Tinsley groaned, and Heath turned around, his gold-flecked green eyes blinking lazily as he focused on her apple-red lips. Tinsley bumped her hip against his, then slid her tray down the metal rails toward the green beans.
Lon Baruzza stood behind the glass counter in front of the giant tub of beans, holding an enormous spoon and wearing a white apron and a Notre Dame cap. He was a scholarship kid from Chicago, and Tinsley was always pleased to see him, even if the poor guy had to schlep beans onto plates for spoiled-rotten rich kids—he was much cuter than any of the other dining hall workers.
“I see you’re in charge of the beans today,” Tinsley said. “Is that a promotion from yesterday’s creamed corn?”
“Nah,” said Lon, who, even though he was dating Tricia Rieken, clearly liked handing a plate of food to Tinsley. “It’s actually a demotion—they caught me smoking on my break yesterday. So only green vegetables for me from now on.”
“That’s good,” said Tinsley. “I only took the corn yesterday because I wanted to say hi. I prefer beans.” As he handed her a plate over the counter, she flashed him her ultra-flirtatious smile and glanced around for Heath, who had moved on to the hamburger station, obviously sulking that she was talking to Lon. She smiled to herself. One of her great pleasures in life was flirting with boys in front of other boys. It made them realize they had no claims on her.
She slid her tray next to Heath’s as he struggled with an unwieldy pair of tongs to try and pick up a sesame bun and pretended not to notice her approach. Eventually he gave up and grabbed it with his hand.
“Gross,” said Tinsley. “Those are there for a reason, so guys like you don’t get their grubby paws all over other people’s food.” She expertly maneuvered the tongs and dropped a bun on her plate.
“Oh, didn’t notice you were there. Thought you were still flirting with Baruzza,” Heath said in mock surprise. She could tell he wasn’t really bothered by it—Heath was her male counterpart, always knowing when to flash his devastating grin and when to give a playful wink. If anyone understood the thrill behind harmless flirtations, he did.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’ll never talk to another boy again. Happy?” Tinsley stabbed an overcooked garden burger with the extra-long fork and let it drop onto her plate. Ever since her father had produced a documentary about slaughterhouses when she was eight, Tinsley couldn’t eat any sort of red meat. It gave her the creeps. Unfortunately, the decision not to buy leather didn’t come so easily.
“You’re just pissed at me because we won’t let you join our secret society.” Heath winked at her over his shoulder as he headed to the fountain soda machine, plucked a glass from the towering stack, and filled it halfway with Pepsi, then filled it the rest of the way with Dr Pepper. Tinsley followed him and filled her glass with Diet Pepsi.
“Not exactly. I just went ahead and started my own. Girls only.”
“What are you going to do—have tickle fests? In your underwear?” Heath licked his lips at the thought.
“A little more sophisticated than that. And a little racier.”
“Oh, yeah?” Heath said, liking the sound of that. “Maybe our secret societies should have a secret meeting together. Someplace sexy and off-limits.” Heath sounded like he had been joking when he started the thought, but then a dreamy look came across his face, as if suddenly he was visualizing a clandestine meeting where Tinsley and Jenny and the other girls, in their bras and panties, smacked each other with expensive feather pillows, their hair getting all tousled and staticky. “Like Boston. We’ll rent out a couple of suites at the Ritz-Bradley.”
Tinsley set her glass down on her tray. She had a vision of two enormous, stylish suites at the Ritz, the door connecting them wide open as girls in flapper dresses and boys in tuxes flitted back and forth, passing around flutes of champagne and sharing elegant, chic embraces. “That might just be the best idea you’ve ever had, Ferro.”
Heath continued. “We could all wear costumes, à la Super Friends.”
“Whoa, now you’re getting away from me.”
“Seriously. Didn’t you see that OC episode where Summer dressed up as Wonder Woman? That was like the sexiest thing ever.” Heath set down his tray and stared at Tinsley objectively. “You would make a great Wonder Woman. You’ve got the body. And the hair.” Heath took the opportunity to reach out and touch Tinsley’s long black locks. She batted his hand away, although she could definitely imagine herself as a comic book hero, with black waves of hair highlighted with blue. And wearing a hot little outfit, of course. “And the Ritz will be like our League of Justice.”
