I Like It Like That

by Cecily von Ziegesar

  Why didn't I ever notice before? Blair wondered to herself. Behind her Serena rustled the pages of Playboy.

  “Does Erik have a girlfriend?” Blair wondered out loud.

  “Let's ask him ourselves.” Serena tossed the magazine on the floor and reached for the phone, a mischievous grin playing on her face. She was used to bothering Erik up at Brown at least three times a week, moaning to him about her love life or lack thereof, while he complained about his perma-hangover.

  “Hey, perverted man. I was just reading your gross Playboy with the Demi Moore centerfold. Isn't she like fifty years old or something?”

  “So?” Erik yawned in reply.

  “So how lucky are you that Mom and Dad don't drag you around to boring benefits anymore?”

  “What is it tonight?”

  “Tomorrow night. Some art thing at the Frick,” Serena answered tiredly. “It's not even worth getting a new dress for. Blair and I are just going to trade clothes so they feel new. Anyway, she wants to ask you something.” And then, without warning, Serena tossed the phone to Blair.

  Blair caught it and held it in her hands. “Hello?” she heard Erik say. She heard Erik say. She put the phone to her ear.

  “Hey. It's Blair. Um, I'm staying in your room. I hope that's okay.”

  “Sure. Hey, listen, my sister told me a while ago you're really worried about Yale and your shitty interview and all that. …”

  Blair's eyes widened in horror. Her fucked-up Yale interview was the last thing Erik needed to know about her. Serena was such a—

  “Well, don't be,” Erik continued. “My Brown interview was completely retarded, and I got in early. I know for a fact you're an ace at tennis, you do a shitload of charity stuff, and Serena says your grades and scores are all amazing. So don't sweat it, okay?”

  “Okay,” Blair promised tremulously. No wonder Serena called her brother all the time. He was absolutely the sexiest, sweetest boy alive!

  “So, are you coming to Sun Valley with us for break or what?” he asked.

  Blair kicked off her turquoise flats and wiggled her red-painted toes. She liked the matted, scratchy feeling of Erik's rug beneath her bare feet. “I'm supposed to go to Hawaii with my family.”

  “No, you're not,” Serena interjected from the bed. “She's not!” she yelled, loud enough for Erik to hear. “She's coming to Sun Valley with us!”

  “You don't really want to go to Hawaii, do you?” Erik asked her half-gently, half-mockingly. “You'd much rather go skiing with us.”

  Blair studied Erik's face in the photograph. Had he always talked to her in that familiar, you-know-you-want-me tone of voice? Had she always been totally deaf? She imagined lounging by the fire with him in the bar at the Sun Valley Lodge. She'd play Marilyn Monroe at her red-hot skinniest, dressed in a white rabbit fur vest, her favorite pair of Seven jeans, and the white sheepskin après-ski boots she'd bought in January and never worn. He'd be … Ernest Hemingway, all manly and studied, wearing one of those tight, navy blue zip-neck turtlenecks the sexy ski patrol guys always wore, half unzipped. They'd sip warm brandy and watch the shadows cast by the flames flickering on each other's faces, while she caressed his strong, warm muscles beneath his shirt.

  Three years ago, Erik had had no idea who he was or what he was doing or who he wanted to be, but now it was three years later, and he'd definitely figured it out. Just the thought of sleeping in his bed tonight was extremely comforting. She might even wear one of his old shirts to bed for added atmosphere.

  “Yes,” Blair told him in her breathiest Marilyn Monroe voice. “Yes, I think I will go.”

  And you, sweet boy, are in for a special treat.

  Can n resist hot board chick with dope breath?

  The following day, after lacrosse practice and before he had to be home to get ready for the benefit at the Frick, Nate made a detour to the Scandinavian Ski Shop on West Fifty-seventh Street to outfit himself for Sun Valley. He had been skiing and snowboarding practically since he was born and already had tons of ski equipment, but it was all up in Maine—and besides, this was the type of shopping he actually enjoyed.

  The Scandinavian Ski Shop specialized in thousand-dollar fur-trimmed Bogner ski suits and fur après-ski boots for the Madison Avenue set, and had a sort of phony Tyrolean Woods feel to it, with wood-paneled walls and thick, forest green wall-to-wall carpeting, but it was still the best ski shop in New York.

