Infamous

by Cecily von Ziegesar

  “You are drunk,” Tinsley hissed. She squeezed Jenny's forearm harder, grabbed her towel off the ground, and shoved her through the sliding glass doors.

  At the sight of two scantily clad, dripping wet girls, the living room, filled with clouds of marijuana smoke and college boys playing video games, erupted into appreciative hoots.

  “Come hang out with us!” Jeremy Stidder called as Tinsley pushed Jenny down the hallway toward the bathroom. Once inside, the door locked behind them, Tinsley poured Jenny a giant plastic cup of water.

  “What are we doing in here?” Jenny turned the knob but couldn't figure out the lock. Her head lolled around like it was too heavy for her neck to support, and her eyes were completely glazed over. “I want to be out there…with Casey.”

  “Drink.” Tinsley handed the glass to Jenny, who obediently sipped it down. She flicked a switch on the wall and a red heat lamp overhead whirred to life.

  “Uh-oh.” Jenny abruptly set the cup down on the bathroom counter. In her loose white towel and with her dark hair plastered to her head, she looked like a kid. And in a way, she really kind of was one. All the more reason she shouldn't be professing her love to guys she didn't even know.

  “What's the matter?” Tinsley asked warily, shivering a little. She'd caught a glimpse of Julian as she forced Jenny out of the tub. From the look on his face, she knew the scene was just further evidence of what a bossy bitch Tinsley Carmichael was.

  “I think I'm gonna…” Jenny trailed off, but Tinsley recognized the greenish cast to her skin and quickly rushed Jenny over to the toilet. She held her hair back as all of the wine coolers Jenny had guzzled—as well as her efforts to remain detached and just have fun—swirled down the drain.

  25

  A WAVERLY OWL DOESN'T JUDGE A GIRL BY HER CLOTHING—ESPECIALLY IF SHE TAKES IT OFF.

  The musty wood smell of the sauna filled Brandon's nose as he laid his towel along one of the benches. He wiped the sweat from his brow and stretched out across one of the cedar benches, adjusting his Ralph Lauren boxer briefs.

  “This is beautiful.” Heath stuffed his towel beneath his head and yawned. “Without Dunderdorf, I could get some serious relaxing done here.”

  After dinner they'd tossed and turned under the eaves of the stifling Dunderdorf twins' room, unable to fall asleep in such a strange setting. Brandon had originally balked at Heath's suggestion that they take a sauna to “sweat out their sexual frustration,” but twenty sleepless minutes later, he had relented. Heath assured him he'd made the right choice, insisting that the sauna would “open Brandon's pores.”

  “I can feel the kirsch coming out of me.” Heath closed his eyes and took a giant gulp from one of the bottles of Evian they'd grabbed from the fridge on their way downstairs. “That stuff is foul.”

  “Evil,” Brandon added, leaning his head back against the cedar wall and letting the steam help him sober up. He was still infinitely pissed at Heath for dragging him to Mr. Dunderdorf's under false pretenses—the fable about the supposedly legendary twins now seemed to him as fantastic as tales of the Loch Ness Monster, or Bigfoot—but he was happy, too, in a way. Happy to have something else to be miserable about besides Sage. The sting of Sage's sudden breakup had started to subside, if only because the whole day at the Dunderdorfs' had been so stifling and boring, it now felt like five years had gone by.

  Steam filled the sauna and Brandon rubbed his tired eyes. Two faces at the glass sauna door startled him. “Heath!” he hissed, still slightly drunk.

  A soft snore emanated from Heath.

  “Heath.” He snapped his towel at Heath, smacking him against his bare chest.

  Heath opened one eye. “Huh?”

  “Look. Over. There.” Brandon indicated the sauna door just as it opened and Heath bolted upright. They watched in amazement as two girls armored in puffy ski jumpsuits—one orange, one blue—poked their heads in, their hair encased by thick wool caps. Their matching black-framed glasses fogged up immediately.

  “Are you friends of our father's?” one of them asked, removing her glasses to clear the steam. A whoosh of cold air breezed into the sauna.

  Brandon and Heath just stared, their mouths agape. Worse than the idea of the twins being phantoms was the actual sight of them in their dumpy clothes.

