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Enjoy.
--
I guess that, for my most girls my age, seeing your devastatingly gorgeous and graceful mother passed out on the bathroom floor, covered in her own spit-up, would be a shocking sight.
I can visualize those headband-wearing, label-whoring, charity party-attending New England swans who swarm The March School for Girls would feel their cleft jaws drop and their eyes widen. They wouldn't know what to do - call 911? the maid? their father?
As for me, Molly Baizen, thirteen-going-on-forty, this is merely routine. I glance down at the green apple-shaped watch that adorns my thin wrist: 3:12. School let out ten minutes ago. Today, Thursday, is the one day when I'm not overscheduled within an inch of my life. No, French Club meets on Mondays, Film Society on Tuesday and field hockey is Wednesday and Friday mornings.
There's nothing on Thursday. I've made it that way, because Thursday is the day when my mother still needs me. Thursday is the day when I send mother's ruined Givenchy original to the drycleaner's and change her into one of the pre-selected loungewear sets. Today, my able fingers unfold an ice blue negligee, just long enough to graze the lower thigh.
I take a seat beside her mother on the floor. The woman, who has begun dying her hair so her locks are as dark and flawless as they've always been, is somewhere near consciousness. I pluck a lemon-coloured washcloth from the cabinet, let it soak in warm water, and place it on my mother's forehead, which is just beginning to wrinkle.
"There, there," I chant, tucking a ringlet behind my mother's ear, careful not to disturb the four-carat diamond heirloom earring.
In her sleepy, dreamy state, Blair Baizen almost smiles.
--
College was finished. Summer was afoot, the possibilities endless, the scandals incomprehensible. Throughout the four years she'd spent at Dartmouth, Blair had periodically applied to Yale. Sure, Dartmouth was an Ivy, but it was so far removed from the Holy Trinity (yaleharvardprinceton) it might as well have been community college in Bumblefuck, Ohio.
The longer she spent toiling away in that - that prison, the more unkempt and careless Blair became. No longer did she wake up two hours earlier than her roommate so she could have first dibs on the hairdryer, the hottest water for her shower, or have time to apply lotion to every inch of her sinful skin.
Instead she stumbled out of bed, twenty minutes before her first class of the day, pulled on a college sweatshirt that she wasn't sure was hers, some holy jeans, and sneakers. Of course, Blair had gained the freshman fifteen rather quickly, so her habit of praying to the porcelain gods was reborn.
It wasn't that bad really, Blair thought as she tapped her toe impatiently. No, not really.
Her mother was supposedly coming to pick her up. This was her "gift" after missing Blair's graduation, which had turned into the worst day of her life to date. In the huge stadium, when "Blair C. Waldorf," was called, the room was practically silent. Sure, there was polite clapping from the Upper East Siders, some wide smiles from the generally ecstatic hockey dads and soccer moms, and a catcall or two from her boyfriend, Ethan. It didn't matter. There was no Serena, no Nate, no Chuck, not even fricking Jenny. And no Eleanor.
"It's fine, babe," Ethan, who bore more of a distinction with that tough guy from The O.C. than his namesake, Ethan Hawke, had said, clapping a large hand over Blair's frail shoulder. "She's probably just tied up, you know, with work or somethin'?"
That was when Blair decided to dump him. She had, after all, only chosen him to be graced with her presence because, of all the lacrosse players, he looked the most like her Nate.
"Your mother couldn't be here, Miss Blair." The well-heeled woman in black and red gave Blair a crooked smile. She took long strides, popping out of the driver's side from a rental car - Mercedes - with New Hampshire plates. "She sends her love."
"Well, tell her I don't fucking send mine." With that final statement, Blair walked calmly away from the bemused-looking redhead who, by now, was searching through the Contacts on her BlackBerry to confirm to one of her colleagues that, yes, indeed, Blair Waldorf was the ungrateful bitch everyone said she was.
Blair's finger roamed the bulletin board, before stopping once she reached a fruity orange flyer. A road trip with a clique of girls who called themselves "THE NHL," which apparently stood for Natasha, Haley, and Libbie, up to New York seemed her best option.
