Twenty minutes later, Tinsley found Sleigh and Julian practically where she'd left them, though Julian was standing off to the side, the sleds stacked in a pile next to him, while Sleigh chased two identical twins dressed in matching pink snowsuits. The twins galloped through the snow, shrieking as Sleigh pretended to get them. Weren't their parents worried about some crazy teenager playing with their kids?
“Whatcha got there?” Julian asked, pointing at the bag in Tinsley's hand.
“Chocolate croissants.” Tinsley opened the bag and Julian peered into it.
“How sweet of you,” Sleigh said, winded, the twins on her heels. She turned suddenly and the twins shrieked. “Are you hungry?”
“Those are for us…” Tinsley started to say before realizing that taking pastries from two small children would probably disqualify her from being a “good person.” “But you guys can, uh, have them.” She reluctantly handed the bag to one of the twins, who snatched it greedily.
The slow burn inside Tinsley simmered dangerously close to the boiling point. Her eyes misted and she blinked away the hate she felt for Sleigh as the twins ripped into the bag.
“Do you know how to build a snowman?” Julian asked the twins, bending down to their level.
“Snowman!” The twins shouted in unison. They threw the croissants to the ground and followed Julian toward a large snowdrift that had accumulated under a stand of trees.
Tinsley bit her lip, eyeing the ruined pastries. In one swift movement, Sleigh moved next to Tinsley, both of them watching Julian and the twins.
“I know exactly what you're doing,” Sleigh said menacingly, her voice the one Tinsley remembered from freshman year, absent of all rainbows and sunshine. “You stole a guy from me once, and I'm not going to let it happen again. Remember what I did to all your stuff? Watch your ass or I'll do something twice as bad.”
Tinsley's jaw dropped. She'd never doubted her ability to kick Sleigh's ass—she'd come close freshman year—but the sudden change that had come over Sleigh freaked her out and she stood mute, wishing Julian could somehow hear.
Sleigh plastered the smile back on her face. “Did Julian tell you I'm thinking of coming back to Waverly? It was his idea. So maybe I'll see you around campus.” She strode off in the direction of Julian and the twins, helping them with the snowman.
Tinsley stared in disbelief. Okay, change of plans. There was clearly no way to out-nice Sleigh. The only other option was to expose her as the manipulative bitch she was.
And that sounded like a hell of a lot more fun.
19
A WAVERLY OWL IS HOSPITABLE TO ALL GUESTS—EVEN THOSE WHO PREFER ANIMAL PRINTS.
The Messerschmidts were suffering through a long, boring history of the Coopers of Greenwich when the doorbell chimed to the tune of “Born in the U.S.A.” Brett had noticed that her mom had changed the chime to a few innocuous strands of Beethoven, but Brett had changed it back. She could see the Coopers wince visibly.
“I'll get it!” Brett leapt to her feet. Her cropped black C&C California ballet shirt slid off her left shoulder, the silky yellow strap of her Paul & Joe camisole bra bright against her pale skin. The shirt fell just below her navel and an inch of skin peeked out above her Dolce & Gabbana leopard-print skirt—a gift from her mother for her birthday last year. Her bare feet with their bright pink polished toes (Bourjois Pink Flamingo) padded across the cold marble floor of the foyer, and she was thankful to be released from the stuffy front room where the Coopers and her parents had gathered for afternoon tea. Afternoon tea! Unreal.
She swung open the heavy door to find Sebastian standing in the doorway, his black leather jacket open at the collar despite the gusts of wind sweeping snow across the Messerschmidts' expansive front yard. The gold chain around his neck glinted in the sunlight, and a cloud of Drakkar Noir blew into her face. But for once, Brett didn't mind the cheesy eighties cologne. In fact, she kind of liked it, at least for her immediate purposes.
“Hey,” she said, suddenly shy. “Come on in.”
“Wow.” Sebastian shook his head, his eyes taking in her bare feet and making their way up her body. “Is this how you dress up for every holiday?”
Brett self-consciously hoisted her shirt back up on her shoulder, rolling her eyes at Sebastian. “Only the special ones.” He tore his dark eyes off her and surveyed the Messerschmidts' sky-high foyer, shaking his head, impressed.
