RyanReynolds:Maybe later, if you join us.
BennyCunningham:A responsible Owl never abandons her fellow Owls.
RyanReynolds:Hallelujah for that.
22
WAVERLY OWLS TAKE HYGIENE EXTREMELY SERIOUSLY.
When the word spread about a possible teacher infiltration, Tinsley had just been about to approach Brandon and Julian to thank them again for a lovely night. It was such a fucking treat to get to go out to a fancy dinner while the rest of the poor suckers in the dorm were stuck in the common room, watching reruns of Friends. She felt like she had simultaneously achieved so many things: Marymount was grateful to her for keeping quiet about the whole embarrassing lockdown situation, so he was even more in her back pocket now; she'd had the most amazing time flirting with Julian—it was even kind of fun to flirt with stodgy old Brandon, who seemed to get a thrill out of it too; and she'd had the most delicious crème brulèe in all of upstate New York. Not bad for last-minute plans.
The two boys were standing in the first-floor hallway, leaning on either side of the bathroom door, each holding a Waverly mug, looking like very conscientious Owls. They looked kind of cute together—compact and tight (and uptight) Brandon, with his perfectly tousled hair gelled into place, wearing an Armani sweater over a button-down shirt, and gangly Julian, some sort of ratty ski cap on his head, his bleached-out dirty-blond hair poking out the bottom like straw. He was wearing a Question Authority T-shirt over a red thermal shirt and a pair of dark brown suit pants, clearly from a thrift store. They were sort of like the Odd Couple—or Starsky and Hutch, the Ben Stiller—Owen Wilson version.
She strutted down the hallway in their direction, her heels clicking against the polished marble floors. Both boys looked up at her. For as long as she could remember, Brandon seemed to despise her. Now he wore that same glassy-eyed look she was used to getting from guys who were into her. Although it was flattering, she knew he just wasn't her type. Brandon was wound a little too tight and probably was due for a stress-induced heart attack by age twenty-six.
As for Julian … she definitely seemed to be making progress on getting him to fall in love with her. And she was enjoying it, too. Maybe a little too much.
Tinsley's phone buzzed just as she waved hello to the guys. She flicked it open and saw a text from Heath saying TEACHER ALERT. Shit.
“Someone's coming—you guys had better hide.” Tinsley ran down the rest of the hallway and pushed open the door to the bathroom and the boys dashed in behind her.
“Gee, thanks for looking out for us, Carmichael.” Clearly Brandon wasn't ready to let all of his bitterness go—good. She liked to see him conflicted. It kept things interesting. Calling her by her last name was a blatant attempt to try and convince himself that he saw her as just one of the guys—ha. Fat chance.
Tinsley blew him a kiss. “Thought you'd like to see the inside of one of these places.” The bathrooms in Dumbarton were surprisingly large and had been updated a few years ago. They were a little more modern than the rest of the building, with three toilet stalls tastefully done in a dark oak, a long wall with a mirror and three sinks, and three shower stalls around the corner.
“It's so neat in here,” Julian remarked, his eyes running across the shelf of cubbies above the sinks where the girls stored their bath and shower things. She didn't tell him that things were definitely not usually this clean—but since they had nothing better to do today, the girls had made a point of straightening up their cubbies, wiping the crust off toothpaste tubes, removing stray tampons from view, and lining up their facial products in neat rows. “But wow. There's a whole lot of face shit in here.” From one cubby, he picked up a bottle of Benefit Fantasy Mint Wash and another of L'Occitane's olive water face toner. “What's all this for?“
“One's a cleanser and the other's a toner.” Brandon touched the L'Occitane bottle. “That's good stuff.”
Tinsley giggled. Brandon certainly didn't help himself sometimes. She knew he was sensitive and all, but it was still sort of weird that Brandon knew more about skin care than she did. “That's mine. Put it back, please!”
Julian lifted the bottle out of her reach. “No way. I want to try out this magic potion.” He twisted off the cap of the toner and poured some into his palm, then slapped it to his cheek and spread it around like aftershave. “Do I look different? Am I beautiful now?”
“No,” Brandon replied at the same time Tinsley said, “Yes.”
