“Don't be such a douche.” Alan got up to stretch his legs, then sat back down on one of those blue rubber ab balls that girls did crunches on. Callie used to have one in her room, but she'd punctured it with a stiletto once when she was angry at Easy for showing up late. Alan wobbled a little on the bouncy ball, then steadied himself and held his beer up in triumph.
“Maybe Brandon can tell us about his first period,” Ryan said, and everyone laughed.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen.” Heath stood, grasping the stack of blue mats to steady himself. “A little decorum. This is Waverly, after all. Let's leave that sort of talk for public school kids.” He moved over to the grease board. “Brandon's right. This club should be about something more than good company and forties.”
Brandon smirked at Heath. “Gee, thanks.”
Heath picked up a black marker. “Let's brainstorm some causes and then we'll vote on the ones we want this club to stand for. But first”—Heath sauntered over to the gym bag and replaced his empty forty with a fresh one—”a libation.” He unscrewed the cap and tossed it toward the garbage can, the cap falling wide of the trash by about a foot.
“I vote we stand for recycling,” Ryan called out. “Everyone's going green these days. And chicks are always talking about recycling.”
Heath scrawled the word recycling on the board. His chicken-scratch handwriting was even wobblier than usual. “That's good.”
“What about planting trees?” Alan scratched his beard-scruffed chin. “Chicks are always talking about planting trees or something like that.”
Heath added planting trees to the list.
“Might as well add AIDS awareness,” Brandon quipped. He set his mostly full forty beside him on the mat.
“There's a sophomore club that does that,” Lon countered.
Easy reached for another beer, content to watch the lame game show play out. If nothing else, it took his mind off Callie
Heath markered save the whales and animal cruelty on the board, his writing becoming sloppier and sloppier until he dropped the marker, which then rolled halfway across the floor.
“Walsh, let's get the recycling started now, okay?” Heath pointed at the two empty bottles under Easy's chair. Easy reached down, his head beginning to spin, and retrieved the bottles, passing them to Brandon, who looked at them as if they were diseased rodents. He took them and dropped them into the gym bag.
The door to the field house creaked open, revealing a silhouette of dark rain outside. Easy squinted in the direction of the door, expecting to see Jeremiah in his St. Lucius letterman jacket. He was startled to see Dean Marymount striding toward them. He wore a tan raincoat over a navy blue turtleneck, his sandy comb-over wet from the rain.
Easy's heart thumped against his chest in panic. The first night of his extracurricular activity, and he was about to get busted. Heath quickly slid his beer bottle into the gym bag before Dean Marymount got close enough to notice it. The others followed suit and Heath casually zipped up his bag.
“I heard there was a proactive group of young men gathered in the field house,” Marymount chuckled, his voice carrying through the vast, empty building.
“That's us, sir.” Heath stuck his hands into the pockets of his sagging tan cords.
Marymount was on them in no time, searching the faces of everyone in the circle. “Alan, Ryan, Lon, Brandon, Easy.” Everyone muttered a hi or hello, some cupping their hands over their mouths or scratching at phantom itches to prevent Marymount from smelling the beer on their breath. “What's this?” He sidled up next to the grease board, looking over the list of fake causes the Men of Waverly had joked about supporting. Marymount read the list to himself. “Very impressive, gentlemen,” he said, nodding sagely, hands cupped behind his back.
Heath Ferro shot Brandon a “Holy fuck!” look behind Mary-mount's back, then smiled broadly. “Thank you, sir!”
“I’m impressed with this initiative.” Marymount nodded, smoothing his hand over his balding head. “I’m glad you could find something so constructive to do in all this rain.” He glanced at the list again and nodded, pleased. “I’m especially glad to see you here, Mr. Walsh.”
Easy had been watching the scene unfold as if it were an episode of his favorite television show, but hearing his name shook him out of his stupor. “Thanks,” he said, coughing into his fist in an effort to hide his beer breath.
Marymount strode over to Easy, planting his hand on his shoulder. It felt like a block of cold ice. Easy was relieved when he took it away, still smiling fondly at all the boys. “Well, carry on, gentlemen. Don't let me impede your quest to do good deeds.” He shook his head, still smiling. “I wish we'd had a club like this when I was at Waverly.”
