gossip girl 10 英文- 第28节

　Mister　Modesty。　

？This　is　perfect；？　Greg　continued；　shoving　his　hands　in　the　pockets　of　his　just…below…the…knee　
cutoffs。　？Look；　I　can？t　believe　I？m　going　to　ask　you　this；　but　I？ve　been　trying　to　get　a　salon　going；　
you　know；　kind　of　an　informal　thing；　lots　of　people　who　care　about　books；　getting　together　every　
so　often　to　just　shoot　the　shit；　talk　about　literature　and　poetry　and　films　and　music。　And　blogs。　But　
only　sometimes。　I？m　sure　you？re　probably　really　busy；　but　maybe　you？d　like　to　join　up？　Or　I　
mean；　if　you？re　too　busy　it？s　cool；　but？？　

？A　salon；？　Dan　interrupted　Greg？s　rambling。　It　actually　sounded　kind　of　。　。　。　awesome。　He？d　
e　to　work　at　the　Strand　expecting　lots　of　stimulating　break…room　discussions　about　the　classics　
and　foreign　films；　but　so　far　the　most　in…depth　conversation　he？d　participated　in　had　involved　two　
coworkers　asking　to　bum　cigarettes。　？That　sounds　cool。？　

？Oh　man；　that？s　great！？　Greg　cried　excitedly；　his　voice　cracking。　？I？m　still　working　on　all　the　
details；　you　know；　drafting　a　mission　statement；　thinking　about　how　to　recruit　members。？　

？A　mission　statement。？　Dan　nodded　thoughtfully。　？Maybe　I　could　help　you　out　with　that。？　

？Really？？　Greg　asked。　？Fucking　fantastic。？　He　pulled　a　rainbow　swirly　pen　out　of　his　breast　
pocket　and　grabbed　Dan？s　hand。　？I？ll　give　you　my　e…mail。？　He　scrawled　his　address　across　Dan？s　
palm。　？Just　send　me　any　random　ideas　and　I？ll　plug　them　in。　Also；　we　need　a　name。　I　was　thinking　
we　could　mix　up　the　names　of　some　dead　poets；　like　Wadsworth　Whitman　or　Emerson　Thoreau。　
They　wouldn？t　mind。？　

No；　but　they？ll　be　rolling　in　their　graves。　

？Cool。？　Dan　pulled　his　hand　out　of　Greg？s　grasp　and　glanced　at　the　address　he？d　written　
there。　？I？ll　be　in　touch；？　he　added；　trying　not　to　sound　too　eager；　even　though　he　definitely　was。　
He　needed　some　new　friends　now　that　Vanessa　was　rightfully　tired　of　him。　


One　word：　sad。　But　also　。　。　。　slightly　cute。　In　a　seriously　sad　way。　

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Disclaimer：　All　the　real　names　of　places；　people；　and　events　have　been　altered　or　abbreviated　to　
protect　the　innocent。　Namely；　me。　

　hey　people！　

Ever　have　that　totally　freakish　feeling　that　someone　is　listening　in　on　your　conversations；　spying　
on　you　and　your　friends；　following　you　to　parties；　and　generally　stalking　you？　Well；　they　are。　Or　
actually；　I　am。　The　truth　is；　I？ve　been　here　all　along；　because　I？m　one　of　you。　

Feeling　totally　lost？　Don？t　get　out　much？　Don？t　know　who　？we？　are？　Allow　me　to　explain。　
We？re　an　exclusive　group　of　indescribably　beautiful　people　who　happen　to　live　in　those　majestic；　
green…awninged；　white…glove…doorman　buildings　near　Central　Park。　We　attend　Manhattan？s　most　
elite　single…sex　private　schools。　Our　families　own　yachts　and　estates　in　various　exotic　locations　
throughout　the　world。　We　frequent　all　the　best　beaches　and　the　most　exclusive　ski　resorts。　We？re　
seated　immediately　at　the　nicest　restaurants　in　the　chicest　neighborhoods　with…out　a　reservation。　
We　turn　heads。　But　don？t　confuse　us　with　Hollywood　actors　or　models　or　rock　stars？those　people　
you　feel　like　you　know　because　you　hear　so　much　about　them；　but　who　are　actually　pletely　
boring　pared　to　the　parts　they　play　or　the　songs　they　sing。　There？s　nothing　boring　about　me　or　
my　friends；　and　the　more　I　tell　you　about　us；　the　more　you？re　going　to　want　to　know。　I？ve　kept　
quiet　until　now；　but　something　has　happened　and　I　just　can？t　stay　quiet　about　it。　。　。　。　

the　greatest　story　ever　told　

We　learned　in　our　first　eleventh…grade　creative　writing　class　this　week　that　most　great　stories　
begin　in　one　of　the　following　fashions：　someone　mysteriously　disappears　or　a　stranger　es　to　
town。　The　story　I？m　about　to　tell　is　of　the　？someone　mysteriously　disappears？　variety。　

To　be　specific；S　isgone。　

In　order　to　unravel　the　mystery　of　why　she？s　left　and　where　she？s　gone；　I？m　going　to　have　to　
backtrack　to　last　winter？the　winter　of　our　sophomore　year？when　the　La　Mer　skin　cream　hit　the　fan　
and　our　pretty　pink　rose…scented　bubble　burst。　It　all　started　with　three　inseparable；　perfectly　
innocent；　？ber…gorgeous　fifteen…year…olds。　Well；　they？re　sixteen　now；　and　let？s　just　say　that　two　of　
them　arenot　that　innocent。　


