Her mother clicked her tongue in disappointment. “All right, darling … but if you change your mind, I can have a car there in fifteen minutes. Just say the word.”
After exchanging pleasant goodbyes, Callie dropped the phone back in her purse. She climbed the steps to Prescott— couldn't Waverly invest in some escalators?—smoothed her updo, and took a deep breath before pushing open the door.
The Prescott Faculty Club was only opened to Waverly students on very rare occasions, such as this year's Monster Mash Bash, as the annual Halloween gala was affectionately called for reasons beyond Callie's comprehension. Callie had only been in the building twice before—once for a fancy fund-raising alumni dinner with her mother when Callie was twelve, and then during freshman year, for Waverly's winter formal. As she tossed her coat haphazardly onto a hanger in the coatroom and crossed the marbled floor of the lobby toward the main ballroom, she glanced at the black-and-white photographs of distinguished faculty members that lined the vestibule walls and rolled her eyes. She remembered going to winter formal with Brandon Buchanan and pointing at all the photos and whispering imagined sexual preferences to each other (can only do it with the lights off, has to be wearing a different-colored wool sock on each foot). Although it had kind of impressed her that Brandon had gotten together with Sage Francis, she had to admit she was also a teeny bit disappointed that he had finally gotten over her. Not that she wanted him to obsess over her for the rest of his life or anything—but still, it just kind of felt good to know someone thought she was fabulous. Especially now that Easy was so uninterested. For the moment.
Callie waved aside the dangling curtain of fake cobwebs hanging over the entrance to the ballroom—still gross, fake or not—and gaped at the scene in front of her. The distinguished ballroom—Teddy Roosevelt had held an enormous fund-raiser here a hundred years ago—had been transformed into a creepily beautiful Nightmare Before Christmas kind of wonderland. No cheesy orange and black cardboard cutouts in sight. Instead, the dark ballroom was covered with long strands of twinkling silver lights and yards and yards of glittering cobwebs that managed to look ethereal and beautiful. An old-time projector showed grainy black-and-white clips of classic scary movies—Psycho, Dracula, Frankenstein—on a giant screen. A line had formed in a doorway on the other side of the room, the sign above it reading in ghostly white letters, HAUNTED HOUSE.
She scanned the room for Easy. People Callie half-recognized wore elaborate costumes or masks hiding their faces, or sported makeup so freaky it was difficult to tell who was beneath it. Was that him over there, in the rubber Nixon mask? It seemed like the kind of low-maintenance costume he'd wear, but just as Callie took a step toward him, the boy turned and she saw a strip of blond hair sticking out the back.
Benny Cunningham appeared from out of nowhere in a hot pink silky Ginger and Java minidress with a jeweled strap that hung around her neck. An enormous white leather Fendi bag with an even more enormous gold buckle hung over one shoulder, a tiny stuffed dog poking its head out.
“I hope that thing's not real.” Callie pointed her blue gloved finger at the animal, whose beady black eyes looked disturbingly lifelike.
Benny tossed her head, sending her silky platinum wig cascading over her bare shoulders. She arched her back and flashed Callie her best Paris Hilton pout. “It was the best I could do from the toy aisle at CVS.” She twirled a lock of hair around one hot pink-polished finger and scanned the room. “I’m dying to find out if you blondes really do have more fun.”
Callie nodded. “Uh-oh. I think Emily Jenkins is a Paris, too.” Across the room, the curvy senior, in a short plaid skirt and tight white button-down that revealed a bright red bra beneath it, stood in the drink line, fixing her blond ponytails.
“Are you on crack?” Benny scoffed as she fumbled through her giant bag. She pulled out a large bottle of Paris Hilton perfume. “She's Britney, circa 1999.” Benny glanced over her shoulder and handed the perfume bottle to Callie. “It's vodka— we can share.”
Callie glanced around the room one more time for Easy, then put the bottle to her lips and took a sip of badly scented vodka.
She just hoped her Prince Charming would show up before midnight, or she might lose her slipper and the contents of her stomach, too.
4
A WAVERLY OWL KNOWS HE SHOULD ALWAYS BE HIMSELF—UNLESS THAT SELF IS A COMPLETE DORK.
