31
A WAVERLY OWL KNOWS THAT SOMETIMES
IT’S A GOOD IDEA TO SIT IN THE SHADOWS.
“I feel all loose and wiggly.” Jenny shook her arms around. She’d moved to the surprisingly quiet lawn behind the tent. There was a tiny little Japanese rock garden, a mossy stone bench, and a jade–tile–lined pond. A giant orange goldfish swam slowly in the pond’s circle. After a few rounds of I Never, Brandon had tapped her on the shoulder and asked her if she wanted to get some air.
“You were looking a little green back there,” Brandon said.
“I’m all right. But thanks for getting me out of that. It was getting a little strange.” She wasn’t really keen on seeing Heath Ferro’s butt crack, which kept making major appearances.
“No problem.”
“How come you didn’t play with us? You got something against kissing games?”
“I . . .” He hesitated. “It’s complicated.”
Jenny rolled her head around on her neck. “Okay,” she replied. She was happy that Brandon felt okay just sitting her with her quietly, not explaining anything. Friends sat quietly together, after all, and even though she was having a blast at this party, something in it seemed empty now that she was drunk. How many of these kids did she actually connect with? Brandon was a real friend, and they could be honest with each other. She leaned her head on his shoulder and stared at their reflection in the pond.
“You never told me you went out with Callie last year.” She glanced at him.
He looked down. “Yeah.”
“Is that why you hate Easy so much?”
He nodded.
“Well. That makes sense.”
“It’s so messed up, though,” Brandon began slowly. “I still really like her. I tried to not like her but . . . I can’t help it.”
“I totally understand,” she said, thinking of Easy.
Another reflection appeared in the pond. It was of a messy-haired, irresistibly handsome boy who, despite being at a party, still had paint smudges on his neck. Jenny drew in her breath. It was as if she had conjured Easy up by thinking about him.
Or maybe she was just a little tipsy.
“Hey.” He greeted her softly.
Jenny squinted. He wore a black faded NASHVILLE MUSIC FESTIVAL T-shirt and grubby, paint-stained jeans. His thick, glossy, almost-black hair, badly in need of cutting, curled at the back of his neck.
Brandon creased his face in frustration, then squeezed her hand. “I should be going,” he announced. He leaned over and whispered in her ear, “Good luck.”
Brandon brushed past Easy without saying hello, then slowly strode away. Easy sat down next to Jenny. “What are you doing out here? There’s all sorts of crazy shit going on in this place.”
“Yeah, I was part of the crazy shit, but I decided to come out and look at the pond.”
“Pretty,” Easy murmured.
“It is, isn’t it?”
“I mean you, not the pond,” he whispered.
Jenny’s words got stuck in her throat. She was too, too drunk. But suddenly she felt too, too sober. Easy lit a cigarette and smoked it silently, letting a thin stream of gray smoke drift over the gardens and make a halo over the origami trees.
“I saw your cheer at the game today.” Easy broke the silence. “That was . . . something.”
“Oh,” she managed to utter, looking down, embarrassed. The drunker Jenny had gotten, the more she had wondered if she really belonged here. So she’d turned the cheer around today, but what if she couldn’t keep up that kind of quick thinking all the time? She kept trying not to think about it, but heavy thoughts about the Disciplinary Committee hearing kept sneaking up on her. Sure, she was popular tonight, but what did that matter if she was kicked out of Waverly come Monday? Then again, she could tell on Callie, but everyone would definitely hate her if she got Callie kicked out. There was no way to win.
“Where’d you learn that?”
“Actually . . . it’s too weird to explain.”
“Huh,” Easy responded. “So, you know how I told you about those owls in that note?”
“Yeah.” Jenny was looking at his profile out of the corner of her eye. The night was getting colder, and she could see dew forming on the grass around them. She wondered what time it was.
“Did you think that was totally stupid?”
Jenny crossed her legs. “What? No. Why?”
“Because . . . I told you that I thought they talked.”
“No. Actually, I thought it was really sweet.”
“You did?” He smiled shyly at the ground.
“Yeah.” She smiled too, looking at him now.
Easy slid slightly closer to her. “Why?”
Jenny thought about why. Because you’re hot? Because you’re beautiful? Because I can’t stop thinking about how perfect you are for me?
Jenny sat back. “Easy? Are you flirting with me because Callie told you to?”
He took a drag off his cigarette. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”
“Oh,” she said, confused. She stared at her reflection in the pond. “Well, are you?”
“No,” he finally answered. Jenny noticed that his hand was trembling. “Are you?”
“No,” Jenny replied quickly. “I’m definitely not.”
“What are you going to do about DC?” he asked after a few seconds, stubbing his cigarette out on a rock. “Are you going to say it was Callie’s fault?”
