a tall blond boy with an adorable dimple in his chin and amazing cheekbones. “Remember you have a bad heart,” the boy scolded his grandfather.
“It's not my heart I'm worried about,” Mr. Parris grumbled. He clasped the boy on the shoulder with a wrinkled hand. “Miss Serena van der Woodsen, this is my grandson Stanford Parris the Fifth.”
Like anyone actually cares how many Stanford Parrises there are?
Serena waited for the boy to blush with embarrassment and mutter about how plain old “Stan” would be just fine, but he didn't. Obviously he thought his title was the best thing ever. What did they call him at school? she wondered. Number five? Stan 5?
“Here's your name tag, dear.” Serena' smother pasted a bumper-sticker-sized white nametag with 'Serena van der Woodsen, Incoming Fall' written on it in blue marker over Serena's breast, like some sort of hideous, adhesive-backed tube top.
Serena pretended not to mind. “Thanks, Mom,” she said, cupping her hands over her hest to smooth out the nametag. Every male in her presence let out a little gasp, all getting excited for Yale's coed dorms next year.
They were early and the party was thin. Boys in Hugo Boss suits and ties and girls in long Tocca skirts and buttoned-up blouse lurked by their parents sides, smiling awkwardly and guzzling champagne. The whole scene made Serena feel like she was at her first day of ballroom dancing back in the fifth grade.
Someone tapped Serena on the shoulder and she turned around. It was Mrs. Archibald, Nate's dramatic, French, slightly crazy mother. Her dyed amber hair had been blown out into mass of cascading curls, and her thin lips were painted a fierce fire-engine red. Around her neck were six strands of rose-colored pearls, and matching rose-colored pearls punctuated each ear. Despite her three-inch Christian Louboutin heels, she was surprisingly tiny, dressed in a sleek, pewter-colored strapless Oscar de la Renta silk evening gown and carrying a little gold satchel and gold opera glasses- Obviously just stopping by at the party on her way to the theater. She kissed Serena quickly on both cheeks. “Have you seen my son?” she whispered in Serena's ear, her green eyes flashing.
Serena shook her head. “No. But Blair's--” she stopped short, wondering if Mrs. Archibald really wanted to know that Blair and Nate were holed up in a Plaza Hotel suite, having lots of sex. “Have you tried his cell?” she asked instead.
Mrs. Archibald batted her eyelashes and waved her opera glasses in the air. “Never mind, darling,” she sighed, before rustling off to find her husband, the admiral.
Stan 5 was still standing by as if it were only right that the handsomest blond guy and the most beautiful blond girl in the room should be talking to each other. A woman in a black caterer's uniform handed Serena a flute of champagne. “Where's your nametag?” Serena asked Stan 5, scanning his black oxford-cloth shirt that had been unbuttoned and tieless.
What a rebel.
He grinned and cleared his throat. “I didn't think I needed one.”
Oh, so like everyone is just supposed to know who you are?
Serena was ready to ditch the party already- she'd shown up and stayed ten minutes, what more did her parents want? But then old Mr. Parris shuffled over to talk to her again, and she didn't want to be rude.
“Your mother was just telling me what a wonderful actress you are,” he boomed in his New England accent. He adjusted his burgundy-and-navy-blue-striped bow tie. “You know, I played the lead in nineteen productions back when I was a Yalie. The school was men only in those days. I've got some old pictures if you would like to take a look.”
“Honestly, Granddad,” Stan 5 huffed in an effort to shut his grandfather up.
“Actually, I'd love to,” Serena replied with genuine interest. There was nothing she liked better than to look at old pictures. She loved the elaborate clothes, the dramatic bouffant hairstyles, and the
“It's not my heart I'm worried about,” Mr. Parris grumbled. He clasped the boy on the shoulder with a wrinkled hand. “Miss Serena van der Woodsen, this is my grandson Stanford Parris the Fifth.”
Like anyone actually cares how many Stanford Parrises there are?
Serena waited for the boy to blush with embarrassment and mutter about how plain old “Stan” would be just fine, but he didn't. Obviously he thought his title was the best thing ever. What did they call him at school? she wondered. Number five? Stan 5?
“Here's your name tag, dear.” Serena' smother pasted a bumper-sticker-sized white nametag with 'Serena van der Woodsen, Incoming Fall' written on it in blue marker over Serena's breast, like some sort of hideous, adhesive-backed tube top.
Serena pretended not to mind. “Thanks, Mom,” she said, cupping her hands over her hest to smooth out the nametag. Every male in her presence let out a little gasp, all getting excited for Yale's coed dorms next year.
They were early and the party was thin. Boys in Hugo Boss suits and ties and girls in long Tocca skirts and buttoned-up blouse lurked by their parents sides, smiling awkwardly and guzzling champagne. The whole scene made Serena feel like she was at her first day of ballroom dancing back in the fifth grade.
Someone tapped Serena on the shoulder and she turned around. It was Mrs. Archibald, Nate's dramatic, French, slightly crazy mother. Her dyed amber hair had been blown out into mass of cascading curls, and her thin lips were painted a fierce fire-engine red. Around her neck were six strands of rose-colored pearls, and matching rose-colored pearls punctuated each ear. Despite her three-inch Christian Louboutin heels, she was surprisingly tiny, dressed in a sleek, pewter-colored strapless Oscar de la Renta silk evening gown and carrying a little gold satchel and gold opera glasses- Obviously just stopping by at the party on her way to the theater. She kissed Serena quickly on both cheeks. “Have you seen my son?” she whispered in Serena's ear, her green eyes flashing.
Serena shook her head. “No. But Blair's--” she stopped short, wondering if Mrs. Archibald really wanted to know that Blair and Nate were holed up in a Plaza Hotel suite, having lots of sex. “Have you tried his cell?” she asked instead.
Mrs. Archibald batted her eyelashes and waved her opera glasses in the air. “Never mind, darling,” she sighed, before rustling off to find her husband, the admiral.
Stan 5 was still standing by as if it were only right that the handsomest blond guy and the most beautiful blond girl in the room should be talking to each other. A woman in a black caterer's uniform handed Serena a flute of champagne. “Where's your nametag?” Serena asked Stan 5, scanning his black oxford-cloth shirt that had been unbuttoned and tieless.
What a rebel.
He grinned and cleared his throat. “I didn't think I needed one.”
Oh, so like everyone is just supposed to know who you are?
Serena was ready to ditch the party already- she'd shown up and stayed ten minutes, what more did her parents want? But then old Mr. Parris shuffled over to talk to her again, and she didn't want to be rude.
“Your mother was just telling me what a wonderful actress you are,” he boomed in his New England accent. He adjusted his burgundy-and-navy-blue-striped bow tie. “You know, I played the lead in nineteen productions back when I was a Yalie. The school was men only in those days. I've got some old pictures if you would like to take a look.”
“Honestly, Granddad,” Stan 5 huffed in an effort to shut his grandfather up.
“Actually, I'd love to,” Serena replied with genuine interest. There was nothing she liked better than to look at old pictures. She loved the elaborate clothes, the dramatic bouffant hairstyles, and the
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