The Carlyles Page 6

  “Did I say something amusing?” Mrs. McLean looked her sharply up and down.

  “No.” Baby moved toward the door.

  “Okay then.” Mrs. McLean didn’t look entirely convinced. “Read the booklet. And remember, Baby, this counts as your first strike.”

  Baby strode out of the office smiling triumphantly. She’d never really been into baseball, but now she had a new appreciation for it.

  For it’s one, two, three strikes you’re out at the old ball game!

  How to Win Friends and Influence People

  Avery was relieved when the bell rang after AP English, meaning it was time for the all-school assembly. She followed the mass of girls making their way to the lobby, their shiny ponytails bouncing and their Chloé flats clicking against the polished floors.

  Nervously she patted her hair in place and followed two of Jack Laurent’s bitches-in-waiting into the crowded auditorium.

  “I heard she was kicked out. Apparently she’s, like, a total Winona-style klepto and was banned from the supermarket in Nantucket for stealing, like, Triscuits,” Jiffy Bennett told a small blond girl as she tossed her wavy, long brown hair over her shoulder. Jiffy was freckly, with severe, blunt-cut bangs that framed her round face, and the other girl was carrying around a salmon-colored newspaper and wore black Prada glasses, as if she’d just stepped out of an editorial meeting at Vogue.

  “Really? I didn’t hear about her. I heard about the one who never washes her hair. Like, she believes her natural scent is an aphrodisiac. Can you imagine taking gym class with her?” the glasses-clad girl remarked loudly, pushing her glasses up further on her button nose.

  “Well, you know they’re triplets, right? My mother went to school with their mother, and I heard from her that the brother is gorgeous! He was supposed to be a Valentino runway model, but he decided to stay in the United States. Also, he’s supposed to go to the Olympics, and he wears a lucky Speedo under his clothes all the time. The same one, apparently,” Jiffy finished importantly. Avery felt her heart stop—they were definitely talking about her family. No one but Owen wore Speedos instead of boxers.

  Jiffy glanced in Avery’s direction, a wave of recognition flashing across her dark brown eyes. Avery turned abruptly away and walked quickly to the back of the auditorium, ignoring the butterflies in her stomach and wishing she could be anywhere but here.

  “Is anyone sitting there?” Avery motioned to one of the only seats that hadn’t been taken, next to a tall, thin girl with shaggy, chin-length brown hair pulled back in bobby-pinned twists.

  “You are, aren’t you?”

  Avery wasn’t sure if it was a question or an order. She hovered awkwardly over the empty seat as the girl stared up at her. Her blazer was unbuttoned and she was wearing a sheer white tank top and ridiculously tall, six-inch stripper-style platform boots. Avery wasn’t sure, but it sort of looked like her nipples were pierced. She averted her eyes before the girl caught her staring at her chest.

  “Go for it.” Nipples patted the seat impatiently and turned back to her book. As soon as Avery sat down, she heard the girls in the row behind her giggle and exchange whispers. She shifted uncomfortably and glanced at the book the girl was reading. Look Both Ways: Bisexual Politics. Avery scanned the room to see if she could move somewhere else without seeming rude, but there were no more empty seats. She sighed and sat back, hoping the assembly would start quickly so she wouldn’t be roped into a conversation about the politics of nipple piercing or something equally gross.

  “Are you new?” the girl asked, closing her book. Avery didn’t look over. “I’m Sydney Miller.” She held out her hand.

  “Avery,” she mumbled, shaking the offered hand. The girl nodded knowingly.

  “That’s a great name. My parents named me Sydney because it was where I was conceived. Then, of course, they got divorced three years later. I’m the only reminder of their stupid Australian sexfest.” She cocked her head in anticipation, like she was waiting for Avery’s own conception tale.

  Avery tried not to stare in disbelief. She wasn’t about to share the fact that her mom had gone to some hippie sexfest at a gross outdoor concert in New Hampshire and ended up with triplets. She forced her eyes back to the elegant calligraphy on one of the hymnals in front of her.

