You Know You Love Me (9 page)

Serena slid open the door to the smaller of the lounges and flopped down on her favorite
blue velvet armchair. She picked up the remote control and pressed the buttons to open the
TV cabinet and turn on the flat-screen TV. She flipped through the channels impatiently,
unable to focus on anything she saw, finally settling on TRL, even though she thought
Carson Daly was the most annoying man alive. She hadnt been watching much TV lately. At
boarding school, her dormmates would make popcorn and hot chocolate and watch Saturday
Night Live or Jackass in their pajamas, but Serena preferred to slip away to drink peach
schnapps and smoke cigars with the boys in the chapel basement.

But what bothered her most now was not Carson Daly or even the fact that she was sitting
alone in her house with nothing to do, but the thought that she might spend the rest of
her life doing just that watching TV alone in her parents apartmentif she didnt get her
act together and get into college! Why was she so stupid? Everyone else seemed to have
their shit together. Had she missed the all-

important its time to get your shit together talk? Why hadnt anyone warned her? Well,
there was no point in freaking out. She still had time. And she could still have fun. She
didnt have to become a nun just because she was joining the Interschool Drama Club, or
whatever.

Serena clicked the TV off and wandered into the kitchen. The van der Woodsens kitchen was
massive. Glass cabinets lined the walls above gleaming, stainless-steel counter tops.
There were two restaurant stoves and three Sub-Zero refrigerators. An enormous
butcher-block table stood in the center of the kitchen, and on the table was todays pile
of mail.

Serena picked up the mail and sifted through it. Mostly, there were invitations for her
parentswhite square envelopes printed with old-fashioned typefacesto balls, benefit
dinners, fundraisers, and auctions. Then there were the art openingspostcards with a
picture of the artists work on one side and the details of the opening on the back. One of
these caught Serenas eye. It had obviously been lost in the mail for a little while,
because it looked beaten up, and the opening it announced was beginning at 4 P.M. on
Wednesday, which was . . . right now. Serena flipped the card over and looked at the
picture of the artists work. It looked like a close-up black-and-white photograph of an
eye, tinted with pink. The title of the work was Kate Moss. And the name of the show was
Behind the Scene. Serena squinted at the picture. There was something innocent and
beautiful about it, and at the same time it was a little gross. Maybe it wasnt an eye. She
wasnt sure what it was. It was definitely cool, though. There was no question about it;
Serena knew what she was doing for the next two hours.

She flew into her bedroom, whipped off her maroon uniform, and pulled on her favorite pair
of black leather jeans. Then she grabbed her coat and called the elevator. Within minutes
she was stepping out of a taxi in front of the Whitehot Gallery downtown in Chelsea.

The minute she got there, Serena grabbed a free gin martini and signed the guest list. The
gallery was full of twenty-something hipsters in cool clothes, drinking free martinis and
admiring the photographs hanging on the walls. Each picture was similar to the one on the
postcard, that same close-up black-and-white eye, blown up, all in different shapes and
sizes and tinted with different colors. Under each one was a label, and on every label was
the name of a celebrity: Kate Moss, Kate Hudson, Joaquin Phoenix, Jude Law, Gisele
Bundchen, Cher, Eminem, Christina Aguilera, Madonna, Elton John.

French pop music bubbled out of invisible speakers. The photo-

artists themselves, the Remi brothers, identical twin sons of a French model and an
English duke, were being interviewed and photographed for Art Forum, Vogue, W, Harpers
Bazaar, and the New York Times.

Serena studied each photograph carefully. They werent eyes, she decided, now that she was
looking at them blown up. But what were they? Belly buttons? Suddenly Serena felt an arm
around her waist.

Hello, ma ch�rie. Beautiful girl. What is your name? It was one of the Remi brothers. He
was twenty-six years old and five foot seven, the same height as Serena. He had curly
black hair and brilliant blue eyes. He spoke with a French and British accent. He was
dressed head to toe in navy blue, and his lips were dark red and curved foxily up at the
corners. He was absolutely gorgeous, and so was his twin brother. Lucky girl. Serena didnt
resist when he pulled her into a photograph with him and his brother for the New York
Times Sunday Styles section. One brother stood behind Serena and kissed her neck while the
other knelt in front of her and hugged her knees. Around them, people watched greedily,
eager to catch a glimpse of the new it girl. Everyone in New York wants to be famous. Or
at least see someone who is so they can brag about it later. The New York Times society
reporter recognized Serena from parties a year or so back, but he had to be sure it was
her. Serena van der Woodsen, right? he said, looking up from his notepad. Serena blushed
and nodded. She was used to being recognized. You must model for us, one of the Remi
brothers gasped, kissing Serenas hand. You must, the other one agreed, feeding her an
olive. Serena laughed. Sure, she said. Why not? Although she had no idea what she was
agreeing to. One of the Remi brothers pointed to a door marked Private across the gallery.
Well meet you in there, he said. Dont be nervous. Were both gay. Serena giggled and took a
big gulp of her drink. Were they kidding? The other brother patted her on the bottom. Its
all right darling. Youre absolutely stunning, so youve got nothing to worry about. Go on.
Well be there in a minute. Serena hesitated, but only for a second. She could keep up with
the likes of Christina Aguilera and Joaquin Phoenix. No problem. Chin up, she headed for
the door marked Private. Just then, a guy from the Public Arts League and a woman from the
New York Transit Authority came over to talk to the Remi brothers

