Only in Your Dreams a Gossip Girl novels

by Cecily von Ziegesar

  “No story.” Nate idly kicked the side of the cartoon house with the toes of his battered Stan Smiths. He wanted to run his hands up and down her warm, freckled arms.

  Tawny knelt down and smiled and laid a five-dollar bill on the counter, reaching inside the window to retrieve two pointy sugar cones piled high with creamy white scoops of ice cream. She handed one to Nate.

  “Thanks.” The ice cream started to melt immediately in the late afternoon sun, trickling down his hand. He licked it delicately.

  Tawny touched his skinned knee gently. There was some-thing about the way she did it—a possessiveness? A certainty? A particular je ne sais quoi—that reminded Nate of Blair. But this girl was nothing like Blair: Blair would never wear a pink tube top, or let an ice cream cone melt all over her hands, or . . . pay for food on a first date.

  Date? That was fast.

  “Are you okay?” Tawny asked, rising to her feet. She licked her pink, swollen-looking lips. “You look so serious.”

  The truth was, Nate was wondering what Tawny looked like without her tube top on. Was her chest freckled too? His hands itched just thinking about it.

  “I’m just really glad I met you,” Nate told her a little goofily. He dabbed his chin with a napkin. “We should hang out this summer.”

  A world record: Nate Archibald managed to swear off girls for three whole minutes.

  love don’t live here anymore

  Vanessa slammed the rusty cab door and stared up at the weather-beaten brick façade of her Williamsburg apartment building, still mulling over Ken’s job offer. She wished there was someone she could ask for advice, but she knew better than to call her self-absorbed, Vermont-living hippie parents. They’d just lecture her about art and commerce and “creative responsibility.” She wished her sister Ruby was around—she was the only one Vanessa really trusted to talk to about these things.

  A white Ford station wagon with a broken windshield was parked in front of the building where it had been for weeks. One of the back doors was missing, and the seats were piled with garbage bags and old blankets. Someone must have been living in it, which would explain the stench of urine that surrounded the car.

  Nice.

  Vanessa unlocked the building’s complicated array of dead bolts and latches and clomped up the stairs, hesitating halfway up. There were voices coming from inside her apartment. Had she left the TV on? She tiptoed to the door and listened, not breathing. Yes, it was definitely voices, they were definitely coming from inside, and there was something very familiar about one of the voices.

  Vanessa’s older sister Ruby had been on a whirlwind tour of Europe with her band, SugarDaddy, for eight weeks. An occasional postcard from Madrid or Oslo had appeared in the mailbox, and they’d spoken on the phone once, but the touring-rock-girl lifestyle wasn’t all that conducive to staying in touch.

  Vanessa threw the door open excitedly. “Ruby!” Vanessa cried, taking in her sister in her purple leather pants and her new matching shade of hair. It looked almost iridescent. “I can’t believe you’re back!”

  “Hey,” Ruby greeted her casually from the couch. She was straddling a skinny, stubbly-faced guy wearing black leather pants just like Ruby’s purple ones. Ruby touched the tip of her cigarette to the tip of his to light it. She didn’t get up to hug her sister, and her tone of voice was completely nonchalant, like Vanessa had just been at the grocery store to buy milk or something.

  “Um, hi?” Vanessa was slightly taken aback. She closed the apartment door behind her.

  “What’s going on, sis?” asked Ruby, puffing on her Marlboro as she surveyed the apartment’s Blairified decor. “I see you did some redecorating.”

  Vanessa didn’t want to make small talk about Blair’s renovations. Ruby was back just when she needed her most! “Hello, you’re back! That’s what’s going on. How was the tour?”

  Her older sister shrugged. “Berlin, London, Paris, Budapest. We rocked. It was incredible.”

  “All hail the conquering rock star. I’m Vanessa.” She clomped over to the guy Ruby was straddling. He hadn’t looked at her once.

  “This is Piotr,” Ruby explained, wiggling her purple-leather-clad ass as she said his name, as if just saying it was a real turnon. “We met after our show in Prague.”

  “Hallo,” Piotr replied in a stiff accent, exhaling a long plume of smoke as he spoke.

  Charming.

  “The apartment looks cool.” Ruby sounded skeptical. She glanced around the room. “But how could you afford all this? The furniture, the drapes?”