She stared at him blankly. “Our League of Justice?”
“You know, our headquarters. Our home base. For our missions?”
“Now you’re starting to scare me. Can we get serious for a moment? We need to make this happen.” Tinsley grabbed some silverware from the plastic tubs and glanced up toward their table of friends, who were finishing their meal by now. Callie waved.
“I’m totally with you.” Heath agreed. “Next weekend, at the Ritz. We can book suites right next to each other.”
“We’ll dress up. Not as superheroes,” she added quickly, noticing Heath’s excitement. “Just dressy.” She thought slyly of the outfit she was planning on wearing on her New York City date with Dalton—the sexy, coral chiffon flapper dress, its snug-fitting torso and flouncy skirt covered with delicate silver beading.
“Trust me. There’s nothing sexier than Wonder Woman’s leotard.”
“That may be. But we’re going for something a little more sophisticated.”
Heath shook his head. “Not possible.”
“I have to say, I’ve never seen this side of you before, Heath.”
“What side?”
“This geek side.”
Heath pretended to growl at her. “Do not start ragging on comic books. Please. I think highly of you and don’t want that to change.”
Tinsley smiled. She liked that Heath wasn’t afraid she’d think he was a dork. And it was endearing that he got so excited at the thought of Wonder Woman in her leotard. Maybe one day she’d have to get that outfit just to give him a heart attack. She looked around and noticed that Benny, Callie, Alan, and Teague were all watching the two of them, wondering why they weren’t coming over to the table. “Let’s go sit down. We’ll talk about this later, Batman.”
“You’re laughing now,” he warned. “Go ahead, I’m going to snag a cookie.”
Tinsley headed to the table by herself, noticing Callie staring sadly across the dining hall.
She followed Callie’s line of sight and saw what she was looking at: Easy. He was sitting at a table with Jenny and Alison Quentin and some of the other arty kids. They were all laughing uproariously.
“You okay, Cal?” Tinsley asked as she set her tray down. “Jenny promised there was nothing going on with them.”
“I know.” A full tray of food sat in front of Callie, untouched. “But I’m not so sure. Are you?”
“Of course there’s nothing going on,” Tinsley replied. How could there be? Jenny was short and practically disfigured, her breasts were so gigantic. Tinsley glanced back at the art-geek table. Easy was listening rapturously to Jenny, grinning and blinking his dark eyelashes contentedly. Uh-oh. She knew that look. It was the look of total, complete adoration he’d given her the night they’d hooked up in Alaska, the same look she’d somewhat jealously watched him give Callie a hundred times. There certainly was something going on there. Or would be soon. She was sure of it.
“I just …” Callie interrupted her epiphany. She picked up her fork and then put it down again. “I just wish I didn’t have to see him every day, you know? Like every time I think I feel okay, I see him walking across the quad or sitting at dinner laughing with Jenny.” She motioned to the table across the room.
Tinsley suddenly remembered seeing Easy and Jenny coming out of the woods together on Wednesday afternoon, looking all conspiratorial. That bastar
d. What was he doing, breaking Callie’s heart for that twerp? How dare he?
Tinsley narrowed her eyes, watching the way Easy gazed at Jenny. Even from across the large room, Tinsley could tell that the two of them were in their own world. Not for long, though, if she had anything to say about it. “You probably wish he’d, like, disappear or something, huh?” Tinsley suggested.
“Yeah.” Callie stabbed a piece of broccoli and examined it.
Well, Tinsley thought. Maybe I can make that happen.
BrettMesserschmidt: So it looks like you can stop avoiding the room now, J.
Jenny Humphrey: I’m psyched.
BrettMesserschmidt: So you and EZ aren’t …
Jenny Humphrey: No … nothing’s happened, but, you know.
BrettMesserschmidt: Yup
Jenny Humphrey: U were quiet last night.
BrettMesserschmidt: It’s over. Officially.
Jenny Humphrey: I’m so sorry. U okay?
BrettMesserschmidt: Yeah … but would you mind asking me again later to be sure?
Jenny Humphrey: U can count on it.
