The It Girl (8 page)

Instead, he’d kissed her silently back, and then eventually the kissing had slowed, and he’d settled into the pillow next to her and fallen asleep. She’d listened to his breathing turn to soft snoring and wondered if he’d heard her at all. Maybe she’d said it too quietly? Callie had spent the whole summer hoping that was why he hadn’t said it back.

Callie did love him, she really did.
Didn’t he love her too?
She noticed one of those fat great horned owls watching them from a tree branch. He looked like that stupid cartoon from those old Tootsie Roll commercials. She felt self-conscious, like the owl was judging her.

“Remember what I said in bed?” she asked tentatively.

Easy suddenly stopped kissing her collarbone and slumped against her side.

She touched his arm. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” He breathed in deeply and looked out over the horse paddock. Shouts of the girls’ field hockey tryouts echoed from the practice fields. “This just seems … I don’t know.”

“What do you mean?” Callie’s voice came out in a high, embarrassing squeak. She shoved her Stella McCartney back on her right foot and sat up. A huge smear of gray dirt ran down her leg and she prayed it wasn’t horse manure.

A male figure appeared on the path leading down to the stables, pushing a wheelbarrow.

“Shit.” Callie grabbed Easy’s hands, pulling him up. “It’s Ben.”

Ben was the nasty old groundskeeper who always got kids in trouble. He even carried around a digital camera so he could have proof. Last year, he’d caught Heath Ferro smoking a joint by the natatorium, but Heath had bribed him to delete the photos by giving him his dad’s platinum heirloom Harry Winston cuff links.

They scrambled to the other side of the stable and pressed themselves against a wooden door. “I should probably go back to my room,” Easy whispered.

“Whatever.” Callie dug her heel into the dirt, even though she knew it was going to totally ruin her shoes. Shit. Why had she brought up Spain?

“Look.” He took her hands. “I’m sorry. Let’s try this again. Your dorm room. Tonight. After the welcome dinner.”

“Yeah, right,” Callie scoffed. “You’re already on Angelica’s watch list.”

“I’ll find a way.” Easy pulled her close and held her for a second. “I promise,” he whispered, then dashed away.

Instant Message Inbox

AlanStGirard:
Where’s Heath?

BrandonBuchanan:
Still in bed. Hasn’t showered. Smells awful.

AlanStGirard:
Dude, it’s almost dinner!

BrandonBuchanan:
I know. I think he’s still drunk tho.

AlanStGirard:
He left with that new chick last night.

BrandonBuchanan
: Who?

AlanStGirard:
Dark curly hair? Big boobs? They say she was a stripper in
NYC
.

BrandonBuchanan:
Nah. She never showed last night.

AlanStGirard
: Sure she did. You were too busy staring at Callie to notice. Heath took her to the chapel. Think she gave him a lap dance?

Instant Message Inbox

AlisonQuentin:
This chapel stinks. Why is Marymount’s Welcome to Waverly speech always so loooong?

BennyCunningham:
No kidding. Where’s u-know-who?

AlisonQuentin:
Dunno. But did you know Sage drew a little pony on the marker boards of all the girls in her dorm who’ve hooked up with him? So far there are six, including the new girl. That’s just one floor of Dumbarton.

BennyCunningham:
How come I don’t have a pony on my board?

AlisonQuentin:
You hooked up w/ him?

BennyCunningham:
We kissed freshman year! A little sloppy, but good technique.

AlisonQuentin:
B! I thought you were my innocent friend!

“You are part of a grand tradition.” The deep, penetrating voice of Dean Marymount boomed and thudded around the chapel. Everyone said Marymount had been this big revolutionary protester back in the seventies and that he was a card-carrying member of Mensa, but Jenny thought he looked more like a Little League coach who drove a Dodge minivan than the dean of a prestigious boarding school. His graying comb-over was plastered to his sweaty head. Behind him sat the Waverly faculty, all wearing the school’s uniform—maroon and navy tie, maroon jacket, white shirt, trousers. Normally students just had to wear the maroon Waverly blazer with anything they wanted underneath, but for the first chapel meeting of the year everyone had to wear a tie, girls included. Jenny’s half-Windsor knot was all lumpy. She sighed. Her father only owned one tie, which was covered in cobwebs. She’d never asked, but he’d probably had it since
he
was a sophomore in high school.

