Was that what had happened? Had he used Jenny as a way out of his relationship with Callie because Callie tried to push him too far? Because he wasn’t ready to say “I love you”? For the millionth time, he thought of the dinner he’d had with Callie and his father, and how Callie had stood up for him. Memories suddenly flooded his brain—Callie, in her deliciously inappropriate shoes, hiking out to the stables to sneak in an hour of making out before dinner; Callie surprising him with a first edition of William S. Burroughs’s Naked Lunch for Valentine’s Day because she remembered him saying he wanted to read it; Callie, whose hazel eyes made him think of lazy summer days from his childhood and wish he’d known her all his life.
“That’s, like, the classic definition of ‘on the rebound,’ isn’t it?” Brandon continued, taking three quick puffs of his cigar and trying to exhale them into smoke rings the way tough guys always do in the movies. “As much as I hate to say it, there was something about you and Callie that just . . . made sense.” Brandon definitely hated to admit it, but it was true. Maybe because Easy and Callie were so clearly not suited for each other, they happened to magically be perfectly suited to each other—opposites attract and all that. Didn’t make a whole lot of sense, but nothing about love was supposed to.
“Yeah.” Easy nodded slowly.
“Go easy on Jenny, you know?” Brandon told him, feeling a little light-headed from the tobacco. Poor Jenny. Brandon could tell from just looking at Easy that he was already dreaming about Callie and that Jenny didn’t stand a chance. Brandon felt a stab of bitterness, but then he suddenly remembered why he had come out here in the first place. Elizabeth. He was over Callie, he was over Jenny. It was Elizabeth all the way.
“Of course.” Easy shook his head abruptly as if he had been lost in his daydreams. He glanced at Brandon, his blue eyes suddenly clearer. There was a rumbling in the distance and Easy looked up at the sky, as if it might open up on them, right there and then. “So, uh . . . what about you and that St. Lucius chick?” he asked, toward the clouds overhead.
“Elizabeth.” Brandon inhaled deeply, letting the cigar smoke fill his lungs. He was a little proud that Easy had noticed her—of course everyone had, with her funky FREE TIBET T-shirt and long, graceful neck. “Yeah, she’s awesome.” Easy nodded. “She seemed cool.” He glanced over his shoulder at the sound of some animal running through the weeds before returning his cigar to his lips.
“She is cool.” Brandon felt his chest puff out a little with pride, but he tried not to show it. “We had, uh, a really good time . . . hanging out.” As much as he was enjoying his cigar, he didn’t really want to get all chatty with Easy, at least not about his own shit. “I was just going to call her.” “Call her?” Easy asked, the slightest hint of skepticism in his voice.
Brandon balked. “Why—I shouldn’t call her?” he asked, and then hated himself for asking Easy for love advice.
“Nah, I didn’t mean that.” Easy leaned forward, planting his elbows on his thighs. “Course you should call her. Or write her a poem, do a little sketch, something that shows you’ve been thinking about her. Be spontaneous.” He shrugged.
“Uh, yeah. I’m definitely going to do something.” Brandon nodded, sounding more confident than he felt. He was not spontaneous by nature. He was the kind of guy who went through the course catalog midsummer and circled the electives he was interested in.
Easy picked a leaf off the ground and crushed it in his palm. He cleared his throat. “Hey. I know it’s probably awkward for you to talk me. I know you’ve always kind of wanted to, like, murder me, but y’know, I’m sorry about . . . all that.” Brandon stubbed his cigar out on one of the rocks and waved it at Easy. “Don’t worry about it.” They definitely weren’t going to be high-fivin’ over a keg anytime soon, but still, maybe Easy wasn’t a complete prick. “I’ve got to get back. But thanks for the cigar.” “No problem. Thanks for, uh, hanging out,” Easy answered.
“Good luck,” Brandon said and meant it, slipping the half-smoked cigar into a pocket of his squash bag. He turned and started back along the path, just as the first drops of rain tickled his new extra-strong arms. Maybe he’d sneak over to St. Lucius tomorrow and surprise Elizabeth in person. That had to be better than some poem or whatever. Right?
7
A SASSY WAVERLY OWL KNOWS A KISS IS JUST A KISS.
