Would I Lie To You (9 page)

You know who I’ve always felt kind of sorry for? Those kids with summer birthdays. They never got to have ice cream parties at Serendipity because all their friends were away at camp or whiling away the season in Amagansett. They never got to bring pastel-buttercream-frosted Magnolia cupcakes for the whole class to enjoy. They never got to have the coveted tea party at the Plaza with all their best girlfriends. All because they just happened to be born during the three months of the year when the last thing any-one wants to think about is anyone but themselves. We don’t mean to be so selfish, it’s just . . . in the air. But that doesn’t mean we don’t feel bad about it. Really. So this one’s for you, birthday girls. . . .

Top three ways to say, I’m so sorry I missed your birthday while I was making out with my unbelievably hot summer fling:

1) Take her to Barneys and let her use your credit card for as many minutes as she is old. When your mom gets the bill, take the rap, because that’s what friends are for.

2) Apologize for being more interested in your summer romance than in her rite of passage, and invite her to join you and your new beau on a double date with his slightly cross-eyed but almost-as-cute younger brother.

3) It’s summer, remember, so full-body maintenance is more important than usual. Splurge on a full-on Bliss spa experience (not just some lame gift-from-great-aunt-Susie mani-pedi combo, please) so your best pal can be as tanned, hairless, and pampered as you already are.

your e-mail

Q: 

Dear GG,

I’m worried that I might be turning gay. Do you know if there are warning signs?

—Blue Boy

A: 

Dear BB,

Warning signs aplenty:

1) You refer to things as “fabulous” or “genius” and have used the word swish in the last twenty-four hours.

2) Your best friend is a heavy girl with an interest in the theater.

3) Your ringtone is a Gwen Stefani song.

4) When the weather turns warm, you’d rather watch the shirtless skater boys than the topless sunbathers in Sheep Meadow.

5) You write to a wise authority because you want her to break the news you already know but just can’t admit: you’re gay. It’s okay! Love life. Love boys. Love yourself.

—GG

Q: 

Dear GG,

Not actually a letter so much as an announcement: I’m planning a big blowout at my country place in celebration of my little sister’s eighteenth. So if you’re going to be in Connecticut or are down for a road trip, make sure you look up your old friends who summer in that great state. If I’m one of them, you’re totally on the guest list.

—Pool Party in Connecticut

A: 

Dear PP in C,

Connecticut’s a bit outside my usual party radius, but I suppose getting there is half the fun—after all, the road trip is a great American tradition. The wind in your hair, the hot sun on the pavement, the freedom of going whichever direction you choose—sentiments most memorably captured by Jack Kerouac in On the Road. Although honestly, all I remember from that book was lots of drugs and lots of randomness. Talk about following the yellow brick road! But if your “blowout” is as big as promised, I’m psyched to see your Emerald City. Did that sound as dirty as I think it did? Oops. Anyway, consider the party announced!

—GG

Q: 

Dear GG,

I’m totally miserable because my parents say I have to get a job this summer. But then I was thinking about it, and I realized working doesn’t have to suck—you have the coolest job ever! So I was wondering, do you take interns?

—Please Hire Me!

A: 

Dear PHM,

Thanks for the flattery, and trust me, you’re not wrong—this is the coolest job in the world. Although the truth is, I really don’t think of it as a job, but rather as a public service. Sort of like being a superhero: Bat Girl, Super Girl, Gossip Girl . . . You get the picture. Sadly, though, there’s only room for one Gossip Girl at this iBook. Good luck finding an internship elsewhere! I hear Vogue is hiring custodial specialists. . . . Just kidding.

—GG

bills, bills, bills

That last e-mail got me thinking about how for an unfortunate few of you, the term “summer job” is not just a phenomenon seen in the movies but a day-to-day reality. My heart goes out to you, seriously. But it’s not all bad. Here are some positive points to bear in mind when you’re punching the time clock:

1) The best way to meet people is at work, whether it’s a cute coworker or a cute customer. (Anybody remember how D first came across yoga girl? Let me tell you, it wasn’t by wandering into a Bikram class. . . .)

