Brandon pulled his clean shirt on over his head thoughtfully. Sage Francis? She was pretty cute, although he’d never really thought of her that way before.
Heath was rolling on the floor like a dog, laughing, and Sam, now shirtless, was still engrossed in his game of Spider-Man. Maybe he should try talking to Sage Francis, Brandon thought. It had to be better than hanging out here.
From:
[email protected] To:
[email protected] [email protected] [email protected] [email protected] [email protected] [email protected] [email protected] [email protected] [email protected] [email protected] [email protected] Date: Monday, October 14, 8:46 A.M.
Subject: Disciplinary Meeting
Dear Students,
If you are receiving this e-mail, that means you have been placed on a short list of suspects responsible for Friday night’s reckless and dangerous barn fire. Your attendance is required at a mandatory meeting in my office in Stansfield Hall on Wednesday at 8 A.M.
No exceptions.
Dean Marymount
SageFrancis: Shit has hit the fan!
BennyCunningham: Since when are we as suspicious as Easy and Callie? Or Tinsley? And Julian? Hello, lighter?
SageFrancis: Whatevah. Looking forward to being locked in the DC room with Brandon . . .
BennyCunningham: Uh, yeah. And the 11 other suspects. Très romantic.
SageFrancis: If we go to prison, there are always conjugal visits!
KaraWhalen: Ohmigod, how did we end up on the list?
BrettMesserschmidt: No clue. Guilty by association??
KaraWhalen: Since when did Waverly become a totalitarian regime? And can our junior prefect really be a suspect?
BrettMesserschmidt: Dunno, but I’m about to find out.
9
A WAVERLY OWL SHOWS GRACE UNDER FIRE.
Jenny made her way through the coffee bar inside Maxwell Hall on Monday morning, her attention locked on the close-to-spilling mocha cappuccino in her hands. She turned away from the counter and scanned the crowded café area for an empty table. The main entryway of Maxwell was like that of a castle, with Romanesque arches cut out of its tall stone walls. Jenny loved to sit in the dark alcoves on the upper tier, where you could quietly read a book or watch everyone who came in and out of the café area. But as she scanned around for a seat, she had the distinct impression that everyone was staring at her. She blinked hard, wondering if she was being paranoid. Her thick gray cable-knit J.Crew stockings and brown cord skirt were totally Monday A.M. appropriate. And she’d just woken up, so there was nothing in her teeth. She sighed. In her month at Waverly, people had found some new reason to stare at her almost every day. For being new and clueless, for being big-chested, for stupidly making out with Heath Ferro, for getting caught with Easy in her bed (innocently), for hooking up with Easy (less innocently), for getting dumped by Easy (totally innocently), and now . . . for what?
She spotted Sage and Benny at a round wooden table against the wall, near one of the large fireplaces. Jenny moved toward them, but they were so engrossed in conversation they didn’t seem to notice her.
“No matter what?” Sage asked, her hand clutching at the sleeve of Benny’s navy-striped Le Tigre hoodie.
“No matter what.” Benny flicked at Sage’s wrist. “Don’t get all clutchy on me.”
“No matter what, what?” Jenny asked as she pulled out a cushy armchair at their table, careful not to spill her coffee.
Sage and Benny froze.
“What’s going on?” Jenny set her giant mug down on the table, which was littered with napkins and a field of pale blue Equal packets.
“The e-mail,” Sage whispered dramatically. Wearing a black Ella Moss wrap dress, with gigantic Bottega Veneta sunglasses perched on her head, she looked like a starlet hiding out from the paparazzi. She glanced over her shoulder, but life seemed to be going on as usual in the coffee bar.
“What e-mail?” Jenny took a small sip of her mocha, confused. Had she missed another mildly pornographic e-mail from Heath? Her heart sank a little. Not that she wanted any pornographic e-mail from Heath, but she didn’t want to be the only one not included.
“Your name was on it.” Benny’s aubergine-lined eyes narrowed at Jenny, as if she were trying to catch her in a lie.
“I didn’t check my e-mail this morning.” Jenny shrugged her small shoulders, glancing at the red plastic wristwatch she’d bought in Chinatown. The numbers were in Chinese. What was with everyone this morning? “What was it, some kind of joke?”