  Nate went right to the back of the store where the skis and snowboards were sold. He shoved his hands in his khaki pants pockets, contemplating the boards stacked against the wall. Instantly, his eyes settled on a dark red Burton board with a picture of a green pot leaf on it. The word normal was stenciled on one end of the board, and the word goofy was stenciled on the other. He reached up and ran his thumb along the edge of the board.

  “That one's killer if you're into bumps,” a girl's smoky voice drifted over to him.

  Nate turned to find a small girl with short blond hair and a pug nose watching him. She was wearing an olive green Roxy hoodie and light gray Roxy board pants. Her brown eyes hung low in their sockets, puppy-dog-like. Or maybe she was stoned.

  “Do you work here?” he asked.

  The girl smiled. Her teeth were very small and close together. “Sometimes. When I'm on break. I go to Holden, up in New Hampshire? I'm captain of the girls' snowboard team.” She kept on smiling a little too long, and Nate decided she was definitely high.

  “Can I help you with something?” she offered.

  Nate tapped his fingers against the red board. “I think I'm gonna take this one. Plus I need boots and bindings.”

  The girl kept smiling as she hunted around in a stack of boxes for a pair of Raichle boots in his size and the best K2 bindings on the market. “I just demoed this combo at Stowe last weekend.” She knelt at Nate's feet to help him on with the boots. “It totally rocked.”

  Nate stood up and stared down the front of her hoodie, which was unzipped to just above her cleavage. She wasn't wearing a bra, just above her cleavage. She wasn't wearing a bra, just a white tank top, and he could see everything.

  She smiled up at him, holding his booted foot in her hands. “How does that feel?”

  He considered reaching for her hand and leading her into a dressing room. He could even imagine how her mouth would have the smoky, grassy taste that he liked, the after-you-smoke-fine-herb taste. It was odd, but ever since he'd quit smoking pot, he was basically horny all the time. And having a girlfriend in rehab who was only allowed supervised visits from outsiders didn't help much.

  Georgie, Georgie, Georgie. He couldn't wait for Sun Valley. They'd ski all day and fool around all night. What could be better? “Can I get these mounted now?” he asked, in a hurry all of a sudden.

  The girl gathered up the bindings and retrieved the correct-size board from the stack. “I'll mount 'em for you.”

  Sure she will.

  “Be right back.”

  While he waited, Nate wandered over to a pile of ski hats and began to try them on. He picked out a fuzzy heathered green one with earflaps and a long tassel on top—very granola-meets-Ralph Lauren—and put it on.

  “No way,” he muttered as he examined himself in the mirror. Usually he didn't think too much about what he looked like or what he wore—he didn't have to—but he wanted to look cool for Georgie. He put the green hat back on the stack and tried on a black fleece baseball-type hat with earflaps you could flip up, kind of like a modern version of the Elmer Fudd hunting cap.

  “That hat is awesome on you,” the salesgirl told him, coming back with his board. She leaned the board against a clothes rack and walked over to Nate, gently turning down the earflaps over his perfect ears. “You know you love it,” she added hoarsely.

  Sure enough, her breath smelled just the way he'd imagined it would. Nate licked his lips. “What's your name?”

  “Maggie.”

  Nate nodded slowly. The hat felt good on his head. He could reach f
or Maggie right now and unzip her top. Ask her if she wanted to share a joint. He could, he could. But he wouldn't.

  He pulled the hat off and tucked it under his arm. “Thanks a lot for your help. Um, I'm Nate Archibald. My family has an account here?”

  Maggie handed him the board and his new boots with a disappointed grin. “Maybe I'll bump into you out on the slopes sometime.”

  Nate turned to go, amazed at his willpower. He was so totally focused, even Coach might have been impressed.

  Not that he wasn't still horny as hell.

  gossipgirl.net

  Disclaimer: All the real names of places, people, and events have been altered or abbreviated to protect the innocent. Namely, me.

  hey people!

  Virtue vs. Vice

  So, is everyone getting dragged to that Virtue vs. Vice benefit with our parents at the Frick tonight? I hope so—at least that means I won't be alone in my misery. Of course we all know the only reason they insist on us going is so they can compare us with one another and talk about what colleges we've applied to and who's already in early and generally drive us out of our minds, since those are definitely our least favorite subjects at the moment. Plus, there couldn't be a stuffier venue for a party. I mean, come on, a party at the Frick is like a party at your grandmother's country house.