2) What better way to learn the value of a hard day’s work and feel the satisfaction of earning your money? Ha! Are they still telling those lies?

3) I hear hard labor burns a ton of calories!

So to PHM, keep your chin up, and keep on plugging! That’s all for now, dears. This little worker bee needs to refresh her makeup, recharge her laptop battery, and pack up for a little road trip. . . .

You know you love me.

gossip girl

“Davey, Humphrey, Bogart, whatever your name is, speed it up.”

All the managers at the Strand had the same authoritative bark that never failed to make Dan stand up a little straighter. He looked left and right but couldn’t tell where the command had come from.

“You waiting for an engraved invitation, madam?” Phil, a balding, failed Ph.D. candidate who loved to make the afternoon shifts hell, popped his head around an old rusty metal shelf.

“Asshole,” Dan muttered as he pushed the groaning cart of to-be-shelved books.

Sensitive much?

The cracked rubber wheels squeaked and clacked as Dan pushed the rickety cart down the long, narrow aisle, past the outdated travel guides. He took a deep breath, immersing himself in the familiar rhythm of picking up a book, determining the last name of the author, and locating its spot on the shelf. It was a sure way to let his subconscious speak to him:

Hairy kiss—burn my chin

The sick taste of absinthe in my throat

Deep in my gullet; sore lips and

Punches in the gut

Blind corners turned and now I am nowhere....

His poetic free association was interrupted when an over-size book slipped off his cart. He bent over to pick it up, reading the title: Everything You’ve Always Wanted to Know (Go Ahead, Admit It!) About Gay Sex by Melvin Lloyd and Dr. Stephen Furman.

The line drawing on the glossy cover showed two male forms embracing chastely. Like brothers. Or baseball players after a game. Totally normal. Glancing around to see if any-one was near—as usual, no one was interested in the travel guides to New Zealand published in the 1970s—Dan opened the book, whistling all casual-like.

Nice try.

The slick pages slipped through his fingers, revealing more line drawings of two muscular fellows in various embraces, arms and tongues positioned here and there. There were a number of bullet points and lists of dos and don’ts. He skimmed the book, heart pounding, taking in only snatches of phrases like “Insert your tongue” and “Some partners find the use of an elbow helpful” and “Remember to brush your teeth.”

Pausing again to make sure that he was alone, Dan skipped ahead to the back of the book, where the heavier paper stock meant only one thing: photographs. And there they were, in full-color glory: two men, performing what at first glance looked like a gymnastic routine.

Dan’s throat suddenly felt very dry. He slammed the book shut and stuffed it on the very bottom of his pile. He’d never needed a cigarette this badly in his life.

Breathe, breathe.

Shaking slightly, Dan inhaled deeply on a beloved Camel and stepped away from the Strand. He needed a walk to purge his mind of the mental images of those two thick-necked wrestler types in unimaginable poses. Not that he had any kind of problem with gay people, of course. They’re here, they’re queer, it’s awesome. But there were some things that people just weren’t meant to do with their bodies. Like running. And yoga. And . . . whatever it was you called the thing he had just seen depicted in that book.

Yoga. He’d had a brush with that stuff—that was the closest he’d come to contorting his body into a shape resembling what the guys in the book were doing, and he was not eager to get into that particular position again anytime soon. The only reason he’d bothered with yoga in the first place had been for a girl. He’d been so crazed over Bree he’d experimented with all kinds of insane things: yoga, running, organic fruit juice. Maybe the same thing was happening with Greg? He’d never really met anyone who loved books as much as he did. Maybe he was just getting everything all mixed up? Maybe it was just like his dad had said and he was just transferring his passion for books onto their friendship?

Yup—like quasi-gay father, like quasi-gay son.

