Dan was so ashamed of his performance that night be barely looked at his bandmates. "She's done
some modeling," he mumbled.
Marc, the Raves' bassist opened the door of the suite, back from a walk with his Bernese mountain
dog, Trish. Trish was huge and black with a sweet brown-and-white face like a St. Bernard. He'd
names the dog after his ex-girlfriend- the love of his life, who'd broken up with him back in the
ninth grade- and he never went anywhere without her.
How sweet. And how creepy.
Dan sat on the floor next to his sister. Trish lay down next to him and put her head in his lap. She
had terrible breath like she'd been eating canned mackerel and spoiled milk.
"Hey Marc. Turns out Jenny is, like, this hugely famous supermodel," Lloyd announced.
Marc glanced shyly at Jenny, then picked up one of the Plaza Hotel bathrobes from the stack and
put it on over his clothes. He looked like a modern-day vampire, with curly black hair, pale skin,
and nearly black eyes.
Jenny giggled, reveling in all the attention. It was one o'clock in the morning and she was at the
Plaza Hotel, wearing only a bathrobe and underwear, wit the members of the coolest band ever! It
was kind of weird being there with her brother, but kind of reassuring, too.
Monique sat up on her knees and stroked Trish's ears. Then she slipped her hand down the back of
Dan's bathrobe. "Come into zee bedroom," she mouthed against his ear.
Jenny could hear every word Monique said- not that she really wanted to. Boldly, she stood up and
went over to the sofa to sit next to Lloyd. After all, she was a famous model- she could sit
wherever she liked.
Lloyd handed her a breadstick. "In southern Italy these are considered an aphrodisiac."
"Liar!" Damian threw a ripe, juicy peach at Lloyd's head. It missed and splattered all over the
pristine white wall behind him.
You're not a real rock star unless you know how to trash a hotel room.
"Don't listen to that butthead, he's full of it," Damian warned suddenly loosing his Irish accent. He
dragged three PlayStation joysticks over to the sofa and sat down, so that Jenny was wedged
between him and Lloyd.
As if she minded.
Jenny's feet were tingling and her ears were buzzing. It was a school night and she was a
supermodel hanging out in a hotel room with three famous rock stars. If only Serena could see her
now.
Monique dragged Dan into a standing position. Damian's foot flew up and kicked her in the butt,
but Monique pretended not to notice. She pulled Dan into the adjacent bedroom, slamming the
door behind them.
"Don't make too much noise! Damian shouted after them.
Marc lay down where Dan and Monique had been sitting and rested his head on his dog. Trish
licked his pale cheek and wrapped an enormous black paw around his neck.
Aw. What a cute couple.
Jenny had never felt so famous in her life, and she owed it all to her brother. He deserved to hook
up with some random French girl. And she deserved to be wedged between the two cutest guys
ever to grace the cover of Rolling Stone. If only some reporter would knock on the door and take
their picture. She kind of wanted the world to find out about this- it was too good not to be known,
even if she got into major trouble.
No worries, darling- the world has a funny way of finding out nearly everything.
Gossipgirl.net
Hey people!
AND YOU THOUGHT THE TRIBECA STAR WAS SO COOL
The Plaza Hotel is having a revival, a big one. Some of our favorite people were suite-wrecking at
the Plaza last night. It happened to late to make it into today's papers, but log onto New York
Post's Page Six online, and it's all there. A whole black-and-white photo-montage of adorable little
J getting kissed good-bye on the lips by the lead guitarist of the Raves right on the Plaza's
red-carpeted steps and getting spanked on her bottom by the drummer with his drumsticks before
she swept her into a bear hug. She even wore her Plaza bathrobe home, carelessly leaving her
clothes behind, and blew kisses from the taxi, like a modern-day Marilyn Monroe.
J wasn't the only budding model to hook up with the Raves' lead guitarist. A hotel staff member
actually recorded him singing to S over a Plaza house phone. S finished the call saying, "I love
you, Daddy." Oh does she?
