Don't You Forget About Me Read online

  Hope to see you all on Saturday! Please dress your colorful best for the occasion.

  Love and rainbows,

  Jeanette (Daniel’s mom)

  TO: [email protected]

  FROM: [email protected]

  Subject: Get ready for your close-up . . .

  . . . because it’s showtime!

  Due to the fact that even the fuckhead critics love my film, the release date for BAF has been moved up to September. Sweetheart, you are about to be a star, thanks to me.

  That freakworm Bailey Winter is probably peeing himself trying to sew you a choice of couture gowns for the NYC premier next month, lucky girl. You’ll have to wear your own clothes to the press conference, though. You and that queen Thad are scheduled to do press this Tuesday at 5 p.m. in one of those tacky penthouses at SoHo House. Don’t worry, I’ll handle all the questions—I just want you two to sit there look and pretty. Think you can handle it?

  See you Tuesday.

  KM

  honesty is totally overrated

  “So, why can’t you come over?” Blair couldn’t keep the irritation out of her voice. She was annoyed. Actually, she was more than just annoyed—she was totally fucking pissed. At Nate, and at pretty much everyone else—especially her stupid, traitorous, moving-to-L.A., dysfunctional mess of a family.

  No, please, tell us how you really feel.

  She sprawled out on her stepbrother Aaron’s old bed, rubbing her legs against the all-natural, organic, puke green hemp comforter cover he’d bought at some hippie supply store last winter. Even though Aaron had moved out of the room ages ago—he’d been on a road trip all summer doing God knows what, leaving his bedroom to Blair, since hers had been turned into Yale’s nursery—it still smelled of boy sweat and Mookie, Aaron’s disgusting boxer dog. Then, to make matters worse, Blair’s cat, Kitty Minky, had decided to move in and mark her territory—spraying everything until the whole room reeked of cat pee, wet dog, and the herbal cigarettes Aaron was always smoking. Blair loved her baby sister, but really, did she have to get displaced from her own beautiful bedroom and into this shithole?

  “There’s um, some stuff I have to get done. It, like, can’t really wait,” Nate mumbled. Blair could always tell when he was lying—he sounded even more incomprehensible than usual. She picked at the rough cloth of the comforter with her French-manicured fingernails. Blair loved surprises, but somehow she didn’t think Nate was hiding anything fun.

  “Well, I’ll just come over there then.” She rolled over onto her back and held a strand of shining chestnut-colored hair in front of her face, mentally reminding herself to book an appointment at Warren Tricomi—she desperately needed a trim. The tips were bleached and parched from all the sun and salt water from when she was at sea.

  Poor thing.

  “No,” Nate answered quickly, “I mean, uh, you can’t come over here.” Excusez-moi? They just spent a month together on a boat, totally in love, and now they’d been home for twenty-four hours and he didn’t want to see her? She sat up and impatiently switched the phone from one ear to another. She was probably going to get brain cancer from talking on her cell so much. Then Nate would be sorry.

  He’s probably sorry now.

  “I mean,” he stammered, “my bedroom’s being repainted and the fumes are killer.” Blair narrowed her eyes and remained silent. That was about the lamest excuse she’d ever heard.

  “I didn’t even know it was scheduled to be done until I got home last night,” Nate offered weakly. “Really.”

  “Let’s go to the Plaza, then,” Blair suggested, doing her best to shrug off the nagging sensation that things were just not right between them. She knew Nate was lying, but why?

  “Blair, I can’t.” He was starting to get annoyed with her—she could hear it in his voice. “I told you, I have some stuff to do right now. Maybe later?” “Fine. Whatever.” She closed her cell phone with a hard snap and threw it across the room, where it landed with a thump on a pile of needing-to-be-hand-washed Wolford stockings.Why was Nate being so secretive all of a sudden?

  Blair heard the low murmuring of voices in the hallway and her bedroom door flew open to reveal her mother, dressed in a gray silk Oscar de la Renta blouse, black Cynthia Rowley pencil skirt, and gray suede Manolo sling-backs. A woman in her early forties stood behind her carrying a red crocodile Hermès Birkin bag, her whip-thin body encased in a red-and-brown tropical-print Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress. Her definitely-not-natural-red hair was pulled back in a neat chignon, and black, rectangular-framed Alain Mikli glasses perched on her nose. She sniffed the air delicately.

