Because I'm Worth it (13 page)

The cocktail waiter appeared to offer Owen another drink. He ordered a Maker’s Mark and cocked a dark eyebrow at Blair. “Can I get you something besides a Coke? I promise I won’t tell Yale or your dad.”

Blair scrunched up her toes inside her black Ferragamos. If she said yes, she’d be admitting that she really did want a drink, and if she said no, she might seem like a prude. “I’ll have a glass of chardonnay,” she told him, figuring white wine was the safest, most ladylike option.

“So. Tell me why Yale should admit you,” Owen asked after he’d ordered the wine. He leaned across the table and lowered his voice. “Are you really as bright as your dad claims?”

Blair sat up even straighter, twirling her little ruby ring around and around on her ring finger beneath the tablecloth. “I think I’m smart enough to go to Yale,” she replied evenly, remembering her speech. “I’m in all the APs at school. I’m at the top of the class. I’m the chair of the social services board and the French club. I’m a peer group leader. I’m nationally ranked in tennis. And I ran the organizing committee for five charity events this past year.”

Their drinks arrived and Owen raised his glass. “And why Yale?” He took a sip. “What can Yale do for you?”

It seemed odd that Owen wasn’t taking notes or anything, but maybe he was testing her, trying to get her to let down her guard and admit that she really was just a flake who’d been born with a silver spoon up her well-bred ass and only wanted to go to Yale to party with frat boys.

“As you know, Yale has an excellent prelaw program,” she stated, determined to give intelligent, straight-to-the-point answers. “I’m thinking of going into entertainment law.”

“Excellent.” Owen nodded approvingly. He scooted his chair forward and winked at her. “Look, Blair. You’re an intelligent, ambitious girl. I already know you’re perfect for Yale and I promise I’ll do everything I can to convince them to let you in.”

He looked so handsomely earnest while he was saying this that Blair felt her cheeks heat up. She took a sip of wine to cool herself off. “Thank you,” she responded gratefully. She took another sip of wine and let out an enormous sigh of gratitude and relief. “Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

Just then a pair of cool hands covered her eyes and she smelled the distinctive patchouli-and-sandalwood scent of a certain someone’s favorite essential oil mixture.

“Guess who!” Serena whispered in Blair’s ear, then pulled her hands away from Blair’s eyes, her long blond hair brushing Blair’s shoulder as she kissed her cheek. “What’s going on?”

Behind her, Aaron stood grinning goofily, wearing a maroon Harvard sweatshirt like the annoying asshole he was.

Blair blinked. Could they not see she was in the middle of the most important meeting of her life?

“I’m Serena.” Serena held out her hand for Owen to shake.

Owen stood up and took her hand. “Charmed.” He bowed his dark head, looking more like Cary Grant than ever.

“So you’re coming to see me in the Les Best show tomorrow, right?” Serena asked Blair.

“You
have
to come,” Aaron chimed in. “I ain’t going to no fashion show by myself, girlfrien’.” He’d agreed to go, but he wasn’t exactly looking forward to it. Fashion meant fur and animal testing. It was against everything he stood for.

“Your name is on the list,” Serena added.

Owen looked completely bemused by the whole conversation. Blair let out an exasperated breath and stood up, turning away from Owen so he couldn’t hear what she said. “Do you guys mind leaving us alone?” she hissed in a low whisper. “We’re talking about Yale, and it’s pretty fucking
important
.”

Aaron put his arm around Serena’s slim waist, pulling her away. “Excuse us,” he responded in a patronizing whisper, still looking smug in his retarded Harvard sweatshirt. “We’re headed down to that new club on Harrison, in case you want to catch us later.” They waltzed out of the bar, his dreadlocks bouncing and her pale gold hair fanned out over her shoulders, both looking so carefree and careless, it was infuriating.

“Sorry,” Blair apologized, crossing her ankles daintily as she sat down again. “My friends can be pretty self-absorbed sometimes.”

“That’s all right.” Owen stared down into his bourbon, looking pensive as he stirred the ice cubes around in his glass. He looked up again. “Do you mind my asking what you did in your first Yale interview that was so awful you think they’re not going to let you in?”

Blair took another sip of her wine, and then another. As soon as she explained what had happened, Owen was going to change his mind about her for sure. “I was having a bad day,” she confessed, the words tumbling out of her mouth as she frantically spun her ruby ring around and around on her finger. She didn’t want to go into the gory details of her botched interview, but if Owen was going to help her, he’d best know the truth. “I hadn’t gotten enough sleep. I was tired and nervous and I had to pee really badly. The interviewer said, ‘Tell me about yourself,’ and before I could really think about what I was saying, I told him all about how my dad was gay and my mom was going to marry this gross, fat, red-faced guy with an annoying teenage son with dreadlocks who you just had the pleasure of meeting. I told him my boyfriend, Nate, was ignoring me. Then he asked me what books I’d been reading lately and I couldn’t think of the title of a single book. I started to cry, and then, at the end of the interview, I kissed him.” Blair sighed dramatically, snatched her cocktail napkin off the table, and began to shred it in her lap. “It was only on the cheek, but it was still totally inappropriate. I just wanted him to remember me. You know, you only get a few minutes to make an impression, but I guess I went a little overboard.” She looked up into Owen’s sympathetic blue eyes. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Owen sipped his drink silently as he considered the information. “I’ll see what I can do,” he responded finally, but his voice sounded detached and skeptical now.

Blair swallowed. It was pretty obvious he thought she was hopelessly stupid and insane. Oh, God. She was
ruined
.

