You're the One That I Want (8 page)

"All right. Now that the partners have had a moment to relax, it's time for them to get to work. Remember, it takes a team to make a baby!"

Eleanor's trendy-with-the-Upper-East-Side-set birth class

"coach" was a yoga-slim, frizzy-haired former nurse named Kuth, who taught the class in her ultramodern Fifth Avenue penthouse. Ruth was married to a newly successful appliance designer, meaning that he designed washing machines, refriger-ators, and dishwashers that looked like spaceships and cost as much as cars. They had five children, including a set of fraternal twins, and every once in a while one of the children would wan-der through the living room to get something from the enor-mous chrome fridge in the kitchen without even batting an eye at all the pregnant women sprawled on the floor.

They'll probably all turn into psychologically disturbed gynecologists, Blair thought.

Ruth hitched up her weird black-and-white two-tone Yohji Yamamoto yoga pants, crouched on the floor, and scrunched up her face until she looked like a baboon trying to expel a whole banana tree from its ass. "Remember the stages of labor we went over in the beginning of class? This is the face of the third stage. Very antisocial. Later on, when the epidural has worn off and you begin to push? Forget about it. That's when you start shouting at your husband to fuck the prenup. Babies may be pretty, but there's nothing pretty about having them. That's why they call it labor."

Blair raised herself up on her elbows. Didn't they have more technologically advanced ways of doing this nowadays? Couldn't they just, like, laser the baby out?

"Now it's time for a treat. Ladies, keep relaxing on the floor. Partners, kneel down at their feet, where you belong. Now, ladies, get ready for a fabulous foot massage!"

All the other partners happened to be the women's hus-bands, not their seventeen-year-old daughters. Husbands were supposed to give foot massages. It was part of the job. Daughters weren't.

Blair stared at her mom's feet. They looked sort of like hers, except they were encased in skin-colored knee-high socks. Just the thought of touching them made Blair gag. "Start working on the right heel. Cradle the foot in one hand and use your thumbs. Don't be afraid to dig in. She's been carrying two people around all day. Her feet are tough!"

Gingerly, Blair picked up her mother's right foot. One thing was certain: After each of these birth classes she was going to buy an extremely expensive pair of Manolos and charge them to her mother's credit card. She would also need a series of heavy-duty spa treatments to rid herself of the memories of all this touchy-feeliness and birth talk, never mind the foot odor.

"Now rest her foot on your chest and drum your fingers from the big toe up to the knee. I know it sounds odd, ladies, but it feels wonderful."

The husbands started drumming. They were really getting into it.

"I have to go to the bathroom," Blair announced, letting her mother's foot fall with a thud to the flokati-wool-carpeted floor.

"Why don't you use the twins' bathroom? It's just down that hall, on the right," Ruth said, coming over to take Blair's place.

"Ahh," Eleanor moaned as Ruth began to drum her fin-gers over her foot.

The bathroom was large and modern, like the rest of the house, but it was cluttered with bottles of Clearasil and assorted hair products. On the floor was a silver plastic litter box that looked like it had been designed by Ruth's husband, and bits of cat litter were scattered all over the tiles. Blair wasn't sure where Kitty Minky's litter box was located in her family's penthouse, but certainly not in her bathroom. How unsanitary!

She stood at the sink and ran the tap, staring at her reflec-tion in the toothpaste-spattered mirror. Her thin lips were turned down at the corners, and her small blue eyes were hard and angry-looking. Her short brown hair was growing more slowly than she would have liked and was in a stage of styleless droopiness. She lifted up her shirt and examined her body. Her chest looked small, and her stomach was a little soft after not playing tennis all winter. Not that she was fat or anything. But maybe if she'd gone out for the swim team and stayed in shape, Yale would have wanted her and she would have already had sex with Nate and her life would be great instead of--

Suddenly the bathroom door swung open and Ruth's thirteen-year-old twins, a boy and a girl with braces and frizzy red hair like their mother, stood staring at Blair. The girl was wearing a gray pleated Constance Billard uniform. Blair let her shirt drop.

"We're looking for our cat," the girl said.