“Wow. I’d say we got a pretty good turnout.” Brett said as Jenny and Kara followed her through the atrium’s revolving glass door. The rain outside made a soothing pattering sound against the glass ceiling above them.
The Reynolds Atrium was a two-story space with a glass barrel-vaulted ceiling designed by I.M. Pei, a multimillion-dollar addition to Maxwell Hall completed only a few years ago through the generous support of Ryan Reynolds’s contact-lens-billionaire father. The space was filled with leafy ficus trees and ferns, making it feel tropical even in the middle of winter, and when the atrium was lit up, you could see it glowing like a giant lightbulb from across campus. The lobby area was really used only for lame coffee-and-scone get-togethers during Parents’ Weekend, and sparsely attended open-mike readings run by Absinthe, the Waverly literary magazine. Brett was shocked when she pushed the glass door open and saw dozens of girls crowded around the comfy red Pottery Barn couches, some of them sitting cross-legged on the green-and-gold paisley-pattered carpet.
She felt her stomach start to lurch a little, the way it did before every DC meeting or debate—it was the same sort of queasiness she felt in the seconds leading up to a swan dive into her parents’ ginormous kidney-shaped pool. Once she got in the water, so to speak, she was fine. But the jumping made her nervous. Brett wiped her clammy palms against the sides of her dark, skinny-legged Joe’s jeans.
The chatter died down as the three girls made their way toward one of the empty red couches near the front of the room that had quite considerately been saved for them. Brett glanced at the girls—almost everyone from Dumbarton was there, minus Tinsley Carmichael, who had been “accidentally” left off the e-mail list.
Brett and Kara sank down onto the couch and watched as Jenny settled onto the floor next to Alison Quentin and . . . Callie? Guess they were friends again. Sort of odd, considering everything they didn’t have in common—and the one thing they did. But good for them, getting into the spirit of all this female bonding. Girl power.
“Thank you all for coming,” Brett began, trying to make her voice not sound totally authoritative and boring. She was just wearing black leggings and a long navy C&C California tunic, but the girls were all looking at her so expectantly, she might as well have been dressed in her DC formal attire. “Because this is the first meeting of the Women of Waverly, I don’t want this to be very formal—I think we should just use this opportunity to get together and talk, and to bring up any issues we have, or any thoughts about what we’d like the club to do in the future.” She shrugged her shoulders and glanced around the group as the girls nodded.
Benny Cunningham opened her mouth to say something, but her words were cut off at the sound of the door opening. Suddenly Heath Ferro appeared, wearing a pressed Waverly blazer, his normally unkempt hair combed and plastered into submission. He was waving a book over his head, and to anyone who didn’t know him, he looked like a picture-perfect, well-groomed boarding-school boy, eager to learn.
“Don’t start without me!” he called out, making his way through the crowd of girls toward the front of the room. Girls giggled but Brett glowered. What the fuck was he doing? When he got close enough to her, he showed her the book he had in his hand—a copy of the Waverly student handbook. “Shall I quote?” he asked, with a self-satisfied smirk on his handsome face. He opened to a page in the handbook and turned around to face the crowd, clearly pleased to be the center of attention. “No Waverly club can exclude members on the basis of sex, gender, or sexual orientation.” He slammed the book shut. “Guess that means I’m in.” “I didn’t know Waverly offered a law degree,” Brett told him snarki
ly. Heath seemed to have an instinct for showing up exactly where he wasn’t wanted.
“You looking for a court battle?” Heath smirked back, holding the handbook over his head like a torch.
“Whatever, Heath. That’s fine.” Brett rolled her eyes and the girls giggled again. “Can you just maybe pretend for a moment not to be such a guy?” “And can you sit down?” Kara asked pointedly. “We were just about to get started.” “No problem, ladies,” Heath promised as he patted the pockets of his Abercrombie cargo pants. “But don’t we want a group photo first?” He held his tiny silver digital camera up to his face and snapped a picture of the room. He glanced at Brett, who was glaring at him. “Sorry!” he mock-whispered, and slid onto the couch next to Kara.
