“Do you have… a condom?” she asked, trying not to feel shy. She’d always thought that people weren’t ready to have sex if they couldn’t say the word condom without embarrassment, but her face flushed anyway. Wasn’t there a more elegant way to take care of things?
“Uh, yeah.” Julian sat up and pulled open his desk drawer, fumbling around and knocking a pencil to the floor. “Here.” He pulled out a small plastic square, and Tinsley felt her heart sink. He kept condoms in his desk drawer. What for? She hadn’t realized it until then, but she’d kind of hoped he wouldn’t have any.
She tried to push the thought from her mind and get back into the mood as Julian’s hands ran across her body again. But this time, the image of him touching Jenny the same way consumed Tinsley’s brain. She wondered if Jenny had ever come bursting into his room, tearing off her clothes and ravaging him just as Tinsley had. The stupid grin she imagined on Jenny’s pink-cheeked face as she and Julian did it made her groan out loud. “Shit!”
Julian released the pressure on her back. “You okay?” he asked worriedly.
Tinsley rolled off him and stood up. Now she was really shaking, but she didn’t want Julian to see. She grabbed her jeans from their crumpled heap on the floor and stepped into them. “I’m sorry,” she said weakly. “I can’t do this.”
“It’s okay,” Julian reassured her, wrapping his comforter around his body. “We definitely don’t need to rush.” He patted the bed and grinned up at her, his shaggy blondish hair tucked behind his ears. “But please come back and let me kiss you.”
Tinsley sucked in her cheeks and turned her back on Julian in order to keep her composure. She snapped her bra back into place with shaking hands. How stupid of her to think she could make it all go away by sleeping with him. That wasn’t what she wanted. What she wanted was for Jenny to have never existed—to have never shared something so special with the guy she was madly in love with. And unfortunately, she couldn’t make that happen. “I don’t mean that.… I mean, I can’t see you anymore.”
“Wait, what?” Julian sat up in bed, suddenly wide awake. “Why not?” His golden brown eyes widened, and Tinsley felt a twinge of regret at the sight of his bare chest peeking out from under his comforter.
“It’s just not going to work,” she said coldly, tugging her sweater on. She forced herself to picture him tumbling naked in that very bed with Jenny Humphrey in order to keep her anger at the forefront of her emotions—and keep from crying. It worked. Tinsley had always been much better at being angry than sad. She grabbed her jacket from the floor.
“You can’t be serious?” Julian jumped out of bed, quickly throwing on his dark jeans. As much as Tinsley wanted him to stop her, she knew it wouldn’t do any good. Jenny had won. She’d gotten to him first, and ruined him.
Tinsley grabbed the doorknob before Julian could touch her. She gave him the coldest stare she could muster. It was easier than she’d thought. “I’ve never been more serious in my life,” she said, and slammed the door.
21
A SAVVY OWL KNOWS THAT ABSENCE MAKES THE HEART GROW FONDER.
Annoyance gripped Brandon as he took his latest Secret Satan gift out of the unmarked cardboard box left on his doorstep. This time, his brilliant Secret Satan had given him an alarm clock with a plastic pole dancer that slid up and down the pole. He set the alarm once, out of curiosity, and when it went off, a built-in strobe light lit up the tiny dollar bills painted on the miniature stage floor. It could’ve been one of those funny, tacky gifts that make great conversation starters. The only problem was the young chiseled plastic pole-dancer was a guy. One who looked disconcertingly like David Hasselhoff.
Brandon stuffed the whole thing back in the box, tossing it into the garbage can under his desk. Someone was definitely going to a lot of effort to torture him. At least no one had seen him open it. Unlike the box someone had put in his mailbox that morning, cleverly writing the address of Brandon’s home in Greenwich in the return address spot. But instead of receiving some kind of end-of-semester care package from his father, he’d found himself in the middle of the mailroom, holding a plastic sperm-shaped piggy bank with a stupid smile on its face and a coin slot on its back. Ryan Reynolds had dropped in a quarter as he passed, and the fucking thing’s tail wiggled. Brandon had dropped the whole thing in the recycling bin amid snorts and giggles from his classmates, wondering who was to blame.
