Nobody Does It Better (8 page)

Luckily for Dan, Damian and the other members of the band had enough confidence and humor not to get all uptight about the fact that their new lead singer was puking his guts out a few feet offstage. They'd played right through Dan's little episode, subtly cut the sound to his mike, and then segued into an old Raves song that Dan had never heard before:

'Babycakes, you make my eyes scream

Lick the drips, then toss the come a-waaayee'

No wonder why they were looking for a songwriter.

The crowd went wild, singing the words with more passion than ever. Dan remained offstage with his head between his knees, trying to remember how he'd gotten himself into this situation in the first place. How on earth had he gone from reclusive high-school poet to the baggy-pants-wearing front man of a famous band when he so obviously lacked the mettle for it?

Before the gig started, he'd done what Damian had suggested and drank some vodka. Okay- he'd drunk close to half the bottle, but instead of relaxing him or giving him the courage to perform, it had made him feel totally toxic, especially when combined with an entire pack of cigarettes.

Well, duh!

The light was dim backstage, and the wooden floor was sticky with spilt beer and cigarette ash. Dan gritted his teeth as another wave of nausea gripped him, but he squeezed his eyes shut and fought it off. Suddenly someone tapped him on the shoulder. “Eet's all right, mon cher. 'Ave a seep of tonique et voila- you are better, yeah?”

Dan looked up to find a gorgeous girl in her early twenties standing over him with a little bottle of Schweppes tonic water and a glass of ice in her hands. She poured the tonic over the ice and squatted down beside him.

“Here. No lime, yeah?”

Dan didn't know what to say. He'd never drunk tonic without vodka, but at this point he'd try anything. The girl had long honey-colored hair and was deeply tanned. She was wearing a tight white tank top and a swishy green skirt that barely covered the tops of her long, tan thighs. Her eyes were olive green and she kind of smelled like pine nuts. He took the glass and put it to his lips, taking a tiny tentative sip. It would be just his luck for the sip to backfire on him, spewing all over the girl's beautiful hair. Miraculously, though, it didn't. He took another sip, and then another, and with each sip, his head cleared ever so slightly.

“Zat's enough,” the girl told him firmly and took the glass away. She put it and the empty bottle on top of an unused amp and turned back to Dan. “When zee boyz are fineeshed, they vill make a party,” she continued, her olive green eyes sleepy and confident. “And zen we vill talk.”

Dan nodded obediently, as if she was making complete sense, he was pretty sure the girl was French, and when she said “And zen we vill talk,” it almost sounded like she had more than a little polite chit-chat in mind. But how could she possibly find him attractive in his current state? Maybe his performance translated better in another language.

The girl stood in the wings, watching the ban finish up their song. “Zey will play two more songs et puis finis, yeah?” she declared.

Dan nodded again. That sounded about right. A tattoo encircled the girl's tanned ankle. At first glance Dan thought the tattoo was of a snake; then he realized it was a fox curled around her leg asleep.

Oh, the poems he could write about that fox if only he had a pen, a notebook, and a large container of extra-strength Advil!

He cleared his cigarette-abused throat. “I'm Dan,” he croaked, extending his hand but not daring to stand up.

The girl smiled, a sexy little gap appearing between her front teeth. Then she walked over, grasped his clammy hand and bent down to kiss his clammy cheek. “I know who you are,” she murmured breathily into his ear. “Et je m'appelle Monique.”

Hmmm, Dan mused drunkenly. Was there even a word for foxy in French?

Stanford Paris III lived in the penthouse at 1000 Park Avenue
in Carnegie Hill, one of the oldest and most elegant doorman buildings on the Upper East Side. But Mr. Parris's Chippendale furniture, medieval tapestries, and eighteenth century British sculpture collection went unnoticed by most of the guests, including the van der Woodsens. They were used to such elegance, and it only made them feel more at home.

“My grandson wanted me to have the party at the hotel,” Stanford Paris II confided to Mr. van der Woodsen as he shook his hand. “Or at the Yacht Club.” He winked at Serena's mother. “But I wasn't about to pass up an opportunity to host so many beautiful women in my own home!”

Serena's mother smiled her gracious you-can-say-anything-to-me-you-old-lech-and-I'll-never-lose-my-poise smile, and Serena giggles. Maybe old Stan Parris wasn't so bad after all. She shook the ancient New England aristocrat's hand and then stood on tiptoe and planted a flirtatious kiss on his withered old cheek just to piss her parents off.

