ena van der Woodsen screamed as Nate Archibald body…checked her into a
three…foot…high drift of powdery white snow。 Cold and wet； it tunneled into her ears and down her
pants。 Nate dove on top of her； all five…foot eleven inches of his perfect； golden…brown…haired；
glittering…green…eyed； fifteen…year…old boyness。 Nate smelled like Downy and the Kiehl？s
sandalwood soap the maid stocked his bathroom with。 Serena just lay there； trying to breathe with
him on top of her。 ？My scalp is cold；？ she pleaded； getting a mouthful of Nate？s snow…dampened；
godlike curls as she spoke。
Nate sighed reluctantly； as if he could have spent all day outside in the frigid February meat
locker that was the back garden of his family？s Eighty…second…Street…just…off…Park…Avenue
Manhattan town house。 He rolled onto his back and wriggled like Serena？s long…dead golden
retriever； Guppy； when she used to let him loose on the green grass of the Great Lawn in Central
Park。 Then he stood up； awkwardly dusting off the seat of his neatly pressed Brooks Brothers
khakis。 It was Saturday； but he still wore the same clothes he wore every weekday as a sophomore
at the St。 Jude？s School for Boys over on East End Avenue。 It was the unofficial Prince of the
Upper East Side uniform； the same uniform he and his classmates had been wearing since they？d
started nursery school together at Park Avenue Presbyterian。
Nate held out his hand to help Serena to her feet。 She frowned cautiously up at him； worried that
he was only faking her out and was about to tackle her again。 ？I really am cold。？
He flapped his hand at her impatiently。 ？I know。 e on。？
She snorted； pretended to pick her nose an