Nobody Does It Better (11 page)

Just down the hall, in an even bigger suite, Dan, Jenny, two members of the Raves, and a very tan French girl were lounging round smoking cigars that had been FedExed to the room from Cuba
that day. The whole room was filled with ripped-open FedEx boxes: Peaches from Georgia, candles from France, Vodka from Finland, strong brown ale from Ireland, breadsticks from Italy, shower gel from LA, and extra-sharp cheddar cheese from Vermont.

As if you couldn't buy all of the above in the city that has everything.

Lloyd asked the concierge to send up more bathrobes, and one by one they all removed their clothes and donned robes. Jenny wasn't quite sure what to do with her pants and shirt, and it was nearly impossible to hide her bra, because the bathrobe had the troublesome habit of popping outward in the cleavage area. She decided to stuff her clothes into the gold-and-white vanity cupboard under the bathroom sink and cinched the belt of the bathrobe as tight as it would go before stepping out into the suite once more.

“Have a peach,” Damian offered in his adorable Irish accent. He pulled one of the perfectly ripened fruit out of the box and held it up. He'd changed into a robe, and Jenny wondered if he was still wearing his underwear. The thought made her cheeks turn red and her bathrobe pop open once more. Damian patted the seat cushion of the gold damask loveseat he was sitting on. “Come, sit down. Eat one of these and then show me how badly you can kick my ass at Terminator.”

Jenny glanced at the selection of PlayStation games on the coffee table. Kick his ass? She'd never played a video game in her life.

“Or would you prefer something more refined, like a fine Italian breadstick?” Lloyd asked from the sofa on the other side of the coffee table. He drummed two breadsticks on his knees. “They're excellent with ale. Just dunk,” he explained, dipping an entire breadstick into a bottle of Irish ale, “and munch.” Then he patted the seat cushion next to him just like Damian had done. “Try it.”

Unable to decide between which guy was cuter, Jenny sliced a tiny piece of cheddar cheese of the huge brick of it on the coffee table and knelt down on the floor. Monique was sitting on the floor too, smoking a hand-rolled cigarette and reading a French magazine and looking bored because Dan had gone to the bathroom to shower and change into his robe.

“Ooh la la, I just realized who you are!” Monique squealed, ashing on the floor in her excitement. “You're zee model in zee fantastique W pages. I love zohze photos. And zat blond girl- so beautiful, non?”

“Well, you're even prettier,” Jenny responded shyly, thrilled to be recognized. She wished she had a cool French accent like Monique's. Everything sounded so much cooler with an accent.

Dan came out of the bathroom with his hip hop clothes all wadded up under his arm. No wtaht he was de-puked and sobered up a little, he was tempted to chuck the clothes out the window.

“Hey man, you never told us your sister was a bloody fashion model,” Damian said.

“If bloody Monique is impressed, she must be pretty fucking huge,” Lloyd agreed.

Boys. Give them some strong Irish ale and all of a sudden they have British accents.

Dan was so ashamed of his performance that night be barely looked at his bandmates. “She's done some modeling,” he mumbled.

Marc, the Raves' bassist opened the door of the suite, back from a walk with his Bernese mountain dog, Trish. Trish was huge and black with a sweet brown-and-white face like a St. Bernard. He'd names the dog after his ex-girlfriend- the love of his life, who'd broken up with him back in the ninth grade- and he never went anywhere without her.

How sweet. And how creepy.

Dan sat on the floor next to his sister. Trish lay down next to him and put her head in his lap. She had terrible breath like she'd been eating canned mackerel and spoiled milk.

“Hey Marc. Turns out Jenny is, like, this hugely famous supermodel,” Lloyd announced.

Marc glanced shyly at Jenny, then picked up one of the Plaza Hotel bathrobes from the stack and put it on over his clothes. He looked like a modern-day vampire, with curly black hair, pale skin, and nearly black eyes.

Jenny giggled, reveling in all the attention. It was one o'clock in the morning and she was at the Plaza Hotel, wearing only a bathrobe and underwear, wit the members of the coolest band ever! It was kind of weird being there with her brother, but kind of reassuring, too.

Monique sat up on her knees and stroked Trish's ears. Then she slipped her hand down the back of Dan's bathrobe. “Come into zee bedroom,” she mouthed against his ear.

Jenny could hear every word Monique said- not that she really wanted to. Boldly, she stood up and went over to the sofa to sit next to Lloyd. After all, she was a famous model- she could sit wherever she liked.

Lloyd handed her a breadstick. “In southern Italy
these are considered an aphrodisiac.”

“Liar!” Damian threw a ripe, juicy peach at Lloyd's head. It missed and splattered all over the pristine white wall behind him.

