You're the One That I Want (13 page)

"Hey, sleepyhead," Vanessa said in exactly the same tone of voice. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine." Dan tugged on his shirt uncomfortably. "Did you guys just wake up?"

"We've been up for a while," Vanessa answered vaguely.

Tiphany popped her egg out of the microwave, slid it onto her toast, and carried her plate into the living room. There was (\ lump under the sheet on Ruby's futon where Tooter the fer-ret was curled up, sleeping. Tiphany put one of her own CDs in the stereo and turned up the volume. It was something loud and harsh that Dan had never heard before. Definitely not morning music. She danced over to Vanessa and took her hands, and to Dan's amazement Vanessa started hopping around and wiggling her butt in time to the music.

Hello?

Vanessa didn't dance. Ever. What had Tiphany done to her?

While the girls continued to dance, Tooter slithered out from underneath the covers and trotted over to Dan's new blue-and-gold vintage street Pumas, which were parked by the front door. He sniffed them a few times, then turned around, squatted down, and began to pee.

"Hey!" Dan cried, dashing over to rescue his shoes.

"Tooter?" Tiphany danced over. "You're okay, baby. Come to Mommy." She squatted down and held out her arms. "Don't be scared."

Vanessa joined them, her cheeks rosy from dancing. "Oh, Dan. Did you scare him?"

"No, I didn't scare him." Dan flapped his hand angrily at the ferret. "Go to Mommy, little fucker," he added under his breath.

In his head, he'd already started a new poem. It was called "Killing Tooter."

j's big debut

"Line up, girls. In size order, please!" barked Andre, the pho-tographer's assistant.

It was eleven o'clock on Sunday morning and Jenny had arrived at the studio over an hour ago after waking up at six and spending three hours getting ready. She'd taken a shower, blow-dried her hair, and applied her makeup--three times. The first time she looked overdone, the second time she just looked freakish, and the third time she'd sensibly decided to just let herself air dry and go without makeup, since that was the stylist's job anyway.

The shoot was in the same studio as the go-see. This time the white screen and red velvet chaise were gone, replaced by a giant piece of Astroturf covering the floor and a volleyball net set up over the Astroturf. When Jenny arrived, she discovered she wasn't the only "model" being photographed. There were five other girls, and all of them looked . . . like models. The styl-ist asked her to change into a royal blue Nike Lycra jog bra and matching Lycra shorts. Then she combed Jenny's hair back into a ponytail and brushed on some clear lip gloss. Jenny felt more ready for gym class than a photo shoot, but then she noticed that all the other models were dressed the same way.

"From a line in front of the net. Hurry up, girls. This isn't rocket science," Andre complained.

Since she was usually the shortest girl in any group, Jenny stood at the end of the line in front of the volleyball net next to a flat-chested girl who was only few inches taller than she was. Then Andre came over and grabbed her arm, dragging her down to the other end of the line next to a tall girl with boobs that were almost as big as hers. He jostled some of the others girls in line.

"That'll do," the photographer called out, striding up on his stocky legs. He stroked his goatee, surveying the lineup. "Try putting your arms around each other's waists." The girls did as they were told.

"Nah, too cheerleader. Step away from each other and put your hands on your hips. Legs wide." He held his camera up and peered through it. "Shoulders back, chins up, that's it," he instructed, snapping away.

Jenny did her best to look brave and strong and challeng-ing, the way she thought a Nike model should look. She didn't have the musculature of a rock climber or a marathon runner, but neither did the other girls.

"What is this for, anyway?" she whispered to the girl next to her.

"Some teen magazine," the girl answered. "What kind of expression do you want us to make?" the same girl called out to the photographer.

"Doesn't matter." The photographer climbed onto a step-stool and continued to photograph them.

Jenny relaxed her challenging-Nike-model face. What did he mean it didn't matter? She closed her eyes and stuck out her lower lip in an exaggerated pout, testing him.

"Nice work, short girl!" the photographer called out.

Jenny opened her eyes, completely confused. She bared her hi ill and wrinkled her nose. Then she stuck out her tongue.

"Excellent!" the photographer responded.

Jenny giggled. Actually, it was a lot more fun than trying in look alluring and pretty. At least she could show off her personality. And for the first time ever in front of a camera-- ma jog bra, no less--she completely forgot about her boobs.

