Reckless

by Cecily von Ziegesar

  Jenny practically melted beneath the silence and the withering gazes of the two older girls. “Uh, see you at the gym, I guess… .” Her tiny voice trailed off as she backed away toward the stairs.

  “Is that my marker?” Tinsley demanded coolly.

  “Oh, sorry.” Jenny retraced her steps and handed the marker to Tinsley, pulling her hand back as if she was afraid of getting burned. “Can you tell Brett … Never mind,” she corrected herself, suddenly remembering that Tinsley and Brett weren't exactly talking either. “I better go.”

  Callie and Tinsley stared at her as she disappeared around the corner. Then Tinsley placed her hand on Callie's long, slim arm. “Don't worry. She'll get what's coming to her.” Tinsley's mischievous violet eyes sparkled. She was a schemer, and revenge was her favorite kind of fun. It was obvious she already had a plan in the works to “get” Jenny.

  But Callie wasn't amused. The truth was she didn't want to get Jenny.

  She just wanted Easy back where he belonged.

  To:BriannaMesserschmidt@elle.com

  From:BrettMesserschmidt@waverly.edu

  Date:Wednesday, October 2, 4:04 p.m.

  Subject:Bliss

  Bree,

  Haven't heard from you in a while. I hope your boss isn't pulling a Devil Wears Prada on you. Things are going well here at good ole Waverly—though I'm planning on being kind of a traitorous Owl this weekend and cheering on St. Lucius's team at Jeremiah's homecoming—but I'll really just be cheering for him. He's been unbelievable lately, and I'm planning on rewarding him soon… . I'll keep you posted.

  Don't worry, I'll still be your Little Sis

  ;)

  4

  THE FIELD HOUSE IS AVAILABLE AT SCHEDULED TIMES FOR WAVERLY OWLS TO PRACTICE INDOOR ATHLETICS.

  Brett Messerchmidt didn't have time to check her email in between afternoon classes because she hadn't finished the translation of her assigned portion of Ovid's Metamorphoses for last-period Latin. She was in an intermediate class, and until three weeks ago, she'd been cursing herself for not testing into beginning Latin, taught by sexy Mr. Dalton. Past tense. Due to an altercation of a sexual kind with a student named Brett, he had been fired and would no longer be available for intimate wine-enhanced student-teacher conferences. Brett was grateful now that her teacher was the somewhat asexual, forty-something Mrs. Graver and not someone she had almost—almost—slept with. Still, the last week and a half with so-in-love-with-her Jeremiah had almost erased all memories of how she'd completely made an ass of herself over Mr. Dalton. Almost.

  After class, she grabbed her kelly green Pasha & Jo belted raincoat and rushed out to the field house, hoping to practice shooting before the rest of the field hockey team got there. But there was a note taped on the heavy metal doors, telling the team to meet at Lasell gym instead. Ugh. All the way back across campus in the hair-frizzing rain? Brett tugged on the door—it was unlocked. She grinned and pulled out her phone.

  Thirty-five minutes later, she was lying on one of the blue pole-vaulting mats next to Jeremiah. Their bodies sank into the cushy mat like they were sprawled on the softest, queenliest mattress in the world. The field house, where all the Waverly sports teams stored their equipment, felt ghostly and romantic.

  “I've never seen the inside of this place.” Jeremiah looked up at the high, beamed ceiling, his hands beneath his head. Rain pounded the aluminum roof relentlessly.

  Brett turned on her side to face him, grateful that her one-of-a-kind Indian print gypsy skirt was supposed to be crinkled. A short lock of red hair—the piece that always managed to fall into her face no matter how many barrettes she had holding it back—was hanging right in front of her eyes, and it felt like she was looking at Jeremiah through a gauzy red curtain.

