He pulled out the half-squashed joint Alan St. Girard had given him earlier to cheer him up. But as he lit it and stared out at the wet clearing where he'd painted Callie's portrait, all he could think about was that day when she'd come out here to pose for him. She'd been wearing her fancy shoes and expensive sweater. Her hair had gotten caught in a tree, and at that moment Easy had felt like he wouldn't be able to breathe anymore if he didn't kiss her right then.
Jesus. That was the Callie he loved. That was the Callie he wanted so badly his palms started to sweat when he waited for her to appear at the stables, or out in the woods, or at the bluffs.
But when he saw Callie dressed up like a goddamn princess, prancing around the Halloween party like the entitled little debutante she always pretended not to be … that was the Callie he couldn't stand. All the anger he'd built up over the last few weeks, all his frustration with her for refusing to care that she'd almost gotten an innocent girl expelled, came boiling over.
Instead of being flooded with relief at finally saying what was on his mind, he had been deprived of any sense of satisfaction by the hurt look on Callie's face. Something in him stirred, and he threw down the rest of the joint and began to stumble back across campus.
The windows of the faculty club—tiny blurred squares of light in the darkness—came back into view. Was she still there? He tilted his face upward. The cold rain felt soothing on his face but didn't help him figure anything out. Why did Callie have to get sucked in by Tinsley? Why was Callie so afraid to be herself, the kind and funny and generous person Easy knew she really was? He understood the need to fit in—kind of—but why was it so pathological with Callie? She'd always been like that. Once, he'd shown up at her dorm room to take her to the drama department's production of The Glass Menagerie, and when he hadn't instantly complimented her on her new little black dress, she proceeded to rip it off in front of him and start pulling on a pair of jeans. It had been kind of hot, actually, now that he remembered her tugging the dress over her head, standing in her room in just her pink lacy bra and panties. But crazy, too. What did Callie have to be insecure about?
Easy tripped over a discarded pumpkin on the Commons and did a face-plant in a pool of cold rainwater, his clothes instantly soaking through. Fuck. He felt the beginnings of a deep chill stirring somewhere in his bones but shook it off, slowly staggering to his knees and making his way to his feet as a gale-force wind swept through campus.
The lights in Dumbarton caught his attention, and he zigzagged across the lawn toward the dorm. Dumbarton looked like a carved jack-o’-lantern, the darkened windows standing out against the scattering of lights in the rooms of those who had either returned early from the party or not gone at all. He wished that he and Callie had skipped the party—they could've cuddled under the covers, naked maybe, and eaten buttery microwave popcorn and Halloween candy. But he quickly chased the thought from his mind. Callie probably would have whined about staying home from a big social event.
He braced himself against the wall of Dumbarton, willing himself to be sick and just get it over with. He wanted the alcohol out of his body, along with his feelings for Callie. She would never change, and they would never be together, so what was the point?
He spotted the old oak tree that swayed in the wind, the same tree he had once climbed to surprise Callie, who had been studying in her room on the third floor. Easy gripped the lowest branch, his hands slipping off the cool, wet bark. He reached up again, this time with both hands, and hoisted himself up. Before he knew what he was doing, he was climbing. The ground began to recede as he slowly made his way up the branches worn away by the footprints of various male Owls hoping for an eyeful over the years. He passed the initials J. D. C. + M. E. C. that someone had carved in the trunk long ago, the whole carving like a prehistoric cave drawing.
A light popped on in the window across from Easy and he ducked involuntarily. Squinting, he recognized a girl from his American history class, dressed as Tinkerbell.
“Hello, Tinkerbell,” Easy called, laughing. The farther up he moved, the better he felt. He was in the middle of seriously considering whether or not he could spend the night cradled in one of the thicker branches when the tree shook violently in the wind. Easy froze, steadying himself. He leaned against the trunk, bracing himself on one of the sturdier middle branches.
