Unforgettable
Page 6
“What’s up?” Callie tried to make her voice sound apathetic, but she couldn’t help it—the moment she laid eyes on him, she trembled a little. She tried to think about Mr. Gaston calling on her to recite a passage from Ovid and that calmed her a bit—but also soured her mood. “I told you we could talk before bio.” Easy placed his hand on Callie’s arm and pulled her to the corner of the hallway, out of the way of people entering the classroom, and stared at them knowingly. “I couldn’t wait that long. Look, I . . .” His voice trailed off. He did look kind of awful, like he hadn’t been able to sleep last night. But chances were, it wasn’t because he was thinking about her or anything—he was probably just playing stupid video games until 3 A.M. again. She steeled herself against him. “I want to get back together.” With me? Or with Jenny? Callie couldn’t help thinking. She stared at the dark circles under his eyes and wound the soft pink sash of her sweater around her fist. “Wh . . . what?” She looked up just as Benny Cunningham, in an unflattering kelly-green-and-navy-striped polo dress—um, hello, horizontal stripes?—stepped into the classroom, but not before giving Callie a giant, totally obvious wink.
“I made a huge mistake.” Easy’s dark blue eyes looked sadder than she’d ever seen them. He was wearing a pair of Levi’s that were begging to be thrown into the garbage, and he had a splotch of toothpaste at the corner of his lips. “I really didn’t mean to hurt you. I think I just needed some, um, time to think.” He gulped. “But I love you,” he blurted out, as though he’d said it a million times before.
Callie bit the inside of her cheek, her heart aching in her chest. She’d wanted Easy to love her for practically ever. Okay, well, for months, and it had felt like forever. But his timing could not have been worse. Last night, in front of practically the entire school, she and Jenny had made a pact to put their friendship before Easy. Why couldn’t Easy have said this to her yesterday?
“So you broke up with Jenny?” Callie asked suddenly, remembering that last she’d heard—from Jenny—she’d been the one to suggest they take a little time to think.
Easy stared down at his shoes. The worn-out toes of his brown Vans looked funny against the freshly polished marble of the hallway floor. “Yeah, well, I haven’t actually done that yet.” “You’ve made everything much too complicated.” Callie couldn’t look into Easy’s eyes—it was too hard. She was afraid he’d be able to see through all her bravado and realize how much she missed him, and how much she longed to just lean into his arms and pretend it was last year. But it wasn’t, and
Easy couldn’t make it all go away by just snapping his fingers. “Just because you feel this way now doesn’t mean you’ll feel this way tomorrow. How am I supposed to know that you’re not going to just change your mind again?” Callie looked down and suddenly remembered that her Chloé kitten-heel riding boots were the same ones she’d been wearing that awful day when Easy told her it was over. When she’d had to cross the quad, bawling, in front of the entire world, to go back to her room and hide and cry on Tinsley’s shoulder, feeling like her life was over. That had been the worst day of her life—and she’d had some bad ones, like when she’d broken her collarbone falling off a horse and her kitten, Butterscotch, had been hit by a car on the same exact day. But nothing had compared to how completely rejected she’d felt when Easy had dumped her like that, so heartlessly and out of the blue.
Easy opened his mouth to say something, but Callie cut him off, tapping the toe of her boot against the hard marble floor. “No.” She liked the way the sound of her voice resonated in the now-quiet hallway—it made her feel tough. “We can be friends. That’s it. You can’t always get what you want, Easy Walsh, whenever you want it.” She hadn’t realized how much she’d let her anger creep into her voice until Mr. Gaston appeared in the doorway of his classroom, his black mustache twitching with irritation. “Is everything all right here?” “Yes, we were just finishing up a conversation.” Callie nodded firmly and, with a last look over her shoulder, slid past Mr. Gaston into the classroom, leaving Easy alone in the empty hallway.
She was glad she’d told him off and gotten the final say. Except she couldn’t quite help thinking about how nice those words—those three gorgeous words—had sounded coming from his mouth.
11
IT IS COMMON COURTESY FOR A WAVERLY OWL TO SHARE THE CONTENTS OF A CARE PACKAGE WITH FELLOW OWLS.
