“Oh. When you put it that way . . .” Brett laughed. It did make her feel good to think that something made her unique. Not freak-show or trashy-Jersey-girl unique, but rather the-cool-girl-with-the-one-of-a-kind-red-hair unique. She ran her hand over her scalp, tousling her hair to hide the darker roots. “You know, we had a DC meeting over lunch today, and there was this case involving members of the—get this—Competitive Eating club.” “What?” Kara sat up, tossing her head so that her hair fell neatly behind her shoulders. Tiny blondish wisps framed the edges of her face. “What the hell is that?” “You know. Like, they see how many hot dogs they can eat in ten minutes.” Brett sat up too and turned toward Kara. “These two freshmen guys—probably the only two members—got caught stealing four pounds of raw hot dogs from the dining hall freezer after dinner last week.” Kara raised her eyebrows in disbelief. “They defended themselves to the DC by saying they were ‘gathering materials for club activities,’” Brett made air quotes with her long fingers, “and that they’d had to resort to covert methods because they hadn’t received any funding.” She rolled her eyes. “Does the entire male sex suffer from a complete inability to see beyond their carnal impulses?”
Kara leaned back on one elbow and shrugged her petite shoulders. “Well, they are freshmen.” The comic book slid off the edge of the bed, landing with a slap on the hardwood floor next to Brett’s neat piles of notebooks. Brett and Tinsley had moved their beds to opposite sides of Dumbarton 121 when they’d moved in, but that still wasn’t far enough.
“Yes, but more important, they’re male—which means they only think about immediate gratification, with no foresight into the future. I mean, come on—what about Easy?” Brett asked suddenly, sitting up to unbunch the bottoms of her Citizens of Humanity cigarette-leg jeans. “He certainly suffers from the same affliction. I still can’t believe he took Callie out to dinner with his dad instead of Jenny.” Kara bit her pink ChapSticked lip. “I saw Jenny last night at the art studio. She just looked so . . . sad.” She grabbed her Dasani bottle from on top of Brett’s worn oak nightstand and took a long sip. “Do you think she’s going to be totally crushed?” “You mean if Easy and Callie get back together?” Brett shrugged. She honestly didn’t know. It was weird. She’d been so used to Easy and Callie as a couple—they’d been practically inseparable all sophomore year—that it was strange to see him suddenly with someone else. But then, to her surprise, she’d quickly gotten used to it. Easy had always seemed a little too . . . nice for Callie. Something about Jenny and Easy together had almost seemed more natural, as if two artistic, like-minded souls had found each other. Not that Brett exactly believed in that romantic crap anymore.
Then again, if Easy was about to dump Jenny, maybe he wasn’t as nice as she’d thought.
“Jenny’s tougher than she looks,” Brett finally answered, surprising herself. She reached up and fingered the gold hoops along the top of her left ear. She was always paranoid about her ears being sort of elfin-shaped, and hoped that the earrings would distract people from noticing.
Kara nodded and sucked in her cheeks like a goldfish, making Brett giggle. “Guys really do suck, don’t they?” “Seriously. Why didn’t we get the bulletin, like, years ago?” Brett grabbed one of the white goose-down pillows on her bed and started kneading it with her fingers. There wasn’t anything especially profound about Kara’s statement, but it made Brett’s mind start to race. Guys did suck, truly. Why did she feel like she was the last to know? “If there can be a freaking Waverly club dedicated to the sport of stuffing as much food down the throat as possible, there should be a, like, Guys Suck club—we can let the frosh know before it’s too late.” Kara raised her thin, light brown eyebrows skeptically, running a palm over the ridges on the cap to her water bottle.
“Hey, I’d join it.” Brett put the pillow down emphatically, and it landed on the plush comforter without a sound. Then she hopped off the bed, making her way toward the white iBook on her desk. “Just a place for us to get together and talk and support each other . . .” she went on, the idea taking form in her head. It would be sort of like what Tinsley had originally proposed for her Café Society, although that had immediately dissolved into an excuse to get drunk, do stupid things, and exclude as many people as possible. Brett sat down at her desk. “We could use a little sisterly spirit around here, you know?” Kara nodded from her perch on the bed. “Actually, I think that’s kind of a brilliant idea. Why don’t we put together an invite and send it around?” Brett smiled at her new friend before flipping open her iBook. As much as she hated to admit that she’d do something to spite Tinsley, the idea that she was going to start a club that was more meaningful than Tinsley’s shallow, catty, oversexed Café Society gave her an itty-bitty thrill. She felt her green eyes gleaming wickedly as she hit the power button on her laptop. “Agreed. But before we send anything, we need to choose the guest list.” And she knew one roommate who wouldn’t be on it.