--
I have a brother. Nathan. He's alright, I suppose. Sometimes I think his brain is wired differently, though. He never gets jokes, his SAT scores made mother weep, and he believes, whole-heartedly, in love. This is why he doesn't get along with me, or mother.
Once, when Daddy had finally asleep during the Disney animated version of Cinderella, mother decided to watch the end with me. I asked her, at the tender age of five, if she and Daddy had their "Happily Ever After"? Did she believe in true love?
Her honest answer was this, "No, and no. Now, shut up and watch the movie, Moll."
Nathan is sixteen, I'm thirteen. The circumstances of our births were bizarre. In fact, they boil down to one thing: competition. From what I can gather from Gossip Girl website archives, my mother has been battling, feuding with, and envying Serena van der Woodsen since they were in designer diapers.
At the time, Serena was married to Dan Humphrey, who had just published his third Great Gatsby-esque novel, The Lies We Love. On the release date of his book, Serena became pregnant.
She came, happy tears streaking down her face and yet managing to look flawless in a way only she could and told mother the news. I could picture exactly how my mother would take it. The way her lipstick'd lips would purse, how her teeth would be gritted behind said lips. She would tilt her head back and blow out a breath, like, "Oh."
Days later she became pregnant with Nathan, never-to-be-called-"Nate." It was such a coincidence, truly.
The same thing happened three years later. Only this time no tears of unadulterated bliss or pure joy were shed. Serena had exasperatedly told mother that she was pregnant, 'Yes, again,' as a last-ditch attempt to salvage her marriage from the train wreck that it was. Of course, Blair "magically" became pregnant with me, days later.
When Serena was almost through her third trimester, Dan sold another book. Their divorce was finalized days before the birth of their second son. Without scruffy-faced, Moleskin-toting Dan around to be of influence, Serena named her son Michael Eric. Dan had named their first son. Holden, as in Caulfield, as well as Harold, for the main, neurotic character in his debut novel, Eyes Closed.
--
Blair shook out her hair, parted her lips, lifted her thighs off the hot leather seating of the butter-soft swivel chair and crossed her impressive gams. She smiled tautly, like a mannequin on display. "Hello," said the therapist, in all his almost-bald glory. He wore a suit of tweed, like the old farts she'd seen bustling around Ivy League football matches. There was no pen or legal pad; no tape recorder; nothing. By Blair's request, of course. There was no way in hell her words would be used against her. "Hi." "Well, Miss Waldorf - can I call you Blair?" Without waiting for the affirmative answer to slip breezily through her painted lips, he powered on. "Is there anything you'd like to state? Something to - to share?" Share. Novel concept. One that hadn't been properly drilled into her head. Eleanor Waldorf believed that sharing was overrated. She told this to a pouting four-year-old Blair, who demanded she be let use Eleanor's "special" chair. Eleanor, of course, refused. "Well." Her hands folded neatly, like origami paper cranes, Blair clucked her tongue. "I've been finished college nearly four years now... I'm single. With little to no friends. I'm studying law, full-time. I-" Pause. "I despise my life." --
I'm sure you're wondering what happened to the rest of the silver spoon gang. There is a long answer and a short one. In short, they fell apart. Serena went to Brown, but dropped out before she'd even finalized her courses. Nate went to Dartmouth and watched as Blair chewed through the lacrosse team. Chuck? Well, no one's quite sure about what happened to him. Sometimes, I see mother, dressed in pristine white like the virgin she never was, clutching a fountain pen like it's her lifeline. And she writes. Writeswriteswrites until the words are blurred from her tears and the ink starts to smudge.
She says she's writing to Daddy, who's off on some adventure in Africa or trip in Thailand. I know that's a lie. Daddy would write back to her. This man - Chuck - never has. How could he? Blair just sends the letters to Bart, hoping they'll reach his son eventually.
