You're the One That I Want (14 page)

--GG

Dear GG,

can u please explain the difference between a girl who just likes hanging out with different guys and a hoochie? cuz I know I may seem like a hoochie but what is so wrong with having lots of friends who are boys? none of the boys seem to mind, only the girls.

--popgrl

Dear popgrl,

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. In fact, a girl very close to my heart--known here as S--is just that type of girl, and look how well she's doing!

--GG

Sightings

V and D getting dragged around Chinatown by a loud girl with purple-and-black hair carrying a live fish in a blue plastic bag. Let's just say I won't be dining at their house anytime soon. B in the Elizabeth Arden Red Door Salon after closing time on Sunday. Can you spell color correction? S with her head plastered against the window of the New Haven-New York train, snoring softly. Guess she didn't get much sleep this weekend--nudge, nudge. N on a shady street corner trading his Brown sweatshirt for a dime bag. And little J jogging in Riverside Park. Trying to tone up for her next modeling gig?

Who knew this would be such a life-changing weekend? See you at school tomorrow.

You know you love me,

gossip girl b deserves a purple heart

"Mrs. M got a call from Georgetown," Rain Hoffstetter whispered to Kati Farkas in the Constance Billard School library as the girls pretended to select books on modern American painting to read during study hall. "Saturday night Blair and a bunch of Georgetown girls were caught getting paid for sex. They went to some singles bar in town and picked up guys all night. Her mom is coming for a conference in Mrs. M's office because now she can't even go to Georgetown."

Sure enough, Blair had just told the librarian that she was skipping study hall for an important meeting in the headmistress's office with her mother.

"I thought she looked funny today," mused Isabel Coates. "I guess if you're going to wait this long to lose your virginity, you may as well get paid for it."

"But how come she's wearing tights? It's like seventy degrees today!" Kati pointed out.

Laura Salmon giggled. "Maybe she's got, like, rug burn--you know, from all the sex."

Or maybe she let four drunk girls shave her legs?

Mrs. M's office was on the main floor, down the hall from the reception area. As she walked by, Blair noticed that the reception desk was covered with bouquets of flow-ers--roses, mostly.

"What are those for?" Blair asked Donna, the new part-time receptionist.

Donna shrugged and stamped another letter with Mrs. M's signature. "You tell me."

Blair checked the tag on the biggest bouquet, a gorgeous mix of yellow roses and freesias. Serena, Serena, it read. I can't stop singing your name. And it was signed, Love, Lars and the Yale Whiffenpoofs.

"It figures," Blair sulked as she headed into Mrs. M's office. Maybe if she'd been slutty enough to sleep with every guy in the Whiffenpoofs, she would have gotten into Yale, too.

Mrs. M's office was completely red, white, and blue. China-blue-and-white-striped wallpaper. Red carpeting. Navy blue velvet sofa. Red-and-white-chintz chair. It was very patri-otic. Even Mrs. M was red, white, and blue--navy blue linen old-lady pantsuit, red lipstick, pasty white skin, red polished fingernails. Only her hair, which was curly and brown, varied from the color scheme.

"I do like your hair short," Mrs. M commented when Blair walked in.

Of course you do, you lesbo dyke, Blair thought, smiling politely. She patted her head. "Thank you."

Actually, she was kind of relieved that she'd made it this far into the day without anyone--even her mother--noticing that her hair had been dyed from natural dark brown to taxicab yellow and then back to brown again. The colorist had done a decent job, but to her the color was unnaturally uniform, and her scalp itched like crazy from all the dye.

Blair sat down on the sofa and then her mother waddled into Mrs. M's office, clutching her stomach like the baby was going to fall out if she didn't hold on to it. Pieces of her blond bob were plastered to her cheeks, and her skin was red and blotchy. She fanned herself with her hand. "This time last year I was playing a full game of tennis five days a week. Now I can't walk down the block without breaking a sweat!"

Mrs. M smiled her polite, talking-to-a-parent smile. "Running after a baby will get you back in shape in no time."

Right, as if there wasn't already a baby-nurse sleeping in the maid's room of the penthouse!

