Don't You Forget About Me (5 page)

She heard her mother calling after her as she clutched her stomach and ran down the hall to her old bedroom. Baby Yale was lying in her white wooden crib, her head topped with a Mohawk of strawberry blond peach fuzz. She smiled delightedly at her big sister as if to say, “What’s all the fuss about?” Blair went over and picked her up, glad to see her chubby little friend after almost a month away. Then she noticed that Yale was wearing a tie-dyed onesie with the words CALIFORNIA DREAMIN’ stenciled on the front of it.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Blair whisked her tiny sister over to the changing table, yanked off the offending article, and replaced it with the adorable pink DKNY onesie she had bought for her at the DKNY flagship store on Madison Avenue. Yale giggled as Blair tickled her in all her favorite spots.

“There.” She dropped the tie-dyed onesie into the airtight Diaper Genie, where it would be lost forever. “Much better!” Yale clung to Blair’s shoulder as Blair carried her over to the celery-colored cashmere throw rug to play with blocks.

At least someone was happy to see her.

s and n’s mission impossible

“So, what have you been doing here all by yourself?” Nate asked. He shook the sand-colored hair from his eyes. Across the elegant burgundy-and-ivory living room, Blair was arguing with her mother, as usual.

“Nothing much.” Serena hoped she didn’t look as nervous as she felt. “Nothing” was the truth—she’d spent the past month doing a whole lot of nothing, bumming around on her couch, wandering the streets of New York aimlessly, iced latte in hand, going to movie theaters alone. Just trying to distract herself from the gnawing, anxious feeling inside her. “You know, hanging out—the usual.” She couldn’t tell Nate what she’d been up to—it was too pathetic. She took a deep breath and wiped her sweaty palms on her cutoff skirt. Why was she so nervous? This was
Nate,
the guy she’d chased around this very living room when she was six because she wanted to wear his new Superman Underoos.

Has anything really changed?

“What about you guys—you’re the ones who went on this big adventure!” Serena looked into Nate’s eyes and edged her fingers closer to his on the settee where they were huddled together. She smiled shyly, her blond hair curling slightly around her temples. She wasn’t trying to flirt, but when it came to Nate, she couldn’t seem to help herself. “Captain Archibald,” she said with a sly smile.

“Don’t
ever
call me that!” he laughed. “Seriously, though, being out on the water all that time was amazing. Sun every day, and the stars at night—you just can’t imagine how great—” “That’s awesome, Natie.” Serena cut him off distractedly. She turned to stare as Blair got up from her seat and stormed out of the living room, holding her stomach with one hand and wiping her face with the other. Throwing a tantrum five minutes after coming home wasn’t exactly unusual for Blair, but Serena wondered if she should she go and check on her friend.
Wait, shouldn’t that be Nate’s job now?
she wondered. Wasn’t checking on your girlfriend kind of a boyfriend thing to do? Serena turned to look at him. He was gazing straight at her, completely oblivious to the fact that Blair—the supposed love of his life—had just run of the living room in tears.What the hell did that mean?

Umm . . . maybe that he’s stoned? Again?

“So,” Serena started again, focusing her gaze on the gray Abercrombie T-shirt Nate had had for as long as she could remember—anything to avoid looking up into his glittering green eyes. She shuffled her flip-flops against the floor and steeled herself for the question she knew she had to ask, no matter how much the answer hurt. “Did you find—?” “We found so much cool shit.” He grinned widely. “Little sandbar islands, these caves up in Maine—we even saw fucking
puffins
!”

Serena looked up into his beach-glass green eyes, her heart thumping crazily in her chest. She kept replaying Blair’s sudden exit over in her mind. What was she so upset about? Had Nate found the letter and said something to her about it? Or what if Blair had found it and told
him
? Or, worse yet, what if Blair found it and
didn’t
tell him? What if Nate loved her too and that was why he wasn’t running after Blair? Or what if the letter was still nestled in the glove compartment of Nate’s father’s Aston Martin, unread, all her questions unanswered?

“It was really amazing,” he said, speaking slowly, the way Nate always did when he was happy or relaxed or stoned, which was basically all the time. “I didn’t want to come back.” Just looking at his angelic face, she couldn’t stand not knowing what had happened to her letter—not knowing whether or not he knew. She had to say
something.