“I still haven’t decided.” Jenny felt her face squinch up. She didn’t want to ruin Callie’s life, but she also didn’t want to get kicked out of Waverly. What if she walked out of DC and never saw Easy again?
“Look,” Easy sighed. “I don’t think any of this is right, and I don’t think you should be in trouble. And besides, I’m not even together with Callie anymore.”
Jenny held her breath.
“It’s weird that she’s manipulating us, you know?”
She nodded imperceptibly.
“And more than that . . . things don’t feel right,” he whispered, as if he were talking to himself.
“What do you mean?” Jenny asked, willing him to meet her gaze and then, maybe . . . her lips.
“Well . . .” Easy leaned back in the grass and stared up at the sky. Jenny remembered how he’d pointed out the Seven Sisters on their ceiling and wondered where that constellation was tonight. “You know how those De Beers diamond commer-cials show love as like this . . . this really sparkly, crazy thing?”
“Okay,” Jenny said, lying down on her back as well.
“Well, I want that,” Easy explained, talking straight ahead. “I don’t have that now, but I want it. Not in a stupid way, but I want all of that.”
Jenny’s insides shimmered. She understood what he meant completely. And as they stared up at the sky, the stars above them twinkled, shiny and sparkly. Kind of like diamonds.
To: “partygoers” (27 members on list)
From: HeathFerro@waverly.edu
Date: Sunday, September 8, 11:40 A.M.
Subject: Awesome, awesome, awesome
Guys. The Black Saturday party was white-hot. Some interesting numbers:
6: Number of girls I made out with last night. (That’s the number I can remember, anyway.)
11: Bottles of Cuervo we went through. Hells yeah!
1: Weirdly well-groomed guy standing on the sidelines of the I Never game, looking longingly at a certain blond goddess from Atlanta.
2: Left-behind pairs of girls’ shoes. One pair of Manolos, one pair of Tod’s. Who got so messed up she went home barefoot?
2: People sitting by my goldfish pond, looking longingly into each other’s eyes. But I’m not gonna tell you who. That’s only for my goldfish, Stanley, to know for sure.
Later, party people,
Heath
P.S. Can’t wait for the next blowout.
P.P.S. It’s only three weeks away. Rest up!
32
PLAYING A SPORT IS A HEALTHY WAY FOR
WAVERLY OWLS TO DEAL WITH THEIR AGGRESSION.
The Waverly sports staff was so evil that they made every-one go to sports practice on Blacker Sunday (called that for obvious reasons). Everyone hit the field with stale-martini breath, eye shadow still smeared on their upper lids, and pink tongues, courtesy of two big swigs of Pepto to calm their gurgling stomachs.
Callie sat on the hockey bench with her head between her legs. She had a hickey on her neck, and she was certain it wasn’t from Easy. She’d tried to cover it with her Joey New York con-cealer stick, but the big purple welt was still there. Really, she felt too shitty to care. She wanted to curl back up under her double-thick cashmere blanket and suck her thumb. She eyed Jenny and Brett sitting on the grass, stretching, looking as if they hadn’t had a sip of alcohol last night. Since when were they such good friends?
Mrs. Smail blew her whistle and called the girls up to scrimmage. Of all things to do at a post–Black Saturday party practice, they were actually going to play? Why couldn’t everyone do a couple of laps and go back to bed?
“Callie Vernon, Brett Messerschmidt, you’ll play centers,” Mrs. Smail instructed.
A collective gasp rose up from the bench. Everyone’s heads swiveled back and forth, from Callie’s blond ponytail to Brett’s fire-red bob. Callie heaved herself up from the bench, feeling bloated and disgusting. She watched Brett storm off to the middle of the field. Frustration welled up inside of her again. How dare Brett not tell her about Mr. Dalton!
As soon as Mrs. Smail dropped the small silver ball, Brett whacked it, following through so roughly she hit Callie’s left shin guard.
Callie backed up in pain and anger. She tore after Brett, who was now a few steps ahead of her, dribbling the ball. The sod was mushy under her feet, and her black and white Nike cleats dug fiercely into the ground. Brett’s skirt rose so that you could see the bottom of her STX maroon bloomers and her skinny butt. Callie caught up to her and stuck her stick in between Brett and the ball. Then Brett’s hands twisted and she whacked the ball with the rounded side of her hockey stick, sending it careening away from Callie, toward one of the midfielders on Brett’s team.
“Foul!” Callie screamed, stopping in her tracks. “Mrs. Smail! That was a foul!”
“I didn’t see it,” Mrs. Smail responded. “Keep playing.” She gestured to the other girls, who had taken the ball and swept it down toward one of the goals.
“Jesus Christ!” Callie threw her stick to the ground in disgust. “She hit the ball with the wrong side of the stick!”