He reached for his iPhone out of instinct, wishing he could just call Hellie and hear her voice. But the whole time-difference thing made her feel even farther away than she was. Brandon had just gotten back from practice, but she was probably fast asleep. That thought entertained him for a moment—he remembered her sliding into a loose gray T-shirt and a pair of black jersey short shorts before he’d left her room, and he always kept that image close to his heart. Instead, he logged onto his Yahoo! Instant Messenger and typed in Sweet dreams. He stared at the screen, willing her to be awake and write back, but nothing. He was just about to log off when her name popped up.
Hellie: Hey, sexy boy. I was just dreaming about you.
Brandon: I’ve been thinking about you all day. How was your drama rehearsal?
Brandon typed furiously, as if their connection could be lost at any moment. His heart raced at the thought of Hellie, sitting awake in the dark, tossing and turning in bed in her short shorts, dreaming about him.
Hellie: Sucked. You would think the crown prince of Egypt could muster up some passion as Macbeth, but he’s like a wet fish.
Brandon laughed at Hellie’s mixed metaphors. A wet blanket? A cold fish? Hellie’s mother was Swiss and had met Mr. Dunderdorf when he was on sabbatical in Geneva. Hellie and Gretchen had grown up in Switzerland, and when Dunderdorf came to teach at Waverly, they stayed behind at boarding school. God, what Brandon would have done to get her to transfer to Waverly.
Brandon: I think you mean cold fish.
Hellie: Oops, yes. Long day of classes and my brain isn’t functioning well.
Brandon: I wish I could be there.
Hellie: Me too!
A smile curled Brandon’s lips.
Brandon: You must have done something fun today?
He regretted this question immediately, worried that it would bring an avalanche of tales about guys trying to hit on her and her sister—because he knew better than anyone that every guy in the room would want to.
Hellie: Gretch and I snuck off to Geneva for a late dinner. We drank too much wine and complained about how much better American men are.
The smile on Brandon’s face grew.
Brandon: I haven’t had a drink since that kirsch your father gave us at Thanksgiving. It almost killed me.
Hellie: I’m glad it didn’t. I brought home a bottle of my favorite wine that we can drink the next time we’re together.
Brandon took a deep breath. He’d fantasized about jumping onto a plane and jetting off to Europe to see Hellie, but it wasn’t exactly realistic. Finals, for one thing. But mostly, his hard-ass father would kill him if he charged a last-minute plane ticket to Europe to visit some girl he’d only hooked up with twice.
Brandon: Sounds good.
That was kind of lame, he thought. Couldn’t he think of anything better?
Hellie: Want your hot body. Now.
Brandon blushed, his thumbs hovering over the keyboard, unsure of what to say. He’d loved the pictures Hellie had been texting—and he’d told her as much, in e-mails. But this was like… phone sex. What if Heath walked in? His heart raced and he was about to type I think about your smooth, naked skin every night when the screen popped again.
Hellie: My sister typed that. Bitch.
Brandon quickly typed LOL, grateful that he’d paused long enough to stave off humiliation.
Hellie: Ooh, our faculty monitor is doing rounds. Must run! Kisses!
Kisses, Brandon typed back, just before Hellie logged off.
He lay on his back on his bed, his hands behind his head. Outside d
arkness began to creep across Waverly. A darkness filled him, too. Hellie had lifted his spirits, but only momentarily. Brandon thought about how far away she was, and that she wasn’t even coming home for Christmas. Dunderdorf had splurged to fly himself and his wife to Switzerland to see their girls and spend the holidays skiing in the Alps, much to Brandon’s disappointment.
He hadn’t thought he’d ever fall in love again after Callie had so brutally broken his heart last year, but this was different. He felt like if Hellie were just here—or he were there—everything in his whole life would fall into place. He wouldn’t give a shit about his lazy, perverted roommate, or the gay rumors swirling around him. It wouldn’t matter at all. Being with Hellie would make everything better.
