Callie curtsied. “Thanks.”
“What are you supposed to be?” he asked, still not looking at her.
“Cinderella, dummy,” Callie answered playfully. She sensed Easy was in one of his moods and desperately wanted to turn the tide—but at least he was talking to her. That had to be a good sign.
“Well, you are a princess,” Easy answered, his eyes wandering around the room. He sighed heavily, a long, boozy breath that fogged the air.
“Cinderella's not really a princess,” Callie corrected him, realizing her mistake right away. Easy seemed to be smirking— Easy never smirked, not at her—and Callie withered under his glare. She felt people around them nudging and turning to look. “Can we go somewhere private? And talk?” she suggested quietly. She touched his flannel sleeve, but he pulled it away.
“I just got here.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Callie saw Benny and Celine, punch cups in hand, pretending not to stare at the conversation unfolding between her and Easy. “Look.” Callie pressed her lips together. “You have to give me a chance to explain.”
“I don't have to do anything.” Easy stared down at her, his dark blue eyes meeting her hazel ones for the first time in weeks. But instead of the familiar, loving gaze she was used to, his eyes were cold and unfamiliar. “You don't always get your way, princess.”
“You're drunk.” Her tone was more accusatory than she would've wished, but Easy hadn't heard her. He was already pushing into the crowd, heading for the punch cauldron.
“The thing about you is that you do whatever the fuck you want and don't even care if other people get hurt in the process,” Easy snarled over his shoulder, barely glancing back. “Just as long as you're happy.”
“Would you just … wait a second?” Callie said desperately, drawing more eyes to them. A string of silver lights fell from the wall, landing in a big tangled mess on the floor, but no one seemed to notice. The last thing she wanted was to get into a huge fight in front of everyone, but she couldn't let Easy just walk away from her. Did he really think she was happy?
Easy turned around and finally seemed to notice that people were staring. An embarrassed look crossed his face, and Callie fought the urge to press her face into his chest.
Easy stuck his hands in the pockets of his Levi's as he stared into Callie's desperate eyes. He knew for sure that he'd be sick later, but for now he choked back the rising tide of alcohol. He'd told himself he didn't want to run into Callie at the Halloween party, but in truth, it was the thought of seeing her that had propelled him out of his room and away from the bottle of Jack Daniels nestled under his bed. He'd spent the last two weeks cutting class to ride Credo until the afternoon sun faded in the west, skipping dinner in favor of something in town, picking up a fifth of J.D. and holing up in his room. His anger about Jenny's near expulsion and Callie's hand in it had made him want to tear out his hair. Who did shit like that? Try and get your innocent roommate expelled because you were jealous of her?
Callie looked beautiful in a fairy-tale princess kind of way—if you liked that kind of thing. Part of him wanted to scoop her up in his arms and whisk her away to the ball or wherever the hell she wanted to go—anywhere but back to the bourbon stink of his prisonlike dorm room. But she couldn't just wave a magic wand and make everything go away—though apparently, she thought she could. She was the same old Callie. Why couldn't she just let things be? He took a step toward her and lowered his voice. “I just don't understand why you're doing this to me again.”
“What am I doing again?” Callie asked indignantly, crossing her thin arms defensively.
“Can't you see how much I—” Easy couldn't finish the sentence. It hurt to be in love with someone he wanted to hate.
“What?” Callie snapped. “Can't I see what?”
“Quit torturing me,” Easy pleaded angrily.
Someone with a sheet over his head and two holes poked out for eyes passed by. “I’m up for some torture.” He meowed and scratched the air before being swept back into the crowd.
“I’m not doing anything!” Callie cried out. She waved the baby-blue glove in her hand pitifully.
“You just don't get it, do you?” Easy turned on her, feeling the dam holding back the anger inside him break completely. “You're a bitch, Callie. A spoiled little bitch, and there's nothing I can do to change that.”
Callie felt her jaw drop. The fact that dozens of people watched as the supposed love of her life called her a bitch wasn't the most devastating part—it was the fact that Easy Walsh, her Prince Charming, really thought that about her. He didn't want to hear her side of the story—he didn't care.
