Don't You Forget About Me Read online

  “Are you serious?” Ruby was the last person Dan ever thought would get married—except for maybe Vanessa. Vanessa had told him once that she thought marriage was all about money and status and that it always had been, all throughout history—in the Middle Ages it was practically a form of slavery. Still, Dan had always believed that someday he would get to watch Vanessa walk moodily down the aisle in a long black dress, carrying a bunch of brilliant white daisies. He’d even written a poem about it. But now he was gay, and gay marriage wasn’t even legal in New York.

  “. . . anyway, she wants you to write a poem and read it at the ceremony.”Vanessa’s voice broke into Dan’s thoughts.

  “Who? Me?” Dan tied the sleeves of the fuchsia jumpsuit around his shoulders like a cape—that was the only way it was ever going to fit.

  “Yeah.” Vanessa downed the rest of her coffee in one gulp. “You. The one in the cape.” Supergay? Captain Gaypants?

  Dan scratched his head. Ever since his recent “revelation,” he hadn’t felt much like writing. In fact, he hadn’t written a single word since he’d kissed Greg. It was as if all his confused feelings were trapped inside, circulating furiously, and he couldn’t get any of them out and onto the page. “But, what’s it supposed to be about?” he wondered aloud, rubbing his unshaven cheek against the magenta silk. The only thing he could possibly write about right now was penis-shaped cream puffs, and he didn’t think that was going to go over too well at a wedding. Even a European one.

  “I don’t know.” Vanessa pulled out a chair from the table and sat down beside Dan, her now-empty coffee cup in front of her. “Love, I guess.” She shivered, suddenly cold.

  “Okay,” Dan responded. It occurred to him that the only person he’d ever really loved was sitting right next to him. Certainly he could write a poem for Vanessa’s sister, who he actually happened to like. “I can do that.” “I just hope their friends don’t like, boo you off the altar or whatever,” Vanessa joked. “And that they understand a little English.” Suddenly the weight of what Dan had agreed to sank into him. Get totally mushy and, well, completely . . . gay in front of a whole bunch of Williamsburg hipsters?

  That’s one way to come out.

  can n weather this storm?

  Creeeeeeeeeeeeeeak.

  Nate Archibald opened the glass-and-wrought-iron front door of his Park Avenue town house, cringing at the moan of the hinges. With any luck, the Captain would be long asleep, and Nate could just stumble off to bed—avoiding his father completely. He had waited until almost midnight to come home for just that purpose. After he’d left Blair’s, he’d headed for the boat pond in Central Park, smoking joint after joint and watching the clouds of smoke drift over the calm surface of the water. It reminded him of sailing, of how peaceful it had been out there on the ocean, surrounded by nothing but water and more water.

  As Nate stood looking out at the boat pond, his brain all fuzzy from the pot, he couldn’t help remembering the way he and Blair and Serena had spent afternoons at the park when they were kids sailing miniature boats. Their nannies would sit talking quietly on glossy, dark green benches, and the three of them would throw rocks in the water and lick their Popsicles—which both girls would eventually grow tired of, and Nate would promptly eat. And now here he was, sneaking around his own home at age eighteen, and not much had changed. He was still a troublemaker. He still loved sailboats and popsicles. And most of all, he still loved Blair and Serena.

  Nate sighed, walking down the carpeted hall as noiselessly as possible. Somehow, things seemed so much simpler back then. He didn’t need to be reminded that lately, things were far from simple. After getting caught stealing Coach Michaels’s Viagra, Nate hadn’t received his diploma at graduation. He was supposed to work for Coach all summer, helping to fix up his house out on Long Island and earn his diploma that way. But after Mrs. Michaels started coming onto him, Nate took off without a word of explanation to anyone. He’d stolen his dad’s car, kidnapped Blair, and then stolen the Charlotte. Jesus, what hadn’t he done? And because of all his screwups, his future was totally up in the air. As he tiptoed past his father’s study, it was impossible to miss the sliver of yellow light that peeked out from the half-open door. Nate’s heart sank in his chest. Fuck. He ran his hands through his hair and tried his best to straighten up. He wasn’t really that stoned, was he?

  Is that a serious question?

