Reckless

by Cecily von Ziegesar

  “Oh, yeah? Looking for ’shrooms again?” Tinsley kicked her hanging leg against the brick wall of Dumbarton and flicked her cigarette into the grass below.

  Heath stepped on it with his sneaker and smashed it into the ground. “Look, we have a situation here.” There was a worried look on Heath's normally laid-back face. He pointed at the UFOs. “We have six half-kegs that need a home.”

  Tinsley stared at the glistening silver lumps. Six half-kegs? “Why did you bring them here?”

  Julian grinned and ran a hand through his shaggy blond hair. “As a present to you? An offering?”

  “Can you hold the bullshit for a second, sweetheart?” Heath looked like he was wired on caffeine pills or something. “How about we work on problem-solving and save the flirting for later?”

  “Why don't you just put them up on the roof?” Tinsley suggested innocently, shrugging and indicating the fire escape at the corner of the building that led all the way to the roof. This would be quite entertaining to watch. “No one will find them there.”

  “Brilliant!” Heath slapped his forehead. “I knew you'd think of something.” He pushed Julian toward the kegs. “Grab one. We'll take it up the fire escape.”

  Boys are so dumb. Incredulously, and with a little too much pleasure, Tinsley watched as the two of them awkwardly lugged one of the half-keg barrels up the rickety wrought-iron fire escape, trying desperately not to make noise. She snickered. Were they high or just morons?

  By the time they got back to the ground, Tinsley had had a change of heart. “Listen, I just heard the freaky girl next door head into the shower.” Maybe the quiet girl who only showered when no one else around had a use after all. She'd be honored. “Why don't I just let you in the back door—you can sneak them into her room. She's got a single. I bet they'll fit under her bed.”

  She took her time sliding into her cushy Ugg slippers (she hated the boots, but the slippers were okay) and padding down the hall and down the cold marble steps to the back door of Dumbarton. Heath and Julian were waiting for her, gasping from having lugged the half kegs into position.

  “You guys are in bad shape,” Tinsley whispered, pressing herself against the door so that the boys could pass by, each carrying one of the heavy containers in his arms.

  “Why don't you help us, then?” Heath whispered back crankily, his sneakers, wet with dew, squeaking against the floorboards.

  “I think I've done more than enough already.” She led them down the hall, noting, as they passed the bathroom, that the shower was still running.

  “Who takes a shower at midnight?” Heath glanced around at all the closed dorm room doors they passed as if imagining the sleeping, naked girls inside. He'd forgotten all about being cranky and looked perfectly blissful.

  “No one you want to know.” Light peeked out from beneath Shower Girl's closed door and Tinsley threw it open. It was a small room that must have once been a storage closet, as neat and tidy as a monk's cell. The bed was propped up on giant cinder blocks, raising it a good foot off the hardwood floor.

  “Hot,” Heath whispered, running his hands across the smooth bedspread, which sported an enormous Superman logo. Or maybe it was Batman. Tinsley hated all that superhero shit, but Heath looked like he was about to throw himself down on it and start humping.

  Tinsley slapped his hand off the bed. “Stop drooling over Catwoman and start acting useful. Don't you have some kegs to hide?” She lifted the edge of the blanket and leaned over to peek under the bed. Completely empty. Wow, this girl didn't even have any shit. “It's empty under here—they'll fit.”

  “Catwoman?” Heath scoffed as he gently set his half keg on the ground and pushed it under the bed. “She's got a bat on her boobs—it's Batgirl!”

  “You mean like Alicia Silverstone?” Julian straightened up after shoving his keg in place.

  Heath groaned. “No! That was a cruel bastardization of the real Batgirl, who has a genius-level intellect, superb computer-hacking skills, and more martial arts …”

  Julian and Tinsley exchanged glances. Tinsley grabbed Heath by the hand and pulled him toward the door. “You know how I love to hear you wax all poetic about cartoons and everything, but that girl is probably all shampooed and conditioned, so can we focus here?”

  “Right.” Heath headed for the door, giving one last lingering look over his shoulder. Julian looked amused. In fact, Tinsley noticed he always had that expression on his face, as if life in general entertained him. As they tiptoed back down the hall and out the back door, a beam of moonlight hit his cheek and Tinsley forgot all about being jealous that Heath Ferro was dreaming of hooking up with the loser girl next door just so he could roll around on her geeky bedspread.