“I say,” Mr. Paris exclaimed. “Yale certainly knows what it's doing!”

“Easy, Granddad,” warned a tall blond boy with an adorable dimple in his chin and amazing cheekbones. “Remember you have a bad heart,” the boy scolded his grandfather.

“It's not my heart I'm worried about,” Mr. Parris grumbled. He clasped the boy on the shoulder with a wrinkled hand. “Miss Serena van der Woodsen, this is my grandson Stanford Parris the Fifth.”

Like anyone actually cares how many Stanford Parrises there are?

Serena waited for the boy to blush with embarrassment and mutter about how plain old “Stan” would be just fine, but he didn't. Obviously he thought his title was the best thing ever. What did they call him at school? she wondered. Number five? Stan 5?

“Here's your name tag, dear.” Serena' smother pasted a bumper-sticker-sized white nametag with 'Serena van der Woodsen, Incoming Fall' written on it in blue marker over Serena's breast, like some sort of hideous, adhesive-backed tube top.

Serena pretended not to mind. “Thanks, Mom,” she said, cupping her hands over her hest to smooth out the nametag. Every male in her presence let out a little gasp, all getting excited for Yale's coed dorms next year.

They were early and the party was thin. Boys in Hugo Boss suits and ties and girls in long Tocca skirts and buttoned-up blouse lurked by their parents sides, smiling awkwardly and guzzling champagne. The whole scene made Serena feel like she was at her first day of ballroom dancing back in the fifth grade.

Someone tapped Serena on the shoulder and she turned around. It was Mrs. Archibald, Nate's dramatic, French, slightly crazy mother. Her dyed amber hair had been blown out into mass of cascading curls, and her thin lips were painted a fierce fire-engine red. Around her neck were six strands of rose-colored pearls, and matching rose-colored pearls punctuated each ear. Despite her three-inch Christian Louboutin heels, she was surprisingly tiny, dressed in a sleek, pewter-colored strapless Oscar de la Renta silk evening gown and carrying a little gold satchel and gold opera glasses- Obviously just stopping by at the party on her way to the theater. She kissed Serena quickly on both cheeks. “Have you seen my son?” she whispered in Serena's ear, her green eyes flashing.

Serena shook her head. “No. But Blair's--” she stopped short, wondering if Mrs. Archibald really wanted to know that Blair and Nate were holed up in a Plaza Hotel suite, having lots of sex. “Have you tried his cell?” she asked instead.

Mrs. Archibald batted her eyelashes and waved her opera glasses in the air. “Never mind, darling,” she sighed, before rustling off to find her husband, the admiral.

Stan 5 was still standing by as if it were only right that the handsomest blond guy and the most beautiful blond girl in the room should be talking to each other. A woman in a black caterer's uniform handed Serena a flute of champagne. “Where's your nametag?” Serena asked Stan 5, scanning his black oxford-cloth shirt that had been unbuttoned and tieless.

What a rebel.

He grinned and cleared his throat. “I didn't think I needed one.”

Oh, so like everyone is just supposed to know who you are?

Serena was ready to ditch the party already- she'd shown up and stayed ten minutes, what more did her parents want? But then old Mr. Parris shuffled over to talk to her again, and she didn't want to be rude.

“Your mother was just telling me what a wonderful actress you are,” he boomed in his New England accent. He adjusted his burgundy-and-navy-blue-striped bow tie. “You know, I played the lead in nineteen productions back when I was a Yalie. The school was men only in those days. I've got some old pictures if you would like to take a look.”

“Honestly, Granddad,” Stan 5 huffed in an effort to shut his grandfather up.

“Actually, I'd love to,” Serena replied with genuine interest. There was nothing she liked better than to look at old pictures. She loved the elaborate clothes, the dramatic bouffant hairstyles, and the way everyone wore hats and gloves and handbags that matched their shoe.

Stan 5 frowned in confusion, as if he couldn't believe Serena was about to ditch him for his wrinkly old grandfather. She flashed him a gracious smile her mom had flashed his grandfather, and then followed the elder Mr. Parris through the apartment and down a narrow corridor to his library. His right leg seemed to be giving him trouble, causing him to list to the left, and she gripped the elbow of his dapper gray pinstriped blazer for fear he would fall.

The Parris library was decorated in chocolate brown with hints of navy blue and gold fleur-de-lys. Three crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and four chocolate brown leather club chairs stood around an ornately painted antique card table.