  “It’s a long story,” Vanessa answered, leaning against the lavender-painted wall and trying to look anywhere but at the fawn-colored suede couch where the filthy, scrawny Eastern European stranger was stretched out underneath her sister.

  “Like the story of where you got those shoes?” Ruby asked, throwing her purple hair back. It was the same color as Willy Wonka’s hat. “And that top? Jesus, look at you. You’re a real fashion plate.”

  “I had a meeting.” Vanessa felt hurt. Why was Ruby being such a bitch? If only the slimebag between her legs would get lost so they could order some sushi and have one of their sis-terly heart-to-hearts.

  “A word?” Ruby climbed down off of Piotr’s lap. She nod-ded toward the kitchen.

  Vanessa followed, wondering how long Ruby was going to be home. They leaned against the Formica countertop. “You two look pretty . . . serious,”Vanessa observed.

  “It’s love,” Ruby murmured wistfully, sounding surprisingly un–rocker chick. She did a little half-pirouette then stopped, pseudo-embarrassed, and leaned against the counter again.

  “That’s cool,” Vanessa responded, irritated. It didn’t look like they were going to be doing any sisterly bonding after all. She fiddled with the ceramic Statue of Liberty salt and pepper shakers Dan had given her in a fit of romantic corniness.

  “Well, the apartment does look good, even if it’s not what I expected to come home to,” Ruby commented. “But I hate to think that you went to all this trouble when . . .”

  “When what?”Vanessa asked suspiciously.

  “Not to be the bearer of bad news, but . . . Piotr is going to be here for a while. Some local galleries are interested in him—he’s a painter, did I mention? He does monolithic nudes with their canines. He’s huge in the underground Prague scene, and he’s hoping to break into Williamsburg.”

  Vanessa wasn’t exactly sure what “monolithic nudes and their canines” meant, but she could imagine Ruby borrowing somebody’s pit bull and posing for him butt-naked, teeth bared. “Good for him.”

  “Well, I kind of thought he’d stay here, with me,” Ruby mumbled.

  “That’s kind of a tight fit,” Vanessa muttered back. “But that’s cool. We’ll work it out.”

  “That’s the thing,” Ruby corrected her. “Piotr needs a studio. And since he can’t afford to rent one, we were thinking . . . we’d turn the other room, your room, into his studio.”

  Ex-squeeze me?

  “So, what, you’re kicking me out?” Vanessa stopped fiddling and turned to face her sister. She’d been living with Ruby since she was fifteen. It was her home too.

  “Well, this was always just a temporary solution. You know, like, while you were in high school. But now that you’ve graduated, it’s time to strike out on your own, like I did when I was eighteen.”

  “Fine,” Vanessa snapped. “That’s cool. I get it, I’m all grown up and on my own now. I get it.”

  “Don’t be like that,” Ruby pleaded guiltily. “Come back and sit, let’s talk things over a little more.”

  “No, it’s cool, really. Let me just grab my stuff and I’ll be out of Pita Bread or whatever-the-hell-his-name-is’s hair immediately.” Shaking a little, Vanessa stormed out of the kitchen and into the living room, where Pizza Face sat smoking some rotten-smelling Czech cigarettes. Vanessa snatched her still photograph of a dead pigeon off the wall above his head and tucked it under her arm. It was
her favorite, and she wasn’t about to leave it behind so he could copy it in one of his paintings. She could see it now: he’d become known as the “dead pigeon” artist, when all along it had been her dead pigeon and her freaking apartment.

  A few minutes later, Vanessa crashed down the stairs, lugging her camera equipment and one giant black duffel bag. She burst out into the late afternoon sun and stumbled down Bedford Avenue, dodging indifferent, funkily dressed passersby and piles of dog shit and wondering where, exactly, she was going to go.

  She dropped her duffel on the ground and sat, using the fully stuffed bag as a perch. Digging her cell phone from her pocket, she hit speed dial. There were two rings and then the familiar sound of Dan’s voice.

  “What’s up?”

  “My sister kicked me out.” Her voice cracked. She tried desperately not to cry. “And I don’t have any money, and I don’t have anywhere to go, and I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

  Guess she’ll be taking that job.

  s is for spirituality, among other things

  “Hey,” Dan whispered into his black Nokia cell as he ducked behind an aging metal bookshelf at the Strand. It was the kind of place only a guy who had read Hamlet five times could love. “I was just thinking about you.”