Brett took a deep breath and tried to forget about the male interloper. “Anyway. In the future we can talk about whatever we want to, but I thought maybe we should start with a topic tonight that can just sort of break the ice.” She paused and leaned back on the couch, feeling Heath’s eyes on her chest. Perv. Maybe she could shock him right out of the room. “So, how about sex?” Everyone laughed nervously and looked around, blushing. Brett could tell it would take a little prompting to get things going. “What’s your favorite movie sex scene?” “Wild Things,” Heath offered immediately, his hand covering his heart in earnest. “Hands down. It’s a beautiful piece of cinematic realism,” he added, licking his lips.
Brett rolled her eyes. “How about we go around the room?” Brett pointed to Jenny, who was on the opposite side of the circle from Heath.
“Hmm.” Jenny rested her chin on her fist. “Dirty Dancing.” She shrugged her shoulders and looked around the room, her cheeks starting to flush.
“Oh, yeah,” Alison agreed.
“What? That’s sissy stuff! I mean—”
Brett shot Heath a look that silenced him. “If you’re not going to follow the club rules, we’ll have to kick you out. Capice?” Heath saluted with two fingers. “Roger, Captain.” “Who’s next?” Brett asked, looking over at Callie.
“I’m going to have to go with Mr. and Mrs. Smith, Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie. Definitely.” She nodded and turned to Kara, who was on her other side.
“Bound,” Kara said. “No contest.”
“Now that’s what I’m talking about!” Heath cried, pounding a gold swirl of carpet in front of him, an ecstatic look spreading over his face. He held up his hand for Kara to high-five, but she grimaced and looked away.
For the next hour, the girls chatted and laughed about sex. Heath attempted to be respectful the whole time, so much so that all the girls seemed to forget he was there. Brett learned all kinds of things that she never would have guessed about people: that Sage Francis was waiting until marriage to lose it, that Yvonne Stidder was just waiting for college, that Rifat Jones had done it and wished she hadn’t. Celine Colista wanted to know if oral sex counted as sex (the vote was divided), and Callie wanted to know if sex really hurt as much as people said. The girls who knew replied sadly that it did, at least the first time. Brett was a little shocked at how open everyone was being about something so personal. But it was such a comfortable, supportive environment that anyone could have said anything and it would have been okay. Brett smiled to herself. Not inviting bitchy, judgmental Tinsley to the group was the smartest decision she’d ever made.
The conversation started to wind down, and some girls got up to refill their mugs with cider or grab another gingerbread cookie. Benny suddenly blurted out, “What I want to know is why guys always assume that if you make out with them, that means you’re willing to have sex with them?” she demanded, with an obvious personal investment in the question.
Everyone turned to Heath, as if remembering that he was there. “Wishful thinking.” Heath shrugged his shoulders apologetically. “You can’t blame us for trying.” “Well, that’s not really fair,” Trisha Reikken spoke up from the edge of one of the red sofas. She was a curvy senior who had a reputation for being willing to do more than kiss. “Why can’t guys accept the fact that sometimes a kiss is just a kiss, and that’s all they’re going get?” She crossed her arms over her ample chest and glared at Heath.
“I hear you.” Sage Francis nodded her blond head vigorously. “Guys can get so distracted by the next step, I think sometimes they forget how nice it is to kiss.” “Some guys,” Heath said pointedly, leaning forward as he spoke. “Me? I love kissing. Kissing is fabulous.” He lifted his palms up in an I’m-so-innocent gesture, and everyone laughed. “But, man, so is the next step.” “That’s her point, dummy.” Kara flicked her index finger against Heath’s shoulder. “Sometimes there is no next step. Sometimes kissing is the last stop on the train.” Heath looked like someone had told him there was no Santa Claus. “No next step?” he said, his face ashen. “The next step is why kissing was invented!” All the girls erupted in dissent, angry mumblings running through the group in waves.
Brett raised a hand, calling everyone to order. “I’m sorry, Heath, but I’m going to have to disagree with you there. Some people—people who have the slightest degree of self-control—can appreciate a kiss for what it is, and end it there.” “Right?” Alison nodded emphatically, her silky black hair shiny with the reflection of the atrium’s glow. Jenny leaned over to high-five Alison.