  Before meeting him, she wasn't into jock types. She was always attracted to older men—well dressed, sophisticated, maybe even European—like Gunther, the Swiss guy she'd met on a ski trip, whom she had supposedly lost her virginity to. At least, that was her story. But now that things were going so well with Jeremiah, she wanted to clear up any lingering misunderstandings between them. When they'd first started dating last year, after meeting at Heath Ferro's spring bash at his parents' estate in Woodstock, she hadn't exactly been up front with him. He'd assumed she was the worldly, mature, experienced girl she'd pretended to be since coming to Waverly. That assumption included the fact (or non-fact) that she wasn't a virgin. She'd made no effort to correct the misunderstanding, even after he'd confided to her that he still was. Brett knew it was stupid and immature to pretend to be something she wasn't, but it had made her feel more confident about their relationship. She liked being the one who made the rules, the one who drew the boundaries, the one who had been there, done that. Besides, she hadn't been ready then to tell Jeremiah the truth or to lose her virginity.

  But now, things were different.

  “You won't get in trouble for skipping practice to make out with your girlfriend?” she asked coyly, tracing her fingers gently across Jeremiah's broad chest. He was so … delicious. Brett kept her touch light since, for the whole week following a football game, Jeremiah's entire body was completely bruised and battered. He was St. Lucius's star quarterback this year, and he got tackled a lot.

  Speaking of tackling, Brett thought. She rolled toward Jeremiah.

  “S'okay.” His blue-green eyes swept across her face. “The practice field floods when it rains like this. We're just supposed to put in a few hours at the gym tonight.”

  “Yeah, I'm supposed to do that too.” Brett made a face. “I fucking hate the gym, though. All the goony jock guys—no offense—just drool over the girls in their little Puma shorts. It's kind of gross.”

  “Wait, you think I'm a jock?” Jeremiah asked in mock surprise.

  “You're the star quarterback, sweetheart. Doesn't that automatically make you a jock?” Brett craned her neck and touched his lips with hers, not exactly kissing him. “You're a cute jock, though.”

  “I guess that's a little better.” He kissed her back, a little harder. “And I like it when you call me ‘sweetheart.’” It came out sweet-haht, in Jeremiah's raw Boston accent. How could she ever have gotten tired of it? It sounded so exotic to her now and even sexier when she thought that this was the way that John F. Kennedy had sounded. Ooh. Kennedys. Jeremiah was practically cut from the same cloth—well, without all the sex and drug scandals. His family was much too sane for that.

  “Hey.” She pushed his getting-a-little-long reddish brown hair behind his ear. “What are the plans for this weekend?”

  “Oh, baby!” Jeremiah moved his hands from his head and rubbed them together over his chest. “It's gonna be awesome. First, we're going to kick Millford's asses at homecoming, then we're going to party like rock-stars.” Rock stabs.

  “Rock stars, huh?” Brett grinned. Sounded like fun. She had been studying hard lately, and it felt good to be thinking about another party. She hadn't been sad to miss the bash at the Ritz-Bradley the other weekend after Tinsley kicked her out of her exclusive girls' club. She'd had much more fun hanging out with Jenny, and, of course, Jeremiah when he snuck into Dumbarton. But ever since the forced room swap, sharing a room exclusively with her former BFF Tinsley Carmichael had caused Brett to do a lot more homework than she normally would. At first, she'd tried to avoid the room as much as possible, spending her evenings in the library, but then she'd realized that meant Tinsley won. And so she started doing her homework in the dorm room with Tinsley, both of them completely ignoring each other. It was slightly fucked up, but Brett wasn't about to cave. After all, Tinsley had stolen Mr. Dalton right out from under her. Sure, it ended up being a blessing in disguise. But deliberately stealing your friend's crush was totally traitorous behavior that deserved a grave punishment.

  St. Lucius's homecoming weekend sounded like the perfect opportunity to let loose. “I could get into that.”

  “Of course you could,” Jeremiah agreed. “You'll be the hottest
one there.”

  He was so sweet. She planted another kiss on him. “I guess I'd better start planning my outfit, then.” Brett was psyched to get the chance to meet some of Jeremiah's friends. Maybe she could even set Callie up with one of them. Whoa, what was she thinking? Callie was barely speaking to her anymore either. Brett had clearly been branded a traitor for being friends with Jenny. Tinsley's friendship she could do without—ever since she'd come back from South Africa that fall, she'd been intolerable. Nastier and even more aloof, if that was possible. But it felt funny not being close to Callie anymore. She missed hearing her babble in her sleep. Sometimes she'd even have whole conversations with herself. The room was just too quiet without her.

  “How do you feel about having dinner with my parents?” Jeremiah looked sheepish, as if there was no way Brett could be expected to bear such a burden.

