys!” Avery Carlyle chirped behind them. Jack whirled around. Avery’s hair was in a high ponytail and held back with a mirrored Stella McCartney headband. She wore a pretty pink Tocca blouse Jack had seen the last time she was in Barneys. Avery set down her stainless steel tray and took the seat right next to Jack. “I can’t believe that’s all you’re eating!” she exclaimed, gesturing to Jack’s yogurt. She glanced down at her extra-large salad. “I feel like such a pig today. So, what’s up for later? Want to do a Barneys run?” Avery asked, looking around at the girls. She couldn’t wait to get their opinions on dresses for the St. Jude’s benefit. It was so cute how Owen would be auctioned off, and she couldn’t wait to see the other swim team guys. Besides, it seemed so classic New York to get ready for a benefit.

  Jack smiled at Avery’s perky expression. Avery might have been able to blackmail her into being friends, but now that the secret was out, so was Avery. Out of her life, out of her friends’ lives, and hopefully, before long, she’d want to be completely out of New York. Perfect. Jack wheeled around so that she was facing Avery. She’d been waiting to do this for far too long.

  “Actually, Avery, it’s such a coincidence you brought up Barneys, because we were just talking about it. Turns out, no one wants to go. Especially not with you.” She was impressed with the way she sounded: apologetic, with an undercurrent of complete bitchiness.

  “Excuse me?” Avery stared at her with one eyebrow raised, a slight warning tone in her voice. Most people would hear that undercurrent and take back whatever they said. But most people weren’t Jack Laurent.

  “You’re fun, don’t get me wrong. Remember how much fun it was when the cops came to your party?” Jack laughed in Avery’s face. Avery’s silvery blue eyes changed in an instant from defensive to confused to devastated. Across the table, Jack registered a flicker of concern in Jiffy’s eyes. Well, so what? She was just giving Avery, the blackmailing bitch, exactly what she deserved.

  “What’s going on?” Avery asked, looking at Jiffy. Jiffy sometimes seemed kind of dumb, but she was definitely the friendliest of the group, and right now Avery felt like she needed a friend. Her stomach was in a thirty-story free fall.

  “Oh my God, could you just drop the innocent thing for once?” Jack exploded angrily. All the rage and frustration she’d held in for the past two weeks—toward her stingy, lame dad, her ridiculous mom, the absurd family that had moved into her house, and her dumb-ass boyfriend who’d dumped her—was ready to spill out. She took a deep breath, trying to control the rush of emotion. This was her moment to reclaim her rightful place as queen of the junior class, and she had to be in control. Several tables over, a group of ninth graders looked up. Jack glared at them and definitively stood up. She might as well give a performance to remember. Maybe the younger Constance girls could learn from her. Especially since they certainly wouldn’t learn anything from Avery, their SLBO or SLOB or whatever the fuck that position was called. “I was the one who called the cops on your party. Just thought you should know,” Jack said, enunciating each word. “We’re not really your friends, and nobody likes you.” She shrugged for the benefit of the rest of the cafeteria, then sat back down.

  Show’s over!

  Avery pushed her chair back so fast it clattered to the floor. She knew her face was bright red and her chest was probably breaking out in the unfortunate hives that only appeared when she was about to cry.

  “No wonder your boyfriend dumped you for my sister,” she hissed loudly. She didn’t bother to pick up the overturned chair or even look at any of those bitches. She stifled a sigh as she marched past the sea of now familiar faces, sixtysomething pairs of eyes boring into her back. She marched into the Constance ladies’ room and only then, in the handicapped last stall usually reserved for girls having secret emotional breakdowns, did she allow herself to cry.

  “Thank God we don’t have to hang out with her anymore.” Jack breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe they should take a look at the Bella fashion closet this afternoon. Then she noticed Jiffy shaking her head wistfully.

  “What?” Jack snapped in exasperation.

  “She has a hot brother…” Jiffy trailed off. Sarah Jane nodded in affirmation.

  “He’s taken anyway.” Genevieve sighed. “I told you, all the hot ones are taken. That’s why we need to step it up and get some guys back in our lives. We need to figure out our St. Jude’s benefit party strategy. That’s the thing. In LA, everyone has a party strategy. I think we need to pick it up here,” she announced, as if she were a general dispatching her troops.

  “What do you mean, he’s taken?” Jiffy asked, completely ignoring Genevieve’s stupid idea.

  A party strategy sounded exactly like something Avery Carlyle would have, Jack thought darkly. Then, immediately, she perked up. She didn’t have to worry about Avery anymore. She was back on top. She had her friends. She’d have ballet, once she got that scholarship. Her life was almost back to normal.

  Except for her self-proclaimed destitu
tion and her recent public dumpage?