To: Undisclosed recipients
From:
[email protected] Date: Tuesday, October 8, 3:05 P.M.
Subject: Women of Waverly
Greetings, esteemed classmates.
A couple of us have decided to establish a Women of Waverly club (WoW!) to bolster the sense of sorority on campus. Don’t want it to be anything too formal or ritualistic or anything like that (no goats, please), but rather a place for Waverly girls to get together and discuss any issues or concerns facing us on campus. Sex, love, drugs, jerks who call themselves men—anything you want to talk about is fair game.
The first official meeting will be tonight at eight o’clock in the Atrium, and it is open to all female members of the Waverly community. Dining services will be providing snacks and beverages.
Estrogen power,
xo
Brett Messerschmidt
Junior Class Prefect
JulianMcCafferty: Dude, where exactly in Hopkins Hall would I find the Cinephiles screening room? Never been there before.
HeathFerro: Curious request. Before I can hand anything over, I’ll need to know why.
JulianMcCafferty: Nothing juicy, Ferro. Just wanted to join up.
HeathFerro: It’s in the basement, dipshit.
JulianMcCafferty: Thanks. You’re a real sweetheart.
HeathFerro: Kisses.
3
A SMART OWL WILL TAKE ADVANTAGE OF THE EXTRAORDINARY RESOURCES WAVERLY OFFERS.
Tinsley Carmichael lingered in the screening room in the basement of Hopkins Hall after Signor Giraldi dismissed his Advanced Italian class. They’d just watched Fellini’s La Strada—much preferable to sitting in a boring old classroom and watching the spit bubble at the corners of Signor Giraldi’s mouth as he conjugated Italian verbs. Something about watching old movies, especially old foreign movies, in the dark, leaning back in the leather reclining seats of the screening room, made Tinsley’s pulse race. Movie theaters were so freaking sexy. She was ready to tear someone apart. A very specific someone, in fact.
“I can close up, signor,” Tinsley purred as the others filed out of the room and Signor Giraldi tried to look like he hadn’t just slept through the two-hour film. “I was planning on doing some work for this week’s Cinephiles meeting, if you don’t mind. I’ll be sure to lock the door behind me.” Signor Giraldi glanced at his watch. Rumor had it that he and his wife, who lived in Thompson Hall, one of the girls’ dorms, had a standing booty date every afternoon at 3:30 sharp—which was fortunate for his Tuesday afternoon students, as he always let them go a little early. “Grazie, Signorina Car-michael.” Signor Giraldi smiled absently at her before quickly dashing out the door. Apparently, black-and-white Italian films turned him on too.
The second she was alone, Tinsley dimmed the lights again and propped her Isabella Fiore brown leather stacked-heel boots onto the arm of the chair in front of her. She arranged the hem of her burnt-orange mohair minidress higher on her thigh. With her thick dark hair parted perfectly in the middl
e and falling in a straight curtain around her face, she felt like an oversexed go-go girl from the ’70s. She closed her eyes and waited for Julian.
The soundproof door creaked open behind her. “Hey.” Tinsley pressed her eyelids together. Her heart thudded eagerly in her chest. It had been three days since they’d been alone. Last night at dinner, the two of them had sat across from each other at a table filled with their friends, and although Tinsley had been able to feel the weight of Julian’s gaze on her face, she’d refused to treat him differently than she did any of the other guys. Which meant that she flirted with him, but only as much as she did with everybody else. The whole situation made her feel like Lily
Bart, the consummate flirt in The House of Mirth, a book she’d first picked up when she was thirteen and had read every summer since. She could tell Julian had been a little disappointed, but that was just the way it had to be. She couldn’t very well have the entire campus know she was into a freshman.
Tinsley squirmed in her seat. Ten seconds had passed since the door creaked. Was that not him? Her eyes flew open.
“Ack!” she squeaked. Julian was standing two feet in front of her, leaning against the back of the chair in front of her, staring down at her face. “Jesus! You scared the shit out of me.” Shivers ran down her spine. She hated being surprised—almost as much as she liked it.
