Free The Carlyles by Cecily von Ziegesar Page A

talk about on Manhattan’s Golden Mile. First off, can we please discuss the wonder that is O ? The rumors are true and he is beyond gorgeous, but he seems to be too busy making guy friends to even give a second glance to the ladies. Don’t worry, I’ll fix that. B is anything but innocent. Exhibit A: her expansive knowledge of French curse words. But why so angry? French is the language of love—maybe that’s all she needs. And A ’s style is admittedly impeccable. But as we all know, looking perfect just means you’ve got more to hide. . . .
    The Tragic Breakup of a UES Golden Couple
    She was whimsically artistic. He was painfully polite. They were childhood sweethearts. The affair was given a seal of approval by Lady S herself. So what happened? Did someone get cold feet? Or was someone looking for more heat?
    The Girl who Needs a Bang Trim
    Ladies, I know thick bangs are in, but when your hair is hanging a centimeter above your eyes, you look like someone threw a Missoni centerpiece bowl over your head and began to snip. Guess what? You don’t need to spend two precious hours at Elizabeth Arden Red Door Salon to get a trim. They’re called scissors. Snip away! The DIY look is very in right now.
    The Almost-married Power Couple
    Have they or haven’t they? They spent a summer apart, where he developed a social conscience and she developed a taste for pastries. Are they still as close as they were at the end of last year, when he would greet her outside ballet class with flowers? Or are they closer ?
    Sightings
    J dragging on Merits during double photography. Didn’t she give those up . . . ? A cowering in the back of AP English, not looking at anyone. That’s not the way to make friends . . . ! R calling in an order of roses to be delivered to K ’s apartment . . . O fidgeting and tapping his foot in American history, looking like he’s about to burst out of his skin. Why so agitated?
    Okay, I’m off to Elizabeth Arden Red Door salon. All this speed typing has just about ruined my reverse French manicure. Sigh. It’s a tough life, but somebody’s gotta live it. . . . Over and out!
    You know you love me,
    gossip girl

Swear to Dog
    Baby frowned. Her sister hadn’t even acknowledged her when she snatched the information packet from Mrs. McLame after the all-school assembly was dismissed. Baby didn’t bother to stop by her locker and instead sprang out the royal blue doors and tore off her stupid, itchy navy blue blazer. She pressed 1 on the speed dial of her slim red Nokia, excited to hear Tom’s voice.
    “Oh my God, so I had to go to Brazil on this exchange program my parents signed me up for, and I thought it would be, like, hanging out on the beach and partying in Rio. Instead we were supposed to build houses. Hello, who the fuck knows how to build a house? I’m from fucking New York,” Baby overheard one girl say to another as they strode down the steps. She had stick-straight brown hair and kept bumping into her friend as she walked.
    The phone continued to ring, and Baby imagined Tom at his dented red locker in the crowded hallway of NHS. After school, everyone would be heading out to get a snack at the diner or to hang out at the beach a few blocks away. She counted ring number five as she flopped down on the school’s stone steps facing Ninety-third Street. Girls streamed out of the royal blue doors on either side of her. One almost clocked her with a silver Balenciaga bag as she flipped open her phone.
    “’Lo?” Tom’s voice sounded warm and lazy and reminded her of summer picnics and rainstorms and Wilco playing too loudly on the stereo in the muddy brown 1988 Mercury Cougar he’d bought from his grandfather. He’d added leopard-print sheets to the back and had wedged a George Foreman grill under the hood for impromptu beachside barbecues.
    Talk about pimping a ride.
    “It’s me,” she said in a small voice and glared down at the blue and white seersucker skirt spread out over her