They had gathered for Dean Marymount’s official beginning-of-the-year speech before the first official all-campus dinner. The chapel was packed and smelled of teenaged-boy BO and feet.

Last night, she’d awakened Heath enough to deposit him on the stoop in front of Richards, and then she’d crawled back to Dumbarton, exhausted. In the middle of the night, either Brett or Callie had unplugged Jenny’s clock radio to use the outlet to charge a cell phone. Luckily the chapel bells had woken her so she could get to field hockey tryouts on time. Every Waverly student had to play a sport, and Jenny had decided on field hockey, since it seemed like the most traditional boarding school sport to play. She planned on playing lacrosse in the spring for the same reason. Jenny didn’t even have a hockey stick, but the bulldoggish coach, Alice Smail, had found her an extra Cranberry in the field house, and Jenny had soon discovered that she was a natural on the field.

“You’re
sure
you didn’t play for your school?” Coach Smail asked her. As if Jenny could have forgotten. Her scrimmage team’s center, Kenleigh, whom Jenny had seen at the party last night, murmured, “Good move,” as Jenny trotted back to the sidelines. Maybe she’d even make the varsity cut!

“This year, we have some new faculty members that I would like to introduce,” Dean Marymount announced. Jenny checked her watch. They’d already been here for forty minutes, singing Waverly’s school hymn and Waverly’s sports hymn, reciting the Waverly prayer to St. Francis, and clapping as Marymount introduced the school’s prefects, which were like the presidents of each class. Jenny was starving. “First off, a Waverly alum and a recent graduate of Brown University, we have Mr. Eric Dalton. Mr. Dalton will be the new junior and senior ancient history professor and an adviser to the Disciplinary Committee. He’s also the new assistant coach for the boys’ crew team. Welcome.” Everyone clapped obediently.

Jenny spied Brett, who had just been forced to stand and wave at the class because she was the junior class’s prefect, two rows ahead. Jenny watched as Brett elbowed the brunette next to her and mouthed the words
Oh my God
.

“I’d like to extend a warm welcome all the incoming freshmen and new students—Waverly is your new home, and we are your new family,” Marymount continued. “And finally … enjoy dinner!”

The crowd erupted in applause and hoots as it poured out of the chapel and across the great lawn toward the dining hall. Jenny gasped when she walked in. The dining hall looked like the inside of an old English cathedral. The walls were plastered with class pictures dating back to 1903 and with a lot of photographs of Maximilian Waverly, the school’s founder.

Students milled around, kissing each other and slapping each other’s hands. Jenny wasn’t sure what to do. Where was she supposed to sit?

“It’s a little crazy in here, huh?”

Jenny turned, hoping it might be Heath finally making an appearance. Instead, standing next to her was the boy with the easel she’d seen across the green yesterday with Yvonne. Easy. At least, that was what she thought Yvonne had said his name was.

His hair was so brown it was almost black, and his eyes were deep blue. He wore a beat-up green T-shirt with a yellow sil-houette of a horseshoe underneath his Waverly blazer. It was the sort of chic T-shirt that they’d sell at Barneys for $65, but his looked decidedly real-deal vintage. He voice was gravelly, with an accent she couldn’t quite place.

“A little crazy, yeah,” Jenny agreed. She stepped aside to let him pass. A Smythson of Bond Street sketchbook hung out of his green canvas messenger bag. A single sheet of paper of sketched eyes, noses, and mouths was clipped to the cover. “Hey, are you taking portraiture?”

“Yeah, I am. You?”

“Oh. Um, I am too.” Silently, Jenny attempted to pull her-self together. You’re New Jenny now, she reminded herself.

“Cool.” Easy slapped hands with a boy who’d just walked in. “So, see you later.” He smiled at Jenny.

“Hey,” a familiar voice beckoned from behind her. She turned and smiled at Brandon, who looked even cuter and cleaner than yesterday—if that was possible—in his maroon Waverly blazer and striped tie. “It’s formal dinner. They have assigned seating. You’re at my table.”

“Oh. Thanks.” Jenny smiled gratefully and followed him through the crowded dining room. “So, um, how long did the party go on last night?”

“Oh, the usual.” Brandon’s eyes shifted to the floor. “I didn’t even see you there. Go home early?”

