“Hope it's your size,” he continued, sitting on the edge of his desk and smoothing out his Armani sweater.
Sage ripped the paper free and held the small jewelry box in her palm. A look of horror came over her face, and fear shot through him. “What did you do?” Sage asked, her voice panicked.
Brandon strode over to her and pried off the lid to the box, lifting out the candy necklace and stretching it open for Sage to duck into. He'd remembered how Sage said she used to love candy necklaces in elementary school, but had been so sad when she could never find one with her name on it like the other girls. Brandon had scoured the Internet to find a company that could overnight one monogrammed withSAGE, and it hadn't been cheap. “It's got your name on it.”
“Wow.” Sage stepped backward slightly, touching her chipped pink fingernails to her temple. “That's really…” Her voice trailed off.
“What?” Brandon asked, stroking his jaw worriedly. He took a step closer to her, catching the scent of the Frédéric Fekkai moisturizing mist she sprayed on her hair. “Do you have a candy allergy?” He scoured his brain for any mention of allergies—aspirin, maybe, but definitely not cheap candy necklaces.
Sage took the necklace and threaded it between her fingers, examining the tiny letters printed on the candy. “No, it's really sweet.”
Encouraged, Brandon placed his hand on her hip, her coat cold beneath his skin. “Just something to, you know, remind you of me.” The thought of being without her for four days made him want to grab her and press his lips to hers, but he held back. “I thought maybe you could save the last two and we could eat them when we get back.”
Sage's eyes were focused on the toes of her shiny leather Elie Tahari riding boots. “Um, yeah, okay.” But before Brandon could say anything else, Sage raised her head, her eyes suddenly filled with confusion. “No, wait. Actually, no. It's too sweet.”
The pipes shuddered in the walls and let out a loud creak. Brandon's heart fell to the floor. Too sweet. He collapsed involuntarily onto his neatly made bed. “What does that mean?”
Sage pressed her thin lips together. “I don't think I can go out with you anymore,” she blurted out.
“Because of a stupid candy necklace?”
“No, Brandon,” Sage said gently, and it made Brandon feel even worse that she was trying not to feel bad for him. “Not because of the candy necklace. I came over here kind of knowing I had to break up with you.”
“Why?” Brandon moaned. “Things are going so—”
“You're just too sweet, Brandon.” Sage's chandelier earrings dragged down her earlobes, something he'd always noticed. He already had a pair of diamond studs from Tiffany picked out for her for Christmas. Good thing he hadn't put down a deposit yet. “Everything you do is just so super-thoughtful and super-sweet. You're just kind of…too…I don't know…feminine.”
“Feminine?” Brandon got to his feet. He knew what feminine was code for: gay. “Because I try to do nice things for you?” How could this be happening again? It felt like a repeat of the nightmare of Callie dumping him—except at least Sage was doing him the courtesy of telling him about it rather than making out with Easy Walsh in public to signal the fact that their relationship was over.
“You're so emotional. I've got enough girlfriends, okay?” She kicked his suitcase, rattling the toiletries inside. “What a girl really wants is a guy who can't keep his hands off her, who could just throw her down at any moment and ravage her.”
You're insane, Brandon wanted to shout, but he didn't really feel like that. “I guess I'm just too much of a gentleman to be the ravaging type.” His voice didn't quite come out as coldly as he liked—it sounded kind of whiny.
Sage met Brandon's eyes for the first time since she'd entered his room. “I think that's the problem.” Before he knew what was happening, Sage had stepped toward him and planted a kiss on his cheek. “Have a happy Thanksgiving, okay?”
Right. Like that was going to happen now.
From:
[email protected] To: Student Body
Date: Wednesday, November 27, 4:45 P.M.
Subject: Thanksgiving Holiday meal
Dear Students,
Please enjoy a safe and happy Thanksgiving break.
For all of our international students and those without plans for the holidays, the Waverly Dining Hall will be open its regular hours over break, with a limited menu.
The talented staff in Dining Services are also pleased to be hosting a very special, culturally diverse Thanksgiving feast tomorrow, from 5 to 6:30 P.M. Myself and several of your favorite professors will be hosting the meal, and we look forward to thought-provoking conversation about the history of our country and what it means to give thanks.