Brandon rolled his eyes. “You don't exactly have Tinsley's delicate skin, you know.”
My delicate skin? It was Tinsley's turn to roll her eyes. Brandon trying to flirt with her sounded like Brandon sucking up to her, and that was definitely not a turn-on. He'd have better luck sticking with the sarcasm.
“What's this?” Julian peeked around the corner where the three shower stalls were tucked. The shower stalls were covered in beautiful cerulean blue Mediterranean-style tiles, donated by Sage Francis's family, who ran a ceramics company in western Massachusetts. They were fairly spotless, as the cleaning staff came in on Saturday mornings, apparently unaffected by the lockdown. He swept aside the white nylon curtain and let out a low whistle.
“Shit. Our showers were last renovated in like 1945. It's like a spa in here,” Brandon commented jealously.
Julian stepped inside the first stall. “So this is where it all happens?” He had a goofy grin on his face, like he was channeling all the naked girls who showered in that exact spot every day.
Tinsley stepped in with him. “This is the one I always use.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Oh, yeah? How come?”
Tinsley shrugged and perched her toe on the soap dish that was built into the wall. “It's handier for shaving legs.”
“Damn.” Julian shook his head. “You're right. That does make it handier. I wish we had one of those in our shower.”
Tinsley giggled. She glanced up at his head, which almost hit the shower faucet. He was so freaking tall. “How come you're wearing a hat?” she asked.
He pretended to rub soap over his body. “It's actually a hot-oil treatment for my follicles—it just looks like a hat.”
Something about Julian made Tinsley feel all goofy. As he dipped back his head, pretending to rinse his hair, Tinsley reached past him and turned on the faucet.
But he must have sensed what she was doing because just as her hand left the dial, he wrapped his arms around her waist and spun her around in front of him, ducking down and using her as a shield. She got a face full of cold water.
She shrieked and squirmed, but Julian's arms were wrapped tightly around her. The water was freezing! Finally she was able to reach out in front of her and slam the dial back in place.
“You ass!” She twirled back around to face him, her hair and body completely drenched.
The bathroom door slammed shut. Brandon must have left.
“Does the water always take that long to heat up?” Julian's lips twitched a little as he tried not to smile. “Maybe you should call a plumber.” He stepped back and leaned against the tile wall, his gaze admiring.
Tinsley glowered at him, her carefully curled and volumized hair now lying in wet strings in front of her face, and her dress, Kara's dress, beautiful and sexy before, now felt like a soggy pink Kleenex clinging to her skin. Somehow Julian had managed to stay almost completely dry.
Not for long.
“You think that's funny?” Tinsley demanded, clenching her molars together to keep from laughing. “You think you're so smart?” Then she dove at him, throwing her soaked arms around his waist and pressing her wet face to his chest, rubbing back and forth to dry off her head. It was exciting, being this close to him—it was sort of like wrestling with a boy when you're a kid, and you get all excited but don't really know why.
Which, unfortunately, reminded her that Julian was kind of a kid still. He was a freshman, so he was, what? Fourteen? Maybe fifteen. Tinsley shivered, and this time it had nothing to do with the cold water. Jesus. A freshm
an. That meant he was taking Ancient and Medieval History of the World with Mr. DeWitt, the only class that had made Tinsley actually consider jabbing a pen in her eye socket just so that she could be excused. Freshmen on boys sports teams were forced to do silly things like wear pink underwear or garter belts under their uniforms; they had to have weekly meetings with their advisers to discuss academic “strategies for success,” as Marymount had coined the term; in cafeteria lines, upperclassmen were practically allowed to skip ahead of them—or at least they did.
23
A WAVERLY OWL DOESN'T JUDGE SOMEONE BY THEIR SHOES
If the sight of Tinsley and Julian fawning all over each other hadn't been enough to make Brandon want to vomit, the sound of them having a water fight or wet T-shirt contest or whatever they hell they were doing definitely was. Brandon stormed out of the girls' bathroom, furious at himself for being, once again, a horrible judge of character. What was it about Tinsley that made everyone always so willing to accept her flaws? Just because she was beautiful? There were plenty of girls at Waverly who were prettier than Tinsley—okay, maybe not plenty. But a few. Or at least, Callie. But only Tinsley had such a devoted following. Freshman girls aspired to be her; even teachers, and not even just the ultra-slimy ones like Eric Dalton, seemed to be in awe of her. Why? Because of her freaky violet eyes that seemed to have some sort of x-ray vision into people's minds? Maybe she was a mutant. His comic book freak roommate certainly seemed to think she had some sort of sexual superpowers.
