Don't You Forget About Me

by Cecily von Ziegesar

  Serena exhaled a cloud of sweetly scented smoke. “Sometimes I can’t believe we were ever that young.”

  Like they’re so ancient now.

  “I know.” Blair pushed her glossy dark hair off her shoulders. “I can’t believe we’re going to college in a week.” She looked at the group of kids again. Two girls were fighting over a place on the red rope. “I can’t wait to get to Yale and just start over again. Can’t you just picture it?” She closed her eyes, smiling happily as she conjured up the freshly-mowed green grass strewn with fall leaves and ivy-covered brick walls. Ah,Yale. She and Nate were going to move into a cozy colonial house and live happily ever after. They could even have Serena over for dinner sometimes. She’d regale them with stories about the single life, crazy frat parties, and silly hookups followed by morning walks of shame, and Blair and Nate would chuckle and smile at each other across the table, smugly happy that they’d found the one and weren’t out there getting drunk and sloppy.

  Serena closed her eyes too, and tried her best to put herself there, beside Blair and Nate at Yale in the fall. But behind her closed eyelids lay a mass of empty, undefined darkness. She frowned. She couldn’t ignore the fact that every time she tried to imagine her life at college, she wound up drawing a complete blank. She snapped her eyes open and instantly felt comforted by the sight of Fifth Avenue, its sea of yellow taxis heading downtown, the stately green-awninged buildings with their impeccably dressed doormen who wore suits and white gloves no matter how hot it was.

  Blair took a drag from her Galoise. “So, when I was saying I wanted to kill my family before . . . I’m kind of serious this time. They’re moving to L.A. because Cyrus is building some golf course or mall or something putrid that the people out there like. Of course they would leave the city for the fucking natural-disaster capital of the world.” She rolled her eyes, her bitterness starting to creep back in.

  “What?” Serena angled her body toward Blair’s, so that their knees were touching. “Are you serious?” Blair crushed out the cigarette beneath the heel of her leopard-print Repetto ballet flats. “She gave me this whole sob story about how poor baby Yale needed to be raised in a place that had a backyard.” “We didn’t have backyards and we turned out okay,” Serena replied, her normally smooth brow wrinkled in thought. Had they turned out okay? Another group of kids ran up the massive steps, screaming at the top of their lungs.

  “That’s what I said.” Blair threw up her hands in exasperation. “I mean, we had the whole city to play in. Like those kids. They don’t look unhappy.” She gestured toward the group of five-year-olds, who were giggling as they raced each other up the giant stone steps. Blair straightened with a sudden thought. “But actually, maybe I won’t have to kill my family now. Maybe an earthquake will just swallow them up. Except my baby sister, of course. She can stay.” She tried to laugh but couldn’t. Nothing was funny right now.

  If picturing her family dead doesn’t make her happy, maybe she should try something less violent, like meditation.

  “Wow,” Serena observed glumly, twirling a long piece of golden hair around one finger, suddenly feeling sad and serious. She looked out to Fifth Avenue again, just as a bus with the Breakfast at Fred’s ad rolled by. She quickly turned away, not sure why seeing it made her feel jittery and unsettled. “I can’t imagine you anywhere else but right here. I mean, we’ve lived, like, ten blocks away from each other our whole lives.” Blair had always been here in the city, right by her side. Even when they weren’t getting along—which was a lot of the time—it had made her feel better to know that Blair was just half a mile away, sleeping in the room Serena knew so well. What would Thanksgiving or Christmas break be like now with her in California? Or the summers, for that matter? Serena had always thought they’d be together forever, and now she wasn’t so sure. She looked over at Blair, who was deep in thought.

  “So, I told you about how the release date of my movie got pushed up, right? I’m totally stressed about the premiere,” Serena said, deciding to change the subject for both their sakes. She pushed her mass of hair over her shoulder. “There’s a press conference at the Soho House on Tuesday, and I’m really nervous.” Blair turned to her friend and took another swig of cold sweet coffee. Serena certainly hadn’t told her the release date had been moved up, but that explained why she’d seen her face and the words “True Love Never Lies” pass by on three different buses since they’d sat down. Serena was staring straight ahead, and Blair couldn’t tear her gaze away from her perfect profile. Even though her face was flushed and a little bit sweaty from the sun overhead, it should’ve been etched in glass and then minted onto a fucking coin. But however jealous she might be of the fact that Serena was going to be an overnight sensation, she had to admit she felt kind of proud, too. The only thing better than having fame and fortune happen to you was to have it happen to your best friend.