"Are you a lesbian?" the boy asked. The twins giggled in unison. "Because if you are, then how did you get pregnant?" continued the boy.

Excuse me?

Blair reached for the door and slammed it in their faces, careful to lock it this time. Then she flipped the lid down on the toilet seat and sat down. A worn copy of Jane Eyre was lying on the floor and she picked it up. Blair had read the book twice. Once on her own when she was eleven and once in ninth-grade English. Now she reread the first few pages, feeling very much like Jane herself--locked away, tortured by her family, her great intelligence and sensitivity completely underappreciated. If only the bathroom had some sort of escape route--a trapdoor to the street. She would take a cab straight to the airport, catch a plane to England or even Australia, change her name, get a job as a waitress or a gov-erness, fall in love with her boss just like Jane, get married, and live happily ever after.

But first she had to wash away the disgusting odor of preg-nant woman foot that seemed to have permeated her skin. Without stopping to think about what she was doing, Blair closed the book, stood up, and turned the tap on in the bath. She emptied a capful of Kiehl's cucumber body wash into the water, took off her clothes, and got in. There. Closing her eyes, she envisioned herself lying on an Australian beach in that shell-pink-and-navy-blue-plaid Burberry bikini she'd almost bought last weekend, watching her hot husband surf the Pacific. At sunset they'd sail out into the horizon in their yacht, drink champagne and eat oysters, and then have sex right on deck, his green eyes glittering in the moonlight. Green eyes . . .

Blair sat up in the tub. Nate! She didn't need to run away after all, not when she still had Nate. Her cell phone was sticking out of the back pocket of her jeans where they lay crumpled on the floor next to the tub. She grabbed it and dialed Nate.

"Whassup?" he asked, sounding stoned.

"Will you still love me even if I don't go to Yale?" Blair purred as she lay back in the bubbles.

"'Course I will," Nate responded.

"Do you think I'm fat and out of shape?" she asked, kick-ing one naked foot out of the water and then the other. Her toes were painted burgundy.

"Blair," Nate scolded her. "You're the opposite of fat."

Blair smiled and closed her eyes. She and Nate had had this conversation a thousand times before, but each time it always made her feel better about herself.

"Hey, are you taking a bath or something?" he asked.

"Uh-huh," Blair opened her eyes and reached for the bottle of body wash. "I wish you were here."

"I could come over," Nate offered hopefully.

If only she were actually home in her own bathtub.

"Sweetheart?" Eleanor Waldorf's voice called through the door. "Are you okay in there?"

"I'm fine!" Blair yelled back.

I'm just lying in my mother's birth class instructor's tub, having phone sex with my boyfriend.

"Well, don't forget there are a lot of pregnant women out here with overactive bladders!"

Thanks for the reminder.

"Damn, I gotta go," Nate said. "All these college lax coaches are calling me. They're coming down this weekend to watch me play."

Notice that he was careful not to mention which colleges.

"Well, I'm going down to Georgetown early tomorrow morning, but I'll call you from there, okay?" Blair clicked off and, with a rush of water, rose to her feet and dried herself off with one of the fluffy white towels she found folded in a stack on a shelf beside the tub. Then she pulled her clothes back on and ran her fingers through her damp hair. Her reflection in the mirror looked more vibrant now, and she smelled fresh and cucumber-clean. Maybe it was the bath, or the pick-me-up talk with Nate, but she felt like a whole new person.

Outside in the hallway, pregnant women were milling around eating goat-cheese-and-olive pizzettes delivered from Eli's. Blair lingered by the door, waiting impatiently as Eleanor chatted with Ruth about Ruth's husband's refrigerator designs.

Ruth's twin daughter, the one in the Constance Billard uniform, walked over, carrying a white Himalayan cat.

"This is Jasmine," the girl said.

Blair smiled tightly and tightened the posts on her dia-mond stud earrings.

"Are you having a nervous breakdown?" the girl persisted. "I heard you had to drop out of school."

It was no secret how fast rumors flew around school and beyond. By Monday the braces-wearing, redheaded wretch would have told every soul who would listen how Blair Waldorf was looking at her chest in the bathroom at her house, or probably much worse. In a way Blair was actually looking forward to this weekend's trip to Georgetown. At least no one would know her, and she would be treated with the decency and respect she deserved.

