All other unlucky fuckers are on your own. Hey, Tinsley, who do you want in your car? I got an extra-special pimpmobile for you and your intimates as thanks for getting the party started.
YEE-freakin’-HAW,
H.F.
TinsleyCarmichael: Guess who’s the lucky boy who gets to ride with me in the waterbed pimpmobile Heath hooked up?
JulianMcCafferty: They have cars with waterbeds in them?
TinsleyCarmichael: Hello? Aren’t you psyched? Every boy at Waverly is going to be drooling over how insanely lucky you are to be going with me. Be prepared to sign autographs!
JulianMcCafferty: Can’t wait to see the movie.
TinsleyCarmichael: Sweetheart, I guarantee you will not be watching the movie. You’ll be living one! Meet me downstairs in an hour.
JulianMcCafferty: Okay.
31
A WAVERLY OWL KEEPS HER DRUNK MOUTH SHUT.
“Whoa!” Jenny squealed as the car turned a corner and Callie slid down the leather seat, careening into her. Callie put her palms up in an effort to stop herself but ended up inadvertently groping Jenny’s chest and making her drop her vodka-filled shot glass. Jenny’s face flushed—she was glad she and Callie were getting closer, but, um, that was a little much.
“Sorry, Jenny.” Callie scrambled off her, tugging her plaid wool Nanette Lepore miniskirt back into place. She huddled her black-nylon-clad knees together—she’d insisted on wearing a skirt even though Jenny had pointed out that she’d be cold, and, even in the warm backseat of the limo, Jenny saw she was shivering. “Didn’t mean to feel you up.” “That’s okay.” Jenny dabbed at the vodka that had spilled on her dark-wash Paige jeans. She was actually kind of glad she wouldn’t have to do another shot—it would have been the third round since they left Waverly. “They’re kind of hard to avoid.” She glanced down at her boobs, which actually looked pretty inoffensive under the kelly green cable-knit cashmere-blend hoodie that had unexpectedly arrived in the mail today from her father, with a note telling her to enjoy those changing autumn leaves.
“Pass the bottle, sweet cheeks!” Benny Cunningham tapped the toe of one of her gold Sigerson Morrison ankle boots against Callie’s calf. Callie quickly poured the vodka into her shot glass, sloshing some down the side, before passing the bottle to Benny. Jenny glanced down at those gold boots, thinking they must have cost more than her entire outfit. She briefly wondered if they really were made of gold.
Doing shots on the limo ride from the front gate to the Miller farm had been Callie’s idea. “It’s a short ride—we need to maximize!” she had cried. Her full bottle of Ketel One only had a few fingers left in the bottom, and the three of them and Sage Francis were already feeling the effects.
“Chicas, I think we’re here!” Sage trilled, downing the last of the clear liquor in the bottle. Her corn-silk blond hair was pulled back into a sleek ponytail that bobbed as she pushed open the door to the limo and the four girls tumbled out onto the packed-dirt driveway. Jenny stretched her limbs—the limos were definitely luxurious, but kind of small.
She inhaled a deep breath of fresh air, which smelled like burning leaves and pumpkin pie. The sun had just set, and clusters of kids in thick sweaters were gathered around what had to be the kegs or spreading plaid blankets out on the stiff, yellowing grass. Jenny patted her hair—she’d woven a few loose braids into her long curls.
She stepped away from the car cautiously, trying to judge how drunk she was from the way her boots responded to the ground beneath them. The boots had come with the sweater and were a gift from Vanessa, her brother’s girlfriend who was now living in Jenny’s old room while she went to NYU. The note said they came from the army-navy surplus store in Dumbo and they looked it—they were deep olive leather lace-ups, plastered with various military-looking badges. Totally funky and unique, exactly the kind of thing Vanessa would think Jenny needed at boarding school to “keep her from getting too J.Crew’d.” The best things about them had to be the sturdy, four-inch platform bottoms. Wearing them, Jenny felt almost tall. Or at least not so shrimpy.
