The Carlyles (4 page)

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hey people!

For some of you less-fortunates, tomorrow is D-day, or should I say S-day: back to school. After a summer of partying till 5 a.m. and sleeping till 4 p.m., it’s time to set those alarms and pack those satchels. As you pull on your new TSE cardigans and strap on your oh-so-studious Miu Miu patent leather Mary Janes, remember: it’s not
all
work.

After all, here on the Upper East Side we work hard and play hard. Here’s a
real
to-do list for the first day of school:

1. Book a massage at Cornelia Day Resort on Fifty-third and Fifth—-waking up early to walk to school is hell after a late night dancing at Hiro Ballroom.

2. Get your tutors lined up—the cute premeds from Columbia are in high demand, so don’t procrastinate! There are plenty of terminally unemployed and tragically overeducated losers out there, but don’t you want someone nice to look at?

3. Get ready for your close-up—the candid shots for the yearbook are always taken in the fall, and we’ve all seen what the
E! True Hollywood Story
digs up. And aren’t we all destined to be famous?

Some of you are veterans by now, and have your BTS essentials already in hand. The seniors certainly know the drill. But for you incoming juniors, let me remind you: this is the year people begin to pay attention. It’s when your fake ID doesn’t look quite as fake, when college doesn’t seem that far off, and when a wild Friday is no longer stealing a bottle of your dad’s Bombay Sapphire gin and watching old movies. It’s time to establish your reputation. Just don’t let people know how hard you’re trying.

Sightings

A
walking to Constance Billard in the dark, wearing her uniform, practicing the route. We know you’re excited, but seriously . . .
B
taking inappropriate pictures of herself on the terrace, using her camera phone. Um, it’s not as private as you think up there. . . .
O
shirtless on Fifth. And Madison. And in my dreams . . .
J.P.
with his dad at the site of dad’s new green building in Tribeca. Way to go, Captain Planet! . . .
R
tossing rose petals out his window, onto Eighty-fourth Street . . .
J
packing her
Elements of Calc
textbook into a limited-edition Givenchy satchel that I heard was only available in Europe. Is there anything she
doesn’t
have?

your e-mail

Dear GG,

So, I heard that they’re now, like, doing full body searches at Barneys because the chick who moved into the Waldorfs’ old apartment has some type of major shoplifting scam going on. Apparently, she was, like, totally trying to set
J
up. Do you know what happened?

BARNEYBABE

Dear BB,

Well, we all know girls can get a little sticky-fingered and sneaky at Barneys. But would a newbie really be bold enough to try to steal something
and
get on
J
’s bad side?

—GG

Dear GG,

I was hanging out in Central Park today and I saw this totally hot guy swimming through the duck pond. I want to hook up with him, but do you think there are any weird diseases in the water?

—Germ Phobic

Dear GP,

If you want to hook up with him so badly, imagine how many other people want to hook up with him, too. I would be more worried about competition than about radioactive pond scum.

—GG

Dear GG,

My parents are forcing me to go to a stupid single-sex private school, even though I just came back from a month trekking around Europe, where people are so free and in touch with their sexual sides. I am so freaking depressed and have no idea what to do about it. Seriously, teen alienation has been done to death; I am so not the young druggie girl cliché, and I certainly do not write poetry or create weird films. But what can I do to minimize the pain?

—Disaffected Girl

Dear DG,

Um, you sound like a lot of fun. You’re right, though—teen alienation
has
been done to death. So, you’re young, you’re rich, and hopefully you don’t look like too much of a disaster, although maybe a quick wax session is in order, since I know how the European guys like the natural look. My advice is the same as I’d give to any self-respecting five-year-old on her way to the first day of ultra-exclusive kindergarten: find a friend! And don’t hit the boys on the playground—unless you’re into that sort of thing.

—GG

Time to get some beauty rest—and you should too. Remember, tomorrow is the first day of the rest of your life. Use it wisely.

