6
IF IT WILL IMPRESS HER ROOMMATES,
A WAVERLY OWL MAY DISH HER OWN DIRT.
“I’m looking for Jennifer Humphrey.” A thin, birdlike girl with a British accent and stringy blond hair stood twitching in front of Brandon and Jenny, just inside the door to Richards’ lounge. She wore a plain white sleeveless cotton turtleneck with a little triangular crest over the pocket and very suburban–mom–looking khakis, the kind that cinch around your waist and make your ass look huge. “I guess that would be you.”
“Yes,” Jenny half-squeaked, trying to keep the eagerness out of her voice.
“I’m Yvonne Stidder.” The girl stuck her hand out. She had a flimsy handshake and acne on her chin. “I’m a mentor to new students. We found you a room.”
Brandon raised his eyebrows at Jenny and started to get up. “It was nice meeting you, Jenny.”
“You too.” Jenny hefted her pink L.L. Bean duffels onto her shoulder. “I’ll see you tonight,” she whispered when Yvonne had turned her back.
“I’m so sorry we kept you waiting for so long,” Yvonne continued, leading Jenny down the Richards stairwell, past an entryway full of already-moved-in Trek mountain bikes, skate-boards, empty PlayStation boxes, and about a dozen well-used soccer balls.
“No big deal.” Jenny was thrilled to have hung out with those two cool boys, but she was kind of relieved to be away from them, so she could breathe a little.
“Normally we aren’t allowed in the boys’ dorms except during visitation hours.” Yvonne gave Jenny a sidelong glance, holding the door open for her. She sneezed as soon as they stepped outside. “Actually, um, that was the first time I’ve ever been in a boys’ dorm. Although of course I know everything about the boys’ dorms. I know all sorts of facts about Waverly if you want to ask me any questions. Anything at all.”
“Okay. Thanks.” If Yvonne hadn’t seemed like such a dork, Jenny might’ve suspected she was coked up, she talked so fast. “So what dorm am I in?” she asked as they crossed the green. She felt a nervous flutter in her chest. They were going to her new dorm, where she’d live for the whole school year! Where all sorts of amazing things would happen to her! Hopefully.
“Dumbarton. Over there, see?” Yvonne pointed to a two-story brick building with cutout windows sticking out of the roof at the back of the campus. Beyond it shimmered the Hudson, which looked a lot prettier up here than it did in the city. Jenny could just picture the boys’ crew team gliding effort-lessly across its surface in their sleek sculls, their strong arms bulging as they rowed. “This girl Tinsley Carmichael—she was going to live with Callie Vernon and Brett Messerschmidt, but then she got kicked out, so there’s a free spot. My friend from jazz ensemble, Storm Bathurst, lives next door—”
“Wait. Did you say Tinsley?” Jenny asked. She recognized that name, but she’d absorbed so much in so little time that she couldn’t remember when or where. “Why’d she get kicked out?”
Yvonne shoved her round, wire-rimmed glasses further up her nose. She smelled like Vicks VapoRub. “I’m not sure,” she replied flatly. “I don’t like to gossip.”
“Well, can you tell me anything about my new roommates?”
Yvonne paused. “I don’t know them well. But they’re the girls everyone flocks around.”
“Flocks around?” Jenny’s heart sped up.
“You know, the ones always giving parties, always with the cutest boys . . .” Yvonne giggled and turned to Jenny. “Not to say there aren’t cute boys in the jazz ensemble. Do you play any instruments? The jazz ensemble is looking for some people.”
“Um, no, sorry. But about Callie and Brett—they’re, like, really popular?”
“Yeah.” Yvonne nodded, sidestepping a maroon pinnie that someone had left on the field. “There’s this little crowd of kids that everyone on campus watches.”
Oh, really? Jenny thought excitedly. She touched the preppy little alligator on her shirt, pleased that she’d dressed so nicely to meet her supercool new roomies. Then she noticed a tall, brunette boy with matted hair, as if he’d just taken off a hat, walking across the green. He carried a big wooden easel over his shoulder, and his jeans were spattered with paint. Jenny’s breath caught in her throat.
“Who is that?” She pointed.
“Him?” Yvonne muttered. “That’s Easy Walsh.”
“Easy. What a great name,” Jenny mused. “Is he an artist or something?”
“I don’t know him very well, except that he’s always getting into trouble.” Yvonne crinkled her nose. “Smoking,” she whispered. For a girl who didn’t like to gossip, she certainly knew a lot.
The boy entered the double doors of the library. Jenny suddenly wished she could ditch her bags—and Yvonne—and follow him.
Instead, she followed Yvonne into the Dumbarton dorm. It was a quaint, two-story brick building that had its name inscribed in brownstone above a large, white, wooden farm-house door. They ducked through a narrow passage and up a set of granite stairs. One of the steps was inscribed 1832, RHINECLIFF, NY. The dorm was even older than Jenny’s family’s crumbling rent-stabilized apartment building on the Upper West Side.
All around her, girls were moving their things in. Rooney blared out of one room, No Doubt out of another. She saw a short Asian girl with pigtails unrolling a giant poster of Jennifer Garner as Elektra, kicking someone’s ass.
They approached door 303, which was slightly ajar.
“. . . and I’m licking you all over, and—wait. No. Jesus, Jeremiah, you don’t have your pants off yet. Stay with me here!”
“Uh, hello?” Yvonne said, pushing the door open a little.
A striking-looking older girl with blazing red hair sprang up from one of the room’s twin beds. “I have to go,” she blurted into her phone and flipped it shut. She glanced for a second at Yvonne and then fixed her piercing eyes on Jenny.
“Ermm, this is Jenny Humphrey,” Yvonne explained. “She’s your new roommate. She’s from . . . where was it?”
“Constance Billard,” Jenny answered, sticking out her hand. “In New York City.”
“Oh. Cool. Brett Messerschmidt.” The girl wore a starched, short-sleeved tailored white blouse that Jenny had seen in the windows of the Soho Scoop store all summer and those knee-length pegged shorts only the hippest kids in Williamsburg were wearing.