Benny poked her in the back. “The beer has to be over there.” She pointed toward the crowd gathered off to the side of the picturesque red barn. But Jenny had decided that she was a wee bit tipsy, and so she trailed a little behind the other girls, taking in the scene. The barn stood in front of a large clearing, and the black-and-white film was already flickering across its weathered wall. It was a pretty cool effect—Jenny had never been to a drive-in before, but she imagined this was even better. She spotted Alan St. Girard and Alison lounging on one of the dozen bales of hay that were scattered around on the grass. Alison had her legs stretched across his lap, and he was sticking a piece of hay behind her ear. Unexpectedly, Jenny felt a pang of envy—she wanted to have someone looking at her like that and tickling her with hay.
Her eyes scanned all the tall figures in the crowd, surprising herself that she wasn’t looking for Easy, but Julian.
“Say something for the camera, ladies!” Ryan Reynolds popped up out of nowhere, a sleek silver digital camcorder the size of a wallet glued to his face.
Sage pursed her highly glossed lips and struck a pose for the video camera. “Priorities, dummy.” Benny grabbed Sage by the wrist and tugged her toward the barn, where the keg crowd was growing larger. “Beer first, flirting later.” Ryan disappeared into the crowd, disappointed. Jenny lagged behind the others, feeling uncomfortable. It was nice that Benny and Sage and Callie included her in their little group, and she had been able to feel everyone sort of watching them the moment they got out of the car, like they were something special. Like she was something special. And that was kind of nice—but at the same time, where was Brett? She needed someone real to talk to.
Another sleek black car pulled up the dirt driveway, sending up giant clouds of dust. Jenny watched with relief as Kara and Brett and Heath piled out, giggling like schoolgirls. Heath had on the blond wig from the other night, and he threw his arms around both girls’ shoulders and whispered something in Brett’s ear that made her toss back her red hair and shriek with laughter.
“All right, who else thinks it’s totally bizarre that Heath and Brett are hooking up?” Benny demanded, unbuttoning her black velvet riding blazer. “I thought she loathed him.” Jenny saw Callie roll her eyes and stumble slightly on the uneven ground before quickly righting herself and acting like nothing had happened. “Um . . . I don’t think it’s Heath she’s hooking up with, if you know what I mean.” Benny and Sage exchanged glances, but Jenny had to quickly turn away. Wait a second. Did Callie really know about Brett and Kara, too? How? And why was she babbling to Benny and Sage about it? Well, maybe they hadn’t understood her. Or maybe they’d chalk it up to the ramblings of a drunk girl.
But from the look on Benny’s face, she definitely knew what Callie meant.
To:
[email protected] From:
[email protected] Date: Friday, October 11, 7:09 P.M.
Subject: Late
B,
Running late and still have to jump in the shower. (Get that smile off your face. . . .) I’ll meet you at the farm, okay?
Luv,
El
EasyWalsh: R U here yet?
CallieVernon: Yup. Just pulled up with the girls. Movie’s on, where R U?
EasyWalsh: Inside the barn, waiting for you to sneak away.
CallieVernon: Oh, yeah? Well, as soon as I get a chance.
EasyWalsh: Hurry, darlin’. . . .
32
WAVERLY OWLS ONLY PLAY HARD-TO-GET UNTIL THEY’RE GOTTEN.
Callie started to stand in line with Benny and Sage for beer, but she kept getting jostled, and everyone seemed to be stepping on her toes (which were already uncomfortable, crammed into her half-size-too-small patent leather Taryn Rose wedges). And after the text from Easy, her mind was elsewhere—she knew she probably shouldn’t be alone with him after she’d been drinking, but the truth was, whe
never she was with him, she had to fight the urge to throw herself at him. It was like there was something inside her that responded to his frequency or something.
Still, she wasn’t ready to come running the second he called. He could certainly wait for her. She had to enjoy the party for a while, didn’t she? Callie rubbed her hands up and down her arms, trying to warm herself up. She looked up at the gorgeous, navy blue night sky. The few stars that were starting to peek out looked like ice chips. She patted the tiny bulge in the hip pocket of her miniskirt. Before leaving her dorm room, she’d pulled open the drawer of her nightstand in search of a hair clip, and had been confronted by the giant box of condoms that had been sitting there since the start of school. She’d bought it out of wishful thinking, hoping that sex would save her and Easy’s relationship. But it hadn’t worked out that way—it was only by breaking up that they’d been able to save it. Tonight, though, she had put one in her pocket. Better safe than sorry.
