Unforgettable

by Cecily von Ziegesar

  “Ms. Carmichael,” he said pleasantly, if a little efficiently. “What can I do for you today?” Tinsley noticed he was wearing a floral-print tie, with a field of red and pink tulips. His prematurely balding secretary, Mr. Topkins, had been wearing one with yellow daisies. Weird. Tinsley sank into one of the antique chairs and crossed her legs, primly stretching the hem of her army green button-front shirtdress down over her knee. “I’ve been talking with Mrs. Feingold at the Rhinecliff Public Library about borrowing their copy of It Happened One Night to show at an upcoming Cinephiles event.” That much was certainly true—she’d spent an hour listening to the elderly woman chew her ear off about how “debonair” Clark Gable was and how all the ladies in her day “swooned” over him.

  “Ah!” Marymount exclaimed, leaning back in his chair and tapping his fingers against his temples. “Excellent film. That Claudette Colbert—what a charmer.” Tinsley nodded enthusiastically. “Exactly. So, as I was talking to Mrs. Feingold, she mentioned the fact that the library occasionally holds outdoor screenings, and they have all the equipment for it and would be willing to lend it to the Cinephiles.” Marymount’s face was becoming decidedly darker as she was talking, almost comically so, as if he had suddenly sucked on a lemon.

  Tinsley plowed on regardless. “And so . . . I was hoping to get permission for a special off-campus Cinephiles event. Mrs. Feingold also offered up the use of her old barn in town, as she says it would be perfect for screening the film on its side wall.” That part was the fairly egregious lie—poor Mrs. Feingold probably would have swooned herself if she’d known how she was being implicated in this farce, yet Tinsley couldn’t very well tell Marymount that the barn belonged to the liquor store guy.

  Dean Marymount shook his head slowly and resolutely. “I’m afraid it is completely out of the question to grant permission for something like this.” He ran his hand through his wispy, colorless hair and coughed. “The legal ramifications alone . . .” He was shaking his head faster now, like it was just such a phenomenally stupid idea he couldn’t even believe Tinsley had bothered him with it. “But especially in light of all the trouble that has gone on here in the last few weeks.” He looked sternly at her over the rims of his glasses. “It’s simply not possible.” “I understand your reservations, sir,” Tinsley answered politely, sitting forward in her chair and lowering her eyes humbly. Her knees trembled a little at what she was about to say, but she kept her voice steady. She’d been excited about this meeting all of yesterday, for this precise moment. After she said it, there would be no turning back. Marymount would hate her forever, if he didn’t already. But was it fair that she and Callie should be punished for getting caught that weekend in Boston, drunk and half naked, and yet he, who was arguably the worst offender, cheating on his wife with Pardee, should go completely unscathed? Tinsley had been forced to move into a room with pain-in-the-ass Brett, and yet she had kept Mary-mount’s secret. She was certainly entitled to some, ahem, fringe benefits of being his secret sharer.

  And with that attitude, she plunged forward. “I know the school’s policy against off-campus activities, but I can assure you that this would be nothing like the trip to Boston.” She paused, staring at the toes of her boots as if she were completely contrite and not, in fact, blackmailing him. “Something like that would never happen again. . . . I guess everyone just got a little crazy that weekend and wasn’t thinking about the ramifications of their actions.” There. She’d said it. Tinsley had thought and thought about the best way to say it, and had finally decided on veiling it enough so that Marymount would not be too humiliated or offended that he immediately expelled her. If she was subtle enough, she could give him an out—in his heart of hearts, he knew what she was saying, and she was allowing him to just play along with it and not so much think about it as actually being blackmailed. By one of his students. The silence lingered in the air, the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner, and the pounding of her heart were the only sounds her ears picked up. Maybe he was just going to explode—and expel her? She would actually be kind of impressed if he did.

