Classic (14 page)

“If you have the right cocktails, you can have a good time doing anything,” Isla said, sending her flirty little look from
Heath to Sebastian and then back again. Tinsley entertained a graphic fantasy of smashing her strawberry sundae on top of
Isla’s so-careless-it-obviously-took-seven-hours ponytail, and watching it drip, cold and punishing, all the way down into
the bateau neckline of her emerald green Elizabeth and James tunic, until it ran down her jeans and collected in a frigid
pool in her Kate Spade flats.

“That is an evil smile,” Brett said in a low voice, sliding into the seat next to Tinsley. Her eyes shifted toward Sebastian
before settling back on Tinsley.

“You’re just in time,” Tinsley said in an undertone. “Her Majesty has just decided to grace us with her presence.” She arched
her eyebrows, inviting Brett to join her in the Isla-hate. She felt bad that Brett’s boyfriend was one of the fools slobbering
over the girl, but she couldn’t deny that she loved having Brett there to commiserate.

“So,” Ryan Reynolds said, leaning forward and smiling at Isla, flashing his dimples. Tinsley and Brett looked at each other
in disgust. “What was Valentine’s Day like at your old school?”

“We make kind of a big deal out of it here,” Lon Baruzza chimed in, training his dark eyes on Isla as if no other girl existed.

“Did you do anything special last year?” Heath asked, with emphasis on the word
special
.

“Oh, please!” Brett huffed under her breath, and Tinsley rolled her eyes. Talk about a lame attempt to find out about Isla’s
love life.

Isla played with the ends of her dark hair. “As a matter of fact,” she said, drawing the words out until all the guys were
leaning forward and practically falling out of their seats, “my old boyfriend, Xander, and I got some ink last year.” She
smiled a mysterious smile. “His is on his shoulder.” She waited a beat, letting the suspense build. “But mine… isn’t.”

Brett glared at Sebastian, who was too busy sitting there,
listening and even smiling, to notice her angry stare. He’d barely glanced away from Isla when Brett had arrived at the table,
and instead of a kiss or a smile, she’d received a nod of the head—the kind of acknowledgment Sebastian might give a familiar-looking
freshman guy, not his
girlfriend
.

Brett was feeling more and more frustrated. After escaping the Dresden house yesterday, she and Tinsley had stayed up late
in their room, doing more Isla “research” to figure out her big, bad secret. But despite combing every Web site they could
think of, from Google searches to MySpace to the sites for all her old schools, they hadn’t found a thing. Isla didn’t even
have a Facebook page! They’d given up at about 3
A.M
., but Brett still couldn’t sleep after that. She’d tossed and turned half the night, finally grabbing a few hours close to
daybreak.

Isla laughed again and batted her eyes at Sebastian. Brett felt her temper skyrocket.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket, and Brett pulled it out. She raised her eyebrows when she saw it was a text from Tinsley,
who was holding her own phone under the table, guerilla-style. Brett suppressed a smile, impressed by her friend’s inventiveness.
You couldn’t let guys
see
you being bitchy toward other girls. They lived in a fantasy world where girls were as sweet and as nice to one another as
they pretended to be. Which meant that girl warfare had to be taken underground.

Brett clicked open the text.

TinsleyCarmichael:
I might throw up.

BrettMesserschmidt:
Tell. Me. About. It.

TinsleyCarmichael:
But I think we have a clue to Isla’s past, finally… How many Xanders can there be at her old school??

Brett glanced up at her violet-eyed friend. A wicked smile was sliding across Tinsley’s flawless face. Down the table, Isla
was still flipping her hair, acting coy as the boys played twenty questions, trying to guess what tattoo she’d gotten—and
where.

But for the first time, Brett didn’t even mind. Maybe she and Tinsley would have to speak to every Xander they could find.
Maybe they’d have to drive to Isla’s old school and question him personally. It didn’t matter. They’d do whatever it took.

B
randon slumped against the back of his seat at one of the high coffee-bar tables in Maxwell on Friday morning, wishing he
could disappear into the cushion beneath him. He stared at the latte in his hand, not really seeing it.