At noon, the mailroom in Maxwell Hall was pulsing with life as the Waverly Owls scrambled to check their mailboxes before lunch, hoping to find love letters, the new issue of W, or, better than all else, a package slip. Tinsley had to stand on her tiptoes to see into Box 270, on the top row. One would have thought the administration would have enough sense to give the highest mailboxes to the basketball giants and the lower ones to Waverly’s less vertical. Normally, Tinsley didn’t mind the stretch—she knew she looked kind of sexy standing on her toes, her sweater rising to reveal some skin—but today she happened to be wearing her Miu Miu red velvet skimmers that were as flat as flat could be, with a short black cord Free People frock dress. The dress was sure to flash her behind if she tried to stretch too far. While Tinsley wasn’t exactly modest, she wasn’t about to give the entire mailroom a free show, either. Frustrated, she hopped up, trying to peek into the slot, her heavy leather Juicy messenger bag thumping awkwardly against her hip.
“Having trouble?” a voice piped behind her. “I bet you’re just praying for someone really tall . . . and handsome . . . and young . . . to come along and help you.” Tinsley rolled her eyes at the sound of Heath Ferro’s voice, turning to face him. He was wearing a pale yellow Lacoste polo that looked blindingly new, the collar turned up. He looked like he should be golfing.
“Do you mind?” she asked, faux sweetly, determined not to let her irritation show. Was that supposed to be some sort of crack about Julian? “Can you grab the mail from my box, or is that too much to ask from a superhero?” “I could never refuse a damsel in distress,” Heath said gallantly, effortlessly reaching his hand into her mailbox. “’Cept you have to promise to share.” He held out a coveted yellow PACKAGE TOO LARGE FOR BOX slip over Tinsley’s head.
She laughed and rested one hand on her hip, not about to jump through hoops for Heath Ferro. “Oh, I’m sure it’s nothing you’d be interested in. Probably just the new La Perla panties I ordered.” “You definitely have to share, then.” Heath pretended to faint as Tinsley snatched the slip from his hand. “I thought girls didn’t say ‘panties,’ though?” “They do when guys are around.” Tinsley made a beeline for the mailroom pickup window, Heath following like a puppy dog. Didn’t he have anything better to do? “Two seventy,” she said, handing the girl behind the counter her slip. She was quickly rewarded with a shoe-box-size package.
“Adea, huh?” Heath asked, leaning over her shoulder to look.
“How’d you—oh.” Tinsley looked down at the package, realizing her mother had included her middle name in the address: Tinsley Adea Carmichael. “It was my Danish grandmother’s name,” she mumbled, the rest of the address catching her eye. In her mother’s elegant backwards-slanting cursive, it was marked to Box 207. Jesus, this was her third year here, and her mother still didn’t have the right address. This had better be something good. The return address was her parents’ Gramercy Park penthouse. Hmm. She’d thought they were in Amsterdam—her father was orchestrating some fancy business deal—but of course they hadn’t kept her up to speed on their plans.
“I’ll buy you a mochaccino if you show me what’s in the box,” Heath bargained as Tinsley slid the package under her arm.
“It’s your lucky day, Ferro.” She shrugged, and the two of them headed toward the coffee bar. She always needed a little pick-me-up around this time, or else she found it impossible to make it through her afternoon classes.
“So, Julian, huh?” Heath glanced at Tinsley out of the corner of his eye, a perfectly angelic expression on his handsome features. The two of them carefully stepped over an abandone
d J.Crew catalog as they made their way out of the mailroom.
Bastard. He definitely knew something. And if Heath knew about it, then the entire campus wasn’t far behind. She quickly put her hand on his forearm and gave it a squeeze, lowering her voice to the throaty register she knew made boys think about sex, and nothing else. “You know you’re the only one for me, H.F.” “Ha!” He pretended to eye Tinsley suspiciously but she could see that gooey look come into his eyes. Heath was so horny that a little dose of the signature Carmichael charm was all that was needed to make him forget about Julian. For now. “You’re such a tease,” he said, holding open the door to the coffee bar and following her as she made her way toward the line. He ordered and paid, and Tinsley went to pick up the drinks from the barista.