"Mom!" she called harshly. "It's time to go." And, just as Blair predicted, as soon as the door closed Behind her, that evil twin raced to her room to log onto the computer, and the IMs began to fly. 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!

Honesty is overrated

You know how everyone is always talking about how honesty is the best policy and how the only true relationship is an honest, open one? Well, I think that's crap. Not that I think lying is cool. Just that sometimes the less said, the better. I mean, how interesting can you be when you have no secrets? Where's the mystery? The element of surprise? Admit it, it's exciting when your boyfriend goes away for the weekend and you have no idea what he's been up to. You like it when that guy you have a crush on has a party but keeps to himself most of the time or leaves the room to make a mysterious phone call. Isn't it more interesting to imagine that everyone you know leads a dou-ble life?

And face it, if what we really wanted was honesty, we wouldn't talk so much trash about each other and thoroughly enjoy it, would we?

Your e-mail

Dear GG,

It sounds strange, but my mom teaches childbirth classes in our living room, and this senior girl from my school was there last night with her mom, who is like way too old to be having a baby. Anyway, the girl like locked herself in the bathroom for like an hour and then came out all wet. Everyone in my class is so scared of her and thinks she's so cool, but now I know she's just crazy. No wonder she didn't get into college.

--newsworthy

Dour newsworthy,

You said she's a senior? Babe, we're ALL crazy.

--GG

Dear GG,

My cousin goes to Yale and works as a tour guide for prospec-tive students. He was told there is no wait list at Yale. They just send out the letters to meet some national quota or something.

--drea

Dear drea,

Eek. That sounds scary enough to be true.

--GG Sightings

D drinking farewell coffee in a diner on Broadway. J practicing the runway-model strut down the center aisle of the Seventy-ninth Street crosstown bus. S catching the U.S. Air shuttle to Boston. Guess she's taking this decision-making thing pretty seriously. B chugging down one of those little bottles of vodka on her flight to DC--psyching her-self up for Georgetown. V chucking out a girls only sign that she stole from a bathroom in a Williamsburg bar. C and his dad board-ing their private jet. On their way to convince some gullible institution to take him next fall? Dad was carrying a briefcase--let's just imagine it was full of money.

Remember people, we've got almost three weeks to decide which school we want to go to. Let's use the time wisely. Wink, wink. You know I will!

You know you love me,

gossip girl geeky harvard host steals s's heart

Serena stepped out of her Logan Airport limo and tripped down the flagstone path to the Harvard admissions office, her body buzzing with caffeine from the huge Starbucks cappuc-cino she'd drunk during the flight. It was a sunny spring morning--cooler than in New York--and Cambridge was bustling with street vendors and hip, bohemian-looking stu-dents, hanging out on benches and drinking coffee. She won-dered how Harvard had earned its serious and intimidating reputation when it seemed so relaxed and unintimidating.

Her tour guide was waiting for her just inside the door. Tall and dark-haired, with silver-wire-rimmed spectacles--the perfect geekily handsome intellectual. "I'm Drew," he said, holding out his hand.

"I already love it here," Serena gushed as she shook his hand. She had a tendency to gush when she was nervous, even though she wasn't exactly nervous, just over-caffeinated.

"I can give you the standard two-hour tour, or maybe it would be better if you tell me what you want to see," Drew offered. His eyes were light brown, and he was wearing a beige cotton cable-knit sweater and olive green corduroys that were so perfectly creased, Serena could picture him getting the package from J. Crew that his mom had had sent for him and putting the clothes on right out of the box. She liked it when boys paid attention lo fashion, but it was almost more appealing when a boy looked hot

despite his nerdy mom-just-bought-me-this outfit.

"I'd really like to see your room," she said, without even stopping to think about how it sounded. Actually, it was true. She really did want to see what the dorms were like.

Drew blushed and Serena blushed back at him. And all of a sudden it hit her--she'd gone to an all-girls school since first grade. All girls for twelve years straight. College was going to be full of boys. Boys all day, every day. Boys, boys, boys.