“It’s not a joke,” Sage answered, pulling a lock of her pale blond hair up to her mouth and looking like she wanted to chew on it. “Someone is going to get kicked out. It could be any of us.”
“Wait.” Jenny focused on what Sage and Benny were trying to tell her. “Start from the beginning.” Benny laid out the gist of Marymount’s e-mail, sounding like she knew it by heart, while Sage ticked off the list of Marymount’s suspects. Jenny held her stomach when Sage pointed at her and said, “And you, too.”
“Probably because they found Julian’s lighter,” Benny pointed out, stuffing a burgundy Moleskine-bound notebook back into her Fendi tote bag. “And everyone knows about you and Julian.”
Jenny put her mug down on the table. They did? That was news to Jenny, though she didn’t know why she should be surprised, even if there was barely anything to know. Yet.
Benny continued, tapping her chewed-off nails against the oak tabletop. “Which means Marymount probably knows, too. So that’s probably why you’re on it.”
Jenny nodded, staring out the enormous glass windows at the brightly colored treetops, wondering if all other boarding schools had this much drama, or if she was just lucky. Or rather, unlucky.
“Marymount has it in for us because of the candles,” Sage explained, flicking invisible dots of Equal off the bell sleeve of her dress.
Benny nodded. “We have a stack of violations. What’s the big deal? I smelled someone burning a strawberry candle yesterday. It stank up the entire dorm. These days, everyone has candles but us.” She leaned back in the giant armchair and shook her head at the injustice.
Jenny sipped her mochaccino, hoping Benny and Sage’s blasé attitude would rub off on her. She wasn’t sure this had anything to do with Julian. On Friday night, when she’d confronted Callie about sneaking around with Easy, Callie had snapped back that Jenny had probably started the fire herself. After all, Jenny had more motive than anyone, at least according to Callie’s twisted logic. But even if Callie were to go to the dean with that theory, he’d never believe her. Right?
She suddenly remembered how Miss Rosovsky, her American history teacher at Constance Billard, had shown them the historical inaccuracies in the movie JFK, but pointed out that most people chose to believe the conspiracy theories anyway. People preferred the more intricate, juicier explanation to the simpler, more logical one. Jenny had a feeling Dean Mary-mount was one of those people who believed the conspiracies. He didn’t want the truth—that the fire was probably an accident. He wanted someone with a motive. He’d prefer to believe that innocent, boarding-school-loving Jenny Humphrey had started it because she was a woman scorned.
“Where are you going?” Benny called out, but Jenny was already exiting the coffee bar door, her kids’ size destroyed red Vans heavy and solid against the marble floor of Maxwell Hall.
JennyHumphrey: Hey there . . . just got Dean M’s e-mail. Isn’t it crazy?
JulianMcCafferty: Totally. You’re too beautiful to be a suspect.
JennyHumphrey: I’m blushing. At least we’re in it together.
JulianMcCafferty: That’s the spirit.
JennyHumphrey: So what are you up to?
JulianMcCafferty: Actually, I was just thinking about you. . . .
JennyHumphrey: Good things, I hope.
JulianMcCafferty: Nope. Bad . . . very bad things.
JennyHumphrey: No wonder we’re in trouble. =)
From:
[email protected] To: Heath’s list of cool people
Date: Monday, October 14, 2:32 P.M.
Subject: Last Chance for US
Goodbye, Brandon, Tinsley, Benny, Sage, Jenny, Julian, Brett, Alison, Callie, Easy, Kara—we’ll miss you! (Hell, we’ll miss me, too.)
Just in case one of us/some of us/all of us US’s (i.e., Usual Suspects) gets handed a one-way ticket away from Waverly on Wednesday morning, I thought we should have a fittingly appropriate going-away party on Tuesday night at the crater. Who knows, it may be our last chance to misbehave here at good ol’ Waverly!
Those on Dean M’s favorite list—be sure to pick up your hot-off-the-presses US T-shirts at the entry to the party.
Btw, plebes—you’re all welcome to the party, to help give US a fond farewell, but whenever you come across one of US, you have to do exactly what that person says, as it could be his or her last night of freedom.
Don’t mess with US!!
Peace out,
Heath
HeathFerro: You in for the US party?