“Whatever,” Mrs. Smail said. “It’s only practice, and I didn’t see it.”
Callie turned to Brett, eyes narrowed. “They don’t teach field hockey in New Jersey, do they?”
Callie watched as Brett’s milky-white skin turned whiter.
“Go to hell,” Brett finally muttered.
“Ooh, the big comeback from class prefect, Brett Messerschmidt. I thought you had great debate skills! I thought you could talk your way out of anything!”
“Girls,” Mrs. Smail warned. “Play. Brett, your team just scored a goal.”
Brett stepped around Mrs. Smail to face Callie. “What is it, Callie? What’s the huge thing you have against me? If anything, I’m the one who should be angry at you—not the other way around!”
“Oh, yeah? Why’s that?”
“Because you’re a manipulative bitch, that’s why!” Brett screamed.
The other players gasped. Mrs. Smail tried to step between them, but Callie shot her a look of warning that said, Stay away. Mrs. Smail turned and began walking briskly toward the field house.
Callie turned to Brett. “You take that back. I’m not manipulative.”
Brett barked out a laugh. “No? So what’s this whole Jenny-and-Easy thing about? How is that not manipulation?” She shot a look over at Jenny, who was standing perfectly still, stick poised, watching them from her midfield position.
Callie glanced at Jenny too. Great. Just great. A comment like that wouldn’t help sway Jenny to stick up for her at DC. She glowered at Brett. “You don’t know anything.”
“I don’t have to know anything,” Brett shot back. “I know you and how you operate. From what you did to Tinsley.”
“Tinsley?!?” Callie’s mouth dropped open.
“That’s right.” Brett’s voice was hushed. She stepped closer to her former friend, so close that their noses were almost touching. “Why don’t you just come clean? You set Tinsley up to take the rap. You made it so you wouldn’t get in any trouble.”
Oh, this was something. “I set it up? Who’s to say you didn’t set it up?” Callie yelled. Tears sprang to her eyes. “I didn’t even talk to Tinsley before she left! I was called into DC, I left, and she was already gone!”
“Oh, yeah. That’s a good one—”
“Why would I set Tinsley up? We were friends!”
Brett stepped back and glared at Callie confusedly. They both stared at each other for a few long seconds before Brett’s shoulders relaxed a bit. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”
Callie nodded fiercely.
“And you think that I got Tinsley in trouble?”
“Well I didn’t, so you must have,” Callie explained, but Brett could hear her resolve weakening.
“I didn’t have a chance to talk to Tinsley, either. She was gone before I could.”
Callie looked down. “Really?”
“Yes.”
The other players held their breath.
“I don’t get it,” Brett surmised. “Tinsley just . . . took the blame for us, on her own?”
“I guess. But why would she do that?”
“No clue.”
Callie began to laugh. “That’s really fucked up.”
Brett slowly began to giggle too. “God, I totally thought you did it.”
“And I thought you did it!”
“I thought you were going to transfer rooms on me, just to avoid having to talk about Tinsley!”
Behind them, Mrs. Smail ran up with Mr. Steinberg, the boy’s soccer coach, in tow. When she saw Callie and Brett laughing and then hugging, she stopped short in confusion.
“I swear they were ready to kill each other.”
“Girls,” Mr. Steinberg sighed hopelessly, shaking his head.
33
A WAVERLY OWL SHOULD BE CAREFUL
NOT TO GET BUSTED.
Mrs. Smail ran her fingers through her short honey-blond hair. “You know, why doesn’t everyone just hit the showers,” she suggested after a moment.
Finally.
Brett felt like she’d just run a marathon, which was always how she felt after vigorously fighting with somebody. She walked slowly back to the bleachers with Callie, neither of them speaking. But it was a comfortable silence, not a tense one. She threw her shin guards in her Hervé Chapelier cabas gray nylon bag and noticed her cell phone buzzing. She had a text message: Come meet me on my boat when you can. We need to talk. –Eric.
She put her head in her hands. That single lingering kiss. His soft lips. The way he’d finally put his arms around her, pulling her closer to him. The way he smelled, like peppermint and cigarettes and French lavender laundry soap. The way he’d groaned a little when they stopped. She’d felt so rejected after their kiss yesterday, but maybe he’d changed his mind? She knew it was dangerous, but wasn’t life about taking risks? She only hoped Eric felt the same way.
He was sprawled on a modern white lounge chair on the boat’s deck, a bag of honey mustard pretzels at his side, when she arrived. He stood and brushed crumbs off his crisp chinos.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” she answered, standing at the water’s edge. She’d quickly thrown on a black C&C California tee and hip-hugging Blue Cult jeans, hoping to look casual and unassuming, but now the outfit felt all wrong. Her shirt was too short and her pants were too low, so too much of her toned midriff winked up at him. It was too déclassé for Eric. She tried to cover it up with her hand. It didn’t help that he looked absolutely gorgeous, his blondish-brown hair curling against the edges of his white polo shirt.