Serena smiled weakly. “Nate, did you ever find—?” “Just a minute, you two!” Eleanor appeared before them and sat down, wedging her skinny butt between them on the way-too-small-for-three settee. Serena and Nate both inched over—not that they had a choice. It was either move or have Eleanor sit on their laps. She linked one arm through Serena’s and the other through Nate’s, a mischievous look on her face. The overpowering scent of Eleanor’s Chanel No. 5 made Serena feel like she was in a department store.

“I’m so glad to get the two of you alone,” Eleanor whispered conspiratorially, as if they were all planning some kind of top-secret mission. “I’m working on a surprise for Blair for the party. It’s a slide show of Blair’s life—kind of like a-greatest-moments-so-far thing.” She smiled brightly, turning her head back and forth to look at Serena and Nate as she spoke, like she was watching a tennis match. “But the problem is that I don’t really have the time to go through the
thousands
of snapshots of Blair I’ve amassed over the years—and that’s where you two come in!” She squeezed each of their knees with her hands. “I need you to go through this
immense
stack of albums and choose some appropriate photographs. But I’m afraid we’re on a bit of a deadline—I need them by next Friday at the latest.” Serena tried to glance at Nate over Eleanor’s head, but when she leaned back on the couch, Eleanor leaned back too, fanning herself with her hand. “But remember—this has to be a top-secret mission, you two, so no telling Blair!” Eleanor’s loud whisper reverberated off the living room’s paneled walls, and she held her finger up to her mouth.

Hush-hush!

Serena tried not to giggle. Eleanor was terrible at keeping secrets—she always managed to tell her children what they were getting for Christmas
before
she’d even bought their presents. Most likely she’d tell Blair by tomorrow—
if
Blair hadn’t already heard their entire conversation. Nate just nodded mutely. He never said much in Eleanor’s presence: she was far too overwhelming.

“We’d be happy to do it,” Serena answered for the both of them. “And we promise to keep it a secret from Blair.” Yeah. They’re good at that.

a very short engagement

“I am just too pooped to pop!” Dan’s mom stretched her arms overhead and wiggled her butt back and forth on the lumpy brown leather sofa in the living room, her mouth open in a yawn. It was only eight o’clock, and Rufus was at one of his anarchist poet jamborees in the West Village. She looked around, blinking like a sleepy Siamese cat. Her mousy brown hair was sticking out in every direction, and her watery blue eyes were now red and bloodshot. “Jet lag really gets you at my age. And cocktails on the plane are only a temporary fix!”

She looked at Dan and then turned in the direction of the kitchen doorway, where Vanessa was standing, obviously expecting them to say something. Dan sat stonily in the tattered armchair across from his mom, still not sure what to make of her.

“But you kids really shouldn’t be drinking!” She wagged a finger back and forth, apparently unaware that she was chastising them for something
she’d
done. “Although if you want to taste some—just a taste—you just let me know, okay? Because that would be fine. So, where am I sleeping?” she added to her rambling.

Dan attempted to exchange a what-the-hell? glance with Vanessa, but she just stood there, lazily licking the remains of the penis cream puff from her fingers. The contrast of her snowy, white skin against her close-cropped dark hair, the curve of her red lips, her slightly mocking brown eyes—she really was beautiful.

“See?” His mother leaned forward and prodded his knee with her turquoise-embellished fingers. “
She
likes the cream filling.” Dan quickly snapped out of his reverie and stood up. “Um, well, we’re sort of filling up around here. I guess if you want to take my room I could take the couch?” His mother stood up, holding onto her neck with one hand and rubbing furiously. “The
couch
? Don’t be silly. I mean, now that you’re . . . well, you know—” Jeanette broke off, waving her turquoise-laden hands in the air. “I mean,” she began again, “sharing Vanessa’s room shouldn’t be a problem, right? You girls can pillow talk all night!” “Sure, um—yeah—that’s fine,” Dan stammered, glancing over at Vanessa. She looked a little surprised or horrified—or maybe she was just trying to hold in her laughter after hearing Dan called a girl by his own mother.

Jeanette stood on her tiptoes and kissed Dan on the top of his head, mussing his hair. “Dan, dear, do you mind if I use your computer before I go to bed? I just want to send off a few e-mails. Don’t worry, I won’t download any granny porn!” Without waiting for an answer, she flitted toward

Dan’s room, whistling Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive” completely off-key.

Sure,
she’ll
survive. But will Dan?

