“What are you doing?” Brandon sighed heavily and turned away. He grabbed his deodorant from his dresser and swiped at his armpits.
“Hardy, Eliot, Hemingway. What do you need so many fucking books for?” Heath sneezed again. Great. Spread Ferro germs all over. “Aha!” Heath snatched a black leather-bound book from the third shelf down and Brandon caught a glimpse of gold writing: The Waverly Handbook.
“Looking for new ways to get expelled?” Brandon asked, taking a seat on his navy Nautica comforter.
Heath flopped backward onto his bed and flipped distractedly through the pages of the handbook. “Nah. Hey, you hear about your buddy Walsh yet?” Despite being focused on whatever the secret task was at hand, Heath clearly couldn’t resist spreading a little gossip.
Brandon repressed a groan at the sound of Easy’s name. “What now?” “Nothing, apparently.” Heath squinted thoughtfully at one of the pages before flicking to another, his right index finger running along the paragraphs, searching for something. “Just heard that Jenny gave him the boot. Callie too. Tired of his shit. Moving on, et cetera, et cetera.” “No shit.” That was pretty good news. Even if Brandon was pretty much over Callie by now, he still didn’t want to see her with slimebag Easy Walsh. And Jenny was waaaaay too good for him too. Finally that jackass was getting what he deserved. Maybe there had been some kind of cosmic alignment, the forces of good in the world coming together to keep Walsh from getting away with jerking around two of the prettiest girls on campus. About fucking time. “That true?” Heath shrugged, still not willing to tear his eyes from the handbook. “That’s what my spies tell me.” Brandon pulled his Bluetooth from his ear and tossed it onto his bed. He’d call Elizabeth later, from somewhere private and Ferro-free.
“I knew it!” Heath yelled suddenly, holding up the handbook in triumph. Before Brandon could even ask what he knew, he was running out of the room, waving the book over his head and looking more gleeful than if he had found a peephole into the girls’ showers.
Sometimes, especially with Heath, it was better not to ask.
5
A WAVERLY OWL NEVER LIES TO HER PARENTS—OR HER ROOMMATES.
Callie Vernon hurried home from class on Tuesday afternoon, eager to unload her heavy leather Chloé luggage bag and change out of her Cynthia Rowley pencil skirt. The zipper at the back kept digging into her spine, and Callie was ready to tear it off. She paused for just a moment outside the Pardees’ door, where Benny and Rifat Jones and a few other girls were huddled, listening to the fight going on inside.
“They’re really going at it,” Rifat whispered as Callie approached, pulling a maroon Waverly sweatshirt down over her long, thin torso.
“You just missed some serious name calling,” Benny snickered, leaning casually against the wall, already in her practice sweats. “It was great.” It was always fun to listen to the Pardees’ fights—all the other dorms were jealous that Dumbarton got the most volatile faculty couple—but Callie had stuff to do. She raised her eyebrows at Benny and hiked up the stairs.
As Callie opened the door to Dumbarton 303, she paused. “No, really, Dad, things are going fine here. Really,” Jenny was insisting into her Treo. Callie stood in the doorway, the heavy tote thumping against her hip, the zipper snagging the delicate fabric of her sateen Diane von Furstenberg jacket.
Damn it.
Jenny whirled around, her brown eyes opened wide at the sight of Callie. The forced-happy tone in her voice didn’t match the sad look in her eyes. For the past few days, she had sort of managed to convince herself that Jenny wasn’t really so bothered by the whole Easy thing, after all. Jenny knew that Callie and Easy had gone out to dinner together with Mr. Walsh, but she most certainly did not know about their intense closet make-out session, where they had practically inhaled each other. And looking at her sad little roommate, Callie definitely didn’t want her to find out.