  All she could think about was putting the first serious expression in Julian's eyes. Even if he was just a freshman, she was going to make him fall in love with her.

  From:JLWalsh@lockwoodwalshbarristers.com

  To:EasyWalsh@waverly.edu

  Date:Thursday, October 3, 8:12 a.m.

  Subject:Dinner

  E,

  Tried calling but no response. In town for Trustees Weekend. Will meet you for dinner on Friday night at Le Petit Coq. 8 sharp. I'm making a reservation for three. Bring Callie.

  J.L.W.

  6

  A WAVERLY OWL NEVER FORGETS WHO HIS GIRLFRIEND IS.

  Thursday morning, Easy Walsh strode across the quad, barely glancing down at the puddles left over from yesterday's rain that his brown-and-tan Golas narrowly avoided. His eyes were glued to his Moleskine notebook, the one he used to jot down notes from Mr. Wilde's lectures. Problem was, he was often more interested in sketching what he saw outside the window—an overfed squirrel trying to stick its nose into a crumpled pack of cigarettes, two girls in tank tops playing Frisbee, Heath Ferro reading People magazine—than paying attention to what his teacher had to say about manifest destiny and the Articles of Confederation. Easy flipped through the pages of sketches and his own barely decipherable writing and sighed. Twenty minutes of cramming was not going to help him pass this test.

  Even though he'd known about the test for two weeks, Easy hadn't been able to bring himself to study. There were just too many other more important things. How could he be expected to hit the books when the leaves were changing color and Credo could smell the brisk scent of autumn and practically begged him to take her out riding? When winter came, it would be too cold to paint out in his secret spot in the woods. He had to take advantage of it now. He didn't understand people who spent their whole lives doing things they thought they should do—they were never happy, were they?

  He closed the notebook and lit a Marlboro Red.

  The email from his dad this morning had irritated him more than he wanted to admit. He hadn't yet told his dad about breaking up with Callie. Not that he ever confided in his dad. Easy and his father were exact opposites. Jefferson Linford Walsh, graduate of Waverly, Vanderbilt, and Yale Law School, partner in a high-profile southern law firm, father of four boys, three of them so far following almost perfectly in his footsteps, while the youngest one was an artsy fuckup who could barely manage to study for his first major AP History exam.

  Easy grabbed his phone and punched in his father's private extension.

  “J. L. Walsh speaking,” his father's voice boomed, his Kentucky accent more pronounced than Easy's.

  Easy exhaled a puff of smoke and watched it float up into the trees. “Dad. Hey.”

  “It sounds like you're smoking,” his dad observed, forgoing more common greetings like, “How are you? Good morning! Good to hear your voice, son!”

  Easy flicked his cigarette to the ground. “Nice to talk to you too.”

  Mr. Walsh sighed. “I hope you're not calling to try and extract yourself from our dinner appointment on Friday night.”

  Dinner appointment? Never have a lawyer for a father. “No, dinner is fine.” Easy lay down on top of a nearby picnic table. The warm sun had baked it dry after yesterda
y's downpours, but the table still felt a little damp through his jeans and blazer. Still, it was much easier to talk to J. L. Walsh when lying down. “But I'm not going out with Callie anymore. And I'm sort of seeing …”

  “Are you kidding me?” His father's voice raised a stern octave when he was upset. Easy felt his body tense up and his brain sent an apology to his lips before he could do anything to stop it. Luckily his father barked out orders over the top of it and Easy realized he was talking to his secretary.

  “Well, then, she'll just have to be my guest instead,” his father continued, his voice easing back to its natural pitch. Easy could hear him scratching on one of his famous yellow legal pads. “I like Callie. I'd like to see her.”

  “Dad…”

  “I'll see you both there at eight sharp. Looking forward to it. Anything else?”

  Was there anything else? Easy wasn't really interested in getting into a giant discussion about it, especially since the more Easy protested, the more his father insisted. Better to just let it go. His dad could complain about Callie's absence all he wanted over his coq au vin.

  “See you then.” Easy clicked his phone shut and slipped it back into the pocket of his baggy Levi's. He settled back onto the picnic table and closed his eyes, taking deep breaths of fresh autumn air and ruminating on how screwed he was.