  They're nerds, Brandon thought.

  “We go to Waverly,” Heath finally managed to say. He stuck his chest out a little—to him, even dorky girls were still girls. “Your father invited us over for Thanksgiving.”

  “Then you must have an opinion,” the one in the blue said. “Is America really a democracy, or is it actually a republic?”

  Heath's face, which had showed a glimmer of hope, immediately fell again. “No schoolwork on holidays,” he grunted. Brandon was still too drunk to have any sort of political discussion, and wondered how they were going to get out of this. They couldn't be rude to Dunderdorf's kids, could they? But all Brandon wanted to do at this moment was grab his clothes and hightail it back to campus.

  The other twin began unzipping her ski suit. “It's a democracy,” she said, stepping out of the pants to reveal a pair of black leggings. “That's all Americans talk about. How they live in a democracy.”

  “I'm not stupid,” her sister said, tossing her ski suit carelessly out the door, and pulling her cable-knit sweater covered in snowflakes over her head. “I know that. But it's not really a democracy.” She shimmied out of her dark leggings, revealing a pair of long, slender legs. Brandon heard a gurgling sound from Heath as he watched in awe.

  Brandon felt faint. It was like one of those dolls where there was another doll inside and the more dolls you found, the smaller the doll got—except this time, the dolls just kept getting sexier. The twins must've had twenty pounds of layering against the cold, which all ended up in a pile at the sauna door, their slim bodies, now in silky dove gray panties and matching bras, each with a tiny rose in the middle, looking nothing like the pictures of the girls in lederhosen. No braces, no dorky white boots, no terrible hairstyles. They'd grown up and matured—very, very nicely. Brandon looked at Heath, whose eyes were trained on the twins as they sauntered to the bench in the corner.

  “Well?” the one nearest Brandon asked. Without her glasses, her gray-blue eyes, framed by dark lashes, were clear and sharp. They looked like some kind of gemstone, though Brandon, either from the kirsch or the steam or something else, couldn't remember which.

  “It's definitely a democracy,” Heath answered, sliding down the bench toward the girls.

  The twins giggled. “See what I mean,” one said to the other. Brandon couldn't stop staring at the sight of two beautiful, identical girls in matching bras and panties, tiny beads of sweat starting to form on their collarbones. He felt like he was in some kind of beer commercial, where the loser guy manages to score two hotties just because he's carrying the right kind of beer.

  “I'm Helga, by the way,” the twin sitting next to Brandon said. She slid the elastic off the end of one long braid and slowly untwined her hair. “And this is my sister, Gretchen.”

  Gretchen gave a short wave. “It's a republic, by the way.” She flicked her braids over her shoulder. As she turned to smile at Heath, Brandon caught a glimpse of a tiny tattoo in the shape of a fairy on her shoulder blades. “Otherwise you wouldn't have the electoral college.”

  Heath shrugged, and Brandon could tell he had no idea what the electoral college was. “That's true,” Brandon answered, learning forward, elbows on his knees. “What do they have in Switzerland?” Up close, the girls had skin that looked like white chocolate.

  “They have everything.” Brandon noticed that both girls slightly elided their t's into z's so that it sounded like she said, Zey have everyzing, which gave Brandon goose bumps. They could have been Bond girls. He watched as Helga opened a compartment in the sauna bench that neither he nor Heath had known existed and retrieved a pair of spray bottles. The girls squeezed the triggers, unleashing a cool mist around the
ir heads and chests.

  “How was the flight?” Brandon asked, shifting on the bench and trying not to think about how almost-naked these girls were. Heath, with a beatific smile on his face, seemed too dumbfounded to contribute.

  “Fine.” Helga leaned back against the bench. Or maybe it was Gretchen. No, Gretchen had the tattoo, right? “I read Goethe, and that always makes time fly.” Brandon just nodded and tried not to stare at the tiny bead of sweat that was trickling down her chest.

  “Where's your father?” Heath asked suddenly. His normally relaxed face looked tense, like he was terrified Mr. Dunderdorf would run through the doorway at any moment, waving around his bloody turkey-killing ax and chasing them away.

  “He's in a kirsch coma on the couch.” Gretchen—or the one still in braids—touched Heath's arm casually, to calm him down. “He won't wake up until tomorrow.”