She started to mouth the words, Should I go? but Jenny shook her head vigorously, her mass of dark curls dancing around her pale face, and then turned her attention back to the small black phone held to her ear. “I just . . . wanted to say hi. I’ve got practice now, so I’ve got to run, but I’ll talk to you later. . . . Love you, too.” Callie flounced into the room, deciding that if she seemed extra cheerful maybe Jenny would catch on and not look so depresso. She dropped her tote crammed with boring
Spanish textbooks onto her bed and tried not to stare at Jenny’s puffy-looking eyes. Had she been crying? But then Jenny sneezed a cute little rabbit sneeze, and Callie felt a little better, because maybe Jenny was just allergic to autumn or something, and not calling her father for Easy-related solace. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your phone call.” Jenny set her Treo down on her dresser and gathered her long hair back behind her head, expertly sliding an elastic from her slim wrist to hold it in place. “No, don’t worry about it. My dad just likes me to check in once in a while, or else he starts to think I got, I don’t know, inducted into a sorority or something.” “Parents worry way too much.” Callie nodded conspiratorially. “Although my parents would probably be thrilled if there were sororities at Waverly.” She liked Jenny, she really did, but Easy loomed over them like a storm cloud, and she was pretty sure they could both hear him rumbling in the distance. “It’s like they think boarding school is another planet. I know it drives my mother crazy that I’m out of her line of sight when I’m here.” Jenny sighed as she fumbled through a drawer for her practice clothes. “My dad’s worried that I’m going to, like, take my first step or something and he won’t be there to see it.” “That’s sweet.” Callie pulled her Ralph Lauren sleeveless mock turtleneck over her head, disappearing for a moment into a tunnel of hair-frizzing static and cashmere. Jenny really was just a kid. She was what, fifteen? “My mom worries I’m going to do something to embarrass her, and she won’t be there to yell at me for it.” She shrugged her shoulders. She could picture Jenny’s dad as some super-nice favorite-uncle-type guy who wore chunky hand-knit sweaters and hiking boots and gave the best bear hugs, the kind where you get picked up and spun around. Her mom gave her air kisses when she saw her.
Callie strode over to the window seat and turned on her iPod Sound Deck, then twirled the dial when the Donnas came screaming out. Through the thick glass windowpanes, she could see a bunch of girls in soccer uniforms scooping up the fallen leaves and making a giant pile. It looked like fun. It made her think of this time last year, when she and Easy were still new. They couldn’t keep their hands off each other and had to sneak to the stables every chance they got just to be alone. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the glass—in her black Calvin Klein push-up bra, she looked pallid and frail. Not the girl Easy would want to be with.
“I still can’t believe she’s a governor.” Jenny pulled out a bright yellow T-shirt with a giant smiley face on it from her drawer. “I know it’s probably a pain but it just sounds so . . . glamorous!” “It gets old fast.” Callie glanced over her shoulder at Jenny, whose back was to her as she struggled to pull her royal blue sports bra down over her massive chest. Callie looked down at her own barely-A’s. She’d never really been able to fill out the top of a bikini, but since last year ended, she’d lost some weight, and her breasts had sadly been the first thing to disappear. “Imagine every mistake you ever make becoming, like, public knowledge.”
“So, uh . . .” Jenny started, blushing a little as she pulled on a pair of black Adidas gym shorts. She reached up and tightened her ponytail, a few light freckles sprinkled across the pale skin on the underside of her thin arms. “I told Easy today that I kind of needed some time to, you know, figure things out.” “Really?” Callie stared at the bulletin board behind her desk, pretending to check the schedule of field-hockey games thumbtacked to it, unable to look into her roommate’s pure, honest eyes. She was proud of herself for telling Easy he had to stop messing around and make his choice—even though she couldn’t help wishing he’d just pick her already and get it over with—and
wondered what that news meant for her.
“I just . . . feel like I never have any idea what’s going through his mind,” Jenny admitted, looking a little embarrassed.
“Yeah, no one does.” Callie picked up the sweater she’d dropped on the floor and turned to Jenny, tapping a perfectly polished fingernail against her temple. “He’s totally messed up.” Jenny giggled and grabbed her field-hockey stick from where she’d stashed it in the corner. “That’s one way of putting it.” When she glanced back at Callie, a smile was perched on her tiny pink lips.
