Callie was dying to pull her Oliver Peoples sunglasses from her bag and throw them on her face, just to put some sort of barrier up against Easy’s demanding stare. But she didn’t want to look guilty—especially since he already seemed to think she was. “Why are you yelling at me?” she asked softly, letting all the anger—at him defending Jenny yet again—drain from her voice. “Jenny admitted that she started the fire. What’s done is done.”
“You really think she did it?” Easy asked plainly.
Callie demurred, staring at the toes of her navy Isabella Fiore pumps. “She said she did.”
“How do you know it wasn’t us, smoking in the barn?” Easy’s voice rose as he asked the question, and lost its sweet southern tinge. “Jenny’s getting expelled is no joke. Do you realize how serious this is?” He was squinting in the sun, but it felt like he was glaring at her.
Callie did realize how serious it was. But what choice did she have? She hadn’t wanted either one of them to go home. Jenny was just too easy a target. And it had been Tinsley’s plan, anyway, not Callie’s. Even if she’d refused to go along with it, Tinsley would have carried the plan out without her, and everything would have happened exactly as it had. “It was all Tinsley,” Callie blurted out before realizing what she was saying.
Easy sat down on the step and arched his back against the hard stone column. He took his hands out of his pockets, much to her relief. She’d been able to see his fists through his cargos and was a little afraid of him. Not that he’d, like, hit her or anything—but she’d never seen him so mad. “You didn’t have anything to do with it?” he asked skeptically, raising a dark eyebrow.
“It was Tinsley’s plan,” Callie lied, fiddling with one of the pearl buttons on her cardigan. “She had it in for Jenny from day one, when she found her in her bed. She got that Chloe girl, the prospective, to spy on her. Honest.” Callie looked him in his deep blue eyes and crossed her heart like she had in grade school when she was lying through her teeth. “I didn’t know about it until it was already done.”
Easy seemed to relax a little, and Callie took the opportunity to sit down on the steps next to him. She took his calloused hand in hers. He squeezed hers back, and she could feel her shoulders slump as her body relaxed. “Are we okay?” she asked softly, leaning in to nuzzle against him.
“Yeah,” Easy whispered back, gently cradling her in the crook of his broad shoulder. His neck was soft and warm and inviting, and she felt like she was back where she belonged. He kissed her head, and Callie let go of all the tension in her body, collapsing into his arms in relief.
But as Callie shifted on the stone step, her skinny silver Razr tumbled out of her Fendi bag, landing with a crack on the first step, out of her reach. It immediately buzzed to life, vibrating its way onto the grass. Before she could do anything to stop him, Easy stood and picked up the phone for her, reaching out to hand it back to her. But he stopped when he saw who the text was from. “Speak of the devil,” he said. He pressed a button and his handsome face turned ghostly pale.
“Give it back!” Callie reached for the phone, feeling like she was about to be sick.
Easy’s brow furrowed as he read the message. “Congrats to us on a job well done.” His voice was hard and full of mocking. “It worked. The bitch is gone. Let’s drink to that,” he read off the little screen.
“It’s not what you think.” Callie got to her feet, her heels wobbling beneath her. “You know how Tinsley is—she’s just making noise.”
Easy didn’t seem to have heard a word she said. “Nice.” He handed her the phone, shaking his head as if to shake all the lies from his ears.
“Easy!” Callie’s eyes stung with hot tears. “You can’t just leave me like this.”
But apparently he could.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: Wednesday, October 16, 2:49 P.M.
Subject: RE: Meow!
Dear Marx the Cat—
Looks like you’ve gotten your wish, I’m going to be home later tonight. I’ll explain everything once I get there. Tell Vanessa she can stay in my room, I’ll stay on the couch for now.
Love you guys, see you soon.
Jenny
27
A WAVERLY OWL HOLDS HER HEAD UP HIGH—EVEN WHEN SHE’S NO LONGER A WAVERLY OWL.
