20
A WAVERLY OWL KNOWS TO PICK HIS BATTLES.
Easy hadn’t planned to bail on his Human Figure Drawing class. He’d packed up his art supplies and headed for the studio in Jameson House with every intention of drawing until his mood improved. He was thinking charcoals and bold lines might come close to expressing his feelings. Definitely an improvement over sitting in his room, staring at the ceiling and wondering what Callie was doing or why she’d dumped him the way she had.
But when he’d made it outside and into the crystal clear, cold afternoon, his body had other ideas. He’d found himself headed out to the stables instead. Maybe it was just the crisp winter air. The sun reflected off the snow and made the icicles on the tree branches glitter like diamonds. Suddenly he had to ride Credo.
He crossed through the woods, taking one of the many shortcuts to the stables that kept him out of sight of academic buildings that were filled with teachers interested in his whereabouts. He paused when he spotted a lone figure, moving slowly in the opposite direction, on the far side of one of the unused sports fields. Easy stared, perplexed. There was something odd about the way the other guy was moving.
He realized two things almost simultaneously: (a) the guy was looking for something on the ground in the field and (b) the guy was Brandon Buchanan.
Brandon was the last person in the world Easy wanted to see. Why was the always neatly dressed, always following-the-rules, always Mr. Perfect Buchanan out so far from the main campus during a class period? He never came this way. Nobody really did, unless they were headed to the stables, and Brandon didn’t ride.
Weird, Easy thought, and then, with a last brooding look at Brandon, he kept going.
He didn’t really like to think about Brandon or the fact that Callie had gotten back together with him—even if she had dumped him, too. Easy lit a cigarette and blew out a long plume of smoke into the frigid air. When he was at military school, he would sneak out of his dorm at night to smoke out the window of the communal bathroom, the one time all day he could be alone and think. Usually when he was there he’d think about Callie, about when they could be together again. Now he was back, and nothing had changed.
He smoked his cigarette as he walked through the quiet winter woods. He put his cigarette out when he finally crested that last hill and saw the stable before him. His refuge. His boots crunched into the hard crust of snow on the path, and he shoved his cold hands into the pockets of his coat as he walked toward the building.
Inside, the soothing sounds of horses moving in their stalls mixed with the usual hay and horse smells of the stables. Easy felt better immediately. He walked to Credo’s stall, smiling when she harrumphed and thrust her nose at him, demanding he pet her. He obliged, patting her wet nose and running a hand down her silky mane. Being here in the stables, with all its sights and smells, brought back the night that Callie had found him here last month. She’d come running out to find him after the party in the middle of the night. He’d thought the fact that she’d come, that she’d known where he was at that very moment, meant something. He’d wanted it to mean something.
He moved inside the stall and rubbed his hands down Credo’s smooth, warm back. But after a while, it was clear that he was only going to wallow in his Callie problems if he stood around, so he decided he’d better ride instead. A good gallop had never managed to shake Callie Vernon’s hold on him, but it always made him feel a little bit better. It cleared his head, at the very least.
He walked back out of the stall, closing the wooden gate behind him and heading for the tack room to get Credo’s saddle. The window above let the afternoon sun in, lighting up the hay beneath his feet. His artist’s eye couldn’t help following the graceful beam of sunlight—all the way from the glass, through the air where little dust motes danced, down to the hay scattered on the stable floor. He frowned when he spotted something unusual down in the nearest hay bale, and squatted down to take a closer look. It was a bright red and shiny plastic heart. It even had the Waverly horned-owl emblem stamped onto it.
Valentine’s Day, Easy thought, shaking his head as he held the plastic heart in his hand. He had a vague recollection of some e-mail about a scavenger hunt and hearts. But he couldn’t remember any details from freshman or sophomore year—he’d probably been drunk at the Valentine’s Day dances. He generally tried to be drunk at most dances, as a matter of fact. It was his policy for mandatory social events. Callie had always gotten really pissed about it. Why can’t we have one nice night? she’d once yelled at him. Easy straightened and almost threw the heart back into the hay.