  I know I sound ungrateful—come on, a party is a party, and you know how much I love to get dressed up. But I prefer to party sans parents, don't you? The only cool thing is that our parents will all be so busy trying to impress one another that they won't bother scolding us for smoking in the powder room. Actually, if we do anything even slightly embarrassing they'll just have to pretend they don't know us. So let's try to have a little fun, shall we? See? You're already looking forward to tonight, aren't you?

  I'm going to save your e-mail and sightings for after the big bash.

  See you there!

  You know you love me.

  gossip girl

  Upper west siders look down their noses at the poorly versed

  “Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats!” Rufus Humphrey bellowed as he delivered a platter of sizzling sausages with rum-roasted apples and bananas to the table. Jenny had made her dad feel so guilty for being out the day before when she'd brought Leo home that Rufus had insisted she invite Leo and Elise over for dinner the next night. Not that Rufus was out to impress his houseguests: As usual, he was wearing a food-stained white undershirt and his favorite pair of cigarette-burned, saggy-assed gray sweatpants. His curly gray hair and monstrous gray eyebrows stuck out at odd angles from his stubbly face, and his mouth and teeth were stained red from wine.

  “We'd better sit down,” Jenny said, clicking off the TV in the library and grinning at Leo. “Now you get to taste Dad's weird food. Be careful,” she warned. “He puts alcohol in everything.”

  Leo looked at his watch. Then he stuck his hands in his jeans pockets and pulled them out again. He seemed nervous. “Okay.”

  “Her dad isn't as scary as he looks,” Elise said. She tucked her feet into her pink J. Crew clogs and clomped out into the dining room, as if she'd lived at Jenny's house all her life.

  Dan met them at the creaky dining room table. He was reading from a copy of Red Letter and didn't even look up when his dad slapped a whole banana and a maimed-looking sausage on his plate. Once everyone was served, Rufus filled his wineglass to the rim and held it in the air. “Now for a little poetry game!”

  Dan and Jenny rolled their eyes at each other across the table.

  Normally Jenny didn't mind her dad's little pop quizzes, games, and lectures, but with Leo there, it was just too embarrassing. “Dad,” she whined. Why couldn't he be normal just this once?

  Rufus ignored her. “Where are we going, Walt Whitman? / The doors close in an hour. / Which way does your beard point tonight?!” He directed a sausage-fat-greased finger at Leo. “Name that poet!”

  “Dad!” Jenny rattled the decaying wooden dining-room table in protest. Everything in the Humphreys' sprawling four-bedroom Ninety-ninth Street and West End Avenue apartment was decaying. But what could you expect when they had no mother and no maid to clean up after them?

  “Oh, come on. That's an easy one!” Rufus roared at Leo. The vinyl record he'd put on before he brought out the food suddenly kicked in, and the strange, high-pitched Peruvian yodelings of Yma Sumac filled the room. Rufus poured himself another glass of wine, waiting expectantly for an answer.

  Leo smiled politely. “Um … I'm not sure if I know. …”

  Dan leaned over and whispered loudly in Leo's ear, “Allen Ginsberg. ‘A Supermarket in California.’ Easy.”

  Jenny kicked her brother's foot under the table. Did he have to be such a wiseass?

  Rufus gritted his teeth. “But I have promises to keep, / And miles to go before I sleep,” he challenged, his muddy brown eyes bulging as they stared Leo down.

  Leo's blond hair looked almost translucent as he withered under Rufus's relentless gaze. “Um …”

  “Dad!” Jenny cried for the third time. “God.” She knew her father was only trying to do his wild-and-wonderful-dad bit, overcompensating for six other nights that week when she and Dan had eaten takeout in front of the TV, but didn't he get the hint that poetry was not Leo's thing?

  “Well, even I know that one,” Elise piped up. “Robert Frost. ‘Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening.’ I had to memorize it in eighth grade.” She turned to Dan. “See, I kind of do know something about poetry.”

  Rufus speared a bratwurst and slapped it onto Leo's cracked blue plate. “Where do you go to school, anyway?”

