For the special dinner that night to honor the prospectives, the dining hall had apparently been transformed from a mundane eating establishment into a five-star restaurant. The setting sun glinted through the stained glass windows, sending sprays of color across the white linen tablecloths. Irritated as she was at the presence of all the geeky prospectives—well, all but one—Tinsley was impressed that Marymount had splurged like this for their benefit. She paused in the doorway, both to admire the changes and to allow everyone the opportunity to see that she was as calm and unperturbed as ever, despite Marymount’s threatening e-mail.
Gone were the pizza bar and the cereal bins—even the soda fountains had been pushed back and turned toward the wall, replaced by a dizzying array of servers clad in pressed white shirts, black pants, and white gloves. Tinsley nearly knocked over one carrying a tray of canapés. Hors d’oeuvre trays? Apparently, when it came to securing Waverly’s financial future, the dean was more than willing to open his wallet a little. Someone had even gone to the trouble of calligraphing a sign stating ABSOLUTELY NO CELL PHONES, displayed prominently at the entrance.
She was one of the last to arrive, but she preferred it that way. She felt everyone’s eyes on her as she strode across the dining room in her vintage black Chanel baby doll dress and dark patterned stockings, walking in a way that made the somewhat shapeless dress come to life and cause everyone to wonder about the body underneath.
One of the long tables near the giant stone fireplace—in which a heap of logs had been set ablaze for the occasion, Tinsley noted with irony—had been overtaken by Sage and Benny and company. “Nice dress, T,” Benny offered up in a loud whisper as Tinsley passed.
“Thanks,” Tinsley answered in her regular voice, which made her realize how silent the cavernous dining hall was. Heads were pressed together at every table, and low whispering filled the air, as if everyone was afraid that speaking out loud would somehow indicate their guilt. At the other end of the table Callie caught Tinsley’s eye. She leaned her strawberry blond head toward Easy, who was practically sitting on top of her. Get a room, Tinsley snickered to herself. Callie beckoned her over with a raised blond eyebrow, patting the seat next to her with her Swarovski-pearl-braceleted hand.
Tinsley squeezed past the other Owls toward Callie’s end of the table, where Heath was trying to convince one of the servers to set her tray of hors d’oeuvres down directly in front of him. Whispering erupted in Tinsley’s wake, and she smiled to herself. She didn’t mind being named a suspect in the Miller fire—anyone who’d read any Agatha Christie knew that the culprit was always the person least expected. Someone, for example, like little Jenny Humphrey. No one could imagine her sweet little five-foot self setting a barn on fire, but when she finally got busted for doing it, everyone would wonder why they hadn’t realized it sooner.
“Nice entrance,” Callie hissed under her breath. “Mary-mount’s supposed to speak in like two minutes.”
Tinsley slid into the uncomfortable oak chair Callie had reserved for her. “Well, it’s not like he’d start without me,” she whispered back with a smirk.
Brandon Buchanan was trying to surreptitiously pass a note scrawled on a napkin to someone at the other end of the table. Reflexively, Tinsley intercepted it and held it in her hand. Brandon, in a neatly ironed Armani dress shirt and tie, smirked at her, daring her to open it. She uncrumpled the napkin. Think she did it? it read in Brandon’s surprisingly sloppy cursive. Tinsley stuck her tongue out at Brandon—was he talking about her? She definitely wouldn’t mind too much if that know-it-all got kicked out—and crumpled up the napkin. All of the tables had little clusters of crumpled napkins scattered around, and Tinsley wondered how many others contained notes about her.
“T.C.” Heath nodded a formal hello as one of the servers—a cute blond sophomore—parked an entire tray of stuffed mushrooms in front of him.
Tinsley just stared back. She hadn’t noticed the prospective sitting next to Heath before. His light brown hair was gelled into place exactly the same way as Heath’s—sides back, top tousled artistically and frozen into place—and Tinsley did a double take, wondering if Heath had a little brother. As the kid reached for a stuffed mushroom, she noticed that he even kind of moved like Heath. Freaky. He plopped the mushroom into his mouth, not stopping to roll up the cinched sleeve on his baby blue dress shirt. It looked like it had come from the Junior Miss section of Bloomingdale’s.
