ngover　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　out　since　Friday；　and　looked　woozy　and

rumpled；　as　if　he’d　just　woken　up。　Serena　was　wearing　some　of　the

new　clothes　she’d　bought　shopping　with　her　mother　the　day　before；

and　she　had　a　new　haircut；　with　soft　layers　framing　her　face。　She

looked　even　more　beautiful　than　ever；　but　nervous　and　jumpy　after

drinking　six　cups　of　coffee。　Only　Chuck　seemed　at　ease；　happily

sipping　his　Bloody　Mary。

Cyrus　Rose　sliced　his　salmon…and…leek　omelet　in　half　and　plunked　it

on　a　pumpernickel　bagel。　“I’ve　been　craving　eggs；”　he　said；　biting

into　it　hungrily。　“You　know　when　your　body　tells　you　you　need

something？”　he　said；　to　no　one　in　particular。　“Mine’s　shouting；

‘Eggs；　eggs；　eggs！’　”

And　mine’s　shouting；　“Shut　the　fuck　up；”　Blair　thought。

Blair　pushed　her　plate　toward　him。　“Here；　have　mine。　I　hate　eggs；”

she　said。

Cyrus　pushed　her　plate　back。　“No；　you’re　growing。　You　need　that

more　than　I　do。”

“That’s　right；　Blair；”　her　mother　agreed。　“Eat　your　eggs。　They’re

good　for　you。”

“I　hear　eggs　make　your　hair　shiny；”　Misty　Bass　added。

Blair　shook　her　head。　“I　don’t　eat　chicken　abortions；”　she　said

stubbornly。　“They　make　me　gag。”

Chuck　reac