There's no place like home ?What island are we going to, anyway?? Blair Waldorf asked her mother. Eleanor Waldorf Rose was perched on the edge of Blair's bed, watching her daughter get ready for school while they discussed spring break. ?Oahu, dear. I thought I told you. We're going to that resort on the North Shore, so the boys can learn to surf.? Eleanor cupped her hands around her almost-seven-months-pregnant belly and frowned at the cream-colored walls as if trying to channel the baby's preference about wallpaper. She was due in June, and Blair would be off to college soon afterward. Today Eleanor and her decorator would discuss her plan to turn Blair's room into a baby girl's nursery. ?But I've alreadybeen to Oahu,? Blair wailed dramatically. She'd known for weeks that they were going to Hawaii for spring break, but until now she hadn't thought to ask where. She kicked her antique mahogany dresser drawer shut and stood in front of the full-length mirror on the back of her closet door, primping. Her close-cropped brown hair was neatly tousled; her white cashmere V-neck was just deep enough to suggest a hint of cleavage without her having to worry about being sent home by Mrs. M, the headmistress, for dressing like a slut; and her new turquoise Sigerson Morrison flats looked so excellent with bare legs, she decided not to put on tights, even though it had been an unusually frigid March and she was going to freeze her ass off. ?I want to go someplacenew , ? she added, pouting into the mirror as she applied a second coat of Chanel lip gloss. ?I know, sweet pea.? Her mother slid off the bed and squatted down to eyeball a particularly dangerous-looking electrical outlet in the skirting board near the window. Once the decorating was finished she would have top hire someone to baby-proof the entire house. ?But you've never been to the North Shore. Aaron says the surfing is the best in the world.? To Blair's dismay, her mother was wearing beige velour track pants with the wordJuicy on the butt.  Hello, inappropriate?! ?So do I, like, not exist anymore?? Blair demanded. She dragged her baby blue shearling Dior saddle bag out of the closet and dumped her school stuff into it. ?First you're kicking me out of my room, and now I have no say about where we go for vacation?? ?The boys are buying some surfing things for our trip right now. You might want to have a quick look on Aaron's computer. See if there's anything you want,? her mother answered distractedly. She was on her hands and knees now, circuiting the room, checking for any dangers that might be lurking from a baby's point of view. ?You know,Iwas thinking apricot for the color scheme?so it's girly, but not too pink? But now I'm thinking maybe a greeny yellow might be even nicer.Endive. ? Blair had had enough. She didn't want to go to the North Shore of Oahu, she had no interest in buying surfing equipment, she didn't want to talk about color schemes for the stupid baby's nursery, and she certainly didn't need to look at the wordJuicy on her mother's wide-load, pregnant ass for a moment longer. With a final spritz of her favorite Marc Jacobs perfume, she left for school without even saying good-bye. ?Yo, Blair. Come here a minute!? her seventeen-year-old stepbrother yelled from his room as she stomped by. Blair stopped and poked her head into the room. Aaron and her twelve-year-old brother, Tyler, were sharing Aaron's natural-fiber desk chair?all brotherly?while they ordered surfing gear online with Cyrus Rose's credit card. Tyler had stopped combing his hair in an attempt to grow dreadlocks just like Aaron's, and he looked as if he had some sort of foul hair fungus. Blair could hardly believe this was the room she was going to have to live in until she went off to college. Aaron's hemp bedspread and natural sea-grass carpet were littered with old reggae album covers, beer bottles, and Aaron's dirty clothes, and the room stank of his herbal cigarettes and those revolting soy hot dogs he was always eating?raw. ?What size are you?? Aaron asked. ?We can order you a wet shirt. It keeps the board from chafing.? ?They come in cool colors,? Tyler added enthusiastically. ?Neon-green and stuff.? Like Blair would ever be caught dead in neon-green, let alone a neon-green wet shirt. She could feel her lower lip trembling with a mixture of horror and overwhelming sorrow. Here it was, only seven forty-five in the morning, and she was already on the verge of tears. ?Found 'em!? Cyrus Rose, her eyesore of a stepfather, boomed from behind her. He waddled down the hallway from the master bedroom, wearing only a red silk bathrobe tied with a dangerously loose knot. His bristly gray mustache needed a trim, and his fat face was red and oily. He waved a pair of enormous orange swim trunks at Blair. They had little blue fish printed all over them and would have been kind of cute on anyone but him. ?Love these. Boys are going to order me a wet shirt to match!? he announced happily. The idea of spending Easter break watching Cyrus make a fool of himself on a surfboard wearing his orange swim trunks and a matching orange wet shirt was enough to drive Blair to real tears. She slunk away down the hall to the foyer, yanked her coat out of the coat closet, and hurried off to meet her best friend. Hopefully Serena would think of something?anything?to cheer her up. As if that were even possible. One artist's idea of funny is another artist's idea of dumb The second night of their visit, Vanessa's parents took her and Ruby to the gallery where their found-art sculpture exhibit was showing. The gallery was huge and bright, with pale wood floors and white walls. In the middle of the largest room stood a brown-and-white shire horse, happily devouring a supersized Caesar salad out of an enormous wooden bowl. Beside the horse was a blue plastic bucket with a pitchfork sticking out of it. Whenever the horse pooped, the stylish German girl behind the desk near the door of the gallery would jump out of her swivel chair to shovel it up with the pitchfork and dump it in the bucket. Vanessa's twenty-two-year-old sister Ruby stroked the horse's nose and fed him peppermint Tic Tacs, the gallery lights bouncing off her purple leather pants. ?That's Buster. He's sweet, isn't he?? their mother, Gabriela, asked, admiring the horse. ?We found him eating romaine in our community garden. His owner was an angel to let us borrow him.? She pulled her long gray braid over her shoulder and stroked the end of it. The garish African caftan she'd chosen to wear that evening hung from her broad shoulders like a purple, yellow, and green tablecloth with a hole cut in the top for her head. Shunning fashion altogether, Gabriela preferred ?tribal costumes? and liked to think of herself as a ?global fashion model.? She was even wearing Mexican moccasins made from the hides of wild pigs. Busterwas sweet, but what made himart? Vanessa wondered. She went over to something nailed to the wall, only to discover that it was a chain of metal cheese graters. Some of them even had dried bits of orange cheese stuck to them. ?You're probably thinking, ?I could have made that,?? her father, Arlo Abrams, observed. ?Not really,? Vanessa replied. Why the hell would she want to make a chain of cheese graters? Arlo shuffled over to her wearing a dusty black wool Peruvian cape, an ankle-length hemp skirt?yes, that's right, a skirt?and white canvas tennis shoes.