ever jogged in his life.
What had he gotten himself into?
At first it seemed like he was going to be fine: the first block went by without incident. Dan
followed the sexy wiggle of Bree?s ass as she jogged down the sidewalk, dodging pedestrians and
strollers.
This is fun!he told himself.It feels great.
When they reached the corner of Fifth Avenue, they paused for the light, and Bree turned to
him. ?Are you okay She furrowed her brow in worry.
Dan?s skin felt prickly. The sweat poured off of his forehead and down his nose, dripping on the
sidewalk. The early evening sun was beating down on them. He was pretty sure he?d be dead by
sundown.
?Sure,? he responded shakily. ?I?m fine.?
When they?d been moving, the burn in his legs and the pounding in his chest had been somehow
bearable, but as soon as they?d stopped his knees had felt like they might buckle underneath him.
The light changed and Bree dashed into the street. ?Come on!? she called over her shoulder
happily.
Dan took a deep breath and stumbled into the street, just missing running over an old lady in a
big straw hat, pulling a shopping trolley.
?Watch it, asshole!? she shouted.
Ignoring her, Dan kept running, following Bree like a dog at the track chasing that mechanical
rabbit. His heart pounded in his ears as they jogged down the sidewalk past Sixth, then Seventh,
Eighth, and, finally, Ninth Avenues. Between Ninth and Greenwich the traffic cleared, so Bree ran
in the street. Ignoring the hot blasts of exhaust from the oncoming buses, Dan followed behind,
jogging toward the shimmering Hudson River, just two blocks away.
Hang in there, he told himself.Just make it to the river. Just keep going . He had no idea how
he?d make it all the way down to Battery Park, on the tip of Manhattan, but first things first: he
had to get to the river. His feet throbbed inside his not-quite-broken-in ice blue New Balance
bought-for-ten-bucks-at-the-Paragon-Sports-sale running shoes. He?d wiped so much sweat from
his forehead that he was scared that he might be completely dehydrated. He was dying for a drink
of water. He was dying to sit down.
Maybe he was just plaindying ?
They dashed across the West Side Highway and into Hudson River Park, where a wide, paved
jogging/rollerblading/ bike path ran from midtown to Tribeca. They weren?t the only ones taking
advantage of the clear, sunny day?hundreds of people were running and rollerblading, bicycling,
and strolling hand in hand. Bree beat him across the street and wove through the crowd until she
reached the chain-link fence that presumably kept people from diving right into the river. She
kicked her legs up in front of her, jogging in place as she waited for Dan to catch up. Despite the
heat, she was barely sweating.
Dan hurled himself in Bree?s direction.This is great , he told himself. He felt great! The sun was
bright, the air was fresh, and there was a breeze blowing in off the river. He grinned wildly. He
could do this!
Then his legs gave way underneath him and he landed on the rough pavement with a thud as he
crumpled to the ground.
?Dan!? Bree cried, leaning over him. ?Are you okay
Dan looked up to see her flushed face framed by wispy ringlets of flaxen hair. His vision started
to cloud.
?Am I dying he asked out loud. ?Are you an angel
?I better administer CPR,? Bree announced sternly, crouching down and pressing her mouth to
his.
As if that wouldn?t give him an even bigger heart attack.
from the frying pan to the fire
Wobbling uneasily, Vanessa Abrams gripped the wrought-iron railing and steadied herself on the
low marble steps leading up to the ivy-covered mansion on Eighty-seventh Street. She burped
noisily and jabbed at the illuminated doorbell four or five times before she finally managed to ring
it. Maybe consoling herself with an ice-cold bottle of pinot grigio hadn?t been the wisest decision
she?d ever made, especially since she was minutes away from a job interview.
After being unceremoniously thrown off the set ofBreakfast at Fred?s , Vanessa had ridden the
elevator with the possibly humanoid Blair-Waldorf-in-training Jasmine, who had informed
Vanessa that it just so happened that her mother was looking for a highly qualified, energetic, and
enthusiastic person for a very important job. Vanessa had been too upset to get the exact details,
but Jasmine tore a page from her Louis Vuitton agenda and scribbled an address, urging Vanessa
to follow up on it immediately.
After a few glasses of wine pilfered from Rufus Humphrey?s personal stash, Vanessa had started
to see things more clearly.
