“Whoa!” Callie cried, stepping on something that squeaked beneath her feet. For a moment, she thought it was a live animal, like Benny’s squirmy little ferret. But then she bent over and picked up a Nerf football. “Cool,” she said unenthusiastically.
“Sorry,” he apologized, tossing the football into the closet. “Blinds went missing some time after Halloween,” he said when he caught her looking at the curtain. “Too many people climbing in and out of the window.”
Nothing a girlfriend couldn’t fix, Callie told herself. “Where’s your roommate?” she asked, changing the subject. She thought she remembered that he roomed with Drew Gately.
“Don’t know, don’t care,” Sebastian replied, perching on the edge of his paper-cluttered desk. Were those his college applications? Callie squinted at the top one, hoping to see Princeton or Dartmouth, but it was for somewhere called Eastern Apache University, which sounded made-up. Next to the stack, a cigar box lay open with a glass ashtray inside, filled to the brim with ashes. He picked up a half-smoked Marlboro and offered it up to Callie.
Callie shook her head. An open closet door caught her eye. “Is this your closet?” Callie asked, tugging on the sleeve of a charcoal gray John Varvatos V-neck sweater that would have set off Sebastian’s skin tone perfectly. She imagined pressing her cheek to his cashmere-covered chest.
“Nah. That’s mine.” Sebastian nodded his head toward the other closet, the one filled with rows of plain white Hanes T-shirts—at least they were hung up—and lots of Tommy Hilfiger. She recognized the button-down he’d worn to dinner the other night, and the handful of nice clothes she’d seen him wear over the past week, but they were sandwiched between all kinds of shiny tracksuits.
“Oh.” Callie shrugged, glancing back at Drew’s closet longingly. Maybe she could burn all the Tommy Hilfiger and Sebastian would have to start all over. “I just think it’s really sexy when guys wear sweaters.”
“Yeah?” Sebastian asked skeptically.
“I almost forgot!” Callie exclaimed, though she hadn’t forgotten at all. She dug through her Fendi tote and pulled out a small box wrapped in silver paper. She held it out to him, purposefully brushing her hand against his.
“Are you my Secret Satan?” He flipped the box over and held it to his ear, shaking it gently.
“No.” She shrugged casually. But in reality, she’d always loved giving her boyfriends things. Easy would always get annoyed when she’d try to shower him with sweet little presents, and it really hurt her feelings. Sebastian, she sensed, was more laid back, less militantly anti-materialist and more open—she hoped—to being influenced by her style. “It’s just an early Christmas present.”
Sebastian tore through the wrapping paper like a five-year-old, the delicate white bow falling to the floor. He opened the box inside and pulled out the bottle of Polo Double Black. He moved it back and forth under his nose, though Callie knew that the lit cigarette in his hand probably obscured the scent.
“Are you saying I stink?” he asked, raising a dark eyebrow at her.
“No.” Callie tilted her head and stuck out her tongue. She stepped closer to him, letting her knee, in her charcoal pin-striped tights, brush against his leg. She was glad she’d worn her black pleated Michael Kors miniskirt. “But I think it smells incredibly sexy.”
Sebastian grinned, his smile spreading lazily across his full lips. “Thanks.” He set the box down on his desk, where Callie knew it was in danger of residing for the rest of the semester. Damn it. Maybe she’d actually have to spray it on him. He stubbed out his cigarette, almost knocking over his stack of applications.
That was it. She wasn’t going to wait for another chance. “Here’s how you can thank me.” She planted her still-gloved hand on Sebastian’s neck, pulling him toward her before he could say or do anything else. Their knees bumped and she touched her lips to his, enjoying the familiar softness of a guy’s lips against hers. Sebastian tensed up for a second, but she slid her fingers up through his hair, and he started to kiss her back. The smoky taste of his mouth felt forbidden… and delicious.
“Wow.” Sebastian finally pulled back, looking a little dazed. He steadied himself against his desk, knocking over the bottle of Polo Black.