  “Are you kidding?” she practically squealed, sitting up. “I love your family.” Maybe she'd wear the new dual-strand fresh-water pearl rope necklace she'd found at Pimpernel's—though it was usually a little too chichi for Brett's more eccentric taste, she'd had a desperate shopping craving last week and had dragged Jenny to the boutique. They'd tried on overpriced dresses they weren't planning on buying and ignored the scowls from the blond saleswoman who clearly did not appreciate the business of Waverly Owls—except the ones like Callie, who had charge accounts there. Pearls were not normally Brett's thing, a little too debutante for her, but these were funky and oddly shaped, and she could imagine someone like Sienna Miller tossing them around her neck to liven up any boring old black dress. They were actually just right for dinner with the Mortimers, who themselves were über-classy, with a little off-kilter friskiness to them.

  “You don't mind?” Jeremiah shifted on the mat, causing Brett to slide closer to him. She certainly didn't mind that. “We can get a good dinner out of them, at least.”

  Brett placed her small, gold-ringed hand on Jeremiah's and leaned over him. “And then we can go out … and, uh, have a good time.”

  Jeremiah kissed her cheek and let his mouth linger there, so that she could feel the words as he spoke them. “I like the sound of that.”

  He was so adorable. She wanted to jump his bones. Oh God. Not now, Brett reminded herself. Her whole body tensed with anticipation. St. Lucius would certainly win their homecoming game, and Brett would stand on the sidelines cheering Jeremiah on, wearing some outfit that would make the St. Lucius girls weep with jealousy. After Jeremiah threw the winning touchdown and the fans rushed the field, she would run across the grass (note: don't wear spiky heels) and throw her arms around Jeremiah's padded shoulders, and he would spin her around and give her one of those dramatic, movie-ending kisses. They'd go out to dinner with his family, to St. Lucius's equivalent of Le Petit Coq, and Brett would dazzle the Mortimers with her knowledge of world affairs (note: browse through some Newsweeks at the library), all the while trying not to get too caught up in the sexy, devastating stares Jeremiah would shoot at her from across the table. After cheek-kissing Mr. and Mrs. Mortimer au revoir, she and Jeremiah would go somewhere very private, romantic, and perfect for them to lose their virginity together.

  She snuggled her head into Jeremiah's shoulder, and as he squeezed her back, she thanked fate and her good sense for not letting her sleep with Mr. Dalton. Jeremiah was the one she had been saving herself for. And she only had to wait a few more days.

  From:HeathFerro@waverly.edu

  To:beerdude101@hotmail.com

  Date:Wednesday, October 2, 6:49 p.m.

  Subject:Delivery of da goods

  Bro,

  Thanks for the hook-up—six half-kegs should get the party started right. Remember where you dropped off last time? Go a little farther—the sixth building on the access road is Dumbarton, the lovely ladies' dorm. I'll meet you at the back.

  Midnight. Whoohoo!!

  H

  HeathFerro:Hey, frosh, remember that favor you owe me? I'm collecting.

  JulianMcCafferty:Uh, what favor?

  HeathFerro:Not kicking your ass for being a punk-ass freshman!

  JulianMcCafferty:Freakin' hilarious. What do you want?

  HeathFerro:It involves picking up a couple of kegs from behind Dumbarton. Maybe we'll get lucky and they'll be having a moonlight panty party.

  JulianMcCafferty:When you put it that way …

  HeathFerro:Knew you couldn't resist. Meet me downstairs at 12, unless it's past your bedtime?

  JulianMcCafferty:I'll bring my blankie.

  5

  A WAVERLY OWL IS ALWAYS WILLING TO LEND A HAND TO A FELLOW OWL IN NEED.

  Tinsley Carmichael slid open the first-floor window to her room, cringing when it creaked noisily before realizing she didn't give a fuck if it was almost midnight and Brett woke up. She glanced over at her roommate's inert body, buried beneath her funky hot-pink-and-fuchsia Indian print comforter, and almost smiled at how she always slept like she was in a coma. They'd learned to sleep through Callie's snoring and talking fits.

