Jenny patted her down, dusting the snow from her back and shoulders. “As long as it doesn't start melting, you'll be okay,” she said helpfully.
Tinsley stared at Jenny's ultra-pink cheeks. She bit her lip, chapped from a cold, dry night in the car. Okay, this girl was sometimes a little annoyingly chipper—but she wasn't as bad as Tinsley had thought. In her short red peacoat and her snow-covered Keds, her crazy brown curls pulled back into a loose ponytail, she looked sweet and natural and completely nonthreatening. This was the girl Tinsley had been so worried about? So what if she'd won the stupid Halloween costume contest? So what if … well, so what if Julian had chosen Jenny over her? He was just a freshman, after all. What the hell did he know?
“My parents used to belong to a country club on Long Island that had the best hot tubs,” Tinsley announced, lifting her feet high in an effort to move quickly through the snow. “And hot male masseuses.”
Jenny's brown eyes lit up. “I could go for one of each,” she said. “And a cup of hot chocolate.”
“A plate of Belgian waffles, drenched with syrup.” Tinsley's stomach rumbled at the thought. For dinner last night, she'd eschewed the dining hall's notoriously terrible chicken a la king for a giant bowl of Lucky Charms, and all night her stomach had rumbled angrily. Jenny had picked up a Twix bar when they'd stopped for gas somewhere in Massachusetts, but Tinsley had pretended she wasn't interested. Now she regretted playing it cool.
“Chocolate chip pancakes, with a little whipped cream on top.”
“I’ll race you,” Tinsley challenged her.
“Loser has to come up with the perfect revenge on Drew and all the evil boys at Waverly,” Jenny said. She arched her eyebrows.
“I’ve got a few ideas,” Tinsley said, already taking off in a full sprint toward the country club. The cold air rushed into her lungs as she ran, her mind delirious with the prospect of warmth.
So maybe Jenny Humphrey was okay after all. But Tinsley would be damned if she would let her beat her to the hot tub.
36
A WAVERLY OWL TAKES HER RESPONSIBILITIES SERIOUSLY—EVEN WHEN SHE'D RATHER COLLAPSE INTO TEARS.
Brett breezed through the double doors to the library on Tuesday morning, her canvas Strand tote bag swinging from her arm. She'd marched across the lawn with purpose, as if she were on her way to a job where everyone depended on her decision-making powers, but in reality she had no idea if Sebastian would actually show up for their appointment.
Benny Cunningham waved at her through the glass of one of the study rooms, the de facto offices of Absinthe, the Waverly lit mag. Benny pointed a finger at her own temple and pretended to pull the trigger. Brett assumed the gesture had to do with the quality of work in the stacks of manuscripts piled on the table in front her.
Extracurriculars. She cursed Mrs. Horniman and the whole stupid Waverly administration—it wasn't really fair of her to ask Brett to do something that she couldn't very well refuse to do. Didn't she do enough at this school? She was the class prefect. She had disciplinary committee meetings every week, and private conferences with Dean Marymount and Miss Rose, the DC adviser. She'd started the damn Women of Waverly club—wasn't that something? She'd had a hellish social life this year, and she was still managing to get A’s. Relatively speaking, Brett was valedictorian material. Or at least she thought so.
Brett rubbed the arms of her Waverly blazer, which she'd worn in an effort to establish at least a tiny bit of authority with Sebastian. She rounded the corner, expecting to find the glass-walled study room she'd reserved to be dark and empty. Instead, Sebastian was doubled over the table, fast asleep despite the blazing fluorescent lights. His dark head lay in his arms on top of an open textbook. A blast of cologne blew in her face as she opened the door and her eyes watered slightly.
“Knock, knock.” Brett closed the door behind her. She cringed at the sound of her voice—did she have to talk like a teacher? And a dorky one at that? She smoothed the sides of her skinny black Habitual jeans. It had been a struggle to get dressed this morning. She felt like shit after everything that had happened last night, and the last thing she wanted to do was walk around campus looking even worse than she felt. So she'd compromised on the black jeans, her knee-high black Taryn Rose boots, and a charcoal Design History ribbed turtleneck that she knew set off her bright red hair.
