Nobody Does It Better (4 page)

The roof terrace atop Nate's four-storey town house wasn't high enough for a real view, but it was still nice to sit up there and suck hits out of Jeremy's giant green glass bong and reminisce about all the wild shit they'd gotten up to when they were young and carefree- before they had stuff to worry about like college and future.

As if they were worried.

“Dude. Remember that time in Latin when you were so baked you thought you were in French?” Charlie Dern drawled, blowing smoke out of a tiny gap in the side of his wide, clownish mouth. “You were just babbling in French like a fucking lunatic and Mr. Herman the she-man was like, ”I beg your pardon, Mr. Archibald. Although all romance languages find their roots in Latin, I never did master French."

Anthony Avuldsen and Jeremy Scott Tompkinson began to crackle as they remembered that legendary day.

“I was speaking fucking perfect French, too,” Nate observed. “I think maybe for a moment there I thought I was French. Like a native speaker.”

“Right,” Charlie agreed sarcastically. “Man, you know you could barely even talk.”

Lexie floated by in her tie-dyed dress, barefoot and waving her hands in front of her face. "She'd drawn flowers on her fingers and toes with a glow-in -the-dark pen she'd found on Nate's desk, and they glowed neon green in the deepening twilight. A ponytailed boy named Malcolm was playing the guitar and singing an ancient James Taylor song.

'You just call out my naaaame

And you know where ever I aaam

I'll come runnin' to see you again.'

“I wish we were all at the beach.” Jeremy sighed and traced his index finger along the rim of the bong. “Everything would be perfect if we were at the beach.”

Nate nodded his golden brown head in agreement. “We will be soon. My parents' Hamptons
booze cruise is in a couple weeks. Boat's already docked down in Battery Park. You're coming right?”

The junior boys on the roof terrace looked up, wondering hopefully if Nate was addressing them.

Fat chance.

“Everyone's coming,” Anthony Avuldsen responded, making the juniors feel like even worse dweebs. “It's like the kick-off to the whole freaking summer.”

“Blair's class is doing their senior cut day the next day,” Nate mused. He realized vaguely that Blair had never made an appearance on the roof terrace. Maybe, she was still in the shower, or maybe she'd kissed him good-bye and gone home? He honestly couldn't remember. If she was still in the shower, he might steal downstairs and surprise her. The thought of her wet and naked made him smile deliciously.

Charlie pulled a marijuana-stuffed Ziploc from out of his khaki pants pocket and began loading it up on the bong. “You said the boat's in the harbor?”

Before Nate had a chance to respond, his cell phone rang. BLAIR flashed up on the phone's little screen

Speak of the she-devil.

Nate pressed answer and put the phone on to his ear without actually saying anything.

“Guess where I am?” Blair gushed happily. “The Plaza. So get your ass over here right now. I have a suite.”

The Plaza was only about twenty blocks away. Nate gazed in the general direction of downtown. It seemed very far away, but it would be nice to lie on a big white hotel bed and watch lots of movies and order room service. He was pretty hungry.

Not exactly what Blair had in mind.

“Just bring your toothbrush. I've got everything else covered,” she added coyly.

Meaning the three Cs: Champagne
, caviar and condoms.

“Sounds good,” Nate responded gamely. “See you in a minute.” He clicked off and Jeremy shoved the bong at him.

“So what I'm thinking is,” he told Nate with the intense face of a seriously stoned person. He'd pick the green alligator away from his Lacoste shirt, and it dangled from his chest like a partially removed scab. “We all head down to your parents' boat. It's stocked with booze, and the crew's probably doing the tourist thing in town and won't even notice if we take it out for a spin, right? You sail like a master. Why not go on a little pre-Hamptons excursion to, say-”

“Bermuda!” Charlie piped up.

“Fuck, yeah,” Anthony agreed.

The three boys looked at Nate. They knew they were asking to do something completely outrageous, but they could tell by the interested glimmer in Nate's eye that he was sort of into it.