“Whoa!” Brandon cried, almost tripping over his own feet as he skidded to a stop. Standing in front of him was a pretty young woman in a black leather jacket and tight gray wool skirt that skimmed the tops of her tan leather Børn clogs. Her black cat's-eye glasses were perched sexily about halfway down her nose, and she looked through them at Brandon quizzically. Shit. “I was just, um, just …”
“Using the bathroom?” The girl's face curled into an amused grin. On closer inspection, it was clear that this was a teenage girl and not a teacher, as he'd first suspected. Her face was definitely too young, and she had a single silver hoop earring perched on the top of her right ear. Her features were strong: the kind of long nose and dramatic cheekbones that cameras love, and Brandon found himself wondering if she'd ever been in a Gucci eyewear ad because she looked vaguely familiar. “That's not a crime, you know.”
“So …” Brandon tried to regain his composure. “I take it you're not a teacher?”
“Now you're catching on, Einstein.” She tossed her head a little, and Brandon saw that the underside of her dirty-blond hair was a dark brown. She looked like the type who'd be in an all-girl band. Hot. The Børn clogs were not his thing (a little too granola), but on her they looked kind of punk rock hippie badass.
Or maybe he was being influenced by those dark brown eyes that had zeroed in on him. This was definitely not a Waverly Owl.
He cleared his throat. “So why are you here?”
The girl pursed her lips together. There was a small mole about an inch below the outside corner of her left eye. Insanely, Brandon couldn't tear his eyes away from it. It was like a magnet or something. “Looking for someone,” she answered with a shrug. “You haven't, uh, seen Jeremiah Mortimer … have you?” A slow blush crept over her cheeks.
Interesting. Jeremiah didn't even go to this school and his fans were tracking him down here? Wait till Brett found out. Word was that Jeremiah was blowing off all the St. Lucius homecoming parties to sneak over to Dumbarton and hang out with her, and Brett was probably not looking forward to having to share him with anyone else.
Definitely not someone this hot.
“I hear he's around, but, um … I haven't seen him.” Which was the truth. Normally Brandon would have been bummed that she was asking about another guy, but he was still pretty sure she was flirting with him. He leaned against the peach-colored wall and gazed up at a water stain on the peeling plaster ceiling. A giggle escaped from the bathroom, but Brandon ignored it. “You go to St. Lucius?”
The girl nodded and glanced down the empty hallway. She tapped her long, unpainted fingernails against the dark wood molding around the bathroom door. “Are all your parties this, um, wild and crazy?”
“Nah, sometimes they're boring.” Brandon smiled with closed lips and ran his tongue over his teeth, just in case she hadn't actually been flirting with him but instead had been transfixed by a piece of spinach in his teeth. When he was sure it was safe, he smiled. “I'm Brandon, by the way.”
Her dark eyes returned his inviting stare. “I'm Elizabeth.”
“My dog's name is Elizabeth!” Brandon blurted before realizing that maybe it wasn't the smoothest thing to say. But it just came out, and he did miss his family's Labrador—she was just about the only thing that made going back home to Westport for Christmas and vacations even remotely bearable. He certainly wasn't going to say it, but now that he thought of it, Elizabeth the girl's liquidy brown eyes did kind of remind him of Elizabeth the dog's. In a good way, of course.
God, he was a tool.
“No kidding?” Elizabeth actually laughed—a sweet melodic sound that reminded Brandon of the way the first few notes seemed to burst to life off the strings of his violin. Cut the poetry, Brandon. Concentrate. Don't make any more stupid remarks while trying to flirt. “It's not, like, a poodle or a bichon or anything, is it? I don't want any of those prissy dogs giving my name a bad rap.”