“Man, your whole family is into jungle prints?” he asked, staring into the front media room. “That's hot.” Brett had “spilled” water on the beige slipcovers Bree had used to cover up their zebra-print chairs, pulling them off with glee. The seven Teacup Chihuahuas ran yipping into the foyer, jumping excitedly at Sebastian's legs. She'd freed the dogs a few hours ago, playing on her mother's sympathies: They're so lonely and confused, locked up in that tiny room, she'd cajoled, until her mom had relented.
“I guess it's genetic.” Brett hung up Sebastian's jacket in the hall closet, right next to the Coopers' camel-hair coats. She smiled widely as he followed her into the sitting room, interrupting Mrs. Cooper's monologue on her family's Cavalier King Charles spaniels.
“Everyone, this is Sebastian,” Brett announced, gesturing toward Sebastian like a game show host revealing a prize. “He's a friend from Waverly.”
Brett introduced him around, noting the coolness of the Coopers and the warmness of her own parents toward him. She felt a sudden surge of emotion—her parents were good people; they just liked big shiny things.
“And that's my sister, Bree.” She pointed to Bree and Willy, who were camped out on the love seat. Bree cradled her mug of chamomile tea, legs crossed delicately at the ankle. Her flowered dress rose about an inch above her knee, and she quickly tugged it down. “Er, Anna.” Brett corrected herself, hitting her palm lightly against her forehead. She stage-whispered, “Sorry,” to Bree before continuing. “And that's her boyfriend, Willy.”
“Cool, man,” Sebastian said to Willy, shaking his hand. He nodded at Bree, taking Brett's confusion about her own sister's name in stride.
“Would you like some tea?” Brett asked innocently, folding her hands behind her back. Mr. Cooper set his teacup on the leopard-print coaster that Brett had helpfully retrieved from the hall closet.
“Um, yeah.” Sebastian glanced around at the others. “Or, do you have any Red Bull or Gatorade or anything like that?”
Brett watched Mrs. Cooper as she stared at Sebastian's carefully sculpted black hair. It looked like he had applied extra gel for the occasion.
“It's something, isn't it?” Brett asked boldly, following Mrs. Cooper's gaze. She touched Sebastian's hair and he flinched, waving off her hand.
“Hey.” He frowned in annoyance. He actually looked kind of handsome in a pair of black jeans and a pressed white button-down. Even if it was opened two buttons too low at the neck. “I just did it.”
“I wasn't staring at his hair.” Mrs. Cooper had turned crimson. She picked up her teacup and swirled the tea, pretending to be engrossed with a speck of something on her linen pants.
“Don't worry. All the girls do,” Brett said confidentially to Mrs. Cooper, as if they were sharing sex secrets at the beauty parlor. It was kind of fun to shock her—and a little too easy.
Sebastian smoothed the spot where Brett had threatened to touch his hair. He gave her a funny look. “Is that so?”
“I'm afraid I don't know what Red Bull is.” Brett's mom scrambled to her feet, a worried look on her face.
“It's like this caffeine energy drink,” Sebastian said helpfully. “Any kind of soda is fine, though.”
“I'll get it,” Brett offered. She skipped to the kitchen and was back in a flash with a glass of ice and a can of Mountain Dew for Sebastian, who was perched at the edge of a hard-backed wooden chair. She almost passed out with delight when she heard him talking about how hard it was to replace the gearshift in his Mustang with an eight ball.
“I've got this uncle who owns a pool
hall,” Sebastian said, taking the glass from Brett and setting it on the end table. “Hey, thanks.” He sipped the soda appreciatively.
Brett grabbed Sebastian's hand and tugged him over to the sofa, pulling him down next to her. He stared at her small hand in his, and once they collapsed into the cushy, oversize cheetah-print pillows Brett had rescued from the media room, she quickly let go. “You're just in time,” she said. “We were about to look at the old family photo album.”
“Brett.” Bree's green eyes darkened. “Don't be ridiculous. We don't want to bore everyone.”
Brett shooed her sister's hand off the antique trunk and opened the lid. Out of the flotsam of crushed board games, old television remotes, and VHS home videos, she triumphantly pulled a thick photo album with a pink furry cover. “I'm sure Willy would like to see how adorable you were as a kid,” Brett said, honeying her voice for effect.
“You bet.” Willy sat forward, affable as ever, leaning the elbows of his thick marbled wool Nautica sweater on the knees of his khakis.
