Don't You Forget About Me (14 page)

Uh-oh.

“What’s wrong?” Blair demanded, her brow furrowing. Without waiting for an answer she turned around and began folding pairs of jeans, working methodically. If she kept busy, maybe she wouldn’t have an aneurysm. What the fuck was going on?

“I have to tell you something, Blair.” Nate’s voice was shaking. “There’s something important I’ve been keeping from you.” Blair’s heart bumped crazily in her chest. He looked so totally
white
under his tan. Seeing him so obviously upset made her even more nervous. She sat down on a closed trunk and waited. Had Serena finally told Nate she was in love with him? Did he love Serena back? Were
they
going to run off to France together to adopt Cambodian twins?

“I didn’t get my diploma,” Nate blurted in a rush, as if hoping she might not catch the words. “I have to repeat senior year at St. Jude’s.” Blair grabbed the edge of the trunk she was sitting on with white fingers, staring at him uncomprehendingly.

“I can’t go to Yale with you.” He clarified. “I’m so sorry.”

“What?” Blair screeched in disbelief. She stood up, fingers clenched into fists at her sides. “What did you say?” Nate’s face was an infuriating blank. The whole room seemed to go red. Seriously? Was this
seriously
happening? First her best friend betrayed her, then her family abandoned their fucking home, then her car was practically ripped away from her, and now the supposed love of her life was making her go off to college without him because he was
stuck in high school?
Was this seriously fucking
happening?

“WHAT THE HELL, NATE!?” she screamed, throwing a pair of black alligator Manolos across the room, narrowly missing his head.

Love hurts!

Blair’s head filled with static. Nate wasn’t going to Yale with her—he was staying right here in New York—in the city where very soon she would no longer have a home. He might as well have told her that he
was
in love with Serena—the end result was still the same. She and Nate would be apart next year, living totally separate lives. How were they supposed to live happily ever after the way they were destined to if he was still in
high school
? Blair was breathing so fast her head felt light and dizzy.

“I’ll, um . . . I’ll call you later,” Nate said uncomfortably, looking down at the carpet. His shoulders rose in a deep, shuddering sigh. “When you’re a little more calm.” Which might be never.

“What do you want me to say, Nate? Congratu-freakinglations? Hey, at least you can call me to help you with your
homework
?!” Blair screamed as he opened the door and closed it softly behind him.

Don’t go giving him any ideas. . . .

TO: [email protected]

FROM: [email protected]

Subject: re: We’re Roomies!

Dear Alana,

P.P.S. Forget every fucking thing I just said. I hope you’re at least a semi-fucking normal human being, because no one else in my life is.

See you soon.

Blair

tangled up in s

Nate walked out of Blair’s apartment building and onto Fifth Avenue, grateful for the anonymous noise and clamor of the busy street. At least no one was yelling at him out here. He knew that she wouldn’t take the news that he wasn’t going to Yale with her well or anything, but he hadn’t expected it to be
that
bad. He stopped on the corner and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He was tempted by the tightly rolled emergency joint he’d shoved in the back, but pulled out a Parliament instead and lit the tip, his hands shaking.

He was trying to think with his balls like Chips said. He’d thought that if he just came clean to her, everything would just fall into place. Sure, he’d be in Manhattan for an extra year, but they’d see each other every weekend. It wasn’t like he
wanted
to stay behind in the city while Blair and Serena—his girls—were up in New Haven.

Nate exhaled a cloud of smoke and started walking uptown, not knowing or caring where he was headed. Thinking with his balls was totally overrated. All he really needed was to talk to someone who actually cared about him, someone who knew him better than anyone. The problem was, that person had just thrown a pair of shoes at his head.

He stopped in his tracks and looked up at the tall stone building in front of him at Eighty-first and Fifth Avenue, almost across from the Metropolitan Museum of Art. His feet had led him right to Serena’s doorstep. As he stared up at the gauzy, white curtains covering the windows of the top-floor apartment, Nate wondered if she was home. He walked into the lobby and raised his hand to the doorman, who smiled and waved him through.

