“Just be careful,” Brandon advised, his golden brown eyes suddenly serious. Usually Jenny thought it was unfair when such gorgeous lashes were wasted on a boy, but they made Brandon look so elegant. He reminded her of a silent movie star with his smooth jaw, expressive eyes, and strategically disheveled hair. And he was nice. Callie didn’t know how lucky she was to have a guy like him crazy about her.
“I came from a school that was filled with girls like Tinsley.” Jenny would never forget the Blair Waldorfs she had grown up half fearing, half longing to be, girls who made you feel like you didn’t exist until they happened to need something from you. They’d assume you’d be willing to drop everything for them, which, of course, you would. But the truly dangerous girls were the Serena van der Woodsens of the world because they were so perfectly beautiful and nice, they were almost inhuman. Tinsley was somewhere in between—she had all the apparent perfections of a Serena, yet her mind was always scheming like a Blair, always wanting more. “I can handle her.” But Jenny was suddenly completely unsure of herself. She’d never be a Blair or a Serena or a Tinsley, only a Jenny. Would she always be a wannabe?
“Well, there’s something freaky about Tinsley—she makes you want to be her friend, but you can’t trust her. Ever.”
He was so fervent, Jenny wondered if something had happened between them. “All right. I’ll sleep with one eye open.”
Brandon chuckled. “That’s not a bad idea.”
16
A WAVERLY OWL NEVER ABANDONS HER COMMITMENTS. UNLESS SHE HAS A REALLY, REALLY GOOD REASON.
Dear Mr. Dalton, I’m afraid I will no longer be able to assist you with your office tasks. I will, of course, continue my work on the Disciplinary Committee as class prefect, as I am serious about my commitment to that position. Thank you for understanding. Brett looked at the note, written in her backwards-slanting cursive on one of her lime green Crane’s monogrammed correspondence cards. Was it too personal to use one of them? Maybe she should just email him. But no, it felt like a more suitable ending to their ill-fated affair to write the note on her expensive stationery, with the BLM engraved in the corner. Maybe, she thought wistfully, it would make him wonder what her middle name was. Also, it made her feel like a heroine from a Jane Austen novel, a wounded female so elegant that she managed to write such a polite letter to the man who had scorned her.
Not that she was angry. She just felt deflated and confused. If Eric hadn’t wanted anything to happen between them, he’d had plenty of opportunities to stop things. But he’d encouraged her, hadn’t he? Brett hated that she felt so defensive about it, wondering if she had only imagined there was ever anything between them.
No, that wasn’t right, Brett answered herself as she crossed campus to Stansfield Hall, unlocked but generally silent on weekends. She thought back to the first time she’d met Eric Dalton, thinking at first that he was a student. She was unable to shake the feeling that from the very beginning, while he’d been kind of sheepish about his attraction to her, he still never tried to hide it. And it wasn’t just a casual flirtation—he invited her out to dinner, took her in his plane to his home in Newport, and had drinks waiting for her on his sailboat. He’d given her wine, lit candles for her, sent cars to pick her up and take her back to campus, invited her to spend the night with him, taken her clothes off. … These were not actions of a man afraid of being inappropriate.
She climbed the three flights of marble stairs to his office, her heels echoing loudly, and then paused when she heard a shuffling noise inside and music playing softly. Silently she placed her note directly in front of the door and tiptoed back down the long hallway.
An hour later the sun was getting lower in the afternoon sky and Brett was still aimlessly wandering around campus. It was a glorious Indian summer afternoon, and she was too depressed to go indoors and spend her Saturday in the library alone, without even a cute boy to IM.
Brett wiped her nose pathetically on the back of her hand. She hadn’t spoken to Jeremiah for a week now, not since Black Saturday, when he caught her coming off Dalton’s sailboat at the docks. Suddenly she felt a tug of longing in her stomach, remembering how nice it had been to just hang out with Jeremiah and smoke Parliaments and rag on their families together. She found herself missing his Boston accent that just last week she’d found so annoying.
