Don't You Forget About Me (20 page)

“First you insult my accent, and then you drink my lemonade? You’re in for it, buddy.” She stood and grabbed his arm, dragging him toward the pool. They tumbled over the edge and hit the water with a loud splash, narrowly missing an Elizabeth Taylor look-alike in a white one-piece swimsuit and matching head turban doing water calisthenics in the shallow end. Maybe it really
was
Elizabeth Taylor.

“Excuse me.” The woman scowled, moving away from Serena and Nate as they stood in the water dripping and panting.

Serena took a deep breath and plunged underneath the surface of the water. For as long as she could remember, she’d loved being underwater, the whole world drowned out, only the sound of gently rushing water in her ears. She opened her eyes, the chlorine stinging them slightly, and saw Nate underwater right in front of her, his green eyes wide open too. His hair was standing straight up, and he waved his hand, a liquid “hello” escaping his lips with a rush of bubbles.

She giggled, nearly choking, and suddenly thought of the games of Marco Polo she and Nate and Blair had played when they were younger. Nate would always cheat, shouting “Marco!” and then opening his eyes for a moment to see where they were. Then he’d grab the girls with huge splashing lunges, pretending he’d just found them by accident. Nate never seemed to care which girl he caught, he’d just grab whomever was in front of him and held on. Serena closed her eyes, the sting of the chlorine now too much to bear, and shot up to the surface.

Nate sidestroked into the shallow end and hopped up onto the edge of the pool, letting his legs dangle in the water. Serena looked so peaceful floating on her back in the calm water, her blond hair forming a halo around her head, an angelic smile on her face.
Being
with Serena was so much less stressful than being with Blair. Immediately he thought of his last, highly stressful interaction with Blair, whom he’d been avoiding since the day before yesterday, when she’d thrown her shoes at him.

Blair had left him hundreds of voice mails, but Nate thought he should wait to speak with her until she’d had a little more time to cool off.

Just not in this particular pool.

He knew that Blair was angry, but he also knew that she’d eventually forgive him, just like she always did. He could still visit her at Yale on the weekends. And Serena would be here with him in New York. He’d always thought he’d have to choose between the two girls, but now it seemed he could have them both. That was pretty ballsy, if he did say so himself.

Serena opened one eye and discovered Nate staring at her. With a rush of water, she stood up, her wet hair falling down her back in a slick mass. Winding it around her hand, she squeezed the water out and then tied her hair into a neat knot. Her swimsuit straps had fallen down again, and she hitched them up before anything embarrassing happened.

Not that it’s anything Nate hasn’t seen before. . . .

“Impressive.” He smiled, kicking a little water up at her with one golden foot. “Um, putting your hair up without a barrette or whatever,” he stammered, turning pink. “Not the swimsuit-almost-falling-off part. Not that I’d mind that,” he added.

“Really now?” she hopped up on the ledge beside him, her hair promptly falling out of its not-so-secure bun and draping messily over her shoulders. “Because along with that key card comes a very beautiful, very
empty
hotel suite.” She inched a little closer to him on the pool ledge.

Nate grinned, the sun bouncing off the water and making his green eyes glitter even more than usual. He opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by a voice behind them.

“Serena van der Woodsen!” a syrupy, high-pitched voice exclaimed. They both turned to see Bailey Winter, all five feet of the famous designer, dressed in a white linen suit, a hot pink handkerchief in his pocket and an enormous pair of white sunglasses perched on his head. His houseboy, Stefan, was behind him, manning the leashes of Bailey’s five pugs. “You remember Stefan,” he chirped with a wave behind him. “And of course you remember Azzedine, Coco, Cristobal, Gianni, and Madame Gres.” He tittered, gesturing at the dogs.

How could
anyone
forget?

“Of course!” Serena jumped up and gave Bailey a damp hug. “It’s so good to see you!” she exclaimed affectionately.

After Bailey had designed the costumes for
Breakfast at Fred’s,
he’d invited Serena and Blair to be live-in muses at his East Hampton summer home. Their stay had had its share of problems, mainly due to a pair of skinny Eastern European models determined to make their life there a living hell. In a horrendous scene at one of Bailey’s famous parties, they’d ruined his furniture, horrified the guests, and then run out of the party—and away from the Hamptons—without so much as a goodbye. Serena had felt so guilty for leaving on such bad terms that she’d written Bailey a note later on in the summer, apologizing for their behavior and thanking him for their stay. He’d written back saying that he couldn’t possibly hold a grudge against someone so lovely and talented, and that she was welcome any time.