Suddenly he broke into a devilish white-toothed grin. “I’m only joking, Blair. That doesn’t sound so bad. It was probably the most memorable, entertaining interview Jason Anderson III has ever had. Face it, he’s not the most exciting guy in the world, and his job has got to be a little monotonous. I’m sure you were the highlight of the fall interview season.”

“So you don’t think it’s hopeless after all?” Blair asked in her most tragic Audrey-needs-your-help voice.

Owen took her small, ruby-ringed hand in his large tanned one. “Not at all.” He cleared his throat. “Has anyone ever told you you look a bit like Audrey Hepburn?”

Blair blushed from the roots of her hair down to her toe-nail cuticles. Owen seemed to know exactly the right things to say, and he looked so much like Cary Grant, it made her dizzy. His thick gold wedding ring pressed into the bones on the back of her hand. She frowned down at it. If he was so married, what was he doing holding her hand?

Owen withdrew his hands and shifted in his seat, reading her mind. “Yes, I’m married, but we’re not together anymore.”

Blair nodded hesitantly. It was really none of her business. Although if Cary—Owen—wanted to ask her out again, she wouldn’t exactly say no.

Ask her out again?
Was she forgetting this wasn’t exactly a date?

“So, I’m sure you have to get back to your AP homework and all that.” Owen reached for her hand again as if he couldn’t bear to let her go. “But do you mind if I call you again sometime?”

Blair hoped she looked
exactly
like Audrey at this very moment. Yes, Owen was nearly her father’s age, a lawyer, a
man
, but she’d never felt so strongly attracted to anyone in her life. Why fight it? It was her second semester of senior year. She’d worked hard throughout high school and was hopefully getting into Yale soon. Yes, seeing an older man was crazy and irresponsible, but it was about time she had a little fun.

“Sure.” She smiled and cocked her neatly plucked right eyebrow theatrically. “I’d like that.”

Disclaimer: All the real names of places, people, and events have been altered or abbreviated to protect the innocent. Namely, me.

hey people!

Teen heiress sells horses for drugs!

Last night I was out at that new club on Harrison, and between sips of the club’s signature “adult” version of the Shirley Temple I got the latest scoop on one of my nursery-school classmates. Although she’s heir to the largest lumber fortune in the entire world, she was recently caught selling her show horses for drug money. Apparently she doesn’t come into her inheritance until she’s eighteen and only gets a “small” monthly allowance. She was short on cash, so she took Guns’n’Roses, her prized show jumper, down to auction and used the money to buy some speed or whatever she does. How tacky is that? Apparently her eighty-year-old nanny—or whoever looks after her now that her father has passed away and her mother has moved to Sandy Lane in Barbados—found out about the horse and sent my old friend straight to rehab.

Sounds like rehab is the place to be this winter!

Fashion Week: the lowdown

Expect to freeze your ass off while trying to hail a cab. Expect to wait an hour for a show to start only to be told that the show is running
another
hour late. Expect to see lots of Botoxed, fake-tanned, anorexic girls trying not notice that they all wore the same thing to the same show, and lots of gay men wearing more perfume than the girls. Expect to find out that those ugly-ass cargo pants with tapered legs are back in style
again
. Expect to be envious of the pouty-lipped, giraffe-legged models who actually look good in them. Expect to be annoyed by heavily made-up, fur-wearing women who bring their little Louis Vuitton collar–wearing French bulldogs to the show in matching Louis Vuitton handbags. Expect to be dying for the after-party to start so you can smoke. Expect the after-parties to be truly mind-blowing. Expect not to remember what happened the morning after.

Your e-mail

Q:
    Dear GG,

I was walking by the bar in the Compton Hotel last night and I saw B with this man who I recognize from my building. He has a daughter who’s like in ninth or tenth grade at my school. What’s that all about?

—Tom

A:
    Hey Tom,

Who knows what she was up to, but can’t you totally see B as some poor girl’s evil stepmom?

—GG

Q:
    Dear G-Dawg,

Can I just say that you kick ass! Also, I heard N is going to that fancy rehab up in Greenwich. My cousin went there and came back more messed up than before.

—F.B.

A:
    Dear F.B.,

Thanks for the compliment, although I don’t know if I dig the whole “G-Dawg” thing. And whatever happens to N in rehab, they can’t take away his soul or his divine beauty!

—GG

Sightings

N
and his parents having a tour of that stylin’ new rehab clinic in
Greenwich
.
C
having his nails done at
Coin
, an all-male spa in Chelsea. No kidding.
S
picking up a custom-made baby tee at one of those customized T-shirt places in
Chinatown
.
B
standing in front of
Tiffany
, drinking out of a paper cup and eating a Danish, just like

Audrey Hepburn
in
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
,
except
B
was wearing her gray school uniform instead of a black
Christian Dior
evening gown.
K
and
I
putting up N
O
L
OITERING
signs around the
Les Best
tent. It looks like they actually
volunteered
their services so they could get good seats.

It’s supposed to snow like crazy this weekend but has that ever stopped us? See you in the front row!

You know you love me.

gossip girl

kindred spirits connect in rehab

“Has everyone heard about the snowstorm? We’re supposed to get four feet by midnight!” Jackie Davis, Nate’s teen group facilitator at the Breakaway Rehabilitation Center, rubbed her hands together as if the idea of being snowed in with all these rich derelicts was her idea of a rocking good time.

After Nate had gotten busted in the park, his father and Saul Burns, the family lawyer, had come to fetch him at the precinct. Nate’s father, a stern, silver-haired navy captain who handled emergencies with crisp, efficient formality, had paid the fine of three thousand dollars and cosigned an agreement that Nate would immediately attend a drug rehabilitation program for a minimum of ten hours per week. That meant Nate was going to have to ride the train out to Greenwich, Connecticut, five days a week for counseling and group therapy.