Without thinking about what she was doing, Brett’s Jimmy Choo slides led her along the path past the northern end of Waverly’s campus toward the old cemetery. Callie thought she was morbid to like hanging out there, but it was a secluded space, the most modern gravestone dating from the late 1800s, and she and Jeremiah had always found it peaceful and romantic beneath the canopy of forest, set back from the main road. It was a long walk, past the Waverly gatehouse. She remembered how excited she’d been the night Dalton’s car had come to pick her up. She shook her head, trying to forget how stupid and childish she’d been, and concentrated instead on the gorgeous, sunny afternoon.
But when she stepped through the massive rusted iron gate, she noticed a familiar athletic body leaning against the moss-covered stone wall. Her breath caught in her throat. Jeremiah. Whoa. Had she conjured him up somehow?
Jeremiah glanced up at the sound of someone approaching and did a double take when he saw Brett. She froze for a second, not sure if she should approach him, but then a welcoming smile broke across his lips. “Hey,” he said, happily looking her up and down.
Brett flipped her Oliver Peoples gold-mirrored sunglasses on top of her head and tried not to blush. She stopped awkwardly several feet from Jeremiah, not sure if she should give him a hug or what. “Hey,” she replied. “I thought you’d have a game today.”
“Nah, it was last night. We killed ’em. Coach took me out in the fourth.” Jeremiah blushed modestly and hoisted himself onto the stone wall behind him. “It’s good to see you again.”
“You too,” she admitted shyly.
“How’ve you been?” His wide-set blue eyes were bright and happy-looking.
Brett found herself slightly distracted by Jeremiah’s familiar fresh-from-the-showers smell. She kicked at a tuft of grass and then heaved herself up on the stone wall next to him, her shoes dangling several feet above the ground. “Been better.” She shrugged and peeked at him through a curtain of her red hair, noticing his concerned frown. “You don’t want to hear about it.”
“How do you know if you don’t give me the chance?” He leaned back on his elbows, his floppy auburn hair falling away from his face. “I’m a good listener.” Jeremiah was a fantastic listener, patient and always interested in whatever she had to say. It would be totally bizarre to talk to him about the whole Eric Dalton situation, and totally selfish. But Jeremiah was the kindest, most straightforward person she’d ever met—if he didn’t want to know, he wouldn’t be asking.
Brett took a deep breath and stared at one of the crumbling gravestones in front of them. “I just … well, I haven’t been myself at all lately, you know?” She peeked through her lashes at him. “I was sort of swept away by something. I, uh, I don’t know how much you know. …” Brett trailed off, feeling guilty and disgusted with herself.
“Well, I think I know the basics.” He flashed her an encouraging smile. “Word travels fast. The story is, you got swept off your feet by the notorious, charming Mr. Dalton.” Jeremiah cleared his throat. “More than that—you’d have to tell me.”
“Well, I guess that’s an adequate synopsis.” Brett laughed dryly. “It’s pretty stupid, really. … We just, sort of, started spending a lot of time together, and I guess I was just kind of convinced that he, you know, liked me.” Brett sighed and pulled her feet up on top of the stone wall. “Until I got an IM from him the other day that sort of said, ‘It’s been nice, but it’s over.’” She shrugged again. “And that was it.”
Jeremiah exhaled a long breath, as if he had been holding it the whole time Brett was talking. “Well, do you want to hear my professional opinion?”
&
nbsp; Brett giggled. She was surprised how good it felt to share what had happened with someone. Or maybe it was just Jeremiah? “Yes, please.”
“The way I see it, you didn’t imagine anything. Obviously Dalton liked you—why wouldn’t he? You’re Ms. Brett Lenore Messerschmidt—the smartest, hottest, most talented redhead to come through Waverly since Rita Hayworth. Of course he couldn’t resist.” Jeremiah smiled, and though his tone was friendly, Brett thought she detected a note of bitterness. “Until suddenly—maybe he realized he was breaking the law and violating every single teacherly ethic imaginable—he remembered that, wait a second, you’re sixteen. He’s an adult. He should have known better.”