After a failed marriage to a Greek shipping heir, Jenny fell into her delusions. She believed Uncle Eric when he said he was back on the straight and narrow. Whenever she sees a male model-type stumbling out of some suite at x hour of the morning, she believes Uncle Eric. "It's just work," he tells her and she believes him, because that's a wife's job. Eric's a photographer.
Of course, there is one man who is steadily tumbling out of Eric's suite at The Palace. Asher Hornsby, married to Elise Wells, one of Jenny's once-upon-a-time followers, with two kids. At least he could fake it better.
Nate and Serena got their happily ever after before Michael even blew out the candles on his first birthday cake. They would go on to have two daughters. Lydia, with Serena's blond curls and Nate's ice-blue eyes, who is now eleven. She's a real stuck-up brat. I see her, sitting on the steps of the Met, wearing the March School uniform, sucking on a spoon that's dripping with yogurt. After Constance burned down the year after the golden boys and girls hightailed it to their chosen New England schools, March School was the only acceptable place to attend.
"Oh, hi, Mia," Lydia snarls, every day, without fail, when I brush past her, holding the urge to kick her little cronies in their Juicy-covered backs.
"It's Molly," I mumble back and walk past them. I give a dime for entry and wander through the halls for ages. It's so detached from the scandal and viciousness of the Upper East Side.
Nate and Serena's other daughter is Erin. She's the opposite of her sister, looks-wise and personality-wise. Erin has Nate's russet-coloured hair cut into a shaggy chin-length bob and Serena's watery blue eyes. She's four and an absolute angel. Sometimes, Nate and Serena (who refused to hire a nanny, but more on that later) let me baby-sit for Erin. She just sits on my lap and talks nonsense into my ear while we stay up past our bedtimes watching Doctor Who.
Michael and Holden still live with Dan, in a deteriorating apartment in Brooklyn and take the subway to St. Jude's. Their home is shabby, not because they can't afford a brownstone like I live in, but because it's more "inspiring." Most of the time, Serena ignores the existence of her two sons. Except on bank holidays.
Georgina Sparks has a son my age. Preston. He's close friends with Michael. I hate him. Not Michael; Preston. He's so mean, all the time. Not to me, though. To the outsiders. The Dan Humphreys of our generation. The scholarship kids. Some of my best friends are on scholarship. Those are the ones I can't bring mom to meet mother.
Kati and Is married twins. I'm not even kidding. They live somewhere in the Connecticut countryside. I'm not sure how many exactly, but I know they have kids and I know said kids are pushed aside to boarding schools.
At least Kati and Is are happy in their marriages. Mother married Carter Baizen, who's a lot older than her. They can barely stand to look at each sometimes. And their sex life? The walls are thin in our brownstone and sometimes I can hear them. One of them is always more into it than the other. Sometimes Daddy is moaning mother's name and sometime she's gasping for breath.
--
"Same time, same place, tomorrow?" Blair asked, hoping that her sultry voice disguised the hopefulness of a middle schooler she'd seemingly adopted overnight. Instead of drawling a half-assed pun, Chuck Bass' lips curled. "I'll pass, sweetheart." "Bu- But?" She regained her momentarily lost composure, squaring off her shoulders. "That's fine. Another time." "Actually." He pulled on an argyle sweater. "I have plans." That signature fucking Chuck smirk. "With Hazel. And possibly Penelope, depending on how kinky I'm feeling." Any other girl would've felt tears well up in their saucer-shaped brown eyes and try to pat them away with a BCW-monogrammed handkerchief. But because she was a Waldorf, she stood to her full height, zipped up her tulip skirt, slipped on an alice band, and stepped into a pair of Tory Burch flats. She walked right out of the room, never once bothering to look over her shoulder. Something inside of her, a light, had been blown out harshly by the luscious lips of Charles Bass. --
Mother has finally come to, the usual sputtering and coughing accompanying her dramatic return trip to reality. I try to give a reassuring smile, but it just comes out weak, pathetic. She accepts this, sitting up straight on her king-sized bed and begins to smooth out any wrinkles in her Calvin Klein sheath.