  Excuse me, but what happened to the Blair we all know and love?

  “Don’t worry.” Blair turned and gave Serena’s knee a squeeze. “You’re going to be fine.” “Thanks. That means a lot to me,” Serena replied slowly, her voice soft. “Oh, and will you come shopping with me for the Met party?” “Of course.” Blair nodded. She remembered how much fun they used to have playing dress-up when they were little, trying on clothes in her room all afternoon and drinking Campari and sodas with lime, giggling together in the bathroom mirror as Serena expertly painted Blair’s lids with black liner, or lacquered her nails with ballet slipper pink Essie polish.

  Even if Serena had written Nate that stupid love letter, Blair was the one who was with him now. There really wasn’t any reason they couldn’t still be best friends. Serena would be the famous one and Blair would be . . . the happy one.

  Right.

  all n needs now is a peg leg

  Nate crossed West Forty-fourth Street and headed toward the imposing beaux-arts limestone building that housed the New York Yacht Club. The large bay windows resembled the sterns of ships and made Nate wish desperately that he was still out at sea with Blair, her wet, sandy hair tickling his skin, nothing in the distance but blue sky and endless horizons. He only felt like himself when he was on board the Charlotte, far away from the city and the pressures of real life. Why did real life always have to be so complicated? He’d been back on dry land for one day, and he was already in serious trouble.

  Story of his life.

  He pushed open the front door and stepped inside the opulent interior of the old club. The paneling was all deep, rich mahogany, and everything in sight was gilded in gold. He pushed his shoulders back and tried to stand up a little straighter as he climbed the ornate, winding marble staircase toward an impeccably dressed attendant.

  “I’m here to see . . . uh . . . Captain Chips,” Nate said stupidly, realizing he couldn’t even remember Chips’s last name. “I’m Nate, um, Nathaniel Archibald.” The attendant looked down at his metal clipboard and quickly found his name, placing a neat check mark right beside it.

  “Right this way, Mr. Archibald. Captain White is expecting you in the Grill Room.” The attendant emphasized the name White, as if implying that Nate ought to remember it. Nate gulped and followed him down the wooden stairs to a set of heavy oak doors.

  The gracefully curved ceiling of the Grill Room was fashioned out of planks of oak, the floors and walls paneled in the dark wood. Round tables covered in white linen tablecloths were scattered around the cozy, underground space. It was like being in the belly of a tall ship, and Nate instantly felt a thousand times more comfortable. He could almost hear the wood creaking under his feet as he was led toward a man dressed in full navy uniform, gold medals shining on his lapels. His white hair was neatly combed back from a deeply tanned, severely lined face. A gold wedding band winked from his wrinkled, leathery hand. As Nate approached, the man stood and gripped Nate’s palm.

  “Nate Archibald. You’re the spitting image of your father,” Chips growled with a Scottish accent. He looked at Nate
with crinkly-lidded blue eyes beneath bushy white brows, and motioned to the leather-cushioned chair across from his. “Sit. Have a drink.” Chips sat back down and gestured to the waiter, a man in his forties with neatly combed sandy hair falling over a wide forehead. Chips pointed at his glassful of amber-colored liquid and held up two wizened fingers. “You like scotch?” He cocked an eyebrow at Nate.

  “Sure.” Nate shuffled his legs under the table. “Anything’s fine.” The waiter leaned in, speaking softly. “I’m sorry, sir,” he whispered apologetically. “I’m going to need to see some ID.” Nate paused for a second, feeling like he’d been trapped. He’d already agreed to have scotch, but now he’d have to show his fake ID. Was Chips setting him up? He gulped and reached into the back pocket of his cargo shorts, retrieving the battered brown leather wallet his dad had given him for his sixteenth birthday. He pulled out the fake ID he’d gotten off the Internet. It looked pretty good, and it usually worked—except for the fact they’d mixed up the hair and eyes categories, so if you read it closely it said “brown eyes, green hair.” The waiter peered at the ID for a long moment and Nate shifted in his chair guiltily. When the waiter looked up, he shot him a wry smile. “Very good, sir,” he added, handing Nate back the laminated card.

