Infamous

  “Who's your favorite player?” Brett's dad asked, looking grateful that he'd found something to discuss. Brett's mom, in some kind of beige pantsuit that looked like something a paralegal would wear, squeezed his hand across the table.

  “Favorite player?” Mr. Cooper looked perplexed. He glanced at his wife, as if relying on her to interpret.

  “I think he means on television,” Mrs. Cooper said helpfully. She sipped at her glass of sparkling water.

  “Oh.” Mr. Cooper's face darkened, and he looked at Mr. Messerschmidt like he was a child. “I don't watch golf. I play it.”

  Brett's dad's face fell and it was all Brett could do to keep from reaching across the table and smacking Mr. Cooper. She tried to think of a biting comment about golf but couldn't come up with anything.

  “Dad, you like Tiger Woods.” Willy spoke up, pushing the piece of caviar torte toward the edge of his plate. He, Brett noticed with relief, wasn't wearing a tie.

  Mr. Cooper nodded, his eyes a pale green, the color of a dollar bill that had gone through the wash accidentally. “Indeed, I do.”

  “It's impossible not to love a player like that.” Mr. Messerschmidt shook his head and let out a soft whistle. “But personally, I'm a John Daly fan myself. Gotta love a guy who can mix it up like that.”

  “I don't know him,” Bree said primly, knowing full well who he was. She adjusted the white headband holding her hair in place.

  “You know, the fat one who plays drunk and has an ex-con for a wife,” Brett answered gleefully, watching a horrified look cloud Bree's face. Brett had always groaned when she came into the room and her dad was watching golf on the big screen, but now it kind of came in handy.

  Mr. and Mrs. Cooper shared a glance and then quietly returned to their torte.

  “Would anyone like another orange-glazed blueberry scone?” Mrs. Messerschmidt jumped to her feet and passed the tray of hardened pastries around the table. She sank back down, playing with the strand of pearls around her neck that Brett had never seen her wear before. She tended to prefer oversize necklaces with lots of beads and gold, for a kind of kooky, Home Shopping Network look.

  “We're big race fans,” Willy spoke up, trying to change the subject. Brett noticed that he smiled really sweetly at Bree, who had a constipated look on her face.

  “Nascar?” Brett's dad asked, and Brett let a tiny giggle escape.

  “No,” Bree said, exasperated. She set down her fork. “Crew. You know, boat racing?”

  Brett narrowed her eyes. She was pretty sure Bree knew nothing about boat racing and Brett only wished that she did so that she could put Bree in her place. Who was this Ann Taylor bore and what had she done with Brett's fun-loving sister?

  “Dad went to school in New Haven,” Willy continued, taking a big gulp of his mimosa, “so that's his team.”

  “Sherrie down the street went to college in New Haven, too.” Brett's mom smiled, her catlike green eyes that Brett had inherited bright with forced cheer. Sherrie Inman was her mom's best friend, president of their local chapter of the ASPCA, where her mom got all their teacup Chihuahuas, and rotating secretary of the Neighborhood Watch.

  “Oh?” Mr. Cooper perked up. “What year?”

  Brett's mom crinkled her brow. “Not sure. She studied restaurant management, I think.”

  “I don't think so,” Mrs. Cooper said, stifling a laugh.

  Mrs. Messerschmidt blinked at the blatant rudeness of Mrs. Cooper's remark. “She certainly did.” She sat up straighter in her chair.

  “Mom.” Bree spoke up calmly, her pale, polish-free nails clinking impatiently against her half-full glass of grapefruit juice. “Mrs. Inman went to Albertus Magnus College.”

  “That's right,” Brett's mom said forcefully, not understanding what Bree was trying to intimate.

  “Mr. Cooper went to New Haven…” Bree continued. Brett had to clench her hands into fists not to roll her eyes.

  “Albertus Magnus is in New Haven,” Brett's mom said, confused.

  “Mom…” Brett leaned toward her mother and spoke in a loud stage whisper. “People say they went to New Haven when they mean they went to Yale.” Bree shot her a look.

  “How about that?” Brett's dad said, chuckling softly, trying to defuse Brett's passive-aggressive tone.