  “Who’s there?” His father’s voice boomed out into the hall, echoing off the polished wood floors. “Nate? You home?” Nate sighed, ran his fingers through his hair one last time, and slowly pushed open the door.

  The study was paneled in rich, dark wood, and it reminded Nate of the sea caves he’d once explored while sailing off the Amalfi coast in Greece. Captain Archibald was sitting in a rust-colored leather chair. His feet, clad in gray cashmere Ralph Lauren socks, were propped up on a matching leather ottoman. A crystal tumbler of Glenlivet rested on the armrest, the amber liquid sparkling in the light. His father’s hair was gray, with a touch of yellow—a reminder of his younger days as a hot-young-Yale-lacrosse-player-turned naval-captain. His eyes were bottle-green, like Nate’s, without the sparkle. As usual, he was wearing a gray cashmere suit tailored in England expressly for him, his navy blue silk tie slightly askew.

  Nate braced himself for the shitstorm that was surely about to rain down on him. All he wanted right now was to take a long nap—maybe sleep until this whole stupid thing blew over. But then, shockingly, the Captain’s face broke into a wide grin. Was he seeing things? Nate blinked his eyes rapidly, trying to clear them.

  After three hours of smoking, he was kind of past the point of Visine.

  “Nate, my boy! Home at last!” The captain threw down the Wall Street Journal and jumped to his feet, throwing his arms around his son and squeezing tightly, clapping him roughly on both shoulders as he pulled away. Nate felt dazed, as if he’d just woken up from a long sleep. What the hell was going on?

  His father sat back down and motioned to the matching leather chair across from him. “Sit, my boy. We’ve got a lot to catch up on.” Nate sank down in the chair and started fiddling with the gold lighter in his pocket. Blair had given him that lighter two summers ago, and the smooth weight of it under his fingers calmed him down a little.

  “So, you’ve been on quite the sailing adventure, haven’t you?” Captain Archibald noted, peering contemplatively at his son. It was more of a statement than a question.

  “Uh, yeah. With Blair. It was great.” Nate shifted uncomfortably in his seat. It wasn’t like his father to make small talk.

  “Tell me, son, are you looking forward to Yale?” The Captain reached up and loosened his tie even more as he spoke, finally pulling it from around his neck and dropping it on the desk, where it lay like a puddle of blue silk. So that was it. The Captain had no clue that Coach hadn’t granted Nate his diploma and that there was no way Yale would take him.

  “Yeah,” Nate answered, letting out some of the breath he’d been holding. “Um, I think so.” His father didn’t know. But how long could he keep it from him?

  As if reading Nate’s mind, the Captain sat forward in his chair, a fierce look in his green eyes. “You think so?” Uh-oh.

  His father sat back in his chair and waved one hand in the air. “Let’s stop all the pussyfooting around—we’ve got some important things to discuss.” Nate’s heart sank in his chest. He dragged a scuffed Stan Smith tennis sneaker back and forth across the Oriental rug, knowing what that meant. He squirmed in his chair, wishing that he was just about anyplace else—but most of all that he was out on the water, with the waves lapping against the sides of the boat. He braced himself, waiting nervously for his father to speak.

  “I’ve heard from Coach Michaels, and I know exactly what’s going on.” Captain Archibald’s voice was neutral but firm, and Nate began shifting nervously again in his chair. Whenever his dad adopted this tone of voice, it meant that he’d decided something with complete finali
ty—usually something that Nate didn’t want to do. “And this time, I’m not bailing you out.You’ll repeat senior year at St. Jude’s. End of story.” Nate stared at him, openmouthed. He’d never really considered that not getting his diploma would mean he’d actually have to repeat senior year. Maybe take a year off, do some “community service” building outhouses on a beach in Costa Rica or something, but another year of high school? Taking the same boring classes, doing the same boring things, while his friends were all off at college, having fun without him?

  Next stop: total humiliation.

  His father took a slow, deliberate sip of scotch, and Nate could hear the frosty sound of ice cubes rattling against the crystal. He fingered the stubbed-out joint that remained in his pocket, wishing he could pull it out and light up right there. He’d promised Blair that he wasn’t going to smoke so much anymore—she didn’t think it was mature, or collegiate, or whatever—but this was an emergency. He had to calm down. Then maybe he could think.