Sebastian lifted his head, blinking his eyes, and Brett took him in for the first time. He had dark, almost jet-black hair and an olive complexion, and even sitting down she could tell he was tall. His eyelashes were surprisingly long, looking almost feminine as they opened and closed over his deep brown eyes. “Hey,” he said, his voice gravelly. In his plain white T-shirt, a single gold chain around his neck, he looked like all the boys she'd grown up with in Jersey—albeit one with perfectly chiseled cheekbones. Was that what Horniman had meant when she said they had similar backgrounds? Did she think Brett was tacky, too?
“Thanks for coming,” she said sarcastically, hoping to cover her surprise. “I’m, uh, Brett,” she added, as if that weren't obvious. She dropped her tote bag on the table and pulled out a chair, stifling a yawn. After the disastrous BoW meeting last night, she'd collapsed into bed, her knees weak from the knowledge that it was really and truly over with Jeremiah. Tinsley had never even come home, and the room had remained silent all night. But even with her room all to herself, Brett couldn't sleep. She was haunted by the image of Jeremiah calling her a liar. She didn't even care about the fact that half a dozen Waverly guys had seen pictures of her making out with Kara—it didn't matter now anyway.
“No worries.” Seb eyed her, slumping back in his chair. “These two chicks stole my car last night, so I didn't have anything better to do anyway.” He smiled. “Or, if I did, I wouldn't have any way to get there.”
“Why don't you call the cops?” Brett said distractedly, fishing in her bag for her flash cards. She'd spent an hour making them yesterday afternoon in the hope that they could just run through them, and she wouldn't need to do much extra talking. Seb clearly didn't want to hear anything she had to say, anyway. But he had an advanced Latin exam this week, and Mrs. Horniman had stressed that he really needed to not get a D on this one.
“Cops?” He stared at Brett as if she'd just suggested he call his mom. “What would they do?”
“Uh, their job?” Why was he so combative? She was just trying to make conversation. Finally, her sheer baby pink—painted nails latched onto her fat, rubber-banded wad of index cards. She pulled it out of the bag.
“Where I’m from, you don't call the cops,” Seb said dramatically.
“Where are you from?” Brett's mind wandered as she made small talk. An image of Jeremiah disappearing up the Maxwell stairs, gone forever, his cell phone turned off or going straight to voice mail clouded her mind. What if he was … with … slutty rebound chick Elizabeth again?
“Paterson,” Seb answered, running his hands through his shiny hair.
Brett tried to focus. “I’ve been to Paterson.” So he was from Jersey—as if he could have been from anywhere else. She grabbed a pen from her bag, not because she needed to take notes but because she always liked to have it as a prop. It made her feel more in control. She thought of Bob Dole, and how he used to always grip his pen during speeches. “It's not that bad.”
“They took down the Hurricane in Paterson,” Seb said, eyeing her.
Brett stared back at him. She could tell already that he was one of those annoying guys who always spoke in cryptic half-jokes, never able to say anything real. If he was like that with his teachers, no wonder he was flunking out. “What does that mean?” she asked.
Seb raised his eyes to the ceiling, as if he were the one dealing with someone difficult. “What's that?” he asked, pointing at the flash cards. He wore a wide silver ring on his right index finger, clearly not caring that it clashed with his gold necklace.
“I thought you might want a vocab refresher.” She flipped through the cards to ma
ke sure they were all faceup. She held up the first card. The word aedificium was scrawled in Brett's neat penmanship across the front.
“I think my roommate had that once.” He smiled impishly.
“I doubt it.” Brett scowled and sat up straighter in her chair. “Look, I’m not here for my health.” She cringed as one of her mother's favorite sayings escaped her lips. The truth was, Brett welcomed the distraction and had secretly been looking forward to the study session—she thought she'd go crazy if she spent another minute alone, replaying the scene with Jeremiah. “Let's just get through these cards so we can see where you are.”