But what about his marriage to a mysterious French girl a year or so back, in an exclusive
ceremony in St. Barts? If you study the photograph of him kissing J, he is wearing a gold band on
the ring finger of his left hand... and there was a beautiful French girl on scene as well, although
she was totally preoccupied with D, the band's raging new front man. His debut public
performance was kind of embarrassing, but, like a typical French girl, she's probably too horny to
care.
The confusing part is that S was staying with B in her suite, bringing to mind those old stories
about S and B in a hot tub together, engaging in what is best described as a little girl-on-girl. As if
things weren't complicated enough already!
THERE'S SOMETHING ABOUT THOSE FRENCH GIRLS
I know I've ranted about this before, but why is it that the girls who go to L'école Fran?aise look
twenty-five when they're only fourteen? And how come all the guys we know secretly or not so
secretly lust after them? And how positively infuriating to hear a group of L'école girls talking
about you at a party- in Franglish, so that you can hardly understand a word they're saying. They
eat only hot chocolate and pommes frites, they chain smoke, and you never see them jogging or
playing field hockey in Central Park. Yet none of them are fat or zit-ridden. It's as though their
mères and grandmères introduced them to Lanc?me and Chanel when they were only babes, and
the alpha hydroxyl acids or whatever permeated their systems, leaving them with perfect skin,
perfect bodies, and feet that are most comfortable in three-inch heels. Their school even allows
heels- unlike all other girls' schools on the Upper East Side- which basically proves my point.
When it comes to educating girls, the French seem to follow a completely different curriculum.
Not that we're jealous or anything.
OTHER SIGHTINGS
B's mom at the Italian Consulate waving her checkbook around-What exactly is she up to now? K
and I getting matching bikini waxes at Maria Bonita, a tiny NoLita salon, conveniently located
near Sigerson Morrison, which happened to be having a sale. C (who dropped off the radar for a
while there after getting rejected at every college he applied to) taking his white monkey to be
er...fixed... at a discreet Chelsea clinic. It seems the monkey has inherited its owner's penchant for
flirtation and has been throwing itself at every dog, cat, and ferret in the neighborhood.
Your e-mail:
Q: Dear GG,
I know it was you who made the film everyone's so excited about at Cannes. What are you waiting
for? Get you ass over here and collect your reward!
- mogl
A: Dear mogl,
You might think the lady doth protest too much, but I'm saying this for the last time: I have no
f-ing clue what you're talking about! Enjoy Cannes.
-GG
Q: Dear GG,
What are you supposed to do the rest of the year now that we know where we're going to college?
-bord
A: Dear bord,
Please- isn't this what we've all been waiting for? Time to shop, drink, eat, and be merry? Time to
be all we can be? If you don't have your own pool and can't get into the SoHo House rooftop pool,
make it your mission to befriend someone with pool access and spend the rest of the day rotating
Eres bikinis!
-GG
Q: Dear GG,
If you really really like a girl but she keeps ignoring you, what should you do?
-2bummed
A: Dear 2bummed,
First change your screen name to something more upbeat and attractive like "superhot". Second,
make sure your deodorant works and that your outfit isn't completely hopeless. Then ask her to
hang out, preferably where there are other people she knows and feels comfortable with, so she
can gave fun even if she decides you're a self-effacing loser and she's not interested. Good luck!
-GG
It's Monday, the start of the school week- I know: Yawn. Realistically, though after a weekend like
this, how boring can things be? Like wolves in sheep's clothing, we all look so innocent in our
school uniforms, but this weekend won't go without repercussions.
I'll be the first to report when the shit hits!
You know you love me,
Gossip Girl
J, B AND S ARE TOTALLY GETTING EXPELLED
"I heard that freshman slut had, like, group sex with every member of the band- even the new lead
singer, who's like, her brother," Kati Farkas whispered to her best friend and Constance Billard
School Senior Spa Weekend co-planner, Isabel Coates. Kati reparted her long, strawberry blond
hair with a pink tortoiseshell comb, smoothing it down with her hands. "Did you see those pictures
of her in the Post online? She didn't even bother to get dressed before she left the hotel!"