“Wait, are you Tommy Lee Jones from Men in Black?“ “What?” Brandon Buchanan's jaw dropped as Sage Francis strode through the entrance of the Prescott Faculty Club, wrapped in a sophisticated tan belted trench coat. Brandon touched the silky lapel of his black Armani tuxedo in panic. “No, James Bond, remember?” He'd told Sage about his costume a few days ago—was it so hard to imagine him as the ultra-debonair international spy that she had actually confused him with an old geezer like Tommy Lee Jones?
Sage's green-blue eyes, covered in smoky gray eye shadow, widened with amusement. Long diamond earrings dangled from her ears and glittered in the light of the lobby's chandelier. “I’m just teasing. Of course I remember.”
“Oh.” The door behind her opened, letting in a gust of cold air along with a pack of seniors wearing dorky seventies clothing and blue T-shirts that read THE BRADY BUNCH. Brandon gently led Sage by the elbow over to the coatroom at the side of the lobby.
“But who's Bond without his Bond girl?” Sage started to unwrap her long trench coat, and Brandon couldn't take his eyes off her. Her lips, painted a deep, movie star red, curved into a mysterious grin, and her pale blond hair was pulled back into a long, slick ponytail high on her head. Brandon helped her as she shrugged the coat off her shoulders, turning around to reveal a long, slinky emerald green evening dress with a plunging neckline.
Brandon's mind scrambled to come up with a witty Bondism to casually throw out to let Sage know how great she looked, but he couldn't stop staring at how perfect her simple diamond pendant necklace looked nestled in the shadow of her stunning cleavage. He coughed. “You look … amazing, darling.”
Sage lowered her chin and gave Brandon a long, devastating stare that turned his legs to jelly. “Why thank you, Bond,” she said in a deep, throaty voice.
“I thought you were coming as a Girl Scout,” Brandon said, after he'd stuffed their coats into the overcrowded coat-room. He placed his hand on Sage's lower back—a Bond move, he hoped—and steered her toward the main entrance to the ballroom.
Sage's stiletto heels clicked against the polished hardwood floors, audible even over the thumping music. “I thought Vesper Lynd sounded a little sexier.”
“Well, here you are, Vesper,” Brandon said grandly as he handed Sage a plastic cup filled to the brim with the sticky sweet orange punch boiling in a cauldron under the WITCHES BREW sign in the corner. He suppressed the dorky urge to point out the sign's incorrect punctuation. It didn't seem very Bond. “Just how you like it—shaken, not stirred.”
“Thanks, James.” Sage took the cup and gave him another smoldering look. Brandon fingered his black necktie, the knot rubbing mercilessly against his Adam's apple as he swallowed a mouthful of the awful punch.
For reasons he couldn't totally calculate, Brandon really wanted it to work out—to keep working out—with Sage. Maybe it was the surprise of the relationship, and possibly it had to do with his first steps in moving on from Callie, but he felt an extra zip in his step when he thought of Sage, and when he kissed her, his heart thudded in his ears. She was pretty—much prettier than he'd realized until the first time she'd let him kiss her, and he saw her long, pale lashes up close, and the tiny specks of brown in her aqua eyes.
“Dude, you didn't tell me you were coming as a waiter.”
Brandon turned coolly, like Daniel Craig might when confronted by a particularly bothersome enemy, to find Heath and Kara dressed in almost identical caped outfits. Batman and Batgirl? Or was it Batwoman? Kara did look kind of hot in a black vinyl bodysuit, the yellow figure of a bat extending across her curvy chest.
She even had on knee-high yellow boots, yellow gloves that stretched to her elbows, and a yellow satin pair of wings that hooked to her wrists. Heath's suit was similar—with a black cape and without the boots or boobs—and his tight-fitting black suit had some kind of built-in muscles. A sleek mask covered the top half of his head, bat ears pointed toward the ceiling.
“It's Bond.” Brandon shot Heath a cool stare, annoyed about the waiter crack but grateful for the chance to use the line. “James Bond.”
“Riiiight. That must make you” —Heath flung an arm out toward Sage, his black cape fluttering dramatically—”Pussy Galore.”
Sage tossed her blond ponytail and gave Heath a mock-stern glare, hand planted firmly on her arched hip. “Vesper Lynd. And don't you forget it.”
Kara's face dissolved into a grin. “You just wanted to say that word.”
