Did you ever wonder what happens after a pet dies? Well, my family's German shorthaired pointer died last week of stomach cancer and it was really sad. I know it sounds dumb but I believe in dog heaven. Stella visits me in my sleep and licks my hand. And then I give her one of her favorite treats: caviar on a water biscuit. She also loved white wine and she used to eat the cigar butts out of my dad's ashtray, which was how she got stomach cancer...
At first Vanessa was going to ditch the story but then she decided to keep it in the "yes" pile. After all, the girl who had
written it was only in eighth grade. And so far it was the only written submission besides a poem by a junior, which she absolutely refused to publish.
My Boyfriend
He makes me laugh and tells me I'm pretty
And I feel even prettier each time
He is so funny I can't stop laughing I'm even laughing now
We went to the beach and he said I was pretty
We went ice-skating and he said I was pretty
He fell down and then I fell down
And we were laughing and then he kissed me
She couldn't decide whether the so-called poet was a complete idiot or exquisitely profound. Regardless, the poem was so annoying it was the perfect first entry for what was bound to be a great big reject pile. Vanessa tossed the poem in the "no" pile on top of a pathetic drawing of some girl's foot that looked more like a chicken leg. She stood up from the dust-moted floor of her bedroom and threw open the grimy window, letting in a cold blast of sugar-factory air. Happy cheeseball bullshit like that poem made her blood boil. She felt completely full of... rancor. The dark baby fuzz of hair on top of her newly shorn head stood on end, and a slow smile spread across her bittermouth. Rancor. It was a perfect name for her magazine—angry, unusual, and slightly intimidating.
Kind of like someone we know.
She shoved the slim pile of papers back into her black canvas backpack and headed into the bathroom. Anyway, what was she doing working on a Friday night when she had a party to go to?
Standing in front of the soap-scum-smeared bathroom mirror, she squirted Bed Head antifrizz gel on her hand and rubbed it on her nearly bald head just for fun. She hated Valentine's Day and hadn't planned on going to any sort of party tonight, but yesterday Blair had gotten five text messages about tonight's festivities while they were out taking pictures in Double Photography, and the idea of showing up unexpectedly just to shock and piss off her coolest classmates was so delightful that she couldn't resist.
Technically, Vanessa had never been to a party in the city before. Parties in Vermont consisted of a bunch of losers in football jerseys drinking skunky Busch beer out of a keg in somebody's moldy basement rec room or out in a field. A Manhattan Upper East Side private school party was probably exactly the same, except for the surroundings, the clothes, and the beer. Actually, there probably wouldn't be any beer, just vintage scotch and 100-proof vodka. But Vanessa wasn't much of a drinker anyway. She'd only gotten drunk once, with her sister, and she'd wound up sleeping in the bathtub, facedown in a puddle of her own yuckiness.
Of course, she was going under the premise that she was taking — her camera. She'd do a photo montage for the magazine 'Assholes in Paradise." A profile of teen excess.
And be honest, who wouldn't want to star in that?
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Gossip Girl: It Had To Be You
Teen Fiction'Welcome to New York City's Upper East Side, where my friends and I all live in huge, fabulous apartments and go to exclusive single-sex private schools. We aren't always the nicest people in the world, but we make up for it in looks and taste.' Ent...
