like the kind of thing Serena would do. If only Serena were there. Or maybe it was best that she
wasn't. After all, the drummer was smiling at her. If Serena had been there, Jenny might have gone
unnoticed.
The crowd was noisy now and seemed to have doubled in size. Elise lit a cigarette and passed it to
Jenny. No one had even offered to bring them drinks, but smoking in a room full of legal adults
when you were only fourteen felt cool enough.
Damian twanged his guitar and the drummer banged out a drumroll. The anorexic, dark-haired
bassist cracked his knuckles. Dan cleared his throat right into the microphone, a disgusting,
phlegmy sound.
Gross.
"I guess I should start singing," he mumbled almost incoherently. The crowd tittered. Jenny
thought Dan sounded exactly like he did the morning he'd woken up to find they'd run out of
instant coffee and he'd become so weak he'd puked. Jenny had to run out to the deli, and it had
taken four cups to revive him. She cocked her head to one side, inhaled, and blew a long stream of
smoke into the air. Maybe he was just pretending to be out of it so everyone would be surprised
when he started going nuts like he had at Vanessa's birthday party.
Or maybe not.
EVEN V CAN'T WATCH THIS TRAIN WRECK
Beverly was waiting for Vanessa outside the club, wearing the same loose black pants and orange
rubber flip-flops as yesterday. His black hair was parted down the middle and his pale blue eyes
were shaded by small, round mirrored sunglasses. Very John Lennon meets Keanu Reeves.
"Hi," Vanessa greeted him, hoping she didn't seem too excited to see him again. "Nice glasses."
'Love the lip ring. You smell fantastic', she willed him to say in response. 'And with all certainty
I've decided to move in with you'.
"Should we go in?" was all he asked instead.
The band had already started to play and the line outside the club had dwindled. Vanessa went
straight to the front. "Abrams. I'm on the guest list," she told the bouncer. All of a sudden it
occurred to her that Dan was about to see her with another guy for the very first time. If only she
had the nerve to garn Beverly and make out with him right infront of the stage.
As if Dan would even notice.
The bouncer gave them the once-over and then unhooked the red velvet rope. Vanessa could hear
people in line behind them moaning jealously as they went inside. Beverly didn't say anything, as
if cool things like that happened to him every day.
Funktion was loud and crowded and smoky and hot, just the way clubs were supposed to be. The
Raves were playing with their usual bravado, but the audience seemed to be singing louder than
Dan was. Vanessa couldn't see him yet, but it almost sounded like Dan was choking on something.
'Crack me like and ehh!
Burn a hole in my finger 'til I find myself
Find myself losing you!
Losing you and missing stuff
Missing how you kicked my ass!'
Whoa, that song wouldn't be autobiographical, would it?
It was a new song, one that Dan had written only last week. Somehow the hard-core Raves fans
had bootlegged a version from their practice sessions and had already memorized the lyrics. Now
they were shouting them out, which was a good thing because Dan was barely audible.
Vanessa eased her way through the tightly packed crowd to the back of the club. Dan's little sister
Jenny and her friend were seated at a table in the corner, smoking cigarettes and nodding their
chins to the music with such studied boredom it was almost obvious they'd been practicing in front
of a mirror.
Beverly pointed to a table near the fire exit where there was one free seat. "Go ahead," he told
Vanessa. He perched on the table and indicated that she should have the seat. "I'm not sure how
much more of this I can take."
Vanessa pressed her lips together and sat down. What was that supposed to mean? That he didn't
like her? That he didn't want to live with her? This wasn't what she'd imagined. They were
supposed to sit together in an intimate corner, accidentally knocking knees and touching elbows
and getting more and more into each other, all the while pretending to listen to Dan sing.
But maybe that was part of the problem. Dan wasn't singing at all, only the audience was.
'Do you miss me? Do I miss you?
I know, I know
That's not the fucking point.
We were kinda like mowing the grass-
Looked good, smelled good
But such a pain in the ass!'