Blair rolled her eyes and scratched her razor-burned calves. She hadn't called this meeting to talk about babies. Through Mrs. M's office window she spied a woman in military fatigues walking down Ninety-third Street. The sight gave Blair an idea. Wasn't there some kind of army program that sponsored your years at college? She could join the army, go to Yale, and then do the minimum required service. She imagined herself up to her waist in the muddy trenches, fighting off the enemy, while everyone else was studying in the library or something. She could be a hero, win a Purple Heart! And when she went MIA, Nate would go after her, risking his life to get her back and finally have sex after all these years.

Saving Private Blair. Coming soon to your local video store.

Mrs. M nestled her wide, manly ass into the red toile wingback chair behind her huge mahogany desk. "While I've got you both here, I'd like to congratulate Blair on her performance at Constance. Never a grade below a B. Excellent attendance. Wonderful show of leadership and participation. Blair, you can expect to receive a handful of awards at graduation in June."

Blair's mom smiled vaguely at the headmistress. Her mind seemed to be on other things.

"Then why didn't I get into Yale?" Blair demanded. "What's the point of working so hard and everything if a school like Yale goes and accepts some of my classmates who are way dumber than I am?"

Mrs. M sorted through the papers on her desk. "I can't speak for Yale, and I can't say I understand their decision. But our records show you were wait-listed. There's still a very good chance you'll get in."

Blair crossed her arms over her chest. That wasn't good enough. She glared at her mom. Now was when her mom was supposed ply Mrs. M with lots of money for Constance if Mrs. M put in a few calls to Yale's dean of admissions and secured Blair a place. But Eleanor just sat there staring out the window and panting through her mouth like a dog in summer.

"Mom?" Blair demanded.

"Whoosh," Eleanor panted, fanning herself frantically. "Would you mind calling me a car, dear?" She pried herself out of her chair and squatted on Mrs. M's crimson carpet in a pose Blair recognized from Ruth's birth class. "Whooosh! I think I may be further along than everyone thought!" Talk about timing.

Blair grimaced as her mother went into serious birth-class-breathing-exercise mode. "Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh!" "Mom!" Mrs. M dialed Donna in reception. "Call an ambulance, please, Donna. Mrs. Waldorf Rose appears to be in labor."

"No!" Blair countered. "Lenox Hill isn't far. Mom's car i waiting for her out front." Her mother grabbed her hand and squeezed it hard. Blair had the feeling she'd said the right thing.

"Scratch that," Mrs. M commanded in that military cjmmando voice the girls always made fun of. "Mrs. Rose's car is waiting outside the school. Please tell her driver she's coming out and needs to get to Lenox Hill Hospital."

"Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh!" Eleanor panted.

"Now,"Mis. M barked into the phone.

Blair extracted her phone from her bag and called Cyrus. "Mom's in labor," she told his voicemail flatly. "We're going to the hospital." She clicked off and tucked her hands under her mom's armpits. "You don't want to have her here, Mom, do you?"

"No," Eleanor whimpered, and staggered to her feet. She wrapped one arm around Blair's shoulder and the other around Mrs. M's waist. "Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh," she panted as the odd threesome made their way down the hall and out Constance Billard's great blue doors.

"I'll call the hospital and tell them you're coming," Mrs. M told Blair competently.

"Heart attack?" the driver asked as he opened the car door for them. He almost looked happy about it.

"No, idiot," Blair snapped. "She's having a baby. And if you'd shut up, we'd be there already."

"Whoosh, whoosh, whooee!" Her mother panted, grab-bing Blair's hand in a death grip.

Blair looked up at Constance's tall third-floor library windows as the car pulled away from the curb. The windows were crowded with the faces of girls peering down at the street.

"Oh my God. I think she just had her baby in Mrs. M's office!" Rain Hoffstetter cried.

"Who? Blair?" asked Laura Salmon.

"No, stupid. Her mom," Rain corrected.

"It's totally Blair's fault. I heard stress can cause you to go into labor early," Isabel Coates observed.

"Her poor mom. It's like, oh, by the way, your daughter is a prostitute. And oops, here comes another kid for you to fuck up!" Nicki Button added.

"Baby's coming! Wheeesh!" Eleanor hissed, getting on all fours in the back of the town car. "Baby's coming now" she growled, biting the vinyl headrest.