She clamped her hands over her ears and ran away from Easy, cutting through the crowd, one side of her upsweep collapsing completely. She fumbled for her jacket in the crowded coatroom, her strawberry blond waves falling messily in front of her face so that she could barely see. She kicked her glass slippers against the wall of the foyer and braced for the cold night as she bounded out the door. But as she skipped down the steps of the faculty club, the only thing she felt was the sting of tears on her cheek.
She reached for her cell phone, her fingers barely able to dial the number as she stood shivering in the darkness.
“Mom?” Callie sucked in her breath so that her mother couldn't tell she was crying. “I changed my mind. How soon can the car be here?”
TinsleyCarmichael: Cinderella, how's the party? R U ready for my grand entrance?
TinsleyCarmichael: Hello?
8
AN OWL KNOWS A LATE ENTRANCE IS THE MOST GRAND—UNLESS SHE MISSES ALL THE FUN.
Tinsley took her sweet time crossing campus on the chilly October night, staring up at the trees as they stretched their nearly bare arms across the inky black sky. As she walked, she wondered what the hell had happened to the Waverly she knew and loved. For the past two weeks, it had been downright boring. Well, she was about to get it back tonight—the annual Halloween ball was hers, as it had been for the past two years running. Before Tinsley Carmichael, it had been unheard-of for a freshman to win the best-costume prize. But Tinsley, in her Scarlett O'Hara costume, had stunned convention, managing to look both insanely hot and incredibly classy. That was the secret to the competition, after all, and something so many of the underclass Waverlies failed to comprehend.
A hundred yards away she could feel the bass booming from the faculty club, and Tinsley picked up her step, her vintage navy blue wool capelet keeping at least the top of her warmish. A rush of cold, wintery air swept across the open quad, chilling her stockinged legs, but the anticipation of a roomful of people turning their heads in her direction was enough to keep her moving. She'd wanted to arrive fashionably late and had purposely spent the last half an hour in her room, listening to the new Black Eyed Peas CD and watching the clock on her iPhone click down to the appropriate hour. Only wannabes and try-hards arrived when a party started—everyone knew that. Some might say the same about going to parties alone, but there was a fine line, Tinsley knew, and she'd always been on the right side of it. It killed her to arrive in a crowd.
Marching up the empty steps to the faculty club building brought back a wave of pleasant memories. The last time she'd been in the building had been for the winter formal her freshman year, with Johnny Pak, a tall Asian senior on the crew team who had an amazingly toned body. He'd sneaked her down to the faculty wine cellar in the depths of Prescott, and the two of them had proceeded to empty the most expensive bottle of cabernet available and talk about French cinema and kiss.
In the tall glass windows of the faculty club lobby, Tinsley caught a glimpse of herself—her shimmery silver dress peeping out beneath her capelet, her long locks tucked neatly under a perfectly fitting blond bobbed wig, a real movie-quality one and not something ordered off costumes.com or something like that. A silver band held the short do in place, a single violet feather—to bring out the color of her eyes—stuck in one side of it. She looked fabulous, a vi
ntage flapper, with each piece of her costume absolutely perfect, and completely elegant in a way that she was sure none of the people inside the party could claim. If tradition held, they were all dressed as Playboy bunnies or cartoon characters. She took off her jacket and hung it neatly at the front of the coatroom and was about to push open the huge oak doors to the ballroom when they burst open themselves, toward her.
Easy Walsh, in a pair of dirty Levi's and a worn plaid shirt that looked like a dirty handkerchief, charged past her.
“Don't tell me—Brokeback Mountain, right?” Tinsley called out to him, annoyed that he hadn't managed to appreciate how incredibly hot she looked. He pushed through the front door with a loud clatter.
Tinsley stepped through the door, avoiding a fake spider-web draped over the entrance, and surveyed the scene. To her approval, there was a surprisingly low number of pumpkins and hay and other cheesy Halloween décor. Instead, the room was dimly lit and kind of romantic looking, with black and white lights, a spooky haunted house off to the right, and slowly twirling disco balls. Not bad for a Thursday night.
Celine Colista and Benny Cunningham immediately rushed to Tinsley's side. “Lovely, T.” Celine, dressed in a red corset and tight red hot pants as some kind of she-devil, fingered Tinsley's lacy to-the-elbow gloves. “You look like Daisy … what's her name? The airhead from the Gatsby book?”