“Good night, ladies!” they heard her trill as she closed the door to Dan’s room.

Dan swallowed hard, trying to hide his embarrassment. He never would have imagined it possible that four little words—specifically, the ones on his postcard to his sister that read, “Dear Jenny, I’m gay”—could cause so much trouble. He went into the kitchen to find Vanessa, who was now smearing pastry cream on the Formica tabletop, swirling it in intricate designs. If he was really gay, then how come he still thought about running his palms over the prickly hairs of Vanessa’s shaved head, or seeing if the flesh on her stomach was still as soft and warm as bread dough.

“So,
roomie
. Wanna go to bed?” Vanessa raised one eyebrow mischievously, her lips curved into a smirk. Before Dan could answer, Vanessa stepped away from the countertop and walked into Jenny’s old room, her combat boots slapping against the floor.

Dan could hear the snapping of sheets as Vanessa made the bed—something she rarely did. Making the bed. Did that mean she wanted him to come to bed? But it was barely dark out. Maybe she was just tired of the apartment being such a total mess? Dan’s head hurt. It had been a long, long day. He sighed and walked into the room behind her.

“Hey, roomie,” he parroted back to her, grabbing one corner of the sheet and pulling it tight around the mattress. Vanessa let go of her end of the sheet and threw a pillow at his head. Was she
flirting
with him? A fine sheen of sweat coated her face, and her cheeks were flushed, giving her a radiant glow. Dan resisted the urge to crawl across the bed and lightly kiss each apple red cheek.

Right. Sharing a room will be
just like
a girly sleepover. Dan waited to see what Vanessa would do next, but then a shrill buzzing sound came from her pocket, startling them both. He still wasn’t used to Vanessa having a cell phone—she’d gotten one shortly after moving in with the Humphreys so she could pay her own bill. Probably a good thing, since Rufus was not known for his skill at relaying messages. Usually he left sticky notes on the fridge that read, A GUY CALLED, and then the time of the call, to the minute—like that was helpful.

Vanessa dug for her phone, not all that thrilled with the interruption. Flirting with Dan was so fun now that he was supposedly gay. She flipped open her phone. “Hello?” “Lil’ sis!” “Ruby?!” Vanessa hadn’t spoken to her sister since she returned from Prague and kicked her out. Fun times. So why was she calling now?

“What’s up, girl!?” Ruby yelled, sounding uncharacteristically manic. “God, it’s great to hear your voice!” “Um, you too. What’s going on?” Vanessa tried to keep her voice neutral, but she was still mad as hell at her sister and wasn’t about to forgive her without first receiving some serious ass-kissing. She crossed her arms over her chest, waiting for Ruby’s apology. Maybe she and Piotr had broken up and she wanted Vanessa to move back to Williamsburg and into her old room. She could almost smell the sweet, burnt scent of the sugar factory directly across the street from their apartment. Soon she’d be having breakfast at Eat and late-night coffee at Diner surrounded by pale, skinny boys with hair that looked like it had been cut with a butter knife, her days of decoding Dan’s flip-flopping sexuality finally over. . . .

“Listen, V, I’m sorry I’ve been out of touch for so long, but I’ve just been really busy. . . .” Vanessa gripped the receiver with one hand and stuffed a pillow back into its case with the other. Right. She’d probably been busy holding Piotr’s
brush
. Ick. Vanessa shivered at her own perverted thought and threw the pillow onto the almost-made bed. Dan sat on the end of the bed, eavesdropping and examining his fingernails in a typically gay way.

“Piotr’s working on a new series of paintings and he’s been using me as a model—I can’t wait for you to see them.” Scowling at the receiver, Vanessa stomped out of the room. Okay, so Piotr was still in the picture. And presumably he was still using Vanessa’s room as his studio. But maybe Ruby wanted her to move back in anyway: she could get a cot or something. She walked down the long crumbly hallway to the kitchen and began to spoon granules of Folgers into a lumpy yellow ceramic mug Dan’s mom had sent over from Europe ages ago.

“Um, sure, I’ll check the paintings out at some point. . .

.” The last she’d heard about Piotr’s “art,” he’d been doing a series of paintings of “monolithic nudes and their canines.” She pictured a huge canvas of Ruby naked, astride a slobbering German shepherd. Not exactly her idea of “art.” This from the girl who prefers photographs of dead pigeons and spat-out gum?