Unforgettable

by Cecily von Ziegesar

  “Thanks. You’re looking pretty good yourself, you know.” “And I’m just sitting here.” Elizabeth winked at him. “So, uh, is your practice over? Can you hang out?” Before he could answer, Brian Atherton, a senior who called everyone on the team “dude” and who shaved his head in a vain attempt to disguise his premature balding, threw an arm around Brandon’s shoulders as if they were best friends instead of just reluctantly civil teammates. “Dude,” Atherton intoned, his mouth practically hanging open at the sight of Elizabeth, “this your girlfriend?” Brandon noticed suddenly that the courts were noticeably quieter, no longer ringing with the sounds of cursing boys or of racquets clattering against the walls. Brandon casually eased himself out from under Atherton’s weighty arm and replied without really thinking about it. “Yeah. This is Elizabeth.” He tilted his head toward Atherton. “This is Atherton.” Atherton propped one of his sneakers up on the lowest bench and pretended to stretch out his calf muscle. “So how come you’re with this kid?” he asked incredulously, his eyes greedily taking in her partly bare shoulders as he squeezed his water bottle into his mouth. Brandon had seen him stare that exact same way at a Big Mac after an away match once. Disgusting.

  Elizabeth stared straight back at Atherton, apparently unimpressed. She shrugged and smiled, the dimple beneath her lips deepening impishly. Brandon caught her eye and could tell something was wrong. He quickly shoved Atherton aside and swooped her out the door.

  “You okay?” Brandon asked, once the heavy doors of the squash complex clicked shut behind them. The cool air felt good on his hot skin as he stuffed his wristbands into the outer pocket of his black vinyl squash bag. “Sorry about Atherton. He’s kind of an ass.” He looked down and realized he was still wearing his court sneakers. They were technically not supposed to be worn outside the courts—the squash complex was a new, expensive addition to Waverly, and there were threatening signs posted everywhere.

  “Yeah.” Elizabeth touched her hair distractedly and tugged on her leather bomber jacket. She zipped it up, shutting off Brandon’s view of that insanely enticing collarbone. “Um, you’re really special to me. . . .” Uh-oh. He turned to face her. She hadn’t come all the way over to break up with him, had she? “But . . . just the word ‘girlfriend’ sort of made me cringe, you know?” She bit her lip.

  “Um, okay . . .” Brandon had no idea what was happening. He wasn’t even the one who had used the term “girlfriend”—but that was kind of what she was, wasn’t she? Except . . . now she was saying she didn’t want to be?

  Elizabeth placed a hand on his bare arm, and he stared down wordlessly at her pale pink nails as she squeezed him gently. She had no business touching him like that if she was breaking up with him.

  And yet, she didn’t move her hand away. In fact, she started stroking her thumb against his wrist, and Brandon had to try really hard not to get completely turned on. “So, what are you saying, exactly?” he asked, sort of awkwardly.

  “I’m just saying I need to be kind of, you know, open about these things.” Her brown eyes stared up at him through their thick, dark web of lashes. “I just hate to feel . . . trapped?” Her eyes searched his, looking for understanding.

  Wait, what? So, she wasn’t breaking up with him—she was just saying she wanted to um, study, with other people?

  “What do you think about that?” Elizabeth whispered, scooting a little closer toward him so that the honey-and-incense smell of her hair sent him reeling back to yesterday afternoon in her room.

  And suddenly, Brandon wasn’t exactly thinking.

  To:Women of Waverly; HeathFerro@waverly.edu

  From:KaraWhalen@waverly.edu

  Date:Thursday, October 10, 4:45 P.M.

  Subject: Women of Waverly meeting

  Ladies (and Heath),

  The second official WoW meeting will be held tonight at 7 P.M. The atrium is booked, so we can all meet in my room (Dumbarton 107) if you don’t mind cramming in!

  Thanks for making the first one such a success—spread the word about tonight, and don’t be afraid to bring your questions! Tonight’s topic is LOVE.

  Heath—you’re welcome to come, but, as it’ll be after visitation hours, don’t get caught.

  xo,

  Kara

  To:KaraWhalen@waverly.edu; Women of Waverly

  From:HeathFerro@waverly.edu

  Date:Thursday, October 10, 4:51 P.M.

  Subject: Re: Women of Waverly meeting

  Have no fear, my dears—I will come bearing gifts for my fellow girls!! xxx, H.F.