Jenny walked into the room, which was bigger and somehow plainer than she’d imagined. The windows were huge and beautiful, overlooking the river, while the beds and furniture were just . . . old. She studied her new roommate out of the corner of her eye. Her blazing red hair was cut in a severe bob that ended right at her chin. One ear had about seven tiny gold hoop earrings, and she wore a gold diamond Cartier tank watch on her left wrist. She was sexy and sophisticated, and very . . . familiar. Then Jenny remembered: there was a picture of Brett on Waverly’s Web site. She was the Girl Hovering Over Her Books Looking Studious. Or at least that’s what Jenny had called her.
“What about Callie?” Yvonne looked around the room. “Is she here yet?”
“Shower,” Brett muttered.
Yvonne blinked furiously, then mumbled something about a flute lesson and fled the room.
Jenny walked over to what looked like the spare bed and sat down, bouncing a couple of times. “This is a great room. I love the view.”
“Yeah, it’s okay.” Brett folded her arms across her chest.
“Who are you?” came a loud voice behind them. Jenny turned and saw a tall, strikingly beautiful girl with enormous hazel eyes and dark blond hair that looked like it had just been blow-dried. Jenny thought she looked just like the Disney movie version of Cinderella. Once she had transformed into a princess, of course.
“Hey. I’m Jenny. I’m—they assigned me to this room.”
“They? Who’s ‘they’?” Cinderella demanded.
“Well . . . Waverly,” Jenny stammered. “Are you Callie?”
“Yes. Are you a junior or a sophomore?”
“Sophomore. What are you guys?”
“Juniors.” Callie pursed her pink-lipsticked lips and deposited an enormous Gucci makeup bag on top of her desk. “You’re taking that bed?” She pointed to the bed Jenny was sitting on.
“I guess so. I mean, unless it’s not okay with you two.”
“I suppose it’s fine.” Callie glanced at Brett. “I guess Tinsley’s really gone then.”
Brett made a snorting noise through her nose. Jenny just stood there, not sure what to say.
“What happened to . . . er . . . Tinsley?” she finally asked.
“It’s complicated,” Brett responded quickly, unzipping a suitcase entirely full of shoes. Jenny checked the labels on a few. Jimmy Choo. Sigerson Morrison. Manolo Blahnik.
“It was nothing,” Callie added. She stared out the window, away from both of them.
Jenny wasn’t much of a smoker, but she wished she could have a cigarette right then, just to have something to do with her hands.
Callie finally broke the silence. “Where’d you go to school before this?”
“Constance Billard? It’s in—”
“New York City. All girls,” Callie interrupted in a breathy voice, sliding a little closer to Jenny in the same way a cat might rub up against your calf. She turned to Brett. “Didn’t Tinsley go to Constance?”
“No. She went to Trinity. Until fifth grade. Then she went somewhere in Switzerland, then here.”
“Yeah, Tinsley definitely didn’t go to an all-girls’ school, now that I think about it.” Callie examined her cuticles. “I remember her saying that she had tons of boyfriends.”
“Well, Tinsley’s beautiful,” Brett added offhandedly, taking T-shirts out of another suitcase.
Jenny bristled. Was Brett saying that she wasn’t beautiful? Who was this Tinsley girl, anyway?
“She could get any guy she wanted,” Brett continued. “Even guys with girlfriends.”
“That’s not true,” Callie snapped, before turning back to Jenny.
Jenny’s eyes darted back and forth between her roommates. What was up with them?
“Tinsley had her eleventh birthday party at Chelsea Piers. Like, she rented out the whole thing and installed a trapeze school in the gym area. Did you go to that?”
Jenny shrugged. “Sorry, no.” But she remembered that party, all right. Back when she was ten, Jenny’s father had ranted for days about an article in the New York Times Style section covering a party at the Chelsea Piers Sports Complex for a girl a year older than Jenny. Her dad had mocked it for being indulgent and piggishly bourgeois, but Jenny had thought the girl was the luckiest kid on the planet. And now she’d be sleeping in her bed! This had to be a good sign.
Callie looked at Jenny like a Christie’s appraiser might examine a Ming vase and then smiled. “Well, welcome to Waverly. I think you’re going to like it here.”
Jenny hugged herself. I like it already.
TeagueWilliams: What did you say the 99-cent girl looks like?
HeathFerro: Brown curly hair, practically a midget, major knockers.
TeagueWilliams: So lemme guess. . . . You taking her to the chapel?
HeathFerro: Hells yeah!
CelineColista: So Callie and Brett are pissed at each other.
They’re both going to Marymount’s office to get a room transfer.
BennyCunningham: All ’cause of Tinsley, huh? Where is she, anyway?
Does anyone even know?
CelineColista: I heard she’s dating some guy from the Raves and they’re on tour in Europe.
BennyCunningham: I thought that new girl from the city was dating the Raves. . . .
CelineColista: Which one!?
BennyCunningham: All of them. The whole band.
CelineColista: Gross. Where’d you hear that?
BennyCunningham: I have my sources.
7
CHAPEL IS NOT AN APPROPRIATE PLACE
FOR YOUNG OWLS TO SOCIALIZE.
“Well, look who’s here!” Jenny stood outside Richards’ lounge, reapplying her translucent pink lip gloss in the large, smoky, café-style hall mirror. She was wearing a scoop-neck, emerald-green APC top that was getting a teensy bit stretched out by her cumbersome breasts, and the highest tan leather heels she owned. She whipped her head around to find Heath Ferro, the boy from earlier with the BlackBerry and the great abs, standing in the doorway, an unlit cigarette in his hand. Tiny beads of sweat stood out on his forehead, and his eyes had a glassy, tipsy look.
“Hey,” she answered brightly, wiping her hands off on the only pair of Seven jeans she owned, which happened to make her legs look slightly longer than tree-stump length. “Is the party in there?”
