Infamous (16 page)

“I barely remember that.” Bree crossed her arms primly across her chest, not looking at the Coopers. “It was a long time ago.”

“It’s really cute.” Willy squeezed Bree’s cable-knit- stockinged knee. “I didn’t know you were into Madonna.”

“That’s awesome.” Sebastian nudged Brett. “I dressed up as Michael Jackson once. You should’ve seen my moonwalk.” Brett couldn’t help giggling.

“You have to remember this,” Brett said gleefully. “This is from one of those booths at Disney World. Where they make fake magazine covers with your picture?” She looked at the Coopers, as if they ever would have done such a thing, as she pulled out the picture of Bree, hand on her hip, on the cover of
Cosmopolitan
. The headline read,
Bree Messerschmidt: Sixteen-Year-Old Goddess
.

“Let’s see,” Willy said eagerly. He held out his hand and Brett passed him the picture. “I am so framing this,” he chided Bree, grinning.

Sebastian burst out laughing, pointing at the picture of an eight-year-old Brett, wearing all black and waving a guitar over her head, on the cover of
Rolling Stone
. “You totally have a rock star complex, don’t you?”

Mrs. Messerschmidt, most likely remembering that on the next page were the pictures of her and Mr. Messerschmidt on the cover of
Fortune
, hopped to her feet and grabbed the photo album away from Brett.

“That’s enough,” Brett’s mom said firmly. But Brett could tell she wouldn’t have minded the embarrassing photo tour if it hadn’t been for the Coopers. “What would we have to look at later?”

“Hey, Dad, what kind of work do you think
Madonna’s
had done?” Brett asked innocently, knowing it was her dad’s favorite topic.

Stuart Messerschmidt’s face lit up, and he leaned back in his armchair and crossed his hands over his stomach. “I’d say at the very least, she’s had a series of Botox injections—a woman of her age? No forehead lines?” He chuckled merrily. “And most likely a mini facelift and neck lift, because she just looks too damn good to be a natural fifty.”

Mr. Cooper cleared his throat, signaling his desire for a change of subject.

“My dad’s a miracle worker.” Brett stretched her legs out in front of her and thought she caught Mr. Cooper staring at her skirt. Repressed bastard probably liked it. A trio of Chihuahuas scampered into the front room—Curly, Larry, and Princess, from the look of it. “He’s worked on everyone in the neighborhood.”

“Oh!” Mrs. Cooper gasped, lifting her feet after Princess skittered over them. Sebastian gave a little whistle and the dogs immediately ran to him, jumping into his lap and trying to lick his face with their little pink tongues.

“Brett, why don’t you help me check on the turkey?” her mother pleaded. “Dad shouldn’t be so modest.” Brett ignored her mom and scooped up Curly, who responded by licking Brett’s fingers. The soft, warm tongue tickled, and Brett giggled. “The whole block has been smoothed out by your Botox injections, or nipped and tucked and polished. We should be voted the hottest neighborhood in New Jersey!”

Sebastian snorted. “Dude, that’s too funny.”

Brett glanced at Mrs. Cooper, who looked apoplectic. “And what’s-her-name, with that…” She kept her eyes on Mrs. Cooper, particularly the loose flesh under her chin. “What did you call it?” She grabbed the loose skin on her neck.

“My mom has one of those,” Sebastian spoke up, scratching Princess under her chin. “She hates it. She moved down to Miami.” He looked around the room. “My parents are divorced. Anyway, she says no one in Miami has one. I forget what they call it too.”

“It’s a wattle,” Brett’s dad said, staring into his teacup.

“Right,” Sebastian said, holding his Mountain Dew out as though he were making a toast. “A wattle.”

Brett kept her eyes on Mrs. Cooper, who averted her gaze. Of course she was absolutely dying to ask Brett’s dad if he could do something about her wattle but was too uptight to open her mouth.

“Can we change the subject?” Bree pleaded. “Please?”

A wave of satisfaction came over Brett as she watched her sister squirm along with the Coopers. Served them right. She could sense that her parents were amused by the whole thing, though they’d never let on.

“Where did you get these coasters?” Sebastian asked suddenly, taking up one of the leopard-print tiles Brett had unearthed from a shoebox stashed in the pantry. “They rock.”

Mrs. Messerschmidt glanced at Bree, unsure what to say. “Our interior designer…had them custom made for me.” She glanced apologetically at the Coopers. “It was a phase I went through.”

