Gossip Girl: It Had To Be You

In one door and out the other

Dan was terrified that he was going to arrive at the party, wouldn't know a soul, and would be asked to leave right in front of Serena van der Woodsen, who from then on would think him a pathetic loser. He'd decided to walk all the way to Tribeca from the Upper West Side, thinking a brisk stroll in the cool night air would give him a boost of confidence. By the time he'd arrived and had stepped onto the glaringly bright elevator, his wasted, overcaffeinated body was rigid with cold, and his shaggy light brown hair was pasted to his forehead with nervous sweat. The doors slid closed and the floor beneath his feet began to rise. Soon the elevator would open right onto the living room of some guy named Luke Goodred's loft, and Serena would be right there in front of him, staring at his dripping cold sweat.

As if she didn't have better things to do than stand outside the elevator?

The doors opened. The black-and-white-tiled floor was throbbing with daft rap music. A gigantic messy pile of coats lay in his way. Dan kept his coat on for armor and kept his coat on for armor and kept his eyes on the black and white floor tiles as he skulked carefully toward the source of the music. Luke Goodred's apartment was a massive black, white, and green loftlike space with gigantic rectangular windows, an open kitchen, and a polished chrome coffee table that was at least a mile long. A group of girls were dancing on the table with neon green drinks in their hands. They shimmied their hips and smiled at one another like they'd all just heard the best secret. Dan patted his pockets and pretended to be looking for his keys as he continued to scan the room for Serena. There were two senior guys from his school, smoking by the windows with two curly-haired French-looking girls in matching dark red lipstick. There was Chuck the Fuck, wearing a black pin-striped double-breasted blazer over a crisp white shirt, pressed dark blue jeans, and brown leather loafers without socks, looking like the poster boy for everything Dan hated and could never be. And dancing with Chuck was Serena and that pretty, dark-haired friend of hers. Their gorgeous heads were thrown back and their pantyless butt cheeks shimmered below super-short purple hems. Dan's hands began to shake and he averted his eyes. He was in way over his head.

"Humphrey! My savior!" Chuck roared across the room when he spotted Dan. "I got a freaking one hundred on my math paper. Dude, I've never even gotten a ninety, let alone a one hundred! I'm sitting next to you every fucking day!"

Dan felt like he was hearing Chuck's assault through a wall. As hard as he tried not to stare at her, everything he saw, heard, tasted was Serena. Until Chuck lurched at him and smacked him in the head.

"Dude, are you high or something? I go out of my way to be nice to you and you don't even look at me?"

Dan blinked, a silly smile on his lips. He'd never seen Serena dance before. Her long, lithe body undulated to the music in a slinky but gawky sort of way, like she was a young Thoroughbred that hadn't yet figured out how to use its perfectly formed limbs. Her striking but shorter brunette friend was more manic and more calculated. Serena's gigantic blue eyes were closed, as if her body and the music were having some kind of wonderful conversation.

Tantric beats—a rhythm or a sickness.What's come over me?What's to become of me?

Every time Dan laid eyes on her, lines of poetry traversed his consciousness, begging to be written down.

"Jesus. You want me to call nine-one-one?" Chuck shouted, spitting all over Dan's eyelids. Serena opened her eyes and glanced at Dan, who had become an instant spectacle because of Chuck's performance.

Does she recognize me? Does she know she's been to my house? Does she know I'm the one who wrote her that poem? Does she know how much I think about her?

Hopefully not!

Dan waved shyly at her, his fingers numb with the realization that he was finally making contact—it was finally happening. But what to do next? Introduce himself? Just stand there, staring? Ask her to dance? Projectile vomit and leave, hopefully not in that order?