“Indeed it is,” Heath replied gallantly. He looped his arm around Jenny’s waist.
Jenny smiled. Heath seemed really happy to see her. And she was happy to see him, too. He wore a light blue untucked oxford shirt, army fatigue shorts, and no shoes. She liked his broad shoulders and floppy, I’m-a-prep-school-boy-through-and-through haircut. Sort of the way Hamlet would look if he were a real person, Jenny thought. All that princely Danish breeding, plus a flicker of wildness in his eye.
And Jenny liked wildness.
Heath pushed the heavy wooden lounge door open for her. Everyone froze. “It’s cool,” Heath announced, his hand brushing accidentally against Jenny’s boob. “It’s just us.”
Jenny glanced around the room. Her first Waverly party! She could have been stuck back in the dorm playing checkers with Yvonne, but instead she was breaking the rules on her very first night at boarding school! She could immediately tell that it had a different feel than the parties she’d gone to back in New York—no one was fooling around in the guest bed-room and they didn’t have to worry about parents arriving back early from Paris. Someone had dimmed the lights and lit a bunch of candles. Everyone looked like they’d just stepped out of a J.Crew catalog—they were all so pretty, with perfect, glowing skin and healthy, athletic bodies that came from mandatory year-round sports. Each person was more beautiful than the last. Everyone was holding large insulated coffee mugs, which was a little puzzling, until Jenny realized that the mugs contained alcohol.
Across the room, Brett sat on the scratched leather couch with Callie, their friend Benny Cunningham, and Sage Francis, who had been regaling them with tales of the fabulous African safari she’d gone on this summer. It didn’t sound so great to Brett. Flies, malaria, and smelly wild animals. Fun! She gazed toward the doorway, saw her new roommate waltz in on Heath Ferro’s arm, and immediately elbowed Benny hard in the ribs.
Benny was from Main Line Philadelphia, stood to inherit $200 million, and was pretty in a horsey way: tall and lithe, with long, thick brown hair and enormous brown eyes. She was a prude and always blamed it on where she grew up, as if Philly were a different planet where the girls drank whole milk and saved themselves for marriage. Benny always quoted a Diane Keaton line from an old Woody Allen movie, Manhattan: “I’m from Philadelphia, and we don’t do things like that there.” She didn’t quite realize that the line was meant to be a joke. Despite her prudishness, she was also a major gossip who read Page Six religiously but acted like she knew it all first-hand.
“Looks like Heath’s gone in for the kill,” Benny’s best friend, Sage Francis, laughed, pointing. “Guess he knew where he could get some.”
Brett shrugged. She couldn’t imagine her naïve new room-mate being a slut, but there was something seemingly sparkly and fresh about Jenny that might make her irresistible to, say, an entire indie rock band, which was the rumor going around campus. And she did have some kind of air of mystery about her, which reminded Brett of someone. Tinsley, perhaps?
“So are you guys really applying for room transfers?” Sage whispered, touching Brett on her bare shoulder.
“Room transfers?”
Sage fluttered her heavily glittered eyelids. She always overused eye glitter, because a hot French guy she’d met in St. Barts during spring break the year before had told her that it made her eyes look huge and sexy. “I thought you and Callie were ready to scratch each other’s eyes out.”
“Well . . .” Brett trailed off. “I wasn’t planning on transfer-ring. . . .” She looked at her roommate. Callie was across the room talking intensely to Celine Colista, the other field hockey captain. They’d all played field hockey together since arriving at Waverly freshman year, but Brett had never taken it as seriously as the rest of the girls. Would Callie really transfer rooms behind Brett’s back? Had it come to that? She turned back to her new roommate, who was standing in the doorway and gazing starry-eyed, as if she’d never been to a party before in her life.
Jenny was kind of overwhelmed—but in a good way. Heath returned, weaving a strong-smelling Waverly travel mug in front of her face. “For you.”
“What’s in it?” she asked, taking the mug with both hands.
“Does it matter?” He grinned and clumsily tipped the contents of his own mug down his throat.
Jenny put the mug to her lips. The strong, sour liquid tasted like beer mixed with rum. It gurgled down her windpipe, bringing tears to her eyes.
“Hey, there’s Brandon!” she managed to gasp. Brandon stood by one of the giant windows, surrounded by three tiny girls with matching white-blond ponytails. When he saw Jenny across the room, his face brightened and he waved. She raised her hand to wave back, but Heath grabbed it and pulled her to his side.
“It’s time for the new girl to do our little initiation ritual,” he said, smiling devilishly.
“What?” Jenny frowned. “I haven’t heard of any initiation rituals.”
“Then you haven’t been talking to the right people.” Heath took another long drink from his mug, then set it on the ancient silver radiator. “Come with me.” He led her to the door.
On the way out, a couple of guys gave him high fives. “Where you goin’, Pony?” one of them asked. Heath just raised his eyebrows. The guys started laughing and making whooping, whinnying noises.
“What’s that all about?” Jenny asked, glancing back at the hooting boys.
“Who the hell knows?” Heath muttered, as he opened the heavy wooden door for Jenny.
“Who’s Pony? You?”
“Shhh,” Heath interrupted. Jenny pursed her lips together, feeling a little uneasy. But this was boarding school. Magical Waverly land. She was safe here, wasn’t she?
Outside, the night was pitch-black and dead quiet except for the sounds of some crickets left over from summer. Heath stopped in front of the Waverly chapel, the building next to Richards. The chapel was squat yet stately, with stained glass windows and a heavy oak door.
“What are we—?” Jenny started. She hadn’t been inside the chapel yet—she would be tomorrow morning, for roll call, announcements, and prayers.
Heath stubbed his cigarette out against one of the front windowpanes. “It’s a tradition for new Waverly students to go into the chapel before school actually starts.”
“You’re not going to lock me in or anything, are you?” Jenny asked in a wavering voice, not caring how Old Jenny she sounded.
“’Course not.” Heath raised his eyebrows. “I’m coming in with you.”