Another blast of wind shook the tree, its few leaves rustling. Easy closed his eyes, the wind drying his damp costume. The tree swayed, bending toward Dumbarton. He mistook a cracking noise for distant thunder and realized only too late that the tree was not bending in the wind—it was breaking under his weight. The cracking exploded into a long, loud static sound as the windows of Dumbarton came closer and closer. Easy slipped off the branch, the ground spiraling toward him. He reached out for one of the lower branches as the top of the tree crashed into the dorm. The sound of glass shattering filled the air and someone screamed as Easy thudded to the ground, landing on the empty gun holster he'd bought at the drugstore in town in a weak effort to look like a cowboy, the rivets like rocks against his cold skin.
Easy didn't know how long he'd been on the ground before the flashlight shone in his eyes. It could've been hours, he guessed, but he knew better when he saw Mr. Quartullo, the night security guard. Mr. Quartullo had a well-earned reputation among the faculty and students alike for brooking no nonsense, and the sight of him meant Easy was really in trouble.
“Shit,” Easy muttered.
“Yes, Mr. Walsh,” Mr. Quartullo said. “I’d say so.”
The first sirens of a fire truck could be heard in the distance, and Easy wondered if the cops would be coming to escort him off campus. His mind spun a thousand lies about how it wasn't really his fault, that it was the wind and the rain, that the tree was old. Then the opposite thought occurred to him. He would take responsibility for what he'd done and finally get kicked out of Waverly.
But maybe that wouldn't be the worst thing that could happen. Getting away from Waverly would get him away from Callie.
Twenty minutes later, Easy waited in Mrs. Horniman's office, suddenly doubting his plan. He'd psyched himself up to face Dean Marymount and was a little confused when Mr. Quartullo brought him to his adviser's office instead. The guidance counselor had always been on Easy's side through all his troubles— she showed up at the student art shows to admire his work, and she kept reminding them that Waverly was a microcosm of the world and that he just had to graduate to see what it had to offer. Coming to her office, soaking wet, still a little drunk and slightly stoned, Easy felt disappointed in himself in a way he hadn't expected.
The door creaked open and Mrs. Horniman shuffled in, her hair pulled up under a maroon-and-blue Waverly Owl cap. She yawned, covering her mouth with her dainty hand. “Trick or treat?” she asked as she sat down.
Easy shifted uncomfortably in his chair. His jeans were soaking wet, and he glanced back at the giant muddy footprints he'd left on the clean floor. “Well,” he started, but he didn't know what to say.
Mrs. Horniman sat back in her chair, folding her hands in her lap. She was wearing a thick cable-knit cardigan that she pulled tightly around her waist, and Easy could see the remnants of toothpaste at the corners of her lips. “Since it's late, I’m just going to lay it out for you, okay?”
Easy nodded. He ran a hand through his wet hair, and a few leaves fell to the ground. He felt completely disgusting—he was a drunken mess, about to get kicked out of school for good, all because he'd let Callie get to him. Shit, what was he doing? The heater in Mrs. Horniman's office kicked in, and the warmth made Easy's head feel clearer. It was ridiculous that everything had come to this—it had taken falling out of a tree for him to realize that it was time to put Callie behind him for good and get his shit together once and for all. The only problem was, it was too late. Visions of military school filled Easy's brain. His dad had threatened he'd be sent to one in West Virginia if he couldn't make it at Waverly. There'd be no riding Credo,
no art, no girls—just a bunch of guys doing push-ups and trying to prove their manhood. Why hadn't he thought of that before? He felt like he was about to pass out.
“This is your final strike, Easy,” Mrs. Horniman said. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the desk, her chin on her hands. “It would devastate me to see such a young and talented individual like you expelled from Waverly. So I’ve managed to sweet-talk Dean Marymount into agreeing that if you can maintain a B average or higher in your classes—”
“Okay,” Easy said involuntarily, his heart pounding in his chest. He wasn't going to get kicked out? Suddenly, the only thing he could think about was his father's promise that if Easy graduated from Waverly in good standing, and made it into a reputable college, he could take a year off after high school and spend it, expenses paid, in Paris. Paris would be so much better than military school. And it was even farther away from Callie.
