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NOBODY DOES IT BETTER
(A Gossip Girl Novel - 07)
Cecily Von Ziegesar
I must be cruel only to be kind
-William Shakespeare, Hamlet
Gossipgirl.net
Hey people!
Only two weeks left to make up out minds about which college we want to go to- for those of us
who have a choice. Meanwhile, we are busy mastering the art of not flunking out of our last ever
term of high school while spending as little time as possible actually in school or doing homework.
If you see a group of immaculately groomed girls shedding their blue-and-white-seersucker
uniforms and lying out in Sheep Meadow in Central Park in their cute new Malia Mills bikinis,
that's us. If you see a group of shirtless boys in rolled-up khakis and bare feet, platinum Cartier
tank watches gleaming from their tanned, lacrosse-muscled arms, those would be our boyfriends.
And okay, yeah, it's only 11am on Friday and we're supposed to be in gym or AP French, but we're
nearing the end of the most difficult year of our lives and we have a lot of excess steam to blow
off, so cut us some slack, okay?
Better yet, join us.
In case you've been hiding under a rock somewhere and don't yet know us- doesn't everyone? - We
are the belles of the ball, the princesses and princes of New York's Upper East Side. Most of the
time we live in penthouse apartment in those stately doorman buildings on Park or Fifth avenues
or in town houses that take up half a city block. The rest of the time we're at one of our "country"
houses, which vary in size and location from compounds in Connecticut or the Hamptons to
medieval castles in Ireland to beachfront villas in St. Barts. Weekdays there is school- yawn- at
one of Manhattan's small, single-sex, uniform-required private schools. Weekends we play hard,
especially now that the weather is fine and our parents are off in their yachts or private jets or
driver-operated town cars, leaving us crazy kids to do as we please.
And what pleases us most right now is one of out favorite three-letter words. You may not be
doing it, but you're definitely talking about it. Everyone's talking about it. And some of us are
doing it. Especially....
THE COUPLES THAT MAY AS WELL BE MARRIED
They sleep together, eat together, and have started sharing each other's clothes, as if they couldn't
be bothered with sorting out the rumples pile of his-and-hers clothing beside the bed and just
shrugged into the nearest thing, knowing it would soon be shrugged off again. Neither of them can
go anywhere alone without people asking "where's.........?" as if it's totally unbelievable that they
would spend more than thirty seconds apart. I know, I can hear you scoffing already. Like , how
boring to have only one boyfriend. But face it, they're definitely doing more than just talking
about that three-letter word, which is more than can be said for the rest of us.
Your e-mail
Q: Dear GG
My dad is an independent film producer and he's at Cannes right now for the festival. Everyone is
talking about this document about "privileged New York City teens," but no one knows who made
it. First of all, are you in the film? Second of all, are you the one who made it?
-LA girl
A: Dear LA girl
I can't really answer your first question because I haven't seen the film, but it sounds awfully
familiar.... A certain shaven-headed girl was following everyone around with a camera a few
weeks back... As for your second question- I can barely take pictures with my camera-phone!
-GG
Sightings
S after midnight, tiptoeing out to the mailbox outside her fifth avenue apartment building with her
arms full of big white envelopes emblazoned with various college crests. She was wearing an
itty-bitty baby blue Cosabella nightgown that barely covered her famously gorgeous bottom (to
the delight of the doormen on duty and all the cabbies stuck in traffic), but tiptoed back inside
again without nailing anything. It must be tough making a decision about next year when she got
into every school she applied to, and maybe even some that she didn't! C taking his military-issue
scary-looking black boots to Tod's for a little spruce-up. he's going to be the first cadet ever to
wear pink tassels in his boots. D and J fighting over the mirror in H&M. looks like a little sibling
rivalry has set in now that they're both so famous. V at an internet café in Williamsburg IMing
random strangers. That girl has no fear. K and I feasting and scheming in Jackson Hole. Oh, God,
what now? No sign of N or B... Jeez, don't they ever get bored of each other? What if they have to
be apart next year?
