“Okay,” Jenny said gaily. “I’ll meet you down there in forty-five minutes. And if I need your help, I’ll call you on your cell.” Dan nodded and leapt onto the elevator as soon as it opened. Down in the men’s department, he ambled over to a counter and spritzed his hands with Gucci cologne, wrinkling his nose at the strong, Italian, male scent. He looked around the intimidating, woody room for a bathroom where he could wash it off. Instead, he found a mannequin in full evening dress and beside it, a rack full of tuxes. Dan fingered the rich material of the jackets and looked at the labels. Hugo Boss, Calvin Klein, DKNY, Armani. He imagined stepping out of a limo wearing his Armani tux with Serena on his arm. They’d stroll down the red carpet leading into the party, music thumping all around them, and people would turn and say, “Oh,” in hushed voices. Serena would press her perfect mouth to Dan’s ear. “I love you,” she’d whisper. Then Dan would stop and kiss her and pick her up and carry her back to the limo. Screw the party. They had better things to do. “Can I help you, sir?” A salesman asked. Dan turned abruptly. “No. I—” He hesitated and looked at his watch. Jenny was going to take forever upstairs, and why shouldn’t he? As long as he was there. He picked up the Armani tux and held it out to the sales guy. “Can I try this one on in my size?” he said. The cologne must have gone to his head. Jenny and Maureen had completely scoured the racks, and Maureen had filled a dressing room with dozens of possibilities in assorted sizes. The problem with Jenny was she was only a size two, but her chest was a size eight at least. Maureen thought they’d have to compromise and go for a six, letting it out in the bust and taking it in everywhere else. The first few dresses were a disaster. Jenny nearly busted the zipper of one trying to unsnag it from her bra. And the next one didn’t even make it over her boobs. The third one was completely obscene. The fourth one fit, sort of, except it was bright orange and had a ridiculous ruffle running across it, like someone had slashed it with a knife. Jenny poked her head out of the curtain to look for Maureen. Next door, Serena and her mother were just heading out of their dressing room to the cashier’s desk. “Serena!” Jenny called, without thinking twice. Serena turned around and Jenny blushed. She couldn’t believe she was talking to Serena van der Woodsen while wearing a bright orange dress with a stupid ruffle on it. “Hey Jenny,” Serena said, beaming sweetly down at her. She walked over and kissed Jenny on both cheeks. Jenny sucked in her breath and gripped the curtain to steady herself. Serena van der Woodsen had just kissed her. “Wow, crazy dress,” Serena said. She leaned in to whisper in Jenny’s ear. “You’re lucky you don’t have your mom with you. I got suckered into buying the ugliest dress in the store.” Serena held the dress up. It was long and black and completely gorgeous. Jenny didn’t know what to say. She wished she were the kind of girl who could complain about shopping with her mother. She wished she were the kind of girl who could complain about a beautiful dress being ugly. But she wasn’t. “Is everything all right, dear?” Maureen said, striding over and handing Jenny a strapless bra contraption to try on with her dresses. Jenny took the bra and glanced at Serena, her cheeks burning. “I’d better keep trying this stuff on,” she said. “See you Monday, Serena.” She let the curtain fall closed, but Maureen pulled it open a few inches. “That looks nice,” she said, nodding approvingly at the orange dress. “It suits you.” Jenny grimaced. “Does it come in black?” she asked. “But you’re too young for black,” Maureen said, frowning. Jenny frowned back and handed the pile of reject dresses to Maureen, closing the curtain firmly in her face. “Thanks for your help,” she called. She yanked the orange dress over her head and whipped off her bra, reaching for a black stretch-satin dress she had picked out herself. Braless, she pulled the dress on over her head and felt it ooze all over her. When she looked up, little Jenny Humphrey had vanished from the dressing room. In her place was a dangerous, slutty sex goddess. Throw in a pair of kitten heels, a thong, and some Chanel Vamp lipstick, and she had it going on. No girl is ever too young to wear black. Late Sunday morning the steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art were crawling with people. Tourists, mostly, and locals who had come for a brief visit so they could brag about it to their friends and sound cultured. Inside, brunch was being served in the Egyptian wing for all the museum’s board members and their families. The Egyptian wing was a superb setting for nighttime parties—glittering gold and exotic, with the moonlight shining dramatically through its modern glass walls. But it was all wrong for brunch. Smoked salmon and eggs and mummified Egyptian Pharaohs really don’t mix. Plus, the morning sun was shining so brightly through the slanting glass walls, it made even the slightest hangover feel ten times worse. Who invented brunch anyway? The only decent place to be on Sunday mornings is in bed. The room was filled with large round tables and freshly-scrubbed Upper-East-Siders. Eleanor Waldorf, Cyrus Rose, the van der Woodsens, the Basses, the Archibalds, and their children were there, all seated around one table. Blair was sitting between Cyrus Rose and her mother, looking grumpy. Nate had been intermittently baked, drunk, or passed............