  After a sufficiently awkward silence, Marymount cleared his throat, and Tinsley looked up eagerly, her face the picture of innocence. Think Bambi, she told herself. Snow White.I have done nothing wrong. Let him see it. She felt his eyes searching her face for something, but they didn’t seem to find it. Finally, he sighed heavily. “And when were you hoping to have this event?” Tinsley’s heart leapt with joy. “This Friday—tomorrow, that is—would be perfect. I know it’s short notice, but the weather is supposed to be terrific, and it just seems like a wonderful chance for this to happen before autumn really starts, you know?” Marymount took another deep breath and squeezed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger. Tinsley pretended not to notice what was going on with him and kept a pleasantly surprised and grateful expression on her face, squelching her triumphant elation. Always be a gracious winner. “I just want you to know, Ms. Carmichael”—Marymount’s glance at the framed picture on his desk did not escape Tinsley’s watchful eye—“that I am going to have to hold you fully responsible for anything that goes wrong.” She nodded gravely, already thinking about making out with Julian in the barn. “Nothing will go wrong, sir, but I am willing to be responsible for anything that may.” “And also,” he continued, his voice unwavering, his eyes meeting Tinsley’s directly for the first time in several minutes, “this is going to be the last time something like this occurs. Understood?” “Perfectly.” She nodded, even though everyone knows that the first time, for anything, is rarely the last.

  To:Undisclosed recipients

  From:TinsleyCarmichael@waverly.edu

  Date:Thursday, October 10, 12:38 P.M.

  Subject: It Happened One Night—i.e., tomorrow

  Dear lucky invitees,

  You are cordially welcomed to join Cinephiles for a special off-campus party and screening of It Happened One Night at the Miller farm in Rhinecliff, tomorrow (Friday) night at 7 P.M.

  Dean Marymount has graciously allowed us to hold this special showing of the film in honor of his undying love of the great Claudette Colbert. Be sure to send him a thank-you e-mail on Saturday morning. That is, if you’re not still hammered.

  Transportation: I trust you are all inventive enough to work that out on your own.

  Au revoir, mes enfants,

  Tinsley

  From:JulianMcCafferty@waverly.edu

  To:JennyHumphrey@waverly.edu

  Date:Thursday, October 10, 12:40 P.M.

  Subject: Re: Be a model citizen . . .

  J,

  I’m still down to help out with your project. I’ll be there at 6:30.

  So you like the T-shirts, huh? I’ll try to surprise you. In the words of Right Said Fred, I’m too sexy for my shirt. . . .

  Just kidding—I promise I’ll come fully clothed. See you later.

  —(the other) J

  22

  A WAVERLY OWL DOES NOT OVERTHINK MATTERS OF THE HEART. EXCEPT WHEN SHE DOES.

  Despite the soothing whir of the cappuccino machine and the Dar Williams music playing at CoffeeRoasters, the tiny coffee shop in downtown Rhinecliff, on day afternoon, Brett’s whole body was atwitter. Across from her, Jenny was bent over her textbook, happily highlighting away. The people who hung out at CoffeeRoasters were of the soy-milk-ordering, organic-pumpkin-muffin-eating variety, and although Brett was not crunchy by any stretch of the imagination, she kind of liked being around people who were.

  But even with the study-inducing vibe—not to mention caffeine—all she could think about was what had happened last night with Kara. The kiss. Brett had never kissed a girl before, not seriously, but she’d never been a prude, either, so she just hadn’t thought about it one way or another. She could think of plenty of times when at parties, drunken girls tended to get all huggy and kissy, but she’d always thought that was mainly for the benefit of the horny boys watching. Kissing Kara was different. First of all
, no one was watching, and second of all, they did it because they wanted to, and not because they were drunk.

  If Brett had been worried that things would be awkward between her and Kara after their little make-out session, she needn’t have wasted her energy. When Brett had run into Kara coming out of the bathroom this morning, a lock of wet hair clinging to her cheek, the two of them had instantly grinned at each other—the shy, knowing grin that exists only between two people who share a very exciting secret. And nothing was really different at lunch either. They chatted as they would have before, except everything was a little more charged, each of them knowing what the other was thinking about, and no one else in the world having a clue. It was definitely exciting. Maybe they stood a little closer to each other, but not enough that anyone else would notice.