She continued to flip through the cards, not really listening to Seb's answers, her mind unable to focus. She couldn't help but think that if she could just sit down and explain everything to Jeremiah that he would see that she hadn't meant to deceive him, that she was really just trying to protect him. Besides, just because she'd kissed Kara—and enjoyed it—wasn't such a huge deal. He's slept with Elizabeth and she'd forgiven him. Her mind raced as she thought of all the ups and downs of their relationship—the last few months seemed to be completely characterized by betrayals and forgiveness, back and forth between them.
Brett shivered involuntarily.
“Are you cold?” Seb asked. “They're so stingy with the heat in here. You want my jacket?” He nodded in the direction of his worn black leather jacked draped over the chair next to him.
Brett was so touched by the gesture that she nearly broke down in tears. Her lower lip quivered as she stifled the well of emotion she felt pushing up from inside. “That's okay.” She touched the butterfly clip holding back a lock of her red hair. “But thanks.”
“What were you thinking about?” he asked, leaning his elbows on the table. His eyes washed over her face, and a half-smile played on his lips. “Before, I mean.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, startled. She set down the cards.
His half-smile broke into a full one, and Brett idly wondered how many girls’ hearts he'd broken before. With his leather jacket and attitude problem, he definitely had that typical rebel appeal, but then he also had this really sweet smile that made him feel kind of … safe. “I mean you weren't paying attention,” he chided her playfully. “You held up a card that said omnibus and I said Mustang and you just flipped to the next card like it was the right answer or something.”
Brett smiled awkwardly, all the heat in her body rushing to her face. “Sorry.” She played with the copper bangle bracelets on her wrist. “Want me to start over?”
“That's cool.” Seb shook his head slightly. “I know what they mean—most of them. I was just playing you.” He kicked his feet up on the table and Brett knew the study session was lost. His eyes watched her expectantly, waiting for … what?
“You really want to know? What I was thinking about?” Brett clenched her hands under the table. Was it totally insane to give up so easily and, instead of helping Seb, who'd been avoiding her all week, to use him as her therapist?
“I’m dying to know.”
“Well, okay.” Brett tapped her nails on the table. “My boyfriend broke up with me.” Seb raised an eyebrow, as if to say “And?” Brett narrowed her eyes at him, feeling the need to show him she could be shocking too. “Because he found out I’d been making out with a girl while we were broken up the last time.”
Seb's jaw dropped. “Wow, Red.” He ran his hand over his stubbly chin, waiting for more.
And so she spilled the entire story, all about Kara, and the WoW meetings, and the flood, and Jeremiah coming back from his game early, and the stupid pictures that she and Kara had sent to Heath to bribe his silence. The words rushed out of her and she felt herself winding down physically as she reenacted the last scene with Jeremiah for Seb, her hands fluttering around her head like caged birds. She leaned back in her chair, winded, wondering where the hour had gone.
“Wow,” Seb said softly. “That's incredible.” He looked at her sympathetically, and where she'd thought it might help to just talk to someone, she realized saying everything out loud had only made it worse. She missed Jeremiah more than ever, and the hole in her heart had only gotten bigger. “You really are screwed.”
Brett had to laugh. “That's your brilliant insight? I spill all my problems to you, and all you can come up with is that I’m screwed?”
“What did you expect?” Seb asked, a strange twinkle in his eye as he watched Brett pack up her things. What, did he think she was crazy? Lame? A joke? But no, the look wasn't anything like that—it was like he was seeing her for the first time, kind of. “I’m flunking out.”
“Here.” She handed him the wad of flash cards. “Will you use these?”
He mock-saluted her. “Anything you say.” He gave her one last, long look as she disappeared out the door, muttering something about meeting later in the week to do more work.
Brett was so upset by the realization that things with Jeremiah really were beyond repair that Seb's look barely registered.
Until later, after she'd gone back to her room to lie down, when it was all she could think about.
37
A WAVERLY OWL KNOWS THAT YOU ALWAYS HAVE TO WAKE UP, EVEN FROM THE MOST PLEASANT DREAM.