  Or not think.

  His father swallowed and set his tumbler down on the armrest of his chair. “And there’s something else.” Something else? What other torture could his father possibly inflict on him? What could be worse than not graduating with the rest of his friends? Military school? Reform school? Prison?

  Nope, repeating senior year would be far more humiliating and way less exciting.

  The Captain’s face was so somber that Nate had to lower his eyes to his father’s nautical-striped dress shirt in order to keep from completely panicking. Once a year his mother ordered a complete custom-made wardrobe from one of the exclusive men’s boutiques on Jermyn Street in London—new suits, ties, and dress shirts—all fitted to the Captain’s proportions.

  “I want you to meet my friend, Captain Chips White,” his father continued. “I obviously haven’t gotten through to you, but if anyone can, it’s my old navy mentor.” Nate slunk down further in his chair. Not only did he have to get chewed out by his father, but this scary Captain Chips guy his dad was always going on about would be in on his demise too? Chips would probably use some archaic navy torture technique to teach him a lesson—hold him underwater until he nearly drowned, or take him sailing, cut off his nuts, and then throw him overboard to swim back to Manhattan through the polluted Hudson. Nate would probably grow an extra arm or a tumor on his back, and he’d go from being happy-go-lucky, easygoing Archibald to a hunchbacked, three-armed, no-balled freak. Blair would be all over him then.

  Captain Archibald raised his glass with a smug smirk, and Nate felt his chin begin to quiver as he gripped the roach in his pocket.

  Prison’s not looking so bad now, is it?

  Disclaimer: All the real names of places, people, and events have been altered or abbreviated to protect the innocent. Namely, me.

  hey people!

  The days until we leave for college are tick, tick, ticking away, and our mailboxes are piling up with college orientation packets. You might be tempted to actually read those flashy booklets sent by your school in their collegiate colors, but really—get-to-know-you camping trips? Meet-and-greet on-campus sessions? Let me tell you, there’s no better way to be labeled a dork than to fall for that one. Do you really want to get introduced to that lax hottie down the hall with leaves in your hair and bear poo smeared all over your never-before-worn-and-never-to-be-worn-again North Face hiking boots? Honestly. Trust falls are for losers without trust funds. You’ve just got to trust me on this one!

  So here’s my question, people: why can’t the deans figure out a way to make college orientation not a repeat of fifth-grade summer camp? As usual, it’s up to me to show those stuffy academic types the way.

  suggestions for making college orientation fun instead of unbearably loserish

  (1) Bonding activities. Ban all camping trips, sightseeing tours, or campus scavenger hunts. Nobody wants to be dragged around a muddy forest, sit in a stale-smelling tour bus all day, or check retardedly obscure objects off a list as part of a “bonding experience.” If there’s one thing we know how to do, it’s bond. Just lead us to an open bar and leave us to our own devices.

  (2) Age limits. Any freshmen welcome event that involves adults—read: deans, RAs, and other people who will soon be responsible for getting us in trouble—is a total killjoy. IDs should be checked at the door, and anyone over the age of twenty-one should not be welcome!

  (3) No more nametags. They ruin every well-planned outfit and practically invite skeezy losers to stare at your chest. If you’re cute, I’ll tell you my name before you even ask.

  While the college deans may not know how to throw a welcome party, Manhattan girls sure know how to throw goodbye parties. I’m so tired from last night’s festivities that if I don’t eat my morning H&H bagel (toasted, please, with extra butter) soon, I may just pass out on my keyboard. Too many vodka gimlets, too many floral-patterned silk wrap dresses from Biba and Diane von Furstenberg, and too many cute boys wearing yummy, sherbet-colored polo shirts. If there really can be too many. But the soiree all over the gossip airwaves is a goodbye blowout planned at the Met next week. What better place to say bon voyage than at one of Manhattan’s most timeless and exclusive venues? One thing’s for sure: when that night finally rolls around, we’ll all be looking like works of art.

  your e-mail

  A:Dear GG,

  I was walking past the boat pond in Central Park on Friday night when I saw N sitting on a bench smoking a doobie, alone, looking all worried about something. Does this mean that he and B could be over?

