Infamous

by Cecily von Ziegesar

  A look of horror passed from her sister's face to her mother's.

  “Your dad's coming in with the tea right now, sweetness!” her mother exclaimed with relief at the sight of her father in the doorway, carrying a tray full of flowered china she didn't even know they owned. Her mother shot her a look that told her to be quiet.

  “Brett, darling!” Stuart Messerschmidt set down the tray and gave her a quick hug. Brett stepped back, stunned. He was wearing a sweater vest. “So glad you're home.” He gave Brett a smile, but instead of smiling back, Brett shot him a glance that said, What is going on?

  “Sit down, sweetheart.” Brett's mom pulled up another stiff wooden chair to the table. “Relax.”

  Brett sat down, taking a deep breath. Okay, fine. She would play along with all this for about twenty minutes, and then she'd hibernate in her room for the rest of the weekend, watching E! by herself. “I hope you're not playing poker,” Brett joked, resting her elbows on the card table and trying to crack the façade on this new bizarre world living inside her house. She smiled at Willy. “Bree cheats.”

  A look of confusion came over the Coopers. “Who does?” Mrs. Cooper asked, looking at Brett as if she'd been talking about an imaginary friend.

  “Bree.” Brett pointed at her sister. “She's a notorious card cheat. She once—”

  Her sister cut her off. “Everyone calls me Anna now, honey.” She looked at the Coopers. “She used to call me Bree when we were kids.”

  When they were kids? What, about two months ago? Brett opened her mouth to protest, but drew in a large breath instead, trying to imitate the breathing she'd learned in yoga. Anna? Ah-na? What? Her sister was acting like a virgin priss, and she'd somehow brainwashed their parents into acting like robots. Her mother hadn't replaced the zebra-print chairs because of Brett's constant complaining, but because she'd wanted to impress the Coopers, and that just felt…wrong. She felt a gurgling in her stomach that wasn't from the milkshake she'd had from the McDonald's drive-thru outside of Newark.

  “Anna was telling us you go to Waverly.” Mrs. Cooper turned her pale blue eyes on Brett, and Brett felt them pause slightly on the five gold earrings she wore near the top of her left ear.

  “Yes, ma'am,” Brett answered, sticking her chin out defensively. She leaned back in her chair. “I do.”

  “How do you like it?” Mrs. Cooper asked. She folded her hands under her chin, her elbows on the new linen tablecloth.

  “It's fine.” Brett shrugged, suppressing the urge to say something like, “The drugs are okay, but the sex is lousy.” But she didn't want her suddenly nunlike sister to have a heart attack before Brett got a chance to pump her for information.

  She glanced at her parents, who stared back at her helplessly. A flush of shame washed over Brett—whatever she had or hadn't said about her parents to her friends at Waverly, she'd never really wished they were anybody but who they were. (Maybe just that they, well, wore a little less safari-print and talked less about rhinoplasty.) She only hoped that Bree—sorry, Anna—hadn't made her mother give the Chihuahuas up for adoption. Or worse.

  After a painful discussion about the differences between boarding schools today and those in Mr. Cooper's day, Brett managed to excuse herself on the pretense of dressing for dinner. As she pulled a can of Diet Coke from their stainless steel refrigerator, she wondered where all her dad's bottles of Bud Light were when she needed one.

  From: SebastianValenti@waverly.edu

  To: BrettMesserschmidt@waverly.edu

  Date: Wednesday, November 27, 8:45 P.M.

  Subject: Back

  Lenore—er, Brett,

  Thanks for the pleasure of your company on the way home. Next time, have a few drinks and loosen up first, 'kay? If you need a ride back to Waverly on Sunday, lemme know. I'll probably kick off at three or so.

  Wildwood Rocks!

  Seb

  9

  A WAVERLY OWL HAS FAITH IN HIS ROOMMATE.

  “You ready for this?” Heath whispered to Brandon, his fist poised against the half-opened heavy oak door to Mr. Dunderdorf's office on the second floor of Hopkins Hall. His face was suffused with a sunny glow that came over him whenever he felt especially optimistic about the likelihood of getting laid. Clearly, the promise of the Swiss Misses had put him in overdrive.

  “Can't wait to see how you're going to pull this one off.” Brandon guessed it would take about ten seconds before the notoriously crusty old man sensed that Heath was just after his daughters and kicked him out on his ass. With a forward thrust of his pelvis for good luck, Heath pounded on the door.

