“She's telling the truth,” Kara said meekly, sitting up in the bed and pulling the comforter up over her knees. “They put me in here. She didn't have a choice.”
Brett smiled over her shoulder at Kara, grateful for the backup. Kara stifled her smile, probably so Jeremiah wouldn't see, and Brett was doubly grateful.
“They made you sleep in the same bed?” Jeremiah asked incredulously. “What do you think I am, stupid? Why not on the floor? Or with Tinsley?”
Tinsley couldn't resist interjecting. “I don't share my bed with anyone,“ she said coolly, excited to see all the trouble she'd caused. It was only fair—where did Brett get off thinking she could have an illicit lesbian love affair and still manage to get her hot boyfriend back?
Tinsley rolled over in her bed, burying her face in her pillow to avoid the light. While she knew she should have been happy to see someone else get what was coming to her, her own words kept ringing in her ears: I don't share my bed with anyone. She'd said it as a clever punch line, but the moment the words left her mouth she realized they were true. No one was interested, especially not Julian—the one person she could not, for the life of her, get out of her brain. She shivered under her sheet even though the room was sweltering, an immense sadness enveloping her so that she could hardly hear the scene that was playing out a few feet away.
“Jeremiah, please,“ Brett pleaded, grabbing him by the arm and leading him out into the darkened hallway. She listened for sounds of Pardee shuffling out of bed, but there was only silence. “I know it looks weird, but really. It's just this totally ridiculous set of circumstances that …” She trailed off, running a hand through her tangled red hair, which was probably all matted.
Jeremiah tugged at his coat, his face flushed red. “It is really fucking hot in here.” His eyes scanned down Brett's body, taking in her lithe torso, braless underneath her thin tee, and her long, slender legs. “I guess I, uh, overreacted, didn't I? I’m sorry, sweetheart, but look at you. Can you blame me for wanting to be the only one in your bed?”
Brett's knees weakened as Jeremiah pulled her toward him and wrapped her in his strong arms. “You will be soon,” she promised with a sigh.
The time for them to be together, with no distractions, couldn't come soon enough.
24
A WAVERLY OWL SELECTS HER GUEST LIST WITH CARE—BUT KNOWS THAT EVEN BEGGARS CAN'T BE CHOOSERS.
The smell of buttery popcorn filled the Cinephiles screening room on Sunday afternoon as Tinsley rearranged the free snacks she'd put together for her fellow Owls. In addition to bags of freshly popped popcorn, she'd laid out a bowl of bite-size Snickers, Junior Mints, a plastic jug of licorice, and a pile of Pixie Stix for those who liked to mainline their sugar. A cooler full of diet soda was iced and ready under the table, a couple of wine coolers buried all the way at the bottom, in case Tinsley was so inspired.
The number of favors she'd had to call in to lay her hands on the film would never be known by her fellow Owls, though they'd all be impressed with the FOR YOUR CONSIDERATION tag at the bottom of the screen, revealing that the bootleg had come from an Academy Award voter. Much cooler than if it had come from one of the hawkers on a nondescript corner in Chinatown, which was sort of like buying knockoff perfume or fake Fendi bags.
Tinsley glanced at the watch on her left wrist. In her mid-thigh-length Citizens of Humanity denim skirt, a snug-fitting yellow tee from Urban Outfitters, and her vintage Gucci knee-high boots, won in a fierce bidding war on eBay, she'd gone for casual-sexy. She was trying not to get nervous … but where was everyone?
The door to the screening room creaked open, and Tinsley almost sighed in relief. A freckle-faced freshman peeked in shyly. “Am I the first?” she asked. Her cropped dark hair was held back from her face with a red scarf. She wore a heather gray cable-knit sweater and a pair of tan cords, and looked as if she had stepped out of the pages of one of the free J.Crew catalogs that got stuffed in Tinsley's mailbox every week. But not in a good way.
If Tinsley were being honest with herself, she'd admit that it was Julian she had hoped to see sauntering through the front door. As improbable as it seemed, she'd wished all night that he'd show up and kiss her and everything would be right again. No more walking through campus feeling like she had cholera or some other gross disease they'd learned about in Mr. Robinson's world history class, no more paranoia about people whispering or pointing in her direction. She knew a kiss from Julian could turn all that around.
