Because I'm Worth It Page 9

  “None of your business,” Elise answered, blushing.

  “Don’t think I’m never going to find out. You’ll probably have to read it out loud on Monday,” Jenny reminded her. “I wrote about your ears, but it kind of sucked.”

  The two girls bowed their heads against the fierce February wind and headed over to Lexington to take the bus down to Bloomingdale’s on East Fifty-ninth Street. Elise had enlisted Jenny to help her to find the perfect pair of jeans for less than eighty dollars, and, as usual, Jenny needed some new bras, since she was always wearing out the elastic or breaking the underwires in the ones she had.

  Bloomingdale’s was a tacky war zone of tourists sporting the new tracksuits and sneakers they’d just bought at Nike Town, along with gaggles of blue-haired bargain hunters, but it was the only place to go for oversized bras and moderately priced jeans other than Macy’s, which was simply gross.

  Those with better taste and bigger credit limits went to Bergdorf’s, Bendel’s, or Barneys, but for people like Jenny and Elise, Bloomingdale’s would just have to do.

  “I can’t believe you can just put those on and they’re the perfect length,” Jenny said enviously as she watched Elise try on her first pair of Paris Blues jeans in the dressing room. Jenny was barely five feet tall and had to shorten everything. Elise was five foot seven, but she had other problems, like her completely flat chest and the podge that padded her hip bones and lower back like a second butt.

  Elise scrunched up her freckled face and stared down at the bulges riding above the waistband of the low-rise jeans. “See why I can’t eat in public?” she grunted, sucking in her stomach and tugging on the waistband. The jeans were 9 percent Lycra, but that didn’t seem to make much difference. She exhaled and let her stomach out, giving up. “Okay, forget it. Next pair.”

  As Elise inched herself out of the reject ones, Jenny held up a beautiful pair of dark rinse flared Seven jeans that were on sale and would be a major score if they fit. She noticed Elise was wearing light blue lacy underwear and quickly averted her eyes so Elise wouldn’t accuse her of staring.

  Elise took the jeans, slipped her feet into them and slid them up around her hips. “Oh my God. I can’t believe I forgot to tell you this,” she said, tugging on the button-fly waist. “Before creative writing I heard Kati Farkas and Isabel Coates talking about Nate Archibald in the bathroom at school. They said he almost had to go to jail because he was caught dealing to some twelve-year-olds in the park. His dad had to go down to the police station and bail him out, but he still has to go to rehab. Weren’t you guys kind of together for a little while? Did you hear about this? Isn’t it crazy?”

  Jenny hadn’t heard, and she wasn’t quite sure how she felt about it. Nate had pretty much blown her off completely in the end, brushing her away like a pesky fly, so she guessed he’d gotten what he deserved. Besides, Nate seemed like the type of guy who would always rise to the top again, unscathed. Why should she waste any more time worrying or even thinking about him? She watched Elise struggle with the copper buttons on her jeans. They were perfect everywhere else, but the waist was so tight there was no way she’d ever be able to sit down in them. “Why don’t you just try the next size up?”

  Elise squinted her hard blue eyes stubbornly. She did that kind of a lot, causing Jenny to wonder if she needed glasses. “Because, Miss Size Zero, I’m a size seven, not a size nine. Pass me another pair, and stop staring at my fat.”

  “I’m not,” Jenny insisted, handing her a stretchy pair of Lei jeans that were a little too distressed, with frayed cuffs and holes in the pockets, but with a wide, low waist that looked like it might actually sit nicely on Elise’s hips. “And it’s not like anyone has to know what size you are. I won’t tell.” Jenny immediately thought of her own size issue. She hadn’t planned on inviting Elise into the dressing room with her when she tried on bras. Sure, they were becoming close friends, but was it really necessary for Elise to know that she wasn’t just a D cup, but a double D? Still, it seemed mean not to reciprocate when Elise had invited her to help try on jeans.

  Elise wrinkled up her nose at the Leis. “Those are way too fake looking.”

  “So what do you want to do?” Jenny asked, tossing the jeans on the bench in the back of the narrow dressing room.

  Elise buttoned up her uniform and slid her feet into her prissy black flats. It amazed Jenny how neat-and-sweet-little-school-girl Elise appeared until you got to know her.

