Email Inbox
From:
[email protected] To:
[email protected] Date: Monday, January 3, 10:24 P.M.
Subject: Re: Jan Plan
Brandon,
Don’t worry too much—I wasn’t convinced the “Survivor” project was really up your alley. I do need your new proposal by 5:00 pm tomorrow, so please make haste. If it helps, one of my other advisees, Callie Vernon, is working alone on a project that could probably use two people, in case you’d like to get in touch with her.
Look forward to reading your proposal!
Best,
MP
6
A WAVERLY OWL KNOWS THAT IT ALWAYS HELPS TO HAVE AN ALLY.
Bright and early on Tuesday morning, Jenny let the front door to Stansfield Hall slam behind her as she headed toward the dean’s office. As suspected, her adviser, Ms. Rose, had told her she needed to get permission directly from the dean if she wanted to work on her own. Now she just needed to convince him she was justified.
The administrative building was silent except for the muffled sound of music and the hissing of the old metal radiators. The wet bottoms of Jenny’s dark green Wellies squeaked against the waxed wooden floors. For the first time, she wondered if teachers appreciated Jan Plan as much as students. After all, they didn’t really have to teach classes, just look in on their advisees and occasionally lead an independent study. Did teachers have their own parties? she suddenly wondered, trying to picture Ms. Rose standing around a keg with the anal Latin teacher, Mr. Gaston. Or doing body shots. Ew.
Shaking that disturbing image from her mind, she marched toward the new dean’s door. Mr. Tompkins, Marymount’s secretary, was not at his desk—in fact, it was empty except for a Waverly pencil cup and a flat desk calendar. When a dean left, did that mean their secretary had to leave, too? Like with a presidential administration? Guess I just go and introduce myself, Jenny thought, butterflies fluttering in her stomach. She glanced at herself in the reflection of the large, café-style mirror that hung in the waiting area. She’d chosen her black three-quarter-sleeve Banana Republic top and a pair of Seven jeans she’d found at a thrift store years ago and loved to paint in. The paint splatters, she hoped, would make her seem serious about her art project.
Just as she raised her hand to knock on the door, it flung open. Jenny leaped back in surprise—and so did Dean Dresden. “Oh! Hello there.” He stepped back, dropping a stack of brightly colored paint samples to the floor.
“I’m so sorry to interrupt,” Jenny blurted out, bending down to pick up a handful of the small squares of paper. The office was a huge room with enormous bay windows that looked out over the quad. Over the outstretched bare branches of the trees, a tiny glimpse of the blue-gray Hudson River was visible in the distance. “I can come back if this is a bad time.”
“No, no.” The dean grinned, grabbing the rest of the samples from the floor. “My wife’s just been hounding me to change the color of the office before I get completely settled. So excuse the mess. And please come in.”
“She doesn’t like… beige?” Jenny asked, stepping into the office after him. She’d only had to meet with Dean Marymount once, but it was still strange to see his office almost completely emptied out. The only furniture was a big oak desk and two large armchairs, one of which was set behind the desk. The walls—painted a bland color that made Jenny think of a doctor’s office—were completely bare save for the nails where Dean Marymount’s various pictures used to hang. A stack of white cardboard boxes stood in the corner.
The new dean’s face turned expectantly toward her.
“I guess it does look a bit… blah.”
“That’s exactly what she said.” Dean Dresden shook his head as he tossed the samples down on his desk and extended his hand out to Jenny. “Anyway. I’m Dean Dresden. And I’m always happy to meet one of my new students.”
“I’m Jenny Humphrey.” Jenny smiled, feeling the butterflies in her stomach start to settle down. “I’m a sophomore, but this is my first year at Waverly, too.”
“A fellow newbie.” Dean Dresden laughed, sliding into his chair. “Well, tell me, Jenny Humphrey, what can I do for you today?”
Jenny sank into the chair opposite the desk. “I wanted to ask if it would be possible for me to do an independent project this Jan Plan.”
For the first time since she walked in, the smile left the dean’s lips, even though his eyes kept smiling. “May I ask why? It’s your first Jan Plan, after all. The administration designed the program so that students would learn to work together in teams.”