“Mmm,” Callie murmured, bursting with renewed confidence after the kiss. She brushed off a piece of fluff on his shoulder, her eyes landing on his hideous gold cross. She pulled off her gloves and casually reached her hands behind his neck. Before he knew what was happening, she unclasped the necklace and pulled it off him, dropping it soundlessly to his desk. “You have a sexy neck. You shouldn’t hide it with jewelry.” She touched her fingertips gently to the side of his neck, letting them linger.
Sebastian just stared at her, a slightly hazy look in his eyes, like he was still mesmerized by her boldness.
She could get used to that look.
17
A WISE OWL KNOWS THAT THE MOST OBVIOUS SUSPECT IS NOT ALWAYS THE GUILTY ONE.
“Heard you got handcuffed by a real stud yesterday, dude!” Brian Atherton snickered as he let the door to the boys’ locker room clatter behind him. Running a hand across his shaved head, the senior boy smiled gleefully, probably grateful for any way to get back at Brandon for crushing him in straight sets yesterday.
“Don’t worry, I gave him your number.” Brandon pushed past Atherton, his sleek black squash bag thrown over his shoulder. It was about the billionth stupid comment someone had made to him since the cop/stripper pulled off his clothes in Doc Gilbert’s class yesterday. Brandon was still smoldering from the humiliation of his Secret Satan present—after the guy took his shirt off, Doc Gilbert had started shouting about calling in the real police. But the man wouldn’t leave until he’d finished his routine, much to the delight of the classroom and the horror of Brandon.
The locker room’s smell of BO immediately smacked him in the face. He stepped over a pile of dirty towels—couldn’t these Neanderthals even put them in the bin like they were supposed to? Then another scent caught his attention, a mix of cedar and a spice that always reminded Brandon of Indian food. It was the unmistakable odor of Heath Ferro’s deodorant, a brand one of his soccer teammates had passed along to him before he graduated, insisting on the almost supernatural effect it had on female olfactory senses. Brandon scoured the row of lockers for the source of the smell.
He’d waited up for Heath most of the night, lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking of the best way to murder his roommate, who he now held firmly responsible for the stripper fiasco. But there was a rumor that Pierre Hausler, their dorm parent, was at his parents’ anniversary party, and so Heath took the opportunity to stay out all night. Brandon had to settle for tearing up Heath’s favorite Superman T-shirt, already full of holes from overuse. The satisfaction was short-lived.
Brandon spotted Heath alone at the end of the last row of lockers, sitting on a wooden bench and pulling on a red long-sleeve T-shirt. He marched toward him, his blood rushing to his face. Brandon felt like he might beat Heath to death with his racquet. The male stripper’s words, You’re under arrest… for being too damn hot, were still in Brandon’s ears, as were the chants of Take it off! that had echoed around the classroom. No one else at Waverly was enough of a jackass to do something like send a male stripper to humiliate Brandon. Just like the whole Secret Satan thing, the stripper had Heath Ferro’s unmistakable odor all over it.
Heath glanced up. He tugged down his shirt, his freshly showered hair pasted to his head. “S’up, dude?” Heath stuffed his crumpled gym clothes into his Adidas bag.
Brandon’s breath began to quicken. “Where were you last night?” he asked, the question barely a gulped whisper.
Heath grinned and stood up, pulling his olive green North Face fleece out of his locker. “A gentleman never tells,” he said coyly.
“I totally know it was you,” Brandon accused him, trying to ignore the smell coming from Heath’s ancient gym shoes. He seriously hoped his mother wou
ld buy him a new pair for Christmas, at least for Brandon’s sake. “Only you would do something so stupid.”
“What are you talking about, Buchanan?” Heath looked confused. He slammed his metal locker shut with a clank. Brandon heard guys’ echoed laughter in the showers. “Someone put Vicks in your jockstrap again?”
“You know what I’m talking about.” Brandon dropped his squash racket to the floor. He couldn’t imagine actually punching Heath—or anyone—but his hands kind of twitched, like they might do it on their own.