“What are you doing back in the city?” She grabbed a white towel and wrapped it around her midriff.

The little man folded up his sunglasses and put them into his pocket. “The Hamptons get so dull at the end of the summer. All the fun’s here in the city!” He waved his petite hands in the air. “You certainly are at the center of all the action—I can’t believe my little Serena is becoming a big, big movie star!” He shrieked and grabbed her hands. “I just went to a screening of
Breakfast at Fred’s
, and of course the costumes are
to die for
, if I do say so myself, but you, my dear, are the icing on the German chocolate cake!” he added, pinching Stefan’s toned behind, apropos of nothing.

Liz Taylor was lounging on a deck chair a few feet away with a little white Chihuahua curled at her feet. She looked up from her copy of Italian
Vogue
, and her dog jumped down to sniff Cristobal’s butt curiously.

That’s one way to say hello.

“Serena van der Woodsen, from
Breakfast at Fred’s
?” the woman demanded loudly in an imperious Spanish accent. So she wasn’t Liz Taylor after all. “I thought you looked familiar. I absolutely
adored
that movie. . . .” A crowd began to form around Serena. Suddenly it hit Nate that she was starring in a big-time film, and that she was about to become really famous, a movie star. He wondered if from now on it was going to be like this all the time, getting stopped on the street, mobbed by fans, paparazzi following them everywhere. Serena smiled shyly as she autographed someone’s towel. He could already see the gossip columns, wondering why the accomplished young starlet was hanging out with a loser still stuck in high school. Not that he cared what other people thought, but still. It would be . . . weird. He ran his fingers through his hair, wishing he had a joint with him, and then remembered that he did—in the pocket of his now-soaking shorts. Oops.

He picked up his towel and started to dry off. Then he heard his phone’s muffled ring and found it underneath his T-shirt. He flipped it open, grateful for something to do besides watching Serena and feeling dumb and useless. “Hello?” “Long time no see. What are you up to right now?” Blair’s voice surprised him. She sounded downright chipper, and not angry at all.

“Hey . . . ,” he mumbled, wandering to the very edge of the roof. The city was sprawled out beneath him, the low town houses of the Meatpacking District giving way to new Chelsea condos and the midtown high-rises beyond.

Serena noticed him wander away and hoped he was talking to Blair, perhaps calmly explaining that he and Serena would both be staying in the city this year . . .
together
. Of course she felt slightly guilty stealing Nate away, but once Blair was happily ensconced at Yale—her dream school—she’d forget all about them.

“Thank you soo much.” The Spanish woman’s voice broke into her thoughts. She proudly waved her autographed Italian
Vogue
. “Binky and I are such fans. Aren’t we, Binky?” She swept up the tiny dog with one arm. Binky strained in her arms, reaching for Cristobal’s wiggling and whimpering form at his owner’s feet.

“Of course.” Serena nodded. “My pleasure.” Bailey grabbed her arm and began to whisper in her ear. “You must be my only muse. I’ll dress you exclusively in my designs, just like Audrey Hepburn and Givenchy!” But Serena barely heard him, distracted by the sight of Nate putting his T-shirt back on. He waved, mouthing, “I’ll talk to you later,” as he backed toward the exit. She sighed. So much for taking advantage of her hotel suite.

That’s okay—they have the rest of their lives to spend together. Don’t they?

b can barely contain herself

Nate rounded the corner of Nineteenth Street and crossed Sixth Avenue, without waiting for the walk signal. The Container Store loomed up ahead, its huge display windows and royal blue awnings a little too showy for a store that sold plastic storage bins and shower racks. Nate pushed through the glass doors and into the enormous store, taking in the high ceilings and fake Romanesque columns. He searched for a familiar chestnut-brown head of hair as he strode down the wide central path, glancing down endless aisles with labels like SHELVING, CLEANING, HOME OFFICE, KITCHEN, and BATH. The store was heavily air-conditioned, and he could feel goose bumps forming all over his still-damp body. He’d felt bad running out on Serena like that, but he’d been so relieved when Blair had called and invited him to come dorm-room shopping. She sounded almost normal—a thousand times calmer than she’d been when he’d last seen her—and he wanted to take advantage of her being in a good mood. At least she couldn’t kill him in such a public place.