“I realize that.” Jenny gave him what she hoped was a winning smile, even though her dad called it her Little Orphan Annie smile. “But it’s about exploring something you’re passionate about, too, right?”
The dean nodded thoughtfully. “I suppose that’s part of it as well.”
“Well, throughout the fall semester, my art classes played an important part in keeping me grounded.” Jenny paused. She knew she sounded like a suck-up. She tried again. “I just feel like I had so much to absorb that it would be really great for me to try and process all that information right now. I had two art classes with Mrs. Silver—portraiture and advanced figure drawing. And they were great. But I started to think about what it would be like to draw people in motion… almost as if I were a camera whose shutter was kept open while it was taking a picture.”
“I have to admit—I’m impressed that you even know how a manual camera works,” the dean laughed.
Jenny took the laughter as a good sign and leaned forward in her chair. “I want to try to imagine slowing down the movements and capturing them at each moment. I’d love to study people in all kinds of situations—just walking, or dancing, or maybe skiing. And I just think this is the sort of project I’d have to work on independently.”
The dean nodded and frowned simultaneously, and Jenny’s heart sank. “I can see your point, but unfortunately you’re a sophomore. And rules are rules. Maybe next year you can work on this.”
Jenny, who’d felt so comfortable at the start of this meeting, could feel her lip tremble. She was always nervous around authority figures—and right now it took a lot of willpower to keep a tear from trickling down her face.
“Hey, Dad.”
Both Jenny and the dean whirled their heads toward the open door. “Oh, sorry.” Standing in the door frame was the handsome dark-haired boy who’d sat onstage at the chapel meeting. He wore a thick navy blue sweater and a pair of khakis with frayed hems. He looked like a perfect prep-school boy—with a possibly devilish gleam in his eyes. “I didn’t realize you were in a meeting. Mom told me you forgot your BlackBerry.”
The boy’s piercing green eyes focused on Jenny, making her feel an entirely different kind of nervous. Had he barged in… on purpose? Jenny shifted in her seat, grateful that she had taken the time to twist her hair into two loose, arty braids. She blew an escaped curl out of her eyes.
The dean patted the front pocket of his shirt absentmindedly. “Jenny Humphrey, this is my son, Isaac. Jenny was just pitching me a Jan Plan project.”
Isaac came forward and handed his dad the BlackBerry, then sat on the corner of the desk, as if he were in no hurry to leave. “Really?” His eyes flicked to his father. “Can I hear about it?”
The dean gestured toward Jenny to go ahead. Her stomach flip-flopped. It was nerve-racking enough to try and explain her idea to the dean—now she had to do it in front of his gorgeous son, too? After taking a deep breath, she explained her project once again, trying to keep her cheeks from blushing.
“That sounds awesome,” Isaac said when she was done. “Good luck with that.”
Dean Dresden shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Unfortunately, it will have to wait until next year, as Jenny is a sophomore.”
Isaac glanced at Jenny, a slightly quizzical look on his face. “And I’m a junior. Why does it matter?”
Dean Dr
esden smiled patiently at his son. “Because sophomores have to work in pairs or small groups.”
“But juniors and seniors don’t? That’s a weird rule.” Isaac rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “That’s a shame. It seems like Waverly would want its students to be creative.”
Dean Dresden frowned. “Isaac, I’m not sure this is the right time for this.”
“Sorry, Dad.” He crossed his arms in front of him and glanced at Jenny. “I just think that a lot of schools are so regimented, they crush creativity. And we just landed in one that ostensibly encourages it—except, for some reason, not for sophomores or freshmen.” He got to his feet and wandered over to the almost-empty bookcase, where he picked up a prism-shaped paperweight and passed it back and forth between his palms. “Just seems weird.”
The dean wiped his hand across his face and turned to Jenny. “Jenny, what do you have to say? Besides that my son is destined for a profession in law?”
Jenny felt her entire face turn red. “I’d say that… yes, I agree with Isaac.” She glanced at him and felt her face turn even hotter. “I think it’s really important to be able to explore our artistic interests. I’d really love the chance to do this on my own.”
