Nobody Does It Better Page 8

  But maybe that was part of the problem. Dan wasn't singing at all, only the audience was.

  Do you miss me? Do I miss you?

  I know, I know.

  That's not the fucking point.

  We were kinda like mowing the grass—

  Looked good, smelled good

  But such a pain in the ass!

  Dan clutched his stomach, gasping into the mike, which he held in white-knuckled fists, his eyes red-rimmed and his sorry mouth gaping like a dying fish's. A fish dressed like the king of MTV Raps, in weird baggy pants and ugly sneakers, his hair all sweaty and gross and his neck shaved unevenly.

  See what happens to you when we break up? Vanessa thought for a fleeting, gloating moment. Then again, Dan looked so pathetic it was almost embarrassing to admit she even knew him. She glanced at Beverly. He was biting his cuticles and wiggling his foot like someone waiting for a bus.

  All of a sudden the distinctive sound of vomit rising to the surface blared over the speakers and Dan staggered offstage, taking the microphone with him. The band continued to play even louder still, with Dan retching miserably in the background.

  Way gross.

  Vanessa touched Beverly's elbow. “Maybe we should go,” she offered apologetically. It felt sort of wrong to leave Dan retching backstage when they'd once been so close, but then again, he was the one who wanted to be a rock star. Besides, there was probably a gang of hot blond Raves groupies mopping Dan's head with a cool, damp towel and spoon-feeding him mineral water at that very moment. He didn't need her anymore.

  Beverly nodded and slipped off the table. “There's this party my Pratt friends are putting on that's been going on since March. Let's check it out.”

  He held out his hand, and Vanessa noticed for the first time that he was missing the last joint on the middle finger of his left hand.

  Ew!?!

  She tried not to stare and allowed him to pull her to her feet. If only Dan would come back onstage long enough to see her leaving with another guy. But the club was way too crowded for ex-girlfriend sightings, and besides, Dan was otherwise occupied.

  Again the sound of his retching came over the speakers, nearly drowning out the music.

  A little advice, dude: We all know how attached you are to that mike, but next time you're gonna hurl, please leave it behind?!

  Better in Translation

  Luckily for Dan, Damian and the other members of the band had enough confidence and humor not to get all uptight about the fact that their new lead singer was puking his guts out a few feet offstage. They played right through Dan's little episode, subtly cut the sound to his mike, and then segued into an old Raves song that Dan had never even heard before:

  Babycakes, you make my eyes scream

  Lick the drips, then toss the cone a-waaayee

  No wonder they were looking for a songwriter.

  The crowd went wild, singing the words with more passion than ever. Dan remained offstage with his head between his knees, trying to remember how he'd gotten himself into this situation in the first place. How on earth had he gone from reclusive high-school poet to the baggy-pants-wearing front man of a famous band when he so obviously lacked the mettle for it?

  Before the gig started, he'd done what Damian suggested and drunk some vodka. Okay—he'd drunk close to half the bottle, but instead of relaxing him or giving him the courage to perform, it had made him feel totally toxic, especially when combined with an entire pack of cigarettes.

  Well, duh!

  The light was dim backstage, and the wooden floor was sticky with spilled beer and cigarette ash. Dan gritted his teeth as another wave of nausea gripped him, but he squeezed his eyes shut and fought it off. Suddenly someone tapped him on the shoulder. “Eet's all right, mon cher. ‘Ave a seep of tonique et voila—you are all better, yeah?”

  Dan looked up to find a gorgeous girl in her early twenties standing over him with a little bottle of Schweppes tonic water and a glass of ice in her hands. She poured the tonic over the ice and squatted down beside him.

  “Here. No lime, yeah?”

  Dan didn't know what to say. He'd never drunk tonic without vodka, but at this point he'd try anything. The girl had long honey-colored hair and was deeply tanned. She was wearing a tight white tank top and a swishy green skirt that barely covered the tops of her long, tan thighs. Her eyes were olive green and she smelled kind of like pine nuts. He took the glass and put it to his lips, taking a tiny, tentative sip. It would be just his luck for the sip to backfire on him, spewing all over the girl's beautiful hair. Miraculously, though, it didn't. He took another sip, and then another, and with each sip, his head cleared ever so slightly.

