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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

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