15
A CAUTIOUS OWL IS A WAVERLY OWL.
Brandon loved Saturday mornings at Waverly. Friday night parties were never as wild or liquor-fueled as Saturday night ones, and students didn’t walk around looking as totally destroyed as they did on Sunday mornings. Saturday mornings always felt more wholesome, with girls and boys wearing their maroon Waverly sweatshirts tied around their waists, headed to the fields to watch the soccer matches or field hockey games. Kids from the city took the train down to spend the weekend in their Upper East Side penthouses, bar-hopping at night with their beautiful friends from private school or other New England prep schools. Brandon was from Connecticut—Greenwich born and raised—and while the gorgeously manicured grounds of Waverly were not exactly a landscape foreign to him, Waverly felt much more like home than Connecticut did. His father had remarried three years ago, and his stepmother was a total nightmare of a woman, barely ten years older than Brandon, and now his half-sibling two-year-old twins toddled around the house, gnawing and barfing on expensive furniture while their mother fawned over how brilliant they were. His stepmother, whose name he vowed would never cross his lips, seemed to be convinced he was gay and told him once that if he ever came out of the closet, his father would “probably still love him.” At least he never got homesick.
The day was sunny but with a crispness to it. Brandon cut across the quad, his Bruno Magli slip-on loafers collecting bits of grass still damp with dew. He headed toward Maxwell Hall, an H. H. Richardson building that housed the student center, coffee bar, mail room, and study lounges and served as the social nexus of the campus. The library was the place to go when you were studying for a test or writing a paper that you couldn’t afford to get a C on. People who went to Maxwell were interested in a more-social type of studying, the lazy kind that welcomes the noise of cappuccino machines and interruptions from attractive members of the opposite sex. Maybe Callie would be there, having her double shot of espresso and reading the latest copy of Vanity Fair instead of doing her calculus. Brandon was planning to flop down in an oversized armchair in one of the balcony alcoves for a few hours, sip his latte, and get started on de Tocqueville’s Democracy in America, a book so boring that if the Founding Fathers had been required to read it, they would have certainly established a dictatorship instead.
The main space of Maxwell, with its massive stone walls, Romanesque arches, and enormous fireplace that was never actually lit, felt cavelike and welcoming. It was crowded with people, and after Brandon added his three packets of Splenda to his drink, he headed up the creaky back stairs to one of the dark alcoves on the upper floor, where you could look down onto the main lounge area and see everyone who came in.
At first Brandon was disappointed to see a thatch of dark curls instead of Callie’s long blond locks, but then he recognized them as belonging to Jenny. “Hey,” he said, pleased that she had somehow found her way to his favorite spot in the entire building. There were two oversized armchairs angled toward each other, a small wooden table between them. Brandon had spent many hours seated here with his iPod, longing for Callie. There was something so intimate about reading next to someone, every now and then looking up to catch their eye and maybe kiss a little.
Jenny glanced up from her book, clearly deep in thought. It took her a moment to focus on Brandon, but when she did, her face broke into a sweet grin. Her cheeks were a rosy pink, and her small, slightly upturned nose was dotted with freckles. She was wearing a flowered button-down from J.Crew that wasn’t exactly tight yet still managed to hug her curves, a short distressed jean skirt, black tights, and gray suede flats so small they looked like kids’ shoes. Her legs were crossed daintily at the ankles. “Hey, Brandon! What’s up?”
Brandon was momentarily distracted by the movement of Jenny’s breasts when she sat up straighter, but he didn’t want to be one of those guys who could only stare at a girl’s chest, no matter how inviting it might look, so he forced his eyes to return to her face. “Do you mind if I sit here?” he asked, indicating the other armchair.
“Of course not. It was getting kind of lonely up here with just me and Emma Bovary.”
Brandon laughed in response, realizing he hadn’t thought about Callie for at least thirty seconds. See, he wasn’t obsessed. He remembered how he didn’t want to speak to anyone for weeks after Callie had dumped him. Hopefully it wouldn’t take her that long to get over Easy. Brandon slumped into the chair next to Jenny, setting his cup on the table between them. “How is Callie doing?” He lowered his voice, then suddenly felt absurd speaking so gravely about a breakup. It wasn’t like Callie was in a coma or anything.