Callie tossed the sweater onto the floor in front of her closet, where a pile was already building up. The memory of opening that door and finding Easy crouched on the floor in there, hiding, made her heart beat in her ears. Sliding in next to him in the dark, surrounded by her forest of expensive clothes, pulling the door closed, laughing, and then the kissing . . . it had probably been the best moment of Callie’s life so far.
She took a deep breath, wondering if maybe Jenny could hear her heart pounding across the room—what was that creepy Edgar Allan Poe story? Where the beating heart of the guy he’d killed ended up getting him busted by the police? Or was it his own guilt that got him in trouble? She should have paid more attention in Miss Rose’s lit class.
Callie quickly threw on a pair of black Nike capri pants, a plain white T-shirt, and her maroon Waverly sweatshirt, which was about three sizes too big. Jenny had one sneakered foot balanced on the top of her desk and was bent over her leg, stretching out her hamstring. In her gym shorts and faded gray Berkeley hoodie, her hair pulled back into a high ponytail, she looked cute and sweet, but about as much of a threat as vanilla yogurt.
“Wanna walk over to the fields together?” Callie asked, a little tentatively. Despite having been roommates for over a month now, they’d never once walked to practice together. Callie had always been too . . . something. But now she was feeling—what? Generous, maybe? She could afford to be a little kinder to her younger roomie.
After all, one of them was going to get her heart broken—and Callie was pretty sure it wasn’t going to be her.
From:
[email protected] To:
[email protected] Date: Tuesday, October 8, 4:13 P.M.
Subject: Your lucky day
Ferro:
Got a bunch of freebie kegs from a microbrewery that’s closing up shop and I’m willing to sell them to you at a severe discount.
Act fast—these will not last.
BD
From:
[email protected] To:
[email protected] Date: Tuesday, October 8, 4:16 P.M.
Subject: Re: Your lucky day
Dude—
Sounds tempting, but can’t risk having kegs on campus again. Cut it a little close last time . . .
H.F.
From:
[email protected] To:
[email protected] Date: Tuesday, October 8, 4:17 P.M.
Subject: Re: Re: Your lucky day
What about off campus then? My grandma’s got a giant barn right outside town and I wouldn’t charge you much to use it. Hay bales, corn stalks, smell of leaves in the air—and most important, cheap kegs of beer.
Whaddaya think?
From:
[email protected] To:
[email protected] Date: Tuesday, October 8, 4:19 P.M.
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Your lucky day
Intrigued . . .
6
A WAVERLY OWL SHOULD BE THERE WHEN A FELLOW OWL REACHES OUT—EVEN IF HE HATES HIS GUTS.
Easy walked through the woods, his legs sore and tired beneath him after two hours of horseback riding. Whenever Easy had something on his mind, he rode Credo. Something about her enormous brown eyes, looking at him with such unabashed trust, made him feel like he was less of a shit. Because, for the past week, that’s how he’d felt. Every single time an image of Callie or Jenny would pop into his brain, he’d think miserably, I’m an asshole—which was every other fraction of a second. Credo didn’t care if he was an asshole, though. She still stomped her feet happily at the sight of him entering the stables, and she didn’t ask him where he’d been or who he’d been with or what he was thinking.
He’d headed to the stables right after talking to Jenny outside the art studio. Not that he’d done much talking—he couldn’t find the right thing to say. He couldn’t even find the wrong thing to say—he simply couldn’t think of anything to say. A long, hard ride was exactly what he needed to help him figure his shit out and make up his mind.
The only problem was, it hadn’t worked. So instead of having dinner in the dining hall and having eighty people ask him, for the millionth time, if he was with Jenny or Callie, he’d decided to hike to the rocky outcropping in the woods, the one off the boat path, near his secret painting spot. Easy sighed as he settled against a cold, dark rock, pulling a cigar from his pocket. He’d snitched two Cubans from his father’s black leather cigar pouch while he’d used the restroom last weekend at Le Petit Coq. It was the perfect occasion to light one and concentrate.
Maybe he should make a list. Like pros and cons? Wasn’t that what people did when they couldn’t make their minds up between two alternatives? But the idea of breaking Callie and Jenny, two living, breathing girls, down into lists made him want to shoot himself in the foot. Or the head. Okay, maybe not that.