Ken Mogul is a soulless sellout. He was making a run-of-the-mill Hollywood teen soap while she
was an experimental auteur! She had no business wasting her time and her talent on that crap. She
was bound for NYU, the best film program in the country. She?d have access to the finest
professors, world-class equipment, and an entire acting program full of the most talented student
actors around. Why should she be wasting her time as a hack, working on a project she didn?t
believe in when she could be working her ass off and saving up the cold hard cash to produce her
own film in the fall. She already had an idea for a feature, about a conflicted young artist forced to
choose between following her muse or staying in a rapidly decaying relationship with her insane
incense-and-herbal-tea-addicted writer boyfriend.
Sounds like a case of art imitating life.
A sour-faced maid in an honest-to-God black skirt with white apron and little white lace doily on
her head opened the heavy glass door. ?Can I help you she demanded suspiciously.
?I?m here about the job,? Vanessa slurred. ?The mom?s daughter,? she paused momentarily
fumbling with the girl?s name. ?Jasmine! That?s it. She told me to come and see her mom about a
job. So I did.?
The maid frowned. ?I see. Come in then. The lady of the house will meet you in her office.?
Vanessa stomped through the marble foyer, past a sweeping staircase illuminated by a massive
crystal chandelier, and into a mahogany-paneled room lined with bookcases and furnished with
tasteful antiques. She had no idea what the job in question was, but clearly this was a very
successful business-woman. She was probably a busy executive in desperate need of a competent
personal assistant. It was sure to be shit work, but artists always had to suffer for their art, unless
they wanted to make commercial shit like Ken Mogul.
?Please wait here,? the maid instructed.
Vanessa perched on the edge of an ornate Art Deco wood chair. The room was ever-so-slightly
spinning, and she gripped the seat tightly.Just don?t throw up , she told herself.
?You my new friend
Vanessa looked up. There was no one there.
Great, I?m so trashed I?m hearing voices.
?You my new friend asked the voice again before dissolving into giggles.
?Wh-who?s there Vanessa called out nervously. The last thing she wanted was to be caught
talking to herself in front of her new boss.
?Are you a girl another voice asked.
?Why don?t you have any hair asked the first voice.
Twovoices? How much had she had to drink?
Vanessa held her breath and listened. She stood up. Where were the voices coming from? She
knelt and pressed her cheek to the cold, perfectly polished wood floor, scanning the room from
that vantage. It worked: under the gilded wood couch she could make out the figure of a skinny
little boy with taut curly hair.
?You found me!? he cried, clambering out from under the couch.
?Yeah, hi,?Vanessa said.?Is your mommy home
?You smell like wine,? the boy announced, frowning. ?I?m four. How old are you
?Find me too!? cried the other voice.
What could she do?
?Where are you she called out, propping herself up on her hands and knees. She looked under
the other furniture.
?Find me, find me!? the voice called.
She followed the sound of the voice to the corner of the library, where a large globe stood on a
round glass-topped table. She lifted the tablecloth, and underneath was a little boy who looked,
and was dressed, exactly like the other kid.
?You found me!? the boy cried. He dashed out from under the table and ran over to the couch,
where his brother was still bouncing. He leaped onto the couch and rammed into his brother. The
two boys tumbled onto the floor.
?Boys!? called a voice. A tall, magenta-pink-Chanel-suit-clad redheaded woman strode into the
library, clutching a Treo and a rolled up copy ofVogue .
?You must be Vanessa,? the woman observed in a clipped tone. ?Jasmine mentioned you might
be calling. I?m a little surprised you?ve decided to just drop by, but I suppose that?s fine. Shows
initiative. I like that.?
Oops.
?Right,? Vanessa said, standing up and trying her best to appear completely sober. ?You must be
Mrs.... She paused, realizing that she had no idea what Jasmine?s last name was.
?It?s Ms. Morgan,? the woman replied. ?I didn?t take my husband?s name. This is the
twenty-first century, after all.?
?Sorry,?Vanessa mumbled. This was the weirdest job interview ever.
?No matter,? the woman continued. ?You?re clearly a hit with the boys.?
?The boys Vanessa asked. The twins came up behind her, pulling on her hands with all their
might.
?Play with us!? they cried.