You know you love me,

gossip girl

All About
A

“Are you sure you’re going to be okay?” Avery asked her seven-minutes-younger sister, Baby, who was clutching her homemade extra-large chai and staring fixedly down at her dirty white Havaiana flip-flops. They turned onto Madison and walked toward the redbrick building on East Ninety-third Street that housed the Constance Billard School for Girls.

“Yeah,” Baby responded, annoyed. Her sister was the one who had been freaking out and had made them leave their apartment at 7 a.m., a full hour before school began. “I don’t think I’m going to stay too long, anyway,” she added mysteriously as she pulled her wavy brown hair into a messy ponytail and knotted it into itself. Baby had the type of hair that looked better the less she brushed it. Or washed it. Which meant she didn’t do much of either. If Avery didn’t ambush her once a week with Bumble and bumble detangling mist and a Mason Pearson boar-bristle brush, she’d have dreadlocks by now.

Paging Doctor Fekkai. If only he made house calls.

“Can you take off that sweatshirt? It stinks.” Avery glared at the red Nantucket High sweatshirt Baby had refused to take off since Tom left. Avery loved romance, but why couldn’t Tom have left something normal, like a Tiffany necklace, for Baby to remember him by? “Please?” Avery asked again, more sweetly this time, seeing that Baby had no intention of taking off the sweatshirt.

Baby crossed her eyes and stuck her tongue out at Avery as she pulled the hoodie off to reveal a tie-dyed Grateful Dead T-shirt, a relic from their mother’s hippie days. Avery sighed in frustration. Was her sister really that determined to make all their couture-wearing classmates hate her? Baby rooted around in her oversize neon green vinyl Brooklyn Industries messenger bag and found her blue Constance blazer.

“I’m only doing this for you.” Baby smiled sunnily at Avery as she pulled the blazer on and stuffed the sweatshirt into her bag.

“There, that’s so much better,” Avery sighed, satisfied. Thankfully, the blazer obscured the dancing bears on Baby’s shirt.

Together, they turned the corner on Ninety-third and approached the three-story redbrick building. “Here we go,” Avery said under her breath as they walked through the massive royal blue double doors of Constance Billard. She looked around nervously at the sea of girls in seersucker skirts with their gleaming, freshly highlighted hair. How could she possibly know which girls to befriend? Her confidence fell for a second, and she almost wished she were back at Nantucket High, where last year she’d been voted best dressed and most likely to succeed in the senior superlatives section of the yearbook—even though she’d only been a sophomore. How could she possibly stand out here?

Where there’s a will, there’s a way.

“Okay, freshwomen! We have a tour in five minutes!” a large woman with a round, flat face like a Raggedy Ann doll boomed as she grasped Avery’s shoulder and shepherded her over to a group of short, nervous-looking girls huddled in a corner.

“I’m a
junior
,” Avery protested. Did she look that young? With a black leather Coach headband perched neatly atop her blond head, new navy blue kitten-heel Louboutin slingbacks, and her lucky pearls from Grandmother Avery, she certainly didn’t
think
she did. As she looked around, she saw that each girl was carrying the exact same Louis Vuitton Speedy purse she’d tried to replace yesterday at Barneys. It practically screamed
clueless
! She blushed.

“Welcome to Constance Billard. I’m the headmistress, Mrs. McLean,” the woman boomed, the purple buttons of her pantsuit straining against her voluminous chest. “A student guide will be with you shortly for first-year orientation.” She patted Avery’s head distractedly and turned on her heel to follow a diminutive dark-haired teacher with a short haircut.

“Do I look okay?” Avery whispered anxiously to Baby, once she was a safe distance away from the group of younger girls.

“Yeah, sure,” Baby said distractedly, stopping to examine the trophy case that sat in the middle of the main hall.

“I’m going to run to the ladies’ room,” Avery decided. She needed to make sure she wasn’t having some type of makeup crisis and wanted to redo her lip gloss, re-brush her teeth, and make sure her hair didn’t have any of those weird blond flyaways. “We have French in five minutes!” she added with a nervous screech. Baby just waved in the direction of the bathroom.