If　anyone　is　going　to　tell　this　tale　it　has　to　be　me；　because　I　was　at　the　scene　of　every　crime。　So　
sit　back　while　I　unravel　the　past　and　reveal　everyone？s　secrets；　because　I　know　everything；　and　
what　I　don？t　know　I？ll　invent；　elaborately。　

Admit　it：　you？re　already　falling　for　me。　

Love　you　too　。　。　。　
gossip　girl　

the　best　stories　begin　with　one　boy　and　two　girls　

？Truce！？　Serena　van　der　Woodsen　screamed　as　Nate　Archibald　body…checked　her　into　a　
three…foot…high　drift　of　powdery　white　snow。　Cold　and　wet；　it　tunneled　into　her　ears　and　down　her　
pants。　Nate　dove　on　top　of　her；　all　five…foot　eleven　inches　of　his　perfect；　golden…brown…haired；　
glittering…green…eyed；　fifteen…year…old　boyness。　Nate　smelled　like　Downy　and　the　Kiehl？s　
sandalwood　soap　the　maid　stocked　his　bathroom　with。　Serena　just　lay　there；　trying　to　breathe　with　
him　on　top　of　her。　？My　scalp　is　cold；？　she　pleaded；　getting　a　mouthful　of　Nate？s　snow…dampened；　
godlike　curls　as　she　spoke。　

Nate　sighed　reluctantly；　as　if　he　could　have　spent　all　day　outside　in　the　frigid　February　meat　
locker　that　was　the　back　garden　of　his　family？s　Eighty…second…Street…just…off…Park…Avenue　
Manhattan　town　house。　He　rolled　onto　his　back　and　wriggled　like　Serena？s　long…dead　golden　
retriever；　Guppy；　when　she　used　to　let　him　loose　on　the　green　grass　of　the　Great　Lawn　in　Central　
Park。　Then　he　stood　up；　awkwardly　dusting　off　the　seat　of　his　neatly　pressed　Brooks　Brothers　
khakis。　It　was　Saturday；　but　he　still　wore　the　same　clothes　he　wore　every　weekday　as　a　sophomore　
at　the　St。　Jude？s　School　for　Boys　over　on　East　End　Avenue。　It　was　the　unofficial　Prince　of　the　
Upper　East　Side　uniform；　the　same　uniform　he　and　his　classmates　had　been　wearing　since　they？d　
started　nursery　school　together　at　Park　Avenue　Presbyterian。　

Nate　held　out　his　hand　to　help　Serena　to　her　feet。　She　frowned　cautiously　up　at　him；　worried　that　
he　was　only　faking　her　out　and　was　about　to　tackle　her　again。　？I　really　am　cold。？　

He　flapped　his　hand　at　her　impatiently。　？I　know。　e　on。？　

She　snorted；　pretended　to　pick　her　nose　and　wipe　it　on　the　seat　of　her　snow…soaked　dark　denim　
Earl　jeans；　then　grabbed　his　hand　with　her　faux…snotty　one。　？Thanks；　pal。？　She　staggered　to　her　
feet。　？You？re　a　real　chum。？　

Nate　led　the　way　inside。　The　backs　of　his　pant　legs　were　damp　and　she　could　see　the　outline　of　
his　tighty…whiteys。　Really；　how　gay　of　him！　He　held　the　glass…paned　French　doors　open　and　stood　
aside　to　let　her　pass。　Serena　kicked　off　her　baby　blue　Uggs　and　scuffed　her　bare；　Urban　Decay　


Piggy　Bank　pink？toenailed　feet　down　the　long　hall　to　the　stately　town　house？s　enormous；　barely　
used　all…white　Italian　Modern　kitchen。　Nate？s　father　was　a　former　sea　captain…turned…banker；　and　
his　mother　was　a　French　society　hostess。　They　were　basically　never　home；　and　when　theywere　
home；　they　were　at　the　opera。　

？Are　you　hungry？？　Nate　asked；　following　her。　？I？m　so　sick　of　takeout。　My　parents　have　been　in　
Venezuela　or　Santa　Domingo　or　wherever　they　go　in　February　for　like　two　weeks；　and　I？ve　been　
eating　burritos；　pizza；　or　sushi　every　freaking　night。　I　asked　Regina　to　buy　ham；　Swiss；　Pepperidge　
Farm　white　bread；　Grammy　Smith　apples；　and　peanut　butter。　All　I　want　is　the　food　I　ate　in　
kindergarten。？　He　tugged　anxiously　on　his　wavy；　golden　brown　hair。　？Maybe　I？m　going　through　
some　sort　of　midlife　crisis　or　something。？　

Like　his　life　is　so　stressful？　

？It？s　GrannySmith；　silly；？　Serena　informed　him　fondly。　She　opened　a　glossy　white　cupboard　and　
found　an　unopened　box　of　cinnamon…and…brown…sugar　Pop…Tarts。　Ripping　open　the　box；　she　
removed　one　of　the　packets　from　inside；　tore　it　open　with　her　neat；　white　teeth；　and　pulled　out　a　
thickly　frosted　pastry。　She　sucked　on　the　Pop…Tart？s　sweet；　crumbly　corner　and　hopped　up　on　the　
counter；　kicking　the　cupboards　below　with　her　size…eight…a