Muffy St. Clair took the stage, with Mrs. McLean assisting her every white vintage–Ferragamoed step. She tapped the microphone, which let out a loud screech.
“Welcome, Constance students, alums, and parents, to the annual mother-daughter brunch. To begin the festivities, it is an honor and a privilege to announce the winner for the student liaison to the board of overseers.” Muffy scanned the audience. “Back when Constance Billard was first founded, it prided itself on a tradition of excellence. Constance students are looked to as pillars of grace, poise, and intellect,” she began slowly. People in the crowd resumed muffled talking. Avery covertly took her mother’s mimosa, wanting to get started on numbing the pain before Jack Laurent’s name was called. She took a sip and nearly yakked.
“The student liaison will ensure that this excellence continues long into the future,” Muffy continued. The room became hushed once more. Even the waiters stood back from the tables in anticipation. Mrs. M smiled tightly, anxious to get the brunch over with. Muffy slowly pulled out her reading glasses from her quilted Chanel purse and slid one wrinkled finger under the envelope flap. “And the winner is a name I know all too well.” Avery looked up sharply and saw Jack take her linen napkin from her lap and place it on the table, poised to stand in acceptance.
“Avery Carlyle.” Muffy’s face broke into a broad grin. Avery looked around the silent room, completely stunned. A moment passed, then Edie put her fingers in her mouth and gave a piercing wolf whistle.
Avery stood up and walked to the stage as if in a dream. She looked out into the sea of faces as the crowd murmured and began to clap.
“If you’re half as high-spirited as your grandmother, I’m looking forward to a wonderful year,” Muffy said in a crackly, high-pitched voice and winked at Avery. If she hadn’t been afraid of breaking one of Muffy’s brittle bones, Avery would have hugged her. Instead, she shook her hand vigorously and grabbed the mic. “Thanks!” she squeaked, looking out to the crowd. “I’m thrilled to lead the Constance Billard community!” Then she clattered down the steps, feeling like she was floating.
“Oh my God, congratulations.” Sydney squeezed through the crowd to meet Avery at the side of the makeshift stage and hugged her tightly. “The necklaces? Fucking genius!” Sydney squealed, holding her A = SLOB necklace up. It caught the light from outside, and Avery looked around, noticing similar sparkles from every table. “You made such an exit last night. You’re a fucking rock star!”
Avery squeezed her eyes shut, her hangover suddenly gone. This wasn’t a dream. Her party had been a success, albeit in a crash-and-burn type of way, and girls were wearing her necklaces. They really did like her! Maybe her stomach could handle one little glass of champagne.
Or a bottle. Keep the rock star image up.
“Congratulations, Avery,” Mrs. M boomed into the microphone.
Jack abruptly scraped her chair back from the table, thinking she might be sick. “What?” she murmured, almost involuntarily.
“I thought they were announcing you for this position, Jacqueline,” her father whispered angrily.
“I—” Jack’s voice came out in a squeak.
“Call me when you’re really ready to stop playing games, Jacqueline. You lied, and I’m disappointed in you.” Her father walked out, nearly colliding with a waiter holding a full tray of champagne. Jack glanced up at Avery, waving to everyone as if she had just been crowned Miss America.
Jack looked around, but no one seemed to be on her side. Even fucking Jiffy was wearing the A = SLOB necklace, half obscured by the ridiculous Hermès scarf she’d tied around her neck. It looked like a weird leash.
This was absurd. Jack got up and stormed out of Tavern on the Green, practically careening into some bagpipe player outside. She made her way out of the park and onto the street, hailing a cab on Central Park West, headed straight to J.P.’s.
MEET ME OUTSIDE YOUR BUILDING, she texted as the cab wove through Central Park to the East Side. She was so mad her hands were shaking. She couldn’t believe she’d lost that stupid position and couldn’t wait for J.P. to console her. At least he wouldn’t disappoint her.
Jack felt calmer and her fingers stopped trembling once she saw J.P. standing outside the massive modern apartment tower. One of his stupid dogs was with him, and he was wearing those ugly critter pants she always made him take off.
“Hey!” Jack called from the cab. “Do you have cash? I forgot my purse.” She gave him a pouty look and watched him fumble through his wallet.
“Here you go,” he mumbled to the cabbie as Jack stepped out of the cab.
