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then eased himself back onto the unfortable； unpadded leather seat。 He liked to bike this
way？pedaling as hard as he could and then sitting down to feel the warm summer breeze on his
face。 To the right； the waves rippled off the beach。 On his left was a vine…yard full of Chardonnay
grapes。 The air smelled like salt and gas…grilled steak。 He listened to the satisfying crunch of the
gravelly road under his wheels and grinned lazily。
His morning joint had done just the trick； and by the end of the day； he？d been kind of grooving
on what was supposed to be his summer punishment。 There was something soothing about
physical labor。 He？d spent the summer after tenth grade helping his dad build their sailboat；
theCharlotte ； up at his family？s pound in Mt。 Desert Isle； Maine； and the after…noon working
on Coach Michaels？s place kind of reminded him of that summer； although the setting？rows of
houses and overpopulated beaches？wasn？t quite as serene。 Still； there was nothing like tough
manual work； bright sunshine； and the reward of a cold Stella Artois when the day was done； and
no distractions。
There were no classes to worry about： school was over at last； and Yale seemed impossibly far
away。 Blair； the girl he was pretty sure was the love of his life but who he could never seem to get
it together for； was in England with her new aristocrat boyfriend； probably shopping； eating scones；
and drinking way too much tea。 Serena was back in the city being a movie star； and Jenny； the
incredibly well…endowed freshman he？d somehow gotten involved with last winter； had been
shipped off to Europe。 He was better off far away from those three。
He grinned； realizing that this was how the whole summer would go： days of hard labor； bike
rides back home； then a shower； a joint； and maybe some time by himself was just what he needed。
Coach？s house was in Hampton Bays； several miles from his own house in East Hampton； but it
was like a different world； with its suburban houses and minivans and malls。 It was just the kind of
place that would help him refocus this summer； which was his plan。 He didn？t have his eye on any
particular girl； and anyway； they tended to lead him into nothing but trouble。 Maybe he was better
off as a solo act。
As if he were ever alone for more than thirty seconds。
Nate had to climb off and push the squeaky bike up a particularly bad hill； wheezing from the
effort。 Sucking down three joints a day will do that to you。
Out of breath and sweating； he climbed back on the bike at the hill？s summit and drifted down；
letting gravity do the work。 He looked down and poked at his forearm to see if the pink skin
turned white when he touched it。 It was something Blair used to do to him when they went to the
beach together。 After declaring him burned； she？d gently slather him with her fancy sunscreen。 He
pushed at his forearm again。 Definitely a little cooked。
That？s what you get for skipping the Coppertone！
Then he looked up and realized he was speeding straight for the road？s shoulder。 He pulled on
the handlebars； swerving across the road； but he was going so fast that he wiped out。 Hard。
There was a polite round of applause； like at a golf match。 Nate looked up； realizing he was
splayed out in the dirt parking lot in front the Oyster Shack； a gray clapboard seafood joint about
halfway between Coach？s house and his family？s hundred…year…old estate near Georgica Pond in
East Hampton。 A group of high…school…age kids was sitting at a picnic table； strewn with sweating
beer bottles and baskets of fried food； and they were all staring at him。
？Shit；？ Nate muttered。 Tiny pebbles were embedded in the palms of his hands； and he？d torn the
faded lime…green Stussy shirt he？d been working in all day。 He brushed the dirt from his hands and
looked down at his cutoff khakis？no damage there。
Leave it to Nate Archibald to look even better covered with sweat； blood； and grime。
He crouched to examine the bike？s front wheel。 It was bent。
？Tough break。？
Nate looked up。 The voice belonged to a curvy； blue…eyed blonde who wore her curly dark blond
hair pulled back tight and tucked under a red bandana。 Her pink tube top was riding dangerously
low and her denim miniskirt promisingly high。 A lipstick…smeared straw poked out of the Coke she
gripped in her left hand。 She extended her right hand to Nate； her long； perfectly painted nails
exactly the same shade of red as the can。
？Just ignore my friends；？ she told him apologetically。