Brett flipped open the photo album. “Here's a great one,” she sighed, pulling out the well-remembered photo of a pre-teen Bree and a kindergarten-aged Brett both dressed up as Madonna for Halloween, their blond wigs teased into wild hairstyles, wearing matching black lace tops over red cropped tanks and flared denim miniskirts. “We won a contest at the mall—remember? We sang ‘Material Girl’ and you threw your white lace glove into the audience.” She glanced at her sister, who scowled angrily in reply. “They went wild,” she whispered to Willy as she handed off the picture.
“I barely remember that.” Bree crossed her arms primly across her chest, not looking at the Coopers. “It was a long time ago.”
“It's really cute.” Willy squeezed Bree's cable-knit- stockinged knee. “I didn't know you were into Madonna.”
“That's awesome.” Sebastian nudged Brett. “I dressed up as Michael Jackson once. You should've seen my moonwalk.” Brett couldn't help giggling.
“You have to remember this,” Brett said gleefully. “This is from one of those booths at Disney World. Where they make fake magazine covers with your picture?” She looked at the Coopers, as if they ever would have done such a thing, as she pulled out the picture of Bree, hand on her hip, on the cover of Cosmopolitan. The headline read, Bree Messerschmidt: Sixteen-Year-Old Goddess.
“Let's see,” Willy said eagerly. He held out his hand and Brett passed him the picture. “I am so framing this,” he chided Bree, grinning.
Sebastian burst out laughing, pointing at the picture of an eight-year-old Brett, wearing all black and waving a guitar over her head, on the cover of Rolling Stone. “You totally have a rock star complex, don't you?”
Mrs. Messerschmidt, most likely remembering that on the next page were the pictures of her and Mr. Messerschmidt on the cover of Fortune, hopped to her feet and grabbed the photo album away from Brett.
“That's enough,” Brett's mom said firmly. But Brett could tell she wouldn't have minded the embarrassing photo tour if it hadn't been for the Coopers. “What would we have to look at later?”
“Hey, Dad, what kind of work do you think Madonna's had done?” Brett asked innocently, knowing it was her dad's favorite topic.
Stuart Messerschmidt's face lit up, and he leaned back in his armchair and crossed his hands over his stomach. “I'd say at the very least, she's had a series of Botox injections—a woman of her age? No forehead lines?” He chuckled merrily. “And most likely a mini facelift and neck lift, because she just looks too damn good to be a natural fifty.”
Mr. Cooper cleared his throat, signaling his desire for a change of subject.
“My dad's a miracle worker.” Brett stretched her legs out in front of her and thought she caught Mr. Cooper staring at her skirt. Repressed bastard probably liked it. A trio of Chihuahuas scampered into the front room—Curly, Larry, and Princess, from the look of it. “He's worked on everyone in the neighborhood.”
“Oh!” Mrs. Cooper gasped, lifting her feet after Princess skittered over them. Sebastian gave a little whistle and the dogs immediately ran to him, jumping into his lap and trying to lick his face with their little pink tongues.
“Brett, why don't you help me check on the turkey?” her mother pleaded. “Dad shouldn't be so modest.” Brett ignored her mom and scooped up Curly, who responded by licking Brett's fingers. The soft, warm tongue tickled, and Brett giggled. “The whole block has been smoothed out by your Botox injections, or nipped and tucked and polished. We should be voted the hottest neighborhood in New Jersey!”
Sebastian snorted. “Dude, that's too funny.”
Brett glanced at Mrs. Cooper, who looked apoplectic. “And what's-her-name, with that…” She kept her eyes on Mrs. Cooper, particularly the loose flesh under her chin. “What did you call it?” She grabbed the loose skin on her neck.
“My mom has one of those,” Sebastian spoke up, scratching Princess under her chin. “She hates it. She moved down to Miami.” He looked around the room. “My parents are divorced. Anyway, she says no one in Miami has one. I forget what they call it too.”
“It's a wattle,” Brett's dad said, staring into his teacup.
“Right,” Sebastian said, holding his Mountain Dew out as though he were making a toast. “A wattle.”
Brett kept her eyes on Mrs. Cooper, who averted her gaze. Of course she was absolutely dying to ask Brett's dad if he could do something about her wattle but was too uptight to open her mouth.
“Can we change the subject?” Bree pleaded. “Please?”