  “Just as an FYI, this place sucks,” Sydney confided. “I can’t wait to get out of here. Seriously, two years until graduation.” She sighed tragically, and then coughed a raspy smoker’s cough. “I was hoping my parents would send me somewhere downtown so I could at least hang out with NYU kids. Here, it’s like Bitch City, don’t you think?”

  “Not really,” Avery whispered, self-conscious about how loudly Sydney was talking.

  Maybe she’d had a bad first day, but she still intended to get to know people here and fit in. So far she loved everything about Constance, from the buttoned-up headmistress to the elegant views of the Ninety-third Street town houses out the large, arching windows of the auditorium to the rickety, moth-eaten blue velvet seats. Avery pulled out her MAC compact from her purse and looked critically at her cheekbones and the side-swept bangs that complemented her high forehead. What was it about her that was alienating all the girls except this overfriendly bisexual with the pierced nipples? As she leaned down to put her compact back into her bag, she noticed a large, misshapen black star on Sydney’s forearm.

  You can’t be alternative unless you have a tattoo that looks like it was drawn with a Sharpie.

  Sydney followed her gaze. “Yeah, I got that tat back in Spain this summer. My stupid parents got together again and wanted to have a middle-age rediscovery-of-sex fest, so they sent me to Europe. Some guy I met on the beach in Barcelona did it, so of course it came out fucked up. Are you into body art?”

  Does a reverse French manicure count?

  “No.” Avery shook her head and smiled slightly, trying to be polite.

  “Oh.” Sydney looked disappointed. “Sometimes it’s the really buttoned-up girls who are totally the kinkiest on the inside.”

  Just then, Mrs. McLean marched in, with Baby shuffling behind her, looking comically tiny behind Mrs. M’s bulk. Whispers flitted up and down the aisles as she was escorted to a seat in the first row. Avery felt the familiar red flush rising in her chest. What had Baby done this time?

  Jack glanced back and saw Avery sitting next to Sydney Miller, a girl whom everyone had ignored since she came out as an “academic lesbian” in eighth grade and had insisted on spelling woman w-o-m-y-n. Jack pulled a pack of gum out of Genevieve’s bag, wondering idly if Genevieve’s chest had gotten even larger. It looked bigger than it had last spring.

  Not that she was about to measure it or anything.

  Mrs. M strode onstage and stood in front of the girls in her all-purple Talbots pantsuit she only busted out on special occasions. She glared out at the crowd and Jack rolled her eyes. Everyone knew Mrs. M was in a pissy mood on the first day of school because she hated to leave her Vermont farm and her domestic partner, Vonda. She would much rather be baking casseroles and riding a tractor. It was common knowledge that Mrs. M was hoping to retire early so she and Vonda could start an alpaca farm upstate and open a made-to-order-yarn business.

  Anyone want to join their knitting circle?

  “Now, ladies, it’s a pleasure to have you all back, despite some rough transitions.” Mrs. McLean glanced at Baby, and Avery’s heart thumped against her ribs. “We’re pleased to welcome all our new students to the Constance Billard family.” A smile spread across Mrs. M’s large, doughy face as she looked down upon the rows of well-scrubbed Upper East Side girls.

  A few rows ahead, Jack poked the skinny blond girl with the large chest who had been in French class with them. Both giggled, then looked stageward in rapt attention when they saw Mrs. M glaring in their direction.

  Mrs. M began to discuss policies for the upcoming school year. Extra-long hours at the guidance office for those seniors needing assistance with early-decision coll
ege apps, no smoking on school grounds. Blah, blah, blah. Avery zoned out and began thumbing through her pink Filofax. She refused to use a PDA, because she loved the elegant simplicity of writing down dates and events. So far the whole school year loomed ahead in rows of empty pink boxes. What could she possibly do to make her mark here?

  Hasn’t she already sort of made her mark?

