gossip girl 10 英文-第22部分

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Every　night　for　the　last　week；　Dan　had　lain　awake　in　bed；　wondering　what　Vanessa　was　doing　in　
the　next　room。　He？d　hear　her　get　up　to　go　to　the　bathroom；　and　think　about　accidentally　bumping　
into　her　in　the　dark；　familiar　hall　of　the　apartment。　They？d　fall　into　each　other？s　arms；　furiously　
kissing　all　the　way　back　to　Dan？s　bed。　He？d　rub　her　shaven　head；　loving　the　feel　of　the　familiar　
soft　stubble　on　his　chest；　the　way　her　ears　were　always　so　hot　when　she　got　excited？　


Dan　suddenly　started　shaking　his　head　as　if　his　fantasy　was　water　stuck　in　his　ears。　

？You　okay？？　Vanessa　asked；　eyeing　him　suspiciously。　She　shifted　from　side　to　side　on　the　
countertop；　settling　beside　the　microwave。　

？Um；　yeah；？　Dan　practically　yelled；　his　pinkies　now　lodged　in　his　ears。　？I　guess　I　better　hit　the　
road。　Gotta　get　to　work。　Make　the　donuts。You　know　how　it　is！？　

？Why　are　you　screaming？？　she　asked　quietly；　her　eye…brows　knitted　in　question。　

？Oh；　sorry。？　Dan　laughed。　He　downed　his　coffee　in　one　quick　gulp；　ignoring　the　burning　
sensation　in　his　throat；　and　reached　past　Vanessa　to　grab　his　folded…up　copy　of　theNew　York　
Review　of　Books　to　read　on　the　subway。　？So。　？Bye。　Have　a　good　day；？　he　added；　resisting　the　urge　
to　kiss　her。　

？？Bye；？　she　called　after　him。　

But　hello；　awkward？！　

The　rolled…upReview　tucked　safely　in　his　damp　armpit；　Dan　bounded　down　the　musty　granite　
stairs　toward　the　legendarily　filthy　employee　lounge　at　the　Strand。　The　dark　stairwell　smelled　like　
moldy　books；　which　should　have　been　nasty　but　was　actually　one　of　Dan？s　favorite　smells。　

He　had　thirty　seconds　to　stash　his　paper；　grab　his　name　tag　out　of　his　locker；　and　report　to　the　
floor　for　duty。　None　of　the　bookstore？s　managers　had　any　sense　of　humor　about　things　like　
tardiness。　They　were　crusty；　liberal　pseudoacade…mics　who　resented　young　summer　job　kids　like　
Dan；　who　they　all　just　called　？the　new　kid？　or　？hey；　you；？　despite　the　fact　that　he？d　been　working　
there　full　time　for　almost　a　month　and　wore　a　name　tag　everyday；　just　like　they　did。

　How　glamorous。　

Dan　burst　into　the　tiny　lounge；　accidentally　banging　the　door　against　the　wall；　startling　a　skinny　
kid　with　short；　mussed…up　blond　hair　and　horn…rimmed　glasses　too　big　for　his　square；　wide…eyed　
face。　

？Sorry；？　Dan　muttered；　dashing　over　to　his　designated　locker？a　tiny；　one…foot…square　cubby　just　
inches　above　the　dust…bunny…and…decades…old…cigarette…butt…littered　concrete　floor。　He　entered　his　
nerdy　bination？8/28/49；　the　birth…day　of　Goethe；　the　author　of　his　all…time　favorite　book；The　
Sorrows　of　Young　Werther　？tossed　his　paper　inside；　and　grabbed　his　plastic　name　tag。　

？New　York　Review　of　Books；huh？？　asked　the　blond　guy。　

？What？　Yeah。？　Dan　pinned　the　cheap　red　tag　to　his　faded　black　T…shirt；　eyeing　the　stranger　
suspiciously。　Dan　hadn？t　noticed　him　around　before。　Was　it　his　first　day？　Was　it　possible　that　Dan　


was　no　longer　technically　？the　new　kid？？　

？I？m　Greg。？　The　stranger　smiled。　？It？s　my　first　day。？　

Fresh　meat　in　moldy…book　land。　Sounds　like　a　freaking　party。　

？Cool。　Wele　to　hell；？　Dan　barked；　secretly　thrilled　that　he　now　had　seniority　over　someone。　