  “Blair, this is Diana Riggs from Sotheby’s. She’s the real estate agent in charge of selling our apartment!” The real estate broker’s eyes swept the room. “Another great bedroom, Eleanor.” She attempted to wrinkle her Botoxed forehead and counted on her fingers, “One, two . . .” she muttered distractedly, “four beds total?” She grabbed Eleanor’s arm for emphasis as she spoke. “I know the perfect family for this apartment—they have the most gorgeous triplets!”

  Blair stared at her mother in horror as she cooed appreciatively at Diana. Triplets? She was being forced out of the only home she’d ever known so a bunch of test-tube infertility treatment triplet fuckfaces could slobber and vomit all over it?

  “The Carlyles—do you know them?” Diana asked. “Edie Carlyle? I believe she grew up in the city as well.” “Oh my goodness, of course!” Eleanor squealed. “I attended Constance with Edie. Where has she been? I haven’t see her since, well . . . it must have been seventeen years ago!” Blair jumped off her bed and pushed past her mother and the broker standing in the doorway. Who cared if Nate was busy? Fuck busy. Wasn’t he supposed to be there for her in her time of need? She was his girlfriend, and he was going to pay attention to her—whether he liked it or not.

  She fumed all the way down in the elevator and into the bright Saturday afternoon, replaying the scene over and over in her mind as she marched determinedly toward Nate’s house. Triplets. Living in her house—some annoyingly perfect family taking over her space? She stomped along in her new D&G coral ballet flats as cabs rushed by in the street. As she turned away from the park, she remembered how when she and Nate first got together, they’d meet in Sheep Meadow after school and make out for hours, lying in the grass. Maybe she’d yank him away from whatever the hell he was doing and they could go over to Sheep Meadow and repeat history.

  Then, just as Blair began crossing the street to Nate’s town house, a very familiar-looking blond in worn True

  Religion jeans and a black Tory Burch logo tank rounded the corner. With her huge black Chanel sunglasses covering half her face, Serena looked like she was dressed for a stealth mission. And as she pushed open the heavy door to Nate’s town house, Blair swore Serena looked just the tiniest bit guilty.

  Blair stopped in the middle of the street, not even caring if a taxi rammed into her. She felt like she’d been punched in the chest. All the air rushed out of her lungs. What was Serena doing at Nate’s? And why was Nate lying to her? Why wouldn’t he rather see his own girlfriend than that two-faced fake, Serena?

  Good question.

  Queasiness overcame her. In fact, she thought she might be sick right there on the pavement. She took a few steps back until she found a fire hydrant to steady herself on. She’d kill them both, except then they’d be together in the afterlife and that would kill her.

  A bus drove by, burping clouds of stinky black exhaust in her face. Blair began coughing furiously, and through the hot tears in her eyes, she saw Serena’s gorgeous, airbrushed face in front of her, larger than life, staring out from the side of the bus, the words BREAKFAST AT FRED’S in pink rolling script above her gleaming blond head, and below, in hot-pink letters TRUE LOVE NEVER LIES.

  Apparently, that depends on your definition of true love.

  smile! things can only get worse

  “Surprise!”

  Dan wa
lked into the Humphreys’ apartment after a long day of stacking musty books at the Strand and blinked in shock as the lights snapped on. Multicolored balloons hung from the ceiling, and rainbow crepe-paper ribbons twirled from one end of the room to the other. Rainbow flags hung from the doorway, waving in the early evening breeze that wafted through the open windows. What the hell was going on? He smiled as he looked around the room, crowded with so many familiar faces—his parents, Vanessa, his dad’s Beat-poet friends, even the crazy old lady from apartment 5F who liked to take her mangy cat for walks around their crumbling apartment building’s hallways. And wait, weren’t those dorky guys in the corner from his calc class at Riverside?

  “Are you surprised!?” His mother sang, pulling Dan into the room. She was wearing a candy pink shirt that said PFLAG over a fuchsia-and-white batik-print floor length skirt. Her electric blue toenails peeked out from the straps of her battered Birkenstocks.

  “What’s PFLAG?” Dan demanded, staring at the front of her shirt. “And what’s all this . . . for?” There were so many rainbows it made him nervous.

  “PFLAG, my darling, stands for ‘Parents and Friends of Lesbians and Gays’—” Jeanette began.

  “And it’s a party—to celebrate your coming out.” Vanessa appeared at Jeanette’s side, holding a ballpark frank festively slathered in mustard in one hand and a small digital video camera in the other. She was wearing a black tank top with the words HE’S MY GAY BOYFRIEND printed on it in hot pink lettering. “Happy Gay Day!” she called out from behind the camera.

