he demanded, clapping Dan and Lloyd on their backs.
Monique flashed him a sweet I'm-only-tolerating-you-because-you're-famous sort of smile and
hooked her arm possessively through Dan's.
Lloyd grabbed Jenny and squashed her into sort of a three-way bear hug with Damian. "Damian,
meet Jennifer. Jennifer, meet Damian."
Jenny was so excited, it was a good thing Lloyd was hugging her so tightly or she would have
collapsed on the floor. Damian made an exaggerated delighted gasping sound, like an overly gay
man discovering the cutest little doggie raincoat he'd ever seen. Then he kissed Jenny on the tip of
her nose.
So maybe he wasn't Serena's new boyfriend.
"Why don't Danny and Monique take the limo? The rest of us can squeeze into a cab?" Damian
offered.
"I could sit on someone's lap," Jenny volunteered.
"Of course you can," said Lloyd.
"Of course you can," Damian agreed.
Of course she can.
AIN'T NOBODY HERE BUT US CHICKENS
"I take more APs than anyone else in my class, and I have an A average," Blair complained.
"Then you should have applied early admission," Stan 5 advised.
"But you don't understand. I kissed my interviewer," Blair whispered loudly, sounding like a
broken record. "My college advisor said there was no way she'd take me early."
Stan 5 shrugged. "Smaller pool of applicants. Better chance to shine."
Blair gritted her teeth to hold back a volley of expletives. She'd planned on applying to Yale early
admission since she was thirteen years old. Why had she listened to clueless, bloody-nosed,
wig-wearing Ms. Glos and not trusted her instincts? And why hadn't she met Stan 5 like, a year
ago, when he could have been really useful?
They were lying on their stomachs on the double bed in the room Stan 5's grandfather kept for him,
and had already thumbed through every Yale catalog since 1947, laughing at the clothes people
wore and the corny phrases underneath the photos. Things like, "Here's looking at you kid!" and
"Ain't nobody here but us chickens!" The room was decorated with Yale paraphernalia: Yale swim
team pennants, Stan III's B.A. in English and dramatic arts, a New Haven newspaper article
featuring Stan III as one of Yale's most gifted young actors, and a yellow card from the Yale
University registrar listing every semester old Stan had made the dean's list.
"It looks like your grandfather's whole life," Blair observed. Her shoes where half on, half off, and
she bounced them up and down on the ends of her toes.
Stan 5 rolled over and looked at the ceiling. "Yeah," he answered hollowly.
Blair wasn't sure why he sounded so bummed. After all, Yale was her whole life too, but she was
the one still stuck on the wait list.
Stan 5 reached out and twirled a strand of Blair's dark hair around his finger. "We should stop
talking about this," he told her letting the twirl go, "Or you're going to get serisouly depressed."
"But-" Blair started to say. Exactly when were they going to devise a plan to get her into Yale?
Stan 5 rolled over and grabbed her arms, pulling her toward him. "We should stop talking period,"
he said, his eyes hungrily searching her face. "Like I said, my grandfather and I are really close.
So don't worry about getting in, okay?"
This was the part in the movie where the music was supposed to slow down, heads were supposed
to meet, and boy and girl were supposed to kiss so passionately that their clothes would wind up in
a pile on the floor while the windows steamed up. Stan 5 was going to get her into Yale! But for
some reason- maybe it was the quantity of Yale paraphernalia on the walls and all over the floor,
or maybe it was because she'd drunk four glasses of champagne at a party she hadn't been invited
to, or maybe it was because kissing any other boy other than Nate felt truly naughty- Blair couldn't
manage to close her eyes and kiss Stanford Parris V. All she could do was snort and giggle like a
twelve-year-old.
She pushed him away, snorting and giggling so hard she chocked.
"What?" Stan 5 asked, pushing himself up on his elbows. His blond hair fell into his eyes and he
pushed it away.
Blair snorted again. She felt giddy and confused and very much in need of a little girl talk with
Serena. "I don't know." She got up and jammed her feet into her shoes. "Um, I have to go find
someone. Maybe I'll see you later?"