At least then his Secret Santa would know he wasn’t gay.
* * *
Owl Net
Instant Message Inbox
* * *
HeathFerro:
Did your girlfriend like her presents?
JulianMcCafferty:
What?
HeathFerro:
Hope the extra virgin olive oil isn’t extra virgin anymore….
JulianMcCafferty:
Um, we’re not actually together anymore.
JulianMcCafferty:
But WTF are you talking about? I’m calling you right now.
* * *
* * *
Owl Net
Email Inbox
* * *
From:
[email protected] To: Undisclosed recipients
Date: Saturday, December 14, 11:19 A.M.
Subject: Holiday Ball Alterna-party: Welcome to the Inferno
My little devils,
Excellent work with all the Secret Satan prezzies. I had no idea how dirty you all were!
Now, let’s Satanize the Holiday Ball. Marymount’s determined to make the official party boring. Screw that! Let’s have our own party. Let out all your sexual tension at the baddest, most unofficial alterna-party imaginable—the Inferno.
Go to the back of the Faculty Club, and then follow the clues. Everyone: get prepared to reveal yourselves to your Secret Satans!
Formal attire still allowed—it’ll be that much more fun to take it off.
xxx,
S. L. H.
* * *
22
A GOOD OWL HAS A GOOD NOSE FOR A GOOD PARTY.
In dire need of something to do, Brett anxiously adjusted a strand of sparkly silver tinsel on the twenty-foot Christmas tree that towered over the Prescott Faculty Club. She inhaled the rich pine scent of the needles as she followed the delicate garland around the tree, grateful for the chance to hide her face. The room looked amazing, like a glittering winter wonderland. She had spent the entire day in the elegant, dark mahogany ballroom, decorating with the activities committee. They had draped the room with about ten miles of white, twinkling lights, even fixing them to the ceiling so that it looked like a dark sky filled with stars. All the overhead lights were turned off, and the room was suffused with a soft glow. Dangling aqua and white starburst-shaped lanterns twinkled over the dance floor.
But no one was there.
Not “no one,” technically, since all the activities committee volunteers were there. And all the alums who’d come in especially for the giant gala, crowded off to one side with the faculty. A dozen international students and assorted social outcasts lingered around the room, pointing at the green mistletoe bunches hanging over the archways or stepping nervously across the empty dance floor.
White-clothed round tables were loaded with trays of delicious-looking goodies—that Brett had painstakingly chosen and arranged—from Alistair’s Green House, the gourmet all-organic caterer just outside of Rhinecliff. The food was completely untouched. A few of the volunteers hanging around the edges of the ballroom had snatched a portobello mushroom canapé or a bacon-wrapped scallop, but for the most part, the trays were as full as when the caterers delivered them. The crystal bowl of fruit punch was still filled nearly to the brim.
In a high-necked plum-colored silk charmeuse bubble dress by Laundry, her silver Stuart Weitzman pumps, and carrying the Stella McCartney clutch her sister had given her, Brett knew she looked fabulous, but her stomach was a knot of anxiety. She checked her dangling watch. It was after nine, and the party had officially started at eight. The only people actually dancing were Yvonne Stidder and her new boyfriend, Mukesh Patel, a scrawny senior whose father had been a major investor in Google before it took off. They were staring deeply into each other’s eyes, the wide, empty dance floor stretching out around them like the smooth, untouched surface of a lake.
Brett gritted her teeth. Fashionably late was fine, but that didn’t usually apply to the majority of underclassmen who had nothing better to do. Even total slackers like Heath Ferro and Alan St. Girard could be counted on to show up soon after the doors opened in order to, as Heath liked to say, “maximize his options.” What about tonight? It was a cold Saturday in December, and this was the biggest officially sanctioned social event until the spring formal. Where the fuck was everyone?
Brett had spent the last half hour chatting up a couple of middle-aged alums, trying desperately to look interested as they waxed nostalgic about their Waverly days—before the insidious inventions of e-mail and cell phones. She adjusted a star-shaped Christmas tree light, took another deep breath of pine-scented air, and peeked at the main entrance to the ballroom. Maybe a rush of students was about to magically appear.