The two girls were peering out the third-floor windows of the Constance Billard School library,
pretending to memorize their lines for the girls-in-bikinis-and-mud-masks skit they were supposed
to put on in their senior lounge tomorrow to promote Senior Spa Weekend. Not that it needed
promoting. Everyone would take home gift bags full of fabulous new Origins products, and their
skin would absolutely glow until graduation. It was going to be the coolest Senior Cut Day ever.
Isabel grabbed the comb out of Kati's hands and combed her sleek dark hair back into a ponytail.
"I heard Nate and his friends almost died in a shipwreck, but Blair was too busy hooking up with
Serena again to even notice. Can you imagine finding out your girlfriend was cheating on you
with, like, another girl?"
Kati made aface and shuddered in agreement. "Gross."
Isabel pressed her pug nose up against the window. "Look!"
Blair and Serena were walking hastily down Ninety-third Street, their arms linked, grinning slyly
like they'd just shared the most entertaining secret. Instead of the usual socially acceptable
mid-thigh length, Blair's uniform hung all the way down to her knees. It was totally obvious she'd
borrowed the uniform from Serena.
Nudge, nudge.
Just as the girls were turning into the great blue doors of the Constance Billard School, a yellow
taxi pulled up, and Jenny Humphrey stepped out, munching on a breadstick. She'd managed to
change out of her Plaza Hotel bathrobe and into a pink t-shirt and her blue-and-white-seersucker
Constance Billard spring uniform. She was also wearing a pair of rather fetching hot pink Jimmy
Choo platform sandals that were totally out of uniform, and an enormous pair of pink tortoiseshell
Jackie O. sunglasses.
Uh-oh, don't look now, but someone thinks she's hot stuff.
"Where did she get those shoes?" Kati breathed in disbelief. "The waiting list is like a mile long."
"They're probably fakes; you just can't tell from here," Isabel replied.
Neither girl wanted to admit what they were really thinking- that Damian or Lloyd from the Raves
had probably given Jenny the shoes and the glasses- because to be jealous of a freshman was so
completely uncool.
Serena, Blair and Jenny had only just stepped inside the doors when they were accosted by Mrs.
M, Constance Billard's formidable headmistress.
"Girls, Mrs. M commanded. "I'd like to talk to all three of you in my office, please. Your parents
are on their way."
Huh? All three girls wondered in unison.
This should be fun.
Mrs. M's face was doughy and soft, and her hair was dyed Raggedy Ann auburn and permed into
little ringlets, giving her a sweet, grandmotherly appearance. But appearances lie: she was
anything but sweet. In fact, she was a big, mean old dyke who purportedly kept a tractor-driving
girlfriend in her house upstate and had a tattoo on her thigh that said, "Ride me, Vonda."
"Sit down, girls," she ordered, arranging her wide navy blue Talbots pantsuit- clad ass on the
period chair behind her giant mahogany desk. Mrs. M's office was decorated entirely in red, white,
and blue and the Constance girls weren't quite sure what she actually thought she was the
president or if she was extremely patriotic.
In a daze of obedience, Serena, Blair and Jenny planted themselves on the stiff blue loveseat
opposite of Mrs. M's desk. The loveseat was a little crowded with all three of them on it, but the
nearness was comforting.
"Two of you are meant to be graduating next month, after which you are no longer my
responsibility," Mrs. M began. "One of you, however, has only just begun her high school career,
and you've already headed in a very bad direction, no thanks to the two of you seniors." She
propped a pair of half-glasses on her nose and sorted through a bunch of files on her desk. "All
three of you are in very precarious position."
Blair opened her mouth to speak, but then closed it again when her mother appeared in the
doorway of Mrs. M's office, dressed in tennis white and carrying a fussing and whimpering Yale in
a Burberry baby sling. The sling hadn't been adjusted properly and it banged against her hip like a
cumbersome tote bag.
"I'm trying this new thing called 'attachment parenting'," Eleanor explained breathlessly. "It's
supposed to make your child bond with you and increase their confidence." She giggles and
hitched the sling up on her shoulder awkwardly. "I think you're supposed to walk around like this
all day long, but who has the time? I've got the tennis at the Y, lunch at Daniel and a facial at