“Buchanan,” Benny slurred, fumbling through her bag for something. She pulled out a half-empty pack of wintergreen Lifesavers and popped two in her mouth, then held out the package to Tinsley, who ignored it. Benny's blond starlet wig had shifted to the left, making it look like she was wearing a bad weave. “And don't tell Tinsley she looks like an airhead.”
Celine's eyes widened. “I didn't mean it like that.” She glanced nervously at Tinsley and poked her three-pronged plastic devil's rod into the floor. “Tinsley knows that.”
“How about we stop talking about me like I’m not here?” Tinsley drawled, her eyes already scanning the room for less drunk and more interesting people to talk to. Judging by the quality of costumes in the room—a go-go dancer in a vinyl dress, Emily Jenkins as the annoying chick in Harry Potter, half a dozen hippies—winning the contest would not be a problem.
“Got any booze?” Benny leaned toward Tinsley, her wintergreen breath hot in her ear. “I’m out.” Benny produced an empty perfume bottle as evidence, glancing up to check on the locations of various chaperones.
Tinsley felt the touch of the flask she'd secreted in her garter belt, cold against her skin, but shook her head no. “Me too.” She took in the crowd, heads bobbing to Oingo Boingo's “Dead Man's Party,” a group of freshmen dressed as the Blue Man Group break-dancing in a circle in the corner while someone dressed improbably as a giant toilet looked on. The break dancing notwithstanding, the party gave Tinsley a thrill. She could feel a multitude of eyes on her, watching the way her silver dress shimmered perfectly in the ghostly lighting. Her double-strand freshwater pearl necklace fell just below her chest, and each time she caught some guy she half-recognized slide his eyes up her body in approval, she gave herself an extra point.
The last few weeks had been such a downer. The knowledge that Little-Miss-Innocent Jenny Humphrey had almost gotten expelled had been enough to choke the life out of any extracurricular fun at Waverly, the party scene completely evaporating. Pathetic.
Tinsley made her way to the punch bowl, but only the dregs were left. She lingered near the empty vessel, feeling the weight of her fellow Waverlies’ eyes on her costume. She touched her ultra-thin fake cigarette holder to her lips, watching out of the corner of her eye as half a dozen guys from the hockey team glanced in her direction—the trip to New York for the outfit had definitely been worth it. She'd known exactly what she wanted and had also known it couldn't be found at the shitty thrift stores in Rhinecliff. She'd had a mild panic attack when she'd overheard Verena Arneval saying she was going to New York to get her costume, but was relieved to see Verena dressed in full pirate regalia courtesy of Abracadabra on West Twenty-first, where Tinsley had bought an Alice in Wonderland costume in the second grade.
The trip to New York was supposed to be a bit of a getaway, too. The somber mood on campus was almost too annoying to bear, so much so that Tinsley fancied a weekend away with her parents, who she hoped would be surprised when she showed up at their Gramercy Park apartment. But they were gone, the message on her mother's voice mail saying they were in Amsterdam, and Tinsley had spent the evening watching reruns of Sex and the City and drinking some of their most expensive wine.
Tinsley shook off the memory of her lonely weekend in NYC, returning her attention to the party at hand. The opening riff of Metallica's “Enter Sandman” boomed and the crowd pulsed at once. Tinsley slowly made her way back toward the entrance, secretly hoping that Julian was spying on her. She didn't even know if he was at the party—it was the sort of thing he'd be too cool for, but it was also the sort of thing he'd be totally up for, in an unironic way. He'd been avoiding her, and she knew why—the whole Jenny thing, of course. But she also knew he'd get over it eventually. Besides, Jenny hadn't been kicked out. And it didn't look like Jenny and Julian were together anymore, either. So wasn't it about fucking time for Julian to come back to her?
She worked her way out onto the dance floor, everyone moving to make room for her as she swayed to the beat, dancing a few steps here and there with the various hot guys she came across, gracing them each with a few moments of her presence before moving on to the next one. But she couldn't stop thinking about Julian. Where was he? It made her furious that she cared so much, even though he'd had the nerve to drop her like she was a leper. She thought for a moment the Civil War soldier might be him, but he was too tall. As she caught a glimpse of blond hair poking out of his hat, she realized it was a senior point guard who had notoriously odorous BO. Frodo was too short. The James Dean was too fat, and the guy dressed up like Han Solo was too … ugly. She quit scanning the room, not wanting to really know if Julian was watching her or not. She could only imagine he was and with luck he was having second thoughts. She'd been inspiring second thoughts her whole life.
