“My mom tried that once,” Sage spoke up quietly. “She lasted, like, a day.”
“It's pretty gross,” Kara said, her voice light and joking again. “And it makes you smell like cabbage, too. But it works.”
“I don't remember teasing you,” Heath whispered to Kara, his eyes pleading. He put his hand over his heart as if swearing the truth.
“You were pretty brutal,” Kara confessed.
“Like how? What'd I say?” Heath asked. His hand dropped to his lap and the tenor in the room changed. Brandon could feel Heath s ship sinking deeper and deeper.
Kara sighed. “It doesn't matter,” she said. “I blocked it all out anyway.”
“Well, we're glad you're back,” Brandon said diplomatically. He smiled broadly as Heath sat mute, unable to come up with anything to say.
“Me too,” Sage added.
They all looked at Heath, who was at a total loss for words. Finally, Kara shifted her greenish-brown eyes to Brandon. “So, what's your secret?”
Brandon wanted to stop the words before they left his mouth, but with all the beer he'd had, topped with the shot of vodka, his brain was two steps behind. “I slept with my baby blanket until I was eleven.”
A silence fell and Sage looked at him like he was a kinder-gartner who had dropped his ice cream cone.
Brandon's heart was pounding, his temples throbbing with nerves and the hangover that was sure to come the next morning. Had he really just admitted his retarded-development baby blanket secret? Couldn't he have invented something sexier— and more dangerous? It hit him like a ton of bricks that all his hard work and cool-faking had gone down the drain. Sage would never see him the same way again.
“That is so cute,” Sage said suddenly, her words slurring slightly. She squeezed his hand.
Brandon's eyes widened. Was it possible she was turned on by it? Had he been worried for nothing?
Heath snorted. “Dude, what color was your blankie?” he asked, rubbing his face with his hand in an effort to control his snickers.
“Blue,” Brandon answered, not wanting to back down. “It had the logos of all the baseball teams on one side, and it was blue on the other.” He shrugged his shoulders. “But after a few years, it was just kind of gray.”
“By the way,” Kara spoke up, almost imperceptibly sliding away from Heath, “none of this leaves this room.”
“Right,” Sage agreed.
“Definitely.” Brandon leaned back into the plush blue sofa, feeling suddenly relaxed.
Sage tugged Brandon closer to her. Her breath was warm in his ear, and wisps of her blond hair tickled his nose. “You'll have to show me your blanket sometime.”
Brandon grinned stupidly, feeling lighter and happier than he had in weeks. Apparently, some secrets were better when shared.
BrettMesserschmitt: Hey, did you get my e-mail?
BrettMesserschmitt: Sebastian?
BrettMesserschmitt: I know you're there!
22
A WAVERLY OWL KNOWS HER DEMONS.
Callie scooted her chair back a little from the circle of women huddled together against the cold of the tiny, bare room. She swore she could see her breath. Natasha glared at her and she inched her chair forward again, shoulder-to-shoulder with the woman next to her, who hadn't said a word all day.
The room smelled of burnt matches, as if someone had desperately been trying to start a fire for warmth but had failed. Callie hugged herself, her oversize sweatshirt too baggy to provide any real warmth. She pressed her cold hands into the armpits of her sweatshirt and tried to remember the trip she and her father had taken to Egypt a few years ago—she'd been miserable in the 120-degree weather at the time, but now she thought fondly of how the heat had enveloped their bodies.
“Everyone has an addiction, whether they know it or not.” Natasha spoke up without any sort of preamble. For some reason, the staff at Whispering Pines weren't required to wear the same nasty uniforms as the clients—or were they patients? Unless the gray U PENN sweatshirt Natasha had been wearing since yesterday was some kind of uniform. “Some people eat the same food every day and don't realize they're addicted to it, not because of how it tastes, but because it's a crutch so they don't have to try different kinds of foods. And if you ask them about it, they say, I don't even think about it. But your addictions rule your subconscious world.”
“I don't have an addiction.” Callie jumped at the sound of the woman next to her finally speaking. She was still wearing her cap with the earflaps, her arms over her chest. She stared down at the bare wood floor.