“I like your shirt,” Tinsley noted, forgetting to whisper. The entire table turned in alarm, as if they were hiding from the enemy and she had given away their position.
“Yeah, it’s cool,” the prospective said, mimicking Heath’s head bob as he spoke.
“That’s my boy, Sam,” Heath whispered, making little fists of triumph with his hands. Sam immediately imitated the gesture, and everyone at the table snickered.
“I didn’t know you were a father, Ferro.” Alan St. Girard leaned forward, snatching up one of Heath’s mushrooms. He’d shaved his beard scruff for the occasion, revealing the baby fat on his pinkish cheeks. Tinsley glanced around to see where his girlfriend was and spotted Alison Quentin’s glossy black head at a round table in the corner of the room, where she was sitting with Jenny and, she noted with pleasure, Chloe. Taking a sip of water, she scanned the room, finally spotting Julian’s familiar handsome head at a table of squash players tucked in the corner, about as far from Jenny’s table as possible. She took another sip of water, pretending it was champagne, and congratulated herself on a job well done.
“He’s my protégé,” Heath boasted, patting Sam on the shoulder. “He’s going to carry on the Ferro legacy long after I’m gone.”
“Which could be soon, right?” Tinsley smiled, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms in front of her, which she knew drew attention to her perfect chest.
“We’ll see,” Heath said, glancing around.
A murmur spread through the room as Dean Marymount ascended the podium, decorated with the Waverly crest, at the front of the dining hall. He surveyed the crowd and said something no one could hear, reaching under the podium to turn on the microphone. Everyone glanced around at each other, but the room remained surprisingly silent. He tapped the microphone with two thick fingers and a sound like staticky thunder echoed in everyone’s ears. Finally, a few snickers spread through the crowd. Tinsley kept a straight face, not even looking away when Marymount seemed to rest his eyes directly on her.
“We’re very pleased to welcome our visitors,” he began, his voice grave and serious, as if he were addressing the Supreme Court and not a group of rowdy teenagers. “Tradition is an important part of Waverly’s continued reputation for excellence. Our standing not just in the immediate community but in the community at large is a worthy combination of honor and respect, which are two-way streets, intersected by a wide boulevard known as truth.”
Tinsley pressed her lips together and stared at Marymount, cupping her chin in her palm in what she hoped looked like a gesture of interest. She stared at the last stuffed mushroom on Heath’s plate, her stomach letting out a tiny growl. “Respect for each other and for our community is central to what makes Waverly an honorable institution. Do not forget that Waverly is not just a place. It has a character and a moral fiber of its own, and each and every person who dons a Waverly blazer and takes on the proud title of Waverly Owl becomes part of the fabric of our community. If we want the school to be honorable, we must be honorable individuals. An Owl is, above all, moral, principled, and an upright citizen. These are the qualities every Waverly student should embody, a truth I hope the prospectives—our future Waverly Owls—will intuit from you this weekend as you continue to inspire their quest to join the Waverly community.” Marymount paused dramatically, drawing in his breath and making sure he had everyone’s attention before he delivered his next line: “Of course, it goes without saying that anyone who doesn’t embody the qualities we cherish dearly at Waverly does not belong here, and can only
become a blemish on Waverly’s long-standing, hard-earned reputation. Rest assured that Waverly will not suffer any embarrassments on my watch. That much I promise you.”
Marymount looked up from the podium, his cold blue eyes searching the crowd like a hawk. Tinsley glanced around at her classmates. Everyone around her had averted his or her eyes, seemingly afraid to make eye contact with the dean. The only person oblivious to the dean’s ominous message was Sam, who had just discovered that the buttons on his shirt were a pearly pink and not white. He stared down at them in dismay. Tinsley wondered how he’d overlooked the Peter Pan collar and pleated shoulders.
She glanced again in Jenny’s direction. She hung on Mary-mount’s every word, looking worried, her dark curls less perky than usual. Next to her, Chloe turned and caught Tinsley’s eye. The prospective gave her a super-obvious wink, looking like she was trying very hard not to wave and shout, “I’m friends with Tinsley!” She might not have been all that suave, but she was invaluable.