Two seconds after deciding to let Easy sweat it out, the eighth person stepped on Callie’s toes, and she decided maybe it would be a little warmer—and less crowded, certainly—inside the barn. She slowly extricated herself from the beer line and walked around the corner of the barn, pretending to be searching her red leather tiny Hobo International bag for her cigarettes. The sounds of the movie and the crowd became fainter as she made her way toward the barn door, using the light from her cell phone to make sure she didn’t step in any cow shit or on any other disgusting barn-bred things. She peeked inside the half-closed door and saw a faint light at the back of the barn, some scary-looking shadows projected on the huge walls. She shivered a little, only partly from the cold. Could barns be haunted like old houses? And was Easy really in here, or was she all alone?
“Easy?” she whispered loudly, her voice wavering in the darkness.
“Hey!” At the sound of his voice, Callie’s heart sped up, and when his head popped up over the side of the last stall, she had to catch her breath. She hadn’t realized how anxious she was to see him until she’d kind of thought he wasn’t there. “Over here.” The faint light disappeared and then reappeared as Easy stepped out of the stall and stood at the end of the barn, holding a flashlight.
Callie walked slowly toward him, her knees wobbling a little as she stepped over the uneven barn floor, half covered with hay. She didn’t know why she was so nervous. Maybe because she didn’t want him to know she was drunk already. Maybe because she could feel his dark blue eyes watching her every step. She couldn’t help but feel completely beautiful under his appreciative eyes—skinny legs, too-short skirt, bulky turtleneck sweater and all. Her cheeks flushed with pleasure as she stopped two feet in front of him. “You’re missing the party,” she chided, only because it was the first thing that came to her mind.
Easy smiled at her. “I’ve seen movies before. And drunks,” he added playfully.
Callie stared at his cheekbones, which, in the glowing light of the lantern, looked even more striking and defined. He wore a paint-splattered flannel shirt that she was dying to rub her face against, with his beat-up tan cords that had a hole forming in the knee and a splotch of blue paint on the right thigh. He stood the flashlight on its end on the floor of the old horse stall, which didn’t smell as horsey as the stables, so thankfully it must not be used anymore. Callie noticed for the first time that Easy had sort of cozied up the stall. A thick, nest-like bed of hay had been formed, and a heavy Scottish wool blanket covered the whole thing. A maroon fleece Waverly blanket was balled up in a corner, presumably to lie down under, and a tattered copy of The Great Gatsby was lying facedown on the blanket.
“Were you reading?” Callie teased, trying to hide the fact that she was really moved by the way Easy had set up this space for her—for them. She shivered again, even though it was warmer inside than out. She couldn’t even hear the movie anymore.
“Nah.” Easy scratched his head, embarrassed. “I was just waiting for you.” Callie felt her resolve weaken, but not completely disappear. She crossed her arms across her chest and tried not to look straight at him, sort of like trying not to look straight at the sun. It was too painful. But then she noticed the three red roses, lying at the other corner of the blanket, as if waiting for her. “Why three?” she asked, a lump in her throat.
Easy coughed. “I don’t know. A dozen seemed . . . too corny.” He ran his hand through his unruly curls. “And one just seemed like not enough.” His eyes were lowered, and he peered up at Callie through his thick, dark eyelashes. She pictured him, standing in the stuffy little Rhinecliff florist’s shop, debating as to how many roses would be “enough.” That was so un-Easy-like.
She melted. Easy. Before he could do anything else, she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. His mouth met hers eagerly and she wrapped her fingers around the curls at the nape of his neck.
“Let’s lie down,” she murmured after a few intense minutes of kissing. They fell onto the wool blanket and Callie snuggled up against Easy’s long, lean body, wishing she weren’t wearing her bulky turtleneck. She just couldn’t get close enough to him—she wanted their skin to touch.
As if reading her mind, Easy toyed with the bottom of her sweater. “Can this come off?” In response, Callie sat up and kissed his neck, then slowly tugged the sweater up and over her shoulders, revealing her sheer pink Chantelle demi-bra with a tiny black tulip in the center.
