You know how in the women’s magazines we pretend not to read, there are always articles titled “Get a Guy by the Fourth of July” or “Ten Steps for Perfect Skin”? I’m not promising anything. It’s not like we can erase the past, so if you did commit a faux pas, you’re going to have to live with that for years to come. But if you do what I say, maybe you won’t have to eat lunch hiding out in a bathroom stall for the rest of your high school career.
1. Find a member of the opposite sex and start a hot-and-heavy relationship—very publicly. There’s no better way to make people forget one juicy piece of gossip than by giving them another to talk about.
2. Damage-control your style. Keep wearing whatever you’re wearing—originality is key—but always keep some standards. Make sure you always smell good (there’s plenty of room for deodorant in your locker!) and have great shoes, even if you’re wearing mom’s seventies castoffs.
3. Party like a rock star. Become the person everyone wants to hang out with. That shouldn’t be too hard, right?
And speaking of partying, we have two soirees on our hands. Inquiring minds want to know which one I’ll be attending. Well, just like buying a beachfront bungalow on St. Barths, it’s all about location. Throwing a bash at a club gets you attention, but do you honestly really care if the kids in Duluth, Minnesota, are jealous of you because they saw the pics on Gawker? Remember, the Internet doesn’t forget, so sometimes discretion is key. Then again, you’re pretty much guaranteed that someone will end up hooking up on your bed. The best of both worlds would be, of course, to throw your bash at an exclusive hotel that hasn’t yet opened to the public. Never-been-slept-on beds with five-hundred-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets, a fully stocked bar, and no rules? Does it get any better?
In a word: no. Which is why the ever-crafty J has scored the above option—at the most talked about complex in New York. It’s an all-green building complete with recycled-rainwater waterfalls in all rooms. Going green has never been hotter. Count me in!
And count one homespun New England girl out. Iced tea and spectacular architecture can’t compete with eco-chic. A better forget about her party and hope for an invite to J’s. Or she could just console herself with a nice cup of tea. . . .
Sightings
R in the self-help section of the Barnes & Noble on Eighty-sixth, reading You Just Don’t Understand: Women and Men in Conversation. I could make myself available if he needs an interpreter. . . . A and S in the computer lab. Looking up lesbo porn, you two . . . ? B on the Greyhound to Boston. Leaving so soon? Who’s going to walk the dogs . . . ? The pierced, tattooed S again at Toys in Babeland at a “Literate Smut: How to Read Erotica” lecture. Sounds educational!
your e-mail
Dear GG,
Why are you always hating on A? Are you J? Or B? Actually, I heard N spent some time in Nantucket this summer. I bet you’re just a scorned lover and that’s why you have it in for A. Even if you’re not, it’s weird that you don’t mention all those people you were so obsessed with for so long.
—Curious
Dear C,
Sorry to disappoint, but I am neither J, B, nor N. And while I’ll always have a special place in my heart for N and his glittering green eyes, I’ve got two new obsessions: R and O. Keep up, people. Times change.
—GG
Dear Gossip Girl,
I live on the West Side and I was taking the bus home late from a study session and I saw this group of preppy guys with bizarre facial hair sprinting across the transverse toward the duck pond. What the hell?
—Study Girl
Dear SG,
You were at a study group till late? It’s the first week of school! Unless you’re studying the anatomy of a specific male, you need to lighten up or it’ll be a loooooong school year. As for what you saw . . . well, it is almost a full moon, so it’s either werewolves or some lame sports-team initiation. Next time, ditch the study session and investigate!
—GG
Dear Gossip Girl,
I just moved to the city with my three kids, and I’ve hardly seen them since I got here. Back in my day, we were going out to Studio 54 and hanging out with Andy Warhol and the rest of the Factory—making art! Now everyone just seems to be running around, trying to hook up with each other. Where’s the creation?
—KEEPTHEARTINHEART
Dear KTAIH,
Don’t be so down on our generation. We put our hookups on the Internet so other people can watch. Life as art is very hot.
—GG
Dear GG,
I’m having a party this weekend. Want to come? Everyone else is coming and I’m going to have a Dance Dance Revolution competition.