But then he remembered something else: Brandon Buchanan’s unusual presence out in the old field and the fact that he’d clearly been looking for something. Easy knew, in a sudden flash of certainty, that Brandon was looking for these stupid, cheesy hearts.
And he knew exactly why he was doing it.
For Callie.
It was obviously the kind of thing Buchanan, with his pathological need to be the supernaturally perfect boyfriend, would be all over. Easy knew it. And he also knew that Callie would love it. She would eat it up. She might pretend she thought it was dumb, but the truth was, she would melt.
And Easy would be damned if he would sit around moping while Buchanan was the one to make her feel like that.
He stuck the plastic heart in his pocket and felt his own heart beat a little faster. He didn’t care if feeling competitive about something so lame probably meant he was lame, too, by definition.
He was going to find every goddamned heart on campus—and win Callie’s back in the process.
* * *
OwlNet
Instant Message Inbox
* * *
SebastianValenti: What’s up, Red? Where are you???
BrettMesserschmidt: Sorry, did we have plans?
SebastianValenti: It’s late afternoon. I know you don’t have class and you know I’m in my room. Usually this means you are also in my room. But I’ve barely seen you all week…
BrettMesserschmidt: I’m so sorry. I have this thing to do, but I’ll see you at dinner, right?
SebastianValenti: Should I be worried that your “thing” is more interesting than hanging out with me?
BrettMesserschmidt: No! Just this annoying research project I’m working on…
SebastianValenti:: I’m very good at research. I’d be happy to show you.
BrettMesserschmidt: Ha! You are too cute. I’ll see you later!
SebastianValenti: That’s what you said yesterday.
21
A WAVERLY OWL KNOWS THAT KNOWLEDGE IS
POWER.
Brett tossed her phone back on her bed in Dumbarton 121. She glanced over at Tinsley, who was lying across her own bed with her laptop open before her and a gray cashmere throw wrapped around her slender body to ward off the chill.
“Are you ready?” Tinsley asked, impatience threaded through her voice. She rolled her violet-colored eyes as if Brett had been holding her up. Brett decided to overlook her attitude, because she knew Tinsley was just excited and anxious. So was she. Besides, being involved in this particular “research project” with Tinsley was the closest the two of them had been in a long time. It made the fact that they were roommates fun again. Like it had been when they’d lived together with Callie.
Brett lit the Le Labo vintage candle they kept on the windowsill in its battered little tin container. It was supposed to smell like St. Barts. Much more soothing than their stuffy dorm room.
“I’m more than ready,” Brett said, straightening and tossing the lighter onto the cracked mahogany windowsill next to the candle.
She felt a little bit guilty about not telling Sebastian what she was doing—but this was important. All she had to do was recall the way Isla flirted with Sebastian, and any doubts she might have had disappeared. Isla was perfectly comfortable throwing coy looks at Sebastian when Brett was sitting right there. Imagine what the girl got up to when she and Sebas
tian were somewhere alone!
Brett settled herself on Tinsley’s never-made bed. She straightened her Nanette Lepore sweater dress, making sure the batik-patterned sleeves and V-neck sat perfectly, so she would make a good impression. She ran her hands along the smooth sides of her bright red bob as Tinsley pulled up Skype on her computer. The revving sound made Brett’s stomach twist a little bit in anticipation.
They’d found Xander Coffey on Facebook late last night, after some trial and error and a totally pervy encounter with some gross thirty-year-old guy from Alexandria, Virginia. But they had no idea what this ex-boyfriend of Isla’s was really like. He’d had a picture of Jon Hamm from Mad Men as his profile picture, which gave them nothing to go on, really, except that he thought he was smooth.
“What kind of asshole do you think this Xander is going to be?” Tinsley asked. Brett smiled as she considered. He had to be a total jackass. After all, he’d dated Isla and had practically jumped at the chance to talk about her with two girls he’d never even heard of.