Enjoy your break from schoolwork.
Best,
Dean Marymount
4
A WAVERLY OWL KNOWS HOW TO SHARE.
Jenny watched the Hudson River slink by out the window as they approached the city, her eyes heavy with sleep. In the window, Callie and Tinsley's reflections were still, their chatter silenced by the soothing lull of the train as it made its way south. The bustle of the first few minutes on the train died down quickly as everyone plugged into their iPods or pulled out their BlackBerries, furiously texting about their weekend plans. Jenny closed her eyes, still wondering who Tinsley's lost love might have been. Eric Dalton, the sexy young teacher from Brown that she'd torn away from Brett, whom Brett had subsequently gotten booted out of Waverly? It seemed unlikely—Tinsley had treated the whole thing as a joke, another notch on her leather Prada belt.
“Hey, girls!” a breathless voice above them with a slight British accent sang out.
Jenny knew even before opening her eyes that Yvonne Stidder, a dorky girl from the first floor in Dumbarton, was standing over them. She was nice enough, but every time she spoke to Jenny, Jenny got the feeling Yvonne was sucking up to her or something. “Do you have any big, exciting plans for break?”
Tinsley opened a single eye and gave the birdlike blond girl a cold stare. “That's an excellent question.” She closed her eye again, her long thick lashes leaving shadows on her cheeks.
“Not really.” Jenny felt bad for Yvonne, but she didn't exactly want to be strolling down Columbus Avenue with her, either. Still, she wasn't about to be rude. “I just can't wait to get back to my own apartment.”
Yvonne grinned at Jenny, her pale eyes full of a gratitude that made Jenny slightly uncomfortable. The train swayed and Yvonne grabbed the back of Callie's chair for support. Callie stared at Yvonne as if she couldn't imagine why she was talking to her.
“Because if you don't have any plans tonight,” Yvonne soldiered on, pushing up her wire-rimmed glasses, “you're totally invited to my Thanksgiving party.” She scanned Tins-ley's and Callie's faces for a reaction, then, not having received one, turned back to Jenny. “Corner of Eightieth and Park. Look for the green awning. Number seven. Nine o'clock.”
Callie pretended to fumble through her burnt orange Lanvin tote, which Jenny knew meant she was trying not to giggle at Yvonne. She glanced up for a brief second, her hazel eyes scanning Yvonne's too-short chocolate brown corduroys and her orange Ralph Lauren sweater with the little blue polo insignia on the breast. “Maybe if my plane gets delayed.”
“Yeah,” Jenny chimed in, “If my dad doesn't have anything planned tonight, I'll definitely stop by.”
“Awesome.” Yvonne smiled at Jenny, her pale cheeks flushing with color. “See you there. Spread the word.” Yvonne skittered down the aisle, stopping at the next group of Waverly students.
“Top Ten Things I'd Rather Do Tonight Than Go to Yvonne Stidder's.” Tinsley leaned back in her seat and smiled wickedly. “Number ten: eat a live turkey, feathers and all.”
Callie giggled and pulled a tube of Stila Lip Glaze in Guava from her bag and smeared it on her lips. “Number nine: spend Thanksgiving with Dean Marymount. Playing Twister. Naked.”
Jenny laughed
. “You or him?”
Tinsley opened her mouth to reply when her Nokia cheeped from her coat pocket. “Voice mail—someone must have called when we were in the tunnel.” She flipped open the screen and listened, a slight frown crossing her face. “It's my mom.” Halfway into the message her jaw dropped, and Jenny and Callie exchanged worried glances, bracing themselves for Tinsley Carmichael on a rampage. “Unbelievable,” Tinsley barked as she snapped the phone shut.
“What?” Callie asked cautiously. “No tofurkey this year?”
“The goddamn floors in the goddamn apartment need another coat of polyurethane or some shit.” Tinsley shook her head in astonishment, looking more lost than Jenny had ever seen her. “So they decided to go to goddamn St. Barts. For Thanksgiving!”
The three of them went silent for a moment, Jenny wondering what kind of parents could go to St. Barts and only tell their child at the last moment. “Look, I'm sure we can get another flight to Atlanta,” Callie offered, only half-joking. “Having you there would make the state dinner much more bearable.”
