“I don’t get it,” Brett cried, clenching her hair in her fists. “This disgustingness has to stop. I’m going to kill this Secret Satan asshole.”
“Virgin jokes seem kind of mean, even for a Secret Satan.” Callie frowned at Tinsley as she wrapped her cashmere blanket tighter around her. Still, knowing that someone was making fun of Tinsley made Callie feel better about her own lame presents—all of which were making fun of her for being single. (At least she wasn’t going to be an old virgin maid. So that was one thing going for her.)
“What happened to presents like gift certificates to the snack bar? Candy?” Brett exclaimed, running her hands through her fire engine red hair with exasperation. Her normally perfect porcelain skin was dark under her eyes, and she had a tiny outbreak of pimples along her hairline, something that only happened to her during finals or other super-stressful times. Callie and Jenny had had to practically twist her arm to get her to chill out and watch a movie. “The non-dirty kind, I mean.”
“Alan St. Girard got a box of chocolate-covered gummy penises,” Tinsley spoke up, examining her dark hair for nonexistent split ends. “And Verena gave her person a little box of X-rated candy hearts that say things like ‘Eat Me’ and ‘Bite My—’”
“That’s enough!” Brett pressed her hands, with their chewed-down blue nails, to her ears. “Marymount’s going to blame me when he finds out how filthy everyone’s being. I just don’t get it.”
“Don’t worry. He won’t find out.” Jenny soothed, patting her friend on the knee.
“Whatever.” Callie pulled up her blanket and stuck out her ankle. “Who needs a good Secret Santa when you have a cute guy to give you presents?” Around her bare foot hung a gold chain anklet with a dangling heart charm, something Sebastian had given her that afternoon when they’d gone for a walk in the snow. It was… sweet. She normally didn’t wear gold—or gold-plated—jewelry, and the anklet was a little tacky, sure. But it had been a while since a guy had given her something. The promise ring from Easy that she’d lost in New York didn’t count—it was the beginning of the end.
This, on the other hand, felt like the start of something.
“Where did that come from?” Brett asked, her voice sounding strained.
“Sebastian,” Callie purred. The more she looked at the little charm anklet—she hadn’t worn an anklet in ten years—the more it grew on her. Kind of like Sebastian. “He’s just such a sweetheart. I can tell he’s going to be the best boyfriend ever.” Her hazel eyes glazed over as she pictured the two of them, exquisitely dressed, walking into the Holiday Ball together, heads turning enviously in their direction.
Now Tinsley and Jenny’s glances met across the room, Tinsley stifling a snicker. “Have you even kissed him yet?” she asked incredulously, pulling her glossy brown-black hair back and twisting it up in a bun.
Callie narrowed her eyes. “No,” she admitted, biting her lip. For some reason, Brett felt a surge of relief wash over her. “But only because he’s such a gentleman.”
“Are we talking about the same Sebastian?” Brett couldn’t help blurting out. “The one who keeps a framed photograph of Madonna on his dashboard?”
Callie stuck her lip out petulantly. “Like a Prayer’s his favorite album. Well, besides everything by Bon Jovi and Spring-steen.” As Tinsley and Jenny giggled, Brett suddenly felt worse. Callie had known Sebastian for about a week—and she was already bonding with him over Madonna? She didn’t even like Madonna. And what the hell was Callie thinking, anyway? Like the governor of Georgia would ever approve of her dating a guy whose idea of high art was a sixty-inch plasma screen television?
Why did Brett even care who the hell Sebastian hung out with, anyway? Probably because he thought he knew everything. His arrogant words—“throw a polo shirt on me and all the girls in this place will be clawing each other to get at me”— kept coming back to her, like a track stuck on repeat.
Stop it, she told herself. Brett knew she was losing it. She was just completely overloaded with responsibilities right now: she was trying to finish her final paper on Anna Karenina for her world lit class, finals were next week, and she’d barely cracked a book, instead having to field calls from the holiday ball DJ—who wanted to know if his friends could come to the party—and the florists, who kept running out of any flowers that weren’t poinsettias. And then there was this whole Secret Santa mess that was threatening to spiral out of control.