  “Kommen Sie herein,” a voice called out, and Heath pushed the door open. Mr. Dunderdorf, in a button-down shirt that looked like it had been stepped on and a bow tie, was shuffling through the stacks of paper that threatened to overrun his desk, his snow-white hair fluffed into an Einsteinian Afro. He stuffed a pile into a beat-up leather satchel that looked like it had been through a war or two. The dusty office was eerily quiet in the early evening darkness. “Was, Jungen?” The crankiness in Dunderdorf's voice unnerved Brandon, and the whole plan suddenly seemed like a bad, bad idea.

  “Are you looking forward to the long weekend, Mr. Dunderdorf?” Heath asked, fingering the ancient-looking globe set on a wooden stand in the middle of the room with feigned interest.

  “Ja, ja, Mr. Ferro,” Dunderdorf answered, zipping up his bag. “Always nice to have a break.” He stopped packing his briefcase and looked up at Heath and Brandon for the first time. Suspicion clouded his wrinkled face. “What can I do for you gentlemen?”

  “Nothing, sir.” Brandon stepped backward off the worn Persian rug, trying to signal to Heath with his eyes that they needed to abort their mission—fast. An hour was by no means enough time to search Wikipedia and memorize enough about Germany and Switzerland to gain them access to the Dunder-dorf family Thanksgiving, he was sure. If Dunderdorf's daughters were as legendary as Heath claimed, wouldn't he be tired of horny boys trying to get into his house—and his daughters' panties?

  “Brandon and I were just arguing about where the majority of Protestants live in Germany,” Heath said, rubbing his chin, covered in a slight scruff since he'd overslept that morning and hadn't had time to shave before rushing off to chem lab.

  Dunderdorf stared in disbelief, his bushy white eyebrows climbing up his forehead. “Why?” he asked.

  “Well…” Heath started pacing the room. “We're both passionate about world religions, and we got to arguing about Catholics and Protestants, and we were trying to come up with some examples of them living in harmony, and we thought of Germany. Only we couldn't remember where they lived in harmony.” He took a deep breath.

  Brandon, stifling a groan, walked over to a crowded bookshelf, pretending to stare at the fading German texts with interest.

  “The Catholics live predominantly in the south.” Dunder-dorf leaned against the corner of his desk. A few sheets of paper slid off the top of a pile and onto the floor. “And in the west. The rest are Protestant.” He squinted at both of them, his beady eyes becoming even beadier. “I didn't know you were interested in the history of religion.”

  “Oh, yes,” Heath replied, a serious expression on his face that Brandon recognized from whenever he'd talk about Super-woman or the superiority of the dining hall's chicken fingers to those at Denny's. “But religion takes a backseat to our passion for foreign cultures. For instance, we're both dying to go to Germany. And to Switzerland. Right?” Heath nudged Brandon when Dunderdorf leaned down to pick up the papers from the floor.

  “Absolutely,” Brandon agreed, his voice embarrassingly enthusiastic. His only acting experience to date had been his role as a thug in Grease in eighth grade—and that was a nonspeaking part. “We're thinking about backpacking through Germany and Switzerland this summer.”

  “Don't hitchhike,” Dunderdorf warned them earnestly. “It's not safe like it used to be.” The phone on Dunderdorf's desk rang and he answered it. “No,”
he said gruffly into the receiver. “Can it wait until after the holiday? Fine. Thanks.” He clanked down the phone and grabbed a frayed plaid scarf from the back of his chair, wrapping it around his thin neck. He grabbed his bag and headed toward the door.

  Brandon took a step toward the hallway, sensing that they'd lost their chance. The thought of going to the international students' dinner tomorrow made him want to kill himself, but maybe the pizza place in town would be open.

  “We're also wondering something else,” Heath added quickly, placing his body firmly in the doorway and shooting Brandon a look that was the equivalent of him saying, Don't get your panties in a bunch.

  Dunderdorf pulled on a heavy, dark green, military-looking overcoat from the coatrack in the corner. “Yes?”

  “What is the main difference between German sausage and Polish sausage?” Heath asked, arching his eyebrows like a scientist.

  A pause, then a smile spread across Dunderdorf's face. “My boy, German sausage is far superior to Polish or any other sausage,” he answered, inadvertently licking his lips. “German sausage uses ground venison and fresh pork. Polish sausage is made with pork butt and rat meat. That's just one difference. But it probably all tastes the same to you, eh?”

