Infamous

  Her voice was coated in sugar and it was all Tinsley could do not to gag. But there was no way she was going to let Sleigh ruin her fresh start with Julian. Tinsley opened her mouth to say something polite yet noncommittal (after all, the last time Tinsley had seen her, Sleigh's dad was writing a fat check to Tinsley for her laptop and all the other shit she'd ruined), but before she could, Sleigh enveloped her in a massive bear hug. “God, it's been too long, T.C.” Tinsley hugged her back limply. Since when was Sleigh friendly? Or even nice? “You look glamorous, as usual!”

  With that little comment, Tinsley knew nothing had changed. Sleigh said “glamorous” as if it was an insult—one that only girls could hear. “Yeah, it's been a while.” Tinsley backed away from Sleigh, taking in her hippie lavender tank top (um, it was snowing out) and her sun-bleached hair (had she just been to the Caribbean?). Was she actually not wearing a bra? But Tinsley felt Julian's eyes on her, so she quickly said, “You look great, too, Sleigh.”

  Sleigh's blue eyes flickered briefly before she grabbed Julian's hand. “C'mon, everyone is waiting.”

  “Okay, I'm coming.” Julian gave Tinsley one last look before they both disappeared into the front room, leaving her alone in the suddenly empty kitchen. She was mildly curious about the video, but a more pressing question squeezed itself to the front of her brain: How in the hell did Sleigh even know Julian?

  “Butter,” the fridge said, as if that answered her question.

  14

  A WAVERLY OWL KNOWS THAT YOU'RE NEVER TOO OLD FOR A SLEEPOVER.

  Jenny leaned back against the sleek black bookcase, watching the snow come down outside the library window. It had a clear view of the rooftop deck, and a few brave souls loitered in the hot tub there, drunkenly enjoying the winter wonderland spreading across the rooftops along Park Avenue. The snow had picked up in intensity over the last few hours, but Jenny hardly noticed. She hardly noticed anything at all besides Casey—time sailed by as she chatted with him about everything from their favorite movies to bands they loved to places Casey had traveled.

  “Phuket is probably the most beautiful place I've visited,” he said, tracing a finger across the antique globe in its dark wooden stand. “You should go when you get a chance.” Jenny wouldn't mind going—with Casey. But then she remembered Tinsley's admonition to keep things light, and to have fun. And a trip to Thailand probably violated that rule—although she imagined it would certainly count as having fun.

  “Look.” Emily Jenkins waved toward the window, and a dozen drunken Owls huddled around her, looking down at the street below. Jenny shook her head to clear her thoughts—she hadn't even noticed that there was anyone else in the room—and rushed to the window with Casey. A bus had stalled out in the middle of the snow-packed intersection of Eightieth and Park Avenue. A cacophony of horns sounded, and moments later the street was snarled with traffic, a layer of snow quickly accumulating on all the cars. The entire scene looked miniature, like a snow globe someone had just shaken.

  Yvonne climbed up onto the sleek mahogany executive's desk in the corner. She wavered, barely able to stand from drinking her weight in rum and Diet Cokes. “Anyone who needs a place to crash can camp out here!” she shrieked happily. Yvonne had been circling around the party all night, drunk not just from the booze, but giddy about how well her party had turned out. “It'll be like a giant slumber party—my parents are in London until Monday, so you guys're all invited to Thanksgiving!” Her speech was slurred, and Jenny worried she might topple over onto the hardwood floor. “Pizza on me. It'll be the best!”

  “Wow, she's plowed,” Casey whispered, leaning closer to Jenny.

  Jenny nodded, staring into his dark brown eyes. There was a ring of gray around his pupil, something Jenny had never seen before. He was taller than Jenny—practically everybody past the age of ten was—but he wasn't as toweringly tall as most of the boys Jenny fell for, and it was nice to not have to arch her neck just to look up at him.

  Or kiss him, she thought, her pulse starting to race.

  “Are you staying?” Casey asked, as if reading her mind. He set his empty plastic cup next to the globe on the end table.

  “Are you?” she asked casually. She flipped her hair to show that she could stay or she could go, though in reality she had nowhere to go. Back to her dad's? Even if she wanted to, it would've been a nightmare to get across the snowbound city.

  “Yeah,” he answered, and Jenny swore his eyes rested for a split second on her lips.

  A spike of electricity shot up Jenny's spine. “Me too.” She smiled. “All the hotels are booked anyway,” she added, surprised at how cosmopolitan she sounded.