“Sorry, m’lady.” Julian pulled his left hand from behind his back, revealing a single pink-and-white flower. “For you.” Tinsley politely sniffed at the flower, pretending to be unimpressed. In truth, she loved it when guys brought her things. Last year Bradley Alexander, a senior lacrosse player, had heard about Tinsley’s sweet tooth and had tried to woo her with candy, employing other Dumbarton girls to leave packages of Swedish fish outside her door and putting tiny gold boxes of Godiva chocolates in her mailbox every day. It was fun to be showered with attention, but Tinsley could only eat so much candy before she’d start to bloat.
“Thanks,” she said, taking Julian’s flower and putting it behind her ear.
Julian ran his hands along the tops of the leather chairs but kept his eyes on Tinsley’s. He had on a blue pin-striped Abercrombie oxford with the sleeves rolled up to just below his elbows and a pair of baggy True Religion jeans that were grass-stained at the knees. “This is awesome. Our own private movie theater.” Tinsley stood up slowly and took a step toward him. She could feel the heat radiating off his body. “You mean, my own private movie theater,” she purred, not touching him. He smelled slightly sweaty, and Tinsley knew his lips would taste salty and manly. But she wasn’t ready for that yet.
He tried to put his hand on her hip but Tinsley swayed out of the way. “Sit down. Make yourself comfortable,” she ordered in a sultry voice.
Julian obeyed, sinking backward into the recliner Tinsley had just vacated. Some boys felt the need to challenge her, but what she liked about Julian was that he understood her rules.
And she planned on rewarding him for that. Once Julian was seated, Tinsley carefully perched herself on the right arm of his chair, stretching her legs across his lap, boot heels tucked under the left armrest.
“I saw you coming out of Stansfield with Benny today. Those boots,” he said, groaning. He shook his head and traced his finger around the top of one of the boots before slowing running his hand up to Tinsley’s knee, squeezing it gently. She giggled before slapping his hand away.
Julian pretended to be offended. “Dude, you torture me with your sexy texts all day, wear this insanely sexy hippie-girl outfit, drag me down to your secret lair, and now you won’t even let me touch you?” Julian leaned his head back on the set, his handsome face taking on a pained expression. “You’ve got to give me something.”
“You didn’t look very tortured at lunch, when you were chatting up Celine Colista.” She slid along the armrest toward Julian until she was practically touching him.
Julian gave a deep, gravelly chuckle. “So is that what this is about? I’m being punished for being friendly?” She liked that he could tell she was joking. Like she’d ever be worried about someone liking fat-ankled Celine more than her. “That’s right. You’ve been very, very bad.” Julian groaned again as Tinsley traced her long nails around the inside of his collar, clearly enjoying the feel of her fingernails against his neck. She leaned toward him with deliberate slowness, her lips inching toward his a millisecond at a time. When she was about two inches away, close enough to see the tiny golden sparkles in the irises of his eyes, Julian leaned forward abruptly and pressed his lips against her own. A thrill ran through her body—his lips did taste salty—and she slid off the armrest and onto his lap.
“I’ve got to get to practice,” she said breathlessly. She wasn’t really thinking about practice so much as getting away from Julian. Something about feeling so comfortable with a boy made her a little panicky.
His long arms wrapped themselves around her. “You are killing me. I thought we were going to watch a movie—sneak in Casablanca, pretend we were stranded in the desert. . . .” He kissed her gently on the collarbone. “I like this spot,” he said before kissing it again.
Swiftly, Tinsley extracted herself from his arms and stood up, straightening the hem of her dress. Deep breaths. He is not
Humphrey Bogart, and you are not Ingrid Bergman. He is your freshman boy toy, and his time is up.
“Do you want to get together tonight at Maxwell? Have coffee? Make out in some dark alcove?” Julian grinned and got to his feet slowly.
“Julian,” Tinsley chided, running her fingers through her hair, “we’ve got to be discreet. We can’t just show up at places and make out.” “Well, what if I came to you? In the dark?” Julian started digging through his pockets for something. He pulled out a platinum Zippo with the initials JPM on it and held it out to her. “Take this. After the sun goes down, I’ll watch your window. Light it three times, and I’ll know it’s safe to sneak over.” Tinsley giggled and stared at the lighter in his hand. It was cheesy, sure, but also unbelievably adorable. She grabbed it from his hand.