“Hey.” He smiled down at her.
“Hey again,” Brett said quietly.
They fell silent, looking at each other from a distance. Brett felt stupid—obviously he didn’t feel the same way. Her stomach clunked inside of her, irritated that he would make her come here to tell her what she already knew: that they couldn’t see each other anymore, blah, blah, blah. Fine, big fucking deal. She wanted it to be over quickly. And not ever see him again. She could resign from DC. Who cared if it looked good on your college applications? There were other ways to get into Brown.
“So this is what I’ve been thinking.” He interrupted her thoughts. “You have one more year here. And you’re seventeen. I’m twenty-three. That’s like, six years.”
“Uh-huh,” Brett responded, twisting a piece of rope lying on one of the dock’s pylons.
“Six years. Like, when we’re in our twenties . . . you’ll be, say, twenty-two, and I’ll be twenty-eight. And when I’m fifty, you’ll be forty-four.”
Brett snorted. “So what are you saying?’”
“I—” Eric started.
“No offense,” Brett retorted quickly, straightening up. “But I’m not, like, holding out for you until I’m forty-four. Hopefully I’ll be with a younger guy by then.”
Eric stared at her intensely. “I don’t think I could wait until you were forty-four.”
“Oh,” she replied, winding the rope around her finger so tightly that it began cutting off the circulation.
He stared at her, then sighed. “Come into my cabin?”
Brett paused. She wasn’t positive, but she suspected that this was about to be the biggest, most important moment of her life so far. Standing there, in a crappy T-shirt and her crappiest jeans, on a random Sunday after field hockey practice, slightly hungover, seventeen years old, a tiny pimple on the corner of her right cheek that was covered up with MAC concealer, AP bio homework to do . . . Her life a boring mess, otherwise. But if she wanted it to happen, the next moments could change her life forever.
“Yeah, I guess I can do that.” She smiled quietly to herself and ran her hands along the guide rails on the dock to climb aboard.
34
SOMETIMES A WAVERLY OWL MUST TAKE RISKS.
As Callie rounded the corner to Dumbarton, she saw Easy blocking the front doorway. Her first instinct was to turn in the other direction and go back to the playing fields.
But Easy saw her. “Wait.” He started down the concrete steps. “Come back.”
Callie turned reluctantly around. She flashed back to blurry images of the party last night: a mess of tequila bottles, Heath’s ugly Celtic tattoo, Easy peeking out from the door beads, Heath’s juvenile follow-up e-mail. Ever since the beginning of the year, everyone had been making fun of how Heath ponied all the girls; and sure, she’d been drunk, angry with Brett, and even angrier at Easy, but why had she let Heath pony her, too?
“Hey,” she answered gruffly.
“So. You have fun last night?” he asked, his eyebrows raised.
“I’m sorry.” She flapped her hands against her maroon and blue plaid hockey kilt. “About the . . . you know. The thing. It was stupid. A drinking game.”
“It definitely caught me off guard.” Easy shuffled his foot against a pebble on the walkway. Seeing Easy awkward like this made Callie melt.
“That was a weird party.” She looked down.
Easy didn’t answer.
“They weren’t like that last year,” Callie went on. “They were just fun.”
She sat down on the steps and pressed her knees together, fighting back an overwhelming urge to squeeze her eyes shut. “I just want things with us to be like last year, too. We had so much fun.”
“Yeah,” Easy said softly.
“What’s happened with us?”
“I don’t know.”
“Maybe we could get it back.” Callie raised her head hope-fully. “Maybe if we just, I don’t know. Go somewhere off campus and talk. Somewhere where nobody else is. Anywhere you want. I’ll even go riding with you,” she added impulsively. Easy used to always try to get her to ride with him and she never had.
“You would?”
“If they don’t boot me out of here, yeah.” She shifted on the step. “I still don’t know what Jenny’s going to do. I mean, I don’t think she wants to tell on me, but she doesn’t want to get in trouble.”
Easy stared at his sneakers. “I don’t think Jenny should get in trouble.”
“Yeah, you’ve mentioned that.” Callie heard the edge in her own voice.
“I think you should take the blame. Jenny has nothing to do with this.”
“If I take the blame, I’ll be expelled. You want that?”
Easy shook his head. “No. I . . . I don’t know. If only there was a way for neither of you to get in trouble. . . .”