Avery stood in front of the mirror above the row of sinks and washed her hands even though she didn’t need to. To the left and right of her were girls she guessed were her classmates. She smiled in the mirror at one girl with straight brown bangs who was applying way too much Nars blush in Orgasm. It was a flattering color on everyone—but not if you caked it on.

“Hi, I’m Avery,” she blurted, surprised by her boldness. But there was something sort of friendly in the girl’s brown eyes.

“Jiffy.” The girl smiled briefly, but then returned to frowning at her reflection. Avery quickly dried her hands with a paper towel, unsure whether the girl was being nice or had totally blown her off.

As she emerged from the bathroom with only a minute to spare, Avery glanced down at the schedule taped into her pink leather Filofax.
ROOM 125, AP FRENCH WITH MADAME ROGERS
. One twenty-five was just down the hall. She walked in, passing Baby, who was sitting by the exit. Avery wanted to sit front and center.

“So, Jack left Paris early to hang out in Sagaponack?” Avery overheard Jiffy ask as she walked into the room. She sat down next to a large-chested girl wearing a cream-colored puff-sleeve Calvin Klein blouse.

“Yeah,” the busty girl said in a bored voice, playing with the two chunky Hermès enamel bangles pushed past her elbow. “I was only in the Hamptons for a few weeks. I’m kind of over the whole East Coast thing.”

Avery smiled. Everyone sounded so sophisticated. But Jack . . . wasn’t that the name of that bitch from Barneys? Avery calmly smoothed her blond hair. It was probably just a really common Upper East Side name, like Chloe or Madison.

Or Baby?

The bosomy girl looked in her direction expectantly. Avery smiled back, feeling giddy.

“Steal any more bags yesterday?” Avery heard a voice behind her. As she turned around, she found herself face-to-face with her own reflection, winking back at her from the brass buckle of a Givenchy satchel. She slowly looked up. Standing there, smiling down at her, was Jack Laurent, wearing beige Christian Louboutin pumps and a perfectly worn-in seersucker uniform, looking even taller and bitchier than she had yesterday.

“Um, hi,” Avery mumbled, avoiding eye contact, as two words—
oh
and
shit
—ran through her head.

“Next time, you might want to check out the Barneys outlet in New Jersey,” Jack announced, smiling at the two girls behind Avery. “Also, you’re going to have to move, because you’re in my seat.” Jack unpacked a notebook and a sleek silver Montblanc pen from the satchel and spread them territorially across the desk. “You can sit over by the door, in case you need to make a run for it,” she suggested in a syrupy fake voice. “After you steal Madame Rogers’s purse or whatever.”

Her face flaming red, Avery picked up her bag and looked around for another seat. The classroom had filled up quickly, and the only place available was right next to Baby, who hadn’t taken off her sunglasses and was carving something into the wooden desk with her pen. With her wrinkly blazer, tousled hair, and dark shades, she looked like Kate Moss in the rehab years. Avery slowly walked over to join her. She loved her sister, but there was something undeniably dorky about sitting next to each other on the first day of school, like they had no other friends.

Do
they have any other friends?

“Hey.” She slid into her seat.

“Who was that?” Baby asked, pushing the sunglasses off her face and onto her head so she could examine the pretty, freckly-faced girl glaring at both of them. Baby smiled fakely at her and waved. The Upper East Side was so full of bitches, she thought. “What’s her problem, anyway?” she asked loudly. Avery could practically feel all eyes on the two of them. This was
not
the way she wanted to meet her new classmates.

“I don’t know,” Avery whispered back. She hadn’t told Baby about the Barneys debacle yesterday, knowing Baby would never let her live it down. She pulled her black TSE cashmere cardigan on and buttoned it, just in case her hives began to flare up. Madame Rogers walked in wearing an elegant black Tocca pantsuit. She was in her sixties, but had aged well, like Catherine Deneuve. She put her books on the desk and surveyed the roomful of girls. “Welcome back,” she said. “Jacqueline, as always, a delight to have you here,” she added, noting Jack seated front and center, practically on top of her desk. It was impossible not to notice whomever was in that seat, Avery thought bitterly. “Since we have some new girls in the class, we will begin by introducing ourselves in French. Jack, can you take notes on the board?”