You're not a real rock star unless you know how to trash a hotel room.

“Don't listen to that butthead, he's full of it,” Damian warned suddenly loosing his Irish accent. He dragged three PlayStation joysticks over to the sofa and sat down, so that Jenny was wedged between him and Lloyd.

As if she minded.

Jenny's feet were tingling and her ears were buzzing. It was a school night and she was a supermodel hanging out in a hotel room with three famous rock stars. If only Serena could see her now.

Monique dragged Dan into a standing position. Damian's foot flew up and kicked her in the butt, but Monique pretended not to notice. She pulled Dan into the adjacent bedroom, slamming the door behind them.

"Don't make too much noise! Damian shouted after them.

Marc lay down where Dan and Monique had been sitting and rested his head on his dog. Trish licked his pale cheek and wrapped an enormous black paw around his neck.

Aw. What a cute couple.

Jenny had never felt so famous in her life, and she owed it all to her brother. He deserved to hook up with some random French girl. And she deserved to be wedged between the two cutest guys ever to grace the cover of Rolling Stone. If only some reporter would knock on the door and take their picture. She kind of wanted the world to find out about this- it was too good not to be known, even if she got into major trouble.

No worries, darling- the world has a funny way of finding out nearly everything.

Gossipgirl.net

AND YOU THOUGHT THE TRIBECA STAR WAS SO COOL

The Plaza Hotel is having a revival, a big one. Some of our favorite people were suite-wrecking at the Plaza last night. It happened to late to make it into today's papers, but log onto New York Post's Page Six online, and it's all there. A whole black-and-white photo-montage of adorable little J getting kissed good-bye on the lips by the lead guitarist of the Raves right on the Plaza's red-carpeted steps and getting spanked on her bottom by the drummer with his drumsticks before she swept her into a bear hug. She even wore her Plaza bathrobe home, carelessly leaving her clothes behind, and blew kisses from the taxi, like a modern-day Marilyn Monroe.

J wasn't the only budding model to hook up with the Raves' lead guitarist. A hotel staff member actually recorded him singing to S over a Plaza house phone. S finished the call saying, “I love you, Daddy.” Oh does she?

But what about his marriage to a mysterious French girl a year or so back, in an exclusive ceremony in St. Barts? If you study the photograph of him kissing J, he is wearing a gold band on the ring finger of his left hand... and there was a beautiful French girl on scene as well, although she was totally preoccupied with D, the band's raging new front man. His debut public performance was kind of embarrassing, but, like a typical French girl, she's probably too horny to care.

The confusing part is that S was staying with B in her suite, bringing to mind those old stories about S and B in a hot tub together, engaging in what is best described as a little girl-on-girl. As if things weren't complicated enough already!

THERE'S SOMETHING ABOUT THOSE FRENCH GIRLS

I know I've ranted about this before, but why is it that the girls who go to L'École Française look twenty-five when they're only fourteen? And how come all the guys we know secretly or not so secretly lust after them? And how positively infuriating to hear a group of L'École girls talking about you at a party- in Franglish, so that you can hardly understand a word they're saying. They eat only hot chocolate and pommes frites, they chain smoke, and you never see them jogging or playing field hockey in Central Park. Yet none of them are fat or zit-ridden. It's as though their mères and grandmères introduced them to Lancôme and Chanel when they were only babes, and the alpha hydroxyl acids or whatever permeated their systems, leaving them with perfect skin, perfect bodies, and feet that are most comfortable in three-inch heels. Their school even allows heels- unlike all other girls' schools on the Upper East Side- which basically proves my point. When it comes to educating girls, the French seem to follow a completely different curriculum. Not that we're jealous or anything.

OTHER SIGHTINGS

B's mom at the Italian Consulate waving her checkbook around- What exactly is she up to now? K and I getting matching bikini waxes at Maria Bonita, a tiny NoLita salon, conveniently located near Sigerson Morrison, which happened to be having a sale. C (who dropped off the radar for a while there after getting rejected at every college he applied to) taking his white monkey to be er...fixed... at a discreet Chelsea
clinic. It seems the monkey has inherited its owner's penchant for flirtation and has been throwing itself at every dog, cat, and ferret in the neighborhood.

Your e-mail:

Q: Dear GG,

I know it was you who made the film everyone's so excited about at Cannes
. What are you waiting for? Get you ass over here and collect your reward!

- mogl

A: Dear mogl,

You might think the lady doth protest too much, but I'm saying this for the last time: I have no f-ing clue what you're talking about! Enjoy Cannes
.

-GG

Q: Dear GG,

What are you supposed to do the rest of the year now that we know where we're going to college?