  “Great.” Casey smiled.

  The lights dimmed as the evening moved past midnight. The flat screen above the fireplace showed Mean Girls on mute while people around it played cards and drunkenly made up their own lines from the movie. The snow slowed down and the hot tub reopened for business. A wet trail of slush ran from the roof deck into the living room, and everyone yelled when the door opened and a cold blast of air shot through the apartment. Julian stood near the large corner fireplace, turning over the logs with a poker, as a blond girl Jenny didn't recognize sat on a pillow at his feet, cross-legged, as if she were meditating or in some yoga class. Jenny looked around for Tinsley, wondering if she'd managed to talk to him yet, but only spotted Callie, sitting in an ultramodern teardrop-shaped red chair, chatting intensely with the boy next to her.

  The night collapsed into murmurs as everyone claimed beds or carved out a spot in the front room with the sleeping bags and blankets and pillows someone had unearthed from a hall closet. Jenny couldn't remember who had pulled the couch out, or how she ended up lounging on it next to Casey, but she liked it.

  “You're shivering.” He reached into the foggy darkness and pulled up the warm down blanket. He draped the comforter over her and tucked it in under her chin, his hands patting her body tentatively.

  “Thanks.” His face was so close she could kiss it, and Casey leaned in as if he might beat her to it, but instead he just pushed a thick curl behind her ear, his fingers lingering slightly.

  “Sweet dreams,” he whispered, tucking a pillow under his head, and as Jenny drifted off to sleep, she realized she was already having them.

  15

  A WAVERLY OWL IS OPEN TO NEW EXPERIENCES.

  The steps to Mr. Dunderdorf's white clapboard house at the north edge of campus were covered in a thick layer of snow, and Heath clambered up them eagerly. Brandon hung back, wondering what the fuck they were doing awake at this hour, on Thanksgiving morning, when they were supposed to be on vacation. He almost wished that he was at home, tucked into his own bed, letting the “ocean wave” setting of his Bose sound machine block out the noises of two rambunctious toddlers as they watched Thomas the Tank Engine and turned the living room into a war zone. Nowhere was safe anymore, apparently. But he knew the second Heath jumped out of bed at 5 a.m., before the sun even broke the horizon, that it was going to be a long, long day. Brandon had tried to roll over, burying his head under his down pillow, but Heath wouldn't let up. “The Dunderdorf twins are waiting for us,” he just kept chanting over and over before Brandon relented, falling asleep in the shower for a minute until the hot water ran cold.

  Now, Heath flashed Brandon a double thumbs-up and rapped on the weather-beaten Dunderdorf front door. The hot smell of the oven greeted them when the door flew open. “Come in,” Mr. Dunderdorf thundered, his voice impossibly deep for a frail-looking man.

  “Is he wearing lederhosen?” Brandon whispered to Heath as Dunderdorf waved them through the solid oak doorway and into the living room, which was an alpine nightmare of paneled walls and shelves of dusty knickknacks. He stared at Dunder-dorf's dark green leather pants, which came to his knees, and under which he had some kind of wooly tights.

  “Lederhosen are the traditional Bavarian men's clothing,” Heath hissed back. “Don't be such a hater.”

  Brandon's e
yes adjusted to the half-light, taking in the carvings of elves and gnomes that screamed out from everywhere. One particular carving—of a giant elf with a menacing pig face—really freaked Brandon out. A table in the corner housed an entire ceramic village, each house painted a different primary color, all the roofs lacquered with a coat of fake snow. A strand of Christmas lights snaked through the village, blinking red and green and yellow and pink and blue every thirty seconds.

  A chime sounded, and before Brandon could steady himself, the cuckoo clock on the wall struck eight. A tiny yodeler—in lederhosen—shot out on a plank, his demonic little face worn from years of exposure.

  “Dude, that guy in the clock doesn't have a face,” Heath noted.

  “I saw it.” Brandon suddenly felt like he was caught in some kind of cross-cultural time warp. He had to look down at his faded True Religion jeans and familiar Burberry down-filled vest to remind himself he wasn't on another planet.

  “Frau Dunderdorf and I are in the middle of Dutch Blitz.” Mr. Dunderdorf stuck his thumbs under the suspenders of his short-pants and pulled them from his chest. “Do you know how to play?”

  Brandon was about to say no—who played cards at this hour?—when Heath jumped in. “No, sir, but we'd love to learn.”

