“Yeah?” he said casually, but Tinsley could see him standing a little straighter at the compliment. Boys were so predictable.
Tinsley nodded. “Yup.” She paused a moment, staring up at the fat, yellowish moon hanging in the dark sky. “He also said that squash players get the most girls.”
Brandon stopped in his tracks and stared at Tinsley incredulously. Then, understanding dawned on him, and a self-satisfied smirk crossed his face. “Wait, are you checking up on your boyfriend?”
“No.” Tinsley was forced to stop too. A couple of sophomores passed them on their way to the library, their arms stacked with textbooks. “Why? Should I be?” Her wide, dark eyes focused on Brandon’s face, searching for secrets.
Brandon shook his head in disbelief. “Tinsley, I have no idea what you’re up to, and frankly, I don’t give a shit.” Chuckling softly to himself, he turned up the path to Richards, leaving Tinsley standing alone in the middle of the walk.
Tinsley stomped on down the path, silently wishing a rash of zits would magically appear across Brandon’s well-moisturized face. Snowflakes started to fall gently from the sky, but she was too preoccupied to notice. In the distance, she spotted Wolcott, the freshman boys’ dorm. Suddenly, all she wanted to do was talk to Julian. Tell him how the news that he wasn’t a virgin had floored her. How she couldn’t sleep without picturing him hooking up with other girls, or how she’d been so distracted this morning that she’d actually thrown on a pair of Brett’s ankle boots—a size too small—and hadn’t noticed until halfway through the day, when her toes had started to ache.
Then she noticed that the lights were off in the first-floor corner room. Julian must still be at the library for the mandatory algebra study session he’d been complaining about. Her heart sank.
Until she got a much better idea.
Taking a deep breath, she waltzed into the building, ignoring the gawking looks of the freshmen dorks sprawled around a coffee table playing Risk. She marched right up to Julian’s room and tried the knob, knowing that Julian was too trusting ever to lock it. It opened.
Tinsley flicked on the overhead light and took in the messy room, which Julian shared with another freshman named Kevin. She’d only been here a couple of times. She had a reputation to uphold, and hanging out in a freshman dorm—regardless of how hot her boyfriend was—was unheard of. There had to be some kind of evidence of Julian’s past love life: photographs, letters, movie ticket stubs he couldn’t bear to part with. She smiled at the giant black-and-white Bob Dylan poster over his hastily made bed, the acoustic guitar hanging from a hand woven strap against the wall, the framed photograph of a five-year-old Julian frolicking in the surf with a black Lab.
But she had a purpose. Her eyes scanned the bookshelves— maybe a photo album?—and landed on a well-worn paperback called Love Poems of the Twentieth Century. Had it been there before? She plucked the book off the shelf and fanned through the pages, stopping at some of the underlined passages with suspicion. Maybe it was something assigned in Miss Hannaford’s freshman comp class. The thought made her feel better, until she landed on a page with a tiny heart penciled in next to a W. H. Auden poem. There was no way in hell Julian would doodle a heart in a book. She quickly shoved the offending book back into its place and wildly glanced around the room, looking for more evidence.
The sleek white iMac on Julian’s desk caught her attention, but she stopped herself. Casual snooping was one thing, but Tinsley wasn’t about to turn into one of those girls who searched their boyfriends’ computers. Besides, when she nudged the mouse, she saw it was asleep. Instead, she peered into his half-open desk drawer, which contained nothing more than a couple of pens with teeth marks on the caps, several unsharpened pencils, and a book of stamps.
She felt like an idiot. Was she really expecting to uncover some kind of incriminating evidence that would reveal whom Julian had lost his virginity to? She was grabbing the poetry book for another look when something on his desk shimmered in the corner of her eye. It was a silver foil matchbook with the name of a restaurant in New York, the Blue Water Grill. She flipped open the cover, expecting to find a woman’s name scrawled inside, but the unused matches stood at attention, mocking her. Why hadn’t he used any of the matches? she wondered. Was this some kind of souvenir, a memento from a special night?