“Dude, seriously.” Heath held his hands up in the air and widened his green eyes, the picture of innocence. Except that Brandon had seen him use that look before, to get out of everything from skipping class to making out with someone else’s girlfriend. “I have no idea.”
“You’re telling me you didn’t send me a male stripper?” Brandon asked incredulously. Please. Heath probably had spent his whole Waverly life fantasizing about sending Brandon a male stripper to humiliate him—the Secret Satan thing was the perfect opportunity for him. “It was you. Don’t try to deny it.”
“It wasn’t me,” Heath protested, the pitch of his voice rising slightly.
Brandon narrowed his eyes. “You’re lying.”
A dark cloud came over Heath’s face as he reached down for his canvas Diesel messenger bag. “I promise it wasn’t me,” he said desperately. “Look. I got Tinsley.” He pulled out his iPhone and thumbed through his e-mail, scrolling until he found one from Brett. “See.” He flashed Brett’s e-mail to Heath, and Brandon saw that Tinsley Carmichael was indeed his draw for Secret Santa. “I’ve been sending her all kinds of great shit.” Heath touched his hair. “You satisfied?”
Brandon’s breathing slowed as he let his squash bag fall to the tile floor. He didn’t know what to think. The e-mail looked real enough, but if Heath didn’t send him the stripper, then who the fuck did?
“Don’t get me wrong—it was a brilliant stunt.” Heath chuckled to himself as he pulled on his fleece. “I really wish I had done it. That would be fucking legendary.”
Brandon collapsed onto the bench, suddenly feeling exhausted. With Heath, it would just have been another gay joke in another long line of unfunny gay jokes. But if it was someone else, someone who didn’t even know him, who had sent him a male stripper—well, that meant…
Brandon refused to think about what that meant.
* * *
Owl Net
Instant Message Inbox
* * *
BrandonBuchanan:
Did u send me a stripper?
AlanStGirard:
I just woke up, dude. Your SS got u a stripper? Sweeeet.
BrandonBuchanan:
Male.
AlanStGirard:
Oh, that sucks. Guess your SS thought you were into it?
* * *
* * *
Owl Net
Email Inbox
* * *
From:
[email protected] To:
[email protected] CC:
[email protected] Date: Thursday, December 12, 9:01 A.M.
Subject: Secret Santa disaster!!!
Brett,
The administration doesn’t know who is behind the so-called Secret Satan movement that is spreading like a disease, but we need you, as junior class prefect and organizer of the Holiday Ball, to get it under control. Can you do that for us?
We need everything to go off without a hitch at the party. You’ll be interested to know that Waverly alum Bethany Kephardt will be attending. Bethany happens to be the assistant director of admissions at Brown University—and also a former junior class prefect at Waverly.
I’m quite sure you’ll want to impress her.
We’ve been busy dealing with the alumni side of the ball and are counting on you to take care of the student side.
Best,
N. H.
* * *
18
WHEN NO ONE WILL LISTEN, SOMETIMES AN OWL HAS TO SHOUT.
Brett nearly crashed into Alison Quentin as she breezed into the dining hall at lunch on Thursday, sending Alison’s stack of Saltines tipping over on her tray. “Sorry,” Brett mumbled under her breath, her tired head down as she made her way to the food line. Horniman’s e-mail looped through her mind, especially the line about the Brown alum. Brett had always gotten straight A’s—but so did most of the people applying to the Ivies. She’d always counted on her extracurriculars to make her stand out, but if she couldn’t do her duty as junior class prefect, she couldn’t exactly count on glowing recommendations from the faculty.
Brett grabbed a tray from the stack even though she felt sick to her stomach. She opted for a bowl of Special K with strawberries and a banana over the offerings of jerk chicken and lentil-barley soup. Idly she wondered if she was eating too many carbs, if that was what was sapping her strength lately. Her phone buzzed in the pocket of her TSE cardigan, but when she saw it was from the cupcake caterer, she clicked ignore.