  “A kirsch coma on the couch,” Helga repeated, and the girls erupted in laughter. There was something so incredibly sexy about the twins—besides the obvious killer bodies and gorgeous faces—that Brandon couldn't quite place. The way they played off each other, made jokes, asked questions, laughed big laughs. He tried to imagine Helga and Gretchen at Waverly. Who would they be friends with? He couldn't see Tinsley or Callie giving them the time of day, especially not if their puffy skiwear was any indicator of their fashion sense. Maybe Jenny. But Jenny liked everyone. He tried to imagine the twins on the Commons, laughing and arguing about politics, and then it occurred to him: The twins totally lacked self-consciousness. They had no idea how hot they were, because they didn't spend their whole life thinking about it, unlike most of the girls at Waverly.

  “Maybe a little too much Thanksgiving fun for him.” Heath perked up suddenly, now that he knew Dunderdorf was safely passed out. “Man, you're really lucky you missed out on killing the turkey.”

  “We're vegetarians.” Gretchen spritzed herself again, the water droplets glistening on her skin.

  “You really shouldn't eat animals.” Helga collected her blond hair and magically twisted it up into one of those loose buns that girls with long hair were always making. “It's bad for the environment.”

  “So is having kids,” Gretchen pointed out, poking her sister in her lean thigh. “And people don't seem to be stopping that.”

  “Heath has three already, so I guess he's not thinking about the environment.” Brandon joked. The twins laughed.

  “Whatever.” Heath tossed his head, his sweaty hair plastered across his forehead. “My kids would totally kick your kids' asses, Buchanan.” He took a swig from his bottle of water. “That's a guarantee.”

  But Brandon didn't hear much of the ensuing conversation. He was deep in thought about whether or not he should be in a sauna with the twins. Word was bound to get out via Heath's big mouth, and Sage had just broken up with him less than twenty-four hours earlier. Maybe she was at home right now, regretting what she'd said, ready to apologize come Monday morning. A rumor about a late-night sauna with the Swiss Misses would kill any chance he might have left with Sage Francis.

  All he knew was he couldn't take his eyes of Helga…or Gretchen. “Can I borrow that?” he asked, holding out his hand for the spray bottle.

  “Sure,” Helga said, handing it to him.

  Instead of spraying it on himself, though, he impulsively spritzed the water bottle directly at Helga and Gretchen, the mist landing on their perfectly trim vegetarian bellies. They threw their heads back with laughter and grabbed the bottle from his hands, spraying him back.

  “So,” Brandon said slyly, running a hand through his damp hair. “Your father asked us to spend the night. Sober up.” He yawned. “I think I might head back up to that attic room he put us in.”

  Helga's pretty pink lips dropped open. “You can't sleep in there. It smells like…mothballs.”

  Gretchen's nose wrinkled as she wiped a bead of sweat off her collarbone. “And dead people.”

  “Well.” Brandon took a deep breath and stared straight into Helga's baby blue eyes. “Is there anywhere else to sleep?”

  Heath burst into a coughing fit as he took a sip from a bottle of water. Gretchen patted him grimly on the back.

  Helga got to her feet and held out her hand to Brandon. “I'll show you my room.”

  Electricity surged through his body as he grabbed her hand and let her lead him out of the sauna.

  “Shhh,” Helga whispered as they made their way up the creaking basement stairs and through the dark living room. An empty bottle of kirsch sat on the coffee table. “They must be in bed.” A strand of wet blond hair clung to her shoulder seductively.

  Before he could stop himself, Brandon took a step forward and pressed his lips, gently but firmly, to the lock of hair on Helga's perfect, bare shoulder. She jumped slightly, and turned around. For one terrible second Brandon was sure she was going to start screaming in Switzerdeutsch and bring Dunderdorf down the stairs carrying a shotgun. But instead, she ran her hands up and down her arms and smiled shyly at Brandon. “That gave me goose bumps.”

  Heart thumping, Brandon stepped closer to her and let his lips brush lightly against her ear. He felt her body lean toward his, as though they were drawn together like magnets. “You smell amazing. Like wildflowers or something.” And before he could think about how un-Brandon-like he was acting, his hands found Helga's hips and pulled her toward him.

