Brandon sighed and closed his laptop. He leaned back on his bed, resting against the wall. “Maybe she just means that she doesn't want to go out with anyone right now,” he offered, unable to watch Heath genuinely in pain.
Heath gave a half-smile—like he was trying to believe Brandon—but then his face clouded over immediately. “She didn't say she didn't want a boyfriend.” Heath rubbed his hands over his face. His voice was muffled. “She said I wasn't boyfriend material.”
“Boyfriend material?” Brandon scratched his head. That didn't sound like anything a girl would actually say—especially not Kara.
“But that's bull,” Heath continued. “I’m a great boyfriend. I mean, I could be a great boyfriend. Sure I’m not an artist like Easy or any of these other fuckers—” His voice raised two octaves and then broke.
“I think wanting to be a better boyfriend is the right instinct,” Brandon said, grabbing a tissue from the Kleenex box on his nightstand and wondering if it would embarrass Heath if he handed it to him. But he totally needed to blow his nose. “Did you say that to her?”
Heath shook his head no. “I didn't know what to say,” he admitted.
“It's okay to tell people what you're feeling,” Brandon counseled him. He put the tissue away, deciding Heath wasn't ready for that kind of gesture. “Especially someone like Kara. You don't always have to be on all the time.”
“People like me best when I’m on,” Heath said, letting his head drop into his hands. “They always expect a show from me when I’m around. So that's what I give them.”
“Yeah, well.” Brandon would have given his left testicle to have Heath stop putting on a show all the fucking time. He picked up the Nike squash shirt by the foot of his bed—the only item on the floor that belonged to him—and tossed it into his wicker Pottery Barn hamper in one fluid motion. “But you've got to mix it up. Like anything else, you've got to do it in moderation. It makes it funnier, don't you see?” Brandon couldn't believe the words escaping his lips. But there was something about this heart-to-heart that was making him feel better too.
“Yeah, but she laughed at all my jokes,” Heath complained. Finally, he stood up and peeled off his wet Waverly sweatshirt, letting it fall in a heap on his side of the room. “I thought we were getting along so well.”
“Too much laughing makes you cry,” Brandon said, repeating something he'd heard on a much-circulated clip of Dr. Phil on YouTube. “Kara's sensitive,” he went on. “I mean, everyone has a sensitive side. Even you.” He didn't exactly know where he was going with this, but he wanted Heath to admit that he had a sensitive side. A step in the right direction.
“What would you do?” Heath asked earnestly. “Just forget her?”
“What's your instinct?” Brandon asked.
“I just … like her so much,” Hearh said, deflated. The air seemed to run out of him. “I really have no idea. I really …” Heath's words faded and the sun outside the window dipped below the clouds, casting a gray pallor over the silent room. The first glistening of tears appeared in the corners of Heath's eyes, and Brandon reached across the room and handed him a tissue. Heath took it gratefully.
“Then … prove to her that you're more than she thinks you are.” Brandon coughed, turning back to his computer for a second. He pulled up his e-mail again and held down the delete button, watching his attempt at a retaliatory e-mail disappear from the screen. “And I’ll help you any way I can,” he said, meaning it. “But no blankie jokes.”
‘”Kay,” Heath spoke up. He held his pinky up in the air.
Brandon reached out and wrapped his own pinky around his roommate's. The somewhat ridiculous gesture made him feel more manly than he ever had in his life.
30
WAVERLY OWLS STICK TOGETHER THROUGH SNOW AND ICE.
Jenny turned the dial on the Mustang's sound system, looking for a good radio station. Now that they'd crossed the state line it was impossible to find one that wasn't talk radio or static. The dark night enveloped the car as Tinsley gripped the wheel, concentrating on the road, the headlights casting wide arcs on the empty highway. The dashboard lights were bright red and purple, and Jenny felt like she was in some kind of high-tech space ship.
She had a Latin test tomorrow, and the flash cards that she'd barely written out, let alone had enough time to flip through, were in her pocket. But none of that mattered now. They were on their way to rescue Callie. Jenny still hadn't processed all that Callie had done for her—or why—but Callie had suddenly become like a family member in desperate need of help.