A wave of satisfaction came over Brett as she watched her sister squirm along with the Coopers. Served them right. She could sense that her parents were amused by the whole thing, though they'd never let on.
“Where did you get these coasters?” Sebastian asked suddenly, taking up one of the leopard-print tiles Brett had unearthed from a shoebox stashed in the pantry. “They rock.”
Mrs. Messerschmidt glanced at Bree, unsure what to say. “Our interior designer…had them custom made for me.” She glanced apologetically at the Coopers. “It was a phase I went through.”
“Well, I might have to get her number. These would make a great Christmas present for my mom.” Sebastian was still stroking Princess on his lap. He turned to Brett's father. “Sir, I have to say, that plasma television hanging in your front room has to be one of the most beautiful pieces of art I've ever seen.”
Mr. Messerschmidt's face brightened immediately. “Son, sometimes I stare at it, and I think it's more beautiful than a Monet—and that's when it's turned off!” He broke into his trademark wheezing, red-faced laugh and pounded Sebastian on the back.
The Coopers looked so mortified, they almost spilled their tea. Brett leaned her elbow against the cheetah-print pillow, her knee brushing Sebastian's. He raised his can of Mountain Dew and banged it against her can of Diet Coke. The student had become the teacher.
BrandonBuchanan: Where the fuck R U? Dunderdorf's on his third story about goats!
HeathFerro: Smokin' a J out back. Need something to keep me sane.
BrandonBuchanan: What about ME?
HeathFerro: I'll leave the roach out here for you. Keep your effing panties on.
20
A WAVERLY OWL KNOWS THAT SOMEONE IS ALWAYS WATCHING.
Tinsley opened the sliding glass door to the roof deck to let in a breath of fresh air. Yvonne's apartment was stale with warm bodies huddled around the plasma TV, watching an America's Next Top Model marathon and passing around someone's weed. A landslide of snow tumbled down on her sock-covered feet, and she squealed softly.
“Hey, close the door!” someone yelled from the living room. “You're letting all the smoke out!”
Tinsley inhaled a long breath of fresh air before sliding the door shut. Her afternoon frolicking in the snow with Julian like little kids would have been storybook perfect, if only Sleigh Monroe-Hill hadn't been glued to Julian's side the entire time. The glass door was like a mirror in the d
arkness, reflecting the image of Tinsley in her swinging black Lauren Conrad mini-dress, the soft jersey fabric and the sliced bell sleeves giving her a much more sophisticated hippie look than Sleigh's homeless-girl rags. Take that, Tinsley thought, spinning on her wool tights.
“Pizza's here!” Yvonne came skidding out of the dining room, where she and some of her dorky friends were lighting candles for what they kept calling the “Thanksgiving feast.” Tinsley glanced around the room, looking for Julian. About half the guests had trickled home to their families that morning, but the other half—people the snowstorm had stranded in the city, or whose families had abandoned them like Tinsley's—had stuck around.
Even though she'd spent the last hour curled in front of the fireplace in Yvonne Stidder's cozy library, the only room in the penthouse that didn't feature any stainless steel, Tinsley couldn't shake the creepy feeling she'd gotten during her afternoon outing. Sleigh Monroe-Hill had to be the fakest person on earth, and it gave her chills that she had manipulated Julian into actually thinking she was nice. Tinsley was dying to pull Julian into an empty room and whisper to him all the terrible things Sleigh had done, even tell him how she'd threatened Tinsley just an hour ago, but that was probably exactly what Sleigh wanted.
Yvonne managed to gather the dozen or so stranded Owls in the dining room, the air filled with the delicious smell of pepperoni, sausage, and mushrooms. Her brother and a few of his friends, hunting for the football game on the living room television, grabbed three boxes of pizza for themselves over Yvonne's protests.
“Sit wherever.” Yvonne, looking vaguely like a librarian in a ribbed brown turtleneck dress with a thin black belt around the waist, took a seat at the head of the carved walnut dining table. Red votive candles flickered in small bowls of water around the table, casting a romantic glow on everyone's faces. Tinsley waited for Sleigh to take her seat—at the other end of the table, predictably—and was chagrined when Julian sat next to her. Did she have him chained to her? Julian was listening to a story Sleigh was telling about her mother making her read War and Peace—and how grateful she was for the experience. Tinsley grabbed the chair across from him, next to Rifat Jones, as if to show Julian this wasn't a competition.
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