  Brett kept glancing up at Jenny, sitting across the tiny, slightly sticky table from her, her yellow highlighter poised over her biology textbook, ready to attack. She had to keep biting her cheek to prevent herself from spilling her guts to Jenny right now. But . . . Jenny had kept her secret about Dalton, after all. She could certainly be trusted. And Brett really felt like if she didn’t tell someone about this, she might spontaneously combust.

  Jenny looked up questioningly from her book before Brett could think of another reason not to spill. Her chocolate brown eyes were just so warm and friendly, and the freckles sprinkled across her slightly upturned nose just so reassuring and nonjudgmental, Brett couldn’t fight it any more. She flipped her book down on the table and leaned forward conspiratorially. “Have you ever kissed a girl?” she asked in a low voice.

  “What?” Jenny absently tapped her highlighter against her cheek, apparently forgetting the top was off, leaving a tiny yellow splotch near the corner of her mouth. She looked a little bewildered. “I don’t know. You mean, like . . . seriously? Or like you and Kara at the meeting the other night?” “Well . . .” Brett glanced around them, suddenly feeling paranoid. Was that guy from her calc class over there eavesdropping? No, he had tiny white earphones stuck in his ears. “The thing is, we sort of did it again.” Brett twisted the gold chain of her pendant necklace around her index finger. “Last night.” “Wait, what?” Jenny looked like she’d suddenly been hit with a bucket of ice-cold water. “You mean, like, made out?” Her voice squealed a little on the last two words.

  “Shhhh!” Brett pressed her finger to her lips. She didn’t want to shock the two older women to her left. Although in their long, shapeless patterned dresses, they could be lesbians themselves. But wait—you couldn’t tell a person’s sexuality just by looking at them, she reminded herself. That was exactly what she didn’t want other people to be doing to her. She put her elbows on the table, forgetting that the delicate silk fabric of her Anna Sui peasant blouse would probably stick to the leftover coffee goo. “I don’t know. Sort of. I mean . . . I really have no idea what it was.” “Ohmigod.” Jenny made a steeple with her fingers and tapped them rapidly against each other. “That is so crazy. What was it like?” Brett felt a rush of warmth for Jenny. She had responded totally perfectly—surprised and curious, of course, but not shocked or horrified. Brett never would have been able to tell something like this to Tinsley—even back in the day, when they were allegedly friends—without Tinsley making a snide comment about Brett needing to buy a pair of butch Birkenstocks or something like that. “It was . . . nice,” she admitted, shrugging her shoulders. “But I’m just so confused, you know?” “I can imagine.” Jenny took a sip from her navy blue coffee mug with the words MIKE’S AUTOMOTIVE on the side. The CoffeeRoasters owners allegedly bought their mismatched dishes and mugs at yard sales. The idea was sort of charming, actually. “So . . . do you, like, want to do it again?” Brett’s face flushed. “Kind of.” Meaning, yeah. She paused, eyeing Jenny’s face. “Do you think that’s weird?” “I doubt you’re the first person in the world to kiss a girl and like it.” Jenny giggled. The cappuccino machine whirred to life over Brett’s shoulder, hissing loudly. “I mean, girls are beautiful. Why wouldn’t you want to kiss them? Girls always smell nice, and boys can be totally grody sometimes.” Then her face turned a little more serious. “And Kara is awesome. She’s cute and sweet and fun to be around.”

  Brett felt herself start to blush. Was she really thinking about Kara like that? Well, she guessed so. Even though she’d been a little embarrassed to start the conversation, she had to admit it felt good to get it all off her chest. As confused as she was, she was excited, too, and it was nice to get to talk about it with Jenny. “So, I must be bi, then, right?” Brett continued, lowering her voice. “Or is this just some sort of reaction to getting screwed over one too many times by a jackass guy?” Jenny swallowed a gulp of coffee. She peered over her mug thoughtfully. “I don’t know. You’ve had a few big, I don’t know, crashes lately.” She traced her thumb along the rim of her cup before tearing open another packet of Splenda and emptying it into her drink. “But maybe it’s a good idea to not try and label things yet, you know? Labels don’t really mean anything.” Brett pressed her lips together in a slight pout. “But I like labels,” she admitted. “They make everything so much clearer.” Her sister Bree always told her she liked things to be wrapped up too neatly, and that part of the point of life was its messiness, its refusal to be wrapped up. Brett always took the advice with a grain of salt—it was probably Bree’s excuse for a messy room, or for breaking up with boys she’d dated without actually telling them. But maybe Jenny had a point?

