Don't You Forget About Me (28 page)

“You know you love me!”

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

hey people!

It’s time to say goodbye, my darlings, because at this point, everyone who’s anyone is on their way to college. Except for those of us who have the good sense to stay right here in old NYC. But if you find yourself feeling left behind, don’t be sad. There’s
always
a silver lining. Like . . .

(5) Now that your older (probably prettier and more perfect) best friend is gone, it’s your turn to really shine. By the time the first day of school rolls around, you’ll be ruling the hallways and wearing that imaginary diamond-encrusted tiara.

(4) No one’s here to scoff at your new back-to-school look—so go for it. After all, this coming school year will probably be the most important of your social existence, so go for those new, sex-kittenesque bangs. The boys will come barking—trust me.

(3) You’re finally free to make out with everyone you’ve ever had a crush on. Senior year is basically a get-out-of-jail-free card—like Las Vegas, whatever happens during senior year stays here, so its okay to take some chances and flirt your tushy off—you never know what might happen if you do!

(2) The city is now yours—take advantage. Remember, next year you might be stuck on the green, leafy campuses of Yale or Princeton with nary a Barneys or Bergdorf’s in sight. Time to explore the limits of your charge card—as if you need the reminder.

(1) And the number-one reason not to feel sad about being left behind is . . . things are not going to get boring around here—not if I have anything to do with it. Which, of course, I will.

sightings

D
’s mom
J
at the Upper West Side branch of the New York Public Library, wearing a silk kimono and purple fuzzy slippers, attempting to donate the book
HomoSensuality
while insisting it’s essential to any great library.
B
on the train looking very Audrey, being helped with her bags by a hottie in a Yale T-shirt.
S
walking past La Goulue on Madison, a big smile on her face, getting stopped by
everyone
.
D
at a rest stop in Pennsylvania, cooing sweet nothings into his cell phone while drinking entirely too much black coffee.
V
strolling through the NYU campus near Washington Square Park in the early afternoon, manically filming everything. Something tells me that
V
will attempt to document every moment of her college existence. Those tapes will probably be worth a fortune someday.
N
. . . nowhere in sight. And finally, three new sightings:

After
B
left her apartment this morning, headed for Yale, three gorgeous new faces arrived for a quickie tour: I have it on good authority they’re the
C
triplets, set to move into
B
’s pad any day now. There’s blond
A
, looking every inch the Upper East Side bombshell she
isn’t
. Her adorable brother,
O,
whose chiseled features and white-blond hair are like a who’s who of hotness. And then there’s the über bohemian chic
B,
which I’ve heard stands for “Baby.” Her real name—or just what guys call out to her on the street? Because yes, she’s really that beautiful.

Well, my darlings, that kind of wraps it up . . . for now. If you’re wondering why I’m so chipper when
B, S, N, D,
and
V,
and all their wild friends have left, it’s because it looks like next year might be even more fun than this year, and I’m not going anywhere. That’s right, you heard me, I’m here to stay. Why leave when there’s going to be
so
much more to talk about?

Whatever I do, you know you’ll
always
love me.

gossip girl

Once upon a time on the Upper East Side of New York City, two beautiful girls fell in love with one perfect boy. . . .

Turn the page for a sneak peek of

it had to be you

the gossip girl prequel

and find out how it all began.

by the #1
New York Times
bestselling author

Cecily von Ziegesar

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

hey people!

Ever have that totally freakish feeling that someone is listening in on your conversations, spying on you and your friends, following you to parties, and generally stalking you? Well, they are. Or actually,
I
am. The truth is, I’ve been here all along, because I’m one of you.

Feeling totally lost? Don’t get out much? Don’t know who “we” are? Allow me to explain. We’re an exclusive group of indescribably beautiful people who happen to live in those majestic, green-awninged, white-glove-doorman buildings near Central Park. We attend Manhattan’s most elite single-sex private schools. Our families own yachts and estates in various exotic locations throughout the world. We frequent all the best beaches and the most exclusive ski resorts. We’re seated immediately at the nicest restaurants in the chicest neighborhoods without a reservation. We turn heads. But don’t confuse us with Hollywood actors or models or rock stars—those people you feel like you know because you hear so much about them, but who are actually completely boring compared to the parts they play or the songs they sing. There’s nothing boring about me or my friends, and the more I tell you about us, the more you’re going to want to know. I’ve kept quiet until now, but something has happened and I just can’t stay quiet about it. . . .

the greatest story ever told

We learned in our first eleventh-grade creative writing class this week that most great stories begin in one of the following fashions: someone mysteriously disappears or a stranger comes to town. The story I’m about to tell is of the “someone mysteriously disappears” variety.

To be specific,
S
is
gone.

In order to unravel the mystery of why she’s left and where she’s gone, I’m going to have to backtrack to last winter—the winter of our sophomore year—when the La Mer skin cream hit the fan and our pretty pink rose-scented bubble burst. It all started with three inseparable, perfectly innocent, über-gorgeous fifteen-year-olds. Well, they’re sixteen now, and let’s just say that two of them are
not
that innocent.