Jack stood up. “Of course. Is there a piece of chalk I can
steal
?” she hissed in Avery’s direction as she gracefully sashayed to the front of the room, her auburn hair swinging. Madame Rogers spotted Avery and Baby and clapped her hands together as if seeing them was the most thrilling thing she had ever experienced.

“Nos nouvelles étudiantes!”
she cried.
“Peut-être voulez-vous vous présenter?”
Our new students! Perhaps you’d like to introduce yourselves?

Avery cleared her throat, trying not to look too eager. She knew exactly what she was going to say; she’d been running the introduction through her head all morning.
My name is Avery Carlyle. I just moved here from Sconset, Nantucket, and am so excited to be living here. My hobbies are—

“Peut-être pourraient-elles commencer par nous parler leurs choix interessants vestimentaires?”
Jack suggested innocently, before Avery or Baby could get a word out.
Maybe they could begin by telling us all about their interesting fashion choices?
She held the piece of chalk up to the board as if they might not notice the sarcasm in her tone and actually respond.

“
Quelle
bitch!” Baby burst out, partially covering her words with the tail end of a very fake sneeze. Avery’s head whipped around to glare at her sister. Did Baby just swear?

“Excusez-moi?”
Madame Rogers’s aristocratic face grew red.

“Excusez-moi.”
Baby smiled.

Très apologetic.

“Mais, comment dit-on
bitch?” Baby continued, speaking in perfect French.
“Parce que je pense que c’est le meilleur mot pour décrire cette fille.”
She pointed at Jack.

Avery quickly parsed the words. Baby had spoken rapidly, like a true native speaker, which was impressive. Except that she had just announced that Jack Laurent was a bitch.

“Je m’excuse.”
Avery quickly broke the shocked silence, not even looking at Baby. What the fuck was her sister doing?

“Sortez!”
Madame Rogers demanded. “To Mrs. McLean’s office, please,” she added more softly, obviously trying to maintain her composure and regain control of the class.

“Au revoir.” Baby grinned and collected her enormous messenger bag. Winking at Avery, she sauntered out of the classroom.

Avery looked over at Mrs. Rogers, frantic to fix the mess her sister had made. “It’s her first day of school and she gets nervous. It’s sort of a disorder. Like, French Tourette’s syndrome,” Avery announced in desperation.

“That was your sister?” Madame Rogers asked, looking at the roster and dropping any pretense of speaking French. Avery nodded, even though she was ready to disown Baby at this point.

“And you are?” The room was silent. Jack was still standing with her chalk poised, waiting to write down the proceedings like a court transcriber.

“Avery Carlyle. Again, I apologize. It’s not her fault,” Avery lied. Let Baby sound like a freak. At least the other girls would feel sorry for Avery for putting up with a
challenged
family member. Out of the corner of her eye, Avery saw a broad smile creep across Jack’s face.

“I apologize, Madame Rogers,” Jack said primly. “I didn’t realize I would upset her so much. I met Avery the other day, and if I had known they were sisters, I would have been a little gentler. I know Avery has some issues, too,” she finished, frowning in concern, like the Carlyle sisters were the saddest girls she’d ever encountered.

The rest of the glass giggled and turned to stare at Avery.

“Attention!” Madame Rogers tapped her ruler against the wooden desk at the front of the classroom. “I do not want to hear another word from anyone this morning. We’re going to have a verbs quiz instead.”

There was a collective groan as blue books were passed down each row. Avery could feel twenty sets of angry eyes on her. The girl in front of her thwacked a pile of blue books on her desk; some fluttering to the floor. As Avery bent down to pick them up, she spotted a hastily scribbled note stuck inside one of the books, obviously intended for a girl down her row.
Is the new girl ON something? Think the blonde is as much of a freak?
The answer was underlined twice in purple, bubbly script:
YES
.

Avery crumpled the note and dropped it to the floor. So much for making a good impression. Her life at Constance was already very over.

Avery: 0. Jack: 2. But it’s only the first day. There’ll be plenty of time for a rematch.