  “I knew this girl who went to Yale,” Brett continued, laying her fork across her uneaten torte. “Well, actually it was a sister of someone who goes to Waverly. She was studying drama—”

  “Yale has a famous drama program,” Mrs. Cooper interrupted.

  “Jodie Foster went there,” Bree jumped in.

  “Anyway,” Brett continued, “the girl's sister dropped out and moved to New York City and got into modeling. She was like a top model in Paris and Milan and London. Traveled all over the world.” Brett picked up her fork to see if the Coopers would take the bait.

  “I think it's quite common for actors to drop out of college to take advantage of other opportunities.” Bree narrowed her eyes and stared at Brett, wondering where she was going with this.

  “What's her name?” Willy asked innocently.

  “I don't remember.” Brett forked a piece of bland honeydew melon. “I only remember her because she died of AIDS.”

  Mrs. Cooper coughed into her tight little fist.

  “I don't think it was a sexual thing,” Brett assured her. “It was from sharing needles. She picked up a really bad heroin habit in New Haven.”

  Mr. Cooper groaned audibly and Brett pushed back from her plate, sufficiently pleased with her made-up story. “I left my medication upstairs,” she announced, and left the table, the sound of Bree apologizing profusely in her wake.

  Brett flopped down on her queen-size sleigh bed and flipped through a copy of W lying by her bedside, hoping to be gone long enough for brunch to be over. All she'd wanted was a giant bowl of Cap'n Crunch (her dad's favorite breakfast cereal.) Her stomach growled at the thought.

  Brett froze when she heard footsteps down the hall, and she wondered if maybe Bree was coming up to apologize for being such a mega-bitch. But the sound of Mrs. Cooper letting out a soft squeal piqued Brett's curiosity and she cracked open the door. She spied the Coopers, who had inadvertently opened the door to the upstairs laundry room, the temporary home of the Teacup Chihuahuas. Brett had spent an hour curled up with them last night, after everyone else had gone to sleep—the poor things were lonely for her mother. All their matching Gucci coats were stuffed onto one of the shelves above the dryer.

  “Are they dog breeders?” Mr. Cooper asked in a low voice as his wife quickly shut the door on the yelping dogs. One of them escaped—was it Tinkerbell?—and quickly shot down the stairs.

  “How could they know anything about breeding?” Mrs. Cooper asked, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “I mean, really.”

  Mr. Cooper chuckled. “I suppose you're right.”

  “Did you notice the torte was store-bought?” Mrs. Cooper sighed, heading farther down the hallway toward the guest room they'd taken over. “I saw the pie tins in the trash when I tried to locate the wine cellar. I don't think they have one, by the way.”

  “A mercy for the wine,” Mr. Cooper added.

  “The sister is a problem child, can you tell?” Mrs. Cooper opened another door. “Here we are. I just need to lie down for a minute before going down again.”

  Brett clicked her door shut, her ears burning. A blind fury descended and she clenched her fists and stared at the series of black-and-white photographs hanging over her bed that she'd taken in Crete. These people were terrible—snobs of the worst order. Brett was reminded of how she'd felt the first time she set foot on Waverly Academy's campus and quickly realized that wearing brand-new designer clothes was not the thing to do. Rather, dresses that were vintage, designer jeans that had lost some of their color, slightly scuffed leather boots and bags—that was the way to go. It was subtle, and Brett had quickly FedExed half of the new outfits she and her mom had bought at the Mall at Short
Hills back home, taking the earliest opportunity to train it down to New York and shop the secondhand stores in Williamsburg.

  How could her sister bring these terrible people into their family, let alone into their house? Brett immediately ran over to her closet and threw open the mirrored-glass door, searching for some of her old clothes she'd deemed not appropriate for Waverly. And she wasn't going to stop at clothing. She grabbed her silver Nokia, a plan forming.

  If the Coopers thought she was a problem child now, just wait till they met her friends.

  BrettMesserschmidt: You watching football?

  SebastianValenti: Nah, not til later. What're U up to, babe?

  BrettMesserschmidt: Believe it or not, wondering if you'd be interested in coming over for T-Day dinner. Sorry for the late notice, but it's boring over here.

  SebastianValenti: You serious?

  BrettMesserschmidt: You were just going to watch TV, right? Thought you might want some real turkey + stuffing.