？Actually；　I　can？t　believe　I？m　here；？　Greg　continued　eagerly；　glancing　around　the　room　as　if　it　
were　the　Sistine　Chapel　instead　of　a　dirty；　windowless　room　in　a　rat…infested　basement。　He　was　
wearing　a　short…sleeved　cowboyish　but…ton…down　shirt　and　cutoff　khaki　pants　that　reminded　Dan　
of　Vanessa。　The　other　afternoon　when　the　A/C　had　blown　out　in　the　living　room；　she？d　
spontaneously　cut　the　legs　off　her　favorite　black　cargos　to　make　shorts。　God；　he　missed　her。　

？I？ve　always　wanted　to　work　here；　you　know？？　Greg　went　on。　

？Job？s　a　job；？　replied　Dan；　disinterestedly。　Of　course　he　knew　exactly　what　Greg　was　talking　
about；　but　he　was　kind　of　enjoying　mimicking　the　attitude　copped　by　the　rest　of　the　senior　Strand　
employees。　It　made　him　feel　tough；　like　he　might　put　out　his　next　cigarette　on　the　back　of　Greg？s　
hand。　？I　saw　a　whole　cart　of　old　literary　journals　upstairs　by　the　elevator。　Guess　that？s　what　you？ll　
be　dealing　with　till　lunchtime。？　

？Sounds　great　to　me！？　gushed　Greg。　？Am　I　supposed　to　just　wait　down　here；　though？　This　guy　
Clark　told　me　to　e　down　here　and　that　he？d　be　with　me　soon；　but　that　was；　like；　fifteen　
minutes？？　

？Well；　Clark　knows　what　he？s　doing；？　Dan　interrupted。　？I？ve　got　to　get　upstairs；　but　I？m　sure　I？ll　
see　you　around；　Jeff。？　

？It？s　Greg；？　the　guy　corrected　him。　？Did　anyone　ever　tell　you　that　you　look　exactly　like　that　guy　
from　the　Raves；　Dan　Something？？　

Dan　froze　in　midstep。　？Humphrey。　His　name？s　Dan　Humphrey；？　Dan　informed　him。　？Well；　
actually　my　name？s　Dan　Humphrey。？　Dan？s　career　with　downtown　rockers　the　Raves　had　lasted　
for　exactly　one　gig　at　Funktion　on　the　Lower　East　Side。　He　couldn？t　believe　anyone　remembered　
that　night。　He　certainly　didn？t。　

An　entire　bottle　of　Stoli　can　do　that　to　you。　

？Oh　man；　are　you　serious？？　Greg　crossed　the　small　room　and　extended　his　hand。　？You？re　Dan　
Humphrey？　You？rethe　Dan　Humphrey；　the　poet？　I　can？t　believe　I？m　meeting　you！　Of　course；　it　
makes　total　sense？youwould　work　at　the　Strand。？　He　pushed　his　geeky　horn…rims　up　on　his　
nose。　？It？s　perfect。　I　can？t　believe　it。　I　loved　your　poetry；　man。　Got　any　new　stuff　I　can　read？？　


Dan　felt　himself　blushing。　Before　his　unlikely　stint　as　a　rock　star；　he？d　published　a　poem　
called　？Sluts？　inThe　New　Yorker。　He？d　been　the　buzz　of　the　literary　world　for　exactly　five　minutes；　
and　though　his　memories　of　that　time　were　warm　and　fuzzy；　he　couldn？t　believe　there　was　
someone　besides　his　dad　who　remembered　his　brush　with　poetic　fame。　

？Well；　poets　have　to　keep　working；？　Dan　lied　energetically。　？I？m　putting　together　some　ideas　for　
a　novella。　That？s　why　I？ve　been　laying　kind　of　low　lately。？　

？Dude；　this　is　such　an　honor；　I　almost　can？t　believe　it。　I？m　meeting　aNew　Yorker　poet。　This　is　
incredible。？　

？It？s　really　not　such　a　big　deal。？　Dan　waved　his　hand　like　he　was　batting　away　the　praise。　