  To:Julian McCafferty@waverly.edu

  From:TinsleyCarmichael@waverly.edu

  Date:Thursday, October 10, 4:59 P.M.

  Subject: Signal

  Not sure what happened to you yesterday, but it’s your lucky day—I’m giving you a second chance. Don’t stand me up again or you’ll be sorry.

  Kisses!

  T

  25

  A WAVERLY OWL MUST GIVE A LITTLE TO GET A LITTLE.

  Brett dropped the last of the beanbags from the upstairs lounge area onto Kara’s dorm room floor and straightened, lightly massaging her shoulder with her hand. In preparation for the Women of Waverly meeting, they’d dragged a half-dozen of the lumpy things from the lounge and somehow squeezed them all into the now-tight space, so the room was a sea of huge, brightly colored vinyl balls. Kara flopped down into a dark blue beanbag chair. Brett had always hated the things—except now they seemed kind of, well, sexy. Hesitating only slightly, she sat down next to Kara, her body weight bobbling the two of them a bit, and making them giggle. Talking with Jenny this afternoon had made Brett feel more comfortable about the whole thing. Not that she’d been feeling uncomfortable, exactly, but still.

  “What are we going to talk about at the meeting tonight?”

  Brett asked, conscious of the fact that their arms were touching. She felt the filler in the beanbag shift a little, and she sank even closer to Kara so that their legs were touching too.

  Kara twisted her silver chain necklace so that the clasp ended up back where it belonged. Her nails were painted a pale pink, a color that made Brett think of her own Pinkie Swear Crazy Daisy, and chipped at the ends. She had on no other makeup, and she didn’t need it. She had tiny, pale freckles sprinkled across the tops of her cheeks, so faint you only noticed them when you were really close to her. Like Brett was now. “The theme is love, so maybe we could talk about different kinds of love?” Kara suggested, her eyebrows delicately arched.

  “Um . . .” But Brett couldn’t think about anything but kissing Kara again, and before saying anything else, she leaned in toward her. Kara obviously wasn’t shocked, and her lips moved instinctively against Brett’s, sending shivers down her spine. She tried not to compare kissing Kara to kissing Jeremiah, but she couldn’t help it—it was like she’d been eating apples all her life, and now she’d tried brussels sprouts after a lifetime of thinking she hated them, only to find that they were sweeter than sugar. Kara’s lips were just so soft. And she was an excellent kisser. Brett’s hand rose to touch Kara’s cheek.

  “Ta-da!!!”

  The girls pulled apart, surprised, and turned to find Heath Ferro standing in Kara’s doorway, in . . . drag. He had on a long, dirty blond wig and enormous brown-tinted Gucci sunglasses, which he pulled off his face the second he saw the two girls entwined. “Holy fucking shit!”

  Brett leapt to her feet first, her face on fire. “Close the door, asshole,” she hissed at him but then sprang toward it and closed it herself. “What the hell are you doing here?” Heath clasped his hands to his mouth. His eyes were all bugged out with excitement, and if the situation hadn’t been so serious, Brett probably would have laughed at the fact that he kind of did look like a girl in that wig—a pretty one, even. He wasn’t dressed like a girl, though, wearing a pair of beat-up khakis and a tight black T-shirt that clearly revealed his lack of breasts. But maybe at first glance, someone might take him for one. “Don’t let me interr
upt you, please. That was, like, the hottest thing I have ever seen!” “Heath, you cannot tell anyone about this.” Brett pressed her hands to her temples, meeting Kara’s equally panicked eyes across the room. “I am serious. You have to swear, okay?” Crazily, even in her freaked-out state Brett couldn’t help but notice how pretty Kara looked when she was scared.

  Heath tucked the sunglasses absentmindedly into his shirt collar, an elated smile still spread across his face. He looked like he had just walked into the Playboy Mansion. “I promise—really, I swear to everything I have ever loved—I won’t tell anyone about this. Ever.” He looked at the two girls earnestly and then fumbled through his backpack for something, at last pulling out . . . a digital camera. “As long as I can have one picture?” “What?” Brett pressed her lips together, annoyed. But as she looked at Heath’s eager, kid-in-a-candy-store face, she began to sense that he didn’t pose a real threat after all—at least, not as long as he was kept amused. Brett tapped the toe of her tan suede Campers against the polished wood floor.

