Free Don't You Forget About Me by Cecily von Ziegesar Page B

perched on his shoulder, pulling at strands of Chuck’s over-producted hair. Sweetie was dressed in a tiny black T-shirt with the words SILENCE=DEATH printed in white lettering. The monkey screeched loudly, waving its furry white arms in the air.
    “Congratulations!” Chuck raised his Cosmo. “It’s about
time
!” The small crowd murmured their agreement, holding up their glasses and clinking their cups against Dan’s untouched drink. Great—even a complete moron like Chuck Bass had known Dan was gay before he did. Was it, like, stamped on his fucking forehead or something? As if it wasn’t weird enough that he was here, Chuck suddenly pulled him by the elbow into the corner so that they were out of earshot of the rest of the group.
    “Chuck, what are you
doing
here?” Dan blurted out before Chuck could say anything.
    Chuck flapped a hand, as if waving off the silly question. “I got the e-mail from your mom—everybody did. Subject line: ‘Dan’s gay—hooray!’ Anyway, is that your boyfriend?” Chuck asked, pointing across the room at Greg. Greg was now standing next to Vanessa, who was laughing loudly with her head thrown back.
    Dan’s gay—hooray?
Dan resisted the urge to climb out on the fire escape and throw himself onto the street below. He gave Chuck a weak smile. “Um, Greg and I . . . we’re—” “You know, Dan,” Chuck interrupted, one hand resting on his shoulder, “I never really had anything against you.” He looked meaningfully into Dan’s eyes. “I think we were both just feeling some unresolved . . .
tension
, if you know what I mean.” Chuck smiled and casually let his fingers trail from Dan’s shoulder down his bare arm. Just then the monkey reached down and stuck its tiny brown hand in Chuck’s drink, spattering the pink liquid everywhere with a high-pitched screech.
    “Bad Sweetie!” Chuck exclaimed, dabbing at his Cosmo-stained tank top with his fingers. “Excuse me for a moment?” Chuck flashed him an apologetic smile. “I have to go spank my monkey.” He laughed at his own perverse joke and moved toward the kitchen sink, chattering to Sweetie under his breath. Maybe Dan was losing his mind completely, but it sounded like Sweetie was actually answering Chuck in some kind of crazed monkey-speak.
    Dan shook his head and wove through the crowded kitchen to the living room. His dad stood in the center of the room, holding court before an enraptured audience of middle-aged guys with straggly, bushy beards. Rufus was dressed in a light-pink ‘70s leisure suit with a PFLAG pin on one insanely wide lapel.
    “Dan!” Rufus bellowed. “There you are!” He put his arm around his son’s shoulders and turned to the group of bearded Rufus clones surrounding them. “Dan, these are the members of my gastronomic society—they brought the wild boar pâté.” The group of men raised their glasses in greeting, and Rufus pointed to a plate of suspiciously lumpy brown pâté over on the battered wooden coffee table. “Try some—it’s fantastic.” Silence = death.
    “And Dan.” Rufus leaned in to speak more privately, “I was thinking about this whole transition you’re going through.” He stopped and scratched his mess of a beard. “Well, maybe its not so much a
transition
as it is a realization,” Rufus mused, stuffing a mushy glob of pâté into his mouth. “But I think,” he continued, the boar pâté sputtering out of his mouth in chunks, “that in the long run it will probably make you a better writer, like Oscar Wilde or W.H. Auden.” Rufus took a gallant swig from the Cosmo in his hand, washing down his meaty mouthful. “Just think of all you’ll have to say now!” he exclaimed. “I imagine that your marginalized position will be very productive for your writing.”
Marginalized position?
Dan didn’t feel very marginalized—more like completely overwhelmed. And curious. What else had his mother e-mailed? And to whom? He noticed out of the corner of his