  —Giddily Hopeful

  A:Dear GH,

  The yumminess of N is totally undeniable, but unfortunately for all of us, I don’t see him breaking free from B’s siren song anytime soon. Look on the bright side—the city is positively crawling with sweaty, practically half-naked boys in need of a nice cool soak down. Remember, friends don’t let friends shower alone, especially during a heat wave. Conserve water—it’s all about the environment, people. So break out the Bliss lemon-and-sage body wash and lather up.

  —GG

  Q:Dear GG,

  My boyfriend is leaving for college soon, and I’m heartbroken. I’m only a junior, so I have another year to hang around, waiting to graduate, and I’m worried that he’ll be tempted by all those college girls. Do long-distance relationships really work? —Left Behind

  A:Dear LB,

  In my experience, long-distance relationships are dicey—even if you only live across the park from one another. If that’s got you down, here’s my Rx: go to your kitchen and find some Godiva cocoa powder (you may have to dig around in back for the good stuff—the cook always tries to hide it), and whip yourself up an iced hot chocolate. Sip it while sitting at your iBook. Look—you’re multitasking! Don’t you feel better already? Now go to eLUXURY.com and buy yourself something fabulous. When that’s done, cruise all the cute guys on Facebook and MySpace and send the ones you like best some cleverly flirtatious e-mails. By the time the weekend comes, you’ll have a bunch of hot dates at your beck and call—and an even hotter outfit to wear! Trust me, by Sunday you’ll barely remember College Boy’s name. —GG

  Q:Dear Mme. Gossip Girl,

  My darling son has recently had a sexual awakening and is coming to terms with his long-latent homosexuality. After not seeing my dear boy for some years, I want to be there for him in this most exciting time, but I’m not quite sure how to go about it. I’ve already given him some gifts relating to his new identity, but I want to do more. Hallmark doesn’t seem to make an “I love my gay son” card. Please help!

  Sincerely,

  Loving Mother of a Gay Son

  A:Dear LMGS,

  I’m going to give you the same advice I give to anyone looking to celebrate something exciting and new: have a party! And invite everyone. There’s no better way to say “I love you.” Plus it’ll give your son the chance to get all dolled—er, dressed—up. Here’s to partying the gay (I mean day) away!

  —GG
>
  sightings

  B in the La Perla store on Fifth Avenue buying a sky blue bra-and-thong set. Can the flames of desire between B and N be waning already? We hope not—although I’d be happy to help him out if he’s bored with monogamy. . . . N sitting outside his town house looking contemplative—or maybe he was just under the influence as usual. . . . V at the NYU bookstore on Washington Place, asking if they had any school logo T-shirts in black instead of their trademark purple. Not exactly the school spirit, V! . . . K and I shopping for their back-to-school wardrobes at TSE, buying armloads of cashmere sweaters—even though they’re going to school in Florida? Well, cashmere is nice over a bikini. . . . C at the Shake Shack in Madison Square Park, chomping down on a cheeseburger and feeding that spoiled little white monkey of his French fries with extra ketchup. I wonder if they get cited for health code violations. If so, we’ll know why.

  It’s time to watch some Laguna Beach reruns—gotta love to hate those ridiculous nouveau riche kids—before I skip out for my mani/pedi appointment at Elizabeth Arden Red Door Spa. Nothing like buffing up and staying silky smooth for the dog days of summer—not to mention the devilishly handsome French waiters at Pastis. . . . Down, boys!

  Vouz m’adorez, ne dites pas le contraire,

  gossipgirl

  TO: undisclosed-recipients

  FROM: [email protected]

  Subject: Dan’s gay—hooray!

  Dear recent graduates of Riverside Prep: I hope you don’t mind my abusing your school yearbook’s contact list, but I’m sure you’ll be happy when you find out why: I’m writing to invite you all to a momentous occasion, the coming-out party for your dear classmate and my dear son, Daniel Jonah Humphrey. After four years of going to school with Dan, I’m sure you’ve all been waiting for this big day!

  Please be our guests in apartment #9D, 815 West End Ave., this Saturday (tomorrow!) at 2 p.m. Food and drink will be served, and it’s sure to be a merry time. But hush-hush—it’s a surprise! Whatever you do, don’t tell Daniel!