Tinsley's lips formed a delicate pout. “Thanks, but I didn't pack my debutante dress.”
Callie frowned. “Can you stay in the apartment, or is it, like, quarantined?”
“They want me to stay at a hotel,” Tinsley sighed, rolling her eyes. Her face quickly composed itself into its typical, slightly bored expression, but Jenny could tell she was bothered by the whole thing. “Something tells me Daddy's AmEx card will be buying the most expensive Thanksgiving dinner the Soho Grand has ever served.”
As fun as it would be to spend a weekend at a luxury hotel, Jenny couldn't imagine spending Thanksgiving there. Alone. “Come to my house,” she said impulsively, leaning forward and putting a hand on Tinsley's knee. “It's just me and my dad, and we could totally use someone else to talk to.”
Tinsley palmed her phone, flipping it over and over, considering. She twitched her lips. “It wouldn't be an imposition?”
“Please. Rufus loves my tall, charming friends!” Jenny smiled. “You really shouldn't be alone on Thanksgiving.” She cringed at the thought of her father dancing around tomorrow morning in his Hawaiian print bathrobe, singing Beach Boys songs as he burnt his toast. Either Tinsley would find it incredibly endearing—or beyond annoying. She had a sinking feeling it might be the latter.
Callie dug through her bag, tuning out Jenny and Tinsley, suddenly panicking that she'd forgotten her plane ticket. It was weird that Tinsley and Jenny would be spending Thanksgiving together—Callie couldn't help feeling a bit jealous. Two months ago, Tinsley would have suffocated Jenny with a pillow while she slept, and now they'd be having pillow fights and giggling over late-night popcorn in Jenny's apartment.
It didn't really bother her. All she really wanted was Easy. People were already tired of her moping around, but what could she do? She noticed the glazed-over looks in Jenny and Tinsley and Brett's eyes when she started talking about how much she missed him, and she couldn't really blame them. She was bored with it, too, but she didn't know how to make it stop, short of hiring a private investigator to track Easy down wherever the hell he was, and maybe spring him free, if private investigators could even do that. Maybe if you paid them extra?
She turned everything in her bag over, a desperate panic overcoming her as she searched. Where was her plane ticket? She'd looked at it when it arrived via FedEx from her mom and then shoved it in the top drawer of her dresser so she'd remember to pack it. But the top drawer was where she kept what her mother might call her “lady's finery,” and she hadn't packed any of her silk things for Thanksgiving, with no one to appreciate them.
The corner of a white envelope stuck out from under her folded jeans and she yanked it free. Aha! Callie flipped the envelope over, looking for the opening. It was sealed. She didn't remember sealing it. She definitely didn't remember sealing it. And she definitely hadn't written the letter C in a heart on the front. Her heart thumped loudly in her chest as she flicked a recently manicured nail along the top of the stubborn envelope, finally revealing a creased piece of lined paper torn out of a notebook. She recognized Easy's handwriting immediately, and tears sprang to her eyes just because she missed seeing it so much.
Callie,
If you've gotten this, I'm probably at military school and can't get word out. But I have a plan—I'm going to sneak away over Thanksgiving weekend and get to New York. I'll be on top of the Empire State Building at 8 P.M. on Thanksgiving, just like in An Affair to Remember, right? (How's that for romantic?) There's something else in here too, something I wanted to give you but was waiting for the right moment. I think I missed it, so now will have to do. It's a promise ring. I promise I'll see you soon, and I'll be thinking of you every day until I do.
I love you.
Easy.
Callie rifled through the envelope until a small platinum ring with a pear-shaped amethyst stone dropped into her lap. She shrieked, jolting Jenny and Tinsley. She pinched the ring between her thumb and forefinger and slid it onto her left ring finger. “It's from Easy!” she cried. “It's a promise ring.”
Jenny's doe eyes widened. “Really? That's pretty serious, right?”
Callie couldn't help feeling a small surge of triumph—despite Easy's brief fling with Jenny at the beginning of the semester, he was back with Callie, for good. A vision of herself in a flowing white wedding dress atop the Empire State Building, the air blowing her luscious curls around her like an angel, danced in her head. She could suddenly feel Easy's strong lips against hers, and the train couldn't move fast enough.