Don’t be so sure—that girl loves to make a scene.

Finally he spotted her, looking radiant in a sea-green cotton sundress—not the most practical outfit for dorm room shopping, but then Blair was never practical. Her hair was a little longer than he last remembered it, and streaked with strands of gold. He blinked, wondering if the chlorine had done something to his eyes. She was standing by a desk that advertised custom-made closets, arguing with a harried-looking salesgirl in a dark blue apron that read CONTAIN YOURSELF! A long line of people stood behind her, shuffling their feet impatiently and checking their watches. Of course, Blair could have cared less.

Of course.

Her little brother Tyler and stepbrother, Aaron, were with her, piles of oddly shaped bins stacked at their feet as they waited for Blair, their faces slack with boredom. Tyler pulled a set of plastic clips out of the packaging and stuck them all over his clothing, clipping the last one over the bridge of his nose. Aaron was reading a book covered in ribbed cardboard, one of the display books that stores used to make the living room displays look lived-in. Nate had always assumed those books were blank inside. Given the glazed look in Aaron’s eyes, maybe they were.

“Hey guys,” Nate called over to them. Aaron and Tyler looked up and smiled relieved smiles. Now that Nate was there, they could be excused from Her Highness’s service.

“Oh, good, you’re here,” Blair observed. “One sec.” She turned back to the salesgirl. “Thanks for your
help
,” she snapped icily, stepping away from the desk.

“They’re all morons,” she announced loudly when she got closer to Nate. “They won’t design a special storage system for my dorm’s closet just because I don’t have the exact dimensions. Isn’t that, like, what they get paid for?” She rolled her eyes and turned to Aaron and Tyler. “Well, what are you two waiting for?” They sighed and grabbed the piles of stuff from off the floor, following her as she strode purposefully to the back of the store.

Nate lingered behind them, fingering the wet joint still in his pocket. Blair could be a little scary when she got into decorating mode, but at least she wasn’t unleashing her, um,
energy
in his direction. He felt sorry for Aaron and Tyler, though. Aaron had piled everything into a big laundry basket and was struggling to hold it upright. “Hey man. I saw some carts by the front of the store—want me to go grab one?” he offered.

Aaron shook his head, his short dreadlocks knocking back and forth. “Sis refuses to use a shopping cart,” he told Nate helplessly.

“I heard that,” Blair snapped without turning around. “Shopping carts are for old ladies,” she declared, continuing at her manic pace. She stopped at the kitchen section, touching a steel wine rack. She turned and smiled mischievously at the three boys. “Besides, who needs a cart when you’ve got three strapping young men to carry your things for you?” She raised one perfectly arched eyebrow, grabbing the wine rack with one hand and placing it on top of Aaron’s mounting pile.

“This is child abuse,” Tyler complained from behind a lacquered baby-blue-and-white polka-dot hatbox, his voice nasal from the clip on his nose. Tyler’s pageboy helmet of light brown, stick-straight hair had grown out so that it nearly reached his chin, and his Brooks Brothers khakis were torn at the knees. Who knew what he would look like after four years of high school in L.A.? He placed the hatbox on the floor and grabbed the white wire easy-glide bin on the shelf in front of him, which was filled with boxes of snacks. He passed over the Carr’s crackers and Pringles, pulling out a box of Le Petite Écolier cookies.

“Tyler, those are display items—you know, to show how much you can fit in the bins?” Blair scolded, now holding up a set of glass measuring cups.

“He’s hungry. I should take him home,” Aaron offered eagerly. “I mean, uh, since you and Nate probably want some alone time and all,” he added, already putting the overloaded laundry basket at Nate’s feet.

“Fine.” Blair sighed, returning the measuring cups to their shelf. “Nate and I can handle this ourselves.” “Thanks,” Aaron nodded quickly. He grabbed the bag of cookies from Tyler. “I’ll make sure we pay for these. Later!” They made a dash for the front of the store, as if they were trying to outrun a tornado.

Hurricane Blair?

“Hey,” Nate murmured. Blair was reading the instructions on a speed mixer. He was suddenly aware of how
alone
they were—and remembered what had happened the last time they’d been alone together.