  “No fucking way.” Kara shook her head at Heath from her seat on the beanbag, leaning back. She smoothed out her short black skirt, and Brett could feel Heath watching her intently, to see if she was looking at Kara’s legs. Boys.

  “Come on, one little picture. That’s all I’m asking, in exchange for keeping your secret.” Heath glanced back and forth between the girls, absentmindedly tugging the hair of his blond wig. “Puh-lease? You guys are so fucking hot together.” Brett finally caught Kara’s eyes and tried to send her a message with her own. Just follow my lead, she tried to say. “Well . . .” Brett rubbed her chin between her thumb and forefinger. “Maybe just one.” If that was all it took to keep Heath Ferro’s mouth shut, it really wasn’t a high price to pay.

  “Oh my God, I love you guys.” Heath giddily turned on his tiny silver Nokia, his hair hanging crookedly off his head, and Brett gave Kara a wink.

  Kara grinned and stood up, stretching her limbs. She strode over to where Brett was standing and touched her on the arm. “Ready?” she asked, her eyebrows raised. Are you sure? her eyes seemed to say.

  “Yup,” Brett giggled, pushing a loose strand of hair behind her left ear. And their faces moved toward each other slowly, as if they were in a movie, their lips meeting and opening softly against each other. It was kind of . . . sexy to have someone watch them. It wasn’t like before, when they were alone, but it was exciting in a different way, almost like letting someone else in on their secret had made it that much more electrifying. She pulled away reluctantly.

  “How was that?” Brett turned to Heath, her hand perched defiantly on her hip.

  He ran his hand across his scalp, forgetting it wasn’t his own. The wig slid to the left, so that the dirty blond hair was perched crookedly on his head. “Is this heaven? Because . . . someone up there really loves me.” He stared at the tiny screen on his camera and clicked through the pictures.

  “Let me see how they turned out.” Kara grabbed the camera from his hands and held it out so Brett could see. Heath had taken about ten pictures of them in the five seconds they had been kissing, and Brett watched images of herself and Kara flick up on the tiny screen. She had to admit, they were kind of hot together. After scrolling through them all once, Kara quickly started to delete them.

  “Hey, what are you doing?” Heath grabbed for his camera. “You said I could have one!” He lunged after Kara, but Brett held him back until she could finish. Kara hopped onto her bed and stood there, deleting all the saved photos. “No!” he wailed, actually kind of sounding like a girl. Which was sort of fitting, considering that he looked like one.

  Brett patted Heath’s back. “Listen. How about this? Every day that you keep this a secret, we’ll take a sexy photo together and e-mail it to you. Okay?” She glanced at Kara, who was still standing on top of her bed, barefoot in her tights.

  “So for now,” Kara continued, bouncing on her toes, framed by a black-and-white poster of a young Bob Dylan above her bed, “the camera is ours.” “If you send me secret sexy pictures, just for myself”— Heath gulped, as if breathless at the thought —“I promise I will take your secret to my grave.” He put a hand over his heart.

  “Deal.” Brett’s heart-shaped lips curled into a grin, and she met Kara’s eyes once again. “You understand, of course,” she lowered her voice to her most threatening register possible, “that if this gets out—we’ll have to kill you.” “Oh, I promise,” Heath said, pressing his hands together as if he were praying. “I really, really promise. I swear on all that is holy.” His normally lazy-looking green eyes were flashing with—what? Was that sincerity?

  Or just pure lust?

  26

  A WAVERLY OWL KNOWS THAT SOMETIMES HARD WORK IS THE BEST MEDICINE.

  Jenny set down her art supplies on a table in the center of the studio, and the heavy box of pastels clanged against the metal, resounding in the enormous, totally empty space. The building was open most evenings for anyone who needed more time at the sketching tables, but most students didn’t take advantage of it.

  She turned on Mrs. Silver’s boom box to keep her company. It was tuned to some oldies station, but Jenny left it there—it kind of made her think of her dad, and how every morning he’d shuffle around the kitchen in his slippers, making coffee to one of the three Beatles CDs he kept in regular rotation on the portable CD player Jenny and Dan had bought him for Christmas. “Oldies for the oldie,” he liked to say.

  As she came back to her desk and began to arrange her art supplies into neat categories, Jenny couldn’t help but smile.