  “I saw him with that blond, artsy Seaton Arms girl, after Avery’s party. They were talking outside his building while I was on my way home. They looked like they were, like, about to do it right there in front of the doorman,” Genevieve said importantly, clearly happy to have unearthed a nugget of gossip that had previously held no value. Jack thought back. She remembered Avery’s brother from the party. He had the same blond hair as his sister, and except for a ridiculous half-beard, he’d been pretty hot, in an outdoorsy, skater/snowboarder/swimmer boy type of way.

  “Well, he couldn’t have been, since she’s with that swimmer dude from St. Jude’s. Rhys Sterling? My mom hates his mother,” Sarah Jane burst in. “Her name’s Kelsey something. We went to riding camp together in seventh grade. But she and Rhys have been together forever. Remember, they totally hooked up at Genevieve’s bat mitzvah?” Genevieve’s father had rented out Radio City Music Hall and hired U2 to perform. Jack vaguely remembered Rhys and his girlfriend holding hands and sneaking kisses back then. That was the thing. Even though Upper East Siders were spread among five or six private schools, everybody knew one another through a complex social network of families. Everyone knew everything about everybody, so it made it extra hard to hide.

  “You’re probably just confused, Genevieve. You were a little drunk at Avery’s party,” Sarah Jane said puritanically. She stole a fry off Jiffy’s plate.

  Like she wasn’t Ms. Vodka Gimlet?

  Jiffy, Sarah Jane, and Genevieve began to chat about the St. Jude’s swim team guys to determine who was single, but Jack was only half listening. Had Owen really been having a thing with Kelsey? But Kelsey and Rhys were together. And Owen and Rhys were best friends. If Genevieve really had seen them together, then there was something seriously fishy going on. Interesting.

  Jack swung her Givenchy satchel over her shoulder, a plan forming in her head. “I have to jet,” she said breezily to the group, and waltzed out the cafeteria’s double doors. If blackmail was the Carlyles’ way, then maybe they deserved a taste of their own medicine.

  Ding-dong, the bitch is back!

  hey people!

  a little intrigue is good for the reputation

  Every rule has its exception, and sometimes the more you learn about someone, the more mysterious they become. Take, for example, one Upper East Side princess who was recently downgraded from the lap of luxury. She thought it was a shameful secret, but do we really care either way? Instead of her fairy-tale castle, she’s living in an attic of cast-off antiques—which, for my money, is far more romantic than living in some tacky penthouse.

  Besides, it finally lends some credibility to her artistic persona. Look at Isadora Duncan, Zelda Fitzgerald, Edna St. Vincent Millay. Colette. Did they come from money? Who knows? Who cares? They were total icons, ahead of their times. Which, as we all know, has no price tag—despite what some think. (I’m looking at you Black AmEx holders who are desperately trying to buy taste, one Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress at a time. You know who you are!) Point being: Little princess, fear not. Nobody’s pitying you. The one person who is receiving widespread pity right now didn’t lose her money—she lost her so-called friends and her social standing. And what’s sadder than that?

  sightings

  J stopping a scrawny guy with a Speedo over his khakis, asking what time St. Jude’s gets out for lunch. Does someone have a secret crush? Or a Speedo fetish . . .? A in the headmistress’s office, eating small cucumber sandwiches with a blue-haired lady and Mrs. M, discussing Eat, Pray, Love. Hey, I’ve heard book clubs are good ways to make new friends. Especially when you don’t have any your age… B and J.P. at a not-open-to-the-public wine tasting at the Cashman Lofts’ unnamed organic-only bar. B again, outside Cashman Lofts with S, frolicking in the fountain with some scruffy guys and taking pictures. Hmm, it’s been a while since a B and an S were spotted together. Guess it really is a new era!

  your e-mail

  q: Dearest Woman of the Rumors,

  I am student from Spain. My boyfriend, who is Spanish royalty and a big prize here, seems to have run off to New York. Do you know him? Please to send him back to me. His mother is looking for him!!!

  —Caliente Chica

  a: Dear CC,

  One question: Is he cute? If so, I’ll keep my eyes peeled!

  —GG

  q: Dear Gossip Girl,

  I work at a very busy and important magazine, and I think some people just came in and took stuff from the fashion closet. I’m just an assistant, and I’m totally freaking the fuck out. If anyone is reading this, please return what you took, no questions asked.

  —SlaveToFashion

  a: Dear STF,

  Um, this isn’t the lost and found. Sorry.

  —GG

  q: Dear Gossip Girl,

  I heard that A is actually, like, Mrs. M’s spy. She’s really twenty-five and has a PhD from Princeton, and she was going to work for the FBI, but then Mrs. M got her first. Is that true?