“All right, I give up.” The dean cleared his throat. “An artist is an artist. I’ll send an e-mail to your adviser and let her know I’ve approved you for an independent project. But before you go…”
Jenny’s heart dropped. She exchanged another glance with Isaac but had to pull her eyes away quickly. His eyes were like quicksand, and she didn’t want to get caught staring at him in front of the dean. “Yes?”
The dean grabbed two of the paint samples from his desk and held them up for Jenny to see. “Put your artistic eyes on these. Which do you think is a better color for this room?”
Jenny bit her lip to keep from smiling and scratched her head as she made her best deep-in-thought face. “I’d say the sunflower yellow. It would look nice with the dark wood. And it’ll make everyone happy to be in here.”
The dean nodded. “That’s what I thought, too. Not that my presence isn’t cheerful enough.” He smiled again. “I look forward to seeing your project at the end of Jan Plan. I hope it’ll be worth the wait.”
Jenny mumbled something in reply as the dean walked her to the door. Over his shoulder, she caught a glimpse of Isaac’s electric eyes watching her. “Nice to meet you,” she said, trying to say “thank you” with her eyes.
Isaac gave a slight smile. “You, too.”
A chill ran down her spine as Jenny turned and marched through the empty foyer. She felt like she was floating on air, the whole glorious month stretching out in front of her like a blank canvas. She was glad she’d taken the chance of asking for the dean’s permission. He wasn’t as intimidating as she’d thought.
And his son was even cuter close-up.
Instant Message Inbox
BennyCunningham: People are hanging out in Richards’s basement tonight. You coming?
TinsleyCarmichael: I hadn’t heard about it.
BennyCunningham: That’s because you and your husband are too busy cuddling to party!
TinsleyCarmichael: Jealousy is unattractive, Benny. You’ll find a boyfriend someday.
BennyCunningham: Don’t be a bitch! U know we just miss you. Come out!
TinsleyCarmichael: I’ll think about it.
7
A FRIEND OF A BOYFRIEND IS A FRIEND OF AN OWL.
Brett tightened her cropped Anna Sui military jacket around her as she squeezed past a pair of tank-size strollers outside CoffeeRoasters, the tiny coffee shop in downtown Rhinecliff, on Tuesday morning. She pushed the glass door open and stepped into the humid café, trying not to compare the dingy coffee shop to the cute SoHo bistros where she could have been breakfasting. She’d gotten back to Waverly that morning and was still a little out of sorts. She loved school; she really did. But she was supposed to be spending her January hanging out at NYC hot spots like the Waverly Inn—not the Waverly library.
Then she caught sight of Sebastian, reading on a velvet couch in the back of the crowded café. A little jolt spread from her cold cheeks down to the toes of her slouchy, distressed leather boots. He was so engrossed in his copy of On the Road that he didn’t notice her approach.
“Nice to see you again, too.” Brett nudged her toe into Sebastian’s leg when he didn’t look up.
Sebastian’s face lit up when he saw her. He jumped to his feet. “Thought you were taking the later train back.” He leaned toward her, his dark brown eyes jubilant, and pressed his mouth to her cheek. “I would’ve picked you up at the station.”
Brett shrugged. She’d taken a cab to campus because she was still bent out of shape about her Vogue internship falling through and wanted the extra time alone. But now, with Sebastian in front of her, looking sexy in his plain black American Apparel T-shirt, it was hard to imagine being anywhere else. “I knew you’d just try to get me to come back to your room and make out.”
A faux hurt look crossed Sebastian’s face. “And there’s something wrong with that?” He stroked Brett’s arm.
“Yes.” Brett threw herself down onto the couch, letting her giant Diesel duffel bag land on the wet floor. “Today’s the deadline for Jan Plan proposals, and I’m suddenly without a project.”
“So if I help you figure out what to do, then we can go back to my room?” He raised his dark eyebrows expectantly.
Brett rolled her eyes but was secretly pleased. “I guess.”