“He's coming to New York,” Callie whispered confidentially, looking around for eavesdroppers.
“Too bad you'll be in Atlanta,” Tinsley reminded her. “And I think you're only supposed to wear an engagement ring on that hand.”
“I lost my plane ticket,” Callie said matter-of-factly, holding her hand out and staring at the ring. It was kind of like an engagement ring, in a way. A pre-engagement engagement ring, really.
“It's in your outside pocket.” Tinsley poked at Callie's waist. “I saw you tuck it in when we left Dumbarton.”
Callie stuck her hand in the side pocket of her camel-hair coat and was chagrined to find the ticket. Suddenly, she realized she was in total control of the situation. “Fuck it. I'm not going.” Just because she had a plane ticket didn't mean she had to use it. “If she thinks she can stick me in rehab and then call me home for Thanksgiving only to ignore me while she does nothing but work…”
“That's the spirit. Screw the governor.” Tinsley smiled mischievously. “Then screw Easy.”
Callie focused her hazel eyes on Jenny and blew a loose strawberry blond strand of hair out of her face. “So, how many beds does your apartment have?” Callie asked Jenny softly, using the honey-sweet voice she used for calling in favors.
Tinsley's slouchy sweater slid off one of her shoulders, revealing her smooth, pale skin and the black strap of her silk camisole. “You're really blowing off your mom? You sure you want to do that?”
Callie held up her promise ring. “I'm going to New York. And that's that.” She turned to Jenny, who still hadn't answered her question.
“Of course you can stay with me!” Jenny exclaimed, feeling kind of excited that Tinsley Carmichael and Callie Vernon would actually be staying in her apartment.
Did she still have that poster from last summer of Shia LaBeouf in Transformers thumbtacked above her bed? Or those black-and-white sketches from the Constance Billard hymnal competition? She couldn't remember, but she hoped the evidence of her childhood dorkiness could be kept to a minimum. “It'll be like a giant slumber party.”
Tinsley actually laughed. “Thanksgiving Chez Humphrey,” she said, shaking her mane of dark hair. “Who knew?”
Jenny smiled and looked out at the Hudson again. Her dad was always encouraging her to bring her friends home for him to meet—well, now he was in for a double dose of it.
CelineColista: Just saw
Brandon at the front gate looking like his kitten died. Wtf?
SageFrancis: Aw…I kinda just dumped him.
CelineColista: WHAT? Thought he was Mr. Romantic?
SageFrancis: He is…but if he said one more sweet thing to me, I was gonna barf.
CelineColista: No more down-and-dirty for you, sister.
SageFrancis: Ha! Nothing with B is dirty—that's the prob!
5
A WAVERLY OWL NEVER ACCEPTS A RIDE FROM A STRANGER.
Brett slumped down on the cold bench across from the ticket kiosk, tugging up on the collar of her black twill Betsey Johnson coat. The last train to Manhattan had pulled out a few minutes earlier and the Metro-North platform was completely deserted. Wires overhead buzzed with electricity and a few yellow taxicabs lurked in the parking lot, exhaust pouring out of their pipes. Brett was tempted to try and bribe one to take her all the way to Jersey—but did cabs even take AmEx platinum cards?
After rushing out of the library, she'd stupidly decided to stop by the dorm first to pick up her French copy of The Stranger by Albert Camus she'd forgotten—she had a translation test next week in Madame Renault's class. But the trip to the dorm had been a mistake. As she flew up the steps to the platform, dropping a glove in the process, she saw the lights of the last train as it disappeared down the track to New York.
It was all Sebastian's fault. He'd been completely incapable of focusing today, even more so than usual, peppering Brett with questions about her family and their Thanksgiving traditions like he really cared and wasn't just trying to get out of working on his Latin. His Jersey accent grated on her nerves, reminded her of all the tacky guys in her junior high who wore bright Tommy Hilfiger clothes and had pinups of girls sprawled out over muscle cars hanging up in their lockers. Tacky, tacky, tacky.
She pulled her silver Nokia out of her pocket and started to dial her parents' house, but the thought of her mom inevitably saying, Your sister would never miss her train, made her hang up, not ready to face the music.