Nate's mind was racing in a blurry, zig-zaggedy, stoned way. Sail the boat to Bermuda? Sure, why not? They were seniors they could do whatever they wanted. Blair could come too, and they could drink mimosas and make love on the beach under the warm sun. She was always talking about going away together.

Lexie came over and sat down in Nate's lap. She smelled like amber incense and goose-liver paté. The tip of her jet-black ponytail just grazed the sun, moon and the stars tattoo on her shoulder blade. “Alors, what's next?” she yawned, taking the bong from Nate.

Nate waited until she was done with the bong to pushing her out of his lap and hoisting himself to his feet. He clapped his hands together like a stoned camp counselor. “Come on, everybody, we're going on an adventure.”

The junior boys began to murmur excitedly. Not only had they gotten to party at Nate Archibalds' town house, he was taking them somewhere- probably somewhere cooler than they had ever been before.

“Anyone who pukes on boats should probably stay behind!” Jeremy warned.

“No fucking way,” whispered a St. Jude's junior whose name happened to be Nte lyons, and who mimicked his namesake down on the color of his navy blue Brooks Brothers socks. There was a mass rush to the exit. Nate Archibald, the coolest senior boy on the Upper East Side, was taking them out on his boat. It was their big fucking day!

Nate followed the rest of the boys downstairs with good-natured amusement, completely forgetting what he's been about to do before the topic of a sail to Bermuda even came up. behind him, his cell phone lay forgotten on the roof terrace, its little screen flashing the name BLAIR as it rang every two minutes for the next half hour.

'Winter, sprinf, summer, or fa-waall

All you have to do is ca-waall

And I'll be there!'

Yeah. Right.

“Nate's on his way over,” Blair announced to Serena smugly over the phone. She'd called Serena just to brag about being at the Plaza, feeling guilty as she dialed but getting over the guilt by the time the phone began to ring. She leaned toward the massive gilt-framed bathroom mirror and applied another coat of Chanel Vamp lipstick. It was dark red and she usually only wore it in winter, but when you were locked in a sumptuous hotel suite with your boyfriend having constant sex, who cared what season it was?

“Don't be mad,” Blair pleaded with her best friend. “We can hang out in my suit tomorrow afternoon or something, okay?” she flashed her reflection a sexy, knowing grin. “After Nate and I wake up.”

“you two are ridiculous,” Serena scoffed without the slightest note of jealously. Blair had confessed to finally loosing her virginity to Nate the morning after it happened, but she'd resisted too much detail and Serena resisted asking too many questions. After all, Serena and Nate had lost their virginities together, so sex withy Nate was kind of an awkward subject.

“I have to go to this new Yale student' party,” Serena responded. “Not that I'm going to Yale,” she hurriedly corrected herself. Her acceptance to Yale was an even worse subject. “My parents signed us up though, so I have to go.”

“Oh.” Blair pouted her lips and turned around to examine her butt in her new black silk La Perla underwear set. Of course she wasn't exactly into Yale yet, but she was on the fucking waiting list- they still could have invited her.

“I was hoping you'd come with me,” Serena added. “Since you're more likely to go to Yale than I am.”

Blair readjusted her bra straps. Nate was into Yale too, but he hadn't mentioned any Yale party. And if he wasn't going, she certainly couldn't go. They might be... other-wise engaged.

Uh-huh.

“It's not until seven,” Serena prompted. “You guys should be ready to venture outside by then.”

“Can I call you about it tomorrow?” Blair asked dubiously.

“Whatever.” Serena didn't mind going to parties by herself, since she was never by herself for very long. Boys buzzed and hovered around her like flies at a picnic. “Have fun tonight. 'Bye, sweetie.”

Blair hung up just as the bellboy arrived with the bottle of Dom Pérignon and the plate of caviar and toast points she'd ordered from room service. She slipped into one of the Plaza's thick white terrycloth robes and answered the door.