—PARTAYLIKEAROCKSTAR
Dear PARTAY,
Tempting, but I think my social calendar is a little bit full this weekend. From what my sources tell me, there’s not one but two great parties shaping up that I simply must attend. Good luck at the competition.
—GG
Oops, I’m late for my ginger-rub massage at Bliss. Keeping up with you people is exhausting! See some of you (all the important ones, anyway) at the super-exclusive party at the most luxurious new property in Tribeca. Hint: I won’t be wearing super-tight pants, a cowboy hat, or toting any furry friends.
You know you love me,
gossip girl
If Not Now, When?
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: Friday, September 12, 3:00 p.m
Subject: Now?
O Waxes On Love . . . and Other Things
“You ready?” Rhys came over to the row of lockers after swim practice on Friday. He was fully dressed, his brown leather Tumi messenger bag slung over his shoulder. Owen furtively slid his iPhone back into his pocket. He’d just received an e-mail from Kat, and even his fingertips were tingling just thinking about her. “I made an appointment for us,” Rhys said mysteriously.
“Okay.” Owen raised his blond eyebrows suspiciously, remembering their stakeout from the other day. He instinctively looked at Rhys’s bag, as if expecting to see a starchy seventies suit or a bushy fake mustache peeking out through the zipper.
“So, my times this week have sucked,” Rhys began, pausing when he saw Chadwick and Hugh walking out of the locker room together. Chadwick’s mustache seemed to have irritated the oozing crop of acne by his nose, and Hugh’s bushy beard made him look like a brown-haired version of the fisherman on the frozen fish sticks box.
Come on, who doesn’t love a guy in foul weather gear?
“Man, I’ve gotta break the streak.” Hugh lewdly stroked his beard and glared at Rhys. “Dude, if you don’t hook up with a chick, I’ll do it for you. I’m serious.” He widened his eyes crazily.
“It’ll happen, man. ” Rhys nodded confidently.
Owen smiled inwardly. Atta boy. The power of positive thinking.
“Anyway,” Rhys continued once Hugh and Chadwick were out of earshot, “I think for Coach to take me seriously as captain I need to streamline a little bit.” He whispered, as if he were relaying top-secret information.
Owen wondered if he was talking about one of those weird diets Avery was always on, like the one where she had to only drink water with cayenne pepper and lemon juice for a week, but then got so hungry that she went to the Nantucket Bake Shop, bought a Boston cream pie, and ate the whole thing.
“Would you go waxing with me?” Rhys asked as they walked out of the Ninety-second Street Y and into the sticky late-afternoon heat. “I’m really sucking right now, and I’m thinking the hair is really slowing me down,” he added. Owen stopped in his tracks. He knew some guys liked to shave before big meets at the end of the season, but during the first week of practice? And waxing? It sounded really painful.
“This place is supposed to be really good.” Rhys pulled out a wrinkled pamphlet from his messenger bag and handed it to Owen. “The results last for up to four weeks without any stubble,” he explained,
sounding like he was quoting the purple and pink paper in Owen’s hand. “It’s much better than shaving.”
“Don’t you mean much gayer than shaving?” Owen retorted. Using fruity products in the shower was one thing, but actually paying money for a service that sort of sounded like torture made Owen seriously uncomfortable.
“I’ll treat you,” Rhys pleaded. Owen paused. It wasn’t like he had anything else to do this afternoon, and hanging out with Rhys would keep him from giving in and seeing Kat. God, being good was hard.
And being bad is so much more fun.
Owen rolled his eyes but found himself softening. “Okay, fine. But if you start waxing your eyebrows or getting facials, I’m going to have to stage an intervention,” he said with a smirk. He glanced at Rhys’s even complexion and realized that Rhys probably did get facials.
“Dude, this isn’t about upkeep, this is about swimming,” Rhys protested, taking the flyer from Owen and putting it back into his bag as they walked south down Lexington.
“Whatever you say,” Owen agreed good-naturedly. He noticed two girls walking down the street wearing white polo Seaton Arms uniforms and elbowed Rhys sharply.