She suddenly remembered an underlined quote from a Kurt Vonnegut book she'd borrowed from Easy Walsh freshman year—”We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful what we pretend to be.” At the time, she felt like he'd underlined it for her, right before he lent it to her, as if he were trying to get inside her head. She'd been wrong then, of course—he apparently didn't care who Tinsley was pretending to be, a fact made clear when he started dating Callie. But thinking about it now made her … really lonely. Julian, she'd thought, had seen through her, too. But she'd been wrong about that as well. Or, maybe he had seen through her … and hadn't liked what he saw.
“Help yourself,” Tinsley offered, her head spinning. The freshman sidled up to the popcorn and picked a single piece to pop into her mouth. She eyed the Snickers and Junior Mints hungrily but didn't reach for one.
“I’m dying to see this movie!” the girl exclaimed, looking around the reclining leather seats of the screening room as if searching for other people. “How did you get it?”
“I just did,” Tinsley said, the smell of popcorn suddenly nauseating her.
“Are there … uh … going to be any boys here?” J.Crew asked. She smiled at Tinsley like they were sorority sisters.
Tinsley rubbed her hand over her face wearily. “I’m going to step outside for a cigarette. Help yourself to anything.”
Tinsley spun on the heel of her clunky boots and trudged out of the screening room and into the gray fall afternoon, shielding her eyes from the rain to survey the campus for the drove of filmgoers she'd been expecting. A few guys in fleeces chased one another around the quad in what looked like a primitive mating ritual. Assorted Owls with their arms loaded down with books rushed off toward the library, hurrying through the downpour. But nobody was headed in the direction of Hopkins Hall. Was she really getting stood up … by everybody? J.Crew girl totally did not count.
She knew how cool it was to be late for things, but this was Ryan Gosling. Illegal Ryan Gosling, if you wanted to get technical. Tinsley lit a Marlboro Light and took a long drag, cupping the cigarette to keep it dry.
The door to the screening room popped open. “You don't have any alcohol, do you?” J.Crew asked.
Tinsley felt herself deflate even more. “Bottom of the cooler.” This was what she had become—a lonely, friendless junior peddling alcohol to overzealous freshmen.
“Thanks,” J.Crew squealed and disappeared back into the darkness of the screening room.
The tobacco couldn't obscure the taste of failure that coated Tinsley's tongue and formed a lump in her throat. This sucked. Was no one on her side? And where was Callie? She was away for the weekend, okay, but why was her phone still off? No texts, no messages, nothing. It was like she had died—a terrible, scary thought Tinsley couldn't quite shake no matter how unlikely it was. She hugged herself as a chill wind blew through campus, rattling the trees overhead, a sprinkle of leaves falling around her. She missed Callie more than she'd ever thought she could, feeling her absence all the way down to her core. She couldn't remember the last time she'd felt so alone. She tossed the cigarette and stamped it out, careful to pick up the butt and take it inside.
The air inside the screening room smelled like a foul combination of wine cooler and butter, and it was all Tinsley could do to keep from vomiting when the frosh asked if she wanted to hang out instead of watch the movie. “I’m good either way,” the girl said in her best cool voice, shrugging and shoving her hands in the pockets of her dorky tan cords.
>
“Actually, something just came up,” Tinsley muttered, turning on her heels and pushing through the front doors. “Help yourself to the rest of the wine coolers. And turn the lights off behind you.”
Do people really bate me that much? Tinsley wondered as she trudged back toward Dumbarton in the rain, not caring enough to open her umbrella, the cold droplets coating her skin in a wet sheen. And did they love that bitch Jenny so much as to hold a collective grudge? She doubted it—she knew she hadn't fallen so far that people actively hated her. Instead, it was like she had just fallen off their radar. Which was far, far worse.
25
A WAVERLY OWL DOES NOT SEARCH THROUGH HER ROOMIE'S UNDERWEAR DRAWER UNLESS SHE'S PREPARED TO SEE HER DARKEST SECRETS.