She sank down at the first empty table she found, surprised not to find Tinsley, Callie, or Jenny anywhere. She glanced at the antique watch her grandmother had given her last Christmas: dinner was almost over. She rubbed her tired eyes.
“Hey, smell this,” someone said. Brett looked up and saw Ryan Reynolds in front of the Coke machine, blasting his neck with a fine mist of something that smelled like horse sweat.
“Get away from me.” Evelyn Dahlie pushed him away. “It smells like vomit.”
“No, really.” Ryan chased after her, stretching out his neck for her to sniff. “It’s called something like Spanish fly. I got it from my Secret Satan, and it’s like a world-famous aphrodisiac.” He laughed and hitched his thumbs in the belt loops of his black jeans. “Or are you afraid you won’t be able to control yourself?”
“No.” Evelyn stalked away, unamused. As her platinum blond hair faded into the crowd, Brett noticed Sage Francis gently whipping everyone who walked by her table with a leather riding crop. A freshman at the table in the corner where the art kids sat ate with one hand locked in a pair of fur-lined handcuffs, the free cuff clinking against the table whenever he lowered his fork. A couple of seniors on the swim team were playing with an enormous, superhero-size purple dildo.
Brett pushed her tray away. Heath Ferro had to be behind all this—no one else at Waverly had such a filthy mind. But even if he had sent a stupid e-mail encouraging people to act like nymphomaniacs, why did everyone have to listen? There was always some random dirty guy who insisted on slipping his Secret Santa massage oil or something, but this was absolutely ridiculous. Where the hell was Heath, anyway? She could kill him for turning the whole Secret Santa operation on its head, jeopardizing her getting into Brown.
Brett spotted the nasty-looking ferret poking its head out of Benny Cunningham’s purse across the room. Its beady black eyes were glued to a silver glittery ring-shaped thing that Alan St. Girard was twirling into the air. Brett heard the words “penis pump” just as Emily Jenkins pulled something out of her pocket that looked like underwear made from a fruit roll-up. Brett felt her heart beating faster in her chest. Normally, she wouldn’t give a shit if the entire student body had decided to alleviate all its pent-up sexual frustration by passing around dirty Secret Santa gifts. But why did it have to happen this year? When she was in charge?
“Full house!”
Brett glanced over her shoulder and saw Teague Williams laying down a winning hand at the table next to Brett’s. She squinted at the backs of the cards and saw they were decorated with images of naked women of all shapes and sizes. Brett got to her feet, planning to barge over there and confiscate all the cards. Being the junior class prefect had to have some perks.
“Another hand!” someone cried. In the corner of the room, what looked like a deformed beach ball bounced up high in the air, but as it descended it was clear someone had blown up a magnum-size condom. Cheers went up as the condom was batted from ta
ble to table, the dining hall workers stopping their various chores to watch the impromptu game of condom volleyball.
Brett forgot about the cards, and before she could think about what she was doing, she scrambled up onto her chair. Her legs quivered with anger and she prayed it would hold. “Everyone calm the fuck down!” she screamed.
Instantly, the room quieted to a hush and the inflated condom hit the floor and bounced twice before rolling under a table. All eyes were on her—including the beady ones of Benny’s ferret. “This has got to stop!” She paused to clear her throat, remembering from her debate team days that timing was everything if you wanted people to listen. Her eyes scanned the half-empty dining hall. “This string of inappropriate gift-giving is childish, and it needs to end now.
“The Holiday Ball is this weekend, and anyone who misbehaves will be punished accordingly. The DC will be enforcing the rules to the letter. And if you think I’m kidding, just try me!” She glared threateningly at the crowd, then carefully jumped down from her chair, grabbed her nearly untouched tray, and marched toward the tray return. As she stomped out of the dining hall, lips set in a straight line, she glanced out of the corners of her eyes. Teague Williams was gathering the X-rated playing cards and stuffing them into his pocket. Someone had popped the condom balloon with a fork, and Sage was zipping her riding crop into her backpack, looking shamefaced. Brett nodded to Sage as she walked toward the door, a hush following her as she pushed her way through the heavy double doors.