Don't You Forget About Me (13 page)

You know you love me.

gossip girl

don’t hate her because she’s perfect

“Serena! Serena, over here!”

Flashbulbs exploded in front of Serena’s face like bursts of fierce white lightning. She smiled and plucked a perfectly ripe raspberry from the flute of Cristal she held in one hand, popping it into her mouth. She’d never expected the press conference for
Breakfast at Fred’s
to involve so much pampering, or to be so breathtakingly fancy—not to mention so well attended. Throngs of reporters and photographers surrounded her and her totally yummy costar, Thaddeus Smith, as they sat out on the sun-drenched terrace of one of the SoHo House’s top-floor penthouses. Maybe the life of a movie star
was
all it was cracked up to be.

Thad turned to smile at her from his matching white deck chair, the gold stubble on his razor-sharp jawline gleaming in the light. He wore a pair of severely distressed Marc Jacobs jeans, his tanned biceps startlingly dark against his crisp white polo shirt. Chrome Dior aviators hid his infamous blue eyes from view, and his evenly tanned feet were encased in a pair of blue-and-silver Michael Kors flip-flops.

Serena’s crush on Thad had passed with the realization that Thad had a serious boyfriend, but it didn’t stop her from admiring him.

There’s just so much to admire.

As the sun began to set over the Manhattan skyline, bathing the terrace in an orange sherbet hue, a male reporter pushed through the crowd, thrusting a mini tape recorder toward Thad. “Thad!” he yelled, even though he was only a foot away. A camera swung from around his neck. “What was it like working with Serena van der Woodsen? This is her debut. Can she really act?” “It was a rare privilege,” Thad replied, grabbing Serena’s hand and squeezing it tightly in his own. “Serena—as the whole world will soon see—is a pro. Plus, she’s absolutely gorgeous.” Serena blushed, surveying the suite from her perch on the terrace. The penthouse suite gleamed with chrome, glass, and light, and the room was decorated in blue and cream. An enormous flat-screen TV hung from the sky blue wall. A giant oil painting of the night sky illuminated another. This would the perfect place to bring a guy—and by “guy” she meant Nate. They could take a bubble bath in the six-person tub and order chocolate-covered strawberries and champagne from room service. They could watch one of the many not-yet-released DVDs that Ken had stocked the room with when they got bored—which would be never.

“Serena!” a young female reporter yelled out, scribbling furiously on a small white pad, her rectangular crimson eyeglasses sliding down her tiny nose. “What are your plans? Any films in the near future?” The cameras clicked incessantly as Serena cleared her throat and prepared to speak.

Ken Mogul had said in his e-mail not to worry about the press conference, that he’d be there to take care of everything. But when Serena had arrived, she’d been met by Jade, Ken’s assistant and wife, a stunning Afro-Asian ex-Ford model with straight black hair to her waist, who’d informed Serena coldly that Ken might be a little late.

“Actually,” she answered with an apologetic smile, “I start college next week, so I don’t think I’ll be making any more movies for a while.” She crossed her legs and leaned back on the gray-and-beige-striped deck chair. She was glad she’d worn the black Bailey Winter sunglasses that were designed especially for Holly, the character she played in the movie. She’d thought they’d help her feel more in character, but she hadn’t realized she’d need them to shade her eyes from the sun—not to mention the flashbulbs.

Serena folded her hands over the skirt of her simple white Marc Jacobs sheath dress and pulled a stray golden hair away from her face. With her white, Hermès lace-up sandals and the much-coveted cream-and-black Fendi B bag at her feet, she was the picture of New York glamour. Now she just needed to make sure she acted that way. She was okay with the sitting-there part. It felt sort of . . .
right
to be there, flashbulbs exploding in her face every five seconds. It was the speaking part—knowing that people were hanging on her every word, writing every syllable down and possibly hoping that she’d make a dumb-blond, spoiled-starlet mistake—that made her feel quivery inside. She’d grown up having people look at and talk about her, but this was the first time anyone had asked for her own original thoughts.

Agh!

“Which college, Serena?” another reporter yelled out, startling her from her moment of reverie.

“I’m heading to Yale on Sunday, actually,” she replied, a bit more confidently than she actually felt. She pushed her hair off her shoulders and continued. “I just want to be a normal girl for a while.You know, go to school, be like everyone else.” As if that were even
remotely
possible.

