The Carlyles

by Cecily von Ziegesar

  Sightings

  A standing outside Constance Billard with a very scruffy O, staging a party-publicity blitz. Is he the party favor? Seems like a good strategy to me . . . Her classmates G, SJ, and J, sans their auburn-haired leader, staring at O hungrily. Down, girls . . . ! B buying a chai latte from Starbucks and promptly throwing it away. Have something better in mind? . . . J practicing her grand battements in Central Park, looking like she wanted to kick someone. Hard . . . R with an awkward goatee and a molester-mustache, trying not to cry. I know bad hair can be traumatizing, but really!

  your e-mail

  Dear GG,

  So, my girlfriend says she’s an academic lesbian, and she makes me wear shirts that say things like MY GOAL IN LIFE IS TO KICK THE PATRIARCHY’S ASS. It kind of makes me uncomfortable. What should I do?

  —Emo Boy

  Dear EB,

  If you’re into her, I say, wear ’em with pride, even though personally, I think all T-shirts with slogans should be outlawed. And maybe you should start picking out a few T-shirts for her to wear. I like MY GOAL IN LIFE IS TO EMASCULATE MY BOYFRIEND. It has a certain ring to it, doesn’t it?

  —GG

  Dear GGI,

  I’m calling you Gossip Girl Impostor, GGI, because I don’t think you’re the real thing. First of all, it’s weird that you say you’re still around, because I’m pretty sure I know who the real Gossip Girl is and she is off at college. You even sound different. Are you, like, her little sister or something? Did she hand the job over to you? Or did you steal her computer? I bet you kidnapped the real Gossip Girl, and she’s tied up in your basement or something creepy like that.

  —Nonbeliever

  Dear NB,

  All I’ll say on the topic is this: people always question whether Shakespeare really penned all the great works attributed to him. But we’ll never know, will we?

  —GG (no I)

  Dear GG,

  This girl in my ballet class has missed the past few classes. She’s, like, supposed to be the next prima ballerina, but now our artistic director is getting so pissed about her attendance that she might get kicked out. I think she probably had a nervy b from the pressure and is holed up somewhere eating cookie dough out of the tube. Do you know what’s going on?

  —Diva to Be

  Dear DtoB,

  Nervy b? Is that ballerina-speak for nervous breakdown? If we’re talking about a gazellelike girl with perfect posture and to-die-for legs, she may be holed up, but I don’t think she’s about to hang up her pointe shoes anytime soon.

  —GG

  Okay, kiddies. I’ve found the perfect antidote to the almost-fall blahs—it’s the Hotel Gansevoort rooftop pool. It’s heated and glass-enclosed, and it’s where I’m planning to spend every afternoon. Stop by and say hi!

  You know you love me,

  gossip girl

  B Runs with the Big Dogs

  Baby made her way to the Cashman Complexes Wednesday after school, looking forward to some alone time with the dogs. Of everyone she’d met in the city, they were by far the most human.

  Because that makes sense.

  She spotted J.P. standing outside the building, his three dogs straining on their leashes. He smiled when he saw Baby, and she walked toward him, bending down to greet the eager pups.

  “Well, they’re all ready for you—they’re so excited, it’s almost as if they knew you were coming.” J.P. smoothed a nearly invisible wrinkle on his olive J.Crew pants. “Mind if I come with you?”

  “Kind of,” Baby countered gruffly, straightening up. She thought getting back to nature with the animals might help her relax, but not if a pretentious tycoon-in-training was following her. She grabbed the three leashes and began walking ahead of him.

  “I’ve just been stressed out recently. I thought hanging out with the mutts might do me good,” J.P. said, walking quickly to match Baby’s stride.

  “They’re not mutts.” Baby glared at him. She wondered what spoiled J.P. could possibly have to stress out about, but she decided not to ask. The sun was already beginning to set, lacing the brilliantly blue September sky with streaks of goldfish-colored orange.

  “So, Baby, how’d you get that name?” J.P. asked as Nemo stopped to sniff an elm tree on the corner of Fifth near the Frick Museum. The dog’s shaggy blond behind twitched eagerly back and forth.