-bord

A: Dear bord,

Please- isn't this what we've all been waiting for? Time to shop, drink, eat, and be merry? Time to be all we can be? If you don't have your own pool and can't get into the SoHo House rooftop pool, make it your mission to befriend someone with pool access and spend the rest of the day rotating Eres bikinis!

-GG

Q: Dear GG,

If you really really like a girl but she keeps ignoring you, what should you do?

-2bummed

A: Dear 2bummed,

First change your screen name to something more upbeat and attractive like “superhot”. Second, make sure your deodorant works and that your outfit isn't completely hopeless. Then ask her to hang out, preferably where there are other people she knows and feels comfortable with, so she can gave fun even if she decides you're a self-effacing loser and she's not interested. Good luck!

-GG

It's Monday, the start of the school week- I know: Yawn. Realistically, though after a weekend like this, how boring can things be? Like wolves in sheep's clothing, we all look so innocent in our school uniforms, but this weekend won't go without repercussions.

I'll be the first to report when the shit hits!

You know you love me,

Gossip Girl

“I heard that freshman slut had, like, group sex with every member of the band- even the new lead singer, who's like, her brother,” Kati Farkas whispered to her best friend and Constance Billard School Senior Spa Weekend co-planner, Isabel Coates. Kati reparted her long, strawberry blond hair with a pink tortoiseshell comb, smoothing it down with her hands. “Did you see those pictures of her in the Post online? She didn't even bother to get dressed before she left the hotel!”

The two girls were peering out the third-floor windows of the Constance
Billard
School
library, pretending to memorize their lines for the girls-in-bikinis-and-mud-masks skit they were supposed to put on in their senior lounge tomorrow to promote Senior Spa Weekend. Not that it needed promoting. Everyone would take home gift bags full of fabulous new Origins products, and their skin would absolutely glow until graduation. It was going to be the coolest Senior Cut Day ever.

Isabel grabbed the comb out of Kati's hands and combed her sleek dark hair back into a ponytail. “I heard Nate and his friends almost died in a shipwreck, but Blair was too busy hooking up with Serena again to even notice. Can you imagine finding out your girlfriend was cheating on you with, like, another girl?”

Kati made aface and shuddered in agreement. “Gross.”

Isabel pressed her pug nose up against the window. “Look!”

Blair and Serena were walking hastily down Ninety-third Street
, their arms linked, grinning slyly like they'd just shared the most entertaining secret. Instead of the usual socially acceptable mid-thigh length, Blair's uniform hung all the way down to her knees. It was totally obvious she'd borrowed the uniform from Serena.

Nudge, nudge.

Just as the girls were turning into the great blue doors of the Constance
Billard
School
, a yellow taxi pulled up, and Jenny Humphrey stepped out, munching on a breadstick. She'd managed to change out of her Plaza Hotel bathrobe and into a pink t-shirt and her blue-and-white-seersucker Constance Billard spring uniform. She was also wearing a pair of rather fetching hot pink Jimmy Choo platform sandals that were totally out of uniform, and an enormous pair of pink tortoiseshell Jackie O. sunglasses.

Uh-oh, don't look now, but someone thinks she's hot stuff.

“Where did she get those shoes?” Kati breathed in disbelief. “The waiting list is like a mile long.”

“They're probably fakes; you just can't tell from here,” Isabel replied.

Neither girl wanted to admit what they were really thinking- that Damian or Lloyd from the Raves had probably given Jenny the shoes and the glasses- because to be jealous of a freshman was so completely uncool.

Serena, Blair and Jenny had only just stepped inside the doors when they were accosted by Mrs. M, Constance Billard's formidable headmistress.

“Girls, Mrs. M commanded. ”I'd like to talk to all three of you in my office, please. Your parents are on their way."

Huh? All three girls wondered in unison.

This should be fun.

Mrs. M's face was doughy and soft, and her hair was dyed Raggedy Ann auburn and permed into little ringlets, giving her a sweet, grandmotherly appearance. But appearances lie: she was anything but sweet. In fact, she was a big, mean old dyke who purportedly kept a tractor-driving girlfriend in her house upstate and had a tattoo on her thigh that said, “Ride me, Vonda.”

“Sit down, girls,” she ordered, arranging her wide navy blue Talbots pantsuit- clad ass on the period chair behind her giant mahogany desk. Mrs. M's office was decorated entirely in red, white, and blue and the Constance girls weren't quite sure what she actually thought she was the president or if she was extremely patriotic.

In a daze of obedience, Serena, Blair and Jenny planted themselves on the stiff blue loveseat opposite of Mrs. M's desk. The loveseat was a little crowded with all three of them on it, but the nearness was comforting.