  Leo wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Smale. The Smale School, sir.” His eyes darted across the table to Jenny, who smiled encouragingly.

  “Hmm,” Rufus responded, picking up a sausage in his fingers and biting it in half. He washed the bite down with a gulp of wine. “Never heard of it.”

  “It specializes in the arts,” Dan said.

  “And poetry isn't an art?” Rufus demanded.

  Jenny couldn't eat. She was too mad at her dad. Normally, he was kind of nice in a gruff and grumpy kind of way. Why did he have to go and be so mean to Leo?

  “So, a job at Red Letter,” Rufus said, raising his glass to Dan. “I still can't believe it.” Rufus had a trunk full of unread, unfinished poems in his home office, and although he was an editor himself, he had never been published. Now Dan was having the writing career he'd never had.

  “'Atta boy!” he growled. “Just don't start talking in phony accents like all those other bastards.”

  Dan frowned, remembering Siegfried Castle's difficult-to-understand German accent. It had sounded pretty authentic to him. “What do you mean?”

  Rufus chuckled as he dug into a banana. “You'll see. Anyhow, I'm proud of you, kid. You keep this up, you'll be poet laureate by the time you're twenty.”

  All of a sudden, Leo stood up abruptly. “Excuse me. I have to go.”

  “No!” Jenny jumped to her feet. She'd imagined they'd eat quickly and then Elise would leave and she and Leo would go into her room and kiss for a while and maybe do their homework together. She might even paint his portrait if he let her. “Please stay.”

  “Sorry, Jenny.” Leo turned to Rufus and held his hand out stiffly. “It was nice to meet you, Mr. Humphrey. Thanks for the delicious dinner.”

  Rufus waved his fork in the air. “Don't get too used to it, son. Most of the time we eat Chinese.”

  That was true. Rufus's idea of grocery shopping was to buy wine, cigarettes, and toilet paper. Jenny and Dan would have been malnourished if they hadn't been able to order in.

  Jenny escorted Leo to the door. “Are you okay?” she asked worriedly.

  Leo grinned his shy, cracked-tooth grin and smiled down at her from his great height. “Yeah, I just thought we'd eat a little earlier. I need to get home and—” He stopped, frowning as he wound a brand-new-looking red-and-black cashmere scarf around his neck. B
urberry, the tag on the scarf read. Jenny had never seen him wear it before. “I'll e-mail you later,” he added before disappearing down the hall to catch the elevator.

  Jenny went back to the table, and Rufus raised his bushy eyebrows at her bemusedly. “Was it something I said?”

  Jenny glared back at him. She had no idea why Leo had left so suddenly, but blaming her dad was the easiest solution.

  “Oh, come on, Jen,” her father continued heartlessly. “So he's not the sharpest tool in the box. He'll probably make a good boyfriend, though.”

  She stood up. “I'm going to my room.”

  “Do you want me to come?” Elise offered.

  Jenny thought Elise looked pretty happy sitting next to Dan and talking about poetry. She'd even helped herself to a glass of wine. “No, that's okay,” she mumbled. All she really wanted was to lie facedown on her bed and ruminate over Leo, alone.

  Elise took a sip of her wine. “I should go in a minute, anyway.” She glanced sideways at Dan while still looking at Jenny, as if to say, So, guess what? I really like your brother. “I'm thinking of writing a poem when I get home.”

  Yeah, right …

  When she got to her room, Jenny stretched out on her single bed and stared sullenly across the room at her paints and empty easel. She was positive Leo wasn't dumb, even though that Robert Frost poem was pretty well known. Actually, he was probably a lot smarter than the rest of them, just in less obvious ways. She remembered the first time she'd laid eyes on him in Bendel's before they'd met on the Internet. It was in the cosmetics department, and he was poking through the Bendel's signature brown-and-white-striped cosmetics bags, the only male shopper in the whole store. What had he been doing there, anyway? It was a mystery. And what about that random observation he'd made yesterday about that woman in the fake mink coat? Or his new Burberry scarf? He seemed to know a lot about … nice things. And why hadn't he invited her home yet? His house was probably gorgeous. And he'd never once even mentioned his parents. The mysteries of Leo just kept piling up.