“Oh, you know,” Brett said, scrunching up her nose while she thought about it. She kind of thought he’d be a Heath Ferro type, but Tinsley had been remarkably touchy about Heath lately, so she decided not to use him as her example. “Probably one of those over-the-top, obviously hot guys. You know? Definitely not sweet and clean-cut like Brandon or anything. More like Drew Gately. Too hot, too rich, too in love with himself. Blah blah blah.” She waved a hand in the air.
“Your basic prep-school douche,” Tinsley said happily. She tapped her fingers against the side of her laptop, bouncing slightly on the bed with excitement. “Luckily, we know exactly how to deal with that kind of guy.”
“You could say we’re experts,” Brett agreed, tucking her legs beneath her and concentrating on the screen. “Can you believe they have matching tattoos? And now they’re broken up and he has her name or something tattooed on his body? Serves him right.” She shook her head. “I want to hear about every single threesome and every hint of drug use.” The plan was to gather dirt on Isla and use it against her when she least expected it.
“Believe me,” Tinsley purred, “he’ll tell us what we want to know. Guys like Xander live to brag about their exploits, right? All we have to do is pout a little bit.” She immediately demonstrated, giving her best sex-kitten look. Tinsley eyed Brett. “You should do that cute little giggling thing you do. He’ll love it.”
Brett couldn’t help herself—she giggled. They looked at each other and burst out laughing.
“Check it out,” Tinsley said suddenly, sitting up and expertly tousling her long, black hair so that it tumbled sexily around her shoulders. “Here he comes.”
Brett quickly slicked her Creamy Gold Dior Crème de Gloss over her lips and then gazed at the screen expectantly.
Tinsley felt her mouth drop open as the screen filled with the image of a guy about their age. She took in his thick, unfashionable glasses, WHAT THE FRAK? T-shirt, bushy and unkempt red hair, and shy, nervous smile. This was Isla’s Xander? She’d been expecting Spencer Pratt… and she’d gotten Jonah Hill.
“Um, hi,” Brett said, when it became clear Tinsley wasn’t going to speak. She cleared her throat. “You’re Xander Coffey? The one who, um, dated Isla Dresden?”
“That’s me,” the guy said. His eyes lit up—or maybe that was just the reflection from his thick lenses. “You guys are friends of hers? Isn’t she terrific?” He said the last word like it was part of a prayer.
Tinsley couldn’t look at Brett. This was just too good. Too delicious for words. Isla Dresden, Waverly’s resident bad girl, had dated the biggest dork in the world. Things were looking up.
Finally.
“She’s an amazing girl,” Tinsley drawled, and smiled at Xander like they were BFFs.
“Truly one of a kind,” Brett agreed dryly with a smile of her own. Tinsley snuck her hand over to pinch Brett beneath the camera’s reach, where Xander couldn’t see. Brett’s smile got a little bit wider, and Tinsley could tell she was trying hard not to laugh.
“So what can I do for you guys?” Xander asked, his face open and trusting. “You said it was a surprise for Isla? I’ll do whatever I can to help.”
“That would be great,” Tinsley purred. “Here at Waverly we make a really big deal out of Valentine’s Day. We have a big slideshow, and everyone submits their favorite pictures of each other. But we realized that Isla’s so new that no one has any pictures of her, and we don’t want her to feel left out.” She batted her lashes for emphasis.
“The slideshow plays at the Valentine’s Day Ball,” Brett jumped in, keeping her eyes wide and guileless. She pinched Tinsley back beneath the computer. “We really want to make sure Isla feels like she’s part of the community here.”
“That’s a great idea!” Xander said, grinning. “She’ll love that.” He looked down, and there were sounds of his mouse clicking and tapping against his keyboard. “I have a bunch of photos right here. Where should I send them?”
Tinsley rattled off her e-mail address, and then she and Brett exchanged a long look, laced with excitement. Surely some of Xander’s photos with Isla would feature him. Nothing could be more priceless than Isla, decked out in her usual skank gear, holding hands with her Battlestar Galactica–loving boyfriend.