Tinsley smiled. Dean Marymount didn’t realize—at least, not yet—that the person he was describing to a T was, in fact, little Jenny Humphrey. How could anyone with a chest like that have morals?
From:
[email protected] To:
[email protected] Date: Monday, October 14, 10:27 P.M.
Subject: Meow!
Meow Mrowr (Dear Jenny),
Everyone here at West 99th Street and West End Ave misses you, especially me, Marx the Cat. Rotting milk doesn’t taste the same when you’re not around, and I can barely muster the energy to chase mice onto the fire escape. I’ve taken to sleeping in your old bed, but the girl who sleeps there now, the one that doesn’t have any hair—what breed is she, a Sphinx?—doesn’t seem too happy about that. Probably because she only wears black, a color that shows up fur very nicely.
Dearest Jenny, my favorite owner, when will we be seeing you again? Your absence is as tough to swallow as a very large furball.
Sincerely,
Marx the Cat
P.S. Please call your father! He seems lonely without you. He won’t stop brushing me.
13
THE WAVERLY LIBRARY IS A PLACE FOR SERIOUS STUDY.
Tuesday morning, Callie caught a whiff of oil paint in the air as she turned the corner on the second floor of the library, her Costume National heels clicking. She glanced at her slim Cartier bracelet-watch with tiny diamonds circling the face and smiled to herself. Right on time. It was her first trip to the Staxxx, a super-private nook of the library reserved for those studying for the SATs and known for its lack of surveillance by the roving librarians. The books on the corner shelves were mostly old encyclo pedias and obsolete reference books, so no one ever wandered there accidentally. Some enterprising student had started a private library on the lower shelf of the Staxxx: tattered copies of Lady Chatterley’s Lover, Lolita, a Henry Miller omnibus of Sexus, Nexus, and Plexus. And of course there was the issue of Playboy featuring nude photos of Madonna taped underneath the far bookshelf, courtesy of the Waverly Class of 1985.
She found Easy sitting in one of the three diner-like study booths, the seats cushioned in itchy orange plaid wool. The idea behind the booths had been to encourage group studying, but mostly it was work of the one-on-one nature that got done in them instead.
“Hey.” Easy’s deep blue eyes lit up when he saw her. He tossed aside his copy of Tropic of Cancer. In his black waffle-knit tee and destroyed Levi’s, with his dark curls slightly matted across his forehead, he looked positively edible.
Callie let her black leather Pierre Hardy saddle bag drop to the floor and immediately threw herself into the side of the booth where Easy was sitting, tackling him roughly.
“Oof!” Easy’s knee banged against the edge of the table. He grinned slowly, a small crust of white toothpaste stuck in the corner of his mouth. Callie licked her finger and painted the toothpaste away. “Thanks, Mom,” he drawled, and Callie smacked him lightly on the shoulder before scooting off him. She traced her fingers down his leg, loving how square and boy-like his giant knees were beneath their super-soft denim. She couldn’t tear her gaze from his beautiful blue eyes. They reminded Callie of the ocean, but not the bright, Caribbean turquoise one that everyone loved to snorkel in—the dark, out-in-the-middle-of-the-Atlantic Ocean, whose depths you couldn’t even fathom.
Easy leaned forward and kissed her on the lips. It started out sweet and tender, and then slowly, it began to build and build, until they both had to pull away. They stared at each other, knowing exactly what the other was thinking.
“Want me to, uh, put Lolita on the book cart by the door?” Easy asked in a low voice, referring to the time-honored signal that the Staxxx were in use. His Kentucky accent became more pronounced the more turned on he got, and right now, Callie could barely tell he’d spent the last two and half years at an East Coast prep school. His finger ran around the top of her Habitual stovepipe jeans, brushing lightly against the small of her back. Callie felt her stomach drop, the way it did in the high-speed elevator that took her to her father’s office at the top of the Bank of America skyscraper in downtown Atlanta.
“What if we get caught?” she asked, only half concerned. The library was always dead in the morning, and besides, everyone was too busy stressing about the barn investigation to even think about having an SAT study party. She slipped off her eggplant TSE cardigan, revealing a thin white Anthropologie camisole underneath.