Suddenly Brett was reminded of the time Jeremiah had taken her to Fenway Park to see the Red Sox play. His parents had season tickets for seats that were practically on top of the field. They were so close Brett thought she could smell the players’ sweat—gross, but also kind of sexy. She was busy staring at the super-hot center fielder when a foul ball was sent careening toward her head—she didn’t even notice it until Jeremiah reached in front of her and caught it with his bare hand the second before it smacked her in the face. Everyone around them started congratulating Jeremiah on his nice catch, but he ignored them—he just wanted to make sure Brett was okay.
And now, after everything, he was still every bit as sweet.
“Rita Hayworth went to Waverly?”
“No,” Jeremiah said. “But that’s the only part that isn’t true.”
Brett felt a goofy grin spread across her face, and she pretended to pry a pebble out of her shoe. She couldn’t believe how much better she felt after talking to Jeremiah for only ten minutes.
“So, did you, uh, you know …” Jeremiah started in a low voice, trailing off at the end.
“Have sex with him? No!” Brett definitely detected relief on his face when she said that. God, what if she had? Instead of regretting not sleeping with Eric, Brett suddenly felt relief wash over her whole body. What a horrible mistake it would have been. Even in the warm afternoon, she shivered.
An hour later, they were lying on their backs on top of the stone wall, staring at the swatches of blue sky between the yellowing leaves and still talking. Brett abruptly sat up to check her watch. “I’ve gotta get back for the silly Café Society meeting,” she said wistfully. “But thanks for listening to me blab about, you know, everything. It’s been … nice. To talk to you again. Even about this.” Brett blinked her catlike eyes at Jeremiah. She hoped he knew how sorry she was for hurting him, but she wasn’t about to bring it up, not when they’d had such a nice afternoon.
“Hey, about your society? I was talking to Teague Williams at a scrimmage last week, and he mentioned a trip to Boston. …” Jeremiah kicked his heels against the stone wall. “I was thinking I’d go if that’s okay with you.”
She smiled. “I’d like that.”
“Okay, good. Now … are you sure you don’t want me to punch his lights out?” Jeremiah hopped off the wall and swung a right hook at the air. “Get a couple of the offensive linemen to go over to his house and scare him?” he joked.
“Thanks.” Brett laughed. “But that’s all right.” She slid down off the wall, landing in front of Jeremiah and stumbling a little before he put out his hand to steady her. “Thanks,” she whispered again, and before he could say anything, she wrapped her arms around him and buried her head in his chest, giving him a quick hug. His body stiffened in surprise, and he patted her back gently before pulling away.
“Don’t ever feel bad when things don’t work out between you and an asshole like that,” he said softly. “It just means that you’re too good for him.”
“I think you might be missing your calling as a cheerleader,” Brett said, realizing that the whole time they’d been hugging, she’d been holding her breath. “I’ll see you soon, okay?”
Jeremiah smiled, but she couldn’t read what he was thinking. “All right. Have fun tonight.” He turned quickly and walked away, and as Brett made her way back to Dumbarton to get ready for the first secret society meeting, she rubbed her arms. She had goose bumps, and she was more confused now than she had been when she’d set out that afternoon. But somehow it was a much, much more pleasant confusion.
AlanStGirard: Want a beer before dinner? Crater?
HeathFerro: Word.
AlanStGirard: Buchanan coming?
HeathFerro: Nah, he’s in one of his moods. You know, listening to Natalie Merchant all day and pouting.
AlanStGirard: He’d better be over it by the Boston trip. He wouldn’t miss out on that, would he?
HeathFerro: U kidding? Leave Callie alone in the clutches of us animals? Not bloody likely!
17
A PROPER OWL DOES NOT ATTEMPT TO SNAG THE PIZZA GUY.
Jenny walked up the Dumbarton steps, hoping to catch her roommates getting ready for the Café Society meeting. She loved the idea of the four of them getting dressed together. Maybe Tinsley would loan Jenny a top—well, maybe not a top because of the discrepancy in their bust sizes—or a belt or something, saying, “This would look great on you.” Jenny had always wanted a sister. Sharing a room with three other girls was the next-best thing. But when she pushed open the door of Dumbarton 303 expectantly, she found it empty, with only a trace of Tinsley’s Dior J’adore lingering in the air.