  SebastianValenti: Wow. Thanks. Should I bring anything?

  BrettMesserschmidt: Just yourself. We eat at 6. See you then!

  17

  A WAVERLY OWL ALWAYS PLAYS NICE—EVEN WHEN SHE WANTS TO PUSH SOMEONE'S FACE IN A SNOWBANK.

  Aweak light filtered in through the snow-covered windows, casting a gauzy haze over the living room. Jenny opened her eyes, blinking away sleep as she stared up at the unfamiliar modern glass and wire chandelier hanging over her head. It took her a minute to remember that she was in Yvonne Stidder's living room, but only a second more to remember that Casey was slumbering peacefully just inches away.

  She pulled the down blanket Casey had given her—it smelled like lavender—tighter around her. The room was silent, as if the blizzard last night had muffled all the normal city sounds Jenny was used to.

  Then she turned her eyes to another beautiful sight—Casey, lying next to her, his arm stretched out beneath her pillow, almost like his arm was around her. The whole night came back to her in a rush—she remembered falling asleep murmuring with Casey, the living room alive with whispered secrets and covert flirting from the pairs of sleeping bags curled up on the floor. Somewhere between telling Casey about her father and listening to stories about life at Union, Jenny had drifted off to the best sleep she'd had in months. When she woke up in the middle of the night for a glass of water, she'd brushed her teeth again, not wanting to wake up with terrible breath. And now, staring at Casey's perfect skin, just inches from his face, she was grateful that she'd managed to think ahead. A tickle ran down Jenny's arm and as she reached to scratch it, Casey opened his eyes.

  “Morning,” she whispered.

  “Good morning.” He smiled. His eyes looked like melted Hershey's kisses.

  Jenny yawned, covering her mouth with her hand.

  “Someone's still tired,” Casey said.

  “Actually, I slept really well.” An unruly curl slipped from behind Jenny's ear, falling across her face. She hoped it looked bed-head sexy and not unwashed. “I felt like I was sleeping on a cloud.”

  Casey's eyes moved slowly across her face. She imagined she was waking up in some ski lodge in the Alps, completely snowbound, with nothing else to do besides keep warm. And then, Casey leaned in to kiss her. She knew it was going to happen before it did. She felt his lips touch hers in a kiss so soft she thought she might still be dreaming.

  When she finally opened her eyes and pulled away, her heart beat loudly in her chest. It was too perfect. “That was nice.”

  “Nice? That was better than nice.” Casey rubbed his eye with his free hand and plopped his head back down on his folded-up pillow. “You taste like strawberries.”

  Jenny giggled softly, thanking her strawberry-mint Crest. “You taste like beer.”

  “Ooh, sorry.”

  “I don't mind,” she confessed.

  The body in the sleeping bag on the floor next to them stirred and they both froze, not wanting to break the magic of the stillness around them.

  “You know what I love?” Jenny whispered, turning on her back and staring at the ceiling. She folded her arm back under her head.

  “Tell me.”

  “I love that yesterday when I woke up I had no idea that I'd end up at Yvonne's party, or sleeping on her couch, or meeting you, or…” She blushed as her voice trailed off.

  “I had it planned right down to the kiss,” Casey said matter-of-factly, touching his fingers to the freckles on Jenny's pale arm. She giggled.

  “Isn't it so great we go to school so close? I could totally come visit you.”

  Casey covered his mouth as he yawned. “Sure,” he said. “Who knows?”

  Jenny flushed with embarrassment. Here I go again, she thought. She remembered what Tinsley had said about taking it slow, about just having a good time. That was just so hard. Was she really supposed to kiss Casey and try to force herself not to feel anything? Well, she could certainly try. After all, when had Tinsley ever led her astray before? Ha.

  Tinsley touched the wet ends of her hair, annoyed that she'd been near the end of the line of girls showering in the penthouse's three full bathrooms and a dipshit sophomore had already burned out the only hair dryer. Yvonne had promised to run to the Duane Reade around the corner and get another, but she hadn't made it any further than the kitchen before she was swept up in multiple conversations about the day's plans, the blizzard having seized the city overnight. Several proposals to “drink all day, eat pizza, and then drink all night” were floated, prompting Yvonne to take down everyone's pizza order. Everyone yelled out their favorite toppings until Yvonne, flustered, promised to order one of each.