?So, you know, the job is fairly standard.? Ms. Morgan fiddled with her Treo for a moment. ?A
few days a week, just in the afternoons. You?ll fetch the boys from camp, run them to their
therapist, accompany them on their playdates, the usual sort of thing. No doubt you know the drill.?
She put the phone to her ear.
Camp?Playdates ? Excuse me?
?I think there?s been some misunderstanding,? Vanessa stammered, struggling to stay upright
with the wine in her system and the weight of two kids tugging her floorward. Suffering for her art
was all well and good, but she was no Mrs. Doubtfire.
?Yay!? the twins cried. ?Mommy, is Vanessa our new friend
?Yes,? the woman answered, her ear still glued to the over-size phone. ?She?s your new friend.?
She was?
?It?s eighteen dollars an hour,? Ms. Morgan added as she clicked out into the foyer and up the
grand staircase. ?You can start right now.?
Oh yeah, she definitelyis .
one is the loneliest number
?Archibald!? Coach Michaels yelled up at the roof. ?I want to hear your lazy ass banging those
shingles. Now!?
?Yes, sir,? Nate Archibald muttered as he watched Coach climb into his blue minivan and back
out of the short driveway, honking a cheerfulbeep beep be-beep as he sped off down the suburban
Hampton Bays street. Nate could picture him popping Viagra and jacking off to the pornos he
probably kept in the glove compartment.
Douche bag,Nate added silently. Sweat stinging his eyes, he ran a hand across his forehead and
frowned down at the black-shingled roof.Idiot, he told himself for the hundredth time that morning.
It was only nine o?clock, but the brutal sun was pounding down, the scratchy shingles were
tearing up his knees, and his back throbbed. Nate straightened up to full height and pulled off his
drenched lime-green Stussy T-shirt. Then he dropped his hammer and sat down, even though the
roof was so hot he could feel it burning his ass through his shorts.
He dug around in his pockets for the lovingly hand-rolled Thai stick joint he?d been smart
enough to stash there the night before. Nate pulled out the yellow plastic lighter he kept tucked
into his sock and lit the joint, inhaling deeply.
Wake and bake. The breakfast of champions.
His fuckup was costing him, that was for sure, but Nate was determined not to let one mistake
ruin his whole summer. His days belonged to Coach Michaels, but his nights were still his, and he
had his parents? place on Georgica Pond all to himself, since his folks preferred the splendid
isolation of their compound up in Mt. Desert Island, Maine.
Nate flipped open his cell and scrolled through his contact list until he got to the first person he
knew with a house in the Hamptons. There was no sense letting the perfect party house go to
waste.
Waste not, want not.
?Hey, it?s Charlie,? said the voicemail recording. ?I?m out of the country for a couple of weeks,
but leave me a message and I?ll check you when I get back. Later.?
Damn.Nate hung up without leaving a message.
He scrolled some more until he came to the number for Jeremy Scott Tompkinson, another friend
from school. Nate half remembered hearing something about how Jeremy was spending the
summer out in LA, taking acting classes or something lame like that.
The only guy Nate knew for sure was in the Hamptons was Anthony Avuldsen, so Nate tried him
too, but he didn?t answer his phone either. He was probably still sleeping; no one with any sense
would be awake this early in the morning.
Frowning, Nate took another deep drag on his joint. He could just imagine the endless march of
hot, sweaty days and lonely, quiet nights before he would finally pack up and head off to Yale in
the fall.
Poor baby.
From his perch on the roof, Nate could see the coach?s wide backyard, the very yard he?d be in
charge of mowing and landscaping for the next few weeks. He?d been so preoccupied, he hadn?t
noticed the best part of the view: the coach?s wife, lying poolside, sunning herself in the bright
morning rays, top-less. She was a mom and she wasn?t young, but she wasn?t that old, either. At
least her boobs had aged well. He?d seenThe Graduate , and he?d never been with an older
woman. Shit could happen. Maybe working for the coach without pay wouldn?t be so bad after
all.
Or maybe the sun is getting to him.
b and s decide it?s share and share alike
She?d made three trips back and forth, but Blair still hadn?t managed to get all of her bags up the
five flights of stairs. There wasn?t a doorman, there wasn?t any air conditioning, there wasn?t an
elevator, but she didn?t mind because the whole thing was just so . . . cinematic.
Blair had a plan for her life, a script she wanted to follow exactly. But so much of what had