  Patting Heath on the back, Dunderdorf led them through the front room and into the stifling kitchen, where a short, portly woman who bore a striking resemblance to Mr. Dunder-dorf sat behind a metal table strewn with cards neither of them recognized. “This is Mrs. Dunderdorf.”

  Heath and Brandon nodded hello. How did these two produce a pair of knockout twins? Brandon thought. He wanted to ask Heath if he'd actually seen these legendary twins, but he could tell Heath was as freaked out as he was.

  “Wow, those cards are funky.” Heath's voice almost squeaked with panic.

  “Ah…” Mr. Dunderdorf waved him off. “It's easy. Sit down.”

  They cautiously took their seats around the table and Brandon's attention wandered as Mr. Dunderdorf explained about the four decks—Pump, Buggy, Plow, and Bucket—and how every deck had ten each of red, blue, green, and yellow cards.

  Brandon stared at the little Dutchman who appeared in each of the cards' four corners, wondering if he'd somehow stepped into the Twilight Zone. At least he wasn't thinking about Sage, wondering what she was doing…although, now that he thought about it, what was she doing? And what, for that matter, was he doing?

  “What's the matter?” Mrs. Dunderdorf asked, her kindly Mrs. Claus blue eyes focused on Brandon's face.

  “Nothing,” Brandon assured her. “Just, uh, looking forward to some…” He trailed off, searching his brain for the word for German sausage. “Deutsche Wurst.”

  Mrs. Dunderdorf grinned at him, revealing a gap between her front teeth large enough to stick a pencil through. Mr. Dunderdorf commenced the first round of Dutch Blitz, which turned out to be a lot like Uno. After about twenty minutes of intense card play, Mrs. Dunderdorf brought over the coffee pot and filled their mugs. Brandon gave Heath a sharp kick in the shin, but Heath just gave him a helpless I know, dude, but what do you want me to do look.

  Mr. Dunderdorf excused himself to use the Raum des Kleinen Jungen—Brandon thought that meant “little boy's room,” but it had been a few years since he'd been in German class. Once he was out of earshot, Heath leaned forward and asked Mrs. Dunderdorf, “So, uh, are your daughters still asleep?” The question sounded innocent enough, but Brandon winced when it left Heath's lips.

  Mrs. Dunderdorf shook her head and Brandon braced for the bad news that either they weren't coming or they'd never even existed. Maybe some evil senior had started the rumor, knowing that some horny soul would try to exploit it.

  “Their plane was delayed,” Mrs. Dunderdorf answered, shuffling the cards. “We will pick them up later.”

  What? Heath refused to look at Brandon, pretending to concentrate on his cards instead. They'd dragged their asses over here practically at the crack of dawn—for nothing! At least they were coming, though.

  “Now it is time to get the turkey,” Mr. Dunderdorf announced, returning to the kitchen and clapping his hands together. His face looked positively gleeful. “Follow me.”

  Brandon and Heath pushed away from the table and got to their feet, eager at the chance to avoid another round of Dutch Blitz. Maybe a trip in to Rhinecliff's Stop & Shop would give them an opportunity to escape—or, Brandon reasoned to himself, at least to “remember” an “important project” he needed to work on. They could come back later—or tomorrow—to catch a glimpse of the twins.

  “Thank you for the delicious coffee, Mrs. Dunderdorf.” Heath smiled ingratiatingly, never willing to give up. “It hit the spot.”

  Mr. Dunderdorf led them outside, the morning chill hanging in the air, but rather than heading for the Volkswagen parked in the driveway, he took them around the side of the house. Brandon froze in his tracks when he heard what he hoped he hadn't.

  Mr. Dunderdorf opened the gate into the small backyard. A large turkey paced the length of the lawn, stopping and staring at them before skittering away. “C'mon, boys, it's just a little bird.” He chuckled to himself.

  “Oh, hell no.” Brandon shook his head and leaned back against the gate, trying to signal to Heath that now was the time to run. This was it. No twins, just a live turkey and a house that smelled like his Grandma Ginny's.

  “Dude,” Heath exhaled, his face ashen. “This is bad.”

  Mr. Dunderdorf, oblivious to their distress, motioned to the cage in the corner. “We need to get him back inside, boys,” he said. “You have to chase him, or he won't move. You can't just walk up to him.” The old man took off running at the turkey, who fluttered his wings and scampered in the opposite direction of the open cage.