“Oh.” Jenny’s heart was picking up speed. “Okay, then.”
Heath pulled on the enormous oak door until it opened. The chapel’s inside was lit only with a few candles. And it was as quiet as . . . well . . . a church.
“It’s really nice in here,” Jenny whispered.
“Sit over here with me.” Heath patted a space on one of the dark wooden benches. In the candlelight, with his hands curled neatly in his lap and his hair slicked back, Jenny wondered if she’d misjudged Heath. Maybe he was actually really spiritual and sensitive.
She slid into the pew next to him. “So this is the ritual, huh?”
“Ritual?” Heath looked at her cluelessly.
“You said that—” Jenny stopped. Of course there wasn’t a ritual. It was a trick.
They were silent for a minute, listening to the wind pressing up against the sides of the chapel. Then Heath placed his hand over hers.
“You were so beautiful this morning,” he whispered breathily, mixing up the b and m, so that he said mootiful and borning. “Especially when my dad gave you a ride up the hill.”
“Oh,” Jenny answered, beaming. He did remember! “Well, thanks.”
“You’re from that all-girls school in New York, aren’t you?”
“Yeah.” Had she said that this morning? She didn’t think so.
“Did you get kicked out?”
“Not exactly.”
Then Heath lurched toward her. She thought he’d just lost his balance, but his mouth was suddenly all over her face, and his tongue was poking through her lips. Jenny’s first reaction was to push him away, but tingles of pleasure began to run up her spine. Heath was an amazing kisser, maybe better than any-one else she’d ever kissed. She touched the nape of his neck, squeezed her eyes shut, and allowed herself to be swept away. The wooden bench made tiny aching creaks and groans. Their slurpy kissing noises rang against the alcove ceilings. His hand traced the outlines of her fingers but then quickly moved down her wrist to her forearm and finally up to her chest.
Jenny slid away from him, alarmed.
“Whatsa matter?” Heath smirked, his eyes flickering back and forth from one of her breasts to the other. He didn’t look like a spiritual little angel anymore.
“Well . . . this is a little fast,” Jenny managed. “That’s all.”
“Come on,” Heath urged, his voice getting sleepier. “Jenny from New York. Crazy Jenny.”
“I’m not all that crazy,” Jenny contradicted. She had a creepy feeling that Heath was quoting someone. What had people been saying about her? And where had they gotten their information?
Then suddenly Heath tipped over, laid his head on the bench, and began to quietly snore. Jenny stood up. Heath was wasted. She looked around the empty chapel, his snores echoing off the beamed ceilings.
All this made her feel very Old Jenny. She sighed and looked around at the dimly lit chapel. School didn’t officially start until tomorrow, she resolved. New Jenny was just getting warmed up.
To: EasyWalsh@waverly.edu
From: HeathFerro@waverly.edu
Date: Wednesday, September 4, 9:50 A.M.
Subject: Dude . . .
Ease,
Missed a fucking awesome party. Can’t even remember the end, except for this fresh little sophomore and me were really getting along. I’m still in bed and I think I’m gonna stay here all day. Bet you had a fucking awesome excuse for not being there. Was it Tinsley? You saw her this summer, right?
Hey man, write back, ’cause we all think you’re dead.
Later,
H
To: BrettMesserschmidt@waverly.edu
From: JeremiahMortimer@stlucius.edu
Date: Wednesday, September 4, 10:01 A.M.
Subject: Better in person . . .
Hey, B. You got off the phone so fast. Just when we were getting to the good part! I can’t go another day without seeing you. I know your classes start tomorrow, but you’re done by 4, right? How about I hop the shuttle and come over tomorrow afternoon? Maybe we could spend a little time under that downy comforter of yours. . . .
8
A WAVERLY OWL SHOULD NOT DRINK WITH
HER TEACHER—UNLESS IT’S SNAPPLE.
“Oof!” Brett slammed into a tall guy as she walked down Stansfield Hall’s third-floor hallway. She’d been trying to kill a couple of minutes catching up on e-mails on her cell phone’s tiny screen before meeting with some new teacher named Mr. Dalton, who was supposed to be the new Disciplinary Committee adviser. Jeremiah’s message had just popped up on the screen. “Sorry,” she muttered to the person who’d bumped into her, without looking to see who it was.
“You better watch where you’re going with that. It’s Brett, right?”
She looked up. An unbelievably handsome boy with mussed dirty blond hair was standing in front of her. He looked like Prince William but taller, tanner, and better. He wore a slightly rumpled Savile Row–tailored small-check oxford shirt with the bottom two buttons buttoned incorrectly. Brett couldn’t help but imagine him haphazardly throwing it on over his hard, muscular chest, as he climbed out of bed.
“I recognize you from the picture in your student file,” the boy went on. “I’m Eric Dalton, the new DC adviser.”
Oops. This was no boy. “Oh! Um. Hi, Mr. Dalton,” Brett stammered, shoving her cell phone in her pocket. “I’m, uh, sorry about that.” She held out her hand.
He shuffled a coffee mug—the same maroon-and-white Waverly Owls mug that they mixed drinks in at their dorm parties—from one hand to the other and gripped hers. Brett was suddenly glad that she had a moisturizing fetish and that her palm would feel silky in his hand.
“Those aren’t allowed here, you know.” Mr. Dalton raised his eyebrows at her phone. For a second Brett thought he was serious and started to muster up an excuse. Then he whispered, “But I won’t tell . . . this time. Go sit down in my office and I’ll be with you in a sec.”
Flustered, Brett smiled, wishing she had something witty to say.
The door to his office stood open. She walked in and looked around. For a guy who’d just arrived at Waverly, he sure had a lot of stuff. There were posters wrapped in brown paper on the floor, a large black globe that still showed Russia as the USSR, and books and papers everywhere. She noticed a decanter filled with what looked like red wine on the oak table in the corner, and her mind started to race.
Settle down, she told herself. You’re here because he’s new to Waverly and he wants to meet all the DC members. That’s probably cran-raspberry Snapple, not wine.