“What’s up?” a voice asked, and she spun around to find Julian’s roommate, Kevin, standing in the doorway, a giant backpack slung over his shoulder. A red cable-knit cap with earflaps was tugged down low on his forehead.
“Hey,” Tinsley said coolly, as if Kevin were the one intruding.
He grinned goofily at her, his chin covered in small patches of stubble that refused to grow in further. Clearly, his time at Waverly had not yet taught him how to talk to females—or to properly groom. Perhaps the activities committee should offer a freshman seminar on the topic. “What are you, uh… doing here?” he asked, eyeing Tinsley, still in her winter coat.
“Nothing,” she said, shrugging. She leaned against Julian’s desk, trying to shield the book of poems from view. She wondered if he’d seen her handling the matchbook.
“Is Julian here?” he asked, confused, as if Julian might be hiding under the bed or in the closet. He set his backpack down on his bed, which was made with a red fleece blanket covered with smiley-faced baseballs. What was he, twelve?
“No, I don’t think so. The door was just open.” Tinsley twirled a lock of hair around her still-gloved finger, and smiled shyly at Kevin. “I was just going to leave him a note, if you don’t mind.”
“Oh,” Kevin said, kicking some snow off his boots. “Totally! I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”
Tinsley smiled, satisfied. He was apologizing to her for breaking into his room. “Thanks. You’re so sweet.” She searched for a scrap of paper on Julian’s desk to leave the promised note. She picked up a pen, then paused, her brain whirring into action.
She turned around and contemplated Kevin. He was Julian’s roommate. Why overlook him as a valuable source of information just because he was slightly annoying and had bad facial hair instincts? “I haven’t seen you around, Kevin. Where’ve you been hiding?”
“I just got back from New York,” he said, proudly. “You know, Thanksgiving.”
“Right,” Tinsley said, putting her hands on her hips. “I didn’t see you at Yvonne Stidder’s party.”
A hurt look crossed Kevin’s face. “I made you a drink,” he reminded her.
“Oh, right.” She couldn’t be blamed for not remembering him. That night in Yvonne’s Upper East Side penthouse, she’d been too freaked out by the appearance of Sleigh Monroe-Hill, her completely wicked former freshman roommate, to pay attention to much else. Sleigh had had a complete mental breakdown and had ended up leaving Waverly after Tinsley had hooked up with a guy she liked. To enact her revenge, at Yvonne’s party Sleigh had practically thrown herself at Julian, who’d come down to New York to spend Thanksgiving with Kevin’s family. But wait, how did Sleigh know Julian in the first place? He couldn’t have… slept with her? “You and Julian were hanging out with, uh…” Tinsley touched her forehead lightly, pretending to think. “Sleigh.”
Kevin nodded, flopping down on his bed and grinning up at Tinsley. He pulled off his knit hat, revealing a matted-down head of greasy blond hair. “Yeah, she’s pretty cool.”
Tinsley nodded in faux agreement, although “pretty cool” was about the last thing she’d call Sleigh. “How does Julian know her?” she tried to ask as casually as possible, grabbing a stack of Post-its from Kevin’s desk and tearing one off.
“Oh, Sleigh’s mom and my dad are partners in the same law firm in the city.” He tried to straighten the collar of his ugly plaid shirt. “Julian didn’t know her before the party at all.”
Tinsley was relieved—at least Sleigh wasn’t the one who’d managed to steal Julian’s innocence. But how the fuck was she ever going to find out whom Julian had slept with at this rate? Her mi
nd whirled, trying to replay all the times she’d seen Julian talking to girls, but it seemed pointless.
An awkward silence passed and then Kevin asked, “Do you want to, uh, hang out? I think there’s a Law & Order marathon on tonight.” He shoved his nervous hands into his Gap jeans and got to his feet.
“That sounds totally tempting,” she lied. She scrawled a quick Miss you on the yellow Post-it, stuck it to Julian’s computer monitor, and dropped the pen into his cluttered desk drawer. “But I have to jet.”
“Cool,” Kevin said, crestfallen. “I should probably, you know, study or something.…” His voice trailed off.
“Tell Julian I stopped by, will you?” She batted her eyes at him as she breezed into the hall.