  He couldn’t quite make out Vanessa’s response: she sounded out of breath and near tears.

  “Wait, wait,” he soothed. He stacked up a pile of Ronald Reagan biographies and sat down on them. “Slow down. I didn’t catch any of that.”

  “I said I’ve been kicked out of my apartment,” Vanessa shouted. “Ruby’s back from Europe and she has this new asshole Czech painter bullshit boyfriend and she told me to get lost.”

  “Shit,” Dan muttered, looking around. He wasn’t really supposed to be on his cell phone on the job.

  “What am I going to do? Where am I supposed to go?”

  “What about my place?” Dan asked, before he even had a chance to think about what he was saying. He fingered an old dusty hardcover about Walt Whitman and considered taking it home.

  “Your place?” Vanessa repeated, pitifully. Dan wasn’t sure he’d ever heard her sound so weak, and even though he kind of knew it was wrong, he sort of liked how it made him feel.

  Like he was some macho stud and she was frail and helpless. He made a mental note to use the feeling for a poem.

  Rice paper girl, I’m the quill, the ink, the well. . . .

  “It’ll be fine,” he assured her. “Take your stuff, get on the subway, go to my place. The door’s unlocked—you know my dad always leaves it open. I’ll be home in a couple of hours.”

  “Really?” Vanessa asked tentatively. She’d always been so fiercely independent. Dan knew she hated asking for any favors. “Are you sure it’s okay with your dad?”

  “It’ll be fine.” He rubbed some dust off the top shelf and it sprinkled in his eye. “You’ll see. I’ll be there soon. Don’t worry.” He rubbed his eyes, listening to Vanessa breathe on the other end of the phone.

  “On the plus side, Ken Mogul offered me a job today.” Vanessa laughed bitterly. “It looks like I’m going to have to take it.”

  “That’s awesome!” he cheered, though he couldn’t help feeling a little disappointed. He was working, and now Vanessa was going to work too. That would definitely put a damper on his romantic plans. When would they have time to ride the tram to Roosevelt Island and drink sake in the park?

  “Shit, that’s my call waiting,” she mumbled. Dan heard her take the phone from her ear. “It’s Ken. I better get it. I’ll see you at home, then? Your home, I mean.”

  “No,” he corrected her. “Yours too.”

  Aw.

  Dan pressed the end button on his cell and slipped back into the narrow aisle of the biography section. He smiled. Maybe Vanessa getting kicked out was actually the best thing that could happen to them. Living together would make their last summer before leaving for college so intimate. It would be even more memorable.

  He grabbed a few of the Reagan biographies and crouched, trying to find a place for all of them on a shelf.

  “Excuse me, I’m looking for a copy of Siddhartha and I just can’t seem to find one. Can you help me?”

  Dan rose from his crouching position, his knees cracking from bending over, ready with a clever barb about where to find enlightenment. But once he saw the customer, he swallowed his words.

  She was about four inches taller than he was, with long wavy platinum blond hair pulled back in a no-nonsense pony-tail. She wore a faded gray gym tee and white denim cutoffs and had matching green-and-white wristbands on both of her arms. She furrowed her brow a little, but even worried, her blue eyes twinkled. She looked like Marsha Brady, only sexier and dirtier looking, like Marsha Brady on her way home from her aerobic striptease class.

  “Um, yeah,” Dan finally replied, flustered. “Yeah, we should have a copy of Siddhartha. I’m sure we have one.”

  “Oh, good,” Dirty Marsha cried, reaching out and squeezing his bony upper arm. “I really want to read it.”

  “Yeah,” he muttered, leading her away from the presidential biographies and toward paperback fiction. “It’s actually one of my favorite books.”

  It is?

  “Oh, gosh, really?” Dan had never encountered a girl who managed to say “gosh” and not sound like a complete moron. “It comes so highly recommended by my yogi.”

  “Here it is,” he announced, standing on his tiptoes and tugging on the book’s thin blue spine. He handed it to her.

  “Cool.” She turned the book over to examine the back cover. “This looks really great. Thanks so much for your help. So you really liked it?” She gazed at him, her almond-shaped eyes matching the twilight blue of the book’s faded cover.