She walked up to one of the posters that Mr. Dalton had hung in a heavy, gilded frame. It was actually an old inscribed scroll, mounted and framed. She squinted at the Ancient Greek words and murmured, “‘Praise each god as though they were listening.’”
“How’d you know that?” a voice called out behind her.
Brett jumped. Mr. Dalton stood in the doorway, grinning at her slyly, as if he knew a big secret and was ready to spill it. “I spent a little time in Greece,” she said uncertainly.
“You want to sit down?” he asked. “Sorry for all the papers.” He quickly picked a stack of papers up off a chair, leaning so close to Brett that she couldn’t help but notice how good he smelled. Like Acqua di Parma, which was the only type of cologne she could stand on a guy.
“Can I get you anything?” Mr. Dalton sat down in his high-backed brown leather chair. It made a farting creak, which both of them pretended not to notice. “I have little fridge, some glasses, although I only have . . . well . . . actually, all I have, I think, is some pinot noir.” He frowned, then blinked hard. “Sorry. I mean, obviously we can’t have pinot noir. I don’t know what that’s even doing in here, because I wasn’t drinking it or anything.”
Methinks Mr. Dalton doth protest too much, Brett thought wryly, watching him nervously pull his shirt collar away from his neck. “I’m fine,” she stated primly instead, perching on the edge of her chair.
Dalton switched on the flat-screen Mac G5 sitting on top of his desk. “Okay. Brett. So they’re making me put all the old DC cases into a database. They gave me the grunt-work jobs because I’m new.” He flashed his perfect teeth nervously, and she wondered silently if he just had amazing dental genes or if these were veneers. It was a tough call, one she wouldn’t mind investigating more closely. With, say, her lips.
He shuffled the papers. “So besides meeting all the DC appointees, I’m looking for someone to help me weed through all this DC stuff to get to the pertinent information and then help enter it into the computer. But it has to be someone who was on DC last year, because the material is confidential to non-DC students. Were you on DC last year?”
Brett licked her lips. “Well, no,” she answered, wanting to lie.
“Oh.” Mr. Dalton sounded disappointed. He let out a sigh. “That’s too bad.”
“We wouldn’t have to tell anybody, though, would we?” Brett suggested slowly. “I mean, I want to help. It would . . . it would look good on my transcript.”
Sure. That’s why I want to do it, she thought. My transcript.
“I don’t know. . . . ” Mr. Dalton shook his head. He stared at her quizzically. Brett nervously brushed a hair off her cheek. “How old are you?” he finally said.
“Seventeen.”
“Huh.” He tilted his head and smiled with one side of his mouth.
“What?”
“Well. You don’t look seventeen. That’s all.”
Guys said this to Brett all the time. They were always astounded she was still in high school. “How old are you?” He straightened up a little. “Twenty-three. I just finished Brown.” Brett unconsciously chewed the Hard Candy Vinyl polish off her pinkie.
“I’m going to go to grad school, but since I went to Waverly, I thought I’d pay my dues and teach here for a couple years,” Mr. Dalton continued.
“I want to go to Brown,” Brett blurted out.
“I could imagine you there.” He nodded.
She stared at her gorgeous twenty-three-year-old teacher and didn’t pull her eyes away for the second he stared back.
“All right.” He finally broke the silence. “I think maybe we could figure out a way for you to help me—I mean, if you really want to.”
I want to, Brett wanted to say. I really, really want to. But she remained silent.
“Maybe we could meet up again tomorrow morning, before class? Oh, and the name Mr. Dalton sounds really weird. Maybe I’ll be used to it when I’m fifty and running the family business. But for now . . .” He lowered his eyes and then looked back up at her from beneath his thick blond lashes. “Call me Eric?”
“Sure,” Brett agreed, smiling. She could think of a lot of things she’d like to call him.
Just then the papers that he’d removed from her chair started to slide off his desk toward Brett’s lap. He lunged forward, grabbing for them. At the same time, Brett leaned down to catch some papers that had landed on the floor. Their heads collided.
Ouch. “Fuck!” Brett cried, seeing a brief flash of white. Then she clamped her mouth shut. Even though most Waverly kids had dirty mouths, you weren’t supposed to swear in front of the teachers. Waverly Owls must always have good manners, and bad language was a sign of indecency and bad breeding.
He rubbed his forehead, wincing. “You okay?”
Brett swallowed hard. What if Mr. Dalton thought she was uncouth and trashy? But then she noticed his concerned expression and decided he didn’t care.
“I think I’ll live,” she replied finally.
“Well, that’s good,” he laughed. “Because I’d definitely like to keep you alive.”
To: BriannaMesserschmidt@elle.com
From: BrettMesserschmidt@waverly.edu
Date: Wednesday, September 4, 10:53 A.M.
Subject: Hot, hot, hot
Hey Sis,
I just met the perfect guy. He’s smart, gorgeous, shy, and sweet and hotter than the models in the Ralph Lauren Romance ads. Trouble, though: he’s a teacher. As in, the kind that gives you homework assignments. The kind that sits up on the Waverly stage during assembly. The kind that grades papers and isn’t supposed to touch students . . . I’m sure you get the gist. What to do?
xoxoxo,
Little Sis
To: JeremiahMortimer@stlucius.edu
From: BrettMesserschmidt@waverly.edu
Date: Thursday, September 4, 10:57 A.M.
Subject: Re: Better in person . . .
J,
Sure, you can come over tomorrow, but my room’s out. Callie’s being a real prima donna. Surprise, surprise.
See ya soon.
B
9
A WAVERLY OWL SHOULDN’T ATTEMPT SECRET
TRYSTS. SOMEONE IS ALWAYS WATCHING.