Blair turned away from the window and reached up to pat her mother's shoulder. "We're almost there, Mom," she murmured, glad that she'd been around when her mom went into labor, instead of some annoying salesperson in Saks or something. "Just imagine you're . . ." She tried to think of something Ruth had told them in class, but the only thing she could remember was the buttocks-deflating-like-a-balloon thing, and no way was she saying that. Instead she tried to think of what made her relax. "Just imagine you're eating a big bowl of chocolate ice cream and watching Breakfast at Tiffany's" she said finally.

"Baby's coming now!" her mother shrieked again, her knuckles white and her face purple with effort.

Blair realized it didn't much matter what she said. The baby was coming--it was only a matter of minutes. The car stopped at a light at Eighty-ninth and Park. She scooted forward and leaned close to the driver's ear. "Do you want us to completely fuck up the backseat of your car, or are you going to run this light and get us there in the next thirty seconds?"

The driver stepped on the gas, pressing down hard on his horn at the same time.

Baby's coming!

n and s miss their old threesome

Nate was on his way out of school to pick up a burrito and a dime bag for lunch when he stopped short. A woman with strawberry blond hair was seated on the brown leather bench just inside the school doors, her black Kate Spade pocket-book perched neatly on her knees and a Brown University duffel bag at her feet. A fat novel lay open in her lap, and it looked like she'd been there for hours. Nate crept backwards down the stairs to the basement locker area. This time he would have to ignore the munchies and forgo his usual pretrig joint. Either that or risk facing Brigid.

"Dude, what're you sneaking around for?" Jeremy asked, watching him from the foot of the stairs.

"No reason," Nate grumbled. "Hey, you eaten yet?" he asked hopefully.

"Nah. I'm headed to the deli right now. Wanna come?" Jeremy patted his baggy khaki pants pocket so Nate could hear the dry crinkle of rolling papers and a bag full of weed. "Have a little appetizer first?"

Nate pulled a twenty-dollar bill out of his pocket and handed it to his friend. "Just get me a tuna sandwich and a Gatorade or something."

Jeremy took the money. "What, didn't finish your trig homework again?"

"Didn't even start it yet."

Jeremy swung his backpack around and pulled a notebook out of it. He handed it to Nate. "Start copying. I'll bring your food down when I get back."

"Thanks, man," Nate said gratefully. The truth was, Jeremy sucked even worse at trig than he did, but he was still world-class as far as friends went.

"Hey," Jeremy called, stopping at the top of the stairs. "Did you hear about Blair's mom? Guess she had her baby, like, in a meeting at Blair's school."

Nate stared at his friend, too scared to reply for fear Brigid would hear. He raised his hand and nodded stiffly before stalking into the crowded locker area. Jesus fucking Christ. Could Blair's life get any more melo-fucking-dramatic?

Stick around and find out.

The downstairs locker area was the only place in school where you could use "handheld devices." Boys milled around listening to their MP3 players or huddled in groups watching a DVD on someone's laptop. Nate sat down on the cold, vomit-green linoleum floor in front of his locker, whipped out his phone, and buzzed Serena on her cell. Of course he couldn't call Blair. Not when she was at the hospital attend-ing to her mom and everything.

As if he'd call her anyway. Scaredy-cat.

Serena sat in a coveted window seat in the Constance Billard library, pretending to ignore the gossip flying around the room, especially since half of it was about her. She was perfectly aware of the fact that the school reception area downstairs looked like an exhibit at Macy's flower show, and that all the flowers were from her Ivy League admirers. But how could she enjoy being in love with three different guys when she had no one with whom to share the excitement? And how was she supposed to pick one boy without some objective advice from her best friend?

Wait, isn't she supposed to be picking a school?

Obviously Blair was pissed as hell at her over the whole Yale thing and wasn't about to talk to her. Plus it looked like Blair was going to be kind of preoccupied for a while anyway, what with her baby sister arriving so unexpectedly. And it wasn't as if Serena could go up to one of her supposed friends and classmates like Isabel Coates or Kati Farkas, because, based on the loudly whispered rumors circulating at school, it was generally thought that Serena had had sex with the entire orchestra at Harvard, every professor in Brown's art department, and every Whiffenpoof at Yale.

"I heard she even did it with the first-chair violinist," one girl murmured indiscreetly. "He's like this fifteen-year-old prodigy from Japan."

"You know the art professor she hooked up with at Brown? He's like the oldest teacher there. He's been there since the school was founded. "