And with that Marymount was gone, back out into the rain.
As soon as the door closed behind him, Heath slapped his knee and let out a loud guffaw. “Holy shit,” he said, cupping his* hand over his mouth. “Was that brilliant or what?”
“Or what,” Brandon said sourly. “Christ, we could've all been suspended.”
Heath ignored Brandon and scooped the marker off the floor. It had made its way back toward the gym bag full of empty beer bottles. He ran up to the board and scribbled saving puppies at the bottom of the list. “This is the best cover ever! We can totally operate above the radar now … with Marymount's blessing.”
“To the Men of Waverly!” Ryan called out.
“No, wait!” Heath held up his hand. “How about the Boys of Waverly. BoW. Ger it? That'll be our signal to each other. Bow-wow. ‘Cause we're dogs.”
“Brilliant.” Brandon rolled his eyes. For once, Easy was in agreement.
“Bow-wow,” Alan said, trying it out.
Soon the room was filled with woofing and howling, and it was all Easy could do to keep from following Marymount out the door.
But, like it or not, Easy realized, BoW was his ticket to staying on Marymount's good side—and at Waverly Academy—at least long enough to resolve things once and for all with Callie.
21
A SCHOLARLY OWL KNOWS THAT STUDY GROUPS ARE AN EXCELLENT WAY TO INCREASE PRODUCTIVITY.
Brandon steadied himself against the wrought iron railing of Dumbarton's front steps. Despite his protests, Heath had made him drink one of the last two forties left after the Men—er, Boys of Waverly meeting broke up. Heath had discovered the beer hiding at the bottom of his gym bag after everyone else left and cried alcohol abuse, a childish challenge that Brandon was nonetheless too weak to overcome. As much as Heath pissed him off, he wasn't about to back down when faced with a challenge like that. Spite and shame were the two greatest motivators, he knew, though he never knew which was fueling his decisions when Heath was involved.
“They're not going to be here,” he said to Heath. His roommate had his hand cupped against a window that looked into the common room on the first floor to peer inside. Neither of them wanted to stumble into Dumbarton drunk if there was no reason to. Thankfully, it had stopped raining an hour ago.
“Dude, chill. It's an assignment, remember? We said we'd do it tonight—they'll be here,” Heath reminded him. He flipped open his BlackBerry and texted away.
“When did you tell them?” Brandon asked, gripping the railing tighter. His head felt like a helium balloon.
Heath ignored him. “There they are!” he said excitedly. He slapped his palm against the window to catch Sage and Kara's attention. They turned simultaneously and Brandon felt a rubbery smile spread across his face.
“Hiya, boys.” Kara pushed open the front door and bounded down the few steps to Heath, wearing a pair of cigarette-leg black jeans and a thick black turtleneck. She planted a wet kiss on Heath. “What's that toothpaste? Budweiser?”
“Cobra, baby,” Heath growled, pulling her back in for another kiss.
“You guys can come in—it's still visiting, and Pardee's usually supervising drama club rehearsals on Saturday nights.” Sage stood just inside the door, rubbing her hands on her ar
ms, her black tights peeking out from beneath a royal blue skirt. Brandon wobbled up to her and she wrapped her arms around him, smelling deliciously like hot cocoa and pears. “You brush your teeth too?”
“Yup,” Brandon answered. He aimed a kiss for her mouth but ended up smacking her smooth cheek instead.
The downstairs common room was empty save for some abandoned notebooks, a hot pink fleece, and one houndstooth rain boot. It was similar to the Richardson common room, but, not surprisingly, a lot more feminine. The dark oak trim had been painted white, and the walls were a slate blue instead of a dark forest green, giving the room an airy, Martha Stewart feel. The walls were decorated with ink drawings of sailboats and sketches of wildfiowers, and the polished hardwood floors were covered with ancient-looking navy Oriental rugs.
Heath poked at the cold ashes in the fireplace. “I’m cold, man,” he said when Brandon asked what he was doing.