  “Now, ladies, I’m pleased to announce a new board position in addition to that of class president,” Mrs. McLean droned. Avery perked up. “The student liaison to the board of overseers. As you know, we have a very good relationship with our overseers, some of whom have been with Constance since its founding, and, as such, are very invested in its future. The elected student will represent the student body and will be involved in all decisions regarding the governing of our school.”

  Jack felt Jiffy’s pointy index finger dip into her toned bicep. She shrugged her off. Who cared about a stupid school leadership position when she had so many more important things to think about?

  Like J.P. with his shirt off, taking her shirt off, followed by his pants and her skirt . . .

  “Can they please remove the mirrors in the cafeteria?” Elise Wells, a tall sophomore asked, her arm waving wildly in the air, her thick, bluntly cut hair bobbing. Two more girls whooped in affirmation, as if they had just heard about a surprise Prada sample sale, and suddenly, all sides of the room erupted in flurries of discussion. Everyone hated the mirrors, which not only made you feel fat while you were eating lunch but made it impossible to hide from anyone.

  “Quiet down, ladies!” Mrs. McLean gestured for order. “This is not the time to discuss the design of the school. The student liaison to the board of overseers would have a say in any structural decisions, as well as a say on discipline and school-sponsored events. It’s a one-year commitment that I’m pleased to open up to the junior class. If you’re interested, please see me after the assembly for an information packet. The elections will be held at the annual mother-daughter Tavern on the Green brunch on Sunday.” Mrs. McLean clapped her hands together, and the room was filled again with excited whispering.

  “What a fucking waste of time,” drawled Sydney lazily as she twirled a silver skull ring around and around her thumb.

  But Avery was only dimly aware that Sydney was still at her side. She couldn’t believe her luck. Becoming the student liaison would be the perfect way to get noticed at Constance. She’d been on student council at NHS and had organized a fundraising benefit for the coast guard that had even been written up in Boston Common. This couldn’t be any harder, could it? She’d get involved, show her school spirit, meet people, and add a cool new extracurricular activity to her transcript, all in one fell swoop.

  “The events-planning part sounds sort of cool—Jack will totally get elected, so we should start thinking of some parties,” Jiffy whispered loudly to the blond girl she was seated next to.

  “See what I mean about the Bitch Brigade?” Sydney gestured to Jack, who was busy typing on her Treo while whispering to her large-chested blond friend. “This whole school belongs to Jack Laurent,” Sydney snorted. Ignoring her, Avery stood up and power-walked her way down to Mrs. McLean at the podium. She wanted to be the first in line for the information packet so the headmistress would know how serious she was about the position.

  At the front of the auditorium, Jack rose slowly from her seat, flexing her calf muscles and noticing appreciatively how toned they were. She was glad she’d woken up early and gone to the studio for Madame Walters’s Rise and Shine barre class. Leisurely she made her way to the stage. Mrs. M was standing behind an embossed oak dais holding a stack of grape jam–colored folders that perfectly matched her suit. This student liaison thing sounded sort of boring, but it would be a good extracurricular to have on her college applications, and she’d be able to use the Constance budget to plan some cool parties. Besides, her friends had practically forced her to sign up.

  As Jack strolled among the groups of girls streaming out of the auditorium, she noticed Elisabeth Cort, a junior who’d run for and lost practically every leadership position since she’d wet her pants during seventh-grade student council elections, sprint up to the front. Jack was about to tell her not to bother, but then thought better of it. She approached Mrs. M and smiled, picking up an application packet from the pile. Then she noticed that obnoxious Avery Carlyle marching up right behind her, a determined glint in her bright blue eyes. Jack bit her lip knowingly. Elisabeth Cort didn’t stand a chance, and neither did the shoplifting island girl with the French Tourette’s sister. How lame of her to even try.

  Hey, never underestimate the New England work ethic.

  gossipgirl.net

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  hey people!

  The bell hasn’t even rung, and yet so much has already happened today! I may need to start thinking about a news ticker. . . .