Jenny sighed and started to flip through her closet hesitantly, not wanting to over- or under-dress since Tinsley had made a point of mentioning “appropriate dress required” in her email. She pulled her dressiest trousers from their hanger, her royal blue silk and cotton-blend Philosophy di Alberta Ferretti ones that had cost her five months’ allowance at the Barneys Warehouse Sale. They were the kind of pants that managed to look sexy and sophisticated and hide all of the wearer’s flaws. No wonder rich people always looked so beautiful. They could afford to buy clothes this well made. Jenny tried pulling on a white satin Calvin Klein baby doll camisole that she’d bought without trying it on from the sale rack at Saks, but it somehow made her look pregnant and slutty at the same time. She crumpled it up and threw it in the corner. A few other tops piled up in the corner before she settled on a sequined lace-trim silk tank in silver and her navy, sleek-fitting Ben Sherman blazer.
“Someone looks fabulous!” Brett cried as she barreled through the door breathlessly and immediately undressed. Brett glanced at her closet for half a second before grabbing a pair of Stuart Weitzman peep-toe pumps in dark silver satin with a vintage jeweled brooch on top. Jenny had seen them in InStyle and was shocked when Brett handed them to her, saying, “You’re a six, right? These would look great on you.”
“How’d you know I was a six?”
Brett looked sheepish. “Well, I tried on those burgundy suede boots under your bed the other day. I’m a six and a half, and I had to see if they fit.”
Jenny laughed, pulling Brett’s shoes onto her delicate feet. “You can borrow them anytime. If they’re not too uncomfortable.” She turned around to find Brett fully dressed, made up, hair freshly brushed, boots on, dabbing one of her mini Chanel perfume bottle to her wrists.
“Wow, you’re fast,” Jenny remarked in total awe.
When they entered Ritoli’s, the other girls were already there, sitting around one of the large circular tables in the corner. Callie, Benny, Verena, and Tinsley all wore dresses that looked like they’d come directly from the runway.
“Take your seats, my ladies,” Tinsley greeted them grandly, taking a sip of some unidentifiable fizzy pink stuff from a Nalgene bottle on the table. “We’re still waiting for Sage and—who else?”
“Celine,” Callie answered promptly, clearly the second in command.
“There they are.” Verena waved her ring-clad fingers at Sage and Celine, who had just stepped through the door. Brett sat down next to her, and Jenny sat down in the empty seat beside Alison Quentin, the pretty Korean girl in her art class.
“Hi, everyone.” Jenny felt like the new girl again, bu
t she was grateful to be included in a gathering of these pretty, popular girls. She pulled out one of the plastic sports bottles that she and Brett had filled with cheap merlot and set it down on the table.
“What have you got there?” Alison burped. “Benny and I have been drinking vodka lemonades since three.” She nodded wistfully at her almost-empty Gatorade bottle.
“Really bad wine. You’re welcome to it if you run out,” Jenny offered as Celine Colista, in a burgundy Vera Wang strapless jersey dress and silver Manolo stilettos, strutted over to the table. Her black hair was freshly blown out.
“Damn,” remarked Benny. “Daddy bought someone a new dress.” Celine’s father was an A-list director and had just made a film starring Kate Hudson and Mark Ruffalo, as Celine often reminded people.
“Nah,” Celine said, twirling around a little to show off how perfectly the color complemented her olive skin. “He got it from wardrobe. Kate wears it in the film.” She rested her hands on her tiny waist. “Of course, I had to have it taken in.” Jenny met Brett’s eyes, and they both stifled giggles.
“Are you guys all going to a party or something?” A gorgeous guy had come up to their table without anyone noticing, but now that he stood two feet away, all the girls were acutely aware of his presence. Jenny had seen him once before, when she stopped in for a slice one day after skipping lunch, but he looked even cuter than he had that day, wearing a simple black T-shirt and a pair of slightly baggy Abercrombie & Fitch drawstring khakis.
“This is the party, Angelo,” Callie said coyly, her fingers tracing the edge of the leather menu. Jenny was a little surprised to hear how familiar Callie’s tone was—did she know him?
“Well, I’m glad I’m working tonight, then.” Angelo pulled a small pad of paper from the waistband of his pants.
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