  —Freeek

  a: Dear Freeek,

  A is certainly sophisticated, but something tells me she’s not quite FBI material. Still, it doesn’t hurt to be careful what you’re saying or doing. In this town, someone’s always watching.

  —GG

  Okay, just two short weeks left till the St. Jude’s swim team benefit. And, as we all know, it’s not who you’re bidding on but who you’re going home with that really counts. Luckily, some anonymous benefactor donated a whole block of rooms at the Delancey, the brand-new Lower East Side hotel where the benefit’s taking place, to the cause. Talk about an easy commute. Hope all you single ladies are saving your pennies!

  You know you love me,

  maybe girlfriends do grow on trees. . . .

  Owen Carlyle stepped into the pizza place on the corner of Eighty-eighth and First during lunch on Tuesday, relieved to be away from St. Jude’s even for a few moments. Since the first bell had rung on Monday, he’d been continually bombarded with references to his supposed homosexuality, enduring, among other things, a discussion about homoerotic overtones in Othello in English class and a lecture by Ms. Kendall in art history about the male gaze in Renaissance portraiture. Everyone had looked to him for his input, as if he were this gay expert or something. Whatever. Owen shrugged it off as he inhaled the warm, yeasty scent of rising dough.

  “My man, what do you want?” The beefy pizza guy behind the counter smiled jovially.

  “Two sausages.” Owen cringed when he realized how his order could be interpreted. “Er, two slices of sausage,” he amended. “Warmed up, please.” His eyes landed on the thick gold chain nestled in the pizza guy’s fuzzy chest chair. Yuck. If Owen needed proof he wasn’t gay, that was it.

  “Nice day, huh, buddy?” the pizza guy asked affably as he leaned his thick, hamlike arms across the glass counter. He looked like he was ready to settle in for an all-day chat. Owen nodded tersely.

  “You go to that fancy school?” the guy questioned, his eyes flicking over Owen’s blazer. Owen nodded, wishing he hadn’t asked for the slices to be warmed up, so he could just get the hell out of here. This wasn’t the usual guy. Maybe it was the owner or something. It seemed like a pretty good life, Owen thought. Maybe he should just open up a pizza place and forget about girls, school, and swimming. He’d make people happy. It wouldn’t be so bad.

  Just then, the bell on the door rang. Owen whirled around to see Hugh Moore. Fabulous.

  “Two sausages!” the pizza guy crowed. He pulled the steaming slices out of the oven and slid them onto a white paper plate and over to Owen.

  “Thanks,” Owen muttered.

  “Woooah.” Hugh took a few steps back and widened his eyes crazily. “Hey, slugger. Way to go for the sausage! Didn’t mean to interrupt anything!” Hugh grinned devilishly as he sauntered out the door. Owen tried to keep his cool. He could feel the tips of his ears turn bright red.

  “You want some spice?” the pizza guy asked, i
ndicating the green plastic tray of oregano and pepper flake containers.

  “No!” Owen practically backed away. Ever since people started thinking he was gay, he was finding sexual allusions everywhere. It was a bit like when he first moved to New York, when anything and everything would remind him of Kat.

  Even hairy pizza guys?

  “I mean, I’ll just take these to go.” He threw a ten on the counter. “Keep the change,” he muttered. He stuffed the larger slice in his mouth as he exited onto the street. The slice burned the roof of his mouth and the cheese was soggy and tasteless. He threw the plate in a metal trash can.

  “Owen, right?”

  Owen looked over and saw a pretty, auburn-haired girl wearing the same uniform that Baby and Avery wore to school. She looked like a gazelle, or like one of the dancers in the Degas painting that hung in the study in Grandmother Avery’s house. He wondered how she knew him. He didn’t really remember seeing her at Avery’s party, but then again, he’d been a little bit preoccupied.

  It takes so much concentration to orchestrate an imaginary breakup with your best friend’s girlfriend.

  “Yeah,” Owen mumbled. He looked around in case this was some bizarre swim team prank, but the only person in sight was an elderly lady driving a motorized wheelchair down the street, chased by her three sweater-clad Yorkies.

  “Jack Laurent.” She smiled and held out her hand.

  Owen took it, then dropped it as if he’d been burned. Girls were too much trouble. He couldn’t do this. “Nice to meet you,” he said awkwardly. Her pink-glossed lips turned into a frown at his less-than-warm greeting. Owen recognized that expression as classic girl, meant to soften him. And Jack was gorgeous. But he wasn’t going to fall for that. He would remain stoic.

  And gay.

  “Sorry, I wish I had more time to talk.” He shrugged helplessly. “I’m just in a rush.” He turned to the crosswalk. The sign blinked DON’T WALK, and cars were already streaming up the avenue. He stared straight ahead, determined not to look at her.