The plane drifted through the winter sky, banking back toward Waverly through a pillow of gray clouds. Callie gripped Easy's hand tighter as the small plane fought the wind. The plane's cabin was small and a little outdated—the walls were covered in a thick beige carpet-like material—but to Callie, it was heaven. She was curled up in the seat next to Easy, wrapped in a deliciously warm blanket they'd found folded up in the overhead bin. She stared into Easy's dark blue eyes as he touched her cheek and ran his hands over her hair. Easy's touch was warm, and her grateful skin soaked it up.
She'd thought she'd never know what it was to be warm again, but Easy had swooped in and rescued her from certain frozen death. So what if she'd been fifty feet from the stupid camp—she hadn't known it. What, was Natasha planning on running out there the exact second before frostbite set in? Bitches, all of them. Her mother should sue the place out of business.
“You warm enough?” Easy murmured into Callie's ear. She nestled her head into Easy's neck, drinking in the sweet smell of his skin.
“I’m good,” she answered. “But I’m starving.” Life was perfect again. The hum of the plane was like a time machine, transporting them back to the day they'd first met, the Absinthe party in the rare books room at the library. She could almost hear Benny yammering on about the poem she'd written, how the moon symbolized what we can never know, how it hung over everyone, lording its mysteriousness. Easy, who'd been watching her all night, rolled his eyes, then caught Callie with a look that melted her completely, as if he'd never seen a girl before and she'd awoken all his senses. She'd carried around that memory for so long that she'd worn it out, couldn't recall it on command the way she used to. But it came flooding back as she kissed Easy's neck, as if it had all happened yesterday. Callie could hardly believe that it was more than a year later. She regretted everything she'd done to drive Easy away, and made a silent promise to herself that everything would be different the second time around. They'd be different, good again. She'd never felt so positive about anything in her life.
Easy fumbled through the faded canvas messenger bag at his feet and pulled out a half-crushed Snickers bar. “That's the best I can do—I don't think they have those little bags of peanuts on this airline.”
“I don't even care.” Callie tore into the candy bar and popped it into her mouth, savoring the taste of caramel and chocolate and not even thinking about how many calories she was devouring. “Mmmmmmm,” she groaned in pleasure.
Easy kissed Callie on the forehead, feeling the warmth of her skin. He would never admit it out loud, but he'd been convinced he would come across Callie's body in a snowbank. He knew he'd never be able to forgive himself if the last words he ever spoke to her were the harsh words that had sent her off into the woods of
Maine, driven away by what an asshole he could be. When he'd spotted Callie on her knees in the snow, he was sure that he'd dreamed her up, that it was some sort of trick his mind was playing on him, that he'd spend the rest of his life spotting her in restaurant windows, or on the train, or across crowded rooms, always a little out of focus, or turning away just as he was trying to catch her attention, swept away in the noise that always seemed to surround them.
Not this time, he thought to himself, unable to keep his hands off her wavy blond hair. When he'd picked her up off the ground and held her shivering body, he'd known he'd dedicate the future to making things right with Callie. Her apologies sounded like the mad chatter of a crazy person, but he knew she meant it, had known all along that she wasn't capable of the things she'd done without being under the influence of Tinsley and other conspirators at Waverly who were always trying to make things miserable for everyone else. But not Callie. He knew her, had known her since he'd first met her. He realized with a measure of shame that he'd undervalued just how special Callie was, how much they truly belonged together.
“I can't believe I was such an asshole to you at that party.” Easy stroked her arm through the thick blanket and watched the lightening sky as the small plane circled the tiny buildings that made up the Rhinecliff airport. Easy tried not to think about going to chemistry class in an hour. “You looked … really beautiful. I wish I’d told you that.”
Callie beamed, tiny smudges of chocolate dotting the corners of her mouth. “It's never too late.”
Easy leaned in to kiss her again. Her mouth tasted like candy.
The plane taxied down the Rhinecliff airport runway, the sun finally peeking up over the horizon. Easy gave Callie's hand a squeeze, a promise between them that things were going to be different this time around.
“I love you,” he said. He liked the look of surprise in her eyes, just like the first time he'd ever said it.