“I’m still not sold.” Heath shook his head. “You’re telling me you can kiss someone and not want more?” “I could.” Brett glanced at Kara, who was watching her as she spoke, and a clap of thunder rang out. “I could kiss Kara and appreciate a kiss as being just a kiss.” She looked at her friend and shrugged. Maybe this would shut Heath up. Brett brushed her hair back from her face and her lips met Kara’s in a quick peck. It was soft and fast and friendly.
“See?” Kara smiled wryly, one eyebrow arching in Heath’s direction. “The last stop on the train.” Brett smiled and leaned back against the couch, her head spinning a little. She felt very smug and very . . . warm. The kiss had happened so quickly that she couldn’t be sure of anything, but maybe, as her lips had touched Kara’s and Brett caught the briefest scent of strawberry lip gloss, she had felt something? Huh . . . that was weird.
Brett grabbed her mug of hot chocolate and tried to follow what the group was talking about now. She glanced over at Heath and noticed that he was staring straight at her, an odd smile on his face. She stuck her tongue out at him and then turned back to the group. The circle had disbanded into smaller conversations, but looking around she could see that most people were only pretending to talk and keeping their eyes on Jenny and Callie, who had turned to face each other at the edge of the circle.
Callie bit her Rosebud-moisturized lips and looked at her roommate’s unbearably sweet-looking face. Jenny sat cross-legged on the floor in a pair of charcoal-gray yoga pants and a thick oatmeal sweater that she very cutely sort of disappeared in. No matter how much they had competed over Easy, Callie couldn’t help but want to hug Jenny right now. Especially after all the feel-good sisterly bonding. She felt like a cheeseball, but it was pretty inspiring. “You’re an awesome person, and you’re my roommate, and I just want us to be friends,” Callie finally said, really meaning it. Easy was a Neanderthal. He was her Neanderthal, sure, but Jenny was her roommate. And maybe even her friend.
“What if we both just . . . let go of him? For our friendship?” Jenny asked hopefully, her face as sweetly angelic as ever.
Callie’s brow unwrinkled and she broke into a wide, relieved smile. It was as if something had clicked in her head. How simple: just let him go and stay friends with her roommate.
She looked again at Jenny’s wide-eyed, rosy-cheeked, expectant face. What had Easy Walsh ever done for her, anyway? “That sounds like a plan.” Jenny threw her arms around Callie and Callie patted her back. The roomful of girls gave up pretending not to be listening and burst into applause.
“Now you two! Kiss!” Heath suddenly yelled, pounding the carpet with both hands this time. Once again, everyone had pretty much forgotten
he was there. “Kiss! Do it! You know you want—” Brett picked up a heavy brocade pillow and smacked it into his chest. The meeting was definitely over.
8
COME HELL OR HIGH WATER, A WAVERLY OWL KEEPS HER PROMISES.
Tinsley poked her head out of her dorm room after a two-hour-long, post-tennis practice nap that stretched all the way through dinner. It was already dark outside and the entire first floor was strangely deserted. The silence was eerie, and it felt almost as though there’d been a nuke scare and she was the only one on campus not hiding in the bomb shelter. What an excellent opportunity to summon Julian. Just the thought of him, sitting across campus, staring out of his Wolcott bedroom window, waiting to catch a glimpse of a little flame, sent shivers down her spine.
Her dorm room window faced the opposite direction, so Tinsley made her way to the bathroom, propping open one of the heavy, opaque glass windows. She flicked on Julian’s Zippo, watching the flame shine through the night air once, twice, three times. Her fingers traced Julian’s engraved initials.
Not even three minutes had passed—barely enough time for Tinsley to tweeze out some stray eyebrow hairs in the mirror—before she saw an all-black-clad figure veer off the sidewalk and over to the side of Dumbarton. He pressed his back to the brick wall and slowly slid along it, his head darting from side to side as he scoped out the scene.
“Hey,” a voice called from below.
“Shh!” Tinsley hissed, sticking her head out the window. Julian reached up and grabbed her hand, anchoring his feet against the brick outside wall and pulling himself up through the window. He stumbled awkwardly to his feet.