Easy took a giant puff just as he heard a sound out on the path. He held the smoke in his lungs for a long moment, waiting to see if a teacher would appear to get him in trouble. But then a very red-faced Brandon Buchanan materialized, wearing a sweaty white shirt and black running shorts, his vinyl squash bag slung over one shoulder and silver cell phone in hand.
“Sorry, dude,” Brandon muttered, running a hand through his sweaty, disheveled hair. He gave Easy a little apology wave with the fingers of one hand and started to turn around.
Easy suddenly realized he didn’t really want to be alone. “You don’t have to go, man. You can, uh, sit down.” Brandon looked at him for a moment as if it might be a trap, but then he took a step forward and nodded in the direction of Easy’s cigar. “Got another?” Whenever Brandon spoke to him, Easy got the feeling he was trying to make his voice sound an octave deeper.
Easy unzipped the front pocket of his black Patagonia vest and pulled out the second Cuban. “It’s all yours.” “Light?” Easy handed him his cheap plastic lighter with the hula girl on it and Brandon nodded at it. “Nice.” He lit his cigar and leaned awkwardly back against one of the rocks. He glanced around rapidly, like he still wasn’t sure what he was doing here. “So . . .” Brandon inhaled deeply. “How’s it been?” he asked through a mouthful of smoke.
Easy sighed and stared at the trails of smoke leading up from their cigars, straight up at the patch of purpley sky visible through the crowd of trees surrounding them. It was more than a little fucked up that he was sitting back smoking stogies with Brandon, the guy whose girlfriend he’d stolen last year—the guy who always looked at him like he wanted to punch him out but never had the balls to do it. “I’ve been better,” Easy replied wryly.
Brandon nodded and propped his sneakers up on another rock. “So I’ve heard.” Easy stared at Brandon for a moment, trying to judge his capacity for empathy. What the fuck—why not just spill it?
“I’m just . . . all confused,” Easy stammered. “I have no fucking clue who I’m supposed to be with.” Easy’s free hand clenched at his shaggy hair, which was in desperate need of a cut. His father had just about had a coronary when he’d seen it last week.
“You want my opinion?” Brandon asked, his cigar hanging from his weirdly pink lips. He didn’t even sound like he wanted to murder Easy, for once. But then, Brandon had been all chummy on Saturday night with that mysterious, arty-looking St. Lucius girl—maybe she’d been able to chill him out a little, get him over Callie. Well, good for Brandon. The girl was hot.
“Uh, yeah.” Easy held his crappy ligh
ter up to the end of his cigar to relight it. “I guess so.” “All right. Then I’m just going to be honest. I know Jenny is totally sensational and all, but didn’t it sort of happen really fast? I mean, she just got here, and suddenly you two were dating.” Brandon exhaled smoke straight into the dark evening air. Easy had suspected he’d had a thing for Jenny, too.
“Yeah, I guess it did happen fast.” Easy thought back to when he had first really talked to Jenny, that time he’d sneaked into Callie’s dorm room and then Callie had disappeared. He’d sat down on Jenny’s bed, and everything about her—her smell; her sleepy, makeup-less face; her hair going everywhere; her sweet, curious voice—seemed to be the exact opposite of Callie. “But we just, y’know, hit it off.” “I mean, I get that. Don’t get me wrong—I kind of think you’re an idiot for not being all completely in love with Jenny. She’s just so freaking cute.” Brandon spoke with the cigar in his mouth, so it was kind of hard to understand, but Easy was catching the drift of it. “But don’t you find it a little strange that you went from Callie to, like, the anti-Callie?” Easy tried to think about why that could be. His mind went immediately back to his ill-fated trip to Barcelona to visit Callie over the summer. A combination of things—the summer in fucking ass-dull Kentucky and his frustration at the thought of yet another full year at suffocating Waverly Academy—had made the trip a nightmare and made Easy dread returning to Waverly even more. And then when he’d gotten back to school, Callie had been even more smothering and bossier than usual, and out of nowhere, this new, cool girl had appeared on the horizon—a perfect way out.