“It's one of my favorites.” Heath held out the familiar silver flask with a pony etched onto the face that he constantly replenished from the bottle of Skyy vodka duct-taped to the underside of his bed. “Cheers, everyone.”
At the sight of Heath's flask, Sage quickly drained her cup and held it out. “Hit me.”
Heath poured a healthy dose of vodka into her cup, and Brandon tried not to be annoyed. He had a flask himself—it seemed a Bondian thing to carry—filled with Absolut, but he'd been waiting for the right moment to offer it up to Sage.
“Cool costumes,” Sage said as she walked in a circle around Heath and Kara. She touched her fingers against Kara's cape.
“Gracias,” Kara answered, looking a little tipsy. “Some chick asked me if I was someone from Harry Potter. Can you believe that? What kind of morons go to this school, anyway?”
Heath planted a wet kiss on her cheek. “All kinds, sweetie,” he said. Kara giggled.
Brandon rolled his eyes and glanced at Sage, hoping she'd snicker along with him. Heath Ferro calling someone “sweetie”? But Sage was just smiling approvingly at the amorous couple. Sage was impressed? With Heath? The thought made Brandon want to puke, but he couldn't help reaching for Sage's hand and pulling her closer to him, feeling the instinctual need to keep up with his roommate. A new song came on, and suddenly, the mirrored balls on the ceiling sprang spinning to life, sending tiny flecks of light rotating around the room.
Heath handed the flask to Brandon. “Thanks,” Brandon muttered, just as Heath said, “Hold this.”
Brandon rolled his eyes and drained half of it into his cup out of spite while Heath reached into a hidden pocket on his costume for his iPhone. “Stand together, girls,” he instructed as he held up the iPhone to take a picture. “Uh-oh,” Heath said dramatically, pushing his black pointed eye mask up onto his forehead. “I guess I didn't erase those pics after all.”
Kara's eyes grew wide and she sidled up close to Heath. “You're a dirty little liar,” she said playfully.
“Let us see,” Sage said curiously. Brandon ran his hands through his hair in annoyance. Why was Sage so interested in Heath and Kara's escapades? Someone disguised as what looked like a giant roll of toilet paper ran past them, leaving a trail of Charmin in his wake.
But Brandon couldn't help glancing over as Heath scrolled through a series of pictures of him and Kara on top of the old Waverly observatory, the rickety structure located at the very north end of campus. At the beginning of each year, Dean Marymount sent out a campuswide memo reminding students, that anyone found climbing the observatory—an old, crumbling brick building allegedly in the process of being restored—would immediately be expelled. And every year, several (often drunk) Owls attempted to climb it and spray-paint their names, or names of their current loved ones, on it.
The pictures of Heath and Kara, though, showed the two of them, legs dangling over the edge of the narrow walkway around the tower. They looked kind of… sweet. Kara, pointing up at the sky, and the two of them with the sliver of a moon in the background.
Sage absentmindedly fingered her diamond pendant necklace. “That is so romantic.”
“I was a little terrified,” Kara confided to Sage. She stroked Heath's forearm. “I was sure we were going to fall off and, you know, break our legs.”
“And get expelled,” Brandon couldn't help adding, glancing over Heath's shoulder as the large pull-down movie screen filled with the opening scene of Scream, with Drew Barrymore running around in a wig.
“It must've been a rush,” Sage said, taking another gulp of her drink. Her collarbone, dusted lightly with a shimmery powder, glinted in the light. Brandon ran his fingers up her bare arm, hoping to entice her over to the dance floor, where they could be alone for a while.
“I said something about wanting a great view for the comet last night, and Heath convinced me that would be the best place to see it.” Kara squeezed Heath softly on one of his fake muscles. “Even though we had to climb all these deadly stairs.”
Brandon patted his pocket, searching for the tiny silver pen that doubled as a squirt gun. It was the closest thing to a Bond gadget he'd been able to find online, after deciding the cigarette lighter/flare gun would probably get him in some trouble. But now it seemed incredibly lame—Heath Ferro was risking expulsion to go stargazing with his girlfriend, and the best Brandon could do was a squirt gun?
Heath shrugged. “I always wanted to do it under the stars. But there wasn't really enough room for that.” A horrified look crossed Kara's face, but she quickly recovered and playfully slapped Heath on the chest.