“Whooooo!” a voice hooted as the front door flew open. A gust of cold blew into the room along with Benny Cunningham, in a calf-length camel-hair coat, and Sage Francis, a baby blue knit cap pulled down over her ears. Benny waved around a clear bottle filled with an electric green liquid. “Absinthe!” she squealed. “Sweet, right? Who wants a swig?”
Brett rolled her eyes. Benny was the editor of the Waverly literary magazine, Absinthe. At least she had a creative Secret Santa—although liquor also fell into the “inappropriate” column.
“And I just got this!” Sage held out a black leather riding crop. She held the vile bondage toy up and set off down the hallway, chasing a giggling Benny and tracking snow all over the newly cleaned hardwood floors.
It was enough to send Brett over the edge. “What the fuck is wrong with everyone?” She jumped up from the couch, nearly tripping over her fur-lined slippers. “I’ve got to get back to work.”
“But we’re just getting to the part where Meg Ryan fakes an orgasm in the diner!” Jenny cried out, giggling. “Stay for that.”
Brett was too annoyed with life to respond. As she stormed back to her room, she realized one good thing had come out of her assigning everyone their Secret Santas—she’d forgotten to include herself.
* * *
Owl Net
Email Inbox
* * *
From:
[email protected] To:
[email protected] Date: Tuesday, December 10, 10:31 A.M.
Subject: Here comes Santa Claus….
B,
I know you’re busy with your party planning and finals and all, but I get worried when I don’t hear from you.
Willy says hi… and hopes your friend Sebastian will spend some time at the house over Christmas break—he says to tell him he’s been practicing his Grand Theft Auto and plans to kick his ass.
Write soon, li’l sis.
xoxoxo
Bree
P.S. I’m attaching a jpeg of the hot new Stella McCartney clutch that I snatched from the new samples today. I’m FedExing it to you for an early Xmas present!
* * *
15
A WAVERLY OWL STAYS OUT OF TROUBLE WITH THE LAW.
Brandon had to struggle to pay attention to Doc Gilbert’s droning voice in the overheated classroom on Tuesday morning. The English teacher’s chalk squeaked loudly across the chalkboard as he scratched out a discussion question from Middlemarch. The hissing radiators and the hot, steamy air didn’t make it any easier to focus. For the past couple of days, all of Waverly had been abuzz with stupid Secret Santa—er, Secret Satan. Someone had given Benny Cunningham a ferret, which was just plain disgusting, with a red bow on its head. Even though pets of any kind were prohibited in the Waverly handbook, Benny had taken to carrying the ratlike animal around in her tan leather Fendi bag like she was Paris fucking Hilton. Lon Baruzza had gotten a gift bag of edible massage oils left on his doorstep, and had spent the last week personally offering full-body rubs to every single girl on campus.
Brandon felt a tap on his shoulder and glanced behind him to see Sage Francis. She wore a red ribbed Polo turtleneck, her corn silk blond hair pulled up in a tight ponytail. Her small hand held out a note for him. Two weeks ago, Sage passing him a note— combined with her sweet-smelling pear shampoo—would have sent his heart into near arrhythmia. But after she’d so heartlessly dumped him the day before Thanksgiving break, telling him he was too feminine for her, Brandon had fallen hard for Hellie and tried to erase all
fond memories of Sage from his brain.
“Uh, okay,” he muttered, grabbing the note and ignoring Sage’s wink. He unfolded the rhombus-shaped note without curiosity, and recognized Sage’s loopy script handwriting: How’s your Swedish girlfriend?
Totally jealous, Brandon thought triumphantly, as he turned around and flashed a thumbs-up sign. He crossed out Swedish and wrote Swiss in its place and tossed the note back to Sage, who giggled as she read it.
“What’s so funny, Miss Francis?” Doc Gilbert demanded, throwing his chalk down on his desk in disgust. He was a short, red-faced Santa Claus–like figure—if Santa had a really short fuse and a predilection for hard liquor.
“Nothing,” Sage answered nervously, twirling the end of her ponytail around her finger. The sleeves of her turtleneck were pushed up around her elbows, and her whole face was pink, either from the attention or the near-tropical steaminess of the classroom.
