jeans。 She was one of the few scholarship girls in the junior class
and lived in the Bronx。 She claimed she couldn’t wear her uniform
home or she’d get beaten up。 Carmen was headed to the Art of
Floral Design Club； although she always lied to her friends in her
neighborhood and said she took karate。
Suddenly the hallway was empty。 Serena opened her locker； pulled
her Burberry coat off the hook； and put it on。 Then she slammed her
locker shut and trotted downstairs and out the school doors； turning
left down Ninety…third Street toward Central Park。
There was a box of orange Tic Tacs in her pocket with only one Tic
Tac left。 Serena fished the Tic Tac out and put it on her tongue； but
she was so worried about her future； she could barely taste it。
She crossed Fifth Avenue； walking along the sidewalk that bordered
the park。 Fallen leaves scattered the pavement。 Down the block；
two little Sacred Heart girls in their cute red…and…white checked
pinafores were walking an enormous black Rottweiler。 Serena
thought about entering the park at Eighty…ninth Street and sitting
down for a while to kill time before the play rehearsal。 But alone？
What would she do； people…watch？ She had always been one of
those people everyone else watches。
So she went home。
Home was 994 Fifth Avenue； a ritzy； white…glove building next to the
Stanhope Hotel and directly across the street from the Metropolitan
Museum of Art。 The van der Woodsens owned half of the top floor。
Their apartment had fourteen rooms； including five bedrooms with
private bathrooms； a maid’s apartment； a ballroom…sized living
room； and two seriously cool lounges with wet bars and huge
entertainment systems。
When Serena got home the enormous apartment was empty。 Her
parents were rarely home。 Her father ran the same Dutch shipping
firm his great…great…grandfather had founded in the 1700s。 Both her
parents were on the boards of all the big charities and arts
organizations in the city and always had meetings or lunches or
fundraisers to go to。 Deidre； the maid； was out shopping； but the
place was spotless and there were vases of fresh cut flowers in
every room； including the bathrooms。
Serena slid open the door to the smaller of the lounges and flopped
down on her favorite blue velvet armchair。 She picked up the
remote control and pressed the buttons to open the TV cabinet and
turn on the flat…screen TV。 She flipped through the channels
impatiently； unable to focus on anything she saw； finally settling on
TRL； even though she thought Carson Daly was the most annoying
man alive。 She hadn’t been watching much TV lately。 At boarding
school； her dormmates would make popcorn and hot chocolate and
watch Saturday Night Live or Jackass in their pajamas； but Serena
preferred to slip away to drink peach schnapps and smoke cigars
with the boys in the chapel basement。
But what bothered her most now was not Carson Daly or even the
fact that she was sitting alone in her house with nothing to do； but
the thought that she might spend the rest of her life doing just that
—watching TV alone in her parents’ apartment—if she didn’t get her
act together and get into college！ Why was she so stupid？ Everyone
else seemed to have their shit together。 Had she missed the all
important “it’s time to get your shit together” talk？ Why hadn’t
anyone warned her？
Well； there was no point in freaking out。 She still had time。 And she
could still have fun。 She didn’t have to bee a nun just because
she was joining the Interschool Drama Club； or whatever。
Serena clicked the TV off and wandered into the kitchen。 The van
der Woodsens’ kitchen was massive。 Glass cabinets lined the walls
above gleaming； stainless…steel counter tops。 There were two
restaurant stoves and three Sub…Zero refrigerators。 An enormous
butcher…block table stood in the center of the kitchen； and on the
table was today’s pile of mail。
Serena picked up the mail and sifted through it。 Mostly； there were
invitations for her parents—white square envelopes printed with
old…fashioned typefaces—to balls； benefit dinners； fundraisers； and
auctions。 Then there were the art openings—postcards with a
picture of the artist’s work on one side and the details of the
opening on the back。 One of these caught Serena’s eye。 It had
obviously been lost in the mail for a little while； because it looked
beaten up； and the opening it announced was beginning at 4 P。M。
on Wednesday； which was 。 。 。 right now。 Serena flipped the card
over and looked at the picture of the artist’s work。 It looked like a
close…up black…and…white photograph of an eye； tinted with pink。
The title of the work was Kate Moss。 And the name of the show was
“Behind the Scene。” Serena squinted at the picture。 There was
something innocent and beautiful about it； and at the same time it
was a little gross。 Maybe it wasn’t an eye。 She wasn’t sure what it
was。 It was definitely cool； though。 There was no question about it；
Serena knew what she was doing for the next two hours。
She flew into her bedroom； whipped off her maroon uniform； and
pulled on her favorite pair of black leather jeans。 Then she grabbed
her coat and called the elevator。 Within minutes she was stepping
out of a taxi in front of the Whitehot Gallery downtown in Chelsea。
The minute she got there； Serena grabbed a free gin martini and
signed the guest list。 The gallery was full of twenty…something
hipsters in cool clothes； drinking free martinis and admiring the
photographs hanging on the walls。 Each picture was similar to the
one on the postcard； that same close…up black…and…white eye； blown
up； all in different shapes and sizes and tinted with different colors。
Under each one was a label； and on every label was the name of a
celebrity： Kate Moss； Kate Hudson； Joaquin Phoenix； Jude Law；
Gisele Bundchen； Cher； Eminem； Christina Aguilera； Madonna； Elton
John。
French pop music bubbled out of invisible speakers。 The photo
artists themselves； the Remi brothers； identical twin sons of a
French model and an English duke； were being interviewed and
photographed for Art Forum； Vogue； W； Harper’s Bazaar； and the
New York Times。
Serena studied each photograph carefully。 They weren’t eyes； she
decided； now that she was looking at them blown up。 But what were
they？ Belly buttons？
Suddenly Serena felt an arm around her waist。
“Hello； ma chèrie。 Beautiful girl。 What is your name？”
It was one of the Remi brothers。 He was twenty…six years old and
five foot seven； the same height as Serena。 He had curly black hair
and brilliant blue eyes。 He spoke with a French and British accent。
He was dressed head to toe in navy blue； and his lips were dark red
and curved foxily up at the corners。 He was absolutely gorgeous；
and so was his twin brother。
Lucky girl。
Serena didn’t resist when he pulled her into a photograph with him
and his brother for the New York Times Sunday Styles section。 One
brother stood behind Serena and kissed her neck while the other
knelt in front of her and hugged her knees。 Around