  “I always say,” Chips declared, “that all it takes to cure life’s woes is a bottle of good scotch and the open sea.” He chuckled and slapped the tabletop with one hand as if to punctuate his speech.

  Nate nodded lamely as he leaned back in his chair, trying to get comfortable. He glanced around the room. He was the youngest person there by at least forty years—clusters of wizened old men were gathered at every single oak table, each man gruffer and stonier than the next. One of them had an actual eye patch. The old cyclops squinted in Nate’s direction with his one good eye. Before Nate could start to muse on what terrible sailing accident had caused him to lose his eyeball, the white-jacketed waiter returned and placed a glass of scotch in front of him.

  “Thank you,” he mumbled.

  “Cheers, my boy.” Chips lifted his tumbler and then took a huge swig. Nate quickly followed suit, gagging on the fiery amber liquid. The scotch was freaking strong—stronger than anything he’d ever had—and Chips was drinking it like lemonade.Who was this guy?

  “You’re nothing like what I thought,” Nate blurted out, turning red and taking another small, tentative nip. From everything his dad had told him about Chips, Nate had thought he would be a total hard-ass who’d give him lecture on getting his shit together the second he sat down. But so far Chips couldn’t have been less like Nate’s father. He seemed almost mellow.

  “Ha!” Chips laughed, slapping his stiff-looking extended leg. “You though you were going to be meeting Captain White, didn’t you? Some cantankerous, salt-waterlogged old geezer who would read you the riot act? Maybe a hook for an arm? That it?” Nate nodded, blushing. He looked over at the eye-patch man, hoping he hadn’t heard Chips’s little outburst. He’d probably be kind of offended. Who knew what these old sailor guys were like when they got angry? “Well, uh . . . yeah. I mean, my dad’s pretty pissed at me right now and everything. I thought he’d send me to someone who knew how to . . . hunt.” Chips chuckled and drained his glass in one even swallow. He signaled the waiter for a refill. The waiter appeared at his side almost instantaneously, picking up the empty glass and whisking it quietly away. Nate couldn’t help but notice that for a place called the Grill Room, they didn’t seem to be serving much of anything grilled—or really anything to eat, period. Just booze.

  Who’s complaining?

  Chips turned back to him and began again. “Well, Nate, let me tell you—that was me—a long, long time ago. Back when I was your dad’s captain, I was the strictest, most serious sonofabitch you’ve ever laid eyes on. But it’s been a lot of years since then, and I’ve learned quite a few things.” Chips leaned back in his chair, his blue eyes twinkling. “There’s a certain kind of clarity that comes with old age.You really learn to put everything into perspective. You have to.” The waiter appeared and set a fresh drink down in front of him, ice cubes rattling. Chips drummed his fingers on the snow white tablecloth. His eyes scanned the room, and he lifted a hand and gave a small wave to an old man in full white military dress who looked about a hundred and fifty years old. “What are your priorities, Nate? What do you want from life?” Nate was silent for a moment and Chips continued. “For me, it’s the open sea—the sun on my face, the sound of waves.” He closed his eyes. “The simple things. The good stuff.” He opened his eyes and raised his glass. Nate took another burning gulp.

  The simple things sounded good to Nate. In fact, they sounded right. He was so tired of everything being so . . . challenging.Why couldn’t things just be easy for a change?

  Being the prince of the Upper East Side is so exhausting. Chips opened the large white menu and perused it thoughtfully, humming softly to himself.

  Nate looked at him over the top of his menu and suddenly wished there were a menu for real life—one that listed all of his options, and how much they cost. “I don’t know what I want,” he admitted, his voice echoing in the cavernous room. The minute he said it aloud, he knew it was true. He looked around again at all the old sailors, each and every one a man who’d chosen a path in life and stuck with it. One had even lost an eye over what he’d chosen. Or maybe they were just a bunch of old seaworthy fuckups.

  “I’ll tell you one thing.” Chips closed his menu and leaned across the table. “You’ve got to think with your balls, not your dick.” His breath smelled like applesauce laced with grain alcohol. “Because the men who think with their dicks are cowards,” he finished, leaning back and nodding sagely.