“If you’re not interested in learning today, Miss Francis, I suggest you leave.” The whole class quieted down and eyed the door, wondering if Doc Gilbert was actually expecting Sage to get up and leave. He made the “suggestion” to someone at least once a week, but no one had ever taken him up on it. Brandon would have loved to watch Sage slink out of the room, but just then, the oak door to the classroom opened and a deliveryman in a brown jacket and matching brown pants poked his head in.
“Is this Weston, room twelve?” He stared at his clipboard, a slightly annoyed look on his face.
“Yes, but…” Doc Gilbert crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Deliveries are supposed to go to the main office, not the individual classrooms.”
“I’ve got a case of wine for…” The deliveryman glanced back at his paperwork. “For Julia DeSimone?” He pushed in a dolly with a giant wooden crate that read FRAGILE in block letters.
Julia DeSimone, a gangly junior with dyed black hair in the theater club, raised her hand eagerly. The rest of the class turned to look at her, unable to control their laughter. “Right here!” she cried.
“Wine?” Doc Gilbert stepped forward, all his annoyance evaporating from his voice. “For an underage student? I don’t think so. Better bring that crate up here and I’ll take care of it.” Shrugging his shoulders, the deliveryman quickly wheeled his dolly over to Doc Gilbert’s desk and dumped the crate on the floor. Brandon could practically see Doc salivating at the thought of curling up with all that alcohol. “I’ll have to turn this over to the administration, I suppose.”
“Like that’s ever going to happen,” Heath whispered loudly. Brandon rolled his eyes.
“Back to work, you overprivileged little freeloaders.” Doc Gilbert’s favored way of motivating his students was by insulting them, but it was only occasionally effective. He scratched a few more discussion questions on the board but kept glancing at the crate next to his desk. Even Brandon started to wonder if it contained the $5.99 crap or the good stuff.
The door had hardly shut when it clicked open again. “Now what?” Doc Gilbert shouted, tossing his chalk across the room, narrowly missing Kirin Choate’s head. The entire class turned around to find a police officer, his hands on his hips, surveying the room. Immediately, everyone sat up straighter in their seats, and Brandon felt himself smoothing out his collar. Had it been one of the out-of-shape Waverly security officers, in their cranberry-colored uniforms, no one would have moved, but a real police officer? A hush fell.
“Can I help you?” Doc Gilbert asked meekly. He briefly glanced toward Kirin Choate, as if he expected to be arrested for throwing chalk. He folded his guilty chalk-covered hands behind his back and stood in front of the case of wine, as if to shield it from the officer’s view.
“Is Brandon Buchanan here?” the cop asked sternly, his steely blue eyes scanning the room as if comparing all their faces to a description of a suspect.
Brandon felt a sweat break out on his forehead as all eyes turned in his direction. His mind raced through the short list of things he’d ever done wrong in his life—breaking into the field house with Callie to make out on the mats, taking a hit from Alan St. Girard’s enormous bong one night, throwing out Heath’s black Ben Sherman T-shirt he’d worn eight times and refused to wash, insisting it was good luck. But they’d either happened ages ago, or weren’t exactly illegal. And then he thought of Mr. Dunderdorf. Had the old man somehow discovered that Brandon had defiled his daughter and turned to the police?
“I’m Brandon.” Brandon spoke up, trying to sound brave in front of everyone. Maybe if Dunderdorf had called the cops and Brandon got sent to jail, at least then fucking Sage would believe him about Hellie. “What did I do?”
The class was completely silent, and even Doc Gilbert seemed to be frozen in place.
“Brandon Buchanan?” the cop repeated, gripping the black nightstick attached to his belt. “Can I see some ID?”
Benny’s ferret peeked out over the edge of her purse, but she nudged it back inside as the cop stood over Brandon’s desk, smelling like cheap cologne. Brandon tried to keep his fingers from trembling as he pulled his student ID card from his butter-soft Gucci leather wallet. The cop looked at it for half a second before dropping it back on the desk. “Brandon Buchanan, you’re under arrest—”
“What?” Brandon’s jaw dropped, and several of the girls in class—Sage included—gasped audibly.
