Callie grabbed Easy's scarf, pulling him toward her. “I know.”
They might've stayed like that the rest of the day if the plane hadn't shuddered to a stop, the pilot cutting the engine and removing his headphones. The cabin suddenly filled with the everyday noises of life back on the ground.
They stepped down the metal staircase pushed to the door of the plane hand in hand, greeting the cold, crisp air. Just the other day, Easy had been ready to give up on Waverly Academy—and Callie Vernon—completely. If he'd had an option besides military school, he might have been tempted enough to pack his shit up and take the next train out of Rhinecliff. But he'd stayed, and had realized that Callie was the kind of girl he kept wishing she could be. Maybe over winter break they could go to Paris together, just the two of them. Smoke cigarettes over coffee and croissants, sleep late, browse through the book stalls down by the Seine. He'd even let Callie drag him into one of those exclusive designer boutiques on the Champs-Élysées.
But all thoughts of baguettes and Gauloises disappeared from Easy's brain midway down the steps. Dean Marymount was standing on the tarmac, his lips pressed in a straight line. Mrs. Horniman stood next to him, holding a giant aluminum coffee thermos, an enormous red wool hat pulled down over her ears.
“Oh, fuck,” Easy muttered, his whole body deflating.
Callie squeezed his hand and stared up at him in panic, her wavy blond hair still unbrushed and wild. “You can't be in trouble—you saved my life!”
“Yeah, well …” Easy played with the zipper on his fleece and headed over to the two faculty members, slowly, not in any hurry to reach Marymount. “Horniman sort of … put me on probation,” he explained. “And told me if I left campus again …” His voice trailed off. He couldn't bear to look at Callie.
“Dean Marymount, I can explain.” Callie spoke up as they approached, her voice wobbling with fear. She kicked at a loose stone with a pair of thick hiking boots Easy had never seen before.
But Dean Marymount didn't look like he was in the mood for any explanation. He barely glanced at Callie, instead focusing his wire-rimmed stare directly at Easy. Wearing a long black wool trench coat, with bags under his eyes, he looked far more threatening than he did in his usual sweater-vests. The dean coughed into his bare hands. “Mr. Walsh,” he said, “care to hazard a guess as to whether or not this”—he gestured at the plane—”violates the terms of your probation?”
Easy tried to swallow the giant lump in this throat. “I don't think I have to guess, sir,” he finally managed to say, ignoring Marymount's imposing glare and staring at the gravel beneath his heels. He stole a glance at Callie, whose eyes were red and puffy and looked like they were about to burst into tears.
Maybe he and Callie wouldn't get a second chance after all.
AlisonQuentin:Ohmigod, poor Brett! Alan said Jeremiah was totally harsh.
BennyCunningham: Did he say anything about the pictures of her and Kara? I knew she couldn't last with Heath—he's 100% boy.
AlisonQuentin: Apparently, Brandon deleted them all. Poor Brett!
BennyCunningham: Don't feel too bad for her. Saw her in the lib with that greasy senior, having a totally intense conversation.
AlisonQuentin: Seb? You're kidding. He's kinda hot! R they together?
BennyCunningham: Right. Class prefect going for greezy boy? Don't hold your breath.
HeathFerro: Did EZ really save Callie from dying in a blizzard? How romantic! U never did that.
BrandonBuchanan: Glad U R feeling better.
HeathFerro: HF always bounces back. Think Walsh will get kicked out?
BrandonBuchanan: Seems like it. Heard Marymount was furious.
HeathFerro: Will you ditch Sage and try 2 comfort Callie?? Think U could get into both their pants?
BrandonBuchanan: Wow, you really are yourself again. Nice to have you back.
CelineColista: If EZ gets kicked out, who the hell am I going to lust over?
RifatJones: Could always try Heath—I hear he's got a sensitive side now.
CelineColista: Right. That'll last four hours.
BrettMesserschmitt: Did you hear? Jenny drove to Maine w Tinsley to save Callie. How weird is that?
KaraWhalen: Yeah, I heard T tried to feed J to a grizzly!
BrettMesserschmitt: Sounds like her … but when they got here, they actually seemed kind of … okay with each other.
KaraWhalen: Is life as we know it collapsing?
BrettMesserschmitt: Maybe it's all part of T’s master plan—make friends w Jenny, then destroy her!
KaraWhalen: That sounds more like it. =)
JennyHumphrey: Hey. Did you find one of my pink mittens?
TinsleyCarmichael: Thought you gave it to that waiter as a memento? He was all over you.
JennyHumphrey: Yeah, asking for your number! I told him you had herpes … hope you don't mind.
TinsleyCarmichael: Nah, he was too short anyway. More your type. Midget.
JennyHumphrey: Thx, ice queen. You're a real pal.
TinsleyCarmichael: Always keep your friends close—and your enemies closer.
Turn the page to read an excerpt of
gossip girl the carlyles
created by the #1 New York Times bestselling author Cecily von Ziegesar
voulez-vous coucher avec j?
Jack Laurent stuffed her pointe shoes in her regulation pink School of American Ballet dance bag, ignoring the other dancers drinking Vitamin Waters and flirting with the Fordham freshmen gathered around the fountain outside Lincoln Center. This year, Jack was in the prestigious internship program, in which she would take several classes a day in hopes of being selected for performances with the company. She had been dancing for most of her life, and it came as naturally to her as breathing. But today, she'd been half a second behind the music. For the first time, ballet had seemed hard, and Mikhail Turneyev, the internship program director, had noticed every single one of her missteps.
As she walked across the expansive marble plaza, Jack noticed a spot of blood from a blister staining the powder-blue suede Lanvin flats she'd bought at Barneys just this morning.
“Fuck,” she murmured. Angrily, she pulled off her shoes and threw them in a trash can. Thud.