“Who cares?” Easy shrugged. “It might be our last chance. We ought to jump at every opportunity.” He had meant it as a joke, but as soon as the words left his lips, Easy felt his stomach flip-flop. Ever since the dean’s e-mail he’d been a nervous wreck, and he’d hardly slept at all last night. He’d been in trouble many, many times at Waverly, and even though he’d heard about that kid Julian’s lighter being found, he somehow felt that the accusatory e-mail had been directed at him, and him alone. He wouldn’t be surprised if within the week he’d been kicked out of Waverly, disinherited by his father, and sent to reform school. He wasn’t so much afraid for himself as for Callie. What would she do if he got kicked out? And what would he do if she got kicked out?
“Don’t be silly.” Callie shook her head, her wavy blond hair brushing her bare shoulders. “We’re not going anywhere.”
Easy put his hand behind Callie’s neck, loving the feel of her bare, soft skin. “It was a joke, but . . . babe, Marymount’s looking to kick someone out. And we were in the barn. We’re probably his number-one suspects.” He slid his hand down to Callie’s shoulder. “How come you’re not worried?” It struck him that he was acting all paranoid and, well, Callie-like, and she was acting all mellow and Easy-like. How had that happened? Did she know something he didn’t?
Callie shrugged, her hazel eyes seeming unconcerned. “I just have faith that whoever’s responsible will be punished.” She leaned in to nuzzle his neck. “You need to relax,” she whispered in a low, throaty voice.
But he couldn’t relax. Callie had told him the morning after the fire that she was positive Jenny had started it out of jealousy. Which meant that when she said “whoever was responsible,” she really meant Jenny. And what was that hushed phone call with Tinsley about in the stables the other day? It was weird that Callie and Tinsley were suddenly all chummy again. Easy sat up suddenly. “You’re not up to anything, are you?” he asked. His words hung in the air, and he worried that he was just being paranoid, but it was too late.
Callie blinked her eyes slowly. Her lashes were blond and pretty without the black gunk she had on them half the time. “Of course not.” She tossed her head, her strawberry blond hair falling messily into place. She’d cut off her long locks a few weeks ago, and now they fell right around her shoulders, framing her long, thin neck. “I just meant that we’re innocent and don’t have anything to worry about.” She leaned forward again and nibbled on his earlobe, her hot breath in his ear. “Now where were we?”
Easy closed his
eyes. Being with Callie felt so good. He didn’t want their relationship tainted by his paranoia about Dean Marymount’s suspect list and the fire. If she said there was nothing going on, there was nothing going on. “We were right here,” he whispered back, and kissed her soft, pillowy lips. Callie had said it from the beginning: They were together again, and that was all that mattered.
CallieVernon: I can’t go through with this.
TinsleyCarmichael: Huh?
CallieVernon: EZ suspects I’m up to something.
TinsleyCarmichael: And?
CallieVernon: And . . . I can’t risk it. Can you take it from here?
TinsleyCarmichael: Jesus. Grow some, C.
CallieVernon: Don’t be like that. You know you’ve got cojones for both of us.
14
A WAVERLY OWL KNOWS A PICTURE IS WORTH A THOUSAND WORDS.
Normally Jenny loved the buzzing sounds of her favorite art class, portraiture. The stools scraping across the concrete floor and paintbrushes scratching across canvas were usually enough to inspire her to get to work. Once the scent of oil and turpentine hit the air, she couldn’t have stopped if she wanted to.
But today, her fingers felt heavy and sluggish. Even with her purple ArtBin spread open in front of her, and all her Derwent drawing pencils lined up according to hardness, her hands were rigid with worry. She stared at the blank white drawing paper. Mrs. Silver had instructed them at the beginning of class to draw or paint whatever they liked, so long as it “tapped into their innermost thoughts and feelings.” It was sort of a hippiedippy exercise, but everyone seemed excited to get a break from all the strict rules they faced elsewhere. While all the other students were busy sketching or painting, Jenny had frozen up. It was as though she’d been trying so hard to suppress her innermost thoughts and feelings that now she couldn’t access them, like a faucet that had gone dry from lack of use.