  Tinsley paused in the hallway, tugging her cream-colored French Connection slouch sweater on over her plain white tank top. A picture of Yvonne and what must have been her father (he had the same corn silk blond hair and thick glasses) caught her eye. It was on the field at Yankee Stadium, and a young and extra-dorky-looking Yvonne was shaking hands with a young Derek Jeter, the famous—and famously hot—shortstop. Tinsley's dad would have been impressed.

  Julian appeared as if by magic next to her, wearing the same clothes he'd had on yesterday. Tinsley had ended up at the opposite end of the living room last night, conscious of Julian playing cards with Yvonne's brother and his friends. At least he wasn't curled up on a sofa with Sleigh. He glanced at Tinsley and touched the frame of the picture, straightening it. “You're not a baseball fan, are you?”

  “Why so surprised?” Tinsley stuck her hands in the pockets of her skinny black Citizens. “Can't girls like baseball?” She stuck her chin out toward him. She didn't like baseball at all, but she kind of wanted to prove to him that he didn't have her completely pegged.

  “You're just a wealth of surprises, aren't you?” Julian crossed his arms and leaned against the door frame.

  Tinsley ran her socked toe against the dark hardwood floor. “Although, in the spirit of full disclosure, I'm actually more of a hot baseball player fan.”

  Julian laughed, a nice, full-body laugh that gave Tinsley tingles. It felt good to make him laugh again. “Did you sleep well?”

  “Like a log,” she lied. “The most comfortable floor on the Upper East Side.” She smiled to let him know she wasn't complaining and he returned the smile. Yes . Tinsley could feel things falling into place. “So, what are your plans today?”

  Julian shrugged. “It looks terrible out there.” He turned and looked out the window overlooking a snow-covered Eightieth Street. Overnight, three feet of snow had fallen across Manhattan, the biggest snowfall the city had gotten in years, and a giant yellow plow was working its way down the street. The parked cars were mysterious-looking mounds of snow.

  “Are you kidding?” Tinsley asked softly, touching her fingers to the windowpane. A petite woman with four black Labs on leashes trundled through the unplowed sidewalk, letting the dogs drag her toward the park. “It's beautiful out.” She turned back to Julian. “We should go sledding in the park?”

&nb
sp; Julian ran a hand through his longish hair, considering the offer.

  “Don't say no,” Tinsley added, hoping it didn't sound like begging.

  “Yeah, okay.” He turned toward her. “You've got mittens?”

  Tinsley's heart did a victory dance in her chest. “Of course.”

  The plasma TV on the living room wall switched on, and whoever had the remote dialed up SportsCenter. A preview of the Detroit Lions/Green Bay Packers game joined the cacophony of voices in the room, but Tinsley couldn't think about anyone but Julian. She followed him to the coat closet and he immediately pulled out her gray wool Michael Kors belted trench. He remembers, she thought.

  “Where are you kids off to?” Sleigh appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, tilting her braided blond head against the door frame and sipping a glass of orange juice, wearing the same hippie shirt she'd had on yesterday. Tinsley was instantly grateful she had her suitcase with her.

  We aren't off anywhere, Tinsley thought, and almost verbalized the sentiment. But she knew if she were to win Julian back, she couldn't start off by sniping at Sleigh. Tinsley still couldn't believe that she'd materialized after all these years. It was like one of those creepy movies where someone comes back from the dead.

  “We're going sledding in Central Park,” Julian answered as he slipped on a puffy olive green jacket.

  “Awesome! Mind if I tag along?”

  Tinsley's mind faltered as she laced up her Ugg Adirondack boots, searching for the right thing to say that would let Sleigh know she wasn't welcome without sounding like she was being a bitch—which, of course, she was.

  “Sure,” Julian answered before Tinsley could say anything. He tugged on a pair of thick black gloves. “Grab your coat.”

  In the elevator, Sleigh yammered on about some snowboarding trip to Telluride she'd taken with another “homeschooled” friend—“It was like our spring break”—and how cool the hippies in Colorado were, and how she'd learned Telemark skiing from Ty, one of the hot ski instructors.