“I don’t get it.” Callie stared at him. “Why do you care so much whether or not she gets in trouble? You guys didn’t even know each other until I . . .” Suddenly, it was as if a lightbulb had gone off over her head. What Brandon had told her after the pre–Black Saturday party. The writing on Jenny’s arm. Heath’s gossipy e-mail—two people looking lovingly into each other’s eyes. They were both so open to flirting with each other when Callie asked them to.
Easy liked Jenny. Not because Callie had told him to like her, either. Because he really did.
Callie shoved her thumb into her mouth and turned away so that he couldn’t see the expression on her face.
Easy watched her as she turned, wondering what she was thinking. How could he save both Jenny and Callie? The only thing he could think of might put his own place at Waverly in jeopardy. Was he man enough to do that?
Callie turned around again. “I guess whatever happens happens.”
“Who knows. They still might kick me out.”
She was quiet for a second. “I wish I could just, like, turn back time.”
Easy laid his hand over Callie’s. “I know,” he responded, thinking. This . . . whatever it was . . . with Jenny—it felt too big for him to understand. And maybe too scary. Looking at Callie, sitting on the steps in her field hockey kilt and after-practice flip-flops, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail and without a stitch of makeup, she looked like a kid. Not a worldly, full-of-emotion adult. She was sweet and safe and something he understood. He hated to think of leaving her— whether that meant leaving her for Jenny or leaving Waverly completely. “Maybe I can make that happen,” he said, squeezing his fingers around hers.
35
WAVERLY OWLS SHOULD TRY NOT TO LET THEIR
BOYFRIENDS CATCH THEM WITH ANOTHER GUY.
An hour later, Brett walked back down the gangplank, hugging herself, her mind reeling from what she’d just done.
Eric Dalton had taken off her clothes and kissed her every-where. Then he’d taken his own clothes off slowly, as if he were in a strip club. Brett had never seen a guy take his clothes off in the daylight. He’d kept his eyes on her the whole time. They’d massaged each other and fooled around and then, just when things were going to go . . . further, she’d suddenly told him she needed some fresh air. Being with Eric was more than she had expected. More than her fantasy about him had been. It felt overwhelming. And not necessarily entirely in a good way. She needed to think.
And then, who did she see standing at the end of the dock? Fuck.
“There she is,” Jeremiah muttered to himself. “I thought you weren’t into sailing.”
There were huge circles under his eyes. He was wearing jeans and a white T-shirt that said CBGB OMFUG, that punk club in Manhattan’s East Village, and he was carrying a giant
L.L. Bean duffel bag with his initials embroidered into one side. Brett felt a stab of guilt—something about Jeremiah, tough and cool, toting around a bag that no doubt his mommy had gotten monogrammed for him, seemed really vulnerable and sweet.
“Oh. Hey.”
“Hey?” Jeremiah shook his head. “That’s all you can say, Hey?”
“Well,” Brett tried to walk past him, but he stopped her with his arm. His hand gripped her bicep tightly. For a split second she was a little afraid and looked back to the boat for help. Then she realized—this was Jeremiah. She wrenched herself from his grasp. “Don’t touch me like that! Didn’t you get my message?”
“What, so you break up with somebody on a voice mail?” he yelled back. “That’s real classy. I thought you were better than that.”
Brett didn’t want to have this out right in front of Eric’s boat—Eric, who had undressed very slowly. Eric, who had touched her deftly and maturely, not in the fumbling, grabby way boys her age did. Eric, who hadn’t gotten mad when Brett covered herself with the Ralph Lauren paisley sheets and said they should stop. She started walking down the path back to campus. “Fine.” She turned back. “I’m breaking up with you in person, then. You happy?”
“I don’t suppose you could give me any fucking reasons, could you?”
“Sure,” Brett scoffed. “Did you really think this was serious? There. That’s one.”
Jeremiah stopped. His eyes were all puffy and red. It looked as if he hadn’t gone to bed yet.
“Yeah. I did think we were serious. Why else would I ask you to come to California with me?”
“Well . . .” She stared at the ground.
“But obviously there’s somebody else,” he ventured. “I was told to look for you here. This is some guy’s boat, right? You were with some guy down there, on his boat, in his cabin? C’mon, Brett. That’s a little trashy, don’t you think?”
Brett prickled and narrowed her eyes. As if he were one to talk about low class, using that stupid townie accent! Then it hit her. “Wait, who told you I’d be here?”
Jeremiah shrugged. “Why does it matter?” He reached into his backpack and pulled out a pack of Camel Lights. “The point is, somebody told me, and you made it really clear. So fuck it. It’s your loss.”
He turned and loped back up to the green, an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth.
“Wait,” Brett called hoarsely. A streak of nerves ran through her. “Who told you I’d be—?”