Jenny shrugged her petite shoulders. “I haven’t seen too much of her. Tinsley and Brett have been spending time with her, mostly.” Jenny paused and bit her lip. “I don’t think she’d really pick me to talk to about it anyway,” she added, her brown eyes dropping guiltily.
“Does that mean there really is something going on with you and Walsh?” Brandon demanded. He was glad to have Easy out of Callie’s life, but he didn’t exactly want him in Jenny’s either. And it made him feel bad for Callie since he knew too well how much it sucked to see the person you loved in the arms of someone else immediately after you broke up.
Jenny met his eyes again. “I really don’t know,” she admitted. “I mean, we’re friends, but—”
Brandon sat back in his chair. “Well, I hope it works out,” he interrupted. The words came out colder than he had intended. He wished Jenny well with Easy; he really did. But he didn’t want Callie to end up hating Jenny as much as he hated Easy. Especially since they had to live together.
“I don’t know what it is about him,” Jenny gushed breathlessly.
I do, Brandon thought. He’s tall and looks like a Ralph Lauren model. He rides horses and he’s artsy and “deep,” He tried not to roll his eyes. What’s not to love?
“Just, you know, try to remember how much it’s going to suck for Callie for a while. I mean, it’s a small campus. It’ll be hard for her to get away from it.”
Brandon was suddenly reminded of how he had walked into the mail room the very day after Callie broke up with him to see her and Easy leaning against a wall of mailboxes, making out, Callie wearing the aqua Diane von Furstenberg cashmere wrap sweater that Brandon had given her for their one-year anniversary. She hadn’t done it to be cruel, he knew—Callie never intentionally caused people pain. Well, not him, anyway. But just the thought that she was so swept away by Easy she didn’t even think twice about where that sweater had come from, and what it meant, made Brandon want to go over there and punch Easy in his perfectly crooked smile.
“It’s a small dorm room,” Jenny pointed out. “And I feel really weird already. Not that there’s anything going on between us yet. It just might be headed that way.”
Brandon nodded. “What do you think my chances are of getting Cal
lie back?” he asked, a little sheepish. He was so gorgeous, Jenny thought. He could have his pick of most Waverly girls, but still, it was only Callie he wanted. It occurred to her that if Callie understood how easy it was to get swept away by Easy Walsh and completely forget about a guy as great as Brandon, she might forgive Jenny for getting swept away by Easy too. She sighed. Or maybe not.
“I think right now she probably just wants some space.” Jenny took a sip of her now-cold green tea. “She doesn’t want to go out with anyone yet. Besides, we’re kind of in this new society, and no boyfriends allowed.”
Brandon groaned. “You’re in Tinsley’s secret society too?” He unzipped his leather messenger bag, so exquisitely aged it looked like it was from World War II, and pulled out a small book. He needed to at least pretend to be getting some work done.
“Yeah,” Jenny admitted, still excited that she had gotten the email from Tinsley yesterday. Maybe Tinsley was willing to forgive her for being the awkward new girl who stole her bed after all. Tinsley was the crown queen of Waverly. Hands down the coolest, most beautiful girl on campus, the kind of person who didn’t wait around for cool stuff to happen—she went out and made it happen. If Jenny couldn’t be Tinsley, being friends with her was the next-best thing. Maybe some of the glamour would rub off on her. “It sounds like fun.”
“Of course it does,” Brandon said with a smile. “Tinsley doesn’t involve herself in things that aren’t fun.”
“That doesn’t sound like a bad way to be, necessarily.”
Brandon hesitated. “It’s more than a way of life for Tinsley. She’s turned amusing herself into an art form. No matter the cost.”
Jenny leaned back in her chair and tried to digest Brandon’s words. She could see that he had a point—after all, Tinsley had been suspended from Waverly for having “fun”—yet it didn’t seem to take away from any of Tinsley’s allure. If anything, it added to it. Tinsley did what she wanted. “Hey, if it means she’s going to be nice to me, I’ll take it. Between her and Callie, I spent all week afraid to go to my room.”