Decisions, decisions.... Where will we all be in one year's time? Can we possibly survive without
each other? Try not to freak out-yet. You know where to find me in case you need help, or
company, or want to invite me over for one of those spontaneous rooftop parties that
end-of-the-year seniors are so famous for having.
You know I love you
Gossip Girl
N'S BEDROOM 100% PURE LOVE
"Wake up!" Blair Waldorf yanked off the Black watch plaid duvet and let it fall to the floor beside
the antique sleigh bed. Nate Archibald lay sprawled across the mattress on his stomach, naked and
very relaxed. Blair sat down beside him and bounced up and down as hard as she could. Nate kept
his eyes closed as her ruthless bouncing jarred his golden brown head up and down. Why was it
that s-e-x made her so hyper and him so sleepy?
"I'm awake," he mumbled. He opened one glittering green eye and instantly felt more awake that
he had a second before. Blair was naked too, all five feet four inches of her, from her shiny
coral-glossed toes to the chestnut brown waves of her pixie-cut. She had the type of body that
even looked better naked than in clothes. Soft without being fat, and more delicate than her usual
costumes of preppy, neatly creased jeans and cashmere cardigans or short, tight little black dresses
let on. She was still a pain in the ass, but they'd been in and out of love since they were eleven
years old, and he wanted to get naked with her for even longer. How typical it had taken Blair six
and a half years to stop fighting with him and actually do it.
And once they'd done it they couldn't stop doing it. Nate reached up and pulled her down on top of
him, kissing her randomly and ferociously because she was finally his, all his.
"Hey!" Blair giggled. The navy blue silk Romanian blinds were raised and the windows were open,
but it wasn't like she cared if anyone saw or heard them. They were in love, they were beautiful,
and they were sex fiends. If anyone was looking, it was because they were seriously jealous.
Besides, she relished the attention, even from the random perverted Peeping Toms and Tomasinas
who happened to be spying on them through gold-plated opera glasses from windows of the
surrounding town houses.
They kissed for a while, but Nate was too worn out to do much else. Blair rolled away from him
and lit a cigarette, giving Nate little puffs every once and awhile like the actors in breathless, the
super-cool black-and-white French film she'd watched earlier that day on AP French. The blond
female lead always looked so chic and beautiful and was never without lipstick. All the people in
the movie did all day was ride around on a Vespa motorbike, have sex, sit in cafés, and smoke. Of
course they always looked gorgeous. But Blair had to keep her grades up if she wanted to get off
Yale's wait list, and what with school and homework and sex with Nate everyday after school,
there was hardly time for primping. Blair's wavy brown hair was matted and sweaty, her lips were
chapped from prolonged kissing and infrequent lip gloss application, and she hadn't plucked her
eyebrows in two whole days. Not that she really minded. Sacrificing a little personal grooming
time for sex was totally worth it. Besides, she'd read somewhere that an hour of sex burns three
hundred and sixty calories, so even if she was a little scruffy, at least she'd be skinny!
She reached up and felt the stubble gathering between her dark, neat arched eyebrows. Okay, so
maybe she minded just a teensy bit, but she could always grab a cab down to Elizabeth Arden for
an eyebrow wax.
Stubble aside, Blair had never felt so happy. After finally doing it with Nate nearly two weeks ago,
she was a whole new woman. The only dark cloud in her rosy sky was the irritating fact that she
was still only wait-listed at Yale. Just exactly how where her and Nate going to get together every
afternoon if she wound up having to go to Georgetown in DC- the only school that had actually
accepted her-and he was up at Yale in New Haven, Connecticut, or Brown in Providence, Rhode
Island, or one of the other great schools he'd so unfairly gotten into? Not that she was bitter, but
Nate had shown up stoned for the SAT's, took no AP's and barely had a B average, while she was
in ever AP Constance Billard offered, had gotten a 1490 on her SAT, and had almost an A+
average. Okay so maybe she was slightly bitter.