“Great,” Rhys nodded, smiling. He didn’t even notice the girls, who had paused on the other side of the street, waiting to cross.
Owen shook his head. He was hopeless.
“I made us appointments for three-thirty, so we should probably take a cab.” Rhys stepped off the curb and boldly flagged one down. He gave the cabbie a Midtown address. Owen slid in beside him and looked at his arms thoughtfully. He had never really noticed his arm-hair before. It was white blond and pretty inoffensive.
“Here we are,” Rhys said, sliding out of the cab and handing the driver a twenty. “Keep the change,” he muttered as they walked through the doors of the J. Sisters Salon.
“You have appointment?” A stern-looking woman in her sixties surveyed them. Her hair was pulled back so tightly her eyes looked as if they were going to pop out.
“Yes, the name is Sterling,” Rhys announced confidently. Wordlessly the woman gestured behind her to a tiny lilac and pink waiting room.
They took seats on the petal pink leather couch and Owen flipped through magazines, glancing at W while they waited for Rhys to be called in. The couch was incredibly comfortable, and Owen felt surprisingly relaxed. No wonder girls loved going to the spa. They were playing the same type of relaxing, flowy, Enya-type music his mother listened to while doing yoga, and the air smelled great: a combination of lavender and cinnamon.
“Ricey?” a tiny, strong-looking Brazilian woman in a blue uniform demanded in a lilting voice, poking her head into the room. Her forearms were huge, as if she could bench-press two hundred, easy.
“Go get ’em, honey,” Owen called as Rhys followed her into one of the waxing rooms. He looked down at his Adidas slides and noticed a patch of thick, curly brown hair on his big toe. He experimentally tugged at one of the longer ones and was surprised at how much it hurt. Thank God he was only there for moral support.
“Are you done with that?” A tall brunette with her hair cut in a cool, asymmetrical bob that skimmed her chin gestured toward the magazine in Owen’s hand. Owen looked up and realized they were the only two people in the waiting room. She stood above him, and Owen’s eyes were immediately drawn upward to her chest. She was pretty, with toned, volleyball-player arms and a graceful collarbone. Not to mention some really terrific boobs.
“Of course,” he said, handing her the issue of W.
“Thanks.” The girl took the magazine and sat down next to him, her tanned calf briefly grazing Owen’s hairy leg. Owen pulled back self-consciously.
“Do you come here often?” She raised one perfectly groomed eyebrow at Owen suggestively. One of her eyes was blue and the other was brown, but it somehow made her look quirky and cute rather than freakish.
“No, I’m just here with my buddy, Rhys. We’re on a swim team,” Owen explained. She would be cuter if her hair weren’t hanging in her eyes, he decided.
“Really?” she asked, a smile playing on her coral lips. She pushed her hair back from her face as if reading his mind. “So what does that mean?”
“Well, the extra hair can kind of slow you down in a race,” Owen began. “So if you want to get faster, you can shave off a ton of time by streamlining,” he parroted back Rhys’s explanation.
“That’s fascinating!”
Owen couldn’t tell if she kidding or not. He tried to imagine himself kissing her, his lips pressed against her coral ones, but couldn’t. He heard a riiiiiip sound from the other room, and that’s when it came to him: he should try to hook her up with Rhys. It was perfect—they could go waxing together.
The couple that waxes together stays together.
Owen smiled and turned on the charm. “Yeah,” he said. “It was Rhys’s idea. He’s an amazing swimmer. He’s the captain of our team,” Owen announced proudly.
“Captain, huh? What school? I go to Darrow,” She named the small, redbrick hippie school down in the village where seniors were taught in the same classroom as kindergartners. Edie had been raving about it until Avery found their crappy college placement list online. Only one kid had gone to an Ivy League school in the last five years.
The girl stuck out her hand and tucked her legs behind her on the violet couch. “I’m Astra. Astra Hill.”
“Owen Carlyle. Nice to meet you,” he said. “And it’s not like he’s some dumb jock. He’s fucking brilliant. Like, probably the smartest guy I’ve ever met,” Owen went on randomly. He was thrilled to see a flicker of interest in Astra’s mismatched eyes.