  “Are all you Waverly boys this forward?” she murmured softly. Outside the living room window, the moonlight shone against the smooth white snow.

  “No,” Brandon answered with a grin, his head suddenly clear. “You just got lucky.” And he pressed his mouth to Helga's soft, waiting lips.

  26

  A WAVERLY OWL KNOWS WHEN TO KISS AND MAKE UP.

  Brett slammed the door to her bedroom, hard enough to shake the walls and send a thumbtack from the poster of Johnny Depp in Pirates of the Caribbean over her desk to the floor. She left it embedded in the rug, not caring if she stepped on it later, and threw her body down on her enormous bed. She was too pissed off at everyone to even appreciate how much softer and sweeter this mattress was than the creaky, worn-out twin bed in her dorm room. Her mind raced over what had happened—how could Bree corner her like that, or be so stupid to do it in a way that everyone could hear what they said? How dare she? What a giant bitch she'd become. Their whole fight was just so ugly and embarrassing—but Bree had made her act like that. It was totally, totally Bree's fault.

  Brett pulled on her pair of comfy black DKNY pajama bottoms and checked her e-mail to see if Callie or Jenny had materialized yet…but nothing. Where were they? Probably having as crappy a Thanksgiving as she was. I should just leave, she thought. Waverly had never seemed so appealing.

  She touched her face and realized she was crying. She collapsed on her bed, surprised at how upset she was. The whole plot to bust Bree and the Coopers had seemed like a good idea when she conceived it—Sebastian had been so perfect. But the hurt look he'd given her as he stalked out of their kitchen had made her turkey-filled stomach ache. Brett lay back on her bed and breathed deeply, trying to steady herself. Yes, she'd embarrassed Bree. And yes, it was Bree's fault…but maybe it was hers, too. Even if the Coopers were totally lame, they were still guests in Brett's house, and she could have been a little more courteous. Or classy.

  Shit. She could have pulled Bree aside—somewhere private—and asked her why she was acting all brainwashed. That would have been the mature thing to do.

  She found Bree alone in the kitchen, pouring herself a glass of water from the Brita pitcher. They hadn't really fought since Bree went away to Columbia, and it felt really weird to know she was actually angry with Brett.

  “Hey,” Brett said, her bare feet padding across the tile floor.

  Bree looked up with a scowl on her pretty face—she was still wearing her prissy dress, but at least she'd gotten rid of the headband in her hair, and her auburn waves were falling messily around her face. “What do you wan
t?”

  “I want—” Brett's throat was dry. She wanted a drink of the water in Bree's hand. She wanted a Thanksgiving weekend do-over. She wanted her sister back. “I want to say I'm sorry.”

  Bree looked at her skeptically, leaning against the counter.

  “I'm sorry about the way I acted in front of Willy and his parents,” Brett said, the words rushing out of her mouth. She stared out the dark window behind Bree's head, where she could see the reflection of the moon out on the water. “It was…childish.”

  “Well, I wish you could have realized that a little bit sooner.” Bree plunked her cup down in the sink and started to leave the room. “The damage is done.”

  Brett reached out and touched Bree's bare arm. “I know, but I'm still sorry. I'll even apologize to the Coopers if you want me to.” She suppressed a mild panic that Bree wasn't going to accept her apology. “But put yourself in my place. I come home from school and suddenly my house is filled with these totally stuck-up strangers, the house looks totally whitewashed, the dogs are locked in the laundry room, someone's forced my mother into khakis….” Brett trailed off, watching her sister's face.

  Bree pressed her lips together before she cracked a smile. “I had to take her to Talbots for those.”

  “She looked weird,” Brett insisted. “I felt like I had to kind of make up for it with the Dolce & Gabbana skirt she got me for my birthday.”

  “It actually looked really good on you.” Bree sighed. “Look, I'm sorry I tried to change everything here—but it's not because I'm ashamed of Mom and Dad. I just know how difficult Willy's parents are.” Bree tapped her colorless nails against the counter and lowered her voice, although no one else was in the room. “But you don't get to pick your parents, or where you're from, or how you were brought up. And I really love Willy, so I'm willing to do whatever I have to do to make it work.”