A squall of rain beat against the window of Dumbarton 303 as Drew poured Jenny another glass of the delicious red wine he'd bought in town. She had no idea whether it was expensive wine or cheap wine—she hadn't drunk enough of it in her lifetime to know the difference—but to her, it was luscious. When Drew had shown up Sunday afternoon with a picnic basket in one hand and a single red rose in the other, the weather inside her dorm room had changed from dark and stormy to sunny blue skies.
“I thought we could have a floor picnic,” he'd said, scanning the messy floor. He looked his normal stunning self in a simple olive green crew-neck sweater and a pair of dark wash True Religion jeans. As he leaned in to kiss her cheek, the pleasant scent of aloe shaving cream hit her nose.
Jenny had quickly shoved everything—random clothes, stray shoes, scribbled-on notebooks—under her and Callie's beds to make room for the rich burgundy Ralph Lauren cable-knit throw that Drew had spread across the floor. As she sat cross-legged in her stretchy charcoal gray BCBG knit pants and black jersey wrap top, she felt very sophisticated. Here she was, having-a romantic picnic with a senior, on the floor of her dorm room, drinking probably expensive red wine.
She could feel the wine tickling the back of her throat, her stomach full of the cucumber-and-Brie sandwiches that seemed to keep coming from Drew's picnic basket. He produced a giant container of red grapes, seedless and washed, the dew still fresh on their skins.
“Open your mouth and close your eyes,” Drew said seductively, raising a sandy brown eyebrow at Jenny. He leaned back against the edge of Jenny's bed, her ancient blue-and-white flowered quilt wrinkling slightly.
“What?” She giggled as she tugged at the top of her wrap shirt. She had a vision of Cleopatra lying back on some kind of gold-encrusted chaise lounge, a handsome Egyptian in a toga fanning her with a palm frond while another slipped grapes into her mouth. It was kind of a fun fantasy, but it didn't exactly feel right for a Sunday afternoon in upstate New York. “I don't think so. You. “ Jenny heard the flirtatious confidence in her voice and wondered where the hell it came from.
Maybe it had something to do with having a gorgeous senior leaning back against her bed, obediently opening his mouth and closing his eyes. Jenny gently lobbed a grape toward his open lips. It missed, bouncing off his nose.
Drew lazily opened one eyelid, revealing a sparkling green eye. “You suck.”
“Come on. Give me another chance,” Jenny pleaded, aiming another grape at his mouth. As it left her fingertips, he jumped forward and tackled her. They landed in a pile on the bedspread.
“No more grapes. You're too dangerous.” Drew's arms were around her, his magnetic eyes staring directly into hers. His lips were just inches away. Finally he sat up and leaned against the headboard again, smiling at her.
Saturday had been a blur. Their afternoon drive to Sleepy Hollow to wander in and out of the tiny used bookstores that dotted the picturesque downtown had turned into a candlelit dinner in a restaurant overlooking the banks of the Hudson River. Dinner had melted into a midnight stroll around campus. They held hands in the moonless dark, Drew pulling her into blackened corners to press his firm body against hers, his lips fumbling for hers in the dark. Her body had been so abuzz that she could hardly sleep all night.
Drew touched Jenny's cheek. “I’ve been having such a great time with you, you know.” Tiny electric shocks shot through her body.
“Yesterday was really fun.” Jenny winced at the sound of her voice saying something so dorky. Fun? What was she, twelve?
“Do you want to go watch the rain in the gazebo?” Drew asked sheepishly, grabbing the bottle of wine. He glanced away when he said the word gazebo, a known hookup spot on campus. In the secret language of Waverlies, it was the word always scribbled on notes and whispered back and forth. Jenny had never been there. “We don't have to if you don't want to.” He gallantly poured the rest of the bottle into Jenny's empty wineglass.
She smiled, fingering the rim of her glass. Her dark curls cascaded around her shoulders, and she felt like they were playing out a scene in one of those romantic movies that left you dreaming for days afterward. “I might want to,” she answered playfully.
Drew picked up another grape and held it out for her, but she shook her head no. Before they went any further, she had to know for sure if he was really her savior. She'd waited for him to bring it up—and she'd considered bringing it up herself, though the moment never seemed quite right—and it had been implied in everything they'd done: the Halloween party, the car rides around town, the trip to Sleepy Hollow, the cuddling around campus, and now the picnic. But Drew had never come clean. Jenny was willing to—and wanted to—go to the gazebo, but first she had to know the truth.