Stan 5 seemed to enjoy how hot and bothered she was. He grinned cockily at her and raised his
blond eyebrows. "Maybe."
As she left the room, Blair tried to pull herself together.
Not maybe. Definitely.
THE WOMEN ARE SMARTER
"I never really thought of Hamlet as a tragedy per se," Serena found herself telling Stanford Parris
III. She'd only skimmed Hamlet when they had to write an essay on it for English class, but she'd
always been an excellent bullshit artist. Even without reading every word she'd noticed that
Hamlet reminded her of Dan Humphrey, who she'd hooked up with earlier in the fall. So woeful
and neurotic. "I mean, all he needed was a little Zoloft or something and he's probably have
conquered all of Scandinavia and had, like, a wife in every country."
Well, hello, Miss I Know All There Is To Know About Shakespeare.
Mr. Parris nodded. "Wellbutrin. That's what I take."
Like she really needed to know that.
"I like reading," Serena went on, completely bemused by what was coming out of her mouth. "As
long as I have nothing else to do," she corrected herself.
Which was almost never.
"I guess that's the trouble I'm going to have, you know, with picking a major? I won't be able to
decide between English and drama." She smiled and pulled her short skirt demurely over her
knees.
Since when is the cities biggest party girl worried about her major?
"Elementary, my dear. That's why they invented the double major!" Mr. Parris snapped his
suspenders, obviously delighted with the opportunity to divulge his vast wisdom to a young girl of
such extraordinary beauty and intelligence.
All of a sudden Blair burst into the room, dressed a little too sexily for an academic gathering and
wearing the Yale pendant her mother had ordered from Cartier for baby Yale. Serena had never
seen her best friend look so bizarre.
"Thank God I found you!" Blair babbled breathlessly. She glanced at Mr. Parris. "Sorry for
interrupting, sir, but this is an emergency!"
Serena could always tell when Blair was up to something or was just plain freaking out, because
her nostrils flared like a wild animal and she forgot to blink. Right now she looked like a squirrel
with rabies. Serena stood up and shook Mr. Paris's hand. "It was truly a pleasure talking to you, Mr.
Paris."
Mr. Parris bent down and kissed her hand. "The pleasure is entirely mine."
Blair coughed. Of course Serena had completely enchanted the old man, which was totally unfair
because Blair was the one who actually needed to enchant him, "This really is an emergency," she
blurted impatiently.
Not exactly enchanting.
"Okay, I'm coming," Serena murmured. She looped her arm through Blair's and Blair dragged her t
o the front hall and pushed the button for the elevator. "Where are we going anyway?" Serena
demanded as the elevator doors rolled open.
"The Plaza!" Blair squealed, dragging her inside.
And it'd probably safe to say they weren't going to discuss Shakespeare once they got there.
AND YOU THOUGHT ANDY WARHOL WAS DEAD
Vanessa and Beverly walked up an enclosed ramp that led into the warehouse space in
Williamsburg where Beverly's friends' party was taking place. Vanessa could hear music coming
from inside- something airy and rhythmic that might have been Bjork, although she wasn't sure. A
woman pushed open the black metal door at the top of the ramp and stomped past wearing a
yellow bandana in her hair, black knee socks, and fluorescent yellow clogs. She looked like she'd
been crying, and was cradling her left hand against her chest.
"Hey, Bethene," Beverly called to her as she stomped away.
"What are those?" Vanessa peered into a bucket of what she hoped were very well produced
stuffed animals, sitting on the floor halfway up the ramp.
"Kittens," Beverly replied, as if no further explanation was required.
The ramp seemed to be fashioned as a sort of display, and was scattered with random art objects.
Besides the bucket of kittens was a life sized wax figure of Santa Claus carrying a huge
see-through plastic sack full of naked Barbie dolls with their heads missing. At Santa's face was a
lava lamp with real-looking eyeballs floating around inside it. The ramp was like a haunted house
only more disturbing.
Slightly?