“Normal girl? Ha! Not if I can help it!” a deep male voice rang out. Reporters turned to see Ken Mogul making his way toward the terrace through the suite, balancing a bottle of champagne and two crystal champagne flutes in his hands. His bulging blue eyes looked like they might rocket out of his face, and his shoulder-length, curly red hair had been smoothed down and pulled into a low ponytail. He was trailed by Jade, who towered over him in her ridiculously high gold snakeskin Jimmy Choos. Just when it seemed he was going to take a seat, Ken jumped onto the outdoor coffee table which was covered with champagne glasses, sending them crashing.

Serena shook her head slightly, feeling a little dazed. Between the constant snap and glitter of flashbulbs, the champagne, the close proximity of Thad, and now this weird performance, her head was spinning and she felt like she needed to go back into the AC.

Little Miss Demanding. She really is becoming a Hollywood star!

From his high perch, Ken poured Serena a flute of Veuve Clicquot and clinked his full glass against hers. “Serena van der Woodsen is the greatest talent of the twenty-first century, and though some of you may think I’ve sold out by shooting
Breakfast at Fred’s
entirely inside the mainstream zeitgeist, it is Serena who is my greatest independent work of art.” Okay.What exactly did he just say?

He hopped off the table and laid himself flat on the ground at Serena’s Hermès-sandaled feet, murmuring, “I’m not worthy,” over and over again.

Serena blushed. She certainly didn’t feel like an independent work of art—far from it. She was just a confused high school graduate who was going to college because she wasn’t exactly sure what to do next. She looked up and saw Ken Mogul’s gorgeous wife looking at her coldly, arms folded across her chest. Serena shrugged shyly, as if to let her know that she wasn’t really into all this ass-kissing, star-worship stuff.

The cameras went crazy, clicking away like mad. Ken sat up abruptly and held his stubbly hand in front of his face. “Gentlemen, please!” he shouted. The flashes stopped as quickly as they’d started, and the crowd grew silent again, waiting for Ken to speak. “Not only do we begin shooting the sequel to
Breakfast at Fred’s
next month, but I plan to shoot a new film this spring, in the style of the visionary director François Truffaut—a gritty, black-and-white exercise in emotional realism and the searing depravity of love and addiction.” He put his glass of champagne down dramatically. “And both films will star Serena van der Woodsen, of course.” Serena’s mouth dropped open and

Ken met her wide-eyed gaze. He gave her a quick wink, his scary blue eyes twinkling. “Our little Serena is going to be a big, big star!” “I told you!” Thad broke in, grabbing her hand and raising it in the air.

Serena sat there in stunned silence as the reporters went nuts around her. “Serena, Serena! Does that mean Yale is on hold?” a male broke through the shouting.

She looked at Ken and then at Thad, who both smiled back at her expectantly. She couldn’t
not
go to Yale . . .
or
. . . could she? Blair and Nate would be fine—or better off—without her. But was she ready to leave them? The crowded terrace fell completely silent as Serena turned back to the cameras, squaring her shoulders. “No comment.” Ditto.

TO: [email protected]

FROM: [email protected]

Subject: We’re roomies!

Dear Blair,

I was
so
excited when I got my roommate assignment in the mail this morning! Aren’t you just
dying
to get to Yale? I’ve been shopping all week (make that all summer!), since it’ll be a pain once we’re on campus—doesn’t it totally suck that freshmen aren’t allowed to have cars anymore?!

I guess I better back up and tell you a little about myself: I live in Beverly Hills and my dad’s a cosmetic dentist. Which means my whole family has perfect teeth. Anyway, I’m not sure what I’m going to miss most about Cali—my parents, my convertible, my swimming pool, or the malls. But I guess Macy’s is only a train ride away.

I’ve been skating all my life. I went to nationals in pairs skating with Ashton, my partner, who was also my boyfriend until I broke up with him last week. My favorite store is the Build-A-Bear Workshop. I have a
huge
teddy bear collection. My favorite color is white, which technically isn’t a color, but it’s the color of my ice skates and ice when it’s been skated on, plus my birthstone is a pearl, which is also white. When Ashton and I won regionals, I wore the most beautiful peal tiara.

So, you’re from New York? That’s all the housing slip said. Do you live in Manhattan? I’ve never been there. What was your high school like? Do you have a boyfriend? I was going out with Ashton for almost two years, but I thought it would be better to break up before college. Long distance relationships just don’t last. . . .