  For a second, Dan couldn’t help feeling a little touched at how supportive she was being. Maybe they could be like Harper Lee and Truman Capote—he’d be the gay, brilliant star of the New York literary scene, and she could be his grounding, stabilizing force and literary muse, all rolled up into one cute, bald-headed package. Then he remembered where he was—apparently at his own surprise coming-out party. He tried to focus.

  “I thought I’d video your journey into gaydom,” Vanessa told him with a smirk. “Your mom thought it was an excellent idea.” “Come with me, Daniel.” Jeanette pulled him toward the kitchen. She handed him a glass of bright pink liquid. “I know I’ve missed a lot of things in the last couple years. I wanted to do something special for you right now.” Couple? Try ten . . .

  Dan stopped walking and stared at his mother’s not-entirely-familiar face. The truth was, he’d gotten used to her being away a long time ago, but he’d always felt especially bad for Jenny, growing up without a mom and all.

  “But really, teenagers all just hate their parents anyway, so I’m sure it wasn’t much of a problem.” Jeanette sniffed dramatically. “And this summer, I was really able to reconnect with Jennifer when she was in Prague,” she went on, her voice warbling as though she were about to cry. “And then when this opportunity to support you came up—well, it just seemed like the right time for a visit.” Dan nodded, not sure what to say. It made him happy that things were right between Jenny and their mother, but did that really mean she had to fly to New York and ruin his life? “Well, um, thanks,” he finally stammered.

  “Now!” Jeanette blinked her eyes rapidly and grabbed his hand. “Your darling boyfriend was just teaching me how to make Cosmopolitans!” Dan frowned. Boyfriend? He looked across the room and was shocked to see Greg at the kitchen counter wearing a pair of brown American Apparel cargo pants rolled just past the knees, rainbow suspenders, and a crisp white T-shirt, vigorously shaking a chrome cocktail shaker, his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. Dan lifted a hand in a tentative wave, trying to look cheerful, and walked over with his mother at his heels.

  “Hey!” Greg grinned widely as he approached, putting down the martini shaker. He opened his arms to give Dan a hug, his shaggy blond hair falling into his eyes. “Sorry I didn’t tell you I was coming back—I wanted it to be a surprise, and I wouldn’t have missed this for the world,” he whispered, his breath tickling Dan’s neck. “My parents didn’t do anything half this nice when I came out to them last year.” He gave Dan an extra squeeze before releasing him.

  “Thanks,” Dan said, stepping back from Greg’s arms. “It was, uh, sweet of you to come back for this. How did my mom, um, find you?” He took a nervous sip of his way-too-sweet drink. As a rule, he liked bitter drinks—truly lousy black coffee and vodka straight from the bottle. This punch was way too . . . fruity.

  Better learn to love it!

  “Oh, I just went through your e-mails,” Jeanette piped in. “Your gmail was open when I borrowed your computer. What a writer this Greg is!” She patted him affectionately on the head, and Dan noticed that Vanessa had followed them into the kitchen and was now zooming in on Dan’s red face.

  “I’ve been showing Greg here the most adorable pictures of you, Daniel!” Jeanette linked her arm through Greg’s and grabbed a worn manila envelope off of the kitchen counter with her other hand. Dan watched in horror as his mother released Greg and proceeded to spread out a bunch of creased old photos of Dan as a kid on the kitchen counter-top. “I was just telling Greg how funny you were as a little boy—whenever you played dress-up, you always raided my closet. Dresses and jewelry, the sparklier the better!” Dan stared down uncomprehendingly at a photograph of himself at five years old, dressed in a frilly purple cocktail dress, his hips cocked defiantly.

  “And you see!” Jeanette continued, tapping a sloppily painted rainbow nail against the photograph. “He was always stealing my lipstick, too!” Greg and Jeanette chuckled together, lightly touching each other’s arms.

  “I did the exact same thing when I was a kid!” Greg giggled. “And yet my parents were somehow surprised when I came out—can you even?” “Oh, we always suspected things might turn out this way.” Jeanette smiled admiringly, reaching over to smooth down Dan’s messy brown hair.

  Dan looked up to see if Vanessa was still filming, but she seemed to have headed back into the living room, probably to do some interviews on who had known he was gay when. He sighed. Dan knew his mom’s heart was in the right place, but he couldn’t help but feel squeamish seeing himself as a girl-boy and having it implied that his gayness had been practically predetermined. Had everyone known all along? Looking at the photographs of him wearing dresses and tap shoes, hugging plush stuffed animals, his mother’s lipstick ringing his mouth, the evidence seemed irrefutable.