  “Zat's enough,” the girl told him firmly, and took the glass away. She put it and the empty bottle on top of an unused amp and turned back to Dan. “When zee boyz are fineeshed, they vill make a party,” she continued, her olive green eyes sleepy and confident. “And zen we vill talk.”

  Dan nodded obediently, as if she was making complete sense. He was pretty sure the girl was French, and when she said, “And zen we vill talk,” it almost sounded like she had more than a little polite chit-chat in mind. But how could she possibly find him attractive in his current state? Maybe his performance translated better in another language.

  The girl stood in the wings, watching the band finish up their song. “Zey will play two more songs et puis finis, yeah?” she declared.

  Dan nodded again. That sounded about right. A tattoo encircled the girl's tanned ankle. At first glance Dan though the tattoo was of a snake; then he realized it was of a fox, curled around her leg, asleep.

  Oh, the poems he could write about that fox if only he had a pen, a notebook, and a large container of extra-strength Advil!

  He cleared his cigarette-abused throat. “I'm Dan,” he croaked, extending his hand but not daring to stand up.

  The girl smiled, a sexy little gap appearing between her front teeth. Then she walked over, grasped his clammy hand, and bent down to kiss his clammy cheek. “I know who you are,” she murmured breathily into his ear. “Et je m' appelle Monique.”

  Hmmm, Dan mused drunkenly. Was there even a word for foxy in French?

  Yale Loves New York

  Stanford Parris III lived in the penthouse at 1000 Park Avenue in Carnegie Hill, one of the oldest and most elegant doorman buildings on the Upper East Side. But Mr. Parris's Chippendale furniture, medieval tapestries, and eighteenth-century British sculpture collection went unnoticed by most of the guests, including the van der Woodsens. They were used to such elegance, and it only made them feel more at home.

  “My grandson wanted me to have the party at a hotel,” Stanford Parris III confided to Mr. van der Woodsen as he shook his hand. “Or at the Yacht Club.” He winked at Serena's mother. “But I wasn't about to pass up an opportunity to host so many beautiful women in my own home!”

  Serena's mother smiled her gracious you-can-say-anything-to-me-you-old-lech-and-I'll-never-lose-my-poise smile, and Serena giggled. Maybe old Stan Parris wasn't so bad after all. She shook the ancient New England aristocrat's hand and then stood on tiptoe and planted a flirtatious kiss on his withered old cheek just to piss her parents off.

  “I say,” Mr. Parris exclaimed. “Yale certainly knows what it's doing!”

  “Easy, Granddad,” warned a tall blond boy with an adorable dimple in his chin and amazing cheekbones. “Remember, you have a bad heart,” the boy scolded his grandfather.

  “It's not my heart I'm worried about,” Mr. Parris grumbled. He clasped the boy on the shoulder with a wrinkled hand. “Miss Serena van der Woodsen, this is my grandson, Stanford Parris the Fifth.”

  Like anyone actually cares how many Stanford Parrises there are?

  Serena waited for the boy to blush with embarrassment and mutter something about how plain old “Stan” would be just fine, but he didn't. Obviously he thought his title was the best thing ever. What did they call him at school? she wondered. Number Five? Sta
n 5?

  “Here's your nametag, dear.” Serena's mother pasted a bumper-sticker-sized white nametag with Serena van der Woodsen, Incoming Fall written on it in blue marker over Serena's breasts, like some sort of hideous, adhesive-backed tube top.

  Serena pretended not to mind. “Thanks, Mom,” she said, cupping her hands over her chest to smooth out the nametag. Every male present let out a little gasp, all getting psyched for Yale's coed dorms next year.

  They were early and the party was thin. Boys in Hugo Boss suits and ties and girls in long Tocca skirts and buttoned-up blouses lurked by their parents' sides, smiling awkwardly and guzzling champagne. The whole scene made Serena feel like she was at her first day of ballroom dancing class, back in fifth grade.