“For being too damn hot,” the cop continued, and before anyone could react, he tugged at his uniform top and the sound of Velcro ripping filled the room. The class’s shock quickly turned to glee when they realized they were not actually in the presence of law enforcement… but rather, a stripper!
“Boo-yah!” Teague Williams whooped, clapping his hands together. Before Brandon knew what was happening, the whole class was clapping in unison as the cop—Brandon could see there was a fake-looking gold badge over his naked chest that read officer booty—tugged his shirt open more and touched his tanned, perfectly sculpted, and hair-free pecs.
Doc Gilbert pounded his fist against his desk to call the class to attention, but even he knew it was futile. The entire class was staring—partly horrified, partly fascinated—at the stripper, who was now strolling up and down Brandon’s aisle and swiveling his hips. Brandon clenched his fists together. He’d never actually punched anyone before, but now he couldn’t wait for the chance to connect his fist with the face of his asshole Secret Santa.
When Officer Booty touched his polished brass belt buckle, Brandon felt like he was going to faint. His mind swirled through all the various humiliations of his life, but nothing came even remotely close to his Secret Santa sending a male stripper to serenade him in the middle of math class.
16
A WAVERLY OWL TAKES INITIATIVE.
On Wednesday after dinner, Callie strode up the steps to Baxter Hall, the upper-class boys’ dorm on the north edge of campus where Sebastian lived. It was kind of strange to walk into a boys’ dorm to visit anyone other than Easy. As she stood outside Sebastian’s door in the oak-paneled hallway, she caught the faint whiff of marijuana and Febreze, which made her think of Easy even more. He and Alan had always kept a stash of Febreze ready in their closet to spray down their entire room after a joint-smoking session, and sometimes they overdid it, drenching the room in the too-clean scent.
But that was over. Easy Walsh was gone, for better or for worse, and it was time Callie moved on. One of her mother’s favorite platitudes—and she had many—was “Treading water doesn’t get you anywhere. You have to swim.”
And so Callie rapped her gloved hand against the oak door of Sebastian’s room, right above his New Jersey Nets sticker—was that baseball or basketball? She should probably care. She took a deep breath and tried not to think about how their date had ended the other night. Sebastian had walked her up the front steps of Dumbarton, and she’d stood there stupidly, waiting for a kiss, until she finally realized it wasn’t going to happen. Although she’d bragged to everyone about what a gentleman he was, it kind of weird
ed her out that he hadn’t kissed her. Didn’t he find her attractive?
Her bruised ego might have been the end of their burgeoning relationship, but the next day, he’d given her the anklet. Definitely a gentleman, despite his poor taste in jewelry.
Callie heard the soft pulse of music with a heavy bass coming from inside, so she knew someone was home. She knocked again, louder. “Who’s there?” a deep voice called out. Callie stepped closer to the door, feeling somewhat ridiculous shouting her name down the hallway.
“Callie.” The door finally swung open and Callie grinned at the sight of Sebastian, yawning, his tousled black hair falling sexily across his forehead. In his tissue-thin white Hanes T-shirt and dark wash True Religion jeans, he looked devastatingly sexy. In a kind of bad-boy way.
“Oh, hey,” he said, squinting, his eyes slightly reddened. The faint smell of Old Spice deodorant tickled Callie’s nose and she sneezed. “God bless,” he said. “Are you getting sick?”
Callie rubbed her nose and shook her head. “I don’t think so.” She waited a beat, rubbing her hands up and down the arms of her white bell-sleeved Tahari coat. Sebastian didn’t say anything. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?” she asked, running the toe of her buckled Stuart Weitzman ankle boot against the door frame.
“Oh. Uh, sure.” Sebastian stepped aside, waving his arm graciously. “Kind of a mess.”
Callie stepped carefully into the room. The floor was absent the crumpled clothing, abandoned notebooks, and empty Cheetos bags that always littered Easy’s room. It was a nice start, but unfortunately, what the room had in cleanliness, it was lacking in décor. The only light on was a red Chinese lantern hanging from the ceiling, a tear in the paper shade letting a ray of light escape. On the wall over one bed—Sebastian’s, she assumed— was a giant green, white, and red Italian flag. A red curtain was duct-taped haphazardly over the window, which was wide open to let out the smoke.