  “I’m keeping the Sevens. I know they don’t fit now, but I’m planning to lose ten pounds before the end of the year. And you’re going to help me.”

  Jenny nodded. It wasn’t like she didn’t ever buy stuff that was too small.

  Yes, it’s called aspirational shopping. Every girl with ambition does it.

  The dressing rooms in the lingerie department were dirty, cramped, and badly lit. With her back to Elise, Jenny pulled her cornflower blue V-neck J. Crew sweater over her head and threw it on the stool in the corner. Then she pulled her white Gap T-shirt off and dropped it on the floor, crossing her arms over her breasts self-consciously.

  “Which one do you want to try on first?” Elise asked, sorting through the plastic hangers that Jenny had hastily snatched up with businesslike efficiency. “The lacy black one with the funky clasp or the comfy white cotton one with the extrawide straps?”

  “Just hand me the black one,” Jenny mumbled, reaching behind her to retrieve the bra. She unhooked the ugly beige supersupportive Bali bra she was wearing and let it fall to the floor, fumbling with the black bra while trying to keep the insides of her elbows pressed against her ribcage to cover herself. The straps on the black bra were shortened all the way, and the clasp was a strange gold metal contraption instead of the normal hook and eye. Jenny glanced up to find Elise watching her in the mirror. The dressing room had mirrors on three sides, so it wasn’t like Jenny was really achieving anything by turning her back.

  “Want some help?” Elise took a step forward.

  Jenny’s back was rigid. She could pretty much forget about being modest. Elise was going to see her boobs no matter what. She let her arms drop and turned around, full frontal. “Help me loosen the straps?” she asked, trying to sound nonchalant. She handed Elise the bra, her breasts hanging in front of her like fully risen loaves of sourdough bread. She had to admit it felt slightly liberating. Slightly liberating and totally embarrassing.

  Elise set to work adjusting the bra, not even trying to hide the fact that she was staring at Jenny’s boobs at the same time. “Wow. They really are big,” she observed. “How can you be so tiny and have such big bobos?”

  Jenny put her hands on her hips and stared back at Elise, trying to come up with a smart retort, but instead she burst out laughing. “Bobos?” she giggled.

  Elise blushed and handed Jenny back the bra. “I’ve always called them that. Ever since I was little.”

  Jenny slid the straps over her arms and then turned around. “Can you figure out the clasp?” Elise hooked it closed and Jenny turned around again. The bra had great support, but her boobs were pressed so close together, her cleavage was a mile deep. Elise was still staring. “Do you think it’s too slutty?” Jenny asked. She giggled. “I mean, this kind of makes my bobos look even bigger.”

  Elise had stopped blinking, which was what she always did when she was distracted. “You know when you asked me what I wrote about today in creative writing?” she asked. Jenny nodded and turned around so Elise could unhook the bra. “Well, that’s what I wrote about. Your bobos.”

  Jenny’s back went rigid again. If a guy told you he’d written about your breasts, you pretty much knew he was either hitting on you or he was a pervert. But since Elise was a girl and her friend, Jenny wasn’t sure how to feel about it.

  “I think I’m done,” she said quickly. She picked her old bra up off the floor and slipped it on. “I’m going to buy the black one.”

  They’d brought eight bras into the dressing room but Jenn
y had only tried on one. “Are you sure you don’t want to try some of the others?” Elise asked.

  Jenny pulled on her T-shirt and tucked her sweater under her arm. The tiny dressing room suddenly felt extremely claustrophobic. “Nah,” she answered, yanking aside the black curtain and stepping back into the main room of the lingerie department, which of course was wall-to-wall bras. It would be nice to go someplace where breasts weren’t the main focus of everyone’s attention.

  Like another planet?

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  “Would you like another Coke, miss?” the bow-tied cocktail server asked.

  “No, thank you,” Blair answered, keeping her eyes glued to the door.