  “Does taking a nap before the test help you remember things?” A feminine voice broke into Easy's reverie. He propped himself up on his elbow and squinted. Callie was standing next to the table, wearing a white cardigan over a blue short-sleeved dress with a deep V neck that might have looked sleazy on some girls but looked fine on Callie, whose breasts, ever since she'd apparently stopped eating, had disappeared. She was teetering on one of her typical pairs of expensive-looking, pointy-toed heels, her new short haircut making her look younger and cuter than Easy was used to.

  He blinked. Was she here to give him a hard time? Even though they were in the same history class, it was a big class, and Callie sat near the front with the rest of the girls who wanted an unimpeded view of Mr. Wilde, who'd been the studly teacher on campus before skeevy Mr. Dalton had arrived. Easy tended to sneak in late and escape the second class was over, especially now that he was avoiding Callie. Their breakup had gotten so ugly, even weeks later, he couldn't help wanting to avoid her—not for his sake so much as for hers. Waverly was a small place and it was notoriously hard to avoid people, but he wanted to do what he could to give Callie her space. Maybe she'd cool off and not hate him so much. Or maybe she'd stop hating Jenny, who was probably the most unhateable person ever. Callie was scary when she was pissed.

  Once, when he'd forgotten their six-month anniversary, she had taken his copy of On the Road and torn out every fifth page. But now here she was, standing in front of him, smiling?

  Easy sat up and swung his feet onto the bench below. “Nah, I think I'm pretty hopeless.”

  “Maybe if you wanted to impress Mr. Wilde as much as I did, you'd be ready for the test.” She swung her expensive-looking honey-colored leather tote from one arm to the other.

  “Hasn't everyone learned their lesson yet about obsessing over hot young teachers?” He rolled his eyes.

  “Mr. Wilde is married. And has, like, two little girls,” Callie pointed out. “Besides, he's old. He's, like, thirty-five or something.”

  Easy found himself laughing, something that felt good after his strained conversation with his dad. It was nice to see Callie in a good mood—one that did not include her nagging him about how she'd seen him flirting with someone else or giving him a hard time about playing Xbox with the guys instead of calling her and listening to her prattle on about her newest Barneys purchase. But now she seemed … more mellow. Maybe they could be friends after all? It really kind of sucked to be close to someone for so long and then suddenly not be anything anymore. It felt good to just be talking to her again. “Thirty-five is not old.” Easy wiped his hand across his face. “Try forty-eight. That's when men are old. And cranky.”

  “Huh?” A confused look came across Callie's face. “Did you just talk to your dad or something?”

  “Yeah. Charming as always.” A rebellious curl fell in front of Easy's eyes, and he swiped at it. “He'll be in town this weekend for the trustees' meetings. And he … uh … invited you to dinner with us on Friday,” Easy found himself adding.

  “He did?” She sounded surprised but pleased. “I can't believe he remembered my name!”

  “Apparently you made quite an impression on him. Must be the southern girl thing.” Callie could be totally charming when she wanted to be. When Easy's parents met her at Family Weekend last spring, they were completely smitten with her warm Georgia accent, confident demeanor, long strawberry blond hair, and ability to make sparkling conversation and come up with things to say even at awkward moments. He knew that she was used to having to make small talk at her governor mom's horribly stuffy political dinners and society events and that she kind of got a kick out of it. As his parents fawned all over her, they were probably picturing a big, fancy-pants wedding at the Governor's Mansion. Please.

  “Do you …” Callie started to ask, then stopped and bit her cotton candy pink lower lip. “I mean, if it makes your life easier, I'm happy to come.” Her hazel eyes, for once, seemed completely absent of an agenda. “If you want.”

  She was being really … nice. An image flashed through Easy's mind of what dinner with his father, alone, would be like—fielding relentless questions on every single class he was taking, asking about grades, wanting to know about his preparations for the SATs, his plans for college, his career, the Future. Then he pictured Callie there, charming the pants off stuffy old Dad, asking him about the law firm, telling funny anecdotes about her mother's political campaign, maybe even making J.L. Walsh laugh and act like a human being.

  It wasn't much of a choice.

  “Well, uh, if you don't mind … that would be … um … great.”