“She's a shepherd-Lab mix, and she looks pretty tough when she's tearing apart the Sunday Times.” Brandon watched in awe as Elizabeth slid a wisp of dirty-blond hair behind her ear and pushed her glasses back into place, all in one smooth motion. There was something so sexy about girls who could wear glasses with confidence. “Not prissy at all. In fact, I once saw her kick the shit out of our neighbor's Rhodesian ridgeback.”
Elizabeth pretended to think about it, scratching the nape of her neck with her right hand. Her jacket sleeve slid up to reveal one of those braided cotton sailor's bracelets, the kind you find in just about every souvenir store on Cape Cod, on the verge of disintegration. “I guess that's all right.” She shifted her weight from one foot to the other and toyed with the zipper on her jacket. “So what do you say we get this party started?”
Brandon stared at the zipper for a second, thinking, maybe she was talking about … taking off her clothes? What kind of crazy girl was she? He almost stopped breathing.
But then she caught him staring and poked his stomach with her index finger. “I didn't mean that, you dirty boy.” Her eyes sparkled. “I meant, let's go wake everyone up.” Immediately she stalked over to the closest dorm room, winked at Brandon, and gave it a sharp knock.
After a minute, a timid-looking blond girl opened the door and peeked out.
“Did you know that there's a party going on out here?” Elizabeth demanded, her voice stern and full of authority. Brandon watched her profile from afar.
“Uh—uh, no!” the girl stuttered, even though it was clear she was wearing party clothes—a red pleat-front miniskirt (was that Callie's Diane von Furstenberg?) and black tank top that said Free Winona in rhinestones (definitely not Callie's). “I didn't know about any party.”
Elizabeth placed both hands on her slim hips. “Well, why the hell not?” She burst into laughter, and Brandon couldn't help joining in. She had so much energy. The girl in the Winona shirt stared at both of them before clutching a hand to her heart.
“Oh my God, you gave me a fucking heart attack.” She quickly dashed into her room and reappeared waggling her empty Waverly mug. “I ran out of beer, like, ten minutes ago, and I've been dying in here.”
Feeling completely relaxed in a way he'd never felt before, Brandon led the way down the hall, pounding on all the doors, scaring the kids hiding inside before dragging them out to the party again. He and Elizabeth raced up to the second floor. As his Adidas sneakers slammed against the marbles steps and he glanced over at the amazingly funky girl clomping up the stairs in her cr
unchy clogs beside him, he wondered where the hell she'd been his whole life.
24
A WAVERLY OWL KNOWS THAT WHERE THERE'S INCENSE, THERE'S FIRE.
Once Tinsley left the room, Brett and Jeremiah didn't take long to make up for lost time. She'd been craving him all day, like the peanut butter M&M cookies dining services made every other Monday. It was kind of nice having him all to herself instead of sharing him with the adoring St. Lucius masses. And she couldn't help thinking how totally sweet it was that he would rather sneak away and be with her than stick around and get drunk at the countless victory parties that had to be going on all over his campus. Practically in his honor, since he was the one who'd won the game.
But he was here. In Brett's bed. Wearing his Gap boxers with the bulldogs on them and nothing else. Iron & Wine, Brett's favorite mood music, was playing, and she'd lit a couple of cones of sandalwood incense.
“Does it hurt here?” she asked, placing her hand on his shoulder. The two of them were lying face-to-face under her thick down comforter, Brett's head propped up on Jeremiah's left arm. Brett felt a little shy in her black strapless Le Mystere bra and matching low-rise briefs. But it wasn't like Jeremiah hadn't seen her body before, and besides, it was really like she was just wearing a bikini. But things felt different now—now that she thought she was ready for more.
Jeremiah tried not to grimace. “It hurts everywhere, babe.”
“Here?” She slowly slid her hand down his chest, over the GET GOOSED paint.
“Actually, that makes it feel a little better.” Jeremiah cleared his throat, and his eyes had that dreamy expression they got when he was completely turned on, which Brett loved. It made her feel like the most attractive girl on the planet and so powerful. She hoped that didn't mean she was destined to become a dominatrix one day.
But when Jeremiah leaned over and kissed her, all of Brett's thoughts disappeared. She'd never felt so comfortable before, so relaxed. So ready. “How many times did you get tackled today?”