“Well, I might have to get her number. These would make a great Christmas present for my mom.” Sebastian was still stroking Princess on his lap. He turned to Brett’s father. “Sir, I have to say, that plasma television hanging in your front room has to be one of the most beautiful pieces of art I’ve ever seen.”

Mr. Messerschmidt’s face brightened immediately. “Son, sometimes I stare at it, and I think it’s more beautiful than a Monet—and that’s when it’s turned off!” He broke into his trademark wheezing, red-faced laugh and pounded Sebastian on the back.

The Coopers looked so mortified, they almost spilled their tea. Brett leaned her elbow against the cheetah-print pillow, her knee brushing Sebastian’s. He raised his can of Mountain Dew and banged it against her can of Diet Coke. The student had become the teacher.

Instant Message Inbox

BrandonBuchanan:
Where the fuck R U? Dunderdorf’s on his third story about goats!

HeathFerro:
Smokin’ a J out back. Need something to keep me sane.

BrandonBuchanan:
What about ME?

HeathFerro:
I’ll leave the roach out here for you. Keep your effing panties on.

Tinsley opened the sliding glass door to the roof deck to let in a breath of fresh air. Yvonne’s apartment was stale with warm bodies huddled around the plasma TV, watching an
America’s Next Top Model
marathon and passing around someone’s weed. A landslide of snow tumbled down on her sock-covered feet, and she squealed softly.

“Hey, close the door!” someone yelled from the living room. “You’re letting all the smoke out!”

Tinsley inhaled a long breath of fresh air before sliding the door shut. Her afternoon frolicking in the snow with Julian like little kids would have been storybook perfect, if only Sleigh Monroe-Hill hadn’t been glued to Julian’s side the entire time. The glass door was like a mirror in the darkness, reflecting the image of Tinsley in her swinging black Lauren Conrad mini-dress, the soft jersey fabric and the sliced bell sleeves giving her a much more sophisticated hippie look than Sleigh’s homeless-girl rags.
Take that
, Tinsley thought, spinning on her wool tights.

“Pizza’s here!” Yvonne came skidding out of the dining room, where she and some of her dorky friends were lighting candles for what they kept calling the “Thanksgiving feast.” Tinsley glanced around the room, looking for Julian. About half the guests had trickled home to their families that morning, but the other half—people the snowstorm had stranded in the city, or whose families had abandoned them like Tinsley’s—had stuck around.

Even though she’d spent the last hour curled in front of the fireplace in Yvonne Stidder’s cozy library, the only room in the penthouse that didn’t feature any stainless steel, Tinsley couldn’t shake the creepy feeling she’d gotten during her afternoon outing. Sleigh Monroe-Hill had to be the fakest person on earth, and it gave her chills that she had manipulated Julian into actually thinking she was nice. Tinsley was dying to pull Julian into an empty room and whisper to him all the terrible things Sleigh had done, even tell him how she’d threatened Tinsley just an hour ago, but that was probably exactly what Sleigh wanted.

Yvonne managed to gather the dozen or so stranded Owls in the dining room, the air filled with the delicious smell of pepperoni, sausage, and mushrooms. Her brother and a few of his friends, hunting for the football game on the living room television, grabbed three boxes of pizza for themselves over Yvonne’s protests.

“Sit wherever.” Yvonne, looking vaguely like a librarian in a ribbed brown turtleneck dress with a thin black belt around the waist, took a seat at the head of the carved walnut dining table. Red votive candles flickered in small bowls of water around the table, casting a romantic glow on everyone’s faces. Tinsley waited for Sleigh to take her seat—at the other end of the table, predictably—and was chagrined when Julian sat next to her. Did she have him chained to her? Julian was listening to a story Sleigh was telling about her mother making her read
War and Peace
—and how
grateful
she was for the experience. Tinsley grabbed the chair across from him, next to Rifat Jones, as if to show Julian this wasn’t a competition.

“It looks pretty in here, Yvonne,” Tinsley spoke up, smoothing out her dress against her thick black tights. “You guys did a great job.”

Yvonne blushed furiously and slid into a seat on the other side of Rifat, whose mother was an ambassador for Somalia and was attending the president’s Thanksgiving dinner in Washington, D.C. “Thank you,” she squeaked at Tinsley. “Quick, everyone, dig in.”