about a new avant-garde public art program. They wanted to put a Remi brothers photograph
on the sides of buses, in subways, and in the advertising boxes on top of taxis all over
town. Yes, of course, the Remis agreed. If you can wait a moment, well have a brand new
one. We can give it to you exclusively!

Whats this one called? the Transit Authority woman asked eagerly. Serena, the Remi boys
said in unison.

I found a printer who will do it by tomorrow afternoon and hand deliver each of the
invitations so they get there by Friday morning, Isabel said, looking pleased with herself
for being so efficient. But look how expensive it is. If we use them, then were going to
have to cut costs on other things. See how much Takashimaya is charging us for the flowers?

As soon as they were finished with their Wednesday after-school activities, the Kiss on
the Lips organizing committee had convened over French fries and hot chocolate in a booth
at the 3 Guys Coffee ShopBlair, Isabel, Kati, and Tina Ford, from the Seaton Arms Schoolto
deal with the last-minute preparations for the party.

The crisis at hand was the fact that the party was only nine days away, and no one had
received an invitation yet. The invitations had been ordered weeks ago, but due to a
mix-up the location of the party had to be changed from The Parka hot new restaurant in
lower Chelseato the old Barneys building on Seventeenth Street and Seventh Avenue,
rendering the invitations useless. The girls were in a tight spot. They had to get a new
set of invitations out, and fast, or there wasnt going to be a party at all.

But Takashimaya is the only place to get flowers. And it really doesnt cost much. Oh, come
on, Blair, think how cool theyll be, Tina whined. Yes, it does, Blair insisted. And there
are plenty of other places to get flowers.

Well, maybe we can ask the peregrine falcon people to pitch in, Isabel suggested. She
reached for a French fry, dunked it in ketchup, and popped it into her mouth. Theyve
barely done anything.

Blair rolled her eyes, and blew into her hot chocolate. Thats the whole point. Were
raising money for them. Its a cause. Kati wound a lock of her frizzy blond hair around her
finger. What is a peregrine falcon anyway? she said. Is it like a woodpecker? No, I think
theyre bigger, Tina said. And they eat other animals, you know, like rabbits and mice and
stuff.

Gross, Kati said.

I just read a definition of what one was the other day, Isabel mused. I cant remember
where I saw it. GossipGirl.net, perhaps? Theyre almost extinct, Blair added. She thumbed
through the list of people they were inviting to the party. There were three hundred and
sixteen all together. All young peopleno parents, thank God. Blairs eyes were
automatically drawn to a name toward the bottom of the list: Serena van der Woodsen. The
address given was her dorm room at Hanover Academy, in New Hampshire. Blair put the list
back down on the table without correcting Serenas address. Were going to have to spend the
extra money on the printer and cut corners where we can, she said quickly. I can tell
Takashimaya to use lilies instead of orchids and forget about the peacock feathers around
the rims of the vases.

I can do the invitations, a small, clear voice said from behind them. For free. The four
girls turned around to see who it was. Oh look, its that little Ginny girl, Blair thought.
The ninth grader who did the calligraphy in our school hymnals.

I can do them all by hand tonight and put them in the mail. The materials are the only
cost, but I know where to get good quality paper cheap, Jenny Humphrey said. She did all
our hymnals at school, Kati whispered to Tina. They look really good.

Yeah, Isabel agreed. Theyre pretty cool. Jenny blushed and stared at the shiny linoleum
floor of the coffee shop, waiting for Blair to make up her mind. She knew Blair was the
one who mattered. And youll do it all for free? Blair said, suspiciously. Jenny raised her
eyes. I was kind of hoping that if I did the invites, maybe I could come to the party? she
said. Blair weighed the pros and cons in her mind. Pros: The invitations would be unique
and best of all, free, so they wouldnt have to skimp on the flowers. Cons: There really
werent any. Blair looked the Ginny girl up and down. Their cute little ninth-grade helper
with the huge chest. She was a total glutton for punishment, and shed be totally out of
place at the party . . . but who cared? Sure, you can make yourself an invitation. Make
one for one of your friends, too, Blair said, handing the guest list over to Jenny. How
generous. Blair gave Jenny all the necessary information, and Jenny dashed out of the
coffee shop breathlessly. The stores would be closing soon, and she didnt have much time.
The guest list was longer than shed anticipated, and shed have to stay up all night
working on

the invitations, but she was going to the party; that was all that mattered. Just wait
until she told Dan. He was going to freak. And she was going to make him come with her to
the party, whether he liked it or not.