“The heat never stays in this room.” Kara dropped onto one of the velvety navy sofas and wrapped her arms around her knees. “The flood made it worse. Now it's wet and cold.”
Brandon flopped down on the sofa opposite, and Sage fell next to him naturally, her short wool skirt revealing a good stretch of curvy, toned thigh. If Brandon had been cold before, the warmth of Sage's body—and his thoughts of Sage's body—were enough to heat him up. He felt himself smiling uncontrollably.
“Okay.” Heath rubbed his chin as if deep in thought. “Let's get started.” He pointed the poker in Kara's direction and grinned devilishly. “Name all the sexual positions you've wanted to try but were too afraid to ask.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Sage held her hands up like a referee, her short, neat nails covered in a pale pink polish that made Brandon think of lollipops. “As Mrs. Horniman would say, I don't think there's a college essay in there.”
Heath grinned. “Yeah, but I thought the point was to interview each other about various stuff to find out what we should write about in our essays,” he said, feigning innocence.
“I’m not applying to Playboy University,” Kara protested mildly, suppressing a smile.
Heath clapped his hands together in mock prayer. “If only there were a Playboy University.”
Brandon let out a loud laugh. He'd been a little afraid that Sage didn't know what kind of guy Heath was—she'd once said, “He doesn't seem so bad,” which had chafed Brandon ever since—but a drunken evening with Heath asking obnoxious questions was all it would take for her to realize Heath was not exactly the romantic hero she might think. No matter how touchy-feely—and kind of girly—he was with Kara, he was still Heath Ferro, after all.
“Before you even start talking like that, Heath, I think Kara and I need some of this.” Sage fumbled through her oversize apple red YSL bag and pulled out four frosted shot glasses and an elegant flask with a sepia-toned image of cherry trees on it. “You guys got a head start.” She poured two clear shots and handed one over to Kara, who clinked hers against Sage's. “That's better,” she said, shaking her butter-blond head as she downed the vodka shot. “Let's start easy. Favorite band.”
“Radiohead,” Heath and Kara said at the same time. They looked at each other and both said, “Jinx, buy me a Coke.”
“A gram or an ounce?” Heath asked and Kara socked him lightly in the gut before passing her shot glass back to Sage for a refill.
“What about you?” Brandon asked Sage, bumping his knee not so accidentally against her stockinged leg. His wool Ben Sherman trousers felt scratchy against her sleek stockings, and the friction was enough to send his mind reeling with thoughts of tearing off her clothes. Had he always been this horny, or did Sage just bring it out in him? Or maybe it was the combination of Sage and the forties?
“I don't know… . The Cowboy Junkies, probably,” she admitted.
A moment of silence passed and Heath blurted out a laugh like he'd been holding his breath for an hour. “What? I’ve never heard of them.” Kara shot him a look.
“I like the Cowboy Junkies too,” Brandon lied. He wasn't even sure he knew any of their songs and hoped that Sage wouldn't call him on it. He then said that Linkin Park was his favorite band, which wasn't technically true. But if he admitted out loud that sometimes he actually listened to *NSYNC, and that Madonna was sort of great to work out to, Sage would probably have to dump him on the spot.
“All right, how about favorite guilty pleasure movie?” Brandon asked, leaning back against the sofa and enjoying the feel of his arm pressed against Sage's. He wished Kara and Heath would disappear and it would be just the two of them, talking about their favorite bands and movies and kissing, then kissing some more… .
“Uh, I don't believe any pleasures are guilty.” Heath put his hand on Kara's knee and she batted it away. Everyone else ignored him.
“Sweet Home Alabama,” Sage cried out as if trying to buzz in first on a game show. She grinned sheepishly at Brandon, who already knew she loved any Reese Witherspoon movie. “It's a dumb movie, but every time I catch it on TV, I can't look away.”
“Oh, good one,” Kara agreed, her cheeks flushed from the vodka. “I’d have to say 13 Going on 30.”
“You mean Big.“ Heath tried again to rest his hand on Kara's leg. This time she crossed her arms and stared him down until he removed it. “That's a remake of Big with Tom Hanks.”
“I don't think it's a remake per se,” Brandon corrected him.