And that in itself was a sort of miracle.

yalewantstoseenintheirjockstrap

"How's it hanging, coach?" Nate drawled as he joined the Yale coach at her table at Sarabeth's a full forty-five minutes late. "Sorry I'm late. I'm still wasted from last night." He'd smoked two more joints since the one with Brigid in the hotel room. Now his eyes were mere slits, and he couldn't stop smiling.

Sarabeth's was bright and flowery and packed with brunch-ing Upper East Side moms with babies and dads reading the Sunday papers. The whole place smelled like maple syrup.

"Have a seat." The coach pointed at the chair opposite her. Her mane of blond hair cascaded over her shoulders, and she was wearing red lipstick and a sort of silvery tank top. She looked like Jessica Simpson's long-lost older sister. "Nice hat," she added with a smile.

Nate was wearing one of the Yale baseball hats she'd given him. "I've got the jockstrap on, too," he told her, trying des-perately to maintain a straight face. He was getting kind of good at acting like an asshole. He grabbed a muffin from out of the basket on the table and shoved the entire thing into his mouth. "I'm fucking starving," he added with his mouth full.

"Eat as much as you like," the coach told him generously. "I'm used to being around a team of hungry boys."

"Humphft," Nate grunted. This was going to be harder than in lie thought. He grabbed an entire pat of butter between his fingers and rammed it into his mouth with the muffin. "So tell me why I should want to play with those pansies, anyway."

The coach sipped her mimosa. "You're the type of guy who likes a challenge--I can tell. Otherwise you get bored. You do you might later regret. My job is to kick your ass, and I you, I'll do it."

Nate swallowed the lump of butter. No wonder Yale's team < loing so well this year. He had to admit, he was impressed, again, convincing him to go to Yale was the coach's mis-the whole reason she'd come down to New York in the in m place. And his mission was to get Readmitted.

Maybe he was taking the wrong approach. He wiped his mouth and gazed into the coach's blue eyes with his irresistible green ones. "Has anyone ever told you that you're hot?" He reached for her leg underneath the table and held on.

The coach smiled her placid, confident smile. "I get that a lot, especially from the guys on my team."

All of a sudden Nate felt a hot, stabbing pain in his hand. "Fuck!" he cried, pulling it away. He cradled the hand in his lap. The Yale coach had stabbed him with her fork. He was bleeding!

"And I have to say I'm attracted to you. You're a good-looking boy. But I'll just have to satisfy myself with seeing you in that Yale jockstrap in the locker room next fall." She reached into her purse and tossed a Band-Aid at him. "Deal?"

All of a sudden Nate realized that Yale might be the place for him after all. And what if Blair wound up getting in? They could go to Yale together and live happily ever after. Maybe Serena would go there too, and all three of them would live happily ever after.

Unlikely story.

"Deal," he said, and signaled to the waiter with his good hand. He ordered a beer and then flashed the coach the same cocky, stoned smile that made girls swoon and his teachers give him As when he deserved Cs.

The coach ran her thumb over the tines of her fork. "I think I'm going to enjoy having you on my team," she said.

And we're all going to enjoy seeing him in that jockstrap.

yale sings its way into s's heart

Serena's tour guide at Yale was a no-show, which wasn't really :i surprise since she was nearly an hour late. "Come back at three," the woman at the admissions reception desk told her. "There's a tour going out then."

Serena stood outside the Yale visitors' center, a historic white house with black shutters, wondering what to do next.

"Do re mi fa so la ti do!" chorused a group of male voices farther down Elm Street.

"La, la, la, la!" the voices chorused once more.

Serena followed her ears down the street toward Yale's stately Battell Chapel. When she reached the chapel she dis-covered a group of boys standing in formation beneath the arched doorway, exercising their voices. She'd heard of the famous Whiffenpoofs, Yale's all-male a cappella singing group, but she'd never heard them sing. And she'd had no idea how adorable they all were!

Suddenly they broke into "Midnight Train to Georgia." She sat down at the bottom of the chapel steps, hoping they wouldn't mind if she stayed and listened. And looked--at the boyish blond tenor in the front who kept stepping forward and doing cute little cameo solos; at the muscular rugby player in the back who had the deepest baritone she'd ever heard; at the freckled geek who was just coming into his own; at the tall, pale, skinny boy with floppy dark hair who sang his solos with a wonderful English accent and was wearing the dandiest 1940s-style shoes Serena had ever seen.