  Tinsley sighed and eased herself up onto the windowsill, letting one silk-pajamaed leg hang out. She leaned back against the frame and shook a cigarette from her brand-new box of Marlboro Ultra Lights. After another long, tension-filled evening, smoking felt glorious. She was probably one of the only Dumbarton girls awake right now. On her way back from brushing her teeth, she ran into the meek little girl next door—wearing an ugly dark brown terry-cloth bathrobe and carrying a thick black towel over her shoulder. Um, okay. It was like the twelfth time Tinsley had seen her heading into the shower at an insanely late hour—apparently she could only shower when everyone else in the dorm was asleep. Sure, that was normal. And since Pardee never said anything about this girl clearly breaking lights-out curfew, she must either have something over on Pardee (maybe Tinsley wasn't the only one who'd caught her messing around with a married dean?) or Pardee let her break the rule because it was the only thing that kept her out of the loony bin.

  Brett and Tinsley's roommate relationship rivaled only Callie and Jenny's in its fucked-up-ness. Brett was on Tinsley's shit list this year after two major friendship-ending offenses. First, she got all lovey-dovey with Jenny Humphrey, as if Jenny had been the one to save Brett's ass last year by taking the blame for the caught-in-the-playing-fields-with-Ecstasy incident. And then the whole Mr. Dalton thing—Brett was practically sleeping with the guy and couldn't be bothered to tell her. Tinsley couldn't help trying to steal Mr. Dalton. Lack of loyalty in best friends drove her insane.

  Which is maybe why she was feeling a teeny bit bad—not guilty, just bad—about the way the Mr. Dalton saga played out. All she'd wanted was for Brett to welcome her back to Waverly with open arms—was that too much to ask for from one of her supposed best friends? She'd been hurt by Brett's coldness, and so she'd lashed out—a little harshly, yes. But Brett didn't have to take everything so seriously. It's not like she was going to marry Dalton or anything. Besides, as a direct result of Tinsley stealing Dalton away, Brett was back with Jeremiah. So really, things had all worked out. Brett should be down on her knees thanking her!

  Tinsley sort of enjoyed the fight, especially now that Brett was fighting her back head-on. At first, Brett had avoided the room for a few days, but then it was like she realized she was missing out or something, so she started hanging around more, playing her music loudly, gabbing with Jeremiah or her sister on her cell phone, daring Tinsley to say something. Brett had even brought her geeky chemistry study group over one night to do flash cards of chemical equations and symbols—and Tinsley had simply sat silently at her desk, ignoring them as they called out things like Faraday's law of electrolysis and glucose reaction. Geeks! Just tonight, she and Brett had sat at their desks, five feet away from each other, writing papers on their laptops and listening to their iPods. Brett ended up going to bed first—in silence, of course.

  Tinsley inhaled deeply. It was all a game. And Brett was bound to be the one to cave first.

  O
utside her window, something moved. Tinsley flicked her ash into the bushes beneath her and squinted—she was practically blind without her contacts. It looked like there were two figures out by the access road that ran behind Dumbarton and the other girls' dorms, next to what looked like a squadron of shiny UFOs. Was that … Heath??

  Tinsley's heart started to beat a little faster. Something was up. She glanced behind her at the nearly comatose Brett, then lifted the Tiffany's key ring where her platinum Zippo and the emergency whistle (that her father made her promise to have with her at all times—even though she was at Waverly now, not South Africa) hung. She pressed it to her lips and gave a quick tweet.

  The figures jumped, but before they could flee, Tinsley waved a pale, thin arm at them and flashed a peace sign. “That you, H.F.?” Tinsley whispered loudly into the cool dark night as Heath galloped toward her. She squinted harder at the figure next to him. It looked like that hot, super-tall freshman that was always hanging around the older boys. Julian? Excellent. Her night was definitely shaping up.

  “Oh, baby!” Heath cried out in something slightly louder than a whisper. “Glad to see you!”

  “What are you guys doing out here?” Tinsley demanded, dropping her eyes coyly. She felt very sexy, sitting in her window in her white silk Hanro pajamas, smoking a cigarette, like something out of a Tennessee Williams play. “It's, um, a little after curfew.”

  “We like to live dangerously,” Julian replied, yawning. Tinsley turned her head to look at him. He was just as cute as she remembered, even with her blurred vision.