AN: First chapter, more of a introduction of the OC. Next will start on the first episode of season 1 and carry on from there but that's only if you think it's worth it. My OC looks pretty much like Lilly Collins so if you don't understand what she look like just search her up.

PICTURES FOR CHAPTER (TYPE NAME INTO PINTEREST): Manhattanapple

SONG FOR CHAPTER: Meridian-Zola Blood

And even if you hate it, review and tell me, the poor aspiring writer, how to improve it...

As soon as the wheels of the plane hit the runway with a startling screech, awakening me from my four month slumber in the smothering Tuscan heat with cold, mind-numbing bottles of Tiger beer and the peaceful sound of crickets and the cool breeze passing through the lush countryside, I knew vacation, and anyway of avoiding the real world, was over. Now, the noise of my feet gliding back and forth through the crystal pool has been replaced by the Manhattan traffic complete with the tonal horns and the foreboding 'click' of five-hundred dollar heels marching on the sidewalk. However, despite the beautiful view of the rustic hilltop town being lit up every night, the New York skyline never failed to make me feel as though I was home. It was the socialites living in the very buildings that made up this picturesque view that made me want to turn the plane around and head back to the safe, open plan cottage way up in the Tuscan mountains.

From the cabin window, the stars in the sky had been replaced by the artificial lights of apartment windows and streetlamps. Apart from the glow of the City's nightlife, it was pitch black.

Rubbing my eyes, uncaring of the carefully applied make-up that would no doubt already be smudged from sleeping, I wrap my faux-leather jacket around myself and pack the books and magazines I bought to read on the plane back into the knitted patchwork messenger bag I bought in the markets of Rome. The bag wasn't exactly Upper East Side acceptable (neither was the grey, worn, knee-length socks or the cheap, ten-euros, knock off ray-bans that kept my messy, dark brown hair back and out of my face) but I wanted an independent summer and that meant no trust fund money being wired to me in order to pay for expensive trips to Florence where I would spend an equivalent of an average worker's monthly's wages on the latest Italian fashion. Plus, designer couture or not, if it was nice and affordable- I'd buy it.

"Miss Elma," the air attendant's shrill, overly polite, it's-eleven-o'clock-get-off-the-fucking-plane-so-we-can-all-leave voice takes my attention away from roman memories to her perky form, "we've arrived and your cab has been loaded with your belongings and is waiting for you."

I smile and nod, thanking and dismissing her. I sling my bag over my shoulder and head out of the private plane, stretching my legs as I walk down the steps and feel the fresh, evening, Manhattan air hit me.

Butterflies flutter in my stomach as the thought of being home hits me. I'm sure a lot has happened since I went AWOL and ran away to Italy; including the decision made by Blair and Serena as they chose whether or not they ever wanted to speak to me again. Me, myself and I hadn't even decided whether or not them forgiving me was a good idea: letting them back in would mean I would risk everything that I've worked so hard to keep buried and hidden from everyone on the Island.

The familiarity of the yellow cab came as a comfort and the address of my loft rolled off my tongue as though I hadn't been away from my cosy open plan home for a whole season and when I finally drop the suitcases on the shabby wooden floor of my place, a little bit of the nerves disappear. Although Serena and Blair did not understand why I used my inheritance and newly stated emancipation to buy a small loft in Brooklyn in which Blair enjoys voicing the fact that she refuses to sit or lie on anything that isn't created by designers that aren't on her Christmas cards list, the simplicity of the layout and design helps calm even the most nerve-wrecking of days.

The dim lights that the shaded lamps and fairy lights create make the loft even homier and I'm finally excited to be back in Brooklyn. I missed the colourful, retro furniture and the bookshelf that covers a wall, which I'm desperately working to fill with novels, and the platform above my bed that I use to work and read and sleep and eat and do everything I should be doing below in the actual, furnished studio but instead I decide to use the nook of blanket covered floor and the array of mismatched pillows for all my daily needs.

I begin to unpack at once, anticipating the moment when there's nothing left to do but take a steamy, calm shower and prepare for school on Monday.

Constance is on my mind as I fold and hang up the clothes and put away every single thing I owned, sparing no receipt or stray hair-tie. Constance Billiard was the place where the dream of a normal life goes to die: as soon as you step into the brick courtyard and climb the stairway to the private school where every Upper East Side princess thrives and strives to achieve the status of Queen, except the few that have realised that there are more important things than fighting over who has the best Jimmy-Choos, there is no backing out of the scene that comes with high-priced education. None of my friends know I'm back yet, neither do they know that I'm coming back at all. I wouldn't be surprised if they gave up on me after I never returned their calls or answered their messages. I'd gone silent as soon as I took off for Europe from JFK and there was never another peep between me and them.

When the only thing left to do was unpack my carry-on bag, I faulted. Lying at the bottom, untouched and what had been turned off for a very long time, was my phone, which I knew- as soon as I turned on - would blow up with Gossip Girl e-blasts and texts and voicemails and missed calls, all of which made my stomach churn.

None of them knew what happened on the morning of the Sheppard wedding; Serena, Blair, Nate, Chuck. And I intend to keep it that way.

My initial plan is to stay on the side-lines for as long as possible, just like I did for the last few weeks of school last year, focusing on my work and staying under the Gossip Girl radar. That bitch had hacked into my flesh enough times to last a life time, so there was definitely no love lost.

Deciding to rip off the band aid and get it over and done with, I hold down the 'on' button and wait for the phone to connect to the network and the loft's internet.

Despite it only being seconds, it feels like hours have flown by until the first chime sounds… and then the music doesn't stop.

First, the 57 missed calls make their way into my notifications along with a full voicemail inbox. Most are from Blair with a few from Nate and even less from Chuck- what's shocking is there is not one from Serena, who I grew up with. My heart clenches that she, of all people, would be the one to hate me the most.

Not long after, the reams of texts and IMs are waiting to be read. I don't: fearing the worst.

Then, the most dreaded- the e-blasts. I hesitantly open them, hoping and praying that none of them are about me. After searching the words 'Evie' and 'Elma', only one sparks my interest.

Summer is around the corner kiddos, and the weather is not the only thing that is heating up. Hey N, what's your favourite way to cool down after staying under the sheets for too long? Or are you still taking cold showers alone instead of warm ones with B? Speaking of our Queen B, where's your BFFs? I heard they ran away almost as quickly as your daddy did. But hey, friends forever. Right B?

But where did they run to? I don't need my sources to tell me S has gone off the radar completely after fleeing from the Sheppard's wedding. And E… we don't have any idea where she is or why she disappeared. Or if she's ever coming back. For your sake E, we hope you escape whatever you're hiding from.

Enjoy your mojitos and man-kinis! See you in fall, bitches.

Xoxo Gossip Girl

I feel guilty that my first thought when I find out that Serena's missing is how uber mad Blair is going to be now that I know both her friends disappeared. Knowing this, I immediately feel the urge to call her and tell her how sorry I am. But I can't because apologizing for my four month absence over the phone is not exactly the best way to make up for lost time-and I expect she'd want to scream at me in person.

Having decided that I was going to put the whole 'Blair and Evie Reunion' on hold, I slip out of my clothes and practically run to my high-pressure shower (the only luxury I splashed out on when renovating the loft- pun intended).

Showers are my guilty pleasure. On a bad day I was known to have over five of them, all lasting over forty-five minutes.

I take the time to lather myself in soap and shave and scrub my hair clean and wash every nook and cranny- being careful not to get rid of my new tan. I shower until the water turns cold and even then I use the cold water to cool my burning legs.

After an extra five minutes relishing in the water pressure, I wrap a blue towel tightly around myself and dry my hair with another.

My bare feet pad against the oak floor, leaving faint water marks as I head to the dresser to pull out a pair of pants and a XL t-shirt that I got from a gig I went to a few years back with Nate.

The shirt barely falls to my knees when my phone chimes and the screen flashes. Out of habit, I automatically flip it open without preparing myself. it almost scares me how fast old habits come back to the surface.

Your favourite Upper East Sider here, in all her gossiping glory and boy, do I have a little story for you. Spotted: Our very own Evie Elma arriving at everyone's favourite helipad, cheap outfit and all. Don't suppose B knew her bestie was landing? Where have you been E, and what has your secretive ass been up to? Don't feel as though you are under any pressure to answer me sweetie, I'll find out soon enough.

I wonder if S is far behind you…

You know you missed me E.

Xoxo Gossip Girl