Her skin was the same golden beige as that of every other girl who used the same shade of
Clinique self…tanner； but beneath the beige was a smattering of freckles covering her nose； cheeks；
shoulders； arms； and chest。 Nate had learned from Blair that girls were usually more plicated
than they first appeared； and this girl？s prominent freckles seemed to suggest that she was more
than just a typical Long Island babe。
Nate grinned as he took her hand and let her pull him to his feet。 ？Yeah； no problem；？ he
answered sheepishly。
？You？re going to need to get that looked at；？ Freckles advised； nodding at the bike。
？Yeah；？ muttered Nate。 He wasn？t that worried about the bike。 The only thing that seemed worth
looking at was right in front of him。
？I？m Tawny。 I know a place where you can get your bike taken care of。 But maybe I？ll buy you
an ice cream cone first。？
Tawny？ But isn？t that the color of her self…tanner？！
？Sure。？ He？d smoked the roach from his morning joint before leaving Coach？s place？hence the
accident； maybe？？ and ice cream sounded very appetizing indeed。
？So what？s your story； Nate？ I？ve never seen you around；？ Tawny asked as she skipped across
the street to a tiny； faded blue house that was so small it looked like it was out of a cartoon。 A
couple of little kids were perched on the steps licking strawberry ice cream cones。
？Two vanilla cones；？ Tawny purred to the pimply guy behind the counter。 She had the faintest
hint of an accent； but Nate couldn？t quite place it。
？No story。？ Nate idly kicked the side of the cartoon house with the toes of his battered Stan
Smiths。 He wanted to run his hands up and down her warm； freckled arms。
Tawny knelt down and smiled and laid a five…dollar bill on the counter； reaching inside the
window to retrieve two pointy sugar cones piled high with creamy white scoops of ice cream。 She
handed one to Nate。
？Thanks。？ The ice cream started to melt immediately in the late afternoon sun； trickling down his
hand。 He licked it delicately。
Tawny touched his skinned knee gently。 There was some…thing about the way she did it？a
possessiveness？ A certainty？ A particularje ne sais quoi ？that reminded Nate of Blair。 But this girl
was nothing like Blair： Blair would never wear a pink tube top； or let an ice cream cone melt all
over her hands； or 。 。 。 pay for food on a first date。
Date？That was fast。
？Are you okay？？ Tawny asked； rising to her feet。 She licked her pink； swollen…looking lips。 ？You
look so serious。？
The truth was； Nate was wondering what Tawny looked like without her tube top on。 Was her
chest freckled too？ His hands itched just thinking about it。
？I？m just really glad I met you；？ Nate told her a little goofily。 He dabbed his chin with a
napkin。 ？We should hang out this summer。？
A world record： Nate Archibald managed to swear off girls for three whole minutes。
love don？t live here anymore
Vanessa slammed the rusty cab door and stared up at the weather…beaten brick fa？ade of her
Williamsburg apartment building； still mulling over Ken？s job offer。 She wished there was
someone she could ask for advice； but she knew better than to call her self…absorbed；
Vermont…living hippie parents。 They？d just lecture her about art and merce and ？creative
responsibility。？ She wished her sister Ruby was around？she was the only one Vanessa really
trusted to talk to about these things。
A white Ford station wagon with a broken windshield was parked in front of the building where
it had been for weeks。 One of the back doors was missing； and the seats were piled with garbage
bags and old blankets。 Someone must have been living in it； which would explain the stench of
urine that surrounded the car。
Nice。
Vanessa unlocked the building？s plicated array of dead bolts and latches and clomped up the
stairs； hesitating halfway up。 There were voices ing from inside her apartment。 Had she left
the TV on？ She tiptoed to the door and listened； not breathing。 Yes； it wasdefinitely voices； they
weredefinitely ing from inside； and there was something very familiar about one of the voices。
Vanessa？s older sister Ruby had been on a whirlwind tour of Europe with her band； SugarDaddy；
for eight weeks。 An occasional postcard from Madrid or Oslo had appeared in the mailbox； and
they？d spoken on the phone once； but the touring…rock…girl lifestyle wasn？t all that conducive to
staying in touch。
Vanessa threw the door open excitedly。 ？Ruby！？ Vanessa cried； taking in her sister in her purple
leather pants and her new matching shade of hair。 It looked alm