She felt his breath against her skin. “Pretty,” he whispered, running his lips over her shoulders. His fingers trembled as they traced her collarbone.
“Hey, did your teacher like your painting?” she asked suddenly, sitting up to look at him. She started thinking of the last time she and Easy had kissed. It felt like so long ago when he had told her he loved her. He loved her. Easy Walsh loved Callie Vernon. Her flesh instantly goose-bumped, which she really hoped wasn’t a total turnoff. She wanted him to say it again. Things felt different now—right again, or even more right than before they’d broken up.
This was the way it was supposed to be, she thought, for your first time.
“What? Oh.” Easy rubbed his hand along her left arm. “Are you cold?” He grabbed the fleece blanket and threw it over them.
Callie shook off his hand impatiently. “She didn’t like it?” The sides of his mouth curled up into his familiar crooked grin. “She loved it. She wanted to know where I found such a beautiful model.” “Liar!” Callie put her hands on Easy’s shoulders and pushed him down to the blanket. “Your turn.” She pulled at the buttons on his flannel shirt impatiently. While just a few minutes ago she’d been thinking about running her face against it, now that wasn’t good enough—she wanted to touch his skin, to feel the warmth of his body against hers. He helped her push the buttons through the holes, feeling her urgency.
“Hey.” Easy stopped with his shirt and grabbed Callie’s chin gently, staring straight into her eyes. “What are we, uh, doing?” “Don’t make me spell it out.” She reached into her hip pocket and pulled out the shiny turquoise-and-silver package, slipping it into his hand in one smooth move.
Easy stroked her hair. “Really? You’re ready and everything?” She thought she’d never seen him look so happy before.
She pulled his shirt off his shoulders and pressed her ear to his chest, where she could hear his heart almost thudding through his skin. She’d never been more ready for anything in her life.
33
A WAVERLY OWL CAN ONLY TRY SO HARD TO BE SOMETHING HE’S NOT.
Brandon stood off to the side of the barn, sipping his beer and scanning the crowd for Elizabeth’s familiar blond head. No luck. He’d gotten her e-mail that she’d be late, but the movie was half over. Not that he was following it—no one was, really. Kids were lying on blankets, smoking cigarettes and drinking Heath’s crappy keg beer, huddled together ostensibly for warmth. The sight of all the cuddling couples made him miss Elizabeth even more. Who the hell wanted to watch goony Alan St. Girard, who could never be bothered to sh
ave his nasty beard scruff, sucking face with sweet little Alison Quentin?
And then he saw her, standing over by the kegs, wearing the pleather motorcycle jacket she’d had on when he first saw her, a red pashmina wrapped around her neck. Brandon breathed a huge sigh of relief and took the first step over to her.
Except just as he did that, she leaned forward and touched the arm of the guy she was talking to. He could tell from the way her red-gloved hand flexed that she was giving him a squeeze. The same way she had once squeezed his arm.
And now she was doing it to Brian fucking Atherton. Brandon counted to twelve, as his father had always insisted on doing when angry, because “after twelve seconds, big things don’t seem so big.” Twelve seconds of watching Elizabeth lean closer and closer to that asswipe, tossing her head back with laughter, the white curve of her neck almost glittering in the moonlight. And all for Atherton, who was staring at her as if she were a Big Mac and he had the munchies. Brandon stormed over to them, not noticing whose blankets he stepped on. “Down in front,” someone called out. People giggled.
Suddenly, he stopped. What was he going to do, punch the guy out? He wasn’t about to make a fool of himself in front of a dickweed like Atherton. He tried to remember what Easy had said to him. Give her space, and she’ll come to you. Brandon clenched his fists. He’d told her he’d give her space. He knew it wasn’t fair of him to change his mind twenty-four hours later.
He stalked over to the pair, still trembling with anger but determined not to show it. Elizabeth smiled when she saw him and waved a red-gloved hand at him. She looked so happy to see him. “Hey, babe!” She leaned toward him and planted a kiss on his cheek, leaving behind the smell of patchouli.
“Hey, man, what’s up?” Atherton held up his palm for a high five, a shit-eating grin plastered to his face that seemed to say, “You think this is your girlfriend?”