“Oh, remember this one?” He cupped his hand around the screen and showed it to Kara, who immediately blushed.
“Delete it.” Kara grabbed for the phone, but Heath moved it beyond her reach.
“For you, I will,” Heath announced gallantly. He tucked the phone somewhere beneath his bat-cape. “Later.”
“Want some more punch?” Brandon asked Sage, immediately regretting the subservient tone in his voice.
Sage shook her head. “I think it's making me sick.” Her skin did look a little pale.
“Better grab some fresh air,” Brandon said quickly, grabbing Sage's wrist before she could resist and dragging her in the direction of the lobby without so much as a goodbye to Heath and Kara.
“You just wanted to get me alone, didn't you?” Sage wrapped her arm through Brandon's as they stepped into the lobby. Her aqua eyes gazed up at his impishly.
Brandon tugged gently on her ponytail, pulling her in closer. He tried to come up with some witty, Bond-worthy remark, but before he could say a thing, Sage stepped up on her tiptoes and pressed her lips to his for a long, crushing kiss that made Brandon wonder why he was wasting any time thinking about his inner dorkdom, being upstaged by Heath Ferro, or anything other than the beautiful girl in front of him.
5
SOMETIMES THE EASIEST WAY FOR AN OWL TO BE HERSELF IS TO DRESS LIKE SOMEONE ELSE.
Jenny and Brett stepped through the wide-arched entranceway to the Prescott ballroom. The warm air inside the room breezed across Jenny's bare shoulders, and her stomach churned briefly as she felt eyes turn toward her.
“This looks amazing,” Jenny whispered. Strings of clear white Christmas lights were draped around the room, and gauzy cobwebs hung from the chandeliers, giving the whole room a Phantom of the Opera feel. She'd seen the show on Broadway three times, and had always been sort of in love with the mysterious, masked phantom. The stage at the far end of the ballroom was covered now by a drop-down movie screen that reminded Jenny of the Cinephiles party at the Miller farm, when It Happened One Night had been projected onto the side of the barn. The night Julian first kissed her. She chased the thought from her mind, instead running her eyes over the throngs of Waverly students in all states of dress-up. Many of whom, Jenny noticed suddenly, seemed to be staring at her.
She glanced over at Brett, who looked totally hip in a purple American Apparel minidress and a lime green scarf tied glamorously around her neck—she was Daphne from Scooby-Doo. “Are you sure I look okay?” Jenny whispered, glancing down t
o make sure she didn't have toilet paper stuck to the bottom of one of her flat gold lace-up sandals. “Everyone's staring.”
“That's a good thing.” Brett twirled a lock of her bright red hair around a purple-polished finger. Jenny had accompanied her last weekend on a trek to Bergdorf's for a re-dye. They'd gone shopping on the Upper East Side and eaten lunch at a hole-in-the-wall Thai place with Jenny's father, Rufus, who'd been so completely enamored with Brett, he'd promised to e-mail her his secret recipe for his famous sunflower-seed-and-caramel brownies.
“I guess so.” Jenny spotted a cute guy wearing a pair of striped pajamas and a satin sleeping mask pushed up on his forehead staring intently at her. Her heartbeat quickened—could he be her secret admirer? But then he turned away, scribbling something on one of the voting cards that had been handed out by the door.
Jenny and Brett had spent two hours getting ready in Dumbarton 303—Callie was prepping in Tinsley and Brett's room—and Brett had done such an impressive job with Jenny's makeup, she barely recognized herself in the mirror. Her normally innocent-looking brown eyes were lined heavily with gold, and dark turquoise Urban Decay eye shadow covered her lids, sweeping up at the corners of her eyes. They'd pulled Jenny's long curls into a messy updo and, with the help of some safety pins, turned a five-dollar fake-gold-and-sapphire necklace into a convincing-looking hairpiece. Her lips, normally only glossed, were covered in Benefit's Ms. Behavin’, a luscious deep red. She'd even lightly brushed some gold shimmer across her cheekbones and collarbone, which made her skin absolutely glow against the white silk of her one-shouldered gown. With Rifat's faux-gold snake bracelet wound around her bare left arm, she actually felt kind of sun-kissed and Egyptian.