“And you can't leave campus,” she finished.
Easy looked up at her. “Really?” he asked, rubbing his hand over his chapped lips. Okay, that wasn't so bad. He stared at the rain-splattered window behind Mrs. Horniman's head. He probably could have died falling from the top of that tree. Or at least broken an ankle or something.
“Really,” Mrs. Horniman answered. “Listen to what I’m saying, Easy. This is real. B’s or better and stay on campus. Indefinitely.” She smiled at him. “That means no trips into town without my written permission, no long walks in the woods that happen to take you off Waverly grounds—nothing. Capisce?”
“Capisce.” Easy leaned back in his chair, eager to get home and get out of his clammy clothes.
“And if I were you, I’d think about taking up some extracurricular activities. You know how much the dean appreciates extracurriculars—and frankly, your horseback riding doesn't quite cut it. Try something other than solitary activities.” Mrs. Horniman eyed him with amusement. She of all people knew of Easy's lack of enthusiasm for all unrequired activities at Waverly. Mrs. Horniman leaned back in her chair. “I always thought you'd be perfect for a cappella.”
It took a moment for Easy to realize she was joking, and then, for the first time that night, he smiled.
JennyHumphrey: What was that?
BrettMesserschmitt: No clue. I M drunk and ready to pass out. And dream of Jeremiah.
JennyHumphrey: Callie's still not home. Should I be worried?
BrettMesserschmitt: Nah. She and Easy are prob busy making up after that huge fight.
JennyHumphrey: Right.
10
A BRAVE OWL DOES NOT RUN AWAY FROM HER PROBLEMS—UNLESS THE RUNNING TAKES HER TO A LUXURY SPA.
Callie leaned her tired head against the fogged-up window of the black Lincoln Town Car, her eyes still moist. She wiped the sleeve of her cashmere peacoat against her face and stifled a yawn, Easy's words echoing in her ears. Nothing he'd ever said had felt so cruel—not even the time she'd worn a pink Vera Wang bubble dress to the Spring Fling and he'd told her she looked like a frosted cupcake. He hadn't meant to be cruel then—it was just a clueless guy kind of thing to say. He'd spent the rest of the night trying to convince her that he loved cupcakes.
She pawed through the pocket of her raincoat for a tissue. How could he talk to her like that? And in front of the entire world? The thought that she and Easy had provided fodder for a million gossipy e-mails and texts made her stomach churn.He was sloshed, of course, but Easy was normally a quiet, melancholy drunk, unlike the Heath Ferros of the world, who only seemed to go into hyperdrive whenever they touched alcohol. How could he, how could he, how could he? repeated on a loop in her head.
The only answer that made sense was that he didn't love her anymore. Her eyes filled up again.
When she'd called her mom to take her up on the spa offer, the governor had informed her the car was waiting at the gate as they spoke—she'd called it just in case. She insisted that Callie didn't need to pack a thing—the spa would take care of everything. Feeling a little like the actual Cinderella, taken care of by her fairy governor mother, Callie rushed right out to the waiting town car, grateful it hadn't turned into a pumpkin at midnight.
Outside the car, the dark landscape rushed by, tall pine trees silhouetted by the Halloween moon riding high in the night sky. She put her hand on the cold window. Through the tinted glass partition, the back of the driver's head was visible. The driver was a woman in her fifties with a jumble of graying curls piled high on her head. Callie could hear the faint strains of country music through the partition, reminding her of every boy she'd ever known back in Georgia, and she wondered if the driver had driven here all the way from Atlanta. No one up here listened to country. Ever.
The tinted glass partition rolled down and the driver turned her head slightly, country music flooding the car. “Are you okay back there, sweetheart?”
“Yes, I’m fine.” Callie massaged her temples with her fingers and swallowed heavily, her mouth dry from all the sugary spiked punch. “Thank you.”
