When last-period French was finally over, Nate Archibald bid a hasty? demain to his St. Jude?s School classmates and hurried up Madison Avenue to the pizza place on the corner of Eighty-sixth Street, the workplace of his dependable pot dealer, Mitchell. Lucky for Nate, St. Jude?s was the oldest boys? school in Manhattan and had kept its tradition of ending the school day at 2P.M. for both lower- and upper-school boys, even though most of the other city schools let out at 4P.M. The school?s reasoning was that it gave the boys extra time to play sports and do the copious amounts of homework they were sent home with every afternoon. It also gave them plenty of time to kick back and get high before, during, andafter they played sports and did their homework. The last time Nate had seen Mitchell, the wisecracking Kangol hat?wearing dealer had said he?d be moving back home to Amsterdam very soon. Today was Nate?s last chance to score the biggest bag of sweet, Peruvian-grown weed Mitchell could provide. Blair had always complained about Nate?s pot-smoking when they were together, whining about how boring it was to watch him staring at the Persian rug on her bedroom floor for ten minutes when they could have been fooling around or at a party somewhere. Nate had always maintained that his pot-smoking was a mere indulgence, like eating chocolate?something he could give up any time. And just to prove it?not that heneeded to prove anything to Blair anymore?he was going to go cold turkey after he?d smoked every last leaf of pot from the giant bag he was going to buy today. If he were careful, he could make the bag last a good eight weeks. Until then he preferred not to eventhink about quitting. ?Two plain slices,? Nate told the gangly, balding pizza chef wearing a bright purple WELCOME TOLOSERVILLET-shirt. He rested his elbows on the pizza joint?s red linoleum counter-top, nudging aside plastic containers filled with garlic salt, red pepper flakes, and oregano. ?Where?s Mitchell?? Mitchell?s little side business was no secret in the pizza parlor. The pizza chef raised his bushy black eyebrows. His name might actually have been Ray, but even after years of buying pizza and pot there Nate still wasn?t sure. ?Mitchell?s gone already. You missed him.? Nate patted the back pocket of his khakis, where he?d shoved his bulging Coach wallet, a sour lump of panic rising in his throat. Of course he wasn?taddicted , but he didn?t like being stuck without any weed at all when he?d been planning to roll a nice big fatty to while away the afternoon. And tomorrow afternoon, and the day after that . . . ?What? You mean he left for Amsterdam already?? Ray?or maybe it was Roy?pulled open the shiny chrome door of the pizza oven and in one expert motion slipped two hot slices onto a double layer of paper plates and slid them across the counter in Nate?s direction. ?Sorry, buddy,? he said only half sympathetically. ?But from now on we sell pizza and soda andonly pizza and soda. Got it?? Nate picked up the plate of pizza and then put it down on the counter again. He couldn?t believe his bad luck. He pulled out his wallet and removed a ten-dollar bill from the fat wad inside. ?Keep the change,? he muttered, dropping the bill on the counter before leaving with his pizza. Out on the street, he wandered aimlessly toward the park, feeling like an abandoned dog. He?d been buying weed from Mitchell ever since eighth grade. One random May afternoon, Nate and his buddy Jeremy Scott Tompkinson had gone into the pizza place to buy a slice, and Mitchell had overheard Jeremy daring Nate to steal the container of oregano so they could take it home and smoke it. Mitchell had proposed to sell them something even more mood-enhancing, and Nate and his buddies had been coming back ever since. What was he supposed to do now, buy dime bags from one of those random, shifty-looking dudes in Central Park? Most of those guys sold crappy, dry, Texas-grown stuff anyway, not the succulent green buds Mitchell got directly from his uncle in Peru. Besides, he?d heard half the Central Park dealers were narcs just waiting to bust a kid like him. Dumping his half-eaten pizza slices in the nearest garbage can, Nate dug into the pockets of his Hugo Boss naval officer?style coat, searching for a leftover roach. When he found one he crossed Fifth Avenue and crouched on a park bench to light it, ignoring the group of giggling tenth-grade girls in dark blue Constance Billard uniforms ogling him lustily as they walked by. With his I-know-I?m-hot smile, his golden brown hair, his emerald green eyes, his always-tanned skin, and his sexy expertise in building and racing sailboats, Nate Archibald was the most lusted-after boy on the Upper East Side. He didn?t have to go looking for girls. They just fell into his lap. Literally. Nate sucked hard on the burning roach and pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. The problem was, his other stoner St. Jude?s buddies?Jeremy Scott Tompkinson, Charlie Dern, and Anthony Avuldsen?all bought from Mitchell, too. Mitchell was the best. But it was worth calling just to find out if any of them had managed to score a big stash before their dealer had disappeared. Jeremy was in a cab on his way to an interschool squash club game at the Ninety-second Street Y. ?Sorry, dude,? his voice crackled over the line. ?I?ve been doing mom?s Zoloft all day. Why don?t you just buy a dime bag from one of those dealers in the park or something?? Nate shrugged. Something about buying a dime bag in the park seemed so . . .lame . ?Whatever, man,? he told Jeremy. ?See you tomorrow.? Charlie was in the Virgin megastore, buying DVDs with his little brother. ?Bummer,? he said when Nate told him about the situation. ?But you?re right near the park, right? Just buy a dime bag.? ?Yeah, whatever,? Nate replied. ?See you tomorrow.? Anthony was having a driving lesson in the new BMW M3 sports car his parents had given him for his eighteenth birthday last weekend. ?Check your mom?s medicine cabinet,? he advised. ?Parents are the ultimate resource.? ?I?ll look into it,? Nate answered. ?Later.? He clicked off and sucked the last drag off his puny little roach. ?Damn!? he cursed, flicking the charred remnants into the dirty snow beneath his feet. This semester was supposed to have been a twenty-four-hour party. He?d had an awesome interview at Brown in November, and he was pretty sure his application rocked hard enough to get him in. Plus he was no longer hanging out with little Jenny Humphrey, who was very sweet and had a great rack, but who?d taken up a shitload of his free time. For the rest of senior year Nate had been planning to smoke up, kick back, and just stay mellow until graduation, but without his trusty dealer, that plan was basically moot. Nate sat back on the green wooden bench and gazed up at the sumptuous limestone apartment buildings lining Fifth Avenue. To his right, he could just see the corner of Blair?s Seventy-second Street apartment building. Up in the penthouse, Blair?s Russian Blue cat, Kitty Minky, was probably lying stretched out on Blair?s rose-colored bedspread, eagerly waiting for Blair to come home and scratch him under the chin with her coral-pink nails. Impulsively, Nate pushed the buttons on his phone to speed-dial Blair?s cell phone. It rang six times before she finally picked up. ?Hello?? Blair answered in a clipped voice. She was seated in Garren?s new East Fifty-seventh Street salon, which was decorated like a Turkish harem?s lair. Gauzy pink-and-yellow silk scarves hung from the ceiling, and huge pink-and-yellow-upholstered pillows were tossed at random around the salon for clients to lounge on and sip Turkish coffee while they waited for their appointments. In front of every stylist?s station was an enormous gilt-framed mirror. Gianni, Blair?s new hairdresser, had just finished combing out her freshly washed and conditioned locks. With her cell phone pressed against her damp ear, Blair stared at her reflection in the mirror. The critical moment was here: Did she dare go short? ?Hey. It?s me, Nate,? she heard an old familiar voice murmur in her ear. Blair was too stunned to answer. They hadn?t spoken since New Year?s Eve, and even then the conversation had ended badly. What was Nate doing calling h............