  “Well . . .” Dan paused. Books were his area of expertise— why couldn’t he think of anything to say?

  Maybe because he never read it?

  “It was, um . . . inspiring.”

  “Great. I’m really looking forward to it.” She cradled the book against her chest and leaned into Dan a bit more closely. “Maybe I’ll come back when I’ve finished it and you can recommend another book for me?”

  “I’m always happy to recommend books to our customers,” he replied smoothly.

  “Awesome!” she cried with cheerleaderish enthusiasm. “I’m Bree.”

  “Dan.”

  “Cool, Dan. This book isn’t long, so I’ll be back in a couple of days. Thanks again for your help!” She turned and strolled away, an actual bounce in her step. Dan watched her small, round butt, which closely resembled two scoops of French vanilla ice cream, disappear behind the News and Current Events section, before remembering that he’d just asked Vanessa to move in with him.

  How, um . . . enlightened.

  the family that plays together stays together

  “Bravo!” cried Lord Marcus. “Darling, you’re simply a natural at this!”

  Camilla chuckled, tucking her long blond mane behind her ears as her red croquet ball rolled through the wicket and came to rest on a patch of perfectly manicured emerald green lawn in the back garden of the Beaton-Rhodes manor. It was the third match they’d played that day, and Camilla had won. Again.

  “I learned from the master,” she giggled excitedly.

  “When is it going to be my turn?” Blair whined. She’d been waiting for ages to get her chance to swing the mallet. She was definitely in the mood to hit something.

  Behind them the ivy-covered gray stone West London mansion rose up like a fortress. Blair hadn’t been invited inside yet, nor had she met Marcus’s parents.

  “Mother has one of her headaches,” he’d explained, causing Camilla to erupt into a fit of honking laughter. Blair wondered if Lady Rhodes had a tendency to bring a bottle of sloe gin to bed with her, but she didn’t ask, preferring to glare menacingly at Camilla instead. There was something so “I’m in and you’re out” about her, Blair just wanted to rip her head off like some kind o
f ugly royal cousin Barbie that would still be on the shelves at FAO Schwarz long after Christmas.

  “I believe that ends our game,” Lord Marcus called apolo-getically. “Shall we have another go?”

  “Whatever,” muttered Blair, sipping her fourth Bombay Sapphire martini of the afternoon. The sprawling ancient stone mansion was framed by hundreds of perfectly conical bushes. Even the massive trees had been trimmed into unnatural shapes. Blair was beginning to feel like Alice at the Queen of Hearts’ palace in Wonderland. She lit a Silk Cut and puffed on it greedily. “Can we get some more refreshments?” she asked of no one in particular.

  When in doubt, have another.

  “I’m knackered,” sighed Camilla as she collapsed into the wrought-iron chair next to Blair’s. “Having fun?” she asked, putting her hand on Blair’s, which was curled up into an angry little fist.

  Weren’t she and Marcus supposed to be in love? Why wasn’t he undressing her in his elegant Edwardian bedroom? Why did he want to pal around with his nag of a cousin? Why wasn’t he at least playing footsie with her beneath the table?

  She squinted at Marcus, looking for a sign, some hint of his true feelings. A wide grin spread across his clean-shaven face and his green eyes sparkled with merriment. He seemed completely oblivious. Just having the time of his life in the warm summer sun. Blair sighed. Maybe she was being nasty and judgmental. She glanced at Camilla. Maybe she’d disappear soon, and she and Marcus could have sex beneath a hare-shaped conifer.

  “The time of my life,” Blair snapped.

  “I daresay I’m starved,” Lord Marcus exclaimed, rolling up the sleeves on his white linen button-down before taking a seat at the glass-topped table. He reached for a tiny silver platter that was laden with delicate cucumber sandwiches and popped a triangle in his mouth.

  “You’re always hungry when I’m around,” Camilla giggled. She poked him in the belly and sipped her martini delicately.

  “Remember that time I came to visit you at Yale and we went to that gorgeous little town in Vermont for a weekend ski?” Camilla turned to Blair. “We were on the slopes all day and all I wanted was a nice soak in the tub. When I got out, Marcus had ordered everything—everything!—off the room service menu so we could eat by the fire.”