The woman clucked gently. “There are bottles of water in the cooler. And let me know if you need to stop to use the ladies’—it's a long drive.” As soon as the partition slid back up, Callie dove for the hidden cooler. She cracked open an icy bottle of water and took an enormous swig.
A sudden regret filled Callie that she hadn't had the chance to show Easy she wasn't such a bad person after all. But she couldn't explain everything in front of the Barbies and the Powerpuff Girls and the Blue Man Group. She wanted to watch Easy's face as he absorbed the information, and then she wanted him to sweep her up in his arms … like the princess she was? She couldn't stop Easy's hurtful words from bleeding into every thought, and she concentrated on staring hard out the front window, watching the headlights from oncoming cars become fewer and fewer as the town car navigated the roads like a sailboat out to sea.
When she opened her eyes next, the car had turned off the freeway, the tires crunching on the unpaved drive as they inched slowly through a stand of birch trees sunken in fluffy white snow. The moonlight reflected off the drifts, blinding Callie so that her tired eyes could hardly make out the spa grounds. Everything was gleaming and covered in white, as if she had stepped into some kind of magical winter wonderland. She had the strange—yet pleasant—sensation of waking up in Iceland or somewhere equally far from Waverly, Easy, and everything she knew. She'd never been more thankful for her mother's interference in her life.
The car came to a stop at what looked like a small ski lodge with the words WHISPERING PINES etched into a wooden sign outside. Callie hopped out of the car, the cold night air shaking her awake. Her legs wobbled under her and she leaned on the open car door for support. She hoped the kitchen would still be open. All she'd had to eat today was a tuna and celery sandwich for lunch, and a handful of candy corn at the Halloween party. She imagined the spa kitchen could whip up all kinds of delicacies, and she suddenly craved an egg white omelet with mushrooms and pepper-jack cheese. Maybe an English muffin, too, with butter and jam.
A young woman wrapped tight in an orange parka descended the wooden steps of the quaint-looking ski lodge, snow hanging over its eaves. “Glad you made it,” she said in a low, soothing voice, blinking the sleep away from her eyes. “I’m Amanda.” She stuck out her hand and Callie shook it.
“Callie Vernon,” she said before stuffing her hands quickly back into her pockets. She was suddenly grateful for her long raincoat, realizing how absurd it must be to arrive at a spa in the middle of the night wearing a baby blue Cinderella gown and flip-flops. And she hadn't brought anything else.
“Let's get you settled.” Amanda nodded in the direction of the ski lodge.
Callie marveled at Amanda's flawless ivory skin and touched her own face involuntarily. She wondered if it was the Maine air or some wonderful spa treatment that gave Amanda her glow. A combination of both, she imagined.
Callie followed Amanda into a darkened lobby. “Your room is this way,” Amanda said over her shoulder,
her puffy coat making a shushing noise when she turned down the long hallway off to the right. Callie's stomach rumbled, but she didn't want to seem too demanding or break the peaceful silence of the lodge by asking about the kitchen. Maybe her room would have a fruit basket, or even some of those little mint chocolates on the pillows.
The floor creaked beneath their feet as they made their way silently around a corner and down another long hallway. Small night-lights lined the walls at regular intervals, their tiny orbs of light revealing simple, off-white walls with dark wood trim. Callie could already feel herself relaxing.
“This is you.” Amanda pointed at a wooden door full of pine knots and painted white, a Pottery Barn kind of look that Callie loved. “It's pretty late, and we like to get started early, so you should rest up.”
Callie glanced down at the taffeta skirt peeking out from beneath her coat. “I, uh, forgot to pack anything.” Maybe Amanda could lend her a pair of those snuggly shearling-lined boots she was wearing.
Amanda waved her hand as if this were a silly worry. “We recommend that all our guests come without any cumbersome belongings.” She smiled. “We provide you with everything you'll need.”
“Great!” Callie replied warmly. “I guess I’ll, uh, see you in the morning?” She liked Amanda's quiet unobtrusiveness, and wondered if she'd get to do yoga with her tomorrow or something. The ski lodge was a little drafty, and the cold air stirred Callie's senses.