Dan clutched his stomach, gasping into the mike, which he held in white-knuckled fists, his eyes
red-rimmed and his sorry mouth gapping like a dying fish's. A fish dressed like the king of MTV
Raps, in weird baggy pants and ugly sneakers, his hair all sweaty and gross and his neck shaved
unevenly.
See what happens to you when we break up? Vanessa thought for a fleeting, gloating moment.
Then again Dan looked so pathetic it was almost embarrassing to admit she even knew him. She
glanced at Beverly. He was biting his cuticles and wiggling his foot like someone waiting for a
bus.
All of a sudden the distinctive sound of vomit rising to the surface blared over the speakers and
Dan staggered offstage, taking the microphone with him. The band continued to play even louder
still, with Dan retching miserably in the background.
Way gross.
Vanessa touched Beverly's elbow. "Maybe we should go," she offered apologetically. It felt sort of
wrong to leave Dan retching backstage when they'd once been so close, but then again, he was the
one who wanted to be a rock star. Besides, there was probably a gang of hot blond Raves groupies
moping Dan's head with a cool, damp towel and spoon-feeding him mineral water at that very
moment. He didn't need her anymore.
Beverly nodded and slipped of the table. "There's this party my Pratt friends are putting on that's
been going on since March. Let's check it out."
He held out his hand, and Vanessa noticed for the first time that he was missing the last joint on
the middle finger of his left hand.
Ew!?!
She tried not to stare and allowed him to pull her to her feet. If only Dan would come back
onstage long enough to see her leaving with another guy. But the club was way too crowded for
ex-girlfriend sightings, and besides, Dan was otherwise occupied.
Again the sound of retching came over the speakers, nearly drowning out the music.
A little advice, dude: We all know how attached you are to that mike, but next time you're gonna
hurl, please leave it behind?!
BETTER IN TRANSLATION
Luckily for Dan, Damian and the other members of the band had enough confidence and humor
not to get all uptight about the fact that their new lead singer was puking his guts out a few feet
offstage. They'd played right through Dan's little episode, subtly cut the sound to his mike, and
then segued into an old Raves song that Dan had never heard before:
'Babycakes, you make my eyes scream
Lick the drips, then toss the come a-waaayee'
No wonder why they were looking for a songwriter.
The crowd went wild, singing the words with more passion than ever. Dan remained offstage with
his head between his knees, trying to remember how he'd gotten himself into this situation in the
first place. How on earth had he gone from reclusive high-school poet to the baggy-pants-wearing
front man of a famous band when he so obviously lacked the mettle for it?
Before the gig started, he'd done what Damian had suggested and drank some vodka. Okay- he'd
drunk close to half the bottle, but instead of relaxing him or giving him the courage to perform, it
had made him feel totally toxic, especially when combined with an entire pack of cigarettes.
Well, duh!
The light was dim backstage, and the wooden floor was sticky with spilt beer and cigarette ash.
Dan gritted his teeth as another wave of nausea gripped him, but he squeezed his eyes shut and
fought it off. Suddenly someone tapped him on the shoulder. "Eet's all right, mon cher. 'Ave a seep
of tonique et voila- you are better, yeah?"
Dan looked up to find a gorgeous girl in her early twenties standing over him with a little bottle of
Schweppes tonic water and a glass of ice in her hands. She poured the tonic over the ice and
squatted down beside him.
"Here. No lime, yeah?"
Dan didn't know what to say. He'd never drunk tonic without vodka, but at this point he'd try
anything. The girl had long honey-colored hair and was deeply tanned. She was wearing a tight
white tank top and a swishy green skirt that barely covered the tops of her long, tan thighs. Her
eyes were olive green and she kind of smelled like pine nuts. He took the glass and put it to his
lips, taking a tiny tentative sip. It would be just his luck for the sip to backfire on him, spewing all
over the girl's beautiful hair. Miraculously, though, it didn't. He took another sip, and then another,
and with each sip, his head cleared ever so slightly.
"Zat's enough," the girl told him firmly and took the glass away. She put it and the empty bottle on
top of an unused amp and turned back to Dan. "When zee boyz are fineeshed, they vill make a
party," she continued, her olive green eyes sleepy and confident. "And zen we vill talk."