“Give it up,” Tinsley snapped, waking Jenny out of her reverie. She flopped back in her leather seat, defeated. A tractor-trailer passed them on the left, rattling Seb's car. A light rain started to fall as they zipped across Route 90 toward Boston. “Try a CD or something.” Without taking her eyes off the road, Tinsley expertly slid a Pall Mall out of her half-crushed pack, lit it, and cracked the window, the smell of smoke still clouding the inside of the car.
“Okay, okay. Calm down.” Jenny randomly selected a CD and jammed it into the player. The first strains of the Raves kicked in and Tinsley turned up the volume, tapping her free hand on the steering wheel.
“I saw these guys at a house party when they were first starting out,” Tinsley bragged.
“Really?” Jenny asked flatly. Why did Tinsley think every little experience she'd had was of vast interest to everyone else? And why was she always the first to do this, or the first to know that, like have a new brand of clothing, or see a band before it became cool? “I actually hung out with them a lot when they were recording their last album. I was even on a track with them,” Jenny bragged right back. Take that, Tinsley.
“Cool.” Tinsley's voice was indifferent, like she couldn't even be bothered to be skeptical about Jenny's story. It irritated Jenny even more. It's true! she wanted to shout.
She stared down at the Mapquest directions in her lap, holding the page up to her face in an effort to read it in the dark. It was so much easier when you lived in a place where the subway—or a taxi—could take you exactly where you wanted to go. Even when you were walking, you always knew where you were, because the streets were on a grid. “Do you think we're still going the right way?”
Tinsley snorted. “Well, you're the navigator, aren't you?”
“Yeah, well, it's kind of hard to read directions in the dark,” Jenny shot back. Tinsley had screamed at her when she tried to turn on the overhead light earlier.
“See if there's a flashlight in the glove box, then.”
Did she have to be a constant bitch? Jenny flipped open the glove box, revealing a compartment stuffed to the brim with junk.
“So that's how he keeps his car so neat,” Jenny breathed as random objects tumbled out. She picked up two identical tubes and squinted at them, trying to read the labels.
“What's that?” Tinsley asked curiously, alternately looking at the road and glancing down at Jenny's feet. The metallic S on a silver chain hanging from the rearview mirror swayed as they turned with the road.
“Hair gel. Two tubes.” Jenny giggled, holding up a half-empty tube with a picture of a man in a pompadour on it. “I guess he never wants to get stuck without it.”
“God, I can smell it over here,” Tinsley complained. “Put it away.”
Jenny tossed the tubes back into the glove compartment, still searching for a flashlight. She tugged out a slightly crushed white box that was in the way, squinting to read the embossed words, H. CHUTE STATIONERS. Okay, since she was already snooping … She lifted the lid to find a picture of Seb with his arms around an older woman, the two of them standing on an expansive, sun-dappled green lawn.
“Severed finger?” Tinsley asked. She took a final drag on her cigarette and tossed the butt out the cracked window.
“I think it's a picture of Seb and his mom.” Jenny freed the silver picture frame from its resting place. She almost dropped it when an electronic whir sounded and a femal
e voice said, “I’m proud of you, honey. We miss you.”
A moment of silence fell on the car while both girls struggled with their urge to laugh. “It talks,” Tinsley snickered.
“It's a talking picture frame.” Jenny stared down at the picture again, thinking how Rufus would totally do something so sweet and corny, although he'd probably have to record a much crazier statement, like “My little petunia bottom, you know you're the sprinkles on my banana chocolate chip muffin. Keep on truckin’.” Seb's mom's recording seemed sweetly normal to her. “That's really cute.”
“Or not,” Tinsley said dryly, sounding bored. She hit replay on the CD deck with her middle finger—that had to be for Jenny's benefit—and the song they'd just heard started over again.