“There I am in Hamlet.” Mr. Parris pointed to a large black-and-white photograph hanging over the mantel. Serena expected to see a young Mr. Parris in a full suit of armor, looking fierce and haughty. Instead a beautiful young girl with a long thin face and a distinctive clef in her chin lay with her long-lashed eyes closed and her hands folded across her chest, a chain of daisies entwined in her loose hair.

“That's you?” Serena asked in amazement.

The old man chuckled. “I was a pretty boy back then. They made me play Ophelia.”

Serena starred at the photograph. “You were kind of hot.”

Mr. Parris patted her hand. “I like to think so. And I was so much better at dying than the other fellows.” He went over to the wet bar in the corner, filled two crystal tumblers full of scotch, and set them on the card table. Then he pulled a worn green leather-bound album off the bookshelf. He flipped through the pages of the album and pointed to one of the leather club chairs. “I've got hundreds of photographs,” he warned Serena.

Serena sat down and took a sip of scotch. Then she scooted back in her chair, tucked her feet up underneath her, and reached for the album. She felt cozy and comfortable and genuinely interested in looking at Stanford Parris III's old Yale pictures. And as she slowly turned the pages, examining the wonderful black-and-white images of young Mr. Parris and his handsome Yale acting buddies rehearsing onstage, she realized she hadn't thought about acting at college. She could even imagine playing Ophelia just like Mr. Parris had, fluttering her eyes and folding up like a flower when it was time to die.

“Here I am in 'Kiss Me Kate'.” Mr. Parris pointed to a photograph of the same long-faced beauty glaring at the camera, her dark eyes flashing, her cleft chin raised disdainfully.

“What a witch, that Kate.”

Serena studied the photograph. Mr. Parris as Kate reminded her of someone she knew, but just couldn't place her.

Let's give her a hint. Her first name starts with B.

She continued to flip through the photographs, her mind racing. Yale was the only school that hadn't stalked her with perky e-mails and overzealous fan mail. Even the Whiffenpoofs - Yale's all-male capella singing troupe, whom she'd met last mouth, had the decency not to e-mail her everyday asking her when she was planning to arrive on campus so they could help her with her bags or take her out for coffee or whatever. And the y certainly hadn't asked about Damian from the Raves, whom she'd never even met.

Mr. Parris tapped Serena on the knee. “You have the face of a leading lady,” he added. “Yale knows what they're doing.”

“You think so?” Serena replied enthusiastically. Suddenly, ditching the Yale party to check out the Raves concert seemed totally unnecessary. And out of respect for old Mr. Parris, she almost wished she'd worn the entire gray-and-blue outfit her mom had laid out on her bed. She was going to be Yale
University
's greatest leading lady since Stanford Parris III. New Haven was so close to New York
, she could still model, and with a bit more acting experience under her belt, she might even get a film deal! Blair would be totally thrilled if they went to school together- not that she was going to say anything until Blair found out she was off Yale's wait list. Blair could be kind of unreasonable when Serena had something she wanted for herself.

Kind of?!

“Brave soul.” A tall blond boy wearing an open-collared black oxford-cloth shirt greeted Blair as she stepped off the elevator alone and into Stanford Parris III's country club of an apartment. “Everyone else was dragged here by their parents. One guy even bagged, so his parents had to come alone.”

Wonder who that was?

“I'm Stanford Paris the Fifth, by the way.” The boy extended his hands and flashed her a proud smile that seemed to say, “As if you didn't know that.”

Blair grinned back. She loved boys with titles, especially tall blond ones with cute dimples in their chins, and especially ones who where going to Yale next year. “Blair Waldorf,” she said shaking his hand. She fingered the custom-engraved Cartier pendant at her throat- the very same one she'd stolen from her baby sister. It was a simple nameplate, just the word Yale in gold cursive, tied with a light blue satin ribbon around her neck. “So where are your parents?” she demanded.

“In Scotland
. We have a castle there,” Stan 5 boasted casually.

Blair giggles. “So do we! My aunt lives there.”

Aw, isn't that cute? If they got married and honeymooned in Scotland
, they could go castle-hoping!

“Anyway, this is Granddad's party. I'm just here to...” Stan 5 paused and cleared his throat, as if he'd momentarily forgotten why he was there. Or maybe he'd just drunk too much scotch. “To get out class excited for next,” he explained finally.

Blair rubbed her well-glossed lips together. Stanford Parris's grandson. She'd stumbled upon the youngest member of one of Yale's mosty influential alumnae families without even trying! If anyone could get her off the wait list and into Yale, he could.

