The Carlyles Read online

  “I want to show you how much I love you,” Rhys continued, pulling her to him and kissing her. As his lips brushed against hers, the line replayed in his head. I want to show you how much I love you? Was that totally cheesy? He suddenly noticed that the water from his bathing suit was puddling on the walnut floor. He hoped it didn’t look like he’d peed himself.

  Nothing’s sexier than a good set of Depends.

  “That’s sweet.” Kelsey pulled away and sat on the king-size sleigh bed. She pulled her knees tightly to her chest. “Remember when we used to have sleepovers in first grade and your mom would always pull the curtains and pretend it was midnight when it was really only like six o’clock?”

  “Let’s talk about that later,” Rhys whispered, kneeling next to her on the bed. He gently kissed her bare shoulder blade as he inched the strap of her dress down her shoulder. Maybe the setting was a little too over the top. It was sort of nice with the sunlight pouring in. Kelsey smiled mysteriously and Rhys felt his insides flip-flop. He moved to kiss her collarbone and then her neck, and finally her lips. It was happening. It was finally happening.

  There was a loud tapping noise on the door.

  Rhys pulled back a little, but he could still feel Kelsey’s hot breath on his cheek. “Hello?” he yelled cautiously.

  “Rhys, darling, is Kelsey here? I thought I heard her voice.” It was the strident voice of Lady Sterling, complete with a touch of an English accent, even though she’d been born and raised in Greenwich, Connecticut, and not Greenwich, U.K. Rhys wondered if she knew what they were doing, or about to do.

  “Yeah, Mom,” he mumbled, pulling the towel back around his waist and shaking his head. His mom adored Kelsey. Luckily, the feeling seemed to be mutual. If it wasn’t, Kelsey never complained. It was one of the many things he loved about her.

  “How lovely!” Lady Sterling’s voice went up an octave in the actressy way it did when she was in front of the cameras. “Well, I would love to see you both in the solarium for tea. I’m anxious to hear your thoughts for the back-to-school component of the show tomorrow,” she trilled from behind the door.

  “Sounds great, Lady S!” Kelsey called back. She smoothed her sundress and hooked her wavy, butterscotch candy–colored hair behind her small ears.

  Lady Sterling’s heels clicked away, growing softer as she made her way down the staircase. “We should go down there.” Rhys shrugged helplessly. “I’m sorry. Are you mad?”

  “No,” Kelsey said, getting up from the bed. “It’s okay. Another time.” She swooped over to the recessed window and blew out a candle. “I’ll go entertain your mom. You can meet us when you get changed,” she added, kissing Rhys on the nose.

  Rhys blew out the remaining candles as Kelsey shut his bedroom door. Was it just him, or did she not seem that upset at the interruption? He walked into the adjacent bathroom, turned on the water, and let the steam overtake the room. Maybe it was all in his head. He was still sort of drunk, after all.

  Maybe. But you know you’re in trouble when there’s more steam in the bathroom than the bedroom.

  gossipgirl.net

  * * *

  topics / sightings / your e-mail / post a question

  * * *

  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?