"If I joined the peace Corps and spent a couple of years building sewers and making sandwiches
for starving children in, like, Rio or somewhere, then Yale would have to take me, wouldn't they?"
she said aloud.
Nate grinned. Here was the thing about Blair that he loved. She was spoiled, but she wasn't lazy.
She knew what she wanted, and because she believed absolutely that she could have everything
she wanted if she tried hard enough to get it, she never stopped trying.
" I heard everyone gets sick in the Peace Corps. And you have to speak the native language."
"I'll so it in France than." Blaire blew smoke up at the ceiling. "Or one of those African countries
where t hey speak French." She tried to imagine herself conversing with the natives in some arid
African village while balancing a clay pot of fresh goat's milk on her head and wearing an
elaborately dyed caftan that could be supremely sexy if tied in the right places. She'd have a killer
tan and would be nothing but muscle and bone from all the hard work and horrible intestinal
diseases. Children would clamor at her knees for the Godiva chocolates she'd order for them and
she'd smile sincerely down at them like a beautiful, unwrinkled Mother Teresa. When she returned
to the States she'd win some Peace Corps award for best volunteer, or even the Nobel peace Prize.
She'd have dinner with the president, who would write her a recommendation to Yale, and then
Yale would fall over themselves to accept her.
Nate was pretty sure the Peace Corps only helped out in third-world countries, not economically
thriving places like France, and no way would Blair last more than half and hour in some remote
African Village where they didn't have Sephora or even flushing toilets. Poor Blair. It was
completely unfair that he'd gotten into Yale without really trying, while she, who'd wanted to go to
Yale since she was two years old, had been wait-listed. Then again, Nate was used to getting
things without really trying.
He propped his head up on his hand and tenderly smoothed Blair's dark hair away from her
forehead. "Unless you hear soon that you got in, I promise I won't go to Yale," he vowed. "I'm fine
with going to Brown or whatever."
"Really?" Blair stamped out her cigarette in the sailboat- shaped marble ashtray beside Nate's bed
and flung her arms around his neck. Nate was by far the best boyfriend a girl could ever ask for.
She couldn't imagine why she'd ever broken up with him, not once, but again and again.
Because he cheated on her again and again?
All Blair knew now was that she was never ever wanted to leave Nate's side. She rested her cheek
against his strong, bare chest. Now that she thought about it, moving into the Archibalds' town
house wasn't such a bad idea, since her own house wasn't exactly an episode of "Seventh Heaven"
right now. Her mother had just given birth to her baby sister just over two weeks ago and was now
suffering from severe postpartum depression. Just this morning Blair had left her mother weeping
over a DVD sent from Peruvian Alpaca farm. Apparently, if you adopted a herd of alpaca yearling,
you could custom-order hand-woven blankets and sweaters made from the hair of the animals in
your herd. Her baby sister would soon be the proud new owner of a hairy white alpaca blanket that
would be completely useless all summer long, and probably the rest of her life, unless as a
teenager she got into the hippie handmade-chic thing, cut a head hole into the blanket, and
fashioned it into a poncho.
Back when her mother was still pregnant, she had asked Blair to name the baby, and out of
devotion to her favorite college Blair had chosen the name Yale. Now baby Yale served as a living,
breathing, very noisy reminder that no matter how stunning Blair's record was, the school had all
but rejected her. Worse still, the baby had taken over her bedroom, and she was forced to sleep in
her stepbrother Aaron's room until after she left for school in the fall. Aaron was a vegan
Rastafarian dog-lover, so the room had been decorated specifically for him in wall-to-wall organic,
environmentally sound products in shades of egg plant and wild sage. To add insult to injury,
Blair's cat, Kitty Minky, had taken to peeing on the barley husk cushions and throwing up on the
woven sea grass floor mats in an effort to rid the room of the scent of Aaron's dog, a drooling
boxer named Mookie.
Hello, Nasty?
Move in with Nate. Blaire didn't know why she hadn't thought of it before. A freaky mother, a