Dodging the summer tourist sidewalk traffic, Dan stubbed out his cigarette and stuffed his hands deep into the pockets of his fraying brown cords. You can’t be gay. The image of Bree naked and glistening with sweat in that overheated yoga studio came to him, and suddenly he felt a little out of breath. A little dizzy. What was this sensation? It felt familiar and alien all at once. And he felt something else too— a boner. In full daylight, like a little kid. Looking down at it, he couldn’t help but smile. It was the best boner he’d ever had! The thought of Bree, her bare skin damp with sweat as she arched her back and planted her palms on the floor, was what sent his heart racing.

He lit another cigarette to celebrate the fact that he had biological evidence to prove that he, Dan Humphrey, was most certainly not gay. He had to keep himself from jumping in the air to click his heels together.

Oh, and that’s not gay at all.

“Girls! There are girls here!” yelled a guy Serena didn’t recognize. He lurched down the stone steps from the foyer to the driveway, clutching one of her mother’s antique crystal champagne flutes. He raised the glass in salute as she stepped out of the Aston Martin, sloshing champagne all over the stone steps.

“Dude, that’s my sister.” Erik van der Woodsen pushed the staggering guy out of his way and raced toward Serena. He wore a rumpled blue gingham oxford, top three buttons undone, and khakis that had started to fray at the cuffs. His pale blond hair was mussed and his huge blue eyes were bloodshot, but he was as handsome as ever. “Howdy, sis.”

“Got the party started, I see.” Serena hugged her brother excitedly. “In case you forgot, my birthday’s not till tomorrow.”

“You only turn eighteen once.” He threw his arms around her and lifted her off her feet easily. “Happy almost birthday.”

“This is for me?” Serena asked, a smile spreading across her face. Okay, so it wasn’t exactly her idea of a birthday party, but it was sweet that her brother had remembered. Even if it was probably just a convenient excuse for a blowout.

Probably?

Behind her, Blair and Nate shuffled out of the backseat. Serena had volunteered to drive since she knew how to get here the best, and Blair couldn’t drive stick, but did they really have to ride in the backseat together again? What was she, the chauffeur?

Kind of looks that way.

“What’s up, guys?” Erik greeted them.

“Hey.” Nate nodded at Erik. “Good call on the party. I almost forgot that tomorrow’s your birthday,” he said, turning to Serena.

Blair slipped her hand into her best friend’s. “What’s an appropriate afternoon cocktail, birthday girl?”

Is there one that’s not appropriate?

The scene by the pool was like something out of a screw-ball college comedy. A gaggle of obviously drunk guys in board shorts cannonballed into the water, splashing their buddies seated nearby. A crowd lingered near the double-height French doors that led to the library—and the well-stocked bar. And there were so few girls in evidence—a couple stretched out on chaises near the diving board and a trio of giggling girls attempting some kind of drinking game—that wherever they congregated, a drooling group of boys was not far off. Someone had rigged an iPod to the van der Woodsens’ stereo system, and the insistent thrum of the new Arctic Monkeys album filled the air.

“This is finally starting to feel like summer vacation.” Blair slipped her feet out of her white leather Prada flip-flops and propped them on the edge of the wrought-iron garden table. She swirled the ice in her Bloody Mary distractedly.

“Something like that.” Serena leaned back in the uncomfortable chair and scanned the crowd that had gathered, supposedly, for her birthday celebration. The guys outnumbered the girls by a ratio of about ten million to one, and though she recognized some of them—Erik’s old tennis teammates, his roommate at Brown—she didn’t see many familiar faces in the crowd. She might be the birthday girl, but she wondered if anyone even knew who she was.

It’s her party and she’ll pout if she wants to.

“Shit.” Blair tilted her head back and drained her glass. “I guess I was thirsty.You want another?”

Serena shook her head, almost spilling her untouched Cosmopolitan. “I’m good.”

“I’ll be right back.”

Serena watched from behind her enameled Selima aviators as Blair launched out of her seat and padded toward the bar. Erik was presiding over the bottles of booze lined up like toy soldiers on the elaborate carved mahogany bar. Nate was lingering on the fringes of the crowd, his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his tattered khaki shorts. Serena watched as he pretended not to see Blair skipping through the crowd toward him.