Tinsley’s e-mail beeped, and Xander grinned into the camera. “There you go,” he said. “That’s only, like, twenty of my favorites. If you need more, feel free to e-mail. I have a ton of other pictures, too.”
Tinsley clicked open her e-mail and scrolled through, looking over her shoulder and widening her eyes at Brett. She nearly gasped when she realized what she was staring at. There was a shot of a person only recognizable as Isla thanks to the green eyes. The rest of her was a poufy, frizzy-haired mess, in maryjanes and tapered jeans. There was another shot of Isla and Xander dressed as space cowboys on Halloween. And yet another one of Isla in a victory pose, brandishing a debate-team trophy overhead with a huge smile on her face. Tinsley had to cover her mouth with her hand to keep from shrieking with laughter.
Clearly, Isla’s “big secret” was that she’d undergone a massive makeover before coming to Waverly. She’d die if anyone found out—if anyone found out that in a past life, she’d moonlighted as a giant nerd. Her bitchy thing was just an act. A clever, well-executed act.
It was actually impressive, Tinsley was forced to admit, however grudgingly, that Isla had taken such upsetting raw material and managed to turn it into such an intriguing, badass package. Even Tinsley had been taken in initially.
But no more.
“Thank you so much,” she said, smiling at Xander. “I will personally make sure that every single one of these makes it into the slideshow.”
“Like I said, I’m happy to help,” Xander said, his cheeks coloring slightly. “We miss her around here.”
“Well,” Tinsley said, her smile widening, victory completely and utterly assured, “I can see why.”
22
A WAVERLY OWL IS RELENTLESS IN HER PURSUIT
OF THE TRUTH.
Callie paced the floor of her dorm room for approximately the eighteen millionth time. She put her hands on her hips and pivoted, slowly, unsure of what to do with herself. She had already changed her clothes six times. She looked at the piles of discarded outfits that covered the floor in front of her closet and picked at the hem of the ruby L.A.M.B. cardigan she’d finally thrown over a pair of chocolate brown Citizens of Humanity cords, still not satisfied.
But she knew it wasn’t the clothes. She hadn’t woken up to discover that she suddenly hated her entire wardrobe. It was her skin she couldn’t seem to feel comfortable in. Like it was three sizes too small, and she was straining at the seams.
Callie scraped her hair back, piling the blown-out strawberry blond locks on top of her head, and then let it all fall, letting out a heavy sigh.
It had been a day. An entire day. More than twenty-four whole hours, and so far absolutely nothing
had happened. Nothing.
Neither Easy nor Brandon had responded to her e-mail. Neither one of them had texted or called her to discuss what she’d done. Neither of them had showed up at Dumbarton to prove his love to her as anticipated, and she hadn’t so much as glimpsed either one of them around campus.
It was like Callie had thrown a giant stone into a pond and the surface of the water hadn’t even moved. Like it was blank and still, mocking her.
She blinked. She was obviously going insane. She had to get out of her room immediately, before she wrecked her manicure tearing her hair out, or found herself curled in the corner dressed in head to toe black, listening to loud emo music.
Callie swept her camel Michael Kors coat up off the back of her desk chair and left the room before it sucked her in. She ran down the stairs and threw open the heavy emergency door, pushing her way out into the cold evening. It was barely five-thirty, and yet it was already as pitch-black as if it was the dead of night—which actually suited her mood perfectly.
She hunched into her coat and set out across the quad, ducking her head to avoid the students running to study meetings or early dinners, not realizing until she reached the front steps of Richards where she was headed. But then, of course, she knew what she had to do. She marched up to the room Alan shared with Easy and pounded on the door. Maybe Easy would be there. She could at least see him and try to figure out what he was thinking about the whole thing. But she was kind of hoping he wouldn’t be there, because she’d much rather see—
“Alan!” she cried when he opened the door. He blinked at her as if the light from the hallway was a blinding searchlight, rather than one dim fluorescent bulb that the guys on the floor habitually broke on purpose.
“Um, hi,” he said. “Don’t knock like that, Callie. I thought you were a teacher. Jesus. I almost jumped out the window.”
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