Callie leaned up against the dusty wooden doors of the old stables, trying not to get dried horse manure on the heels of her brand-new Stella McCartney round-toed black patent leather shoes. The weathered red barn sat next to a three-acre horse paddock, separated from the rest of the Waverly campus by a patch of densely settled pines. A whistle blew in the distance, and Callie recognized the gruff voice of Coach Smail, the girls’ field hockey coach, yelling, “That won’t cut it on varsity, ladies!” The first full day at school consisted of grueling eight-hour tryouts for the fall teams, but Callie was exempt since she was already a varsity field hockey captain.
The sun was low in the late-afternoon sky and Easy was walking toward her. He was wearing one of the T-shirts he’d taken home from her house—a ratty green thing with a horseshoe, of course—under his beat-up maroon Waverly jacket. No tie. His dark brown hair stood up in disheveled peaks and there was a smudge of blue ink next to his left ear. A huge, sexy smile spread across his face when he saw her. She wanted him so badly. Maybe everything between them was okay after all.
“You could’ve at least changed your shirt,” she teased, taking the hem between her fingers.
“I suppose, because I feel way underdressed next to you,” he teased back.
“I’m not all that dressed up.”
“Are too. Look at those shoes.” He pointed. “I can imagine you standing in front of your closet, agonizing over your newest, sexiest pair. Right?” He smiled at her. “I’m right, aren’t I?”
“Wrong,” Callie shot back, although he was, of course, right. It pissed her off that Easy knew her so well. And that he was smarter than she was. Actually, when it came down to it, everything about him made her simultaneously seethe and shudder with pleasure.
Easy lit a cigarette and ducked so that he was out of sight of Marymount’s house, a grand Tudor mansion right on the edge of campus. Callie tossed her long strawberry-blond hair behind her shoulders. Why was he just standing there? Here they were, alone by the abandoned horse stables, while everyone else was finishing up sports tryouts. She could hardly wait to lie down in the tick-infested hay and tear his clothes off.
“Missed you at the party last night,” she whispered tenderly.
“Mmm. Yeah. I was really tired.”
Okay, this was infuriating. He was still just standing there.
“So, you want to come over here?” Callie finally asked, pulling at his jacket.
“Just a sec.” He jerked away slightly and took another drag.
“Never mind, then. Forget it.” Callie backed away, pulling out her own pack of Marlboro Lights. She stuck one in her mouth and tried to flick on her fluorescent green lighter but kept fumbling with the childproof lock.
“No, no, come on,” Easy pleaded in a low voice, turning to her and throwing his cigarette on the ground. “Don’t be like that. . . .”
“Well, I don’t know,” Callie started. “I mean, you—”
Easy put his hand on the nape of her neck. “I’m just a little out of it.” He kissed Callie’s jawbone lightly, then pressed her against the stable door and kissed her harder. His capable hands floated all over her body. Callie pulled a mess of tangled hair back from her face.
“Have I told you how good it is to see you?” Easy murmured between kisses.
Callie sighed. Things were suddenly right again. What had she been agonizing about? She and Easy were perfect together. Maybe she shouldn’t have felt so freaked about what had happened in Spain. Maybe she shouldn’t have paid any attention to that stupid IM she’d gotten from Heath saying they’d broken up.
“Maybe we could lie down?” she whispered.
Easy tugged her toward the paddock where the grass was green and soft, kissing her collarbone lightly. He pulled her to the ground and kissed her neck. This is the way it should be, she thought, looking toward the setting sun. The abandoned stables were beautiful and the sun was low and glowing pink in the sky. No, there wasn’t any John Mayer playing softly in the background like there had been that night in Spain, but this would definitely do.
“D’you remember what we were talking about in Spain?” Callie murmured, her heart shivering in her chest. The memory of that night came rushing back: they had been in her bed, under the sheets, almost naked. Callie had mustered up all her courage and said to her beautiful, messy, sexy, brilliant, bel-ligerent boyfriend, “I love you.” She’d planned on having sex with him then: they’d tell each other they loved one other and then make love for the first time. All of the rumors about Tinsley from last year would clear up, and Easy would be hers forever.
Instead, he’d kissed her silently back, and then eventually the kissing had slowed, and he’d settled into the pillow next to her and fallen asleep. She’d listened to his breathing turn to soft snoring and wondered if he’d heard her at all. Maybe she’d said it too quietly? Callie had spent the whole summer hoping that was why he hadn’t said it back.
Callie did love him, she really did. Didn’t he love her too? She noticed one of those fat great horned owls watching them from a tree branch. He looked like that stupid cartoon from those old Tootsie Roll commercials. She felt self-conscious, like the owl was judging her.
“Remember what I said in bed?” she asked tentatively.
Easy suddenly stopped kissing her collarbone and slumped against her side.
She touched his arm. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” He breathed in deeply and looked out over the horse paddock. Shouts of the girls’ field hockey tryouts echoed from the practice fields. “This just seems . . . I don’t know.”
“What do you mean?” Callie’s voice came out in a high, embarrassing squeak. She shoved her Stella McCartney back on her right foot and sat up. A huge smear of gray dirt ran down her leg and she prayed it wasn’t horse manure.
A male figure appeared on the path leading down to the stables, pushing a wheelbarrow.
“Shit.” Callie grabbed Easy’s hands, pulling him up. “It’s Ben.”
Ben was the nasty old groundskeeper who always got kids in trouble. He even carried around a digital camera so he could have proof. Last year, he’d caught Heath Ferro smoking a joint by the natatorium, but Heath had bribed him to delete the photos by giving him his dad’s platinum heirloom Harry Winston cuff links.
They scrambled to the other side of the stable and pressed themselves against a wooden door. “I should probably go back to my room,” Easy whispered.
“Whatever.” Callie dug her heel into the dirt, even though she knew it was going to totally ruin her shoes. Shit. Why had she brought up Spain?
“Look.” He took her hands. “I’m sorry. Let’s try this again. Your dorm room. Tonight. After the welcome dinner.”
“Yeah, right,” Callie scoffed. “You’re already on Angelica’s watch list.”
“I’ll find a way.” Easy pulled her close and held her for a second. “I promise,” he whispered, then dashed away.