Anyway, I’m beyond excited to meet you! Please write back soon and tell me all about yourself. We’re going to have the best time this fall, and I hope we’ll become lifelong friends. Oh and my stuffed French bulldog CeeCee says hello too!

xoxoxo,

Alana

TO: [email protected]

FROM: [email protected]

Subject: re: We’re roomies!

Dear Alana,

That’s so weird—my family is actually moving from New York to L.A. really soon. It will be cool to know someone if I’m forced to spend breaks there.

So . . . about me: I grew up in Manhattan on the Upper East Side and attended an all-girls school called Constance Billard. My mom married a moron and had a baby even though they’re like ninety years old. I named her Yale. My parents are divorced and my dad lives in a chateau on a vineyard in France. He and his boyfriend just adopted Cambodian twins. I can’t even talk about it.

Yes, I have a boyfriend—his name is Nate, and we’ve been together
forever
. This past summer we borrowed his father’s yacht and sailed around for a month and fell totally in love all over again, and lucky for you he’s coming to Yale, too. Why so lucky? Because you’ll get the room all to yourself once Natie and I find a house together off-campus. It’s all working out so perfectly I could just scream with happiness.

See you soon!

Sincerely,

Blair

P.S. But seriously, we can’t have cars oncampus?

to err is human, to forgive is against b’s rules

Blair surveyed the various Louis Vuitton trunks that surrounded her, the endless LV monograms multiplying and making her feel dizzy. She grabbed a stack of Fair Isle sweaters and held the soft material to her cheek for a minute before throwing them into an empty trunk. Looking around at the half-packed trunks and suitcases, at Aaron’s old, smelly room in a state of total disarray, she still couldn’t quite believe her family was really moving to California—or that she had to bring every single piece of winter clothing she owned to Yale with her, since she’d never be able to wear it in L.A. anyway. The whole process of packing some things for college and some things for California was made all the more obnoxious by the fact that she had to
ship
the trunks to Yale since she wouldn’t be driving her beautiful bisque-colored BMW to school. Why the fuck did Yale have to change the rules about bringing a car the very year
she
was going there? Blair sighed, flopping down on the ugly hemp bedspread. She couldn’t imagine anything more depressing than having to take the freaking
train
to school.

Well, she could hitchhike. That might be fun.

Blair closed her eyes and tried to picture what Thanksgiving and Christmas breaks would be like in Los Angeles. There would be no sledding in Central Park or walking up Fifth Avenue at Christmastime with Serena, making fun of the tourists gawking at the Saks windows. No more ice-skating at Rockefeller Center with Nate under the enormous tree, a cloudy December sky threatening snow overhead. It was painfully sunny almost every day of the year in Los Angeles, and there was practically no ozone layer, for God’s sake. She’d have to slather herself in SPF 40 just to open a fucking window.

She sat up, grabbed a trunk, and began filling it with armloads of silk underwear. If she and Nate couldn’t share New York anymore, at least they’d have the perfect home together in New Haven—maybe a little stone cottage close to campus with ivy climbing gaily up the gray stone walls. They would sit facing each other in front of a roaring fire, drinking gin and tonics and studying. She’d make flash cards to help him study for his economics exams, and they’d cook dinner together every night, moving carefully around each other in the cozy kitchen. Nate would stop in the middle of carving the venison from the deer he’d shot himself on last weekend’s hunting trip and take her in his arms, covering her with kisses until, dinner forgotten, he would lay her down on the bearskin rug—from a bear he had killed and skinned—slowly peeling her clothes from her body. . . .

Blair dropped the pair of black cropped Gucci jodhpurs she was holding and grabbed her cell, hitting speed dial number 3. Nate’s phone went straight to voice mail . . . again. She threw the phone onto the cat-pee-stained, sea-grass-mat-covered floor and it went skittering into the corner.Where
was
he?

Then the door opened and Nate walked in, as if on cue. Blair jumped to her feet and threw herself into his arms, purring against his chest. “I just called you!” She wrapped her arms around him and squeezed tight, breathing in the scent of summer and his slightly sweaty armpits. But Nate didn’t seem to be hugging her back. She pulled back ever so slightly and looked up into his face. He looked serious—and Nate never looked serious.