  “That's the problem, sir.” Heath frowned slightly, and his eyes took on a faraway look. “We've never tasted a really good German sausage. We're dying to find out what it tastes like.”

  Brandon tried to hide his disbelief—and disgust. He'd only come along on this dumb errand because he didn't want to be alone in his room to brood over Sage or to wonder where she was, what she was up to now, what her Thanksgiving would be like. Also, though he hated to admit it, a tiny part of him wanted to see Heath fail and get kicked to the curb, as there was no way Dunderdorf was going to fall for such a stupid ruse. But as he watched Heath work Dunderdorf over with questions about German cuisine, including a particularly bald question about whether or not the Dunderdorfs would be enjoying a turkey sausage at Thanksgiving, Brandon wondered why he wasn't trying harder.

  Of course he'd wanted to sleep with Sage—he'd been thinking about it since the first time she spoke with him. But except for a handful of intense make-out sessions, he hadn't really tried to get past second base. Was he not born with the horny gene or something? Couldn't he at least try to get into hooking up with two European hotties, if only to forget about Sage's harsh holiday breakup?

  “Why don't you boys drop by our place tomorrow,” Dunderdorf finally asked, his brow dotted with perspiration.

  “Oh, no!” Heath held up his hands, ever the subtle actor. “We couldn't impose on you at Thanksgiving, could we?” He shot Brandon a look that told Brandon he better step up.

  “That's a nice invitation,” Brandon agreed. “We were planning on going to the international students' dinner….” Heath's eyes widened, and Brandon knew he'd freaked him out. “But they probably won't have any good German sausage.”

  “Then it's settled,” Dunderdorf said, a gleam in his eye. He pulled on an ugly plaid hat that matched his scarf and then buttoned up his coat. “It'll be our pleasure to host you with some real German food. Thanksgiving is an all-day celebration with our family, so better come bright and early if you want to truly experience ein authentisches Deutsches Thanksgiving.” He slapped Heath on the back weakly and nodded at Brandon as he scuttled them both into the hallway and closed his office door, whistling as he clomped down the hall.

  “Unbelievable.” Brandon leaned against the wall of the long, dimly lit hallway.

  “Yeah, thanks to me,” Heath countered, irritated. “You'd better bring your A-game tomorrow, 'cause I can't carry us both again.” Then his face broke out into a goofy grin. “But that was fucking beautiful, wasn't it?” He did a little dance, shaking his pelvis.

  CliffordMontgomery: Hey, you going to that chick Yvonne's party?

  AlisonQuentin: The turkey-themed one? Uh, dunno. You?

  CliffordMontgomery: Maybe. My stupid stepdad's other kids are here, and they suck.

  AlisonQuentin: At least your parents don't think T-Day is a colonialist holiday and celebrate by burning effigies of pilgrims!

  CliffordMontgomery: Whoa. Maybe Wild Turkey bourbon isn't so bad, after all.

  AlisonQuentin: Save one for me.

  KaraWhalen: Big bash at Yvonne's tonight. U going?

  EmilyJenkins: Bobbing for apples?

  KaraWhalen: I'm hoping that was a joke…but I think she has a hot tub.

  EmilyJenkins: With my pale butt? Don't think so.

  KaraWhalen: Heard her invite Pierce O'Connor on the train….

  EmilyJenkins: In THAT case, I need some self-tanner and a new bikini!!!

  10

  A WAVERLY OWL IS ALWAYS READY FOR THE APPEARANCE OF AN OLD FRIEND…OR AN OLD ENEMY.

  As the girls trudged up Fifth Avenue and the sidewalks started to turn slushy, Callie wished she'd worn something more practical than her square-toed Missoni flats. She'd expected to be on a plane to Atlanta right now, leaning back in her first-class seat, shoes kicked off. But she was almost deliriously happy she wasn't—she was going to see Easy again. Tomorrow. She couldn't help pulling off her glove to look once again at the elegant amethyst ring. It was beautiful—simple, of course, because Easy was like that, but beautiful none the less.

  “My feet are going numb,” Callie spoke up dreamily, thinking about how nice it would be to curl up with Easy and have him give her a foot massage. Although, since he was the one going to military school where they made him do who knew what—cross-country treks over rugged terrain, grueling 20K runs, shooting practice—he probably needed a massage more than she did.