  Nate felt himself nodding back, even though he had no idea what Chips was talking about. Had he been thinking with his balls or his dick? Was he a coward? It was kind of cowardly not to have told Blair that he hadn’t really graduated, that he wasn’t going to Yale with her. . . .

  Chips summoned the waiter again. “Two hard-boiled eggs and a shaker of salt,” he commanded. “For both of us.” Nate surrendered his menu to the waiter. Chips seemed to think his “I don’t know what I want” was about the food. Nate hated hard-boiled eggs, and all this talk of thinking with his dick and balls had kind of taken away his appetite for anything but that strong, barely drinkable scotch, anyway.

  Well, drink up, honey. It might help you grow some.

  v’s tea party for two

  Vanessa stepped through the doors of the Galapagos Art Space in Brooklyn and looked around. The room was cavernous and densely packed with Williamsburg hipsters wearing striped shirts and sporting asymmetrical haircuts. Bar-height tables were sprinkled haphazardly throughout the room like croutons on a salad, and the grating sounds of three-chord punk blasted from the loudspeakers. Vanessa spied Ruby’s bandmates fussing with wires and plugs on a platform in the center of the room. The drum kit was adorned with the word SUGARDADDY, their band’s name, in garish red letters. She scanned the stage for Ruby, but her sister was nowhere in sight.

  As Vanessa maneuvered her way to the front of the room, protecting her camera from dirty art boys and their Jack-and-Cokes, she spotted Piotr sitting at a table right in front of the stage, a full pitcher of Coke sitting in front of him. When Piotr saw her, he waved her over. Vanessa sighed, wishing she were more excited about filming her sister’s last gig as a single woman. She needed it to round out the Ruby

  Retrospective she was making for her sister’s wedding present, but the reality of shooting the shit with her future brother-in-law, whom her sister would be marrying in just five days, was kind of unbearable. Vanessa kept forcing herself to say wedding-related words over and over again in her head to make it more real.

  She got closer to his table and tried to smile. Droplets of water beaded on the cold pitcher of Coke. Vanessa licked her lips. She was pretty thirsty—maybe she could put up with Piotr for a few minutes while she loaded her camera and set up. If he was going to
be family soon, she’d have to learn to converse with him, right?

  “What’s up?” she asked, plunking her camera down on the table and almost knocking over the Coke.

  “‘Allo, Vanessa.You made it,” Piotr said with an awkward, crooked-toothed smile. “You want?” He gestured to the glass on the table.

  She took a seat, resisting her desire to push him onto the sticky floor and run. The guy could barely speak proper English and now he was about to be her brother-in-law? “That’d be great,” she replied tensely.

  Piotr walked to the bar to get her a glass, and Vanessa noticed that even though he was still wearing those gross leather pants, he really wasn’t half-bad looking, with his shaggy blond hair and tight black T-shirt. Okay, so his crooked teeth and smoker’s cough weren’t exactly swoon-worthy, but at least they made him sort of . . . quirky.

  Vanessa looked around the room, accidentally catching the eye of a frighteningly large man in a red T-shirt with cut-off sleeves that read GUNS DON’T KILL PEOPLE—I KILL

  PEOPLE. His biceps were enormous and covered in tattoos. He saw her staring and gave a toothy smile, then started heading through the pack of people toward her table. Vanessa looked wildly around, hoping he was headed toward someone else. Just then Piotr swooped in and fell back into his seat, and the big guy scowled and backed off. Phew. Vanessa never thought she’d be so happy to see her sister’s fiancé.

  “So . . .” Piotr filled her glass, apparently unaware of the fate he’d just saved her from. “You film show tonight, yes?” “Yes.” Vanessa nodded like a maniac. “I film show.” Fuck. It was hard not to talk like him once you got into a conversation. She took a sip of Coke, sputtering when she realized it wasn’t Coke at all but Guinness.

  “I am also making Ruby gift.” Piotr moved his stool slightly closer to hers. “In my country,”—he tapped his chest with one finger—“it is customary for groom to give bride special gift.” Piotr paused and took a sip of beer, licking his lips before continuing. “I shop all day for something I think she like.” “What did you get her?”Vanessa asked, curious now.