  Suddenly Chuck Bass appeared from the direction of the bathroom. What was he doing here? Chuck was dressed in a white tank top that showed off his ridiculously tan and buff summer body, and a pair of aqua-and-pink flowered Hawaiian shorts. A rainbow-colored lei hung around his neck, the petals bright against his dark skin. His ever-present white snow monkey, Sweetie, was perched on his shoulder, pulling at strands of Chuck’s over-producted hair. Sweetie was dressed in a tiny black T-shirt with the words SILENCE=DEATH printed in white lettering. The monkey screeched loudly, waving its furry white arms in the air.

  “Congratulations!” Chuck raised his Cosmo. “It’s about time!” The small crowd murmured their agreement, holding up their glasses and clinking their cups against Dan’s untouched drink. Great—even a complete moron like Chuck Bass had known Dan was gay before he did. Was it, like, stamped on his fucking forehead or something? As if it wasn’t weird enough that he was here, Chuck suddenly pulled him by the elbow into the corner so that they were out of earshot of the rest of the group.

  “Chuck, what are you doing here?” Dan blurted out before Chuck could say anything.

  Chuck flapped a hand, as if waving off the silly question. “I got the e-mail from your mom—everybody did. Subject line: ‘Dan’s gay—hooray!’ Anyway, is that your boyfriend?” Chuck asked, pointing across the room at Greg. Greg was now standing next to Vanessa, who was laughing loudly with her head thrown back.

  Dan’s gay—hooray? Dan resisted the urge to climb out on the fire escape and throw himself onto the street below. He gave Chuck a weak smile. “Um, Greg and I . . . we’re—” “You know, Dan,” Chuck
interrupted, one hand resting on his shoulder, “I never really had anything against you.” He looked meaningfully into Dan’s eyes. “I think we were both just feeling some unresolved . . . tension, if you know what I mean.” Chuck smiled and casually let his fingers trail from Dan’s shoulder down his bare arm. Just then the monkey reached down and stuck its tiny brown hand in Chuck’s drink, spattering the pink liquid everywhere with a high-pitched screech.

  “Bad Sweetie!” Chuck exclaimed, dabbing at his Cosmo-stained tank top with his fingers. “Excuse me for a moment?” Chuck flashed him an apologetic smile. “I have to go spank my monkey.” He laughed at his own perverse joke and moved toward the kitchen sink, chattering to Sweetie under his breath. Maybe Dan was losing his mind completely, but it sounded like Sweetie was actually answering Chuck in some kind of crazed monkey-speak.

  Dan shook his head and wove through the crowded kitchen to the living room. His dad stood in the center of the room, holding court before an enraptured audience of middle-aged guys with straggly, bushy beards. Rufus was dressed in a light-pink ‘70s leisure suit with a PFLAG pin on one insanely wide lapel.

  “Dan!” Rufus bellowed. “There you are!” He put his arm around his son’s shoulders and turned to the group of bearded Rufus clones surrounding them. “Dan, these are the members of my gastronomic society—they brought the wild boar pâté.” The group of men raised their glasses in greeting, and Rufus pointed to a plate of suspiciously lumpy brown pâté over on the battered wooden coffee table. “Try some—it’s fantastic.” Silence = death.

  “And Dan.” Rufus leaned in to speak more privately, “I was thinking about this whole transition you’re going through.” He stopped and scratched his mess of a beard. “Well, maybe its not so much a transition as it is a realization,” Rufus mused, stuffing a mushy glob of pâté into his mouth. “But I think,” he continued, the boar pâté sputtering out of his mouth in chunks, “that in the long run it will probably make you a better writer, like Oscar Wilde or W.H. Auden.” Rufus took a gallant swig from the Cosmo in his hand, washing down his meaty mouthful. “Just think of all you’ll have to say now!” he exclaimed. “I imagine that your marginalized position will be very productive for your writing.” Marginalized position? Dan didn’t feel very marginalized—more like completely overwhelmed. And curious. What else had his mother e-mailed? And to whom? He noticed out of the corner of his eye that Greg had taken a seat on the sofa next to Chuck and his idiotic pink-Cosmo-stained monkey. They seemed to be giggling over the rims of their martini glasses. Just then Greg looked up, caught Dan’s eye, and waved, smiling happily. “C’mere,” he mouthed, gesturing with one hand.