Interesting.

She’d woken up this morning to the sound of Blair’s giggles, but when she’d asked what was funny, Blair had sighed and said, “Just Natie.” Natie? Then, in the car, she kept glancing back at them in the rearview mirror, but every time Blair was just staring placidly out the window, and Nate was resting his eyes. Nothing amiss. So why did she feel so ...weird?

She raised her glass and swallowed a small sip of the tart cocktail, finally recognizing someone in the crowd: a broad-chested, curly-brown-haired guy was seated at the edge of the pool, legs dangling in the water. His brown eyes had a familiar sparkle as he took in the scene around him, drumming his long, tapered fingers on the neck of his beer bottle. The tiniest suggestion of a grin played on his full lips, and Serena knew that behind those lips were two rows of brilliant white teeth. She could picture his smile, she could practically hear the tremulous sound of his voice as he whispered the words she’d run away from. That was the last time she’d seen him, exactly one year ago.

Henry was the bassist in Hanover’s jazz band. He was tall and cute with dark curls that fell into his eyes, and a mischievous smile. Serena’s dorm room had been right under his, and late at night she’d throw her textbooks at the ceiling, waiting for him to drop something loud and heavy on the floor in response. Sometimes—actually, a lot—they’d hang out on the roof and drink whiskey and smoke cigars. They’d been good friends, and then the year had ended and they’d wound up in Ridgefield together—his family lived there year round, and she summered there. The night before her seventeenth birthday she and Henry had stayed up late, drinking and talking, and had wound up on their backs on the tennis court, waiting for shooting stars, and eventually kissing. Then, Henry said it: “I love you.” Instead of saying it back, Serena fled into the house, booked a plane to Paris to join her brother, Erik, in his travels, and never spoke to Henry again. It wasn’t that she didn’t like him. Honestly, she did. But love was unmistakable, and at that time, there was only one boy she could ever truly love.Then, and maybe now, too . . .

Serena tipped her glass back and gulped its contents, her hands shaking. Leave it to me to have a nervous breakdown the night before my eighteenth birthday, she thought.

“Hey. Remember me?”

Henry’s voice gave her a little start. “I was wondering when you were going to come over and say hello.” She pulled her knees up to her chest and smiled at him.

“I could say the same thing.” The chair’s legs scraped noisily on the concrete as he pulled it out and took a seat. “You look great.”

“Thank you.” She smiled shyly, taking a sip of her drink. She fumbled nervously for her cigarettes, which were lying on the table near the trunk of the big umbrella.

Henry lit her shaking Gauloise and then helped himself to one from her stash. Serena exhaled a long plume of smoke, which danced away in the breeze.

“What happened to you, anyway?” Henry smiled thought-fully, studying Serena’s face. “I mean ...you just left.”

Serena looked away.

“I e-mailed you a few times,” Henry continued. “I never heard back from you.... And when I tried again, your school account had been closed.”

“I guess I needed to be alone for a little while to sort some things out. And then I went back to the city.” She pulled a strand of hair out from behind her ear and played with it distractedly, smiling sadly. “It’s a long story.” One even she didn’t understand, and one she’d never told anyone. Is that a fact?

Serena stared over Henry’s shoulder at the crowd of revelers: some of them half-naked and soaking up the sun, others dancing at speeds not altogether appropriate to the music. And then there was Blair, sipping yet another Bloody Mary and smiling up shyly at Nate, who gripped a beer, grinning stupidly. Serena glanced back at Henry. It was like a time warp: Blair and Nate completely oblivious to her, and Henry staring devotedly at her from the other side of the table like nothing had changed.

“This is my birthday party, you know,” she said at last.

“You think I don’t know that?” Henry reached over and grasped her hand with his slightly callused musician’s fingers. “That’s why I came. It’s our anniversary.” Serena swallowed.

Happy birthday!