“So, what’s going on?” J.P. asked, stifling a small yawn. Jack narrowed her green eyes. What was his problem? She was the one who was tired. Tired of her fucking shitstorm of a life.
“I had a bad morning,” Jack began. “And I don’t understand why you left me alone at that awful party last night,” she whined. “What are you going to do to make it up to me?” She’d meant for the question to sound sexy, but it came out sounding more like a customer relations complaint.
“Actually, I’m sort of busy.” J.P. stepped back, pulling the dog’s leash tight so that it wouldn’t jump all over Jack.
“Doing what?” she asked, looking around. It was 1 p.m. on a Sunday—what could he possibly have to do?
Besides her?
“And why didn’t you answer your phone last night? I’m supposed to be your girlfriend.” Her voice rose several octaves. Did no one care about her?
“Sorry, Jack. This just isn’t a good time—”
“You’re supposed to take care of me!” Jack cut him off, wanting to shove him hard. “You’re supposed to be there for me when I need you.”
“Listen, Jack, we need to talk,” J.P. said, frowning. Behind him, the September sun glinted off the modern building.
“Oh, so you want to talk now? How convenient. Because you know, I wanted to talk to you all last night, after you fucking left the part. . . .” J.P. grabbed her wrists. She glared at him, sure he was going pull her close and put his lips on hers just to shut her up. She was so not in the mood. Or maybe she was. Whatever. But then he didn’t try to kiss her after all.
“I can’t do this anymore,” he said finally, letting her go.
“What?” Jack felt an icy shiver of fear run through her stomach and wondered if she was going to throw up.
“You’re so demanding, and I just can’t do it anymore.” J.P. looked exhausted as he scooped up the dog. It let out a little bark. “Look, I’ve had a long day. You need to just go—we’ll talk more later.” He hailed a cab and held the door open for her. “Here’s money for your fare,” he said, pulling a twenty out and handing it to Jack. She wanted to rip the bill into shreds and throw it back into his face, but she took it. She had to.
“But—”
“But nothing,” J.P. said, closing the door behind her.
Jack didn’t say another word. She felt sad, small, and totally pathetic. As the cab began driving down Fifth, she spotted Baby Carlyle on the corner, wearing one of J.P.’s Riverside Prep T-shirts and walking his two puggles into one of the stone entrances flanking Central Park.
Jack choked back her angry tears as the cab cruised downtown to her tiny garret. She was going to make the Carlyle girls’ lives a living hell.
Because, as we French speakers know, hell is other people.
Three’s Company
Sunday evening, Baby sat on her makeshift hammock on the penthouse terrace wearing a pair of tiny terry cloth shorts and a 1990 Grateful Dead World Tour T-shirt. She gazed up at the dim stars. The sky didn’t look at all like it did in Nantucket, and when she looked south, the stupid Cashman Complex blocked any view of the moon. But in the darkness, and in a totally capitalistic way, the interlocking C’s were almost pretty.
She leaned back again, feeling more exhausted than she ever had. The more she thought about it, the more she couldn’t believe she had stayed with Tom for over a year. She’d thought he w
as authentic, but he was just a player in bong water–soaked clothing. She ran a finger over the thick twine of the hammock. It was weird that her life was so much more disordered now than it had been a week before, yet she felt much calmer.
The door opened, and Owen stepped outside with a six-pack of Coronas. “You want one?” He opened the bottle with his teeth and handed it to her.
“Thanks.” Baby sat up and hugged her knees to her chest.
“Are you okay? You seem a little sad.” He sat down on the hammock next to her, and it sagged under his hundred-and-eighty-pound frame, almost touching the ground.
“I went back to Nantucket yesterday. Tom was with Kendra.” She said it matter-of-factly. It didn’t even hurt to say it.
“Whatever. She’s a total skank,” Owen said knowingly, remembering the time he and Kendra had hooked up in New Hampshire on a freshman ski trip. “And I never really liked Tom that much,” he mused, scratching his almost-full beard.
“It’s okay,” Baby said, leaning back. With his oatmeal-colored socks and pizza crust–filled cottage and homemade bong collection, he was kind of a loser. Why hadn’t she ever noticed it before? “So, did I miss anything here?” Baby asked. She couldn’t believe she had decided to hang out with Tom instead of going to Avery’s first big party and holding her hand during the election. She had been more self-obsessed than Avery ever was.