But he was too far away to hear, and she didn’t want to yell. She turned back and stared down at the docks. Eric’s boat bobbed placidly on the water, as if it hadn’t just almost been witness to the most life-changing moment of Brett’s existence. With a few short steps, she could go back down there and climb back into bed next to Eric. They could drink wine and talk about things and he could make her feel better about everything. Then she could have sex with him, for her first time ever.
But she couldn’t. And she wasn’t sure why.
36
AN HONEST OWL IS A WAVERLY OWL.
On Monday morning, Jenny sat at the large, round oak table in Dean Marymount’s office, a few minutes into her Disciplinary Committee meeting. The room smelled like a combination of old books and new paint. Easy sat only a few chairs away; Brett, Ryan, Celine, and the other DC members, as well as Mr. Pardee, Mr. Dalton, and Dean Marymount, sat in a line on the other side of the table, their hands folded and their eyes fixed carefully on her. Because it was DC members only, Callie wasn’t allowed to be at the hearing. Jenny pictured Callie nervously smoking a whole pack of cigarettes inside Dumbarton right now, in anticipation of the verdict.
On the wall across from Jenny were silver-framed paintings created by Waverly’s graduating classes, 1985 through present.
They were handprints, in different poster-paint colors, each footnoted with the student’s name. Even Waverly students’ hands had a wealthy look about them. She wondered what hers would look like up there with the others. Then she wondered if she’d be at Waverly long enough to even to put her handprint on her class’s painting.
Talk about down to the wire. She still hadn’t decided what she was going to say in DC yet, and now it was time. Marymount, looking especially suburban in a navy argyle sweater vest under his maroon Waverly blazer and his gold wire-rimmed round glasses, licked his finger to turn the page of his steno pad. “Okay. Mr. Pardee, the notes here say that Mr. Walsh was caught in Miss Humphrey’s room. They were talking, and Mr. Walsh was nearly naked. That’s correct?”
“That’s right,” confirmed Mr. Pardee. “I caught them, and it looked as if some sexual activity had taken place.” He looked down at the table then, color rising on his neck. Jenny bit the inside of her cheek.
Marymount swung his gaze over to Jenny. “Miss Humphrey?”
This was it. Time to either sell out Callie, or sell out herself and her new life. She took a deep breath, even though she had no idea what she was about to say.
“It was all my fault.”
Everyone in the room turned to Easy. He cleared his throat.
“Excuse me?” Marymount asked.
“It was all my fault,” he repeated. “See, I was looking for Callie. I’d been asleep, in my boxers, and I went over like that. I wandered into their room, but Callie wasn’t there. So I started talking to Jenny, but she in no way invited me in. That’s when Pardee caught us. It might have looked like Jenny and I were together, but we weren’t. She really had nothing to do with this.”
Jenny’s mouth fell open.
“I sat on her bed,” he went on. “She didn’t ask me to. I just went ahead and did it.”
Marymount ran his hand through his thinning sandy hair. “Do you realize the repercussions of that? The inappropriateness?”
“Yeah.” Easy hung his head.
Jenny bit her lip and sat on her hands. The student part of the committee stared at her blankly, their faces completely devoid of emotion. Most likely because everyone was still hun-gover from Saturday night. Although she was trying her hardest to be unemotional, inside, she felt like a malfunctioning pinball machine. She was off the hook, but now Easy was in major trouble. What if he got kicked out? Would everyone blame her? More important, did Jenny risk losing the first boy she might even . . . love?’
Marymount straightened up and rolled his knuckles on the desk. “Miss Humphrey? This is what happened?”
Jenny nodded slightly. It was true, after all. Sort of.
“Well, even so, this isn’t the best way to start off the year, especially with your cheer at the field hockey game. I want you to report to my office next week.” Marymount frowned. “I think we’ll have to figure out something to keep you out of trouble.”
Jenny nodded. “Okay.”
Marymount turned back to Easy. “Just so we’re clear. Mr. Walsh, you’re taking all the blame for this?”
Easy took a deep breath. He’d dreamed of this moment, the very second they actually kicked him out of Waverly. Somewhere inside of him it had always felt sort of inevitable. He’d imagined what he’d say, what he’d be wearing. He’d crazily imagined that he’d have on this red Mighty Morphin Power Rangers outfit he had as a kid and would wave around one of his dad’s unloaded vintage rifles, just to freak them out a little. He’d have his oversized Terminator Dolce & Gabbana sun-glasses on his forehead. He’d tell all the Waverly staff precisely what he thought of them and then he’d climb on Credo and ride off into the sunset.