Stan 5 pointed to the Yale pendant at her throat. “That's unusual,” he observed. “Guess you're really excited about next year, huh?”

That's one way of putting it.

Blair blushed fiercely. She had prepared herself for this sort of question. “My parents had it made for me when I found out I was in,” was what she'd planned on saying. But she opted for the truth. She stood on tiptoe and cupped her hand around Stan 5's aristocratic ear. “I'm not actually in yet,” she whispered. “I got wait-listed.”

“Well, we'll just have to see what we can do about that,” Stan 5 chuckled sympathetically. He snatched two flutes of champagne off a passing tray and handed her one. They clinked glasses and a little thrill ran up Blair's spine. She was about to get lucky, she could just tell.

In more ways than one!

Suddenly there was a rustle of tulle and Nate's mother enveloped her in a Chanel No.5- soaked embrace. “Darling, where is Nate?” Mrs. Archibald demanded in her dramatic, Anglo-French accent.

Blair didn't want to have to explain to Stan 5 who Nate was, and she didn't want Nate's mom to think she couldn't keep her own boyfriend. But she also didn't want her to suspect that she was hiding something. After all, she was dying to find out where Nate was too- so she could kick the shit out of him.

“I've been staying at the Plaza, so I haven't had the chance to check my messages at home,” she responded vaguely. “I think maybe his cell phone broke or something because he never answers.”

“I know.” Mrs. Archibald pursed her fiery red lipsticked lips. “The gardener found his cell phone on the roof.” She raised her eyebrows suspiciously. “You sure he's not staying at the Plaza with you?”

Blair glanced self-consciously at Stan 5 and then shook her head, refusing to have to admit to your boyfriend's mom that actually no, you hadn't managed to lock him up in a hotel for days of wild, passionate sex. In fact, that plan had totally backfired.

“Well then.” Mrs. Archibald kissed her on both cheeks and smiled tightly as if to say, “I don't believe a word you're saying, but I'm late for the opera, so c'est la vie.”

“If you do see him, darling, tell him his mother and father are quite cross with him, and have gone to La Bohème.”

Blair clasped her hands behind her back and nodded dutifully. Where the fuck was Nate anyway? She watched Nate's father help Mrs. Archibald on with her beaded silk Oscar de la Renta capelet and then escort her to the elevator. She thought of going over to say hello, but Admiral Archibald was famous for his bad temper, and if he was angry with Nate, it was probably best to stay out of his way.

Besides, she had more important things to do. Like flirt with Mr. I-Can-Get-You-Into-Yale the Fifth.

Blair noticed that he was wearing what looked like an antique Yale insignia ring. “It's my Granddads,' Stan 5 explained. ”He gave it to me when I got in. Yale is like Granddad's whole life. I'd introduce you but he disappeared into his study with this beautiful blond girl, and who knows when they'll come out. Not that he's a pervert or anything. He's probably just boring her to death with his Yale stories."

Blair's eyes swept the room. The “beautiful blond girl” sounded suspiciously like Serena. Old Mr. Parris was an actual trustee of Yale, and far more influential than his grandson. How typical of Serena to monopolize the one person in the room who could probably get her into Yale once and for all.

A man in a catering uniform took their empty champagne glasses and handed them each a fresh one.

“To Yale,” Stan 5 said, before clinking his glass against hers.

Blair fingered the pendant around her neck and downed her drink, wondering if she should demand an introduction to his grandfather. Stan 5 took a step toward her and lowered his aristocratic chin. “Don't worry,” he murmured reassuringly, as if reading her mind. “Granddad and I are very close.”

Blair clutched the stem of her champagne flute and batted her eyelashes, willing her face not to flush too retardedly red. How lucky she was to have nabbed the younger, hotter Stanford Parris while Serena was stuck with the old moldy one!

“I kissed my Yale interviewer,” she confided before she could stop herself. It wasn't exactly something she was proud of. But she wanted Stan 5 to know what he was up against.

Stan 5 smiled delightedly. “Granddad keeps a room for me down the hall. I've got this whole collection of vintage Yale catalogs in there. Want to take a look?”

Blair giggles giddily. How wonderful to meet a boy who was as crazily enthusiastic about Yale as she was. Eagerly, she followed Stan 5 into his room. She couldn't wait to kiss his catalogs.

Kiss?

Why not, when she had more in common with Stanford Parris V than she did with any other boy she'd ever met, including her lame-ass, no-show boyfriend, who was already into Yale anyway and was totally unsympathetic and useless?

Well, then. Guess she meant kiss after all.