As he rode up in the wood-paneled elevator, Nate wasn’t sure what he would say to Serena if she even
was
home. All he wanted was to chill for a while and forget everything that had just happened in the last torturous hour, but knowing Blair, she’d probably already told Serena the news. He strode purposefully to the van der Woodsens’ door and knocked.

Serena opened the door to her apartment almost instantly, as if she’d been waiting for him. She was wearing a crisp white cotton dress, like she was about to go play tennis, except that her golden hair was messily piled on top of her head with a paintbrush sticking through it. “Hey.” Nate grinned. “Want to hang out for a while?” She smiled slowly, then opened the door wide, grabbing his T-shirt and pulling him inside.

A few minutes later they sat cross-legged on the floor by the edge of her frilly white bed, the leather photo album spread out in front of them. Serena leaned forward to turn to a new page, her hair falling across Nate’s shoulder. He breathed deeply. His pulse was finally slowing. All it took was Serena’s signature scent of patchouli and lilies to calm him down.

Nate looked around at her familiar room. There was the tiny glass ballerina atop her mahogany jewelry chest. The kilt-wearing teddy bear from Scotland he used to make say dirty things until Serena squealed at him to stop, even though she was laughing hysterically. The giant mahogany armoire with crazily printed underwear spilling out of it. The little silver box on her night table that he knew was full of her baby teeth.

“Did Blair call you?” Nate asked, resting his head on the bed behind him. He looked up at the white eyelet canopy overhead and recognized the little brown burn mark he’d made in ninth grade.

She shook her head. “Why?”

He squirmed uncomfortably on the carpet. “I don’t know.” Serena just smiled and turned back to the album. An eight-by-ten photo of her in the fifth grade, dressed up as a fairy, peered up at them. “My hair is green.” She blushed and tried to turn the page.

“No.” Nate sat forward and reached for the album, flipping the page back so he could study the picture. Little Serena trapped underneath the clear plastic, wearing a pink satin gown and wings, a sparkling silver wand in her hand. “You look beautiful.” Serena rolled her eyes. “Anyway . . .” she said, turning the pages, “why did you come over here again?” Nate shrugged, Chips’s words still echoing in his brain. If he could only figure out what thinking with his balls actually meant, maybe he could figure some shit out. “I was in the neighborhood.” He looked down at a picture of him and

Serena. He didn’t remember taking this one. Their cheeks were pressed close together, flushed and smiling, and it was taken from above, his arm holding the camera out in front of their faces.

“Is that—” he heard the words tumble out of his mouth. “It’s from the day I came down from Ridgefield,” she said quietly, finishing his thoughts. Serena swallowed hard, looking down at the page. “The day we . . .” Nate knew before she’d even said the words. It was a photograph from the night they’d lost their virginity to each other, more than two years ago. He couldn’t help thinking about her soft skin and the fun they’d had. Some documentary about the Ten Commandments was on TV that night, and when they’d turned it on after they’d made love for the very first time, Serena had yelled out, “You parted my red sea!” He smiled, remembering how happy they were, how they’d stayed in each other’s arms until the sun rose.

“I don’t even remember taking it,” Serena added with a shrug of her shoulders before she reached out and started to flip to another page in the album.

“Me neither,” Nate said, reluctant to let go of the page. Why couldn’t happiness just stay like that—trapped under plastic and hermetically sealed? Why did everything have to get so
complicated
? He wished more than anything that he could just go back in time to that night and start all over again.

Serena grabbed the book away from him, closed it, and sat up, crossing her legs Indian style. She was wearing a pair of ridiculously tiny white shorts under her cotton dress. It almost hurt Nate’s eyes to look at her.

Sounds like he was thinking with, ahem,
something
now. “Nate,” she began, taking a deep breath, “I need to ask you something. I . . . I really need to know the truth.” “What?” His heart stopped for a second. Serena’s almost navy blue eyes were so serious that he found himself reaching over and grabbing her hand, squeezing her soft palm in his own to comfort her.

She squirmed uncomfortably and swallowed hard. “Did you ever get my letter?”
Letter?
Nate shook his head slowly.

Serena took another deep breath and looked straight at him. “I wrote you a letter to tell you that I love you,” she said quietly. “I always have.” The room was so quiet that Nate didn’t know whether the sound of breathing in his ears was his or hers. Sitting there with Serena, on the floor of her room, everything felt right. And
simple
. In fact, when he really thought about it, things between him and Serena had always been simple—it was
life
that had complicated them.