“Two of you are meant to be graduating next month, after which you are no longer my responsibility,” Mrs. M began. “One of you, however, has only just begun her high school career, and you've already headed in a very bad direction, no thanks to the two of you seniors.” She propped a pair of half-glasses on her nose and sorted through a bunch of files on her desk. “All three of you are in very precarious position.”

Blair opened her mouth to speak, but then closed it again when her mother appeared in the doorway of Mrs. M's office, dressed in tennis white and carrying a fussing and whimpering Yale in a Burberry baby sling. The sling hadn't been adjusted properly and it banged against her hip like a cumbersome tote bag.

“I'm trying this new thing called 'attachment parenting',” Eleanor explained breathlessly. “It's supposed to make your child bond with you and increase their confidence.” She giggles and hitched the sling up on her shoulder awkwardly. “I think you're supposed to walk around like this all day long, but who has the time? I've got the tennis at the Y, lunch at Daniel and a facial at Arden
, and Cyrus and I are going out to Bridgehampton later this week. Half and hour on Mondays and Wednesdays is all the bonding time I have!”

Still, she gets points for trying.

“Oh, and Blair, dear, there's a Dior sample sale I thought you might be interested in going to. It's at noon. You could meet me there.”

Mrs. M raised an un-plucked brown eyebrow. Shopping during school hours- heaven forbid! Although if it had been a Talbots sample sale, even she might have been tempted.

“Mrs. Rose.” Mrs. M pointed efficiently to the wing backed chair next to the loveseat upon which the girls were perched. “I realize you're busy, but I wanted to express my concern about the fact that your daughter is apparently living in a hotel. With her acceptance at Yale
University
hanging in the balance, I hardly think it's appropriate for a young woman to be living in such...” She paused searching for the appropriate words. “An undisciplined environment.”

Eleanor beamed cluelessly back at the headmistress. She had noticed that Blair had gone away for the weekend, but she wasn't exactly sure where, and she hadn't really notice that Blair hadn't come home last night, because she and Cyrus had gone to a cocktail party to celebrate the opening of one of his new buildings and hadn't come home until nearly two themselves. She sat down in an armchair to the left of Mrs. M's desk and crossed her legs, tucking Yale up under her arm like the latest Hermès Birkin bag. Yale whined in protest, but Eleanor kept on smiling, as if she wasn't sure what else to do.

Blair squirmed uncomfortably in her place on the loveseat. With a mother like that, couldn't Mrs. M understand why she had to live in a hotel?

“Blair stayed at my house last night,” Serena fibbed. For someone who looked like Upper East Side Barbie, Serena was extremely good at thinking on her feet, or her Manolos, or whatever shoe-of-the-moment she happened to be wearing. “Look, she even borrowed one of my uniforms.”

“Then why have I been fielding calls all morning from parents and prospective parents worried about their daughters sleeping in hotel rooms with drunken rock stars?” Mrs. M demanded. “I even had a publishing house call to inform me that next year Constance Billard will have the honor of being listed as one of the best five schools to send your daughter to if you want her to be a celebrity or just date one.”

“Cool,” jenny blurted out, and then immediately wished she hadn't.

Mrs. M shot her a don't-even-start-you-little-chickenshit glare. The headmistress seemed to be at loss for giving Eleanor advice on how to raise her daughter, which most have been frequent problem, considering the fact that most of the parents of Constance Billard did not raise their daughters themselves. They had help,a nd lots of it.

“I'm sure if the girls were together they couldn't have done much harm,” Eleanor commented with more savvy than Blair had thought she was capable of.

“We didn't even leave the room,” Blair added, and then clamped her mouth shut again. What was her problem anyway? Serena had just said they'd stayed at her house last night.

Then Serena's mother, Lillian van der Woodsen and Jenny's father, Rufus Humphrey, suddenly appeared in the doorway of Mrs. M's office. Rufus was unaccustomed to leaving the house or even waking up before eleven o'clock and looked even more disheveled and outrageous than usual. His long, wiry salt-and pepper hair was pulled into a bun updo and fastened with the huge glittery purple plastic hairclip Jenny had bought in fourth grade, and he was wearing grey sweatpants that had been cut off to a sort of midcalf calm-digger length and a red flannel shirt withone sleeve rolled up and a pack of unfiltered Camels sticking out of the breast pocket. His shoes were okay- vintage brown penny loafers- only not so good with the sweatpants and seriously awful without socks.

Mrs. van der Woodsen was her usual immaculately dressed and poised self, seeming to emanate an odor of fresh-cut lilies and French-milled soap. She hugged her long, tanned arms against her chest, risking wrinkling her mint green linen Chanel dress so that none of her body parts would get too close to Rufus.