One man's trash is another's treasure.
She slid her feet into the faded blue J. Crew flip-flops she kept in her bag for when she got a pedicure and sat on one of the low stone benches flanking the reflection pond opposite the Vivian Beaumont Theatre. She glanced at her Treo and saw that her father had called three times while she was in class. She'd consented to bimonthly lunch dates with him at Le Cirque, where he would ask her about school and dance and pretend to care about the answers, but, as a rule, they never called each other just to chat. He wasn't even aware she'd left the Paris Opera Ballet School of Dance early, and she did not feel like getting into it.
Jack was the unplanned offspring of Vivienne Restoin, the celebrated French prima ballerina, and Charles Laurent, the sixtysomething former American ambassador to France. Vivienne had gotten pregnant when she was twenty-one, and, as she was so fond of reminding Jack, sacrificed her dancer's body—and her career—for her only daughter. They'd left Paris as a family when Jack was only a year old, but her parents had divorced after a few years in New York together. Her dad had later remarried (a few times) and now lived in a town house with his new wife and the stepbrats in the West Village. Jack pulled out her pack of Merit Ultra Lights, lit one, and exhaled with a dramatic sigh.
“I thought you were giving those up this year.”
Jack whirled around to see her boyfriend, J.P. Cashman, strolling toward her. He was wearing a pair of khaki shorts and a neat, pink Brooks Brothers button-down. In his hand was a dog-eared copy of An Inconvenient Truth. He'd just come back from an expedition to the South Pole with his real-estate tycoon father, who was trying to ward off a slew of bad publicity by championing the environment. Jack quickly stamped out the cigarette with the heel of her flip-flop. J.P
. hated that she smoked, and she usually tried to refrain in his presence, but how was she supposed to know he'd surprise her after class? And didn't she deserve a teeny-tiny break when it was technically still summer?
“Hi, beautiful.” J.P. pulled her into him and she gripped his strong back as they kissed. He tasted like ginger candy. He rested his hand on her fleshier-than-usual hip.
While taking classes at the Paris Opera, she'd developed an addiction to the pain au chocolat from the bakery down the street from her dormitory.
“Want to grab lunch?” J.P. asked, easily snaking his arm around her waist. She stiffened under his touch, feeling like an extra-plump sausage in a pink leotard casing.
Moving from a size zero to a two is such a tragedy.
“As long as it doesn't actually include food,” Jack agreed, leaning against J.P. They walked hand in hand down Broadway toward Columbus Circle. The streets were crowded with families soaking up the last weekend of summer, and the air felt thick and hot.
“So,” J.P. began, gallantly slinging Jack's bag over his shoulder, “after the expedition, I was able to connect with this Columbia professor who's working on sustainability, and I’m actually interning—”
“J.P.?” Jack interrupted. “You didn't tell me I look pretty.” She knew it might sound pathetic to someone else, but J.P. always told her she looked pretty when he saw her. It was always the first thing out of his mouth and what Jack loved most about him.
Self-centered much?
“Yes, I did. I said, ‘Hi, beautiful.’ That's the same thing,” J.P. responded, hardly looking at her as he held open the gleaming glass door of the Time Warner Center.
True, Jack reasoned. She hated to demand a compliment, but ever since she'd been kicked out of the Paris Opera program for drinking muscadet alone in her dorm room, she'd been feeling a little shaky. She'd come home early and spent the last two weeks at her friend Genevieve's sprawling Maiden Lane compound in the Hamptons. Drinking Tanqueray gimlets on the beach hadn't been a bad way to end the summer, but feeling off during class this morning had brought back the memory of her Paris embarrassment and left her feeling raw.
They took the escalator up to Bouchon Bakery, the casual bistro on the third floor, and sat at a table overlooking Columbus Circle. Cars were backlogged in the traffic circle, and tourists lounged around the fountain at its center. Now that she was back with J.P., Jack felt her old confidence returning. So she'd have to eat salads for a few weeks and spend a few extra hours a week in the studio. Who cared? The most sought-after boy in New York loved her. They were all but destined to get married, live in one of his dad's luxurious buildings, and take fabulous vacations to rest up from their equally fabulous lives. And in the meantime, maybe this year was finally the year they would do it. It it.
That'd be one way to burn calories.
The sound of Tchaikovsky's Nutcracker Suite erupted from Jack's pink ballet bag. She pulled out her phone and looked at the display. Her father again. Jack grimaced and pressed ignore.
“Who's that?” J.P. asked, taking a bite of the grilled cheese sandwich a skinny, goateed waiter had just set down on the table. Jack could feel her stomach growling.
“Charles.” Jack shrugged and grabbed a fry off his plate. One wouldn't kill her.
“When was the last time you talked to him?” J.P. frowned.
Jack wrinkled her freckled nose. Just because J.P. was close to his own father and had gone on a freaking summerlong father-son Antarctic expedition, he assumed everyone should have the same type of jovial cross-generational relationship. J.P. was perpetually positive, which Jack loved, because it balanced out her tendency to freak the fuck out if someone got her order wrong at Starbucks. Now, though, she wanted his enthusiasm directed toward her. They could start by sitting in one of the luxurious leather seats in the screening room of the Cashmans’ apartment, watching The Umbrellas of Cherbourg or some other ridiculous French film and taking off one article of clothing every time someone lit up a fresh cigarette.
She grabbed another fry. Just thinking about J.P.’s hands on her body made Jack hungry.
Um. Doesn't she mean horny?
“Let's get out of here,” she whispered across the table, dragging her fingers across his tanned upper thigh, pleased when she saw his brown eyes widen excitedly.
Check, please!
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gossip girl the carlyles
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Cecily von Ziegesar, Tempted
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