  Callie smiled. “Sweet. It'll be nice to see old J.L. again.” She glanced at the silver-and-diamond wristwatch hung loosely around her slim wrist. She nodded toward Farnsworth Hall, looming behind them like a ghost. “We should get in there. He's going to pass out the test soon.”

  Easy groaned and stood up. The test. He grabbed his grubby army green canvas bag and slung it over his shoulder. “Great.”

  “And hey, don't worry, I won't tell Jenny.” She slid both hands through her shoulder-length hair and Easy forced him-self to look away from her elegant, pretty neck, suddenly over-whelmed with guilt.

  Jenny. Shit. The whole time he'd been talking to Callie, Jenny hadn't once crossed his mind. Was that totally weird that he was bringing his ex-girlfriend to dinner with his dad instead of his current girlfriend? Yeah, that sounded pretty fucked up.

  But then he tried to picture sweet little Jenny at the table with his dad, trying to answer all the questions he bombarded her with, one after another, lawyer style, until she burst into tears. Jenny didn't know what a hardass his father could be; she definitely needed to go through extensive preparations before being subjected to anything as demanding as a dinner date.

  And Callie knew his dad already and knew how to handle his blustery demands. And it kind of felt like … they were friends now. There wasn't anything wrong with taking a friend out to eat with your dad, right?

  But as he slid into his seat at the back of the room, he had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, and he suspected it wasn't entirely due to the history exam he was about to flunk.

  From:TinsleyCarmichael@waverly.edu

  To:CallieVernon@waverly.edu;

  BennyCunningham@waverly.edu;

  VerenaArneval@waverly.edu;

  CelineColista@waverly.edu;

  SageFrancis@waverly.edu;

  AlisonQuentin@waverly.edu

  Date:Thursday, October 3, 5:55 p.m.

  Subject:Put on your party shoes

  Ladies,

  Through a very fortuitous twist of f
ate, something special has just happened to fall into our laps or rather, on our roof … and we must take advantage of our good fortune!

  Keg party, Dumbarton roof. 8 p.m. Shhh … Pardee has a couple of girl-friends over tonight—we saw them with several bottles of very cheap red wine, so you know what that means. I think it's safe to say that she'll be MIA.

  Please tell Emily Jenkins her presence is requested—I think it's about time we added a new member to Café Society.

  xxx,

  Tinsley

  7

  WHEN NOT INVITED TO A PARTY, A WAVERLY OWL MAKES HER OWN FUN.

  “Crazy Daizy or Maliblu?” Brett asked, holding up two brightly colored bottles of Pinkie Swear nail polish for Jenny to examine. The two of them were sprawled out on the floor of Dumbarton 303, leaning against the spare bed, the one formerly occupied by Tinsley Carmichael. Jenny's old cot had been returned to storage in the basement, and she had taken over Brett's bed—the thought of sleeping in the bed that Tinsley had been kicked out of creeped her out. All necessary equipment for at-home manicures was spread out between them: bowls of warm, soapy water to soften their nail beds, orangewood cuticle stick, nail file/buffer, creamy Bliss hand lotion, stacks of cotton pads, bottles of clear base-coat polish, Q-Tips, nail polish remover. It was like Rescue Salon or, at least, as close as you could get to it at Waverly.

  Brett had suggested a mani-pedi night earlier that day, and Jenny was thrilled. Apparently it was something Callie and Tinsley and Brett had done all the time, and Jenny was pleased that Brett felt comfortable enough with her now to sort of let her fill their intimidating shoes. Jenny imagined that their mani-pedi nights had never been as mellow as this, though. From what Jenny had seen of their interactions, they were always fraught with underlying intensity and competitiveness. It seemed like each of them was desperate to come off as much cooler, more sophisticated than the others. Even Brett could get completely wrapped up in one-upping Tinsley and Callie.

  “Um, Maliblu's a little too funky for me.” Jenny wrinkled her nose at the sparkly blue bottle. “I don't think I can get away with blue nails.” Her toes, stuffed uncomfortably into one of those foamy toe-separator cushions, were painted a bright cherry red. Vanessa Abrams, her brother Dan's high school girlfriend who was now living in Jenny's old room in her dad's West End Ave apartment, was the kind of girl who could pull off dark blue nail polish. With her shaved head and black-centric wardrobe, it would look almost natural. Not that she'd ever bother with a pedicure.