  “Baby of the family,” she began, giving a condensed version of the story, which she hated. Even though Baby was all for happy-go-lucky, anything-can-happen bohemianism, it was always sort of weird that no doctor in Nantucket had figured out how many babies Edie was going to have. “I was an unexpected surprise. I’m a triplet and my mom thought she was having twins. What about you?”

  “My dad worked as a trader at J.P. Morgan Chase after business school,” J.P. admitted.

  Baby stared at him, then burst out laughing.

  “Hey!” J.P. said in mock protest as they crossed into the Park. Ahead of them, the path split in several directions. “I didn’t make fun of your name!”

  “I apologize,” she said contritely, pulling the dogs toward the grass. Darwin lifted a leg to pee, and Nemo crouched to take care of his business too. His butt was dangerously close to J.P.’s Jack Spade sandal.

  “Shit!” Baby yelled automatically, then burst into giggles when she saw a coil of poop land on the shoe’s leather strap.

  “Shit!” J.P. repeated, looking down; then he laughed too. He grimaced as Nemo looked up at him innocently. He slid the sandal off his foot and hobbled to the nearest trash can, next to a green and yellow Sabrett hot dog cart.

  “You didn’t mean it, did you?” Baby cooed down at Nemo as the hot dog vendor glared warily at the drooling dog.

  “I think he did. Nemo has issues with me,” J.P. growled menacingly at the dog, who looked noncommittally back at him with his doleful brown eyes.

  “It’s not all about you.” Baby turned, pulled the dogs back toward the bridle path, then looked back, smiling when she saw J.P. standing helplessly by the trash can with only one shoe.

  “Come on—walking barefoot won’t kill you.” Baby pulled J.P.’s wrist. “As for your dog here, when was the last time he ran?”

  “Ran?” J.P. looked down at Nemo blankly.

  “See, your owner can’t even remember!” Baby said in a playfully accusing voice to Nemo, who seemed to be smiling up at her. She looked over at J.P. “He’s bored! Big dog’s gotta run!”

  Baby marched the dogs toward the fenced-in East Lawn, where people were sunbathing or picnicking, trying to enjoy one of the last warm-weather afternoons. She unhooked Nemo’s leash, and he bounded around the perimeter of the grass, woofing maniacally.

  “See, look!” Baby looked triumphantly at J.P., who was hobbling across the grass, one shoe on, one shoe off.

  “I don’t think dogs are allowed off the leash here,” he said nervously, gesturing at a green and white sign posted on one of the fences surrounding the lawn.

  “Live on the edge!” Baby burst into a run, chasing after Nemo and making barking sounds. J.P. tore off his other sandal and took off after them, stepping on beach blankets as he crossed the lawn. Finally, he cornered Baby and Nemo by an oak tree, where Baby had collapsed, panting, with the drooling dog standing above her.

  “See, that’s the type of workout they want. Not just marching around the block,” Baby grinned up at J.P. The sky looked pretty behind them. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed an overweight pug trying to mount Shackleton. He was panting insanely and looked like his round eyeballs were about to pop out of his fat, smushed face.

  “I think you need to have a girl talk with this one,” J.P. noted, handing Shackleton’s Louis Vuitton leash to Baby. His polo shirt had come untucked and he looked more casual and relaxed than the preppy red shorts–wearing guy Baby had met two days ago.

  “And I think you better start wearing closed-toe shoes,” Baby teased, leaning back against the oak tree. “So why’s a guy like you spending time
with a bunch of dogs, anyway?” she couldn’t help asking. “Don’t you have anybody better to hang out with? Morgan and Stanley? Some possessive girlfriend?”

  J.P. shrugged, and eased down next to Baby by the foot of the tree. “These guys are easy to be around.” He ruffled Nemo’s blond fur. “What about you? Don’t you have anyone better to hang out with?

  “I just moved here, remember?” Baby retorted, pushing a stray lock of wavy brown hair out of her eyes. “Not that there’s anyone here I’d actually want to spend time with,” she muttered. She dug her heel into the grass.

  “Hey,” J.P. said seriously. He leaned back against the tree and his warm brown eyes searched hers. “Give New York a chance.”

  Sounds like he means give him a chance. . . .

  Baby nodded slowly. Now that she was barefoot in the grass, the city seemed almost nice. If it weren’t for the bitchy girls, the awful uniforms, and leaving her boyfriend behind, she might actually like it here.