Jenny hoisted her beat-up duffel onto her shoulder and walked toward the waiting yellow taxi. Just a short cab ride and a few hours on the train separated her from home, from her ramshackle but inviting apartment on the Upper West Side; her old room; her crazy, wonderful, gastronomically challenged father; and her beloved cat. Footsteps echoed behind her and her heart skipped a beat. She hoped it was Julian, or maybe Easy . . . but when she spun around, she saw Dean Marymount instead, his Waverly tie flying over his shoulder as he sprinted toward her. A faint cold fear crept up Jenny’s spine. What other punishment did Marymount want to inflict before she got in the cab and disappeared forever? Was he going to handcuff her or something?
Jenny took one last look at the campus behind him. She really did love Waverly, with its stately redbrick buildings, its rosy-faced students, its tradition. She loved living in a dorm, playing field hockey, going to parties in the woods. Kissing boys and hanging out with all her new friends. She was really going to miss it.
“Wait!” Marymount called out, an annoyed look on his face. He slowed to a jog and then stopped, resting his hands on his khaki-clad knees. His graying sandy hair was spread in strings across his growing bald spot.
Should she just tell him to get a toupee and make a break for it?
“Mrs. Miller just called,” he tried to explain, still breathing heavily. He straightened up and adjusted his tie.
Jenny screwed up her face, wondering what this was all about. Did the old lady want the chance to personally reprimand the arsonist? Would she be forced to clean up the wreckage, one charred piece of wood at a time? Would she be sent to jail? She hadn’t thought of that. Wasn’t she too young?
“She insists the whole thing was . . . an accident.” Mary-mount went on, pulling down on his sweater and collecting himself. “She claims one of her cows started the fire.” His cold blue eyes scanned Jenny carefully, as if waiting to pounce on the first betrayed emotion. But she was too stunned to move a muscle. “I don’t see how a cow could start a fire. However”—he squinted into the sun—“she says she’s sure it was one of her cows. What do you think about that?” He put his hands on his hips, waiting for her answer.
Jenny had a hard time processing what exactly it was Marymount was saying. She set her bag down on the gravelly driveway, rubbing her numbed shoulder. Did he really want her to answer that question? Cows starting fires? She didn’t even know what the hell he was talking about. But wait, was he trying to say she wasn’t expelled after all?
“Anyway, she said she didn’t want anyone at Waverly to be blamed,” Marymount continued, his voice full of suspicion. “Personally, I think she’s a crazy old woman who has lived alone for too long, but . . .” He scratched his head, and some of the carefully placed strings of hair shifted, revealing his shiny bald head.
The cabdriver honked his horn impatiently and Marymount glanced toward the waiting car.
“If a Waverly student did start the fire, they’d have to be expelled,” Marymount said, his eyes settling again on Jenny’s round face. “No way around it. Do you agree?”
“But it was the cows,” Jenny answered slowly, starting to get the impression that while Marymount didn’t believe Mrs. Miller’s story, he wasn’t convinced Jenny was guilty, either. “Right?”
Marymount nodded slowly, rubbing his sweaty forehead with his left hand, his gold wedding band glinting in the bright sun. “Yes, right.” He rolled his eyes. “So . . . it looks like I’m going to have to decline your, ahem, confession.”
Jenny looked back toward campus, at the perfect green lawns and perfectly lush trees, at the perfect piles of leaves. Behind her, the c
abdriver revved his engine. It took her a second to convince herself that Marymount wasn’t kidding, that it wasn’t some cruel joke. Her heart began to race.
“You’d better get to class, Ms. Humphrey.” Marymount stared her down, tapping a finger against the silver watch on his wrist.
Jenny just stared back at him, pressing her lips together. She couldn’t wait to see the look on everyone’s face when they saw her back in Dumbarton, back in her old room. Back in her classes. She’d be back in the dining hall for dinner. Tonight was her favorite—make-your-own-pita-pizza night. And tomorrow, Jenny would stride across Waverly’s green campus and a hundred Owls would whisper her name.
She was back.
HeathFerro: Old lady Miller saves the day! Someone buy that bat a beer!
JulianMcCafferty: What are you talking about, Ferro?
HeathFerro: U didn’t hear? She told Marymount her COWS set the fire—no expulsions necessary.
JulianMcCafferty: Wait, so Jenny’s staying?
HeathFerro: Why, were U already planning your reunion w/ Tinsley?
SageFrancis: OMG, Celine was at the bank just now and old lady Miller was depositing a FAT check. Told the clerk she’s going to build a guesthouse where the barn was.