One by one the pizza boxes emptied as plates filled with slices and generous helpings of salad. Bottle after bottle appeared from Yvonne’s parents’ wine cellar until a small army of glasses grew in the center of the table. Tinsley sated her hunger with a plain slice and forkfuls of Caesar salad, sipping at the merlot someone had set in front of her, the fruity wine bringing her taste buds alive. She felt ravenous. Who knew how many calories sledding could burn? Or maybe it was stewing about what a giant fake Sleigh was that had exhausted her.

She sawed through her piece of cheese pizza with a knife and fork from the same silver set her parents owned. A twinge of sadness shot through her as she realized how much she wished she were gathered around her
own
family dining room table instead of camped out in Yvonne’s apartment with Sleigh Monroe-Hill.

Yvonne clinked her fork against the glass, her pale blue eyes shining in the candlelight. “Everyone has to go around and say what they’re thankful for.” Tinsley felt a tiny bit sorry for Yvonne, knowing that come Monday most of the Owls in her apartment would treat her with the same disregard they had previous to her Thanksgiving blowout. No one was about to start inviting her to
their
parties. Herself included. “I’ll start,” Yvonne continued. “I’m thankful to be able to share this weekend with everyone.”

“Aww,” Jeremy said as he came in to swipe more pizza. “Isn’t that precious?” He gave Tinsley a lascivious smile, which she politely ignored. He’d been hitting on her all day.

“Shut up,
Jerm
.” Yvonne sneered.

“I’m thankful the Lions are up a touchdown.” Jeremy stuck a bottle of wine under his arm and made off with half a cheese pizza.

“I’m thankful he’s not
my
brother,” Rifat, on Yvonne’s left, joked.

Fueled by the wine and the free food, the thanks-fest went around the table, and Tinsley suffered through tributes to world peace, animal rights, and the new album from Five Times Fast before someone said, “I’m just thankful for a weekend away from Waverly.” A cheer of “hear, hear!” went around the table, everyone lifting their glasses. Tinsley clinked glasses with Julian, whose gold-flecked brown eyes caught her own for a split second before he took a swallow of wine.

That
, Tinsley wanted to shout gleefully.
That look is why I will never concede to Sleigh Monroe-Hill.

“What about you, Sleigh?” Yvonne asked. “You haven’t said anything.” How did they even know each other in the first place? At Waverly, Sleigh had been the worst kind of snob, and now she was buddy-buddy with Yvonne? Weird.

“I know.” Sleigh gazed toward the ceiling, her pale eyes taking on a dreamy look that either came from Yvonne’s brother’s pot or her own ethereal sense of well-being. “It’s just that there’s so much to be thankful for.” She paused dramatically and a hush fell over the dining room. Tinsley wanted to puke on every single one of Sleigh’s round brown freckles. One of the votive candles burned out and a hand reached out of the darkness and silently relit it. “I’m thankful for
WILDFAM
, the organization that sent me to the Dominican Republic to work on houses,” she finally said. “It changed my entire outlook on life.”

Tinsley put her head down and rolled her eyes. Christ, not the poor homeless Dominicans again. Didn’t she have any other shtick?

“I’m thankful for people who care about other people,” Julian said suddenly, glancing at Sleigh. Tinsley took a gulp of wine to recover. What did he mean by that? Was that directed at Sleigh? He wasn’t seriously interested in her, was he? First Julian dumped her for Jenny Humphrey, and now he was ditching her again for evil incarnate Sleigh Monroe-Hill? Sleigh wasn’t nicer than her—Sleigh wasn’t nicer than
anybody
. The thought sickened her, and before she could stop it, the words came tumbling out of her mouth.

“I’m thankful for a roommate who doesn’t throw my shit out the window,” she said sweetly, the wine buzzing in her head.

Even in the low light, Tinsley could see Sleigh turn bright red. Immediately, her shining, happy face cracked. “You fucking deserved it!” she shouted, a blue vein in her eyelid pulsing to life. She pushed away from the table, her tomato sauce- covered fork clattering on the floor in her wake. Tinsley watched her go, biting her lip to keep a smug smile from forming on her face.

Giggles broke out around the table. “I totally remember seeing all your shoes sprawled out across the lawn!” Rifat Jones spoke up, shaking her head. “I didn’t realize that was the same Sleigh.”

Tinsley just smiled and let everyone talk, grateful that the psycho’s secret was finally out.

Julian turned to Tinsley. “I guess it was too much to hope for.”