"Everyone here is an artist," Beverly declared, "and they've been doing this party since March."
Vanessa nodded, even though she wasn't exactly sure what he meant by "doing this party." It
sounded a little like the art "happenings" at Andy Warhol's factory back in the 1960's- lots of cool
arty people collaborating to make weird art that no one really understood and that wasn't even
very good.
When they reached the top of the ramp, Beverly pushed the door open and they stepped inside.
The space was a giant warehouse, cool and dark, except the glow from four giant lava lamps like
they'd seen on the way in. No one greeted them, and Vanessa was surprised to find only about
thirty people there. They sat cross-legged on the floor in little clusters, finger-painting on the
pages of encyclopedias and looking completely spaced out, like they hadn't slept since the party
started back in March. No one was drinking anything or eating anything or even talking. It was
sort of like an anti-party party.
Vanessa watched as a women wearing a fuzzy red bathrobe and red rubber rain boots chopped off
a handful of her long dark hair and dropped it into a huge pot sitting on a hotplate on the floor. A
tall, pale skinny guy wearing only a black fedora hat and black boxer shorts went up to the pot and
stired it with a wooden yardstick.
"Bruce," Beverly greeted the guy with a nod. "This is Vanessa. She makes films."
Bruce nodded and kept on nodding for longer than normal as he stirred the pot. Vanessa wished
desperately that she had her video camera with her. She'd never seen anything quite like this.
"Are you here to make a donation?" Bruce asked.
Vanessa wasn't sure who he was talking to. In fact, for the first time in her life, she felt completely
lost. Every party she'd ever been to had been predictable to the point of being hopelessly boring.
She smiled tentatively at Beverly. It was sort of nice to be surprised.
The music suddenly shifted to the soundtrack for 'Shrek 2' and Vanessa felt more lost than ever.
She took a step forward and peered into Bruce's pot. "What is that anyway?"
Bruce held up his left hand and wiggled his fingers. The top joint on the middle finger of his left
hand was missing, just like Beverly's.
"I'm working on a regeneration project," Bruce said, as if that explained everything.
Beverly held up his left hand and spread his fingers out like a fan. No, Vanessa wasn't going
insane. His middle finger really was missing its top. "Most of us have contributed. But there's no
pressure or anything."
Well, isn't that a relief?
Vanessa wasn't easily creeped out, but she was getting close. "And what do you do with the... parts
and stuff... in the pot... after they're like, cooked or whatever?"
Bruce grinned and his blue veins stood out on his pale neck. He looked like he hadn't eaten in
months. "It's not about the doing; it's about the stirring," he responded.
Beverly nodded in that same odd, prolonged way that Bruce had nodded before. "Vanessa's got a
great space," he volunteered, apropos of nothing. "I'm thinking of crashing there for awhile. It'd be
great for something like this," he added still nodding.
All of a sudden Vanessa realized that looking for roommates on the internet probably wasn't such a
great idea. Beverly had seemed interesting at first, she'd almost rather live with Dan, despite all his
failings, or one of her spoiled, vain, fashion-obsessed classmates than come home to boiling
fingers who knew what else on her stove. It was one thing to make art that people thought was
shocking and bizarre without actually trying to be shocking and bizarre. Beverly and his friends
were in college- hadn't they learned anything?
"Are you thirsty?" Beverly asked her. "Do you want some water?"
Vanessa realized that was just the nicest thing he'd said to her all night. She couldn't believe she'd
been worried about the configuration of her moles, or that she'd actually worn perfume for him.
She yawned and glanced around the enormous space. "I'm not sure how much of this I can take,"
she responded, mimicking what Beverly had said about Dan's singing in the club. "I'm going
home."
Beverly bit his lip. "But this is working. I mean- so far, right?" he asked.
"Actually, it's not." Vanessa imitated the sweet, fake smile her classmate Blair Waldorf flashed,
telepathically telling the teacher to eat shit and die when she was trying to get excused from class
early to attend a Manolo Blahnik sale.
"Sure you don't want to make a donation?" Bruce asked still stirring the pot.