“Avery got thrown in jail.” Owen shrugged, swigging his beer.
“No way!” Baby breathed in disbelief. She wasn’t sure whether to believe him or not. The image of Avery in jail was sort of funny, though. “Is she okay?”
“Better than ever,” Owen continued, taking out his iPhone. “But apparently they don’t party Nantucket-style here.” He flipped through his photo album until he came to the picture of the red-faced, tear-streaked Avery behind bars. It was so pathetic it was hilarious. Baby burst into laughter. She couldn’t believe she’d missed it.
“Owen, you promised you would destroy that!” Avery screeched, appearing behind them. She grabbed his phone and quickly pressed delete. She was wearing tight blue Nantucket volleyball shorts and Tom’s barn-red sweatshirt. “I was cold,” she said by way of explanation, noting Baby’s look. “It still stinks, though.”
“We broke up. You can have it.” Baby shrugged.
Avery’s eyes widened. Was that what Baby had been doing this weekend?
“So, I thought you had a hot date with that lady police officer tonight?” Owen interrupted. “Y’know, do each other’s hair, give each other tattoos?”
“Shut up,” Avery said good-naturedly as she grabbed a Corona and expertly hit the bottle against the metal railing to open it. “Oh, and I have something for you.” Avery fished in the pocket of her sweatshirt and pulled out the A = SLOB necklace she had saved for Baby. “I won that school leadership thing at school,” she announced, a broad grin spreading across her tanned face. She still couldn’t believe it.
Baby hugged her sister proudly. Avery’s silky, just-washed blond hair cascaded over her tiny shoulders. She deserved to be SLOB or SLBO or whatever the hell it was called. Good for her. Then Baby remembered her three strikes. Would she even be allowed back at Constance?
“I don’t know how to keep up with you two.” Owen leaned back in the hammock, smiling playfully. It felt good to be hanging out with his sisters. There was never this much drama with guys.
Oh, come now. Methinks he doth protest too much.
“Hey, what about you, Goody Two-shoes? Have you even hooked up with a girl since you got here?” Avery demanded, squeezing her butt between her siblings on the hammock. Now that she had the SLBO position, she could once again stick her lightly freckled nose into her siblings’ lives.
“Not yet. Biding my time. You know, doing things the Carlyle way,” Owen replied, not looking at her. He glanced up Fifth Avenue almost longingly.
“Well, your friend was cute,” Avery said, remembering the dark-haired guy Owen had been hanging out with at their party. She took a sip of Corona, then remembered her resolution to detox this week and put it down on the terra cotta–tiled terrace.
“You see, I’ve been spending time making cute friends.” Owen weaseled away from Avery’s investigation.
“Well, I propose a toast.” Baby stood up and lifted her Corona into the air. Avery and Owen stood up beside her. “To New York!”
“To New York!” the Carlyles shouted, their voices echoing in the evening air as they clanked their Coronas against each other.
Hear, hear!
gossipgirl.net
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hey people!
Cheers! So we’ve got a new student liaison, and let’s hope she gets some changes made—like extra free periods and double lunches and triple photography. How else will you find time to go home, hook up, take a shower, and make it back to discuss L’Étranger in AP French? Maybe she can also swing for her sister to get re-enrolled in school . . . or maybe not.
Unfortunately, A doesn’t have all the answers—and you won’t find them in the back of your AP Calculus textbook, either. Here’s what I still want to know:
What’s up with J and J.P.? Are they on a break, Will-and-Kate style, or have the prince and princess on this side of the pond broken up forever? And where does that leave B?
Will R and K reunite? Is O destined to be lonely, or will the lover boy from Nantucket live up to expectations? And is he really just a player, or is he looking for love?
Too bad not everybody’s feeling the love: J is on the warpath. Something tells me A and B better watch their Marni-clad backs. And maybe the rest of us, too . . .
And then the last question: aren’t you glad I stayed? And aren’t you glad you’re along for the ride? It’s going to be another wild and wicked year, and I’ll give you the dirt on everything worth knowing. I give you my word. And you know that’s at least as good as a platinum, no-limit AmEx.
You know you love me,
gossip girl
The Carlyles Page 20