But things never happened as you imagined them. Now he broke out in a cold sweat in his white Brooks Brothers button-down and maroon pressed Waverly jacket. He thought of all the stuff he’d miss if they booted him out. The owls. The way the sun set orange and purple over the Hudson. His favorite stained glass window in the chapel. Playing soccer with Alan when they didn’t feel like studying. The cafeteria’s cherry pie and the cheerful cafeteria worker Mabel, who was from a little town near Lexington. Callie. Jenny. He’d miss everything he saw in Jenny.
“Well?” Marymount prompted again.
“Yes.” He nodded. “I am.”
“Well, then,” Marymount continued in a small, disappointed voice. “Committee, do we find Mr. Walsh guilty? All in favor?”
Brett, Mr. Dalton, Mr. Pardee, and Benny raised their hands. The freshman and sophomore DC committee members shrugged apologetically but raised their hands too. Finally, Alan reluctantly raised his hand, and so did the two senior girl members.
A dreadful pause hung over the air as Marymount surveyed each of the DC members’ hands. Easy stared at the floor.
Finally Marymount sighed. “All right. This is what we’re going to do. Mr. Walsh, this is your absolute last warning. We’re going to put you on probation. Again. Two weeks. You can’t go to the stables unless there’s an emergency with your horse. No town privileges, and no visitation privileges. You’ll go to chapel, to class, and to meals, but that’s it.”
He kept talking, but nobody could hear him. Alan, Benny, and the two senior girls let out collective, grateful sighs. Brett squeaked back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest, trying not to smile.
“Wait,” Jenny whispered to no one in particular. “What’s happening?”
“It means the old bastard’s letting me stay,” Easy murmured. But in his voice, she could tell how glad he was. And from the meaningful look he gave her, Jenny thought maybe, just maybe, it had something to do with her.
37
LOTS OF WAVERLY OWLS CAN BE FABULOUS . . .
BUT ONLY ONE CAN BE IT.
Brett rifled through her gray nylon Hervé field hockey bag and pulled out a sixteen-ounce bottle of Gosling rum. “We have to celebrate,” she announced dramatically. The three girls sat exhausted on the floor of Dumbarton dorm room 303, Jenny and Brett from the stress of DC, Callie from the stress of not being at DC.
Jenny watched as Brett poured rum slowly into each of their chipped Crate & Barrel highball glasses. She kind of felt like she had at the Black Saturday party—warm, gooey, and included. This was what she’d dreamed life at Waverly would be like, and now it was real. Her dreams had come true.
At least, she felt that with Brett. Callie still seemed a little cold. Sure, as soon as Jenny had come back in the room and told Callie the news, she’d quickly run over and given Jenny a huge hug, saying how eternally grateful she was that she hadn’t named her. But there was still some unfinished business between them.
“To the new year at Waverly,” Brett toasted.
They clinked glasses.
“And,” Callie interjected, “to us putting this whole Tinsley thing behind us.”
“Right,” Brett agreed.
“I didn’t even know that was upsetting you guys so much,” Jenny ventured.
“It’s a long story.”
“There were rumors,” Callie explained. “People were talking about why Tinsley was kicked out. Some said I did it, others said Brett did. Neither of us knew what to believe.”
“Speaking of rumors,” Brett began. Jenny noticed that Brett’s eyes were tinged pink, and her fingernails, normally polished and buffed to perfection, were bitten down to nubs. “Um, did either of you hear anything about me and Eric Dalton?”
“No,” Callie answered a little too quickly. Jenny gave her a puzzled look.
Brett rolled her eyes. “I mean, I know you both know. Anyway, I’ve been having this . . . this thing with Mr. Dalton.”
“Did you sleep with him?” Callie asked.
“No. But I almost did.”
They were silent for a moment.
“But, um, Jeremiah caught me coming off his boat yesterday,” Brett continued evenly, pushing her hair behind her ear. Jenny noticed a huge hickey on her neck. “And I’m wondering how he knew I’d be there.”
Jenny mashed her lips together and noticed Callie was doing the same thing. She hadn’t said a word to anyone, but Callie certainly had. Although . . . how had Callie found out? Did Brett think she had told on her?
“I had no idea,” Callie repeated, not looking at Brett directly.
“Okay,” Brett muttered.
“Are you okay?” Jenny asked. “With Mr. Dalton and everything?”
Brett shrugged. She wasn’t sure what to say. She wished she could be more adult and tell them the truth, that while she’d been watching Eric undress, she’d actually missed the way boys her age with fumbled around nervously, getting tangled in their clothes, like they couldn’t believe their luck, being with a girl like Brett. Eric’s obvious experience had freaked her out. She wished she could go back to him and confidently say, Hey, big boy, take me now. But she couldn’t. She wasn’t ready. Of course, she wanted to tell Callie and Jenny all of that, but she’d told Callie that she’d lost her virginity years ago to that Swiss boy in Gstaad. What would she think if Brett admitted the truth now?