TinsleyCarmichael: I’m there. But I promise you, I won’t be leaving the next day.
HeathFerro: That’s the fighting spirit.
TinsleyCarmichael: Um, you texted me—why?
HeathFerro: I know you like your guys young . . . but how young?
TinsleyCarmichael: Listen, Heath. These annoying IMs? I’m starting to hope YOU don’t return.
HeathFerro: Ouch!
10
A WAVERLY OWL DOES NOT CONSPIRE AGAINST FELLOW OWLS.
Callie hunched over her chipped yellow cappuccino mug, her bare elbows sticking to the corner booth table at the Waverly Inn in downtown Rhinecliff. It seemed like a million years ago since she and Tinsley and Brett had congregated at this very table over amaretto sours and champagne, in an effort to help her drown out any memory of Easy. The Waverly Inn had seemed like the perfect set for a movie, with its dark wood bar, crusty bartender, and ancient, absurdly proper New England-y style. Today, in the late-morning light, the hotel bar looked more like a cafeteria in an old folks’ home. The only patrons were senior citizens, all of whom looked like they’d seen better days. The table was sticky and looked like it needed a good scrub-down, and the chips in the coffee mugs were clear in the light of day.
Class that morning had been out of the question. On Friday, Mr. Gaston had promised them a “surprise” for Monday, which Callie was pretty sure meant a quiz and not a five- hundred- dollar gift certificate to Barneys. No way could she be expected to identify Latin vocab after Dean Marymount’s e-mail. When she first saw the message in her inbox, so quickly after his last one, she’d hoped that the dean had ferreted out the guilty party—i.e., Jenny Humphrey—kicked her out, and closed the case. She’d already mentally planned taking over Jenny’s side of the room. But when she found out that she was a possible suspect in the fire, her fantasies about moving all her shoes into Jenny’s closet were replaced by nightmares of living at home and being forced to go to Atlanta public school with a bunch of kooky rednecks.
“Thanks for meeting me. You know CoffeeRoasters and Maxwell’s were far too public.” Tinsley took a sip of her cappuccino. Her thick black hair was swept up in a sloppy bun and secured by a pair of turquoise lacquered chopsticks, and she wore a navy Wayne sailor minidress that hugged her in all the right places. On anyone else, the outfit would have looked like a slutty Halloween costume, but Tinsley looked beautiful, as always.
What was amazing was how unthreatened Callie felt about her perfect-looking best friend these days. Despite the pimple threatening to break out above her left eye, and the two pounds she’d certainly put on over the weekend, drinking beer and eating anything Easy offered her, she felt more secure and confident than ever. She and Easy were in love again, even more so than before, and they had actually done it. It was incredible. She felt so . . . adult. Take that, Carmichael.
“Maybe I should’ve worn my Ella Moss wrap dress—you know that one that always looks like it’s going to unwrap? It worked on Dalton.” Tinsley leaned back in the booth and smiled fondly at the ancient tin ceiling. “Actually, it works on everyone. I still can’t believe Marymount didn’t believe me.”
Callie sipped her cappuccino slowly.
“Anyway.” Tinsley leaned in. “I’m not too worried about it.” She waved her hand as if swatting away an annoying fly. Her silver Anaconda ring sparkled in the morning light. “It isn’t going to be us that gets sent home, that much I can guarantee you.”
The thought of moving back into her bedroom at home in Atlanta, in the enormous stone governor’s mansion on Paces Ferry Road, with its pale pink rug and creepy canopy bed, gave Callie the shivers. So did the thought of having breakfast every morning with her overly coiffed mother. “How can you be sure?” Callie asked worriedly. She pressed her palms against the sides of her cup, enjoying the feel of heat seeping through her skin. “Marymount must have something on all of us if he’s calling us suspects.”
“Could be a bluff,” Tinsley suggested confidently, smoothing a stray wisp of hair behind her left ear. “I’ve seen it a million times before.”
Callie tried not to roll her hazel eyes. Just because Tinsley’s passport had been stamped by just about every country in the world, she acted like she was so much more worldly and wise than everyone else. Callie had a feeling that was why Tinsley hadn’t pressed her for details about what was going on with Easy—she didn’t really want to know. It had recently come to light in a game of I Never that Tinsley was a virgin, and Callie was sure she couldn’t stand the idea that Callie had done something that she hadn’t. “Oh, yeah? Like, where?”