“Sure,” she heard him say. She listened for the sound of Kevin closing the door, but he left it open, and Tinsley knew he was watching her as she left.
Now, if only Julian could be as easy to read.
* * *
Owl Net
Email Inbox
* * *
From:
[email protected] To: Waverly Student Body
Date: Wednesday, December 4, 9:02 P.M.
Subject: Secret Santa (shhh!)
Hi everyone,
This is your friendly junior class prefect, officially announcing the start of the Secret Santa season! Each of you will receive a private e-mail from me momentarily, letting you know who you’ll be secret-shopping for this year. A few rules: Please don’t exceed the fifteen-dollar price cap. Homemade/creative gifts are welcome, and encouraged. Of course, keep it appropriate.
And the best part—reveal yourself to your Secret Santa at the Holiday Ball next Saturday at the Prescott Faculty Club. Flyer attached. Fun for everyone!!
Happy Holidays, all!
Best,
Brett Messerschmidt
* * *
* * *
Owl Net
Email Inbox
* * *
From:
[email protected] To: Undisclosed recipients
Date: Wednesday, December 4, 10:16 P.M.
Subject: Secret Santa, Part 2
Calling all troublemakers:
By now, you’ve all gotten your Secret Santa assignments. I’m sure you’re all very excited about getting a pair of Waverly Owl socks from your SS… but I have a better idea.
Secret Santa is lame. I say we go wild this year, and change it to Secret Satan. Let’s put the fucking X back in Xmas. Leading up to the Holiday Ball, let’s give each other totally crazy, against-the-rules gifts. (Our very own class prefect said to be creative!) Anything vulgar, dirty, lewd, rude, filthy, perverted, indecent, or immoral is fair game. The wilder, the better.
First rule of Secret Satan: you don’t talk about Secret Satan—to anyone.
Second rule: get your freak on!
xxx,
Satan’s Naughtiest Elf
* * *
8
A WAVERLY OWL IS ALWAYS OPEN TO MAKING NEW FRIENDS.
“So, tell us about yourself.” Claire Goodrich, the tallest of the three freshmen girls interviewing Jenny, spoke up. Her light brown hair was cut into a bob, and a short fringe of bangs fell awkwardly into her pale green eyes. She and the other two girls were crowded around Jenny’s desk in the art studio.
When Jenny told the girls they could meet her after her Thursday afternoon painting class, they’d begged to come early and watch her “in action.” She’d said no, not wanting to disrupt class with her little film crew. But when they pressed, she told them they could at least come a little early and watch her clean up. Now the studio had emptied out, and the three girls eyed Jenny with goofy grins on their faces. Jenny wiped at her cheek, certain she’d left behind a splotch of burnt sienna paint.
Izzy Vanderbeek, a short brunette whose job was something she called “blocking out the shots,” blew her nose and stared at the studio’s enormous plate glass windows and the towering skylight-filled ceilings. She had a cold and kept pulling tissues from a mini Kleenex pack in the pocket of her Waverly Swimming hoodie. “This is such an awesome space.”
Kaitlin Becker, a curvy girl with glasses and orangey red curls, had one knee on the floor and was slowly tilting her sleek black Sony camcorder to take in the whole art studio before focusing on Jenny. Jenny felt the camera on her fingers as they twisted caps onto tubes of paint, and she had to admit, it made her feel kind of famous. She almost wished she’d let them film her during class, just so the other students could see.
“Make sure you get the painting, Kaitlin!” Izzy ordered, blowing her nose. “It’s really good.” Jenny glanced at her canvas, with its only half-done still life of apples and tree branches. It wasn’t very good… yet.
“So,” Claire spoke up loudly, trying to imitate a reporter on Access Hollywood. Jenny had quickly discovered that the cute girl was the unspoken leader of the group. Claire sat on a stool and leaned back against a desk. A couple of forgotten brushes rolled off the edge of it and clattered to the floor. “Jenny, is it true you almost got expelled?”
