Tinsley suffered no pangs of guilt whatsoever. Picking up her fellow students’ trash for a month in the freezing cold because of Isla’s lies completely canceled out any wrongdoing she might commit today, she thought as she marched through the kitchen and headed directly across the first floor toward their real destination: Isla’s ground-floor bedroom. It was time to snoop.
She pushed open the heavy wood door and entered Isla’s room. The first time she’d been in there, she’d thought it was weird that a girl who seemed so badass—so, frankly, like herself—would live in a bedroom with a big, girly four-poster bed, complete with tons of lace and Pepto-Bismol pink walls. Now, however, she narrowed her eyes and thought that maybe, just maybe, the discrepancy was a clue she should have heeded way back when—before she’d basically allowed Isla to take her down so easily.
“My God,” Brett said, walking through the door behind Tinsley and stopping dead in her tracks. “Which American Girl doll threw up in here?”
“I was thinking more like Disney Channel,” Tinsley said, her hands on her hips as she slowly turned a circle in the center of the room. Her gaze drifted over the Waverly calendar on the wall to the antique dresser to Isla’s stack of schoolbooks on the rolltop desk. “Because I definitely get a little bit of a Hannah Montana vibe.”
“Explain to me how someone who channels Angelina Jolie while getting herself breakfast in the school cafeteria can sleep well in this room,” Brett said, sounding personally affronted. She stared at the bed. “Is that Laura Ashley?”
“That,” Tinsley said, “is exactly what we’re here to find out.”
Brett pulled out her phone and checked the time while Tinsley unzipped her loden green Prada puffer jacket and tossed it carelessly onto the bed.
“I confirmed that Isaac is in class for the next hour,” Brett said. “There’s no chance he’ll show up here until after that.”
“And I checked Isla’s schedule online,” Tinsley said. “She has back-to-back classes all afternoon.” She smiled serenely when Brett looked at her, a question in her eyes. “People who plan to backstab other people should take care to change their e-mail passwords before they decide to throw down. That’s all I’m going to say.”
“Excellent,” Brett said, her lips twitching into a smile.
They got down to business. Brett took on the bed area, reaching under the pillows and deep into the crevice between the mattress and box spring, searching for anything incriminating. Instead, she found what you could reasonably expect to find in any dorm room on the Waverly campus: an almost-empty bottle of Absolut Citron and a half-smoked joint. Nothing that would help to incriminate Isla in any grand sense. Though Brett wasn’t above getting Isla in regular old trouble with her parents, if that was all they came up with. She turned her attention to the bedside table, opening the drawers and paging through Isla’s worn copy of The Bell Jar.
“Apparently, she might be depressed,” Brett said with a sigh, waving the book at Tinsley, who was sitting at Isla’s desk, rifling through the drawers.
“How eighth grade and angsty,” Tinsley said, rolling her violet-colored eyes. She opened her mouth to say something else but then froze, her hand landing on a leather-bound book. “Now this is what I’m talking about,” she breathed. She flipped open the small book and, as she took in the handwritten pages, felt victory flood through her, actually warming her up from the inside.
Gotcha, she thought with intense satisfaction. Isla Dresden was indeed dumb enough to make Tinsley Carmichael her enemy—and keep a diary.
“Is that what I think it is?” Brett asked, her green eyes lighting up.
“It certainly seems to be.” Tinsley shifted over in the chair in front of Isla’s desk as Brett pushed in beside her. Together they flipped through the pages, sitting so close that Tinsley could smell the faint eucalyptus scent of Brett’s favorite La Mer moisturizer. It made Tinsley irrationally happy, like if she closed her eyes she might be back in Dumbarton 303 with Brett and Callie a year ago, before she’d been kicked out for doing E and before everything got so complicated.
“Who hides a diary in an easily accessible desk drawer?” Brett asked. She frowned at it. “Isn’t she afraid someone will read it? Like her brother?”