“Over by the bed,” she commanded, loving how Joan Crawfordishly jaded she sounded. She tipped the guy and waited until he closed the door. Then she slipped out of her robe, flopped down on her side on the massive California
king bed, and reached for the remote. Within seconds she'd found AMC - American Movie Classics, the channel that regularly played all her favorites like 'Breakfast at Tiffany's', staring Audrey Hepburn, and "My Fair Lady' also staring Audrey Hepburn.

To her disappointment, 'Dirt Dancing' was playing. Since when was anything made after 1980 a true classic? Blair wondered. All of a sudden she felt odd. But then, that seemed sort of appropriate, considering she was about to have a hot-and-heavy liaison with her lover in a sumptuous hotel suite. Where was Nate anyway? A cab away from his house to the Plaza would only take seven minutes. If she were Nate, she'd have made it in five. She dialed his cell without even looking at the buttons on her phone, but there was no answer. Maybe he was showering and putting on his very sexy black Calvin Klein boxers in preparation for their rendezvous, she mused.

Or maybe not.

Blair stood up, removed her robe, and dimmed the lights. Then she spread a little caviar on one of the toast points and stood watching herself in the over-sized gilt-framed dressing mirror as she ate it. On the TV screen behind her, “Baby” was trying to look innocent after spending all night having big sweaty sex with Patrick Swayze, the dance instructor at the summer resort where her family was vacationing. Baby's dad was so seriously pissed off at her; Blair wondered fleetingly how her own dad would feel if he knew she'd moved into a hotel suite just so she could have a little privacy with Nate. Not that her gay, French-chateau-living, pastel-argyle-socks-and-baby-blue-Gucci-sunglasses-wearing dad and Baby's responsible doctor dad in 'Dirty Dancing' had anything in common. She dialed Nate once again and when he didn't answer, she made herself another caviar toast point sandwich and called her dad's number in southern France, where he'[d been living since he and Eleanor split up over his gayness almost two years ago.

"Bear? Is everything okay? Did you hear from those fuck-head at Yale yet? Are you in? Her father demanded as soon as he heard her voice.

Blair could picture him perfectly, naked except for a pair of royal blue silk boxers shorts, his sleeping lover- Francois or Eduard or whatever his name was - snoring softly beside him. Harold Waldorf, Esq. used to be managing partner at a major corporate law firm, married to society hostess Eleanor and living in a penthouse with his two lovely children, Blair and Tyler. Now he bottled his own wine from the vineyards surrounding his chateau, shopped at cute French boutiques that catered exclusively to tanned gay men, and swam laps in his pool while his tanned gay lovers attended him with fresh towels and glasses of cognac.

It was a luxe life, indeed.

“Guess where I Am?” Blair boasted in the same tone she'd used to talk to Serena. In fact, talking to her dad was exactly like talking to one of her girlfriends. He didn't mind that it was almost two in the morning in France
and she had totally woken him up.

“Paris
?” her dad asked hopefully. “I'll send a car for you. You'll be here in an hour.”

“No, Dad,” Blair whined, although she honestly wouldn't have minded being in Paris
- as long as she could bring Nate and her suite at the Plaza with her. “I'm at the Plaza. I'm living here now. In a suite.”

“You go girl!” her dad exclaimed. “I guess the penthouse might be a little crowded with the new baby and all.”

In the background Blair heard the sound of him pouring something into a glass. He was so into his latest batch of white wine, he probably kept a bottle chilling next to the bed exactly for occasions like this.

In 'Dirty Dancing' Land, Baby's bitchy sister was performing in a stupid talent show, wearing a bikini top that was way to small for her. Blair muted the TV, spread another blob of caviar on a toast point, lit a cigarette and sighed dramatically. “It's just that I'm almost graduating and I need space- you know, to do my work and think about next year and...”