  All week long her mind had been on one thing only: her interview with Owen Wells. She had even done some research on the Internet so she could ask him pointed questions about Wells, Trachtman, & Rice, the law firm where he was a partner. Now it was finally Thursday night and she was sitting alone at the corner table in Leneman’s Bar in the Compton Hotel, waiting for him. The bar was crowded, mostly with middle-aged men in custom-tailored suits, discussing business deals over bourbon on the rocks, or sitting with bleached-blond women who were very definitely not their wives. With its golden walls, crisp white tablecloths, and forties jazz music, the bar had an air of sexy sophistication.

  Blair had spent almost three hours getting ready: one to shower and blow her hair out into a neat, preppy coif that framed her face in an innocent yet intellectual manner; one to dress in her new belted Les Best jersey dress, which she had paired with her lucky pair of three-inch Ferragamo heels, to give her an extra bit of confidence and height; and one to apply natural-looking makeup for the fresh, healthy glow of someone who always got twelve hours of sleep because she never went out and never went near a cigarette or a cocktail.

  Right.

  It was still only a quarter to nine, but if she drank any more Coke, she’d have to pee so badly she’d never make it through the interview without wetting herself. What Blair really wanted was a shot of Stoli, but with her luck Owen Wells would stroll through the door just as she was knocking back the shot, confirming his worries that she really was just a flaky party girl who only wanted to go to Yale to get drunk and seduce the captain of the crew team, possibly getting pregnant in the process and forcing that innocent, previously upstanding Yale male to marry her and work like a slave for the rest of his life to keep her in the style she was accustomed to.

  Just then an extremely well groomed businessman sitting at the bar spun around on his gold-painted barstool and smiled at her. He had wavy black hair, bright blue eyes with long curly lashes, and distinctly arched black eyebrows. His face and hands were deeply tanned, as if he played tennis in the sun every day of his life, and he was wearing a gorgeous navy blue wool suit with a crisp white shirt and simple gold cuff links. Blair didn’t usually notice older guys, and this guy was at least thirty-eight, but he was so handsome, it was impossible not to notice.

  “Are you Blair Waldorf, by any chance?” he asked in a deep, familiar voice.

  Blair nodded tentatively. “Yes?”

  He slid off his stool and walked over to her table, leaving an empty glass tumbler behind on the bar. He held out his right hand. “I’m Owen Wells.”

  “Hi!” Blair jumped to her feet and took his hand, feeling completely confused. First of all, Owen Wells was her father’s colleague, so he should have been old, badly dressed, balding, and fat. Not that her father was. Her father worked out with a personal trainer every day, wore designer clothes, and had great hair. But he was gay. Second of all, Owen Wells had said he’d be wearing his Yale tie, and this guy wasn’t wearing a tie at all, just a crisp white dress shirt, unbuttoned so she could see the top of the clean white undershirt he was wearing over his muscular chest, which was probably just as tan as the rest of him.

  Not that she was thinking about the rest of him.

  Third of all, she hadn’t expected Owen Wells to be hot. He looked so much like Cary Grant in An Affair to Remember that she wanted to throw herself into his arms and tell him to forget about Yale, she was his, all his.

  Blair came to her senses in time to realize that she was still grasping Owen’s hand. She shook it as firmly and confidently as she could, alarmed by her mind’s total inability to focus on the task at hand. She was meeting with Owen for one reason only: to impress him so she could get into Yale. “Thank you for taking the trouble to meet with me,” she added hastily.

  “I’ve been looking forward to it,” he replied in his thrilling, manly voice. “I just remembered I told you I’d be wearing my Yale tie. Sorry. It completely slipped my mind. I even saw you come in, but I didn’t think it could be you. I wasn’t expecting you to be early.”

  Immediately Blair wondered if he’d noticed that she’d spent twenty minutes in the bathroom after she’d arrived, or that she’d kept wiping her nose on her cocktail napkin and studying her face in her Stila compact mirror to check for any unsightly blemishes, like a stray eye goober or—God forbid— a pimple.

  “I’m usually early,” she answered. “I’m never late.” She took a nervous sip of Coke. Was this a good time to tell him how impressed she was with his work on the Home Depot vs. The Learning Channel case? Should she compliment his suit? She took a deep breath and tried to focus. “I like it here,” she declared and immediately regretted it. It was a nice bar, but she made it sound like she wanted to move in or something.

  Owen pulled back the chair opposite hers and gestured for her to sit down. “So, should we get started?”