  Someone tapped Serena on the shoulder and she turned around. It was Mrs. Archibald, Nate's dramatic, French, slightly crazy mother. Her dyed amber hair had been blown out into a mass of cascading curls, and her thin lips were painted a fierce fire-engine red. Around her neck were six strands of rose-colored pearls, and matching rose-colored pearls punctuated each ear. Despite her three-inch Christian Louboutin heels, she was surprisingly tiny, dressed in a sleek, pewter-colored strapless Oscar de la Renta silk evening gown and carrying a little gold satchel and gold opera glasses— obviously just stopping by at the party on her way to the theater. She kissed Serena quickly on both cheeks. “Have you seen my son?” she whispered in Serena's ear, her green eyes flashing.

  Serena shook her head. “No. But Blair's—” She stopped short, wondering if Mrs. Archibald really wanted to know that Blair and Nate were holed up in a Plaza Hotel suite, having lots of sex. “Have you tried his cell?” she asked instead.

  Mrs. Archibald batted her eyelashes and waved her opera glasses in the air. “Never mind, darling,” she sighed, before rustling off to find her husband, the admiral.

  Stan 5 was still standing by as if it were only right that the handsomest blond guy and the most beautiful blond girl in the room should be talking to each other. A woman in a black caterer's uniform handed Serena a flute of champagne. “Where's your nametag?” Serena asked Stan 5, scanning his black oxford-cloth shirt that had been left unbuttoned and tieless.

  What a rebel.

  He grinned and cleared his throat. “I didn't think I needed one.”

  Oh, so like everyone is just supposed to know who you are?

  Serena was ready to ditch the party already—she'd shown up and stayed ten minutes, what more did her parents want? But then old Mr. Parris shuffled over to talk to her again, and she didn't want to be rude.

  “Your mother was just telling me what a wonderful actress you are,” he boomed in his charming New England accent. He adjusted his burgundy-and-navy-blue-striped bow tie. “You know, I played the lead in nineteen productions back when I was a Yalie. The school was men-only in those days. I've got some old pictures if you'd like to take a look.”

  “Honestly, Granddad,” Stan 5 huffed in an effort to shut his grandfather up.

  “Actually, I'd love to,” Serena replied with genuine interest. There was nothing she liked better than to look at old pictures. She loved the elaborate clothes, the dramatic bouffant hairstyles, the way everyone wore hats and gloves and handbags that matched their shoes.

  Stan 5 frowned in confusion, as if he couldn't believe Serena was about to ditch him for his wrinkly old grandfather. She flashed him the same gracious smile her mom had flashed his grandfather, and then followed the elder Mr. Parris through the apartment and down a narrow corridor to his library. His right leg seemed to be giving him trouble, causing him to list to the left, and she gripped the elbow of his dapper gray pinstriped blazer for fear he would fall.

  The Parris library was decorated in chocolate brown with hints of navy blue and gold fleur-de-lys. Three crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and four chocolate brown leather club chairs stood around an ornately painted antique card table.

  “There I am in Hamlet.” Mr. Parris pointed to a large black-and-white photograph hanging over the mantel. Serena expected to see a young Mr. Parris in a full suit of armor, looking fierce and haughty. Instead, a beautiful young girl with a long thin face and a distinctive cleft in her chin lay with her long-lashed eyes closed and her hands folded across her chest, a chain of daisies entwined in her loose fair hair.

  “That's you?” Serena asked in amazement.

  The old man chuckled. “I was a pretty boy back then. They made me play Ophelia.”

  Serena stared at the photograph. “You were kind of hot.”

  Mr. Parris patted her hand. “I like to think so. And I was so much better at dying than the other fellows.” He went over to the wet bar in the corner, filled two crystal tumblers full of scotch, and set them on the card table. Then he pulled a worn green leather-bound album off the bookshelf. He flipped through the pages of the album and pointed to one of the leather club chairs. “I've got hundreds of photographs,” he warned Serena.

  Serena sat down and took a sip of scotch. Then she scooted back in her chair, tucked her feet up underneath her, and reached for the album. She felt cozy and comfortable and genuinely interested in looking at Stanford Parris III's old Yale pictures. And as she slowly turned the pages, examining the wonderful black-and-white images of a young Mr. Parris and his handsome Yale acting buddies rehearsing onstage, she realized she hadn't really thought about acting at college. She could even imagine playing Ophelia just like Mr. Parris had, fluttering her eyes closed and folding up like a flower when it was time to die.

