Serena Vanderwoodsen's Arc

Chapter 1 of 7

Serena Vanderwoodsen spotted the long camera lens through the pines the moment she stepped onto the mansion's snowy porch. The photographer crouched behind a drift about fifty yards out, his black parka a smudge against the white. She had come to the frozen forest for one reason — a quiet week with her best friend Blair — and a single blurry shot would turn their vacation into front-page gossip by morning. Serena eased back inside and shut the tall silver doors. Blair was on the staircase in her pink puffer, pulling on her white boots, sunglasses shoved up into her knit cap. "Tell me the sled is ready," Blair said. "I've been indoors for six minutes and I'm already bored." "There's a man in the trees with a camera," Serena said. "He followed me from the city." Blair's smile dropped. "If my mother sees me on a blog next to you and a bottle of anything, I'm finished." She looked at Serena the way she always did when she wanted Serena to fix it — annoyed, expectant, already half-trusting. Serena's snow suit was white and silver. In an open field, she'd glow like a flare. She thought about the snowmobile in the garage, then dismissed it. Engine noise would only bring the lens closer. She needed to leave the mansion without leaving a shape a camera could read. She remembered the crate in the mudroom. Last winter, a decorator had ordered two costumes for a charity party neither of them attended: matching tree suits, bark on the torso, leaves piled at the head. Ridiculous. Perfect. Blair stared at the open crate. "Absolutely not." "He's expecting two girls in snow gear," Serena said. "He's not expecting shrubbery." "I would rather be photographed." "You said that six seconds ago and didn't mean it." Blair climbed into the bark suit with the expression of someone signing a bad contract. Serena zipped her in, pulled the leafy hood down over the pink cap, and shoved her own arms through the second set of branches. They waddled out the side door and stopped stone-still beside two real pines. The photographer swept his lens across the porch, the windows, the garage. He waited. He checked his screen. After twenty long minutes, he stood, brushed snow off his knees, and trudged back toward the road, muttering into a phone about a bad tip. Blair exhaled inside her mask. "He's gone." "He's gone," Serena agreed. They shuffled back inside and peeled off the costumes on the marble floor. Serena's phone buzzed on the console. She picked it up. The screen showed a single message from a blocked number. Wrong girl in the trees today. I'll wait for the right shot. Tell Blair hi. Serena set the phone down. Blair was still laughing, tugging leaves from her hair. She hadn't seen it yet. Serena decided, for one more minute, not to tell her.