  Well, well. Look who’s having a change of heart.

  Message in a Bottle

  From: Kelsey.Talmadge@SeatonArms.edu

  To: Owen.Carlyle@StJudes.edu

  Date: Tuesday, September 9, 9:05 p.m

  Subject: Hi

  When can I see you again?

  xo,

  Kat

  From: Owen.Carlyle@StJudes.edu

  To: Kelsey.Talmadge@SeatonArms.edu

  Date: Tuesday, September 9, 9:15 p.m.

  Subject: RE: Hi

  I want to see you too, but it would kill Rhys. I’m so sorry, but . . . we can’t.

  J Takes Care of Business

  On Wednesday evening, Jack stepped demurely out of the Cashmans’ Lincoln Town Car. Jack, J.P., and the Cashmans were headed to a restaurant Dick had just purchased, Round Table. It was on Charles Street, a cozy street in the West Village that, despite having been filled with celebrity families and investment bankers, still retained the feeling of a bohemian and artsy neighborhood. J.P. looked stunning in his tailor-made suit, his brown eyes sparkling and complementing his ocean blue Hermès tie. Jack couldn’t resist leaning into him as they walked in, making sure they were several steps in front of Dick and J.P.’s tacky Russian mom, Tatyana.

  Jack stopped by J.P.’s this afternoon, hoping to spend time with him after not seeing him all week. He’d been out walking the dogs, but Dick had invited her to dinner, and now she was supremely glad she’d gone on a Barneys spree the day before school started, because she still had enough Jill Stuart, Phillip Lim, and Miu Miu to last her through the month.

  Striding confidently down the cobblestone street, with her handsome boyfriend at her side, Jack was feeling better than she had all week. Avery Carlyle had announced today that she was having a second party, but really, Jack couldn’t care less. It was actually getting sort of sad. Jack almost felt bad for her.

  Almost.

  Inside, the restaurant had heavy round oak tables and red leather–covered wing chairs. It looked like the setting for an F. Scott Fitzgerald novel, except for the super-skinny, pouty, all black–wearing waitstaff. They looked like contestants in an episode of America’s Next Top Skinny Bitch.

  The hostess escorted them to the center see-and-be-seen table and presented them with a bottle of Cristal. As Jack took a seat, her Treo vibrated in her emerald green Prada clutch. She slipped it out surreptitiously and glanced at the small screen under the table.

  OMG HAVE YOU SEEN AVE C’S HOT BRO! CHECK IT OUT! read the text from Jiffy. Attached was a picture of an attractive blond guy with strong swimmer shoulders wearing a St. Jude’s uniform. At the bottom was one line: WE TOTES HAVE TO GO TO HER PARTY!!!

  Jack angrily slid her phone back into her clutch. Why the fuck were people so interested in Avery Carlyle and her lame attempts to be popular? There was no way that clueless wannabe even knew what a good party was.

  Jack took a liberal swig of her champagne to try to calm her nerves. The bubbles danced down her throat, and she felt a tingly warmth spread through her. Avery didn’t know what a good party was, but Jack would show her.

  How generous!

  “I’ve decided to have a party this weekend,” Jack said, an idea forming. And then she had another brilliant idea. She was glad she had always been so polite to Dick Cashman, because this was the moment where it would all pay off. Perfect, she chanted to herself.

  “You are?” J.P. asked.

  “Yes. But I don’t know where to have it that will be appropriate. You know, this isn’t just a regular party, it’s to announce my intention to run for student liaison to the board of overseers. It’s a new position at school to uphold private school traditions, so I want somewhere that reflects convention but also modernity.” Jack smiled confidently as she parroted Dick’s new tagline for the Cashman Lofts, a luxury property in Tribeca that was set to open next month. She couldn’t help congratulating herself on her quick thinking. “Cipriani is so overdone, and I don’t want to rent out a club, which seems so sophomoric,” Jack said as she drained her glass of champagne.

  Tatyana nodded absently, blinking her vacant eyes and pretending to listen as she sneaked a whole roll into the small dog carrier. It was incredible that Tatyana and Dick had managed to have a kid who was as good-looking as J.P. Maybe that was why they’d only had one kid—they didn’t want to hedge their bets.