AlanStGirard: Where’s Heath?
BrandonBuchanan: Still in bed. Hasn’t showered. Smells awful.
AlanStGirard: Dude, it’s almost dinner!
BrandonBuchanan: I know. I think he’s still drunk tho.
AlanStGirard: He left with that new chick last night.
BrandonBuchanan: Who?
AlanStGirard: Dark curly hair? Big boobs? They say she was a stripper in NYC.
BrandonBuchanan: Nah. She never showed last night.
AlanStGirard: Sure she did. You were too busy staring at Callie to notice. Heath took her to the chapel. Think she gave him a lap dance?
AlisonQuentin: This chapel stinks. Why is Marymount’s Welcome to Waverly speech always so loooong?
BennyCunningham: No kidding. Where’s u-know-who?
AlisonQuentin: Dunno. But did you know Sage drew a little pony on the marker boards of all the girls in her dorm who’ve hooked up with him? So far there are six, including the new girl. That’s just one floor of Dumbarton.
BennyCunningham: How come I don’t have a pony on my board?
AlisonQuentin: You hooked up w/ him?
BennyCunningham: We kissed freshman year! A little sloppy, but good technique.
AlisonQuentin: B! I thought you were my innocent friend!
10
THERE ARE SOME THINGS A WAVERLY OWL
DOES NOT EAT, JUST BECAUSE.
“You are part of a grand tradition.” The deep, penetrating voice of Dean Marymount boomed and thudded around the chapel. Everyone said Marymount had been this big revolutionary protester back in the seventies and that he was a card-carrying member of Mensa, but Jenny thought he looked more like a Little League coach who drove a Dodge minivan than the dean of a prestigious boarding school. His graying comb-over was plastered to his sweaty head. Behind him sat the Waverly faculty, all wearing the school’s uniform—maroon and navy tie, maroon jacket, white shirt, trousers. Normally students just had to wear the maroon Waverly blazer with anything they wanted underneath, but for the first chapel meeting of the year everyone had to wear a tie, girls included. Jenny’s half-Windsor knot was all lumpy. She sighed. Her father only owned one tie, which was covered in cobwebs. She’d never asked, but he’d probably had it since he was a sophomore in high school.
They had gathered for Dean Marymount’s official beginning-of-the-year speech before the first official all-campus dinner. The chapel was packed and smelled of teenaged-boy BO and feet.
Last night, she’d awakened Heath enough to deposit him on the stoop in front of Richards, and then she’d crawled back to Dumbarton, exhausted. In the middle of the night, either Brett or Callie had unplugged Jenny’s clock radio to use the outlet to charge a cell phone. Luckily the chapel bells had woken her so she could get to field hockey tryouts on time. Every Waverly student had to play a sport, and Jenny had decided on field hockey, since it seemed like the most traditional boarding school sport to play. She planned on playing lacrosse in the spring for the same reason. Jenny didn’t even have a hockey stick, but the bulldoggish coach, Alice Smail, had found her an extra Cranberry in the field house, and Jenny had soon discovered that she was a natural on the field.
“You’re sure you didn’t play for your school?” Coach Smail asked her. As if Jenny could have forgotten. Her scrimmage team’s center, Kenleigh, whom Jenny had seen at the party last night, murmured, “Good move,” as Jenny trotted back to the sidelines. Maybe she’d even make the varsity cut!
“This year, we have some new faculty members that I would like to introduce,” Dean Marymount announced. Jenny checked her watch. They’d already been here for forty minutes, singing Waverly’s school hymn and Waverly’s sports hymn, reciting the Waverly prayer to St. Francis, and clapping as Marymount introduced the school’s prefects, which were like the presidents of each class. Jenny was starving. “First off, a Waverly alum and a recent graduate of Brown University, we have Mr. Eric Dalton. Mr. Dalton will be the new junior and senior ancient history professor and an adviser to the Disciplinary Committee. He’s also the new assistant coach for the boys’ crew team. Welcome.” Everyone clapped obediently.
Jenny spied Brett, who had just been forced to stand and wave at the class because she was the junior class’s prefect, two rows ahead. Jenny watched as Brett elbowed the brunette next to her and mouthed the words Oh my God.
“I’d like to extend a warm welcome all the incoming freshmen and new students—Waverly is your new home, and we are your new family,” Marymount continued. “And finally . . . enjoy dinner!”
The crowd erupted in applause and hoots as it poured out of the chapel and across the great lawn toward the dining hall. Jenny gasped when she walked in. The dining hall looked like the inside of an old English cathedral. The walls were plastered with class pictures dating back to 1903 and with a lot of photographs of Maximilian Waverly, the school’s founder.
Students milled around, kissing each other and slapping each other’s hands. Jenny wasn’t sure what to do. Where was she supposed to sit?
“It’s a little crazy in here, huh?”
Jenny turned, hoping it might be Heath finally making an appearance. Instead, standing next to her was the boy with the easel she’d seen across the green yesterday with Yvonne. Easy. At least, that was what she thought Yvonne had said his name was.
His hair was so brown it was almost black, and his eyes were deep blue. He wore a beat-up green T-shirt with a yellow sil-houette of a horseshoe underneath his Waverly blazer. It was the sort of chic T-shirt that they’d sell at Barneys for $65, but his looked decidedly real-deal vintage. He voice was gravelly, with an accent she couldn’t quite place.
“A little crazy, yeah,” Jenny agreed. She stepped aside to let him pass. A Smythson of Bond Street sketchbook hung out of his green canvas messenger bag. A single sheet of paper of sketched eyes, noses, and mouths was clipped to the cover. “Hey, are you taking portraiture?”
“Yeah, I am. You?”
“Oh. Um, I am too.” Silently, Jenny attempted to pull her-self together. You’re New Jenny now, she reminded herself.
“Cool.” Easy slapped hands with a boy who’d just walked in. “So, see you later.” He smiled at Jenny.