Jenny looked up at the camera and saw its unblinking red eye staring back at her. Suddenly, she felt like she was on stage. She’d loved going to off-Broadway plays with her dad as a kid, staring up at the actors, wondering how they could possibly be so composed in front of hundreds of people. She took a deep breath, actually feeling kind of dramatic in the outfit she’d chosen especially for her first shoot: a dark red silk Badgley Mischka ruffled blouse, snatched from the clearance rack at Bloomingdale’s over Thanksgiving break, and a pair of black pegged-bottom Theory trousers her dad Rufus had paid for as an apology for not telling her about his ashram having their Thanksgiving feast at their Upper West Side apartment. The outfit was partly covered by Jenny’s off-white, paint-splattered smock. “Wow, you guys don’t mess around,” she said in a voice she hoped came off as coy and mysterious.
All three girls twittered in excitement. Jenny grabbed her brushes and turpentine. The camera followed her over to the giant metal sinks, and Izzy whispered instructions as Jenny poured turpentine on her brushes and scrubbed out the oil paint residue. “What about the barn at Miller’s farm burning down? Did you have anything to do with that at all?”
Jenny smiled mysteriously as if to say, I’ll never tell. She tried not to splatter water on her blouse as she patted the brushes dry with paper towels.
“Come on, you have to give us something!” Claire squealed, pushing up the sleeves of her pale purple J.Crew button-down.
“How did you end up at Waverly in the first place? Did you really get kicked out of Constance Billard?” Kaitlin asked eagerly, sticking her head out from behind her camcorder. Her glasses sat crookedly on her freckled nose.
Jenny tossed her dark curls—which she’d treated to some of Callie’s Frédéric Fekkai deep conditioning last night in preparation for her day on camera—over her shoulder. The girls followed her back to her desk, where she put her brushes away into her art bin. “Let’s just say I wasn’t invited back.”
The girls looked at each other and smiled, their eyes lighting up at this bit of information.
“Told you,” Izzy whispered to Kaitlin, taking another swipe at her nose with a crumpled tissue. Then Izzy suggested heading over to Maxwell Hall to get some “crowd shots.” Jenny felt her stomach flutter at the thought of people actually seeing her being followed by cameras. She zipped up her orange quilted Guess? jacket and slung her black canvas messenger bag over her shoulder.
“Is it also true that you modeled for Les Best?” Claire asked, tugging a pair of white fuzzy mittens onto her hands as the girls exited the art studio. In front of them, the afternoon sun lit up the white-blanketed Waverly campus. Students in colorful parkas and scarves rushed out of the aged brick academic buildings, eager to be released from afternoon classes. As the girls strode down the freshly shoveled walkway in the direction of Maxwell Hall, video camera rolling, Jenny kind of felt like
she was starring in a New England prep school reality show. Which she kind of was.
“Yes, but…,” Jenny answered, a smile spreading across her face at the memory of her short-lived modeling career. She and Serena van der Woodsen, her friend and total Manhattan glamour girl, had done one shoot for the famous designer, and it had been featured in W magazine. She kicked the toe of her hunter green wellies into a clump of snow. “I was lucky enough to be in the right place at the right time,” she answered modestly.
Izzy eyed her. “What was it like, then?”
Jenny loosened her striped scarf. In the distance, she saw a clump of guys in lacrosse jackets, and she wondered if one of them was Drew Gately, the senior she’d had an almost disastrous flirtation with. She kind of wished it was him, so that he could see her talking to the camera. “I was hanging out with Serena van der Woodsen, who was one of their perfume models. And the designer saw us together and somehow came up with the idea of putting us on a motorcycle, riding off into the sunset down this deserted beach.” She shrugged, as if it was no big deal, but she still had a couple of photos from the shoot at home under her bed. She’d been shocked at how arty and elegant the black-and-white shots had turned out. She looked natural and beautiful, even next to Serena. Professional photographers were like an expensive pair of jeans: they made you look so effortlessly good.
“Excuse me.” A voice spoke out from the door to the mailroom as the girls hurried into the foyer of Maxwell Hall. Jenny recognized the guy who worked behind the counter in the Waverly mailroom. He had a button saying package too large for box pinned to his chest. “Are you Jenny Humphrey?”