  Jenny tilted her head sympathetically. “You don’t need to overanalyze everything. Just . . . follow your heart. And don’t worry—your secret’s safe with me.” She brought a dainty finger up to her mouth and pretended to zip her lips.

  Brett nodded slightly. Follow her heart. Right. How many times had she been told to do that, and where had it led her so far? To its being broken twice in the past month and a half. But still. Kara was about as different from Eric Dalton and Jeremiah Mortimer as you could get—personality-wise as well as anatomically. Not that she knew much about Kara’s anatomy. At least, not yet.

  23

  A LITTLE HEALTHY COMPETITION IS GOOD FOR AN OWL.

  “You suck, Buchanan,” Julian spat as he threw his tall body across the blond wood squash court in a feeble effort to return the perfectly placed drop shot Brandon had just unloaded. He crashed into the smudged white wall of the court as the ball dropped harmlessly in front of him.

  “How come I just kicked your ass then?” Brandon let his racquet clatter to the ground and stretched a sweaty hand out to where Julian was sprawled, panting, on the floor. Julian took it and stood up with a groan. On the other courts the thwacking sounds of squash balls hitting racquets, walls, and sweaty boys continued, but Brandon had just beaten Julian, the second-best player on the team, for the fourth game in the row. It was one of the best feelings in the world when everything about his game seemed to be working for him—when his reflexes were instantaneous, when his shots were all slapped at exactly the right angle, when he could almost tell where the ball was going to land even before his opponent hit it. He was just . . . on. Maybe it had something to do with the sexy text message he’d gotten from Elizabeth right before practice?

  “Yeah, whatever.” Julian shook Brandon’s hand good-naturedly before wiping his once-white wristband against his glistening forehead. “Just wait until next time.” “Do you think maybe your incredible losing streak to me may have something to do with that girly thing on your head?” Brandon gestured toward Julian’s ponytail. Was the Tom-Cruise-in-Magnolia look ever a good idea? Was any Tom Cruise look ever a good idea? Brandon pushed open the court door and started to head toward the water fountain.

  “Nice game, sexy.” Startled, Brandon looked up toward the three benches that served as bleachers (there were never that many spectators for squash games) and noticed Elizabeth sitting on the middle one, wearing a denim miniskirt that looked like she had cut it off herself, black tights, and a scoop-neck black leotard top
. The heels of her mid-calf Doc Martens were perched almost delicately on the edge of the bench below her. Her dirty blond hair spilled across her shoulders as she pulled her white earphones out of her silver-studded ears.

  Brandon hadn’t realized he was staring at her until Julian nudged him in the ribs. “Hey.” Brandon started over to her, still a little astonished at the sight of her somewhere as banal as the squash courts. It was almost as if he had conjured her up, since he’d been thinking about her nonstop since their make-out session in her room yesterday. She was just so hot, and sweet. And funny, and— “What are you doing here?” Brandon asked, suddenly self-conscious of the fact that he was practically dripping with sweat. He swiped his wristband across his face quickly.

  “Watching you wipe the floor with that poor kid.” Her brown eyes twinkled amusedly as Brandon slid toward her on the bleacher.

  He swelled with pride but was grateful he hadn’t noticed Elizabeth—and her sexy legs—sooner, as it probably would have distracted him. Callie had come to watch him play in one of the big tournaments once, and Brandon had been so self-conscious the entire time he’d gotten completely crushed by this kid from Deerfield whom he’d destroyed the last five times they’d played, much to the detriment of his masculine pride. Callie had tried to cheer him up afterward, telling him it hadn’t been so bad, but Brandon could detect the hint of disappointment in her pretty face—and he could almost hear her control-freak mother chiding, “Vernons do not date losers.” Callie had actually canceled their plans for that night, saying she’d forgotten that it was the season finale of America’s Next Top Model. He decided to take it as a good omen that his and Elizabeth’s relationship was starting off on the right foot.