“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.”
“What? A nice roommate?” Tinsley asked in surprise. She could feel the others staring at them.
“Sleigh told me all about what happened freshman year,” Julian said. “She said you constantly provoked her until she just cracked.” His eyes scanned Tinsley's face, and she suddenly felt like she was naked—and not sexy-naked, but nightmare, in-the-middle-of-class naked. “She regrets what she did. She says she's a better person now, and I believe her. She's changed, but you clearly haven't.” He stood up from the table, carefully placing his crumpled napkin on his plate, and disappeared into the living room.
“Speaking of roommates,” Jenny cried out, causing everyone, transfixed by the drama, to turn toward her. “I'm totally thankful to not be having dinner with my father and all the Hare Krishnas bunking at my house right now!”
Everyone laughed, and Jenny explained how the three of them had walked into an apartment full of orange robes and bald heads—and a live turkey. Other people started to tell stories of nightmare holidays, and the clink of forks against china resounded once again through the dining room.
Tinsley sat silent, her insides quaking. Why did she have to say that? Sleigh totally deserved it…but still. The thought of Julian rushing away to comfort Sleigh made her sick, and she kept visualizing him brushing her messy blond hair out of her face and kissing the tears off her cheeks.
“You okay?” Jenny whispered, nudging Tinsley's waist.
Tinsley smiled wistfully and looked into Jenny's concerned face. “I'm thankful we don't hate each other anymore,” she whispered.
Jenny smiled back. “Me too.”
If