“Maybe Isaac is trustworthy,” Tinsley said, flipping open the book and making the pages flap—so loud that she almost missed Brett’s derisive snort. Tinsley looked at her questioningly.
“We’re here to find dirt,” Brett said, nodding solemnly at the diary. Obediently, Tinsley dropped her gaze to the handwritten pages in front of her. But she filed away the knowledge that Brett wasn’t so impressed with either Dresden sibling. Interesting.
“Blah blah blah,” Tinsley narrated, her eyes scanning the entry in front of her. “I’ve never understood why people write in these things. Why ask questions of a piece of paper? It’s not going to answer you. And besides, you can just walk outside and actually do something instead of writing about things that already happened.”
“Waverly isn’t what I expected,” Brett read aloud, ignoring Tinsley. “Dad hates it when we say we’re basically like military brats, but it’s true.” She stopped and looked at Tinsley. “Please tell me that the most evil girl on campus is not actually, secretly, this boring? And yet has somehow managed to play you and me?”
Tinsley shook her head, refusing to accept that idea. What could she possibly do with a secret like that? Isla is painfully dull didn’t have quite the same ring as Isla is a heroin addict or Isla sniffs glue or even Isla is known to have slept with every last guy at her former school, student and teacher.
Determined to find some dirt, she continued to flip through the pages, stopping at a more recent entry. Isla’s handwriting was wide and loopy and required a moment or two to decode.
I don’t know what I’ll do if anyone finds out, she’d written. I’ll have to switch schools again, at the very least. I’ve worked so hard and even done things I’m not exactly proud of, and all of it was to make sure that NO ONE at Waverly could ever find out.
“Promising,” Brett said, reading along over Tinsley’s shoulder.
I would DIE, Isla’s loopy script continued. I would just DIE if anyone knew—
The front door slammed shut from out in the hallway, and both girls jumped. The diary fell from Tinsley’s hand, back into the desk drawer where she’d found it.
“Shit!” Brett hissed, jumping to her feet. She sneaked over to the door and peeked out. “It’s Mrs. Dresden,” she whispered, her eyes wide with horror. “We have to get out of here!”
Tinsley took a last regretful look at the diary, slid it back beneath the pile of papers she’d found it under, and stood up. She snatched her coat up from the bed and threw it on as she walked over to Isla’s window.
“Okay,” she whispered, frowning. “Small problem with that.”
She pointed outside, where last night’s freshly fallen snow lay pristine and untouched beneath Isla’s window. They would leave tracks, and that was bound to make someone suspicious. So much for the easiest escape route.
“What’s the likelihood that she won’t even look out the window?” Brett asked in a whisper from Tinsley’s side. Her brow was furrowed into a deep frown. “I don’t look at the ground outside my bedroom window every time I walk in the room, do you?”
“You know today would be the day she did,” Tinsley muttered. She led the way back to the door of Isla’s bedroom and eased it open, ears pricked for the sounds of Mrs. Dresden as she moved through the house. The kitchen sink came on, then was turned off. Click, click, click went the woman’s heels against the hard kitchen tiles.
“We have to wait until she goes upstairs,” Brett whispered. Tinsley nodded.
There was silence for a while as Tinsley and Brett stood like statues, afraid to even breathe. They heard the clank of cutlery. The Sub-Zero refrigerator opening and closing. The rattle of ice cubes in a glass, then the distinctive snap and hiss of a soda can being opened. Meanwhile,
Tinsley was all too aware that the clock was ticking—that any other Dresden could appear at any time, like the dean himself, who was certainly no Tinsley Carmichael fan. She was going to have to come up with a Plan B.
The sound of Mrs. Dresden’s heels echoed down the front hall again, growing louder as they came closer. Brett’s fingers dug into Tinsley’s arm, and they each held their breath as they waited to see if Mrs. Dresden would head toward Isla’s bedroom. Tinsley’s mind raced. Would she hide under the bed or in the closet? Or should they just jump out the window and let Isla convince herself she had a stalker?