All of a sudden she had a very clear image of herself as a sort of reclusive Greta Garbo- like movie star who rarely left her hotel room, communicating with the outside world only through the roles she decided to play. The staff would pick through her trash and steal her clothes, and tourists would stand on Central Park South opposite the hotel, just waiting to catch a glimpse of her. She'd be the talk of the town.

As if she wasn't already.

“Oh, I'll bet your working,” her dad scoffed between sips of whatever it was that he was drinking. “I bet that hunky boyfriend of yours is massaging your feet as we speak.”

If only.

Blair giggled and scarfed down another caviar sandwich between drags on her Merit Ultra Light. “Actually Nate's on his way over,” she admitted. She contemplated the bottle of champagne she'd ordered, still chilling in its silver-plated ice bucket. Nate wouldn't mind if she opened the bottle and had one tiny glass before he arrived, would he?

Or course not.

“I thought as much,” her dad replied knowingly. “But you deserve it sweetie. You deserve to have it all.”

As if she didn't already know that.

Blair grabbed the bottle of champagne and held it between her bare knees, expertly untwisting the wire keeper from around the cork and then inching the cork out of the bottle's neck, slowly...slowly... until...

Pop!

“Oh. My. God. You are totally having a party!” her father exclaimed. “On a school night?” he added, pretending to be horrified, as if he were a strict parent who actually cared about things like that. “Let me talk to that hunky boyfriend of yours right now.”

Blair filled the champagne flute, guzzled the entire contents, and then refilled it. On screen Patrick Swayze was face-to-face with Baby's dad. “Nobody puts baby in a corner,” Blair mouthed the words, even though the TV had been muted. It was the cheesiest movie, but she still fantasized about Nate defending her in such a determined, angry way. Nate was seriously hot when he was angry, which was just about... never.

It's hard to get riled up when your stoned all the time.

“I told you, Dad,” Blair corrected, “Nate's not here yet.” She gritted her teeth and took another gulp of the champagne. Although who knew what was taking him so goddamned long. “Anyway”- she pouted her lips for the mirror or the camera or whatever happened to be spying on her through a telescope from the treetops in Central Park- “if I deserve to have it all, then how come stupid Yale hasn't let me in yet?”

“Oh, Bear,” her dad sighed in his manly-but-motherly voice that made both men and women fall in love with him instantly. “They will, dammit. They will let you in.”

Blair reached for another toast point and discovered she'd eaten them all. Over the phone she heard someone mumble something in sleepy French.

“look, sugar bear, it's late. I have to go.” Her dad spoke over the mumbling. “You're okay though, right? You just enjoy yourself.”

Blair looked askance at the half-empty bottle of champagne and the crumbs of caviar scattered on the white china plate. 'Dirty Dancing' had ended. “Good night, Dad,” she replied, feeling a little sad. She hung up and dialed Nate's cell phone again. No answer. She dialed his house line. No answer, just his admiral dad in the answering machine, reading from the actual instructions the machine came with that no normal person ever used: “You have reached the Archibald residence. Please leave a brief message and we will return your call as soon as possible.”

A streetcar Named Desire, starring Marlon Brando and Vivien Leigh, was about to start. Another old favorite. Blair put the white terrycloth bathrobe back on a fluffed up the pillows on the giant bed. Then she dialed room service again. “A hot fudge sundae, please. And a pack of Merit Ultra Lights.”

She sank back on the pillows and closed her eyes. When she left his house, Nate had been partying with a bunch of stoners, including an annoying French hippie chick named Lexique. That stupid, lazy asshole who so didn't deserve to go to Yale probably hadn't even noticed that Blair had left. Tears seeped out from under her closed lids. Nate hadn't changed. Nothing had changed- except the status of her virginity. She bit her lip and fought back an angry sob. Well, so what? Nate didn't deserve sex. Besides, eating a hot fudge sundae in a Plaza hotel bed while plotting her revenge on her asshole-of-a-loser-soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend was even better than sex.

Way better.