“Dude,” Heath said, “it's a remake.”
“What's yours?” Kara goaded Heath, offering him a sip from her newly refreshed shot glass.
“Weekend at Bernie's,” he answered automatically, downing the alcohol without making a face. “Though it's really one of the greatest films ever, and I don't think I should feel guilty about it.”
“What's yours?” Kara asked Brandon.
Brandon had to bite his lip to keep from revealing the truth—his favorite movie was Love, Actually. But that seemed a little too metrosexual to admit to. Instead, he coughed and said, “The Fast and the Furious.”
“That's a boss movie,” Heath said, holding up his hand for Brandon to swat him five. Brandon stuck his fist out and Heath bumped it.
“Think I can get into Bennington with an essay about Sweet Home Alabama?” Sage asked playfully. She giggled and nuzzled her face into Brandon's neck.
“Most embarrassing secret,” Kara said.
The front door opened and a pair of girls in brightly colored puffy jackets stamped upstairs in an orange and red blur. The cold settled in the common room and Sage rubbed her arms for warmth, pressing her leg against Brandon's.
“I accidentally let my sister's puppy out when we were kids and it got run over.” Sage stared down at her knees. She covered her mouth with her hand as if she regretted letting the secret out. “Wow, I’ve never admitted that out loud.”
“That's terrible.” Kara leaned forward, looking like she wanted to give Sage a hug. “What happened?”
“I thought it could go outside and I opened the door for it and it took off. I chased after it but it ran into the road in front of this garbage truck.” Sage's face had gone pale, and Brandon had no idea what he should do. He put an arm around her shoulder and she eased against him gratefully.
“Ohh!” Heath winced. “Smack.”
“I lied and said the dog got out on its own. I even scratched up the bottom of the kitchen door with a butter knife to make it look like I was telling the truth.”
“Yeah, but you didn't know,” Brandon said. He imagined Sage as a five-year-old with her sunlight blond hair in long silky ponytails. “That's an honest mistake.”
“I doubt I’d tell my sister about it even now,” Sage murmured to Brandon. “She loved that dog. She still talks about it like it's a deceased relative.” She buried her head in his neck again.
“What's your dark secret?” Heath asked Kara, turning to face her.
“You first.” Kara stuck her tongue out at him.
“Let's see,” Heath said, rolling
his eyes toward the ceiling.“There are so, so many.” He furrowed his brow as if he was really trying to pick one, and Brandon shook his head, annoyed. “This one time my friends and I threw a cup of piss on this guy riding a bike,” he said. He smiled sheepishly when no one laughed and added, “It wasn't my idea.”
Brandon watched a look of horror crawl over Kara's face. He glanced sideways at Sage, who wore a similar look. Kara continued-to stare at Heath while he went on and on about how he and his friends had pulled up next to a guy wearing a Taco Bell uniform and pedaling a ten-speed.
“He was probably on his way home from work,” Kara said, a note of disgust in her voice.
“Who knows.” Heath, his eyes reddened with alcohol, was completely oblivious to Kara's scowl. “It was pretty funny, though. I mean, it was a Taco Bell cup, if you can believe that.”
“What a coincidence,” Brandon said, surprised at how satisfying it was to see Heath fall in the girls’ estimation.
“Ew, don't talk about it anymore.” Sage put her hands to her ears.
“What about you, Miss Perfect?” Heath asked Kara.
“I don't know about Miss Perfect,” Kara said, “but I can't top that story.” She played with a button on her sleeve.
“C’mon,” Heath egged her on.
“You don't want to hear it,” Kara told him.
“Sure we do,” Heath said. He looked at Brandon and Sage as if to confirm.
“You don't have to if you don't want to,” Brandon said, not because he didn't want to hear Kara's secret—she did have this totally mysterious aura about her—but because he was in a contrarian groove: whatever Heath said or did, he would do the opposite. It was his new way of life.
“I went on a cabbage soup diet after I left Waverly—which I did, in no small part, because of your teasing.” Kara looked at Heath, who was trying to compute what she was saying. He screwed up his face and scrunched his brow. “I ate cabbage soup for a whole month—breakfast, lunch, and dinner.”