Jenny bit her lower lip. “Um, yeah.”

They arrived at a table already occupied by two students: a very tall boy with a nose ring and a very tall girl whose angular face, large, wide-set brown eyes and thick brown hair all screamed good breeding.

“This is Ryan Reynolds, and this is Benny Cunningham.”

“I saw you at the party last night. I’m Jenny.” She smiled at Benny.

“That’s right.” Benny nodded, shooting a knowing look at Ryan.

Jenny took off her hot wool Waverly jacket and draped it over her chair.

“You can’t do that,” Benny hissed. “The faculty will freak.”

“Oh.” Jenny quickly slid the jacket back on. She looked around the room; most of the students were sitting at their tables already, blazers on.

“Looking for Heath?” Benny blurted out. Ryan nudged her.

“Oh.” Jenny shook out her pristine maroon cloth napkin, hoping her face wasn’t turning the same color. “Yeah. He was … he was a little … tired last night. I had to help him home.”

“Bombed is more like it,” Ryan laughed. “Anyway, Brandon, you getting psyched for Black Saturday?” he asked, stabbing the old wooden table with his knife.

“What’s Black Saturday?” Jenny asked curiously.

“Don’t get too excited,” Brandon laughed. “It’s when all the St. Lucius sports teams come to Waverly and we have this blowout bloodfest. The teams take it really seriously, because we’re supposed to hate St. Lucius so much. It’s another tradition. You’re playing field hockey, right?”

“Yes.” Jenny smiled. She’d never been on a team before. “Tryouts were today.”

“Well, the girls’ field hockey team plays, along with the soccer and football teams. But then when it’s over, the kids from both schools party like rock stars at a secret location that isn’t revealed until that day.”

“Heath usually throws the party,” Benny offered, refastening her silver Tiffany charm bracelet on her wrist. “But maybe he told you that already?”

Student servers in starched white oxfords and pressed gray flannel trousers set down large, creamy white plates laden with grilled salmon marinated in honey wasabi. This was way better than her dad’s experimental lamb-and-pineapple lasagna vodka flambé.

“Oh my God. This smells
delicious
.” Jenny grabbed her fork and took a huge bite. “
Mmm
!”

“Dude, you’re eating the salmon?”

A boy put his elbows on the table next to her. Heath.
Finally
. “Hey.” She covered her full mouth with her hand.

“Nobody eats the salmon,” Heath scoffed. There wasn’t a hint of the amorous, you’re-a-sex-goddess vibe he’d laid on last night.

Jenny’s eyes widened. She looked around at the other plates, and sure enough, no one else at the table had touched their fish. “Why? Is there something wrong with it?”

Brandon turned to her. “No—it’s fine. People just … don’t eat it. I don’t know why. It’s like, a
thing
.”

“Jenny?” Someone tapped her on the back. She turned to see Yvonne, the girl who had escorted her to Dumbarton yesterday. Tortoiseshell butterfly clips held clumps of Yvonne’s dishwaterblond hair back, and her pale blue eyes were as googly and crazed as they’d been yesterday. “Can I talk to you?” Yvonne glanced nervously at the others at the table. “In the hall?”

Ryan and Benny exchanged another knowing look. Jenny shrugged and placed her napkin over her fish.
New Jenny is not easily flustered
, she told herself. So what if no one ate the fish? New Jenny did what she pleased!

Yvonne led Jenny out into the front entryway of the dining hall.

“I hope this isn’t about jazz ensemble,” Jenny declared up front. “Because I’m kind of really not interested. I’m basically tone-deaf.”

“No, it’s not that. I’ve, um, heard some things about you, and I thought you should know.”

“Huh?” Jenny sucked in her breath. She’d gotten I-thoughtyou-should-know speeches before, and it almost always turned out that she never wanted to know.

“Everyone’s IMing about you.”

“What?” Jenny demanded slowly.

Yvonne took a deep breath. “They’re saying that you used to be a stripper and took your clothes off for, like, a dollar. And you’re like this New York City sex legend. And, er, you’ve already slept with someone here at Waverly.”

“What!?” Jenny squeaked. Suddenly the hallway seemed dim and hazy. “With whom!? I mean, who’s saying that?”

Yvonne looked down. “That boy who was at your table. Heath Ferro. I don’t know if you even know him yet, but he—”