“Just don’t get caught,” she warned as she sauntered toward the door.
“I’ll wear my cloak of invisibility, promise.” Julian put his hand to his heart in a mock pledge.
Tinsley paused in the door frame and opened the lighter, flicking it a few times. She gave Julian her best smoldering look, then turned on her heel and disappeared.
Always leave them wanting more.
BennyCunningham: Juicy alert: saw Mr. Kentucky and Betty Boobs chatting on the quad today, looking less than friendly.
HeathFerro: Guess the honeymoon’s o-vah! Think he’s back with Georgia peaches?
BennyCunningham: Don’t think so. Callie’s not one to forgive and forget so quickly. But I’ll find out 4sure 2nite at the Women of Waverly meeting.
HeathFerro: WTF’s that?
BennyCunningham: Sorry, Heathie. Girls only.
HeathFerro: But that’s my favorite kind of club!
4
WHEN IN DOUBT, A WAVERLY OWL KNOWS TO CONSULT THE TRUSTY RULE HANDBOOK.
Brandon Buchanan grabbed a freshly laundered Lacoste jersey tee from his top dresser drawer and paused before pulling it on to examine his biceps in Heath Ferro’s cloudy full-length mirror. He’d been doing more lifting at the gym ever since Julian McCafferty had joined the squash team and he’d found himself having to work a little harder in practice, move a little faster, react a little quicker. He wasn’t about to let a frosh take his spot as the star player on the team. For the past two weeks, he’d headed to Lasell after practice and put in an hour or so with the free weights. It was boring as hell, and his muscles ached the next day, but he was pretty sure he was starting to see results.
And he was pretty sure Elizabeth had noticed, too. Elizabeth, the funky St. Lucius girl who’d showed up at the party in Dumbarton trying to track down Jeremiah and had ended up spending all her time with Brandon. Elizabeth, with her pleather jacket and crunchy shoes, who Brandon
could absolutely not stop thinking about. At one point on the Saturday night when they were making out in the dark tunnels beneath campus, she had squeezed his bicep and whispered in his ear, her breath warm on his face, “Nice.” Brandon had assumed she’d been talking about his muscles, anyway, and not his Hugo Boss deodorant, although he might have been mistaken. Elizabeth was one of those girls who seemed insanely unpredictable—even by girl standards.
Which was part of the reason she was so much fun to think about. She wasn’t like all the uptight Waverly girls he was used to. He had no idea what she’d be doing right now—was she still in class? Maybe she was back in her dorm room, dancing around to KT Tunstall in her underwear. He’d been pleasantly distracted with thoughts of her ever since she had slipped onto her sea green Vespa and he’d watched her taillights disappear into the darkness as she floored it back to St. Lucius. When he got back to his room, Brandon had been thankful to find that Heath was still out—he’d probably coerced some poor Dumbarton girl to let him sleep in her bed because he “needed to be held.” Brandon had been able to fall asleep thinking about the smell of Elizabeth’s perfume—something natural and cit-rusy—instead of the overwhelming scent of Heath’s ego.
He’d waited a few days to call her because he knew all too well how easily girls were turned off by the too-eager vibe. But now the waiting was over. He slipped his Bluetooth wireless in his ear and did one last bicep curl in the mirror for luck, but before he could dial Elizabeth’s number the door flew open and Heath stormed in, panting.
Brandon quickly stepped away from the mirror, waiting for the inevitable “What were you doing? Making out with yourself?” or “It’s not going to get any bigger if you just stare at it in the mirror.” But Heath was too distracted to give more than a nod in his direction. He collapsed to his knees next to his own unmade bed, dragging out random shoes and pieces of rancid laundry and tossing them onto the middle of the floor. Brandon eyed the pile he was creating disdainfully. “Finally find a peephole into the girls’ showers? Need your camera?” “I know it’s under here somewhere,” Heath muttered as he shoved his head and shoulders under the bed and thrashed around for a minute before extracting himself. He halfheartedly tugged at a Louis Vuitton duffel wedged under the bed before immediately giving up. He hopped to his feet, sneezing loudly, his shaggy blond hair covered in dust bunnies, and strode over to Brandon’s bookshelf. He tapped his fingers impatiently against his stomach as his eyes scanned each shelf.