  “Here I am in Kiss Me Kate.” Mr. Parris pointed to a photograph of the same long-faced beauty glaring at the camera, her dark eyes flashing, her cleft chin raised disdainfully. “What a witch, that Kate.”

  Serena studied the photograph. Mr. Parris as Kate reminded her of someone she knew, but she just couldn't place her.

  Let's give her a hint. Her first name starts with B.

  She continued to flip through the photographs, her mind racing. Yale was the only school that hadn't stalked her with perky e-mails and overzealous fan mail. Even the Whiffenpoofs—Yale's all-male a capella singing troupe, whom she'd met last month, had the decency not to e-mail her every day asking her when she was planning to arrive on campus so they could help her with her bags or take her out for coffee or whatever. And they certainly hadn't asked her about Damian from the Raves, whom she'd never even met.

  Mr. Parris tapped Serena on the knee. “You have the face of a leading lady,” he added. “Yale knows what they're doing.”

  “You think so?” Serena replied enthusiastically. Suddenly, ditching the Yale party to check out the Raves concert seemed totally unnecessary. And out of respect for old Mr. Parris, she almost wished she'd actually worn the entire gray-and-blue outfit her mom had laid out on her bed. She was going to be Yale University's greatest leading lady since Stanford Parris III. New Haven was so close to New York, she could still model, and with a bit more acting experience under her belt, she might even get a film deal! Blair would be totally thrilled if they went to school together—not that she was going to say anything until Blair found out she was off Yale's wait list. Blair could be kind of unreasonable when Serena had something she wanted for herself.

  Kind of?!

  Party Crasher Finds Kindred Spirit

  “Brave soul.” A tall blond boy wearing an open-collared black oxford-cloth shirt greeted Blair as she stepped off the elevator alone and into Stanford Parris III's country club of an apartment. “Everyone else was dragged here by their parents. One guy even bagged, so his parents had to come alone.”

  Wonder who that was?

  “I'm Stanford Parris the Fifth, by the way.” The boy extended his hand and flashed her a proud smile that seemed to say, “As if you didn't know that.”

  Blair grinned back. She loved boys with titles, especially tall blond ones with cute dimples in their chins, and especially ones who were going to Yale next year. “Blair Waldorf,” she said, shaking his hand. She fingered the custom-engr
aved Cartier pendant at her throat—the very same one she'd stolen from her baby sister. It was a simple nameplate, just the word Yale in gold cursive, tied with a light blue satin ribbon around her neck. “So where are your parents?” she demanded.

  “In Scotland. We have a castle there,” Stan 5 boasted casually.

  Blair giggled. “So do we! My aunt lives there.”

  Aw, isn't that cute? If they got married and honeymooned in Scotland, they could go castle-hopping!

  “Anyway, this is Granddad's party. I'm just here to …” Stan 5 paused and cleared his throat, as if he'd momentarily forgotten why he was there. Or maybe he'd just drunk too much scotch. “To get our class excited for next year,” he explained finally.

  Blair rubbed her well-glossed lips together. Stanford Parris's grandson. She'd stumbled upon the youngest member of one of Yale's most influential alumnae families without even trying! If anyone could get her off the wait list and into Yale, he could.

  Stan 5 pointed to the Yale pendant at her throat. “That's unusual,” he observed. “Guess you're really excited about next year, huh?”

  That's one way of putting it.

  Blair blushed fiercely. She had prepared herself for this sort of question. “My parents had it made for me right after I found out I was in,” was what she'd planned on saying. But now she opted for the truth. She stood on tiptoe and cupped her hand around Stan 5's aristocratic ear. “I'm not actually in yet,” she whispered. “I got wait-listed.”

  “Well, we'll just have to see what we can do about that,” Stan 5 chuckled sympathetically. He snatched two flutes of champagne off a passing tray and handed her one. They clinked glasses and a little thrill ran up Blair's spine. She was about to get lucky, she could just tell.

  In more ways than one!

  Suddenly there was a rustle of tulle and Nate's mother enveloped her in a Chanel No. 5-soaked embrace. “Darling, where is Nate?” Mrs. Archibald demanded in her dramatic, Anglo-French accent.