  “Get under here.” Tinsley grabbed Callie's arm and tugged her under the edge of a sophisticated-looking hotel entrance. Callie glanced up and read the beautiful script, The Granfield. The three huddled together near the revolving door, letting the heat from the entrance bathe them. “Let's focus.” Tinsley eyed the two bellhops in distinguished navy and red uniforms who kept breezing through the revolving doors to grab the expensive luggage from the trunks of the long, sleek black cars that pulled up to the curb.

  Callie glanced up the street toward Central Park. A purplish fog had descended with the cold over the remaining joggers and dog walkers.

  “Come on. Let's not stand out here like plebeians.” Before Jenny and Callie could say another word, Tinsley breezed through the doors, her Prada bag hanging at her side. She strode, with authority, over to the front desk, where a handsome man in a suit stood behind a computer.

  “What do you think she's saying?” Jenny whispered, gazing around at the black marble floor that managed to look perfectly polished despite the slushy evening outside.

  Callie moved her hand to see how her promise ring sparkled in the glittery light from the chandelier above them. “Dunno,” she answered, absently. “Just hope it works.” They watched with amusement as Tinsley did her best Marilyn Monroe impression, batting her doe eyes and flirting with the clerk.

  “I know you always have an extra room set aside in case Madonna or someone pops in. Don't you know who she is?” She pointed at Callie, who smiled weakly. After an hour of trudging around in the slushy New York weather, Callie's hair was mashed against her forehead. She probably looked like the Bride of Frankenstein.

  “No.” The clerk glanced over Tinsley's shoulder at the woman in a fur coat who was approaching the desk.

  “Well, she's the governor of Georgia's daughter.” Tinsley smiled triumphantly, her pearly white teeth like an ad for toothpaste. “Now could we get a room, please?”

  “Sweetheart, we just don't have any rooms.” The clerk shook his head impatiently. “We're booked months in advance for this weekend. Even Madonna couldn't get a room tonight.”

  “I doubt that.” Tinsley spun on her heel. “You should be expecting a letter from the governor soon.” She turned to Jenny and Callie and said, “I had to get the gay clerk.” They followed Tinsley back out onto the street. “Fuck.
”

  Jenny let out a soft sigh. “I mean…we could always go back to my dad's….” She trailed off when Tinsley shot her a dark look.

  “Let's grab a cab to the Peninsula. I'm going to have to change our ‘governor's daughter’ story—it's just not working.” As Jenny and Tinsley strode purposefully toward Madison Avenue, Callie stopped in her tracks, her eyes looking up to meet the most beautiful white dress she'd ever seen—an A-line gown with draped bustling and a bronze antique mesh ribbon at the empire waist. It was a sign—it had to be a sign. Her eyes floated upward to the Vera Wang decal above the door.

  Callie imagined herself wearing the gauzy dress as she rode the elevator to the top of the Empire State Building to meet Easy. The image was perfect, like a wedding cake. She pushed on the door to the boutique, but the door caught just as the lights dimmed. The store was closed for the night.

  Callie fumbled through her Lanvin tote for her crushed package of Marlboro Ultra Lights and kept staring at the dress. It was just so perfect.

  “Wait a second.” Jenny exclaimed, putting a mittened hand on Tinsley's arm before she could hail a cab. “Look where we are.”

  Tinsley glanced up and down Madison. “Stranded?”

  “Yeah.” Jenny rolled her eyes. “And who do we know on the Upper East Side who so graciously invited us to her parent-free house tonight?”

  “Do we have a choice?” Tinsley asked miserably. That nerdy British girl? Well, Yvonne Stidder's was better than being on the street, so long as her parents had left her a fully stocked liquor cabinet. “I totally need a drink.” She spotted Callie, her face practically pressed to the glass outside Vera Wang, staring up at a wedding dress. Christ. That girl definitely just needed to get laid so she could stop with the goddamn wedding planning.

  The short walk toward Park Avenue felt like an eternity, crawling across crowded streets, overloaded with their heavy suitcases. Tinsley's stacked-heel Givenchy boots pounded against the city pavement, and she started to feel a little better, even if she was still totally bitter at her parents for so thoughtlessly putting her into this situation to begin with. Finally, they stood in front number 866 East Eightieth Street, a towering stone building with a doorman who looked like an Italian movie star. He opened the door for the girls the second they paused outside.