Tinsley narrowed her violet-colored eyes at her friend, her lips twitching at Callie’s challenge. “The movies.”
Callie snickered, licked her pointer finger, and stuck it in the lumpy raw sugar granules she’d spilled on her saucer.
Tinsley watched her. “That’s really gross, you know.” She removed the chopsticks from her dark hair and shook it out so it fell in waves over her shoulders. She raised her perfectly plucked left eyebrow, waiting for Callie to stop.
“But this isn’t a movie.” Callie felt the hint of a whine starting to creep into her voice. If Tinsley got kicked out of school, what would happen? Nothing. She’d go to South fucking Africa with her dad and make an award-winning documentary and get to meet George Clooney and Brad Pitt and all the other do-gooder A-listers at Cannes and Sundance. Oh, wait. She’d pretty much already done that. Only Tinsley could get kicked out of Waverly for doing E and come back smelling like roses. “You know my mother will sentence me to death if I get kicked out, right?” She wasn’t even sure if Georgia had the death penalty, but even if it didn’t, her mom would sign it into law.
Tinsley stared over Callie’s shoulder at the picture of downtown Rhinecliff from the 1920s—it looked about as exciting as it did today. “If it was a movie, who would play you?”
“Grace Kelly,” Callie answered immediately, holding her head up in what she probably thought was a princess-of- Monaco-worthy pose. She straightened the neck on her Joie silk ruffle top and looked out the window, staring out at the clear blue sky. Her eyes were distant. “The thing is, the list seems so random. Why is someone like Brandon Buchanan on it and not a freaking pothead like Alan St. Girard?”
Tinsley gulped her cooling cappuccino. She knew why Callie was on the list, and Easy—because she herself had blurted to the dean that they were in the barn. Not that she’d told Callie as much. She knew why Jenny and Julian were on the list, too. And of course, she knew why she was on the list. She was still mad at herself for fumbling her meeting with the dean.
“I wish I had come with you to Dean Marymount’s o
ffice,” Callie sighed, as if reading her mind. She twirled one of her strawberry blond locks nervously with the same finger she’d been sticking in the sugar. She was probably getting grains of sugar in her hair. Maybe Easy would like that.
“I wish you had, too.” Tinsley narrowed her eyes. She hoped she had achieved the right degree of chastisement in her tone. It served Callie right for ditching her. The disastrous scene in the dean’s office replayed in her head. Maybe if she hadn’t been so focused on Marymount’s gross unibrow, or her bizarre image of him as a hawk eating his students, or his sad family picture . . .
“Oh my God.” She sat up straighter in the booth. Callie looked at her in confusion, and Tinsley grinned, feeling positively gleeful. “I’ve got it!”
“So, Chloe.” Tinsley swirled her chocolate milk shake with a straw. “How are you enjoying Waverly so far?”
A tray of glasses shattered against the floor and everyone in Nocturne, the newly opened twenty-four-hour diner on the far end of Main Street in Rhinecliff, turned to look. Everyone except Tinsley, whose eyes were locked on the young prospective as though the girl held the key to salvation. Tinsley had picked a good spot for covert business, Callie thought. Nocturne was so new that it wasn’t yet on the faculty’s radar, and she was sure the retro, ’50s-style diner would be filled tonight with Owls eating grilled cheese and curly fries after curfew. Callie watched as the red-faced waitress swept up shards of glass that shone like diamonds against the diner’s black-and-white-checkered floor.
“It’s been okay,” Chloe replied tentatively. She was probably still a little shocked that Tinsley Carmichael had invited her to lunch off campus. Tinsley had lured her here on the premise of “getting to know her,” but as always with Tinsley, there was an ulterior motive. She had figured out where she recognized Chloe from: Dean Marymount’s family picture. The little twerp was his niece, and, as Tinsley’s scheming mind quickly discerned, she’d been feeding him information. Most likely, the dean’s list of “suspects” was nothing more than all the people who had been rude to Chloe over the weekend. Not that they were the most innocent people or anything, but still. That didn’t make them arsonists.