Natasha actually smiled, for the first time all day. Her short blond hair was cut close to her scalp, and her massive shoulders made Callie suspect she'd been some kind of Olympic swimmer. “Well, that's what I’d like you all to think about. What's your addiction? I’d like you all to relax, and I’d like you all to try speaking up. This is a safe environment—no one knows each other.”
Callie certainly wasn't going to be volunteering to speak up anytime soon. About forty seconds of silence had passed since Natasha asked for volunteers. The other women crowded in the tight circle of folding chairs searched one another's faces for a sign of confession. Callie crossed her arms over her chest indignantly. She was totally not addicted to anything—what a lame question. Uh, there was a time when she'd been addicted to cherry milk shakes and Du Wop lip venom, but those weren't exactly bad for you.
“I’ll go.” A slender girl who looked like a warped version of Brett spoke up. She had short, dark red hair with two inches of brown roots, and a dingy gold hoop in her nose. She looked like Brett might if she spent two years not washing her skin and living on a street. Callie wished she had her phone so she could snap a picture and send it to Brett, begging for help.
“Eyes closed,” Natasha commanded. It was one of the rules she had laid out at the beginning of quote-unquote group therapy: no laughing, no insults, and no looking.
Callie waited for the others to close their eyes, some tilting their heads toward the ceiling to trick themselves out of cheating. How ridiculous, Callie thought as she hung her tired head, her chin lolling against her chest. The sudden darkness increased her drowsiness, her muscles aching from chopping wood, and she was worried she might start to snore.
“I’m a compulsive shoplifter,” Fake Brett admitted weakly. “I can't help myself. I go into a store and immediately I see three things I have to have.” Callie's eyes popped open before she remembered where she was and closed them again. She imagined Natasha watching over the whole group with a garden hose, ready to give everyone a shot of cold water in the face if they opened their eyes.
Fake Brett continued. “My parents don't care if I put it on their Centurion AmEx, but that's not the point. Buying it would be too easy.” Callie snorted. If Fake Brett's parents had a Centurion AmEx that they let her use sans question, it sounded like she had pretty much the perfect life. What was she complaining about? Why didn't she hightail it out of this dump and hit Barneys? “It's about the danger, really—you're afraid you'll get caught. Yelled at. Reprimanded. But yet the thrill you get when you slip that silky Hermes scarf into your bag is just priceless—your knees feel weak, your insides are all shaky, and it almost doesn't matter if you get caught, because that's all part of the excitement.”
Callie squinted through her eyelids at Fake Brett—she was sure everyone else in the circle was doing the same—and watched as she gesticulated wildly with her hands, her eyes closed, as she rattled off the list of perfumes and clothes and shoes she'd stolen up and down Fifth Avenue over the years.
Just charge the damn shoes, crazy girl. Callie had always thought shoplifting was incredibly stupid—she loved the feel of handing a saleswoman her credit card and watching as all the beautiful clothes she'd picked out were wrapped up in delicate tissue paper and placed in a sturdy shopping bag with a braided silk handle. She remembered the time she and Tinsley had tried on dozens of dresses in the Bendel's dressing room, searching fo
r graduation party—worthy outfits. Callie couldn't decide between a strapless black lace Vera Wang and a silky red A.B.S. slip dress—so Tinsley had dared to slip one of them in her bag. As Callie stood at the counter, paying for the A.B.S., her heart almost pounded through her chest and her knees felt all wobbly. But by the time they made it through the front door and back out onto the pavement, Callie was striding down Fifth Avenue next to Tinsley, with two gorgeous dresses, feeling like she owned the world. It was a heady rush—not unlike the one she used to get every time Easy kissed her.
“I know what you mean,” another voice sounded, interrupting Callie's thoughts. She inadvertently opened her eyes, focusing on Yvette, the woman who said she didn't have any goddamn addictions. A glare from Natasha forced Callie's eyes closed again. “It's like, why do things the normal way, right? If everyone pays for something, then that's boring. My friends call me a reflexive contrarian, but that's just them being afraid, too chicken to speak out against anything. They just swallow everything like damn goldfish.” Callie let a giggle escape from her lips but quickly started coughing to cover it. Yvette didn't seem to mind, her eyes still closed. “So, I just can't help it—I feel like if everyone does something one way, I have to do it another way… . I’m always disagreeing with people—starting fights, being a general pain in the ass.”