Dan nodded obediently, as if she was making complete sense, he was pretty sure the girl was
French, and when she said "And zen we vill talk," it almost sounded like she had more than a little
polite chit-chat in mind. But how could she possibly find him attractive in his current state?
Maybe his performance translated better in another language.
The girl stood in the wings, watching the ban finish up their song. "Zey will play two more songs
et puis finis, yeah?" she declared.
Dan nodded again. That sounded about right. A tattoo encircled the girl's tanned ankle. At first
glance Dan thought the tattoo was of a snake; then he realized it was a fox curled around her leg
asleep.
Oh, the poems he could write about that fox if only he had a pen, a notebook, and a large container
of extra-strength Advil!
He cleared his cigarette-abused throat. "I'm Dan," he croaked, extending his hand but not daring to
stand up.
The girl smiled, a sexy little gap appearing between her front teeth. Then she walked over, grasped
his clammy hand and bent down to kiss his clammy cheek. "I know who you are," she murmured
breathily into his ear. "Et je m'appelle Monique."
Hmmm, Dan mused drunkenly. Was there even a word for foxy in French?
YALE LOVES NEW YORK
Stanford Paris III lived in the penthouse at 1000 Park Avenue in Carnegie Hill, one of the oldest
and most elegant doorman buildings on the Upper East Side. But Mr. Parris's Chippendale
furniture, medieval tapestries, and eighteenth century British sculpture collection went unnoticed
by most of the guests, including the van der Woodsens. They were used to such elegance, and it
only made them feel more at home.
"My grandson wanted me to have the party at the hotel," Stanford Paris II confided to Mr. van der
Woodsen as he shook his hand. "Or at the Yacht Club." He winked at Serena's mother. "But I
wasn't about to pass up an opportunity to host so many beautiful women in my own home!"
Serena's mother smiled her gracious
you-can-say-anything-to-me-you-old-lech-and-I'll-never-lose-my-poise smile, and Serena giggles.
Maybe old Stan Parris wasn't so bad after all. She shook the ancient New England aristocrat's hand
and then stood on tiptoe and planted a flirtatious kiss on his withered old cheek just to piss her
parents off.
"I say," Mr. Paris exclaimed. "Yale certainly knows what it's doing!"
"Easy, Granddad," warned a tall blond boy with an adorable dimple in his chin and amazing
cheekbones. "Remember you have a bad heart," the boy scolded his grandfather.
"It's not my heart I'm worried about," Mr. Parris grumbled. He clasped the boy on the shoulder
with a wrinkled hand. "Miss Serena van der Woodsen, this is my grandson Stanford Parris the
Fifth."
Like anyone actually cares how many Stanford Parrises there are?
Serena waited for the boy to blush with embarrassment and mutter about how plain old "Stan"
would be just fine, but he didn't. Obviously he thought his title was the best thing ever. What did
they call him at school? she wondered. Number five? Stan 5?
"Here's your name tag, dear." Serena' smother pasted a bumper-sticker-sized white nametag with
'Serena van der Woodsen, Incoming Fall' written on it in blue marker over Serena's breast, like
some sort of hideous, adhesive-backed tube top.
Serena pretended not to mind. "Thanks, Mom," she said, cupping her hands over her hest to
smooth out the nametag. Every male in her presence let out a little gasp, all getting excited for
Yale's coed dorms next year.
They were early and the party was thin. Boys in Hugo Boss suits and ties and girls in long Tocca
skirts and buttoned-up blouse lurked by their parents sides, smiling awkwardly and guzzling
champagne. The whole scene made Serena feel like she was at her first day of ballroom dancing
back in the fifth grade.
Someone tapped Serena on the shoulder and she turned around. It was Mrs. Archibald, Nate's
dramatic, French, slightly crazy mother. Her dyed amber hair had been blown out into mass of
cascading curls, and her thin lips were painted a fierce fire-engine red. Around her neck were six
strands of rose-colored pearls, and matching rose-colored pearls punctuated each ear. Despite her
three-inch Christian Louboutin heels, she was surprisingly tiny, dressed in a sleek, pewter-colored