"Molly." She smiles. Manicured fingers reach out to brush my cheek, but she catches her self and pulls back before her icy touch can make contact with my ever-boiling skin. "Has the maid finished cleaning yet?"
"Yes." My cheeks are too taut, dimples too pronounced, when I smile back. In return, her smiles fades to black and she pushed herself off the bed. "Dorota's done for the day."
"Good, good." Mother's cardigan sleeve slides down to reveal smooth, bare, pale skin. We're identical, practically. In almost every way. I'm just a little more in touch with reality. The truth is Dorota's dead. She passed away years ago. Mother didn't even attend her funeral, she still believes that the woman who bathed me, who raised me, who did our dishes is alive and kicking and working nine-to-five. In reality? It's me who's doing the cleaning, cooking - the everything.
--
On the day of her wedding, Blair's finger sparkled with the most glorious ring that had ever graced the state with its presence. She couldn't stop beaming. Everyone swore they were the "perfect couple." Except, of course, for Serena. Dan was there, too. He had a pocket-sized notebook open and was scribbling furiously in shorthand. His wife of a year didn't both to ask how his writing was going. As long as he paid the bills, was on staff for a popular poetry magazine, she was fine."B," Serena breathed, setting her slim hands on the bride-to-be's frail shoulders. "Is Carter the one? Your one and only?"
"No," she answered her lavender-clad maid-of-honour. "He's everything I look for in one, though. Charming, handsome, loaded, suave. He'll be a great father and a wonderful husband and there'll always be food on the table. Hell, with him on my arm, they'll be pheasant!"
Serena's eyebrows bowed disapprovingly. Blair shook off the blonde's hands and demanded, "Someone, anyone, fix this ribbon." She gestured vaguely to the thick ivory ribbon wrapped around her skull, hugging bouncy brown curls close.
Dorota, who was sickly pale, but still under contract with the Waldorfs, scurried over to the girl she'd watched mature, age, grow, learn. The foreign-tongued nanny-cum-maid placed her large, mannish hands on the tennis-toned shoulders of her one-time charge. "Miss Blair," she said, her throaty voice the same as it had been when she'd twirled the smiling baby around in her Bugaboo. "You look divine."
"I know." She smirked, placing her hand on top of Dorota's as the both gazed into the mirror. "Trust me, I know." Blair turned to the bubbly blonde sidekick, who'd found a flute of champagne to clutch, that always managed to outshine her. Not today... "Now, shoo, S. It's almost time."
--
Daddy is no where to be found. Along with his booming business - doing God knows what, something about telling people how and when to spend their money. Our dad was a travel fanatic. He's been to almost every country, like that John Goddard guy I read a boring-ass article about in English class. I'm not sure where he is today. Or why he's there. Business and pleasure always seem to mix with him.
And, no, I don't mean that he's a cheater. My parents are unhappy, but they'd never have affairs. I don't pretend that they love each other, like the way they do, but I know that they stick together for the good of Nathan and I. I appreciate that. I really do. Divorces are a dime a dozen on NYC's Golden Mile. I'm sure if Carter and Blair ever did decide to put pen to paper and confirm what we've all known for ages, their split would go down as epic. Maybe even Serena could reccomend a good lawyer.
At that moment, Nathan chooses to come home from lacross practice. His dark curls are matted to his forehead with sweat and he narrowly misses hitting me with his stick. In response, I grunt. He grunts back. That's when I see the blonde trailing behind him, gnawing on her glossy lip, looking around in awe. "It's so teensy!" I can hear her half-sneer. When Nathan swivels his head to raise an eyebrow at her, she recovers with a giggly, "And so charming!"
The next words out of his mouth come as no surprise. "Out. Now."
"But what about Blai- uh, Mom?"
"She'll be fine." Blonde giggles at this, like, Oh, ha, ha, so silly Nathan. The urge to punch her is overwhelming. "Now, get."
So I get. I sit on the steps of out brownstone. People pass by, but all blur into one Manhattanite: slick, dressed in black, professional, perfect. Then there's me. Alone. All alone. And so far from perfection.