  First Impressions

  You can reinvent yourself over the summer, but it only takes a second to make an impression for the year. And those triplets have certainly established themselves as the ones to talk about on Manhattan’s Golden Mile. First off, can we please discuss the wonder that is O? The rumors are true and he is beyond gorgeous, but he seems to be too busy making guy friends to even give a second glance to the ladies. Don’t worry, I’ll fix that. B is anything but innocent. Exhibit A: her expansive knowledge of French curse words. But why so angry? French is the language of love—maybe that’s all she needs. And A’s style is admittedly impeccable. But as we all know, looking perfect just means you’ve got more to hide. . . .

  The Tragic Breakup of a UES Golden Couple

  She was whimsically artistic. He was painfully polite. They were childhood sweethearts. The affair was given a seal of approval by Lady S herself. So what happened? Did someone get cold feet? Or was someone looking for more heat?

  The Girl who Needs a Bang Trim

  Ladies, I know thick bangs are in, but when your hair is hanging a centimeter above your eyes, you look like someone threw a Missoni centerpiece bowl over your head and began to snip. Guess what? You don’t need to spend two precious hours at Elizabeth Arden Red Door Salon to get a trim. They’re called scissors. Snip away! The DIY look is very in right now.

  The Almost-married Power Couple

  Have they or haven’t they? They spent a summer apart, where he developed a social conscience and she developed a taste for pastries. Are they still as close as they were at the end of last year, when he would greet her outside ballet class with flowers? Or are they closer?

  Sightings

  J dragging on Merits during double photography. Didn’t she give those up . . . ? A cowering in the back of AP English, not looking at anyone. That’s not the way to make friends . . . ! R calling in an order of roses to be delivered to K’s apartment . . . O fidgeting and tapping his foot in American history, looking like he’s about to burst out of his skin. Why so agitated?

  Okay, I’m off to Elizabeth Arden Red Door salon. All this speed typing has just about ruined my reverse French manicure. Sigh. It’s a tough life, but somebody’s gotta live it. . . . Over and out!

  You know you love me,

  gossip girl

  Swear to Dog

  Baby frowned. Her sister hadn’t even acknowledged her when she snatched the information packet from Mrs. McLame after the all-school assembly was dismissed. Baby didn’t bother to stop by her locker and instead sprang out the royal blue doors and tore off her stupid, itchy navy blue blazer. She pressed 1 on the speed dial of her slim red Nokia, excited to hear Tom’s voice.

  “Oh my God, so I had to go to Brazil on this exchange program my parents signed me up for, and I thought it would be, like, hanging out on the beach and partying in Rio. Instead we were supposed to build houses. Hello, who the fuck knows how to build a house? I’m from fucking New York,” Baby overheard one girl say to another as they strode down the s
teps. She had stick-straight brown hair and kept bumping into her friend as she walked.

  The phone continued to ring, and Baby imagined Tom at his dented red locker in the crowded hallway of NHS. After school, everyone would be heading out to get a snack at the diner or to hang out at the beach a few blocks away. She counted ring number five as she flopped down on the school’s stone steps facing Ninety-third Street. Girls streamed out of the royal blue doors on either side of her. One almost clocked her with a silver Balenciaga bag as she flipped open her phone.

  “’Lo?” Tom’s voice sounded warm and lazy and reminded her of summer picnics and rainstorms and Wilco playing too loudly on the stereo in the muddy brown 1988 Mercury Cougar he’d bought from his grandfather. He’d added leopard-print sheets to the back and had wedged a George Foreman grill under the hood for impromptu beachside barbecues.

  Talk about pimping a ride.

  “It’s me,” she said in a small voice and glared down at the blue and white seersucker skirt spread out over her knees. If she were in Nantucket, she’d be wearing one of the hippie dresses from her mom’s closet, which always felt like a second skin. Here, she felt so stifled. The last time she’d worn a knee-length skirt that buttoned at the waist had been when she was five and had gone to tea at the Plaza with Grandmother Avery. “How was school?” she asked, trying to ignore the loud conversations going on all around her.

  “I got fucking Funkmaster Smith for English again, which is going to blow, but at least I have a double study.”