“Sorry we're late for the inquisition,” Rufus growled. He shot Jenny a threatening look. “I wouldn't have missed it for the world.”

Mrs. van der Woodsen went over and graciously kissed Mrs. M on the cheek. It was the sort of kiss benefactors are used to bestowing on the directors of the organizations they so generously give millions of dollars to. “It's my fault the girls were late for school,” she admitted. “My driver had to rush off to pick up my dry cleaning, so they were forced to walk.”

Serena shot her mother a grateful glance and her mother blinked with silent understanding.

Now we all know where Serena got her grace under pressure.

Baby Yale suddenly made the type of gastrointestinal noise that only babies are allowed to make in public. Eleanor wiped out her cell phone and dialed the nanny. She'd had quite enough bonding, thank you very much. She wasn't about to risk having to change a diaper. “Stay in the car, I'll be right out,” she directed frantically.

Mrs. M looked like she suddenly realized there were way too many people in the room and that if she didn't do something about it, things were going to get extremely weird.

As if they weren't weird enough already.

The headmistress sighed heavily, as though her weekend up in Woodstock
baling hay with Vonda had come and gone way too quickly, and maybe she'd better start thinking about early retirement. “Serena and Blair. You're seniors, your parents are busy people. Let's just leave it at this: You may be nearing adulthood, but I'd prefer it of you slept in your own beds, particularly on school nights.”

Eleanor nodded and hastily gathered the howling Yale up in her sling as best she could, clearly eager to get the child safely into her nanny's capable hands. Mrs. van der Woodsen smiled ruefully, as if she were confident that nay trouble Serena caused could be easily ironed out with a democratic kiss on the cheek and the promise of a large donation to Constance Billard's development fund. And Rufus grunted, like he couldn't wait to be alone with Jenny and Mrs. M so he could give them both a piece of his mind.

The bell rang, signaling the end of first period.

“May we go to class now?” Blair asked sweetly, as if missing gym was really going to mess up her day.

“You may,” Mrs. M relented. Serena and Blair stood up, leaving Jenny alone on the loveseat. “Just remember, girls,” the headmistress added, “your acceptance at college can be revoked if you do not maintain the standards promised on your record.”

“Thank you for the warning,” Serena replied, bobbing her head in sort of obedient half-curtsy before grabbing Blair's elbow and booking out of the room. They kissed their mothers good-bye and then took the stairs up to the senior lounge three at a time, breathlessly repeating over and over, “What the hell was that?!”

“Jennifer,” Mrs. M and Rufus said, pratically in unison.

Jenny crossed her ankles and sat on her hands, feeling very small and unprotected now that the two older girls had gone. Her father sat down beside her on the loveseat and put his arm around her shoulders. He smelled like stale onion bagels and bad coffee. There were little cigarette burns all over his sweatpants.

“You've always been a good kid.” He gave Jenny's shoulders a squeeze. “Good grades. Great Artist. Reads a lot. Nice to her daddy- most of the time.” He shot Mrs. M an amused look. “Are you going to tell me I've been deluded all these years?”

Mrs. M smiled her first genuine smile in weeks. She liked Rufus Humphrey. Sure, he was scruffy and inappropriate, but he was as ingle dad who'd raised two kids himself and done a decent job of it. His only trouble was that he lived on the other side of the park and didn't play by the same rules that the rest of Upper East Side had played by since they started nursery school at Brick
Church on Park Avenue. He'd never been given a cent to the school's endowment or attended a fundraiser. He'd never offered to build the school a new library or gym or swimming pool if it could guarantee Jenny a place at Harvard after graduation. He was also more protective of his daughter than most of the parents she was used to, mainly because he'd changed her diapers himself, and stayed up with her when she couldn't sleep, and punished her when she'd done wrong, and therefore felt a certain personal responsibility for how she behaved.

Whoa, what a concept.

Jenny seriously hoped that this was one of the weird dreams she often had when she ate too many Entenmann's chocolate donuts. Not that she'd eaten any donuts recently. As far as she could remember, all she'd eaten for dinner last night were six fine breadsticks imported from Italy
via Federal Express to a particular suite at the Plaza Hotel.

Not to mention the seventh, which she'd wrapped in gold-embroidered Plaza Hotel hand towel as a memento.

“Thank you for coming at such short notice, Mr. Humphrey” Mrs. M began. “And I have to admit I agree. Jennifer is an intelligent, creative and mostly well-behaved girl. However, she is building a reputation, for being... a little wild, and the parents of her peers are beginning to ask questions.”