Tinsley reached for her flask and moved toward Heath Ferro and Kara Whalen, who were standing off in a corner, whispering annoyingly. (Secondarily annoying to Jenny's sudden conversion to Waverly demigod was Heath fucking Ferro dating a lesbo-wannabe with no fashion sense—how on earth had that happened?) Angelica Pardee, dressed as a not very convincing Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz, ascended the riser next to the empty punch bowl, a microphone in hand. The music stopped and an excited murmur rushed through the crowd.
“Hello?” Pardee said into the microphone, her full-skirted blue apron dress sticking out around her as if she had on a petticoat. Her reddish brown hair was pulled into two low ponytails at the sides of her head, both of which had been hair-sprayed into sausage-shaped curls. “Hello.”
Tinsley's heart beat faster, and she surreptitiously slid her flask back into her garter belt. She moved casually through the crowd toward the front of the room, pretending to be looking for someone. “Excuse me,” she murmured, splitting the Blue Man Group on her way toward the stage.
“There are a lot of great costumes here tonight,” Pardee intoned seriously, as if worried about hurting someone's feelings. “This year's contest was an extremely tough call, I can tell, but everyone has cast their ballot and the wait is over.”
As Tinsley approached the stage, she touched the flask again to make sure it was secure—she didn't want it dropping out on the stage for Pardee and the whole world to see.
“But tonight there's only one winner.” Pardee paused dramatically, waving a tiny white envelope. Tinsley took a deep breath, feeling the eyes of the crowd turn toward her, waiting for her to rise up onstage and claim her rightful crown. She stared up at Pardee, her heart beating quickly, feeling, finally, that things were returning to normal.
“Give me a hand, will you?” she asked Alan St. Gi
rard, who was dressed as Eminem. Alan held out his arm and Tinsley grabbed it, about to hoist herself up on the stage as Pardee pressed her lips to the microphone.
“And the winner is …” The audience was silent as Pardee fumbled with the envelope, pulling out a small square of paper. Tinsley lifted a silver art deco Manolo Blahnik off the ground, ready for applause. “Jenny Humphrey.”
Pardee glanced down at Tinsley, puzzled, as if she were a rock star and Tinsley were a psychotic fan about to jump onstage and tear off her shirt. Tinsley stumbled back into the crowd as the room erupted in applause and whistles—for Jenny! Tinsley felt her eyes burn with anger. Was this really happening?
“You look cute, Eminem,” Tinsley whispered in her seductive voice, hoping Alan was drunk enough to be convinced she was hitting on him—instead of being so arrogant to think she'd won. “Catch ya later.”
Tinsley tossed her short bobbed hair, longing for the security of her long locks falling down her back. She felt faint as she pushed away from the stage and spotted Jenny Humphrey, face plastered with an all-too-innocent grin, making her way toward the stage in some kind of Roman slave girl getup. She pushed past Benny and Celine, who were clapping madly. Traitors.
Unbelievable. What happened to tradition? To Tinsley Carmichael being chosen queen of the Halloween ball?
Apparently, there was a new queen in town—and judging from the hoots from the crowd, Tinsley was the last to know.
9
A WAVERLY OWL RESPECTS VISITATION HOURS AND DOES NOT, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, TRY TO BREAK INTO THE GIRLS’ DORM.
The rain tasted like acid on Easy's tongue as he drunkenly navigated his way to his secret spot in the woods, unable to stomach any more of the stupid Halloween party. His hiking boots plodded across the muddy ground as he wove his way through the damp branches, wet leaves smacking his face. He left his shearling-lined jean jacket unbuttoned, enjoying the feel of the cold wind through his shirt. When he finally made it to his clearing, he stumbled over to the large rock and sat down on it, instantly feeling dampness seep through his jeans. He was wet, cold, and uncomfortable, and somehow that seemed appropriate. Telling Callie off, after weeks of dreaming about it, was nothing like what he'd expected. He'd read enough poetry and looked at enough paintings to know that heartbreak was supposed to be inspiring, and that getting over it was supposed to be vindicating. But instead of inspired, Easy just felt like shit.
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