Gossip Girl: It Had To Be You

If only the captain would jump ship

"What you've got to be sure of, son, is that there are no gaps. We want her tight. Tight as can be," Captain Archibald told Nate as they crawled around on their hands and knees hammering planks into the deck of the eighty-foot cruising yacht they were building together. The boat would be named the Charlotte, after the captain's grand dame of New York society mother, Nate's grandmother, and one day Nate planned to sail it around the world. He could already imagine motoring out of the harbor there on Mt. Desert Island, hoisting the sails, and sailing off into the blue—just him and the enormous stash of pot he'd Ziploc into individual waterproof baggies for the journey. Enough to last at least six months.

Speaking of pot, it was the last week in June and hot as hell, especially for Maine. Nate was worried about his plants. He'd started a mini garden of his own, out behind the boat barn—ten little marijuana plants with seeds he'd bought online from Thailand. The little seedlings had been thriving since he planted them two weeks ago, but the direct sun and ninety-degree heat were bound to take their toll day after day, especially when Nate could only sneak out to water them in the middle of the night, after his parents were in bed or went out to a party. The boat barn was down by the shore, a half mile away from the house, so unless someone was looking for them, no one would ever find the plants. Even if they never amounted to anything, it was kind of fun to watch them sprout and grow leaves. He was proud of them.

Okay, Peter Rabbit, just watch out for Mr. MacGregor.

Nate crawled over to a spot his dad had missed and whacked the nail into the plank until the head disappeared. The carcass of the Charlotte was set up on four huge wooden sawhorses just outside the barn, five hundred feet from the beach. Building the boat had been awesome so far—good, old-fashioned manual labor—as long as his dad didn't try to talk to him too much.

And as long as he smoked a big fatty behind the boat barn before getting to work.

Captain Archibald was a totally anal perfectionist, so even if Nate was high all the time, it wasn't like he could fuck anything up. The wood guy had cut each piece to size and basically built the hull for "them. All Nate had to do was nail the nails in, apply the sealant, and give the boat good karma. He was all about positive vibes these days. Positive vibes and sex. All he had to do was stay positive, build the boat, get through the summer, and soon enough he'd be having sex with Blair. Waiting sucked, but soon he'd be waiting no more.

Waves crashed on the beach and seagulls screeched overhead. The air smelled like cranberries and salt. On the other side of the thicket of birch trees that hid the outbuildings from view loomed the Archibalds' white colonial mansion with its twenty gabled windows and cheerful red shutters. The lush green lawn was fringed with exquisitely landscaped flower beds and rolled downhill like a magnificent green carpet a quarter of a mile to the churling gray sea.

"So tell me, son," Nate's father began in his authoritative captain-of-the-ship voice as he lay down on his taut stomach, squinting at the rough-hewn bow of the boat to see if it was level. "Tell me about the girls in your life. How's that lovely van der Woodsen girl, Serena? And the other one, the lawyer's daughter. What's her name?"

"Blair." Nate picked up a plank and crawled starboard with it hoping to get out of hearing range. To his dismay, his father crawled right after him.

"Get it straight," he ordered, hovering directly over Nate's tanned, bare back. "If we screw this up, we'll have to scrap the whole project."

No pressure or anything, though.

Captain Archibald handed his son a level, then thought better of it and grabbed the plank out of Nate's hands so he could adjust it himself. "I know you like to pretend those girls are just your friends. But my guess is there's a little more to it than that."

How insightful.

Nate sat back on his haunches and watched his dad fuss over the five-foot piece of wood. Captain Archibald was wearing gray flannel suit pants and a light blue button-down J. Press shirt, tucked in, with a white undershirt underneath it, and Top-Siders. It was his standard casual uniform, but Nate didn't see how he could bear it in the heat.

"Blair is my girlfriend," he clarified, blushing slightly as he said it. "And Serena is my . . ." His voice trailed off. 

"Mistress?" Captain Archibald offered helpfully. He sat up, an amused twinkle shining in his dark green eyes. With his thinning fair hair and regal deportment he probably would have been kind of a handsome dude if he hadn't been such a hard-ass.

"She's my friend," Nate clarified firmly. "Blair's really smart," he added, surprising himself. "She wants to go to Yale." It felt nice complimenting Blair like that. It made him feel like a good boyfriend.

His father handed him a hammer. "Gently but firmly," he instructed. "If you hit it too hard you can damage the integrity of the timber."

Yes, sir, HMS Cocksucker, sir!

Nate banged in a few more nails while his father looked on. He was tempted to fuck up just so his dad would kick him off the project and he could spend the rest of the summer on the beach getting baked. But he really did love to sail and he wanted the boat to get built.

"Make sure you don't distract her too much," the Captain advised, reaching for another plank. "She'll need to be at the top of her game to get into Yale."

Nate sat cross-legged on the partially built deck, rubbing his sore, muscled arms. He shook his head as his dad continued to work. Something about what his dad had just said implied that Nate himself would never be good enough for Yale. He was just a distraction, like a sunny day or a bumblebee. His dad would never understand how he calmed Blair down and distracted her when she was upset about her parents. How he brought her Ben & Jerry's vanilla ice cream or Chips Ahoy after tennis so she'd eat more. He chucked the hammer overboard and into the scrappy sea grass. "I'm taking ten, Dad. You want anything?"

Bong hit? Doobie?