BrandonBuchanan: Huh. Insurance kicked in?
SageFrancis: Insurance doesn’t cut checks that quickly.
BrandonBuchanan: You think someone bribed her to save Jenny?
SageFrancis: Exactly, Sherlock. Who do you think it was? My guess is someone rich and male. . . .
BrandonBuchanan: I’d like to thank him. Jenny’s too sweet to get expelled.
SageFrancis: Watch out, you’re making me jealous.
BrandonBuchanan: That’s the idea.
TinsleyCarmichael: Fucking cows?!
CallieVernon: Whatever. That’s the least of my problems.
TinsleyCarmichael: Y?
CallieVernon: EZ found out what we did. I think it’s over.
TinsleyCarmichael: Shit. I’m sorry.
CallieVernon: You should be.
TinsleyCarmichael: What’s that mean?
CallieVernon: It means I’m too upset to talk to you right now.
BrettMesserschmidt: Is it for real? Are you back?
JennyHumphrey: I guess so! So weird. An hour ago, I was expelled. Now I’m back.
BrettMesserschmidt: Well, I’M thrilled . . . and so are a ton of other people.
JennyHumphrey: I can think of a few who aren’t.
BrettMesserschmidt: Fuck ’em. You heard about Mrs. Miller, right? She was totally bribed by someone to say the cows did it.
JennyHumphrey: What R U talking about? Bribed?
BrettMesserschmidt: Someone REALLY didn’t want you to go. Enough to PAY for you to stay.
JennyHumphrey: That’s crazy. . . .
BrettMesserschmidt: Welcome back, babe. Now it’s time to figure out who your secret admirer is! And don’t worry, Inspector M is on the case.
JennyHumphrey: Oooh, I’ve always wanted a secret admirer. . . .
Turn the page for a sneak peak of
gossip girl
the carlyles
Created by the #1 New York Times bestselling author
Cecily von Ziegesar
Disclaimer: All the real names of places, people, and events have been altered or abbreviated to protect the innocent. Namely, me.
hey people!
Surprised to hear from me? Don’t be. While the rest of us may be learning the finer points of flip cup and experiencing our first cross-campus walks of shame, you should know by now I’d never be that predictable. Instead of uncorking the Cristal like all of you did when you got your acceptance letters (or for some of you unfortunates, that email saying you were off the wait list), I read the fine print. There’s a little “Get Out of Jail Free” card known as the deferral. So while all of you are in Connecticut and Rhode Island with roomies whose asses are busting out of their Juicys from too many trips to the dining hall fro-yo machine, I’ll be here enjoying one more year on the Upper East Side.
Why, you ask? After watching some of last year’s seniors shop at ABC Carpet & Home for last-minute dorm décor (not sure how well those Venetian cut glass chandeliers are going to fit above the bunk beds in your freshman doubles, kiddies), I saw three of the most fabulous human beings on the planet emerge from Blair Waldorf’s old apartment, including one amazing male specimen. Sure, these new kids on the block (Manhattan’s most exclusive block, that is) look like they exploded from an Abercrombie & Fitch catalog, but we don’t usually get ’em that fresh in these parts. And there’s nothing like fresh meat to make things really interesting.
You all probably have to go read Ovid and drink a Natty Ice in your new 8 x 10 dorm room, but don’t worry, I’ll be here drinking Veuve mimosas at Balthazar, reporting on what you’re missing. With these three in town, I just know it’s going to be another wild and wicked year. . . .
sightings
O running in Central Park, without a shirt. Does he own any shirts? Let’s hope not! . . . A trying on a silver-sequined Marni minidress in the dressing room of Bergdorf’s. Didn’t anyone tell her Constance has a dress code? . . . And her sister B in FAO Schwartz, clinging to a dude in a barn-red NANTUCKET HIGH hoodie putting stuffed animals in inappropriate poses and taking pictures. Is that what they do for fun where they’re from?
your mail
Q: Dear GG,
So, my mom went to Constance Billard like a million years ago with the triplets’ mom and she told me the reason they moved here is because A slept with the entire island—boys and girls. And then B is, like, this crazy brilliant genius who’s mentally unstable and never washes her clothes. And O apparently swims up to Nantucket on the weekends in a Speedo. Is that true?