Jenny replaced the frame in its box and fit the lid back on top, nestling the package back in the glove compartment. The rain had thickened into snow, and flakes kissed the windshield, flashing momentarily and then melting into tiny paw prints. The trees out the window grew sparser and sparser and then suddenly the shadow of thick forests appeared on both sides. Jenny couldn't help but wonder if Tinsley was driving her into some remote section of the woods to kill her, leaving her body to be found in the spring after the snow melted.
“The tires are gripping the road for shit,” Tinsley complained with a yawn, wishing she'd thought to stop for coffee back where there were rest stops, before they'd descended into the dark wilderness of wherever the fuck they were. “I wish he would've spent a little more money on tires and a little less on hair gel.” The road really wasn't that bad, but she could tell from the way Jenny kept looking at the map every five seconds that she was a nervous passenger. It would be good to put a little fear back into her. She'd been acting too high and mighty these last few weeks, and just because Tinsley had deigned to allow her to come along didn't mean they were BFFs.
Tinsley glanced at the clock. They weren't even halfway there. After the terrible day—days—she'd been having, the last place she wanted to be was sitting in a dark car with little Jenny Humphrey, the source of at least half her problems. But Callie needed her. The Cinephiles snub still stung, and it felt good to be needed. She wasn't going to let Callie down, even if she had to drive all night with her annoyingly perky little sophomore boyfriend-stealing tagalong.
Tinsley glanced in the rearview mirror, moving into the right lane to let a speeding Escalade pass on the left. The black vehicle moved like a shadow through the wintry night, spraying a mist of rain and snow up on the windshield as it passed by. Jenny tilted her head against the foggy passenger window and seemed to doze off. Tinsley was actually a little impressed that she'd wanted to come along. Her request had caught Tinsley off guard, and while the idea of spending six hours in the car with Jenny was about as pleasant as the idea of having a manicure with dirty nail files and buffers, she was sort of glad Jenny had insisted on coming. Tinsley hated to drive at night, especially alone, though she'd never have admitted it to Jenny.
The snow fell faster and faster, coming at them like confetti, reminding her of the street parades in Johannesburg that Cheido would take her to. She wished she were somewhere warm, away from the perpetual cold that seemed to grip Waverly at this time of year. They were climbing north, headed into colder terrain yet, she knew. She turned up the heat, brushing the eight ball Seb had installed in place of the gear shift. The hot air blew on Tinsley's face and her eyelids felt heavy. The road flashed by in streaks of black asphalt and yellow paint. She thought of Callie, trapped in the middle of snowy Maine, at the weird three-step place her mom had sent her to. She pressed the accelerator, trying to bridge the distance between them, hoping to make Maine before daybreak.
“Maybe we could play a game or something,” Little Miss Lamephrey suggested perkily, raising her head.
Tinsley reached out and turned up the volume on the stereo. “Shut up,” she sighed, her eyes on the road.
Front:
[email protected] To:
[email protected];
[email protected];
[email protected];
[email protected];
[email protected];
[email protected];
[email protected] Date: Monday, November 4, 6:17 P.M.
Subject: B.O.W.
Bring booze. Blankies not required.
Bradon
From:
[email protected] To:
[email protected] Date: Monday, November 4, 6:24 P.M.
Subject: Okay Already
Brett,
Don't get your granny panties in a bunch. If you want me that badly, we'll meet tomorrow. First floor of the library (I know where it is).
Next time, just ask nicely.
S.V.
JeremiahMortimer: Hey, babe. I’m coming to Waverly tonight for a BoW meeting. You should come.
BrettMesserschmitt: Heath's boys club? Think I’m allowed?
JeremiahMortimer: Sexy girls are always allowed.
BrettMesserschmitt: How could I refuse?
JeremiahMortimer: Sweet. Let's have dinner first? Meet me at Nocturne?
BrettMesserschmitt: Sounds good. Maybe you can sneak into the dorm afterward—looks like T’s out for a while.
JeremiahMortimer: Don't tease—we're waiting for the Soho Grand … but I’m willing to let you try….
31
A WAVERLY OWL NEVER GIVES UP.