“How long have you known him?” she asked. With the soft music playing in the background and their hips practically touching on the cozy velvet couch, it felt like they were on a date at one of those restaurants that seated couples side by side.
Owen thought back. “About a week.” He self-consciously touched the scruff of beard he was growing in solidarity with Rhys. “It seems like so much longer.”
“God, you must really like him,” Astra noted, looking a little disappointed. “Do people know?”
“Know what?” Owen was confused.
“About you guys?”
“I guess so,” Owen said in confusion, not sure what she meant. Behind the desk the receptionist was flipping through a magazine and surreptitiously listening to their conversation.
“That’s great,” Astra said. “You know, I always thought these Upper East Side schools were so snobby and limited, but that shows that there’s really hope. Maybe you guys could come speak to our Queer and Questioning group over at Darrow. We’re always looking for people to share their experiences.” She nodded encouragingly.
“Sorry?” Owen asked. He’d been distracted by Astra’s cleavage busting out of her yellow sundress.
For research purposes only.
“I mean, I just thought that St. Jude’s might not want to have such an out and proud couple leading the swim team. But I think that’s great!” She sounded like she was praising a three-year-old for having done an exceptionally good job at putting his shoes on the right feet. She took his hand and squeezed it. “I call myself flexual, because I don’t want to label my sexuality and possibly limit an experience. You know, I really admire your bravery. . . .” Astra trailed off, looking searchingly at Owen’s face.
“Oh, it’s . . . we’re not . . . gay!” Owen stammered, feeling the tips of his ears turn red against his white blond hair.
“Oh,” Astra said. She flopped back against the velvet seat and let go of Owen’s hand.
“But . . . I mean . . . Rhys has a lot of feminine qualities.” Owen tripped over the words. He meant that if Astra wanted a gay boyfriend, Rhys was even better than a gay boyfriend because he was, well, not. It just didn’t make sense when he tried to say it out loud.
“What do you mean?” Astra asked, her words clipped.
“I mean, he’s just my buddy,” Owen said, decidi
ng to fall back on the truth. “Rhys just got out of a long-term relationship so he’s a little fragile.”
“Oooh, that’s terrible,” Astra cooed earnestly. “Why did they break up?”
“Oh, just the usual. They, uh, wanted different things.” Owen tugged at the collar of his white-collared shirt. The room suddenly felt twenty degrees hotter. There was a stifled cry from one of the back rooms. He hoped Rhys was okay in there.
“Are you single?” Astra raised her eyebrows suggestively.
“Nope. I mean, not really. One of those complicated situations.” He could feel Astra’s eyes boring into him. Lock it in, Carlyle, Owen thought as he willed himself not to think about Kat’s curvy body in his arms. He had to talk Rhys up so this Astra chick would forget about her flexuality and realize that Rhys had everything she wanted—in one convenient package!
Somebody’s got a calling in online dating profiles.
“Rhys could have any girl he wanted, but he’s just a one-woman guy,” Owen continued. It was so awkward to pitch another guy’s great qualities. He really did sound kind of gay.
“I like that. A one-heart, one-love man.” Astra nodded in approval.
Rhys emerged from the waxing room, looking completely pale, his skin blotchy under the lopsided, Super Mario–style stubble that stood out against the head-to-toe smoothness of the rest of his skin.
“I just need to sit down.” He collapsed in the seat next to Owen. “And drink a bottle of hundred-proof vodka.” He smiled weakly, not noticing Astra.
“Your friend is a big baby,” the waxer said disgustedly, pointing at Rhys and handing him a small patterned Dixie cup of water from the cooler in the corner. “But look at the improvement!” She pulled up his white Lacoste polo to reveal red, perfectly hairless skin on his chest, then slapped him, creating a painful white hand mark. Owen winced.
“Oh, poor baby,” Astra cooed. “Want to come with me to Pinkberry? It’s important to have a positive sensation after a negative one, you know?” Rhys smiled at Owen, and Owen gave him a discreet thumbs-up.
The Carlyles Page 15