“Hey,” a familiar voice beckoned from behind her. She turned and smiled at Brandon, who looked even cuter and cleaner than yesterday—if that was possible—in his maroon Waverly blazer and striped tie. “It’s formal dinner. They have assigned seating. You’re at my table.”
“Oh. Thanks.” Jenny smiled gratefully and followed him through the crowded dining room. “So, um, how long did the party go on last night?”
“Oh, the usual.” Brandon’s eyes shifted to the floor. “I didn’t even see you there. Go home early?”
Jenny bit her lower lip. “Um, yeah.”
They arrived at a table already occupied by two students: a very tall boy with a nose ring and a very tall girl whose angular face, large, wide-set brown eyes and thick brown hair all screamed good breeding.
“This is Ryan Reynolds, and this is Benny Cunningham.”
“I saw you at the party last night. I’m Jenny.” She smiled at Benny.
“That’s right.” Benny nodded, shooting a knowing look at Ryan.
Jenny took off her hot wool Waverly jacket and draped it over her chair.
“You can’t do that,” Benny hissed. “The faculty will freak.”
“Oh.” Jenny quickly slid the jacket back on. She looked around the room; most of the students were sitting at their tables already, blazers on.
“Looking for Heath?” Benny blurted out. Ryan nudged her.
“Oh.” Jenny shook out her pristine maroon cloth napkin, hoping her face wasn’t turning the same color. “Yeah. He was . . . he was a little . . . tired last night. I had to help him home.”
“Bombed is more like it,” Ryan laughed. “Anyway, Brandon, you getting psyched for Black Saturday?” he asked, stabbing the old wooden table with his knife.
“What’s Black Saturday?” Jenny asked curiously.
“Don’t get too excited,” Brandon laughed. “It’s when all the St. Lucius sports teams come to Waverly and we have this blowout bloodfest. The teams take it really seriously, because we’re supposed to hate St. Lucius so much. It’s another tradition. You’re playing field hockey, right?”
“Yes.” Jenny smiled. She’d never been on a team before. “Tryouts were today.”
“Well, the girls’ field hockey team plays, along with the soccer and football teams. But then when it’s over, the kids from both schools party like rock stars at a secret location that isn’t revealed until that day.”
“Heath usually throws the party,” Benny offered, refastening her silver Tiffany charm bracelet on her wrist. “But maybe he told you that already?”
Student servers in starched white oxfords and pressed gray flannel trousers set down large, creamy white plates laden with grilled salmon marinated in honey wasabi. This was way better than her dad’s experimental lamb-and-pineapple lasagna vodka flambé.
“Oh my God. This smells delicious.” Jenny grabbed her fork and took a huge bite. “Mmm!”
“Dude, you’re eating the salmon?”
A boy put his elbows on the table next to her. Heath. Finally. “Hey.” She covered her full mouth with her hand.
“Nobody eats the salmon,” Heath scoffed. There wasn’t a hint of the amorous, you’re-a-sex-goddess vibe he’d laid on last night.
Jenny’s eyes widened. She looked around at the other plates, and sure enough, no one else at the table had touched their fish. “Why? Is there something wrong with it?”
Brandon turned to her. “No—it’s fine. People just . . . don’t eat it. I don’t know why. It’s like, a thing.”
“Jenny?” Someone tapped her on the back. She turned to see Yvonne, the girl who had escorted her to Dumbarton yesterday. Tortoiseshell butterfly clips held clumps of Yvonne’s dishwaterblond hair back, and her pale blue eyes were as googly and crazed as they’d been yesterday. “Can I talk to you?” Yvonne glanced nervously at the others at the table. “In the hall?”
Ryan and Benny exchanged another knowing look. Jenny shrugged and placed her napkin over her fish. New Jenny is not easily flustered, she told herself. So what if no one ate the fish? New Jenny did what she pleased!
Yvonne led Jenny out into the front entryway of the dining hall.
“I hope this isn’t about jazz ensemble,” Jenny declared up front. “Because I’m kind of really not interested. I’m basically tone-deaf.”
“No, it’s not that. I’ve, um, heard some things about you, and I thought you should know.”
“Huh?” Jenny sucked in her breath. She’d gotten I-thoughtyou-should-know speeches before, and it almost always turned out that she never wanted to know.
“Everyone’s IMing about you.”
“What?” Jenny demanded slowly.
Yvonne took a deep breath. “They’re saying that you used to be a stripper and took your clothes off for, like, a dollar. And you’re like this New York City sex legend. And, er, you’ve already slept with someone here at Waverly.”
“What!?” Jenny squeaked. Suddenly the hallway seemed dim and hazy. “With whom!? I mean, who’s saying that?”
Yvonne looked down. “That boy who was at your table. Heath Ferro. I don’t know if you even know him yet, but he—”
Jenny saw a red mist before her eyes. Heath. “I can’t believe this.”
“I don’t believe it,” Yvonne protested, waving her hand around.
“Thanks,” Jenny squeaked.
“I have to go now. Sorry.” Yvonne turned and skittered out the door.
Jenny leaned against the wall, feeling dizzy and disoriented. Heath. Her entire body shook with horror and anger. Had Heath ruined her boarding school career before it had even started?
Brandon appeared in the arched doorway, frowning at her in concern.
“You okay?”
“I have to . . .” Jenny whirled around before she could finish her sentence, fleeing the dining hall. She sprinted across the damp green lawns, wishing she could take off and fly away like one of those fat old great horned owls. The ancient buildings of Waverly towered on either side of her, their windows glowering. The bite of salmon rebelled in her stomach, and Jenny slowed to a walk. She’d wanted to come to boarding school to start afresh, to become the girl she’d always wanted to be, to be a fabulous new, better version of herself. It was going to be a lot harder than she’d thought.
EasyWalsh: I’m right outside. Wanna check if the coast is clear?
CallieVernon: Hold on.
CallieVernon: OK, I just pressed my ear to Angelica’s door, and I hear the TV. Loud. Looks good.
EasyWalsh: Cool. C u in a sec.
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