“So, get this.” Heath followed her as she strode over to a booth in the corner. She dropped her box onto the table disinterestedly and slid onto one padded red-leather bench. Heath glanced around him—like that wasn’t suspicious—before continuing in a hushed voice. “My connection at the liquor store says he can get us some killer cheap kegs and even offered up his family’s barn somewhere in town.” He stretched his arms into the air so that his shirt rose to reveal his tanned, tight abs. “Think there’s any way we could bribe Marymount to let us all go off campus?” Tinsley raised her eyebrows and dug into her purse. She pulled out the miniature Sephora nail file she kept with her at all times, prying the tape off the package from her mother. Not only did the nail file come in handy for manicure-related emergencies, it made her feel like Nancy Drew. Or MacGyver. “What if I bring the idea to him?” The wheels were already turning—Marymount definitely owed her for keeping his secrets to herself. The Boston weekend had been weeks ago, and she and Heath and Callie had all managed—somewhat amazingly—to keep mum about catching him canoodling with the equally married Angelica Pardee. Now it was definitely Marymount’s turn to thank her for it.
“Sweetheart, you’re pretty, but you’re not that pretty.” Heath grabbed for the package, but Tinsley pulled it away from him. “You think if you ask him to let you have a keg party off campus and show him a little leg, he’ll say yes?” “No, dipshit.” Tinsley peeked into the package, glimpsing the shimmery gold box with the word Teuscher on it. Mmm. Swiss truffles. These were definitely for sharing. She pulled out the box, opened it slightly, and removed the five crisp one-hundred-dollar bills that were neatly placed on top of the padding inside. Her mom always sent her cash, as if she didn’t have an ATM card—and as if there were anything in Rhinecliff to spend money on besides tie-dye shirts and weed. Still, it was a sweet gesture. “I’d be a little more creative than that. Spin it as something more legitimate . . . like a Cinefiles outdoor screening.” She was impressed with her own quick thinking. She really was like Nancy Drew, with a naughty streak.
Heath pounced on the chocolates, stuffing two in his mouth at once. Tinsley stared at him, a little impressed that he could simultaneously be so gross and still so handsome. “Think that’ll work?” he asked through a mouthful of praline.
Tinsley plucked a double-chocolate raspberry truffle from its delicate tissue bed and placed it on her tongue, allowing the luxurious flavors to slowly melt into her mouth. She leaned her head back against the booth and closed her eyes. Only when the round chocolate had completely disappeared could she be bothered to open a single violet-colored eye to respond.
“I know it will.”
12
A WAVERLY OWL KNOWS ALL GOOD THINGS MUST COME TO AN END—AND THAT SOMETIMES IT’S BETTER THAT WAY.
“Your homework,” Mrs. Silver announced Wednesday afternoon, emphasizing the word homework even though Jenny knew that no one in their human-figure drawing elective thought of it as that, “will be to do a drawing or painting of a member of the opposite sex that attempts to reveal something about their personality.” Her Mrs. Claus–blue eyes twinkled. “Be creative. And please bring them in on Friday.” She raised her voice to carry over the noises of her students flipping their sketch pads closed and tossing their pencils back into their boxes. “Some prospectives will be visiting campus this weekend, and I’d like them to see how talented our art students are.” Jenny plunked her thick piece of charcoal back into a special compartment in her ArtBin pencil box and tried not to think about the day that Easy had asked her to meet him at his special clearing in the woods and taken her portrait. Everything about that day seemed perfect now, and Jenny wished she could somehow freeze that memory and remember it without all the yucky, complicated stuff that came along with it.
Right now, Easy was all the way across the room, on a stool next to Parker DuBois, taking notes in his Moleskine sketchbook. She was serious about the pact she’d made with Callie—although, from the way Easy was acting, maybe it wasn’t even necessary. Maybe Easy was already over her.
“Oh, and children—I’d like you to branch out and use someone outside this class as your model.” Mrs. Silver twitched her round little nose. “Shake things up a bit.” She shook her hips like a hula dancer, as if to illustrate what she meant.