The girls silently sipped their drinks, waiting for Brett to respond. Jenny leaned back. She felt lucky. She wasn’t Easy’s girl-friend, but she knew that if anything ended up happening between them, it wouldn’t feel wrong at all. It would feel exactly right. Now if only Callie would get back together with Brandon. . . .
“Hey.” Callie broke the silence. “I have an idea.” She scrambled to her feet and ran out of the room. Quickly, she returned holding a thick, red, leather-bound book. It said WAVERLY OWLS, 2000. “The lounge has these dating back to the fifties.”
“An old yearbook?” Brett asked. “We’re not in this one yet.”
“No, but Mr. Dalton is.” Callie smiled wryly.
“Oh my God, open it,” Jenny exclaimed.
They opened the book to seniors, then D, for Dalton. There he was, in a graduation tux, with that same, I’m-up-to-some-thing-but-you’ll-never-find-out smile. He did look five years younger but still every bit as cute. They stared at it in silence.
“I thought maybe we’d find out he was a huge dork who was obsessed with PlayStation and had a whole bunch of zits,” Callie admitted solemnly. “I thought that might help.” She shrugged, “That definitely doesn’t appear to be the case.”
“Please,” Jenny countered. “All we have to do is find his freshman yearbook. I guarantee he looked like a total freak. I mean, everybody looks dorky when they’re a freshman.”
“Even you?” Callie asked good-naturedly.
“Oh, no. I was never a dork. You should see my pictures from seventh grade. I had this Old Navy fleece thing happening. It was totally hot.”
“Ew.” Callie laughed.
“Yeah. When you meet my dad, he’ll definitely show you pictures.”
Brett hit her with a pillow. “You’re so weird.”
Jenny started giggling and hit Brett back. A feather shot out of the pillow and landed on Callie’s sticky MAC-lip-gloss-coated lip, causing Jenny to laugh even harder. Maybe it was the rum, but she felt manic.
Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. The girls froze.
“The rum,” Callie whispered. “Under the bed.”
They scrambled to hide the cups and, in their hurry, even hid the 2000 yearbook. Callie flung the door open to see Marymount, Angelica Pardee, and Mr. Pardee, all crowded by the wooden threshold.
Oh God, Jenny thought. They’ve changed their minds. We’re all getting expelled anyway. Shit, shit, shit.
“This room is definitely big enough for four,” Angelica mused, looking around.
“All we’d need is an extra bed,” Mr. Pardee added. “There’s already a free desk.”
Callie, Jenny, and Brett looked at one another. Four?
“Um, can we help you?” Brett asked. She tried to keep her mouth as closed as possible while she talked, so the teachers wouldn’t smell her rummy breath.
“Girls,” Marymount announced, “I have some interesting news that I think you’ll be happy about.”
“What?” Callie was perplexed. “You’re sticking another girl in here with us?”
“Not just another girl.” Mr. Pardee smiled. “Your old friend Tinsley.”
All three roommates fell silent. Callie and Brett stared at each other, eyes widening. Jenny’s eyes darted back and forth, between them. Tinsley?
“Wait,” Callie squeaked. “What are you saying?”
“You heard us,” Marymount boomed. “The faculty has decided to reinstate Tinsley.”
“And she’s moving back in . . . here?”
“That’s right.”
“Wow,” was all Brett could say. The other girls nodded.
“Jeepers,” Jenny added.
Jeepers pretty much said it all.
CallieVernon: You’re just across the room, but I don’t want Jenny to hear what I have to say.
BrettMesserschmidt: Okay, shoot.
CallieVernon: I don’t know if there’s room on this campus for Tinsley and Jenny.
BrettMesserschmidt: What do you mean?
CallieVernon: I know you know what I mean.
BrettMesserschmidt: Okay, yeah, they both have that . . . something.
But maybe they’ll be BFF?
CallieVernon: Or scratch each other’s eyes out.
BrettMesserschmidt: It’s going to be an interesting year . . .
CallieVernon: I’ll say.
BrettMesserschmidt: How do u think Tinsley got back in, anyway?
CallieVernon: Maybe she gave Marymount a lap dance . . . I hear he likes that.
BrettMesserschmidt: You’re so dirty.
CallieVernon: But that’s why you love me!
BrettMesserschmidt: I do. For now, anyway . . .
I’ve never let my school interfere with my education.
—Mark Twain
it girl novels created by Cecily von Ziegesar:
It Girl
Notorious
Reckless
If you like the it girl, you may also enjoy:
Bass Ackwards and Belly Up by Elizabeth Craft and Sarah Fain
Secrets of My Hollywood Life by Jen Calonita
Haters by Alisa Valdes-Rodriguez
0 comments:
Post a Comment