　Mister　Modesty。　

？This　is　perfect；？　Greg　continued；　shoving　his　hands　in　the　pockets　of　his　just…below…the…knee　
cutoffs。　？Look；　I　can？t　believe　I？m　going　to　ask　you　this；　but　I？ve　been　trying　to　get　a　salon　going；　
you　know；　kind　of　an　informal　thing；　lots　of　people　who　care　about　books；　getting　together　every　
so　often　to　just　shoot　the　shit；　talk　about　literature　and　poetry　and　films　and　music。　And　blogs。　But　
only　sometimes。　I？m　sure　you？re　probably　really　busy；　but　maybe　you？d　like　to　join　up？　Or　I　
mean；　if　you？re　too　busy　it？s　cool；　but？？　

？A　salon；？　Dan　interrupted　Greg？s　rambling。　It　actually　sounded　kind　of　。　。　。　awesome。　He？d　
e　to　work　at　the　Strand　expecting　lots　of　stimulating　break…room　discussions　about　the　classics　
and　foreign　films；　but　so　far　the　most　in…depth　conversation　he？d　participated　in　had　involved　two　
coworkers　asking　to　bum　cigarettes。　？That　sounds　cool。？　

？Oh　man；　that？s　great！？　Greg　cried　excitedly；　his　voice　cracking。　？I？m　still　working　on　all　the　
details；　you　know；　drafting　a　mission　statement；　thinking　about　how　to　recruit　members。？　

？A　mission　statement。？　Dan　nodded　thoughtfully。　？Maybe　I　could　help　you　out　with　that。？　

？Really？？　Greg　asked。　？Fucking　fantastic。？　He　pulled　a　rainbow　swirly　pen　out　of　his　breast　
pocket　and　grabbed　Dan？s　hand。　？I？ll　give　you　my　e…mail。？　He　scrawled　his　address　across　Dan？s　
palm。　？Just　send　me　any　random　ideas　and　I？ll　plug　them　in。　Also；　we　need　a　name。　I　was　thinking　
we　could　mix　up　the　names　of　some　dead　poets；　like　Wadsworth　Whitman　or　Emerson　Thoreau。　
They　wouldn？t　mind。？　

No；　but　they？ll　be　rolling　in　their　graves。　

？Cool。？　Dan　pulled　his　hand　out　of　Greg？s　grasp　and　glanced　at　the　address　he？d　written　
there。　？I？ll　be　in　touch；？　he　added；　trying　not　to　sound　too　eager；　even　though　he　definitely　was。　
He　needed　some　new　friends　now　that　Vanessa　was　rightfully　tired　of　him。　


One　word：　sad。　But　also　。　。　。　slightly　cute。　In　a　seriously　sad　way。　

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Disclaimer：　All　the　real　names　of　places；　people；　and　events　have　been　altered　or　abbreviated　to　
protect　the　innocent。　Namely；　me。　

　hey　people！　

Ever　have　that　totally　freakish　feeling　that　someone　is　listening　in　on　your　conversations；　spying　
on　you　and　your　friends；　following　you　to　parties；　and　generally　stalking　you？　Well；　they　are。　Or　
actually；　I　am。　The　truth　is；　I？ve　been　here　all　along；　because　I？m　one　of　you。　

Feeling　totally　lost？　Don？t　get　out　much？　Don？t　know　who　？we？　are？　Allow　me　to　explain。　
We？re　an　exclusive　group　of　indescribably　beautiful　people　who　happen　to　live　in　those　majestic；　
green…awninged；　white…glove…doorman　buildings　near　Central　Park。　We　attend　Manhattan？s　most　
elite　single…sex　private　schools。　Our　families　own　yachts　and　estates　in　various　exotic　locations　
throughout　the　world。　We　frequent　all　the　best　beaches　and　the　most　exclusive　ski　resorts。　We？re　
seated　immediately　at　the　nicest　restaurants　in　the　chicest　neighborhoods　with…out　a　reservation。　
We　turn　heads。　But　don？t　confuse　us　with　Hollywood　actors　or　models　or　rock　stars？those　people　
you　feel　like　you　know　because　you　hear　so　much　about　them；　but　who　are　actually　pletely　
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　insep