Two martinis and three rolls of Remi brothers film later, Serena jumped out of a cab in
front of Constance and ran up the stairs to the auditorium, where the interschool play
rehearsal had already begun. As always, she was half an hour late.

The sound of a Talking Heads song being played jauntily on the piano drifted down the
hallway. Serena pushed open the auditorium door to find her old friend, Ralph Bottoms III,
singing Burning Down the South, to the tune of Burning Down the House, with a completely
straight face. He was dressed as Rhett Butler, complete with fake mustache and brass
buttons. Ralph had gained weight in the last two years, and his face was ruddy, as if hed
been eating too much rare steak. He was holding hands with a stocky girl with curly brown
hair and a heart-shaped faceScarlett OHara. She was singing too, belting out the words in
a thick Brooklyn accent.

Serena leaned against the wall to watch, with a mixture of horror and fascination. The
scene at the art gallery hadnt fazed her, but thisthis was scary. When the song ended, the
rest of the Interschool Drama Club clapped and cheered, and then the drama teacher, an
aged English woman, began to direct the next scene.

Put your hands on your hips, Scarlett, she instructed. Show me, show me. Thats it. Imagine
youre the teen sensation of the Civil War South. Youre breaking all the rules! Serena
turned to gaze out the window and saw three girls get out of a cab together on the corner
of Ninety-third and Madison. She squinted, recognizing Blair, Kati, and Isabel. Serena
hugged herself, warding off the strange feeling that had been stalking her since shed come
back to the city. For the first time in her entire life, she felt left out.

Without a word to anyone in the drama clubHello? Goodbye! Serena slipped out of the
auditorium and into the hallway outside. The wall was littered with flyers and notices and
she stopped to read them. One of the flyers was for Vanessa Abramss film tryout. Knowing
Vanessa, the film was going to be very serious and obscure, but it was better than
shouting goofy songs and doing the Hokey-Pokey with fat, red-faced Ralph Bottoms III.
Vanessas tryout had started an hour ago, on a bench in Madison Square Park, but maybe it
was still going on. Once again, Serena found herself

running for a cab, headed downtown.

This is how I want you to do it, Vanessa told Marjorie Jaffe, a sophomore at Constance and
the only girl who had shown up to try out for the role of Natasha in Vanessas film.
Marjorie had curly red hair and freckles, a little pug nose, and no neck. She chewed gum
incessantly, and she was completely, nightmarishly, wrong for the part. The sun was
setting, and Madison Square Park was basked in a pretty pink glow. The air had the
distinct smell of New York in autumn, a mixture of smoking fireplaces, dried leaves,
steaming hot dogs, dog pee, and bus exhaust. Daniel was lying on his back on the park
bench the way Vanessa had told him to, a wounded soldier, with his limbs sprawled out
pathetically. Wounded in war and in love, he was tragically pale and thin and
rumpled-looking. A little glass crack pipe lay on his chest. Lucky Vanessa had found it on
the street in Williamsburg that weekend. It was the perfect prop for her sexily damaged
prince. Im going to read Natashas lines. Watch carefully, she told Marjorie. Okay Dan,
lets go. Havent you been asleep? Vanessa-as-Natasha said, peering at Dan-as-Prince Andrei.
No, I have been looking at you for a long time. I knew by instinct that you were here. No
one except you gives me such a sense of gentle restfulness . . . such light! I feel like
weeping from very joy, Dan-as-Prince Andrei said quietly. Vanessa knelt at his head, her
face radiant with solemn delight. Natasha, I love you too dearly! More than all the world!
Dan gasped, trying to sit up and then sinking back on the bench as if in pain. He said he
loved her! Vanessa grabbed his hand, her face flushed red at the thrill of it. She was
completely caught up in the moment. Then she remembered herself, let go of Dans hand, and
stood up. Now your turn, she told Marjorie. Kay, Marjorie said, chewing her gum with her
mouth open. She pulled the scrunchy out of her wiry red hair and fluffed it up with her
hand. Then she knelt down by Dans bench and held up the script. Ready? she asked him. Dan
nodded. Havent you been asleep? Marjorie said, batting her eyes flirtatiously and cracking
her gum. Dan closed his eyes and said his line. He could get through this without laughing
if he kept his eyes closed. Halfway through the scene, Marjorie put on a fake Russian
accent. It