And somehow it felt totally right for him to kiss her. He leaned forward, his bare knees sinking into the carpet, and pressed his lips to hers. As he breathed in the scent of her, he felt his limbs relax, his body going limp with relief and happiness.

Kissing Serena was the exact
opposite
of having a pair of stilettos thrown at his head—it was absolutely effortless. They staggered to their feet and she pushed him down on the bed, kissing him back eagerly.

And the rest is history, repeating itself.

TO: [email protected]

FROM: [email protected]

Subject: Changes

Hey Dan,

Dude. I guess you and me are going to be roommates at Evergreen. I don’t know about you, but I’m totally stoked on going out to Washington. I’m from this shit-ass town in the boondocks of Idaho, and after eighteen goddamn years here I
need
to get the fuck out.

It’s not just that living here bores me to tears, but the people here just have no respect for the earth, right? If the kids I grew up with spent a quarter of the time they spend cooking meth in their basements focusing on the fucking earth, we’d have solved global warming by now. Honestly. It’s like with smokers—why do they do it? I can’t stand people who damage themselves and others for no fucking reason, you know? It’s all about respect.

So what about you, bro? You stoked for school? I hope you’re not bringing too much stuff, ’cause I hear our rooms are pretty small. I’m pretty neat, mostly because I don’t have a lot—I try to simplify, stick to the basics, you know. The only thing about me that’s high maintenance is my allergies—I’m allergic to coffee beans and will go into anaphylactic shock if I’m even near a coffee ground. Trust me, it’s not as cool as it sounds.

Are you signing up for that frosh orientation camping trip? Sounds pretty fucking sweet to me. Getting to know our classmates, spending some time out in the open country, living off the earth—way it should be, man. Way it should be.

Peace, love, and unity,

Urth Greenberg

breaking up isn’t all that hard to do

Dan sat on the curb outside the Strand, a cigarette in one hand and a cup of weak, tepid black coffee in the other. Taxis rumbled down Broadway, pouring black smoke out of their tailpipes. A stream of tourists flooded the sidewalks, mopping their sweaty brows and looking questioningly into the musty old bookstore as if trying to gauge the strength of its air-conditioning. The heat shimmered off the pavement in waves and Dan pushed his long, straggly brown hair back from his forehead with one hand.

For the past few days, he’d bailed on the shifts that overlapped with Greg’s in an attempt to postpone their inevitable talk. He just didn’t know what to
say
when Greg told him he wanted to be more serious, more
official
. Avoidance had seemed like a good plan, but then this morning his boss had threatened to fire him if he didn’t come in, so he’d spent the day in stealth mode, hiding out in the gardening section and ducking behind bookshelves whenever he heard footsteps approaching.

“Hello Daniel.” An unfamiliar, elderly voice startled him.

He looked up from his perch on the sidewalk and recognized Aggie, the seventysomething receptionist at Riverside Prep who wore a different wig every day. Today it was black and curly, sort of like Ernie’s hair from
Sesame Street.

“Hello Aggie,” Dan mumbled. This was the problem with New York—you couldn’t get a second of peace and quiet without running into someone you knew. Aggie would probably want to have tea with him now, maybe get in one last heart-to-heart before he left for college.

Or take him wig shopping?

“Well, Daniel, it’s lovely to run into you like this, though I can’t stay and chat. Congratulations on your recent announcement, and I’m sorry I missed your party!” Dan watched in shock as Aggie smiled, patting her wig, and then shuffled off in the direction of the discount books racks.

Dan gave her a slight wave and then sighed, pressing his back against the brick wall, which felt like it was searing his flesh through his damp T-shirt. Well, that was weird. Did his mom invite the
entire
world to his coming-out party? He adjusted his butt on the hot pavement and pulled a notebook from his ratty black Timbuk2 messenger bag. If he didn’t get something written for the wedding soon, he’d be seriously screwed. But the trouble was, nothing was coming to him. What did he know about marriage anyway? How was he supposed to write about loving someone for the rest of your life when he couldn’t even figure out his
own
love life?