She could have stood up and done her own little a cappella solo: Yale boys, Yale boys. Yum, yum, yum!

The boys sang a last long, sweet note, standing on tiptoe to draw it out. Then the blond tenor in the front of the group came humming and bebopping down the chapel steps in Serena's direction. When he reached her step he fell on his knees and gazed up at her.

"One, two, three . . . Beautiful girl, won't you fall in love with me?" he sang.

Serena giggled. Was he kidding?

"Beautiful girl, won't you be my family?" The rugby player picked up the song from the top of the steps.

"Beautiful girl, won't you waste the afternoon kissing me under a tree?" the entire group sang in harmony.

Serena sat on her hands, blushing furiously. She could see now why Blair wanted to go to Yale so badly!

"Today is Sunday, and on Sundays we sing instead of talk. It's a beautiful day. Won't you join me for a walk?" the blond tenor sang, taking her hand.

Serena hesitated. It was kind of cocky of him to just walk up and start serenading her. The boy seemed to notice her hesitation. "I'm Lars. I'm a sophomore," he whispered, as if worried that the rest of the group would hear him talking instead of singing. "That was just an improv song. We do them all the time." Serena relaxed a little. Lars had magnificent aqua-colored eyes and the tiniest smattering of freckles on the bridge of his nose.

He was also wearing the exact same pair of tan Camper shoes she'd bought her brother for his last birthday.

"I did miss my tour," she confessed.

"I'll give you a tour, no problem," he sang.

She gazed over his shoulder across College Street at Yale's oil I campus. A group of girls were playing Frisbee on New Haven green, the gabled windows of the ancient residence hulls rising up around them. It was a beautiful place.

"Beautiful girl, we'll all give you a tour" the Whiffenpoofs wing.

Serena giggled again and let Lars pull her to her feet. If Yale wanted her this bad, they could have her! gossipgirl.co.uk

topics previous next post a question reply Disclaimer: All the real names of places, people, and events have been altered or abbreviated to protect the innocent. Namely, me.

HEY, PEOPLE!

Little-known facts (or outrageous lies--you decide)

At Georgetown there exists a prostitution ring that masks itself as a sisterhood of celibacy. It's an extremely exclusive group that's been around for half a century.

A serial killer who carries a pet ferret and uses girly exotic names for herself such as Fantasia and Tinkerbell is on the loose in the metro-politan area. Preferred weapon: the pick-axe.

A clever con artist has been disguising herself as an admissions per-, son at Brown University, accepting students and collecting tuition. When the students show up for orientation in the fall, the university has never heard of them. So far, authorities have yet to nail down the perpetrator of this inventive scam.

The latest issue of Treat magazine features an article called "Does Breast Size Matter?" Are you thinking what I'm thinking?

Apparently Brown's art department has been singing the praises of its youngest professor, a Venezuelan recruit who specializes in abstract oil renditions of pop-culture figures, especially teen pop-culture figures. Again, are you thinking what I'm thinking?

Of course, this could all be a bunch of hooey.

Your e-mail

Dear GG,

How come you're not stressing about which college to go to? I'm beginning to think maybe you're really like in eighth grade and maybe you just have an older sister or brother or some-thing and that's how you know about this stuff.

--bird

Dear bird,

I love how much time everyone spends thinking about ME. Am I going to be one of those pop icons people start writing Ph.D. papers on, like Madonna? I'll tell you this, though: Eighth grade? Been there, done that.

--GG

Dear GG,

I got kicked out of Brown before I even started my freshman year. I was really surprised I was accepted there in the first place, since I got Ds in almost everything my senior year of high school. Anyway, it turns out I didn't really get in. I was part of this whole scam where somebody was accepting kids and taking their parents' money without the school even knowing. Now I'm a caddy at my dad's golf club.

--putter

Dear putter,

I'm kind of hoping you're just this bored stoner caddy guy, like the ones at MY dad's golf club, who likes to tell everyone this story about how he got accepted at Brown and then expelled. It's a good story. I just hope the same thing doesn't happen to me or any of my friends.