But instead of moving toward her daughter’s room, Mrs. Dresden turned and started up the stairs to the upper floor.
Tinsley and Brett stared at each other in amazement at their luck. Fucking saved, Tinsley thought, adrenaline pumping through her. Brett covered her mouth to keep from laughing in sheer relief. They had to get out of there before they both lost it.
They sneaked out of Isla’s room and then eased their way across the hardwood floors that seemed to creak and groan at top volume beneath them. Twice, they froze—convinced that Mrs. Dresden would hear them and demand to know who they were and what they were doing—but both times there was no sudden outcry from above.
“When we get to the front door,” Tinsley whispered, “we have to open it and then run for our lives.”
She took a deep breath and threw open the front door. The bright winter sun flooded inside, and the chilly wind howled in her face. They stepped outside and Tinsley eased the heavy door shut behind her.
“Let’s go!” Brett hissed, and then they were running—exploding with pent-up energy from hiding, giddy and still one shout away from being busted.
They skidded down the front walk and around the brick wall that contained the dean’s property and only stopped running when they made it to the main path of the quad. Tinsley gasped for breath and grabbed Brett’s arm. They slowed to a calculatedly casual stroll. They could be anyone. Walking anywhere.
The mission hadn’t been accomplished, but it also hadn’t failed. And it certainly wasn’t over yet.
14
A WAVERLY OWL IS WILLING TO CONSIDER ANY
REASONABLE PLAN OF ACTION.
Callie stood in the rare books room of the Sawyer Library, looking out over the campus. The sun reflected off the snow and made the bare branches of the trees on Hopkins Hill seem to glitter. But she couldn’t really appreciate the scenery.
She crossed her arms over her chest and hugged her brown and melon-colored Milly turtleneck dress closer to her body. She tucked her chin inside the turtleneck, stretching it slightly, and let her waves of strawberry blond hair fall forward to spill over her shoulders. The more she thought about what Alan had said, the more she was positive that he was right.
She hadn’t acted on his advice that night—she’d been too busy giggling and consuming her body weight in dry Cap’n Crunch cereal from the Maxwell dispenser. It had never tasted so good before, which was exactly why she didn’t like to get stoned very often. She ran her hands over her hips, making sure she hadn’t bloated up like an inflatable raft.
Callie’s eyes scanned the deserted, cozy rare books room, but she didn’t see what was in front of her—she saw scenes from her past. Easy kissing her, right here, for the very first time back in sophomore year. Making out with Brandon just last month and getting caught by his Swedish girlfriend over the webcam. It just went on and on and on, and Callie had no idea how to end it. Or, worse, how to make a decision.
Which was why Alan’s plan was so perfect. She wouldn’t have to make the decision at all. She could let Easy and Brandon figure it out. Whoever fought the hardest for her was the one she was supposed to be with. It was like that King Solomon story her mother, the governor of Georgia, brought up whenever she had to make decisions she knew would anger her constituents. In the story, the two mothers argued over a baby, each saying it was hers, until King Solomon declared he’d cut the baby in half. The real mother leaped forward to protect the child, relinquishing her claim, and in so doing proved that she was the true mother. That was more or less what Callie had to do. Sever herself from both guys—and see who proved himself to be the right one.
Callie took a deep breath. She dug her Treo out from the depths of her red Jimmy Choo patent-leather hobo bag and stared at it for a moment. She would never normally break up with someone over e-mail, but this wasn’t normal, was it? Nothing about this was normal.
And the truth was, she wasn’t entirely sure she could look into Easy’s dark blue eyes the way she had on the top of the Empire State Building and break up with him all over again. The same way she didn’t think she could watch herself crush Brandon’s feelings under her heel, the way she had so many times before. So maybe she was a little bit of a coward. At least she was doing something.
The ends justify the means, she thought. She had to do what she had to do. For all of them.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: Wed, February 11, 12:33 pm
Subject: Re: Us
Easy,
I’m really sorry to do this over e-mail.