  Blair was grateful for his relaxed but businesslike manner. She sat down on the edge of the cushioned chair and crossed her legs primly. “Yes!” She beamed at him enthusiastically. “Whenever you’re ready.”

  The cocktail waiter appeared to offer Owen another drink. He ordered a Maker’s Mark and cocked a dark eyebrow at Blair. “Can I get you something besides a Coke? I promise I won’t tell Yale or your dad.”

  Blair scrunched up her toes inside her black Ferragamos. If she said yes, she’d be admitting that she really did want a drink, and if she said no, she might seem like a prude. “I’ll have a glass of chardonnay,” she told him, figuring white wine was the safest, most ladylike option.

  “So. Tell me why Yale should admit you,” Owen asked after he’d ordered the wine. He leaned across the table and lowered his voice. “Are you really as bright as your dad claims?”

  Blair sat up even straighter, twirling her little ruby ring around and around on her ring finger beneath the tablecloth. “I think I’m smart enough to go to Yale,” she replied evenly, remembering her speech. “I’m in all the APs at school. I’m at the top of the class. I’m the chair of the social services board and the French club. I’m a peer group leader. I’m nationally ranked in tennis. And I ran the organizing committee for five charity events this past year.”

  Their drinks arrived and Owen raised his glass. “And why Yale?” He took a sip. “What can Yale do for you?”

  It seemed odd that Owen wasn’t taking notes or anything, but maybe he was testing her, trying to get her to let down her guard and admit that she really was just a flake who’d been born with a silver spoon up her well-bred ass and only wanted to go to Yale to party with frat boys.

  “As you know, Yale has an excellent prelaw program,” she stated, determined to give intelligent, straight-to-the-point answers. “I’m thinking of going into entertainment law.”

  “Excellent.” Owen nodded approvingly. He scooted his chair forward and winked at her. “Look, Blair. You’re an intelligent, ambitious girl. I already know you’re perfect for Yale and I promise I’ll do everything I can to convince them to let you in.”

  He looked so handsomely earnest while he was saying this that Blair felt her cheeks heat up. She took a sip of wine to cool herself off. “Thank you,” she responded gratefully. She took another sip of wine and let out an enormous sigh of gratitude and relief. “Thank you. Thank you, thank y
ou, thank you.”

  Just then a pair of cool hands covered her eyes and she smelled the distinctive patchouli-and-sandalwood scent of a certain someone’s favorite essential oil mixture.

  “Guess who!” Serena whispered in Blair’s ear, then pulled her hands away from Blair’s eyes, her long blond hair brushing Blair’s shoulder as she kissed her cheek. “What’s going on?”

  Behind her, Aaron stood grinning goofily, wearing a maroon Harvard sweatshirt like the annoying asshole he was.

  Blair blinked. Could they not see she was in the middle of the most important meeting of her life?

  “I’m Serena.” Serena held out her hand for Owen to shake.

  Owen stood up and took her hand. “Charmed.” He bowed his dark head, looking more like Cary Grant than ever.

  “So you’re coming to see me in the Les Best show tomorrow, right?” Serena asked Blair.

  “You have to come,” Aaron chimed in. “I ain’t going to no fashion show by myself, girlfrien’.” He’d agreed to go, but he wasn’t exactly looking forward to it. Fashion meant fur and animal testing. It was against everything he stood for.

  “Your name is on the list,” Serena added.

  Owen looked completely bemused by the whole conversation. Blair let out an exasperated breath and stood up, turning away from Owen so he couldn’t hear what she said. “Do you guys mind leaving us alone?” she hissed in a low whisper. “We’re talking about Yale, and it’s pretty fucking important.”

  Aaron put his arm around Serena’s slim waist, pulling her away. “Excuse us,” he responded in a patronizing whisper, still looking smug in his retarded Harvard sweatshirt. “We’re headed down to that new club on Harrison, in case you want to catch us later.” They waltzed out of the bar, his dreadlocks bouncing and her pale gold hair fanned out over her shoulders, both looking so carefree and careless, it was infuriating.

  “Sorry,” Blair apologized, crossing her ankles daintily as she sat down again. “My friends can be pretty self-absorbed sometimes.”