Snowflakes pelted Callie as she trumped through the woods, the moonlight purple as it reflected off the snow-covered branches and drifts. She was wearing her prison-issue jeans and her hands were numb beyond feeling. She rubbed together the two relatively dry sticks she'd found in the middle of a pile of firewood someone had abandoned just outside the perimeter of the rehab center. The sticks skidded against each other ineffectually, a few dry flakes of bark floating into the small hole Callie had dug under one of the giant bare poplar trees. A wind howled, blowing snow down around her like dandruff. Her eyeballs were so dry she thought they'd crack if she ever blinked again.
She'd wasted close to an hour trying to find the X that marked the spot on Meri's secret map, hoping against hope that it was some kind of shelter, or a bus station. A dark shadow in the fall trees had misled her into thinking she'd found the spot, but the shadow had turned out to be just that, a dark deception that had cost her time and most of her hope.
She scraped the sticks together frantically. It looks so easy on TV and in movies, she thought, laughing maniacally as the sticks continued to do nothing. That was what Whispering Pines had turned her into—a maniac. She hoped her mother would be happy when they found her body after the first thaw, her purple fingers and toes perfectly preserved like those of a caveman frozen in the act of trying to start a fire.
Death lurked somewhere on the horizon—she wasn't sure she could make it until daybreak, when she knew she'd be rescued from her stupid solo if she didn't return. Frozen tears made their way down her cheeks. She felt herself begin to float above her body, looking down on the pitiful scene: a silly girl on her knees in the snow, trying desperately to make something happen that wouldn't.
She thought of all the things she had made happen: cheating on Brandon Buchanan with Easy, and totally breaking his heart. Trying to force Easy to say he loved her, and being so needy with him that she'd chased him away from her clutching arms and into those of Jenny Humphrey. She'd pushed Brett away, blabbing her secret about Mr. Dalton to Tinsley, and then blabbing her secret about Kara to the whole world.
Callie was too cold to feel embarrassment or shame—she only felt stupid for doing such terrible things to people who cared about .her. They didn't deserve to be treated as she'd treated them. Jenny—even if she had started dating Easy, it hadn't been entirely her fault. Callie was the one who'd chased him away in the first place. And Jenny had felt bad about it. But instead of making up with her, Callie had let Tinsley rope her into the plan to get Jenny expelled. Getting her mother to cover the fire with a check, and bailing out Jenny was her great effort to make up for it. Wipe
it all out—and get Easy back.
She'd wanted so badly to share that secret with Easy, to have his eyes light up when she turned out not to be the girl he thought she was. Not to be the spoiled princess he was convinced she was.
Callie thought about how she'd embraced the spa as a way to erase Easy from her life forever. She couldn't believe how foolish she'd been. Tears welled up in her eyes from the cold, but she fueled them with her longing for Easy. She knew two things: she loved Easy, and the way he'd treated her had broken her heart.
Callie dropped the sticks, kicking them away in disgust. She sat cross-legged on the hard, cold ground, rubbing her arms for warmth. Another blast of arctic air blew through her and she sensed the end was near. Were they really going to let her die out here?
She could feel her blood thickening, slowing in its tracks as her heart started to beat slower and slower. She put her head in her hands, her fingers massaging her frozen ears, which burned with the beginning of what Callie could only imagine was frostbite. They'd read this terrible Jack London story in freshman comp about a guy trekking for gold up in the Yukon or something—somewhere really cold like Maine. He'd slowly frozen to death in the snowy tundra.
How would Easy remember her? He'd be devastated by the things he'd said the last time they saw each other, she knew. She imagined him replaying his words to her over and over again, until they started to haunt him, day and night. He'd drop out of Waverly and spend the next twenty-three years living in the small room above his parents’ garage, smoking cigarettes and eating Cheetos, unable to ever say anything except her name. The thought made her feel a teeny bit better.
But she really wanted him to remember the good times. Their first kiss in the rare books library, so sweet and delicious. Snowball fights out on the quad, when Easy would tackle her, all bundled up in her puffy coat and thick cashmere scarf and mittens, and kiss her cold, red lips.