“Can I ask you something?” she asked, biting her lip. Rufus had always tried to teach her to just ask a question, instead of asking if she could ask a question, but it was a habit she'd been unable to break.
Drew popped a grape into his mouth. “You can ask me anything,” he answered. His green eyes sparkled with mischief.
She leaned forward, partly because she was embarrassed to ask it out loud, and partly to give him a flattering glimpse of her neckline. “Did you pay off Mrs. Miller to save me from getting expelled?” she asked softly.
Drew stopped chewing and a faintly puzzled smile settled across his face. He looked her in the eyes and said, “Of course, silly girl. I thought you knew.” He held her gaze, and she felt like she really did know. She suddenly felt stupid for asking.
“Why did you do it?” Jenny asked curiously. “It's not like you knew me.”
“No,” Drew admitted, playing with the slightly frayed edges of his olive green sweater. “But I wanted to—I didn't want to lose my chance.” He looked up, and his eyes seemed to drink in Jenny's face. “You're so beautiful … and I’ve been in love with you from afar since I first saw you.”
Jenny felt the butterflies in her stomach take flight. Drew was in love with her, and he'd stood by her when no one else had. Not Easy, not Julian. A flood of emotion came back over her as she remembered how everyone had stared at her during the meeting with Marymount, how no one had stood up and said, “That's insane. Jenny didn't start the fire.” People she thought she knew did nothing—and Drew, who didn't know her at all, was willing to take a chance because he was in love with her. It was the sweetest thing she'd ever heard.
Jenny stood up. “C’mon.” She pressed her lips together. “Let's go watch the rain before it stops.” A smile washed over his face and he nodded.
She moved over to Callie's dresser and opened the top drawer while Drew polished off the remaining swallow of wine. It was a crazy impulse, really. Yesterday grabbing a condom might've seemed supremely irrational, but today sex with Drew didn't seem like such a wild impossibility. Why not be prepared? Being around him just felt so … right. She was immensely grateful that he'd come along when he had. She shuddered when she thought about how close she'd come to letting Easy be the first, at which point he would've dumped her for Callie, ruining the memory forever.
Jenny's fingers fumbled around in Callie's silky Le Mystére nighties until her fingers touched crinkled plastic. She pulled on the corner of the condom wrapper, but when the package em
erged from the bottom of the drawer, it wasn't a condom but an empty envelope with a plastic window. Jenny noted the return address: the State of Georgia—a check from Callie's mother, no doubt. Probably her monthly allowance. She tossed the envelope aside and reached farther into the drawer.
As Jenny's fingers searched the bottom of the drawer, she noticed the light blue check stub peeking out from the corner of the envelope from Callie's mother. She had often wondered how much Callie's allowance was—she imagined everyone at Waverly but her got thousands of dollars every month to blow on clothes and music and makeup—and now was her chance to find out.
She carefully unfolded the envelope and the check stub fell into the drawer. It wasn't the amount that staggered her. It was the payee: The Miller Farm Foundation.
Jenny blinked and looked at the check stub again. It couldn't be.
Callie had been her savior. Not Drew.
She trembled, feeling like the heroine in a horror movie who's suddenly realized that the villain is not on the other end of the phone, but somewhere in the house, ready to pounce.
She turned around slowly. Drew was on his hands and knees, nosing around under Callie's bed. “I think I lost a grape,” he explained.
The spell around Drew had been broken by his lies, and an immense relief washed over Jenny that she hadn't just made the biggest mistake of her life. A surge of emotion coursed through her body—she wanted to yell at Drew, to call him out as a fraud. But all she could think was that Callie wasn't who she'd thought she was.
“Found it,” Drew said with a boyish grin, producing the grape like a nugget of gold. His perfect white teeth suddenly looked perfectly vile.
Jenny turned and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her. Something had been wrong from the beginning—perfect doesn't exist—and she felt foolish for being sucked into what now seemed an obvious ploy to get her into bed.