  “Hold on . . . convention and modernity,” Dick said, grabbing half a roll and slathering it with butter, ruining the butter pad’s delicate, flower-shaped design. Dick stuffed the hunk of bread in his mouth and gestured with the knife. “What about the Cashman Lofts?” His eyes gleamed as he snatched up the rest of the baguette.

  “Oh, I couldn’t,” Jack said sweetly as the waitress refilled her champagne glass.

  Yes, she could.

  “It’ll be great publicity. I’d love to have you kids make a splash. What do you think, J.P.?”

  “It’s not my party.” J.P. shrugged and took one of the rolls in the center of the table.

  “It’s our party, J.P.,” Jack giggled, giving Tatyana an aren’t guys silly but we love them anyway look right before she shot J.P. a what the fuck glare. “The lofts sound perfect, Dick.” She smiled, still feeling sort of squeamish uttering his name, even after all these years.

  “Great, so it’s settled!” Dick boomed. “Guess we have lots of things to celebrate, huh? I personally can’t wait to try the steak—they’re supposed to be getting the cows from the Cashman Ranch, but I’ll be the judge to see if those Texas cattle are up to Cashman snuff,” he declared jovially. “So, how many people are coming to this little shindig, anyway?” He gestured to the waitress, who quickly walked over, followed by the chef and his two sous chefs.

  “Oh, you know,” Jack began, not sure if she should lie and say the party was going to be an intimate gathering.

  While Dick and Tatyana proceeded to order everything on the menu, Jack turned to J.P. “You could show a little more interest, you know,” she hissed, annoyed that J.P. was acting so blasé about the party, as if he had better things to do. Did he have better things to do? “And where were you this afternoon, anyway? I’ve hardly seen you this week.”

  J.P.’s eyes shifted guiltily around the restaurant. Finally, they landed on Jack’s manicured fingernails digging into the white linen tablecloth. “I had to walk the dogs. For my mom,” he explained, even though that didn’t really explain anything. Since when did J.P. give a fuck about the fleabags?

  Just then, Darwin bounded out of his Louis Vuitton carrier and tore across the table to Jack, immediately planting a sloppy kiss on her face. The dog lunged at her again, scratching her cheek with an errant Swarovski crystal that was coming loose from his Gucci collar.

  “Oww!” Jack cried. She put a hand to her cheek, shocked when she saw a splotch of blood on her fingers. “J.P.!” she screeched, pushing the dog across the table at J.P. For all Jack knew, she had rivulets of blood gushing down her face.

  “You scared him,” J.P. muttered,
picking up the dog from the top of the table. He cradled him protectively, petting his wrinkled face.

  “I am bleeding,” Jack seethed. People turned to look, waitresses stopped in their tracks, and the head chef stood there looking positively horrified.

  “Oh no,” Tatyana said, fanning herself with a napkin. Jack pulled her own red silk napkin up to her face and held it tightly, in case she was hemorrhaging. She was practically dying while J.P. soothed a stupid dog he’d always said he hated.

  “Aww, hell,” Dick said as the waitress dashed to the back. “Tatyana doesn’t do well with blood. You okay, Jackie, baby?” he asked, coming over to her side of the table.

  “I’m fine,” Jack said through clenched teeth. J.P. wasn’t even looking at her. Instead, he was looking at his mother, who was hyperventilating as if she might faint at any moment.

  “No, you’re not,” Dick retorted, and Jack felt one of his pudgy fingers rest on her skin and his yeasty breath near her face. She felt like she was going to throw up. “Honestly, I can’t stand those fucking dogs myself, although she didn’t mean any harm. It was just one of their damn decorations that Tatyana insists they wear on their collars.” He continued to examine her face. “J.P., could you help Jack clean up? I’ll take care of your mother.”

  “Of course.” J.P. rose from his chair and held his hand out to Jack. He was the perfect gentleman as always, but Jack thought she detected a note of exasperation in his voice.

  Jack’s chair made a loud scraping sound as she pushed it back and held on to J.P.’s hand, gingerly walking to the ladies’ room and smiling at the rest of the restaurant’s patrons. She was injured, but she was going to make it.