  “I'm not doing this,” Brandon declared, running his hand through his short, golden-brown hair.

  “Dude, it'll be worth it.” Heath planted both his hands on Brandon's shoulders. “Do you have any idea how delicious these twins are? Do you have any idea how legendary we'll be come Monday morning? Sage will probably hear about it and be all like, ‘Oh, what did I doooo?’” Heath used his high-pitched girl voice to imitate Sage.

  It worked. Brandon loved the idea of Sage finding out he'd gotten together with a hot German chick just days after she'd tried to break his heart. It was enough to send him racing around the yard, chasing the giant, stupid bird. Brandon's heart beat wildly in his chest as they tried to maneuver the turkey toward the cage—but it always veered away from the open door at the last minute, circling the yard as it called loudly. Breathless, he stopped, his hands on his knees, watching as Mr. Dunderdorf and Heath brought the cage to the turkey, cornering it in the yard until it had no choice but to waddle inside.

  “Aha!” Mr. Dunderdorf exclaimed as he locked the cage door. “Good work, Mr. Ferro.” He picked up an ax. “Now, for the messy part.”

  An hour later, after washing up, when Heath and Brandon were still too traumatized to speak, Mr. Dunderdorf announced that it was the perfect time for a sauna.

  “A sauna?” Brandon choked out, too weak to resist as Mr. Dunderdorf led him and Heath down the basement stairs. The smell of wet wood filled Brandon's nostrils, and the darkness was suddenly illuminated to reveal a full sauna behind a glass door, the wooden benches lit under the red lights. Mr. Dunder-dorf adjusted the dial on the outside of the door and began to disrobe.

  “Leave your clothes outside,” Mr. Dunderdorf instructed. “Use the hooks.” He pointed to a series of hooks on the wall.

  Brandon watched to see if Heath's first instinct was the same as his own—to bolt—but Heath turned his back on Mr. Dunderdorf and started to take his clothes off. Mr. Dunderdorf took a fresh towel out of the wicker basket by the door and strode into the sauna, the glass door clicking behind him.

  “No way,” Brandon said.

  “Trust me, dude,” Heath said, standing in his boxers. “It's totally going to be worth it. You've come this far.”


  Brandon nodded. Heath was right. He just needed the Dunderdorf twins to arrive, and fast, so that Sage could hear about it, get insanely jealous, and beg him to take her back.

  He stripped down to his navy and yellow striped Ralph Lauren boxers, threw his clothes in a pile next to Heath's, and grabbed a towel.

  16

  A WAVERLY OWL LETS HER TRUE COLORS SHINE THROUGH.

  Strains of classical music played through the recessed speakers of the Messerschmidts' built-in surround-sound system on Thursday morning. Brett stared miserably down at the caviar torte with champagne onions, a dish she'd never heard of, let alone seen served in her house. She squinted across the polished oak dining room table at Bree, whom she held personally responsible for the monstrosity. When she'd promised her mother to behave at Thanksgiving brunch with the Coopers, Brett had imagined she'd be aided in this endeavor by quietly munching away on her mother's airy French toast, and not something concocted out of gelatinous fish eggs. She felt her throat constrict as she forked a piece of the torte, wriggling it free and pushing it around her plate, the immaculate china shiny as a mirror.

  But Brianna, in a maidenly blue Ann Taylor dress covered in a tiny rose print, refused to acknowledge her, as she'd done since Brett arrived home. Brett had initially been freaked out by her new zombie Vogue bride sister—had they drugged her? Brainwashed her?—but now she was only irritated by the whole situation.

  “Are you a golf fan?” Brett's dad asked Mr. Cooper, taking a swig of freshly squeezed orange juice. Stuart Messerschmidt, whose favorite topic—tales of plastic surgery—had undoubtedly been banned by Bree, turned to his second favorite topic: sports. He looked more stressed out now than he had when the whole cast of the Rockettes came to him one November and demanded to be Botoxed for their first show.

  Mr. Cooper swallowed a forkful of torte and nodded. “Yes, I am.” He had on a pink Nautica button-down and a navy blue tie with tiny yellow sailboats. Apparently, Thanksgiving brunches were meant to be formal—when Bree had run into Brett in the upstairs hallway that morning, she'd marched Brett back to her bedroom and made her change out of her favorite orange Juicy Couture velour pants and black Rolling Stones T-shirt.