It didn’t.
Brett glanced over her bare shoulder to see Dean Marymount and his surprisingly pretty blond wife chatting up some VIPs in suits. A gaggle of middle-aged women who clearly still wished they were in high school giggled and pointed at pictures in an old yearbook. Yearbooks had been casually planted on all the tables, one from each of the 128 years of Waverly’s existence.
Was it possible that they all hadn’t noticed that apart from the international kids and the total losers, none of the student body was even at this stupid party? Brett steeled herself to go over to the eggnog punch bowl and chat some more with the I-bankers in Armani suits who used to call Waverly home. Her heart froze when an attractive woman in a simple black sheath dress and silver rope necklace poked her head out into the foyer, as if looking for all the missing students. It was Bethany Kephardt, the sophisticated assistant director of admissions at Brown. Brett had pored over the Class of ’94 yearbook, memorizing Bethany’s face and planning out exactly what to say to her.
But Brett didn’t dare to approach her now. All her planning was worthless now that the party—her party—was gradually turning into a total flop. Brett’s stomach fell and she felt the room start to spin, perhaps due to the mere thought of eggnog, which had always grossed her out. (Why would anyone want to drink eggs?) She’d felt isolated since her outburst in the dining hall, noticing how everyone would give her a wide berth on the walkways as she made her way to class and back to Dumbarton. But she hadn’t thought everyone would hold it against her and blow off the party.
A rising anger toward Mr. Wilde for dumping this stupid responsibility on her shoulders could only be subdued by chain-smoking Parliaments, which was all she wanted to do right now. The Disciplinary Committee had seemed like a good résumé booster, but it had brought her nothing but isolation. It was clear the students were off somewhere else, having the good time they were supposed to be having at the Holiday Ball. The realization that everyone had successfully kept her out of the loop caused her to shake involuntarily. Did they all collectively decide to blow off the Holiday Ball? Jenny couldn’t tell her? Or Kara? Had she so alienated everyone around her that she’d ostracized herself from her friends?
The faculty and alumni mumbled silently as Brett ladled herself a glass of fruit punch from the crystal bowl, needing to do something besides stand there with a stupid smile on her face. She glanced up and saw Mr. Wilde, the DC adviser, and Mrs. Horniman, her faculty adviser, leaning again
st the stage that lined the far end of the room. Dozens of strands of Christmas lights hung straight down from the ceiling to the edge of the stage, creating a beautiful, glowing curtain that Brett had intended to walk through when she welcomed everyone to this year’s Holiday Ball.
They were talking, and then she saw them turn to look directly at her. The DJ in the corner, who had a confused look on his face and kept glancing around like he was doing a head count, dropped the needle on a jazzy version of “Here Comes Santa Claus.” Brett felt her stomach heave. Bethany Kephardt approached Mr. Wilde and touched him on the arm. She whispered something as he nodded his head in agreement, a slight grimace on his face.
Bethany Kephardt was unimpressed with Brett Messer-schmidt. It was like the assistant director of admissions was Nero, flashing a violent thumbs-down to the gladiators.
Brett quickly spun around and walked to a different part of the room, sidestepping the half-dozen couples who were scattered across the giant dance floor. Should she bring Bethany a glass of eggnog? Offer to explain why the party sucked so much?
She blinked her eyes rapidly and glanced up, only to notice how forlorn the tiny bunches of mistletoe she’d hung beneath all the doorways looked without cute couples kissing beneath them. She closed her eyes and tried hard to suppress thoughts of her humiliation, how it would stand for years and decades, the story of the Holiday Ball No One Attended being passed down from alum to alum, making the rounds as a rumor among all incoming freshmen for eternity. Brett would have to skip every alumni function at Waverly for fear of someone asking her about it.
She pressed her fingertips to her temples, wishing the floor would just open up and swallow her whole. The DJ segued into a remake of “Jingle Bells.”