Callie wondered how reflexive contrarianism worked—if someone else started talking, would Yvette shut up? Christ, was everyone here a complete weirdo? Her forehead burned when she thought of her mother setting up this little jaunt. Callie knew she should've trusted her first instinct about the alleged spa trip. Did Governor Vernon know this was really the Land of the Crazy Women? The whole therapy session wouldn't have been so bad if people had better stories—alcohol, drugs, sex. But addicted to shoplifting? Being a pain in the ass? Not so interesting.
“That's an excellent start.” Natasha clapped her hands together when Yvette stopped talking. No one else spoke up. “We're going to do an exercise to find out what your addictions are. And then we're going to get rid of them.”
Callie rolled her eyes at the large woman sitting across from her, but the woman just scowled at her in return.
“Do as I say and your personal addiction will surface in your mind. You cannot deal with your addictions unless you know what they are.”
The room fell silent. My God, Callie thought. This is really happening. Saturday evening—right now, she should be crawling under her snuggly comforter, resting up for a little while before getting dressed in some hot party clothes and going out.
“Close your eyes again,” Natasha commanded. Callie let her eyelids float down, wanting nothing more than to nestle her head into her own fluffy pillow.
“It's important to sit still.” Natasha's voice softened so that her accent was almost entirely gone. “Pay attention to your feet. Concentrate on each one of your toes, then feel the floor with the bottom of your feet. Maybe it feels like the floor is pushing back against your feet.”
Callie could hardly feel her feet, let alone her toes.
“Think of your favorite color,” Natasha suggested. “Your feet are soaking in a pool of that color.”
Callie imagined her feet in a pool of pale yellow.
“Now watch as that color starts to flow through you, moving its way gently up to your ankles, toward your knees, through your legs.” Natasha walked quietly around the outside of the circle, her voice coming close and fading away as her footfalls fell against the wooden floor. “As the color migrates, feel the pressure of the chair against your body. Feel the color flow into your shoulders. It's racing into your fingertips.”
Callie could feel the cold metal of the chair digging into her back, but a calmness fell over her and again she was afraid she'd fall asleep. She imagined her fingertips lit with sunlight, and for the first time since she'd arrived, she felt warm.
“As your mind wanders, just follow it,” Natasha said softly. “Pay attention to where it wanders, but then think about your color again.”
Callie was too fascinated by the warmth that had enveloped her to pay attention to Natasha's instructions. A smile curled on her lips as she basked in the yellow glow. An image of Easy riding Credo through a wheat field momentarily blocked out the warmth, the smile turning into a frown.
“Focus on the color,” Natasha reminded everyone.
Callie tried to concentrate on her color, but it was faded now, not brilliant like the sun, but the color of weak noodle soup. The time sophomore year she'd made chicken soup in the sketchy Dumbarton kitchen to take over to a flu-ridden Easy popped into her mind, leading to a succession of images of Easy Walsh through the years as if she had a giant slide show of him stored in her brain, which, apparently, she did. The first time she'd seen Easy, freshman year, when he'd slid into the seat behind her in algebra on the first day of class and gotten the wire of his sketchbook stuck in her hair. A quick zip through a few years of lusting after him, and then she was left with the image of the last time she'd seen Easy—and he'd told her she was a bitch.
Easy Walsh. She was addicted to Easy.
“What's trying to fight the color?” Natasha asked, in a loud whisper. “What's getting in the way of your happiness? You have the power to stop it. All of you do.”
A bright yellow washed out the images of Easy, and Callie could feel herself squinting, as if summoning her powers to erase the images of him. The room seemed to hum, and right when Callie felt like she was holding her breath underwater, Natasha told them to open their eyes.
“Wow.” The large woman across from Callie exhaled. “Wow.”