Jenny immediately felt relieved. Good. Now she and Easy would definitely not be able to draw each other. So she didn’t have to worry about him saying no.
Even though she’d been thinking all morning about how she was going to have to break up with him—if they were even still going out, which she wasn’t sure they were—she really didn’t feel like doing it today. Not when she was wearing her favorite Citizens of Humanity jeans that had been a Christmas present from her father and represented the single time he’d bought her an article of clothing that she would actually wear in public. Sure, she’d e-mailed him a picture of the exact pair she wanted from Saks.com, size and everything, but she hadn’t expected him to actually buy them for her. She didn’t want them to become the jeans she was wearing when her relationship with Easy ended.
“Do you want to get a cup of coffee before practice?” Jenny asked Kara as they washed the charcoal off their hands at the sinks in the back of the studio. She knew it was neurotic, but she just didn’t want to be alone right now. Alison had already snuck out of class early to meet up with Alan for a Latin study date in the library—even that sounded good to Jenny.
“I’m sorry, I can’t.” Kara dried her hands off on one of the stiff brown industrial-quality paper towels they always seemed to have in art buildings. “I’ve got a meeting with Mr. Wilde to talk about my history paper.” “Oh.” Jenny smiled at her friend. “Lucky you.” She was already looking forward to AP American History next year. She’d passed the super-cute Mr. Wilde in Stansfield Hall once and had seen that he was wearing a Modest Mouse T-shirt under neath his neatly pressed blue button-down and tie.
The girls picked up their bags and walked down the hallway and out of the building. Jenny glanced around but didn’t see Easy anywhere. Kara pulled a tube of cherry Blistex from the pocket of her worn-out jean jacket and spread it across her lips. “Well, let’s just say history is the one class I never mind getting help in.” She winked at Jenny as they pushed open the double doors to the outside world and warm sunshine beamed down on them, the entire campus painted in brightly colored reds and oranges and yellows before them.
Jenny waved goodbye to Kara and watched her friend walk off. She paused to pull her aviators out from her bag and saw that there, leaning against one of the columns, was Easy Walsh, waiting for her.
“Can I walk with you?” Easy shielded his eyes from the sun with one hand while the other held his sketchbook. Jenny shifted her heavy bag to her other shoulder.
“Sure.” The two of them quietly fell in step together, cutting across the quad. Giant oak leaves were scattered across the grass, and Jenny bent over to pick one up. It was yellow with orange spots, and so pretty Jenny thought she’d like to press it between wax paper and give it to her dad. Maybe make a bookmark out of that. Hadn’t she done that once, at art camp? She tried to think about this new project—or really, anything other than what Easy was about to say.
“Me too.”
Easy nodded. “Yeah?” He kept touching the pack of cigarettes in the back pocket of his jeans, like he was dying to have one, but the two of them were standing in the middle of campus, out in the open. “Well, good. Um, I just think that, it would be, you know, a good idea if . . . we broke up.” Even though she’d been preparing herself for the words, they still stung. But there was something else too, something she hadn’t really expected to feel: relief. At least she had an answer now. She and Easy were over. She and Callie could be friends and roommates again. She nodded slowly, watching a dozen girls and boys in cable-knit sweaters rush down the front steps of one of the brick classroom buildings. “I think that would be for the best.” He looked at her tentatively, a little surprised, like he hadn’t expected it to be this easy, and Jenny wondered if he had expected her to put up a fight, like Callie had when he’d broken up with her. The entire boys’ dorm had heard her scream at him. But that wasn’t Jenny’s style, and besides, she wasn’t angry. She was just sad. He shifted awkwardly from foot to foot. “We can, uh . . . still be friends, right?” Jenny could tell it was hard for him to say something that clichéd and, well, lame. It sounded so awkward coming from his lips, and it almost made her laugh. “Sure,” she told him.
Easy rubbed the bridge of his nose between his paint-splattered thumb and forefinger. “Really?” He peeked at her around his hand, and she felt his dark blue eyes exploring her face.