I just don’t think it’s going to work.
I’m sorry.
Callie
Before she could think better of it or change her mind, Callie hit SEND.
Then, gnawing on her lip and completely obliterating what was left of her Preserves Hint of Honey Lip Therapy gloss, she sent the exact same e-mail to Brandon.
She let out her breath and felt something like a head rush. It was done.
Now all she had to do was sit back and wait. Wait to see which one of them really loved her, after all.
* * *
OwlNet
Instant Message Inbox
* * *
IsaacDresden: I think you left your scarf in my living room last night. Did you do that on purpose? ;)
JennyHumphrey: It’s like a trail of breadcrumbs…
IsaacDresden: It’s working. I feel the overwhelming urge to have lunch with you today.
JennyHumphrey: Done. See? The scarf has magical properties.
IsaacDresden: I thought that was you.
* * *
OwlNet
Instant Message Inbox
* * *
SebastianValenti: Earth to missing girlfriend. Where are you?
BrettMesserschmidt: What are you talking about? I saw you last night…
SebastianValenti: For five minutes. Maybe three minutes.
BrettMesserschmidt: For dinner, which is more than five minutes. Do you need more tutoring??
SebastianValenti: If I say yes, will you cut class and come hang out with me?
15
A WAVERLY OWL IS RARELY TAKEN BY SURPRISE.
Brandon heard the beep of an incoming e-mail on his laptop and sighed. He knew who it was, and he couldn’t deal. He had roughly twelve seconds left to finish his English paper and about five minutes after that to race across campus to class.
He definitely did not have time for another one of Cora’s e-mails.
“Brandon’s got a stalker….” Heath singsonged from across the room they shared. Brandon glared at him. Heath, naturally, looked completely at ease as he pulled on a long-sleeved black and red Lacoste rugby shirt and ran his hands through his messy, shaggy dirty blond hair. That was the entirety of his morning routine. Because Heath, unlike Brandon, didn’t care if he looked like he’d slept in his dirty-wash Diesel jeans. Or maybe they were regular-wash jeans that Heath just hadn’t bothered to take to the laundry room yet. With Heath, you never knew.
Brandon glanced down at his own Rock & Republic jeans and freshly laundered Hugo Boss hoodie to confirm that he hadn’t absorbed his pig of a roommate’s dedication to filth through dorm-room osmosis or something.
“You need to tell Queen of the Dorks that you’re busy,” Heath continued, unaware of or unaffected by the dirty look Brandon was giving him. “Like, permane
ntly busy.”
Brandon rubbed his hands over his face. Heath was right. “She won’t leave me alone,” he muttered.
Heath smirked. “And now you know what it’s like to be me,” he said with a happy sigh. “My little boy is all grown up!” He smiled almost sweetly. “Of course, I was matched with Tinsley. Looks like I’m just destined for hotter things, unlike a geek magnet like you, bro.” He shook his head. “So sad.”
Brandon shook his head, too and turned back to his computer. He should have known better than to discuss anything with Heath of all people. He did know better. The fact was, Cora really was driving Brandon crazy. She didn’t seem to understand that as far as Brandon was concerned, Perfect Match was a finite collection of required—not desired—events. It didn’t mean Brandon was suddenly dating her or even suddenly friends with her. But no one seemed to have mentioned that to Cora. It was only Wednesday morning, and already he’d had to turn down an invitation to study together, to eat breakfast together, to go into the town of Rhinecliff together. Thanks, but no thanks.
He didn’t necessarily want to be a dick about it, the way he knew Heath would be without a second’s hesitation. Brandon wasn’t like that. He refused to be like that—what would be next? Would he wake up to find he really had transformed into a degenerate asshole who couldn’t even be bothered to shower half the time?
He clicked to open the e-mail, resolved to be nice yet again. It didn’t really cost him anything to just be nice, after all. But the e-mail wasn’t from Cora. It was from Callie.
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