Callie nodded, wide-awake now. Her body felt totally rejuvenated, like it did after a really great Pilates session, her blood coursing like a wild river. She remembered Fake Brett's description of shoplifting—the nervous excitement, the fear of getting caught. Being with Easy was exactly like that. Ever since they'd started dating, she got the crazy butterflies whenever she thought about him, or saw him, or kissed him. It was an addiction—one that she hadn't been willing to let go of, even when he dumped her for Jenny.
But the yellow brightness she'd experienced behind her eyes was the promise of something new—the light at the end of the tunnel. She knew now that Easy was her disease. She knew she had to get rid of him. She knew that she would never, ever let herself love him again.
Finally, it was over.
23
A WAVERLY OWL IS ALWAYS PREPARED FOR THE WORST—EVEN WHEN SLEEPING.
Brett dreamed she was in the desert, stranded without water or shade. The hot sun beat down on her head, her hair improbably done up like that of a beauty pageant contestant. She traipsed through the desert, the sand burning her bare feet, her toes manicured and lacquered a bright red. In the distance, a faraway knocking echoed across the windswept desert, the sound growing louder until everything went black and Brett sat up in bed, sweating.
“What is that?” Brett hissed to no one in particular, the sheet hot against her bare skin. Earlier in the evening, when the maintenance staff was working to fix the flood damage, they'd somehow managed to break the boiler, causing the temperatures in Dumbarton to skyrocket. Tinsley had insisted on only opening the windows a crack, as she apparently felt a cold coming on. They'd all been forced to strip down to practically their underwear. Lying in bed next to Kara had been extra awkward, with Kara in her gray camisole and matching Calvin Klein boxers.
“See who it is,” Tinsley commanded drowsily, diva-like even in her sleep.
“It's got to be Pardee.” Glad for an excuse to jump out of bed, Brett crept to the door, tugging down on the bottom of her Cosabella boy shorts and hoping her nipples weren't poking through her tissue-soft cropped T-shirt. What the fuck could she want now? She glanced at the alarm clock next to her bed. The red numbers read 1:34.
Brett opened the door just a crack, but instead of Pardee, Jeremiah stood in the doorway, a lock of reddish hair tumbling over his forehead. “Hey,” he said quietly, glancing over
his shoulder. “We got back from the game tonight instead of tomorrow, and I really wanted to see you.” He peered into the darkness behind her. “Is Tinsley out?”
“I’m in,” Tinsley answered, snapping on the light next to her bed. She sat up, revealing her black bra top and toned abdomen. Across the room, Kara rubbed the sleep from her eyes. Jeremiah's blue-green eyes widened at the sight of her, half-dressed, lying in Brett's bed.
A look of horror passed over Brett's face as she watched Jeremiah's expression sour.
“What, are you living together?” he asked, a surge of panic in his voice. “I thought you said—”
“No, no,” Brett said, trying to keep her voice low so he would do the same and not wake the entire dorm.
“Why are you sharing a bed?” Jeremiah asked, the panic in his voice replaced with anger.
“Can I explain?” Brett asked plaintively. Jeremiah crossed his arms over his chest, his muscles flexing beneath his jersey as if he were about to be sacked. She could feel him thinking about scrambling away, too, like she'd seen him do a million times on the football field to avoid being hit.
“I don't know, can you?” he shot back. It was clear that he had heard the full rumors about her and Kara and had simply taken Brett's word for it that they weren't true.
“There was a flood on the first floor.” Brett launched into her defense. “A tree smashed into one of the bathrooms on the second floor—”
“You said the first floor,” Jeremiah interrupted her. He smoothed back the lock of hair that had hung so tantalizingly over his smooth skin.
“The bathroom is on the second floor, but the pipes burst and flooded the first floor. And Kara's room got flooded.” Brett injected a note of pleading into her voice. She just wanted a chance to explain everything—the mouse, the broken boiler, how everyone at Waverly had blown whatever it was she had with Kara out of proportion for their own pleasure, how she was in danger of being expelled if she didn't toe the Waverly line, all of which helped explain what Kara was doing in her bed in the middle of the night, both of them in their underwear.
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