If anyone is going to tell this tale it has to be me, because I was at the scene of every crime. So sit back while I unravel the past and reveal everyone’s secrets, because I know everything, and what I don’t know I’ll invent, elaborately.

Admit it: you’re already falling for me.

Love you too . . .

gossip girl

the best stories begin with one boy and two girls

“Truce!” Serena van der Woodsen screamed as Nate Archibald body-checked her into a three-foot-high drift of powdery white snow. Cold and wet, it tunneled into her ears and down her pants. Nate dove on top of her, all five-foot eleven inches of his perfect, golden-brown-haired, glittering-green-eyed, fifteen-year-old boyness. Nate smelled like Downy and the Kiehl’s sandalwood soap the maid stocked his bathroom with. Serena just lay there, trying to breathe with him on top of her. “My scalp is cold,” she pleaded, getting a mouthful of Nate’s snow-dampened, godlike curls as she spoke.

Nate sighed reluctantly, as if he could have spent all day outside in the frigid February meat locker that was the back garden of his family’s Eighty-second-Street-just-off-Park-Avenue Manhattan town house. He rolled onto his back and wriggled like Serena’s long-dead golden retriever, Guppy, when she used to let him loose on the green grass of the Great Lawn in Central Park. Then he stood up, awkwardly dusting off the seat of his neatly pressed Brooks Brothers khakis. It was Saturday, but he still wore the same clothes he wore every weekday as a sophomore at the St. Jude’s School for Boys over on East End Avenue. It was the unofficial Prince of the Upper East Side uniform, the same uniform he and his classmates had been wearing since they’d started nursery school together at Park Avenue Presbyterian.

Nate held out his hand to help Serena to her feet. She frowned cautiously up at him, worried that he was only faking her out and was about to tackle her again. “I really am cold.” He flapped his hand at her impatiently. “I know. Come on.” She snorted, pretended to pick her nose and wipe it on the seat of her snow-soaked dark denim Earl jeans, then grabbed his hand with her faux-snotty one. “Thanks, pal.” She staggered to her feet. “You’re a real chum.” Nate led the way inside. The backs of his pant legs were damp and she could see the outline of his tighty-whiteys. Really, how gay of him! He held the glass-paned French doors open and stood aside to let her pass. Serena kicked off her baby blue Uggs and scuffed her bare, Urban Decay Piggy Bank-pink-toenailed feet down the long hall to the stately town house’s enormous, barely used all-white Italian Modern kitchen. Nate’s father was a former sea captain-turned-banker, and his mother was a French society hostess. They were basically never home, and when they
were
home, they were at the opera.

“Are you hungry?” Nate asked, following her. “I’m so sick of takeout. My parents have been in Venezuela or Santa Domingo or wherever they go in February for like two weeks, and I’ve been eating burritos, pizza, or sushi every freaking night. I asked Regina to buy ham, Swiss, Pepperidge Farm white bread, Grammy Smith apples, and peanut butter. All I want is the food I ate in kindergarten.” He tugged anxiously on his wavy, golden brown hair. “Maybe I’m going through some sort of midlife crisis or something.” Like his life is so stressful?

“It’s Gra
nny
Smith, silly,” Serena informed him fondly. She opened a glossy white cupboard and found an unopened box of cinnamon-and-brown-sugar Pop-Tarts. Ripping open the box, she removed one of the packets from inside, tore it open with her neat, white teeth, and pulled out a thickly frosted pastry. She sucked on the Pop-Tart’s sweet, crumbly corner and hopped up on the counter, kicking the cupboards below with her size-eight-and-a-half feet. Pop-Tarts at Nate’s. She’d been having them there since she was five years old. And now . . . and now . . .

Serena sighed heavily. “Mom and Dad want me to go to boarding school next year,” she announced, her enormous, almost navy blue eyes growing huge and glassy as they welled up with unexpected tears. Go away to boarding school and leave Nate? It hurt too much to even think about.

Nate flinched as if he’d been slapped in the face by an invisible hand. He grabbed the other Pop-Tart from out of the packet and hopped up on the counter next to Serena. “No way,” he responded decisively. She couldn’t leave. He wouldn’t allow it.

“They want to travel more,” Serena explained. The pink, perfect curve of her lower lip trembled dangerously. “If I’m home, they feel like they need to be home more. Like I want them around? Anyway, they’ve arranged for me to meet some of the deans of admissions and stuff. It’s like I have no choice.” Nate scooted over a few inches and put his arm around her. “The city is going to suck if you’re not here,” he told her earnestly. “You can’t go.” Serena took a deep shuddering breath and rested her pale blond head on his shoulder. “I love you,” she murmured, closing her delicate eyelids. Their bodies were so close the entire Nate-side of her hummed. If she turned her head and tilted her chin just so, she could have easily kissed his warm, lovely neck. And she wanted to. She was actually dying to, because she really did love him, with all her heart.