“She thinks she’s a seven—check out that walk—but she’s really a five. Maybe even a four. Though you have to admire the confidence,”
Heath was saying, eyeing a leggy sophomore girl who had the misfortune to walk in front of their table on her way to the coffee
bar. Heath had been providing a running commentary about the attractiveness—or lack thereof—of passing Owls since he and Brandon
had arrived twenty minutes ago. “So we’ll say a five, for argument’s sake.”

“Uh-huh,” Brandon muttered, shifting in his seat and tugging at the collar of his gray and black color-block Prada sweater.
He couldn’t bring himself to check out girls—or even muster up the energy to say cutting things to Heath. All he
could think about was Callie’s e-mail. It was pretty much all he’d been able to think about for twenty-four hours straight.

On some level, he’d known that she was pulling away from him, but he’d thought that was because they were all on academic
probation. He hadn’t thought she would actually
dump
him. He’d really thought they’d connected in that early part of Jan Plan, when it seemed like she was really, finally giving
them the chance they deserved. Had she just been faking that? Or had it all been in his head? Had he made it all up because
he’d been crazy about Callie Vernon since he first met her freshman year?

He’d tried every single thing he could think of to be the perfect boyfriend, and it still wasn’t good enough for her. He couldn’t
help thinking the dumpage had to do with Easy Walsh, because with Callie it was always about Easy Walsh. Had Callie only given
Brandon a chance because Easy was gone? He hadn’t wanted to believe that. He didn’t believe that.

Brandon was jolted out of his bitter little spiral when Cora threw herself into the seat next to him.

“Hi!” she exclaimed. Her dark auburn hair hung down from beneath her multicolored homemade-looking knit cap, and her huge
brown eyes looked way too hopeful behind her dark-rimmed glasses. She wore a puffy pink jacket open over a bright turquoise
sweater and jeans that bagged in the wrong places even while she was sitting down.

Brandon forced a polite smile. The irony. Callie had to be coerced into spending time with him even when she was his girlfriend,
but his stalker wouldn’t leave him alone.

“Hey, Cora,” he said weakly, all too aware of Heath’s sudden intense interest. He’d actually stopped leering at girls to watch
Brandon deal with his Perfect Match.

“Cora!” Heath cried in evident delight. He smiled wickedly and leaned closer, propping his elbows on the table. “I have heard
so
much about you,” he continued sweetly.

“Oh,” Cora said, blinking at Heath as if he were a different species. Which pretty much showed that she was far more discerning
than Brandon had given her credit for. “You have?”

“Of course I have,” Heath assured her, gazing at her intently. “My roommate’s Perfect Match is obviously someone I need to
know. Intimately.”

“Ignore him,” Brandon told Cora. “Seriously. He’s mentally deranged.”

“Brandon’s just a little cranky,” Heath said, still smiling innocently. “He’s really not much of a morning person.”

“I’m not, either,” Cora said. She swept her lashes down to cover her eyes, then snuck a look at Brandon. “I think it’s weird
and unnatural that we’re expected to leap out of bed and attend classes according to some schedule that was just, you know,
imposed
on us. What about our biorhythms?”

“See! You two are totally on the same page. This is why I love Perfect Match so much,” Heath said warmly, resting his chin
on his hands and practically wriggling in delight, like a golden retriever. “Everyone knows it doesn’t lie. It tells you exactly
who you’re meant to be with.”

Brandon tried to ignore Heath’s syrupy tone. He knew Heath just wanted to get under his skin.

“Well,” Cora said, looking from Heath to Brandon and then back again, “it must mean that you have a certain amount of things
in common, based on the questionnaire.”

“Yes,” Heath said, his shit-eating grin practically taking over his face. “Exactly.
Things in common.
That’s the reason I believe that Perfect Match is basically the Waverly fortune-teller.
It knows
.”

Brandon was seriously contemplating throwing his latte into Heath’s face. Not that he could be sure that would shut him up.
Nothing ever could. Then Cora surprised him by turning in her seat, away from Heath, and looking straight at him, her eyes
thoughtful when they met his.