“Good.” Sebastian sat back down on the couch and crossed his arms across his chest. “Because I have an idea.”
“If it’s going to involve me posing on the hoods of various muscle cars, I don’t think it’ll work.”
Sebastian pretended to consider the idea, then laughed. “I know a girl who’s doing a fashion project, and the partner she had lined up bailed on her. Do you know Christine Bosley? Chrissy?”
Brett raised her eyebrows. Chrissy was one of the theater kids, but one of the more normal ones. A tall, gangly girl who always wore really elaborate necklaces. “What kind of fashion project?”
“Got me. Something about costumes.” Sebastian took a sip of his coffee. “I just heard her complaining about all the work she had to do in the mailroom.”
Brett took a deep breath. Chrissy had always seemed nice enough, and Brett was pretty desperate. She needed to have something to show Mrs. Horniman, her adviser, by five. Quickly, she fumbled for her Nokia and rattled off a short e-mail to
[email protected] “Now, come here.” Sebastian patted the spot next to him on the sofa, and Brett slid over till she was almost in his lap. She let her head fall against his chest. He smelled like cappuccino and cinnamon toothpaste.
Maybe Jan Plan at Waverly wouldn’t be so bad after all.
Later that afternoon, Brett strode across campus toward Merritt House, a gray clapboard building with an enormous front porch. It used to be faculty housing but had been converted to student housing in the eighties. All the rooms had private baths. Now it was where most of the arty music and theater girls ended up. It was at the far end of the snow-covered quad, which was pulsing with activity. A snow sculpture competition was going on, and Owls were running around with buckets of snow and water and various sharp tools that looked like they should be used for gardening. Brett spotted the Disciplinary Committee adviser, Mr. Wilde, helping a group of freshman guys build what looked like a giant Snoopy.
Brett climbed the creaky steps and followed the directions to Chrissy’s room on the third floor. The door to room 3D was covered with a stage poster of Cabaret. Brett knocked, and almost instantly the door was opened by a tall girl with a sleek platinum bob. She wore a pair of black leggings and a black-and-white striped off-the-shoulder T-shirt dress that hugged her slim, dancerlike body. She grinned at Brett. “Hey, Brett. Come on in!”
“I really appreciate you letting me latch onto your project, Chrissy.” Brett stepped into the room, a tiny, bri
ghtly lit single with its bed pushed under the lowest part of the sloping attic ceiling. The floor was completely covered with pictures from magazines and art prints and random objects, like a jeweled ladybug brooch and a piece of paisley tablecloth. It looked like someone’s junk drawer had exploded all over the floor. “My project fell through unexpectedly,” she explained.
“Don’t mention it. I could totally use the help.” Chrissy shrugged. She had an acorn-shaped beauty mark on her left shoulder. “I think I got overly ambitious. I somehow volunteered to design and make all the costumes for the spring musical.”
“That sounds like a lot of work. But awesome, too,” Brett said, getting excited. Instead of writing copy about the same old designers who had been around forever, here was the opportunity to actually work on the designs. Who needed Vogue? “How did you manage that?”
“Mr. Shepard’s my adviser—and he totally loves me.” Mr. Shepard was the long-haired, reportedly pot-smoking head of the theater department. He’d been a Vietnam War protester who’d dodged the draft by sneaking over the Canadian border and starting a hippie commune in British Columbia. “I was the costume designer for 1984 last year.”
“Wait, wasn’t that the show where everyone wore Saran Wrap?” The whole cast had appeared before the DC for indecent exposure after some visiting parents had complained, but they’d decided to dismiss the charges. Brett hung her coat over the back of Chrissy’s chair and knelt on the floor to get a better look at the scraps.
Chrissy nodded gleefully, casually flopping herself down on the floor and crossing her legs, Buddha-style. “You would not believe how many boxes of that stuff we had to go through, just so the actors wouldn’t be, you know. X-rated.”
Brett giggled. “I hope you’re not looking to top that with this?”
“No. Shep said I had to keep it PG this time.” Chrissy rubbed her hands together excitedly. “We’re doing Les Mis.”