  She loved the art building when no one else was around. The huge plate glass windows looked out on the brightly colored leaves, tinges of which were still visible even though the sun was just setting, and the reflections of the track lights twinkled back at her. The windows reminded her a little of the city, of walking down Columbus Avenue at night and looking into the enormous shop windows, the people walking on the street reflected inside them.

  Jenny looked up as the studio door clattered open and Julian stepped inside, chewing on an apple. She could see the dimple next to his mouth. She grinned from across the giant room.

  “Hey there.” Her voice echoed across the empty studio, carrying over the sound of an old Rolling Stones song. She waved Julian over toward where she was setting out her supplies: a giant block of watercolor paper, pastels, charcoals, watercolors, even a few tubes of paint. She’d come overprepared because she wasn’t sure what medium she wanted to use, exactly. She was sort of waiting for . . . inspiration. “You made it,” she added with a smile.

  Julian took another chomp of his green apple and took in the high, sloping ceilings and the huge dramatic windows appreciatively. Then his eyes trailed down to her and his golden brown eyes widened. “Hey, am I dressed okay for this? I know you love the T-shirts, but . . .” His shaggy brownish-blondish hair was loose and he was wearing a long-sleeve button down beneath a tight-fitting Raconteurs concert T-shirt and a pair of black cuffed dress pants. “I mean, you look really nice. Like someone should be drawing you,” he added.

  Jenny willed herself not to blush at the compliment. She had been surprisingly nervous getting ready but had finally decided on her chocolate brown Free People puff-sleeve mock turtleneck made of something super-soft that looked silky in the light, and a pair of dark fitted jeans from the Gap that she’d had forever. Definitely nothing fancy, but it was totally sweet of Julian to tell her she looked nice. She had dusted her eyelids with a little Bare Escentuals Eye Glimmer in Fire Light. “Um, thanks. But yeah—you’re dressed fine,” she finally answered, hoping she hadn’t blushed in spite of herself.

  “Cool.” Julian hopped up onto the little mini-stage in the middle of the studio, where the models posed during class. His heavy hiking boots clomped loudly against the wooden platform, and with the extra height he towered over Jenny—even more than usual. “Is this where you want me?” he asked with a grin.


  “Maybe . . .” Jenny rubbed her thumb against her chin, as she always did when she was trying to picture her composition. Julian was so tall and gangly—she felt like his portrait should somehow capture that. “Um, what about the chair?” She motioned over to the worn-out velvet armchair that had randomly appeared in the art studio the other day. The theater department had donated it to the art department, and Mrs. Silver had immediately commandeered it for the models to pose on, in her continual search for furniture that was “inspiring.” It was kind of saggy, and the fabric was worn through to bare canvas at some points, but enough of the royal-blue-striped velvet covered the chair to make it seem somehow regal and exciting, like their own personal throne. Julian, King of the . . . what? Very tall, very cute people? Julian sank into the chair, which suddenly looked small, his knees practically coming up to his chest. Jenny couldn’t help giggling. He coughed and stretched out, yawning, extending his long legs and sinking back into the chair. “I feel like this chair is eating me alive.” “Are you comfortable?” Jenny asked, her pencil already flying across her paper. “That’s a great pose—it really captures how tall you are.” Julian shifted a little in the chair. He looked like a basket-ball player trying to get comfortable in a piece of dollhouse furniture. “S’all right. As long as I don’t have to stay here forever.” “I’ll work fast,” Jenny promised—although she was thinking about how nice it felt to be here with Julian, and she kind of wished she didn’t ever have to leave and go back out into reality. The art studio had to be her favorite building on campus, and Julian took her mind off Easy. And right now, the last thing in the world she wanted to think about was Easy Walsh, and how he was the last guy whose portrait she’d drawn. And how he’d drawn her, in the woods. Maybe drawing someone was a relationship death sentence, like poking a voodoo doll with pins. Her pencil hovered midstroke over the thick white paper. Was she totally imagining the chemistry she felt with Julian? She couldn’t help remembering the way she’d been certain— completely, never-been-more-sure-of-anything-in-her-life certain—that there was something between her and Easy, something real. And then, almost as quickly as it had started, it fizzled out. As sad as she was about losing Easy, she was sadder about the fact that she had so completely misjudged things. “Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds, or bends with the remover to remove.” Or so said Shakespeare, who seemed to know a thing or two about it. Part of her had thought she’d crumble if she and Easy broke up—yet here she was, days later, already fantasizing about being stranded on a tropical island with someone else.