—3some
A: Dear 3,
Interesting. From what I’ve seen, A looks pretty innocent. But we all know looks can be deceiving. We’ll see how brilliantly B does in the city. As for O, Nantucket’s a long way away, so I doubt he can swim that far. But if he can . . . I’ve got one word for you: endurance. Exactly what I look for in a man.
—GG
Q: Dear GG,
So, I just moved here and I love New York!!!!! Do you have any advice to make this year the best year ever?
—SMLLTWNGRL
A: Dear STG,
All I can say is be careful. Manhattan is a pretty small place itself, albeit much more fabulous than wherever you came from. No matter what you do, and no matter where you are, somebody is watching. And it’s not going to be gossiped about in your high school cafeteria—in this town, it’s bound to hit Page Six. If you’re interesting or important enough to be gossiped about, that is. One can only hope.
—GG
Q: Dear GG,
I bet you’re just saying you deferred from college because you didn’t get in anywhere. Also, I heard that a certain monkey-owning dude never made it to West Point and I think it’s pretty mysterious that he’s still here and so are you. Are you really a girl??
RUCHUCKB
A: Dear RUCHUCKB,
I’m flattered that my continued presence is spawning conspiracy theories. Sorry to disappoint, but I am as feminine as they come, without a pet monkey in sight. As for your first comment, I got in everywhere I applied. But why bother expanding your horizons (and your behind) when everyone knows Manhattan is the center of the universe?
—GG
Time for me to prep for fashion week. And for you to prep for the first day of school. Hope those of you who went off to college are going easy on the Tater Tots if you want to fit into Chloé’s amazing new collection. Fashion week gets better every year.
Just like me.
You know you love me,
gossip girl
the best things in life are free
The grand store awnings and the glittering pavement of Madison Avenue welcomed Avery Carlyle, the newest resident of Manhattan’s Golden Mile, with each Fendi-heeled step. Every preppy boy in a
rumpled Pink dress shirt and Brooks Brothers khakis and girl loaded down with Hermès and Chanel shopping bags that she passed was like an oasis in the desert of her life. She couldn’t wait until tomorrow, when she would start school at Manhattan’s exclusive Constance Billard School for Girls and her life would finally begin.
Avery was born in Nantucket, Massachusetts, the smallest, sandiest, boringest island on the East Coast and the rest of the universe. Her trips to New York had always been limited to one week a year at Christmas, when all the Carlyles—mom Edie and triplets Owen, Avery, and Baby—would gather to celebrate the holidays with their grandmother, the venerable socialite and philanthropist Avery Carlyle the first. When grandmother Avery passed away in May, Avery the second was devastated—she’d always been close with her namesake, and she took the loss harder than anyone in her family. But there was a silver lining.
Isn’t there always?
Her hippie artist mother, Edie, found that sorting through the late Avery’s affairs was impossible from the tiny island off the coast of Cape Cod, so she moved the triplets to the city and enrolled Avery and Baby at Constance Billard and Owen at the equally expensive and exclusive St. Jude’s School for Boys. Plus, it seemed more appropriate to grieve for their grandmother here. Avery was resolved to do her grandma proud. Starting with a brand-new wardrobe.
She paused at the large plate glass windows of the Calvin Klein boutique on the corner of Sixty-second Street and took in her reflection. With her long wheat-colored blond hair wrapped in a Pucci print headscarf and a peony pink Diane von Furstenburg wrap dress hugging her athletic frame, Avery looked like any Upper East Sider out for a stroll. In Nantucket, where fleece was party attire and a party was drinking a six-pack of Molson on the beach, Avery had always been out of her element. But this year it was all going to be different. Finally, she was where she belonged.
Avery tore herself away from the shopwindow and continued to walk down Madison. Her destination today was Barneys, the legendary Upper East Side department store, and her mission was to find the perfect bag for the first day of the rest of her life. She’d been momentarily disappointed when her mother, a Constance alum herself, had reminded her about the school’s mandatory uniforms—but had quickly realized that accessories were key. The perfect bag would broadcast to her new classmates everything she wanted them to know about her: that she believed in classic beauty, that she loved to have fun, that she was one of them.
Lucky Page 16
