Blair turned to the 12-year-old. “Hello, little blond girl I’ve never seen before. Can you help me with something?” The girl’s blue eyes lit up. “Really?” Clutching the ice pick, Blair led her into the kitchen. “I was just thinking,” she said, slowing down to wrap one arm around the girl’s shoulders. “How much I’d like to watch you” — she turned and rammed the ice pick into the girl’s chest, splattering the white tile of the kitchen island with droplets of red blood — “die.”
Blair wasn’t exactly sure what to do next. The body was too big for the trash can, which was Swiss chrome and tubular, and if she dragged it all the way to the big trash can outside the back door, she’d smear blood all over the clean white tiles. Besides, the buildings superintendent would see the body and say something to her mom. Behind Blair loomed the wide, farm-style kitchen sink. And on the wall behind the faucet, the switch for the garbage disposal. All of a sudden the girl groaned and threw up a vomitous mix of Cosmo slushie and blood. It oozed over the toes of Blair’s new black Ferragamo flats.
“Ew. I thought you were dead. Come on, let’s go.” Blair grabbed the girl angrily by the hair and yanked her to her feet. She forced the girl’s blond head down the drain and flicked on the disposal. Its blades began to grind, sending up sparks as they met bone. Chunks of flesh and bits of hair splattered the white kitchen ceiling.
Just as Blair was feeding the girl’s ankles and feet down the drain, Myrtle, the cook, came in the back door to spy on the party for her employer. “Blair, what a mess!” Myrtle exclaimed in her singsong Trinidadian accent. She retrieved the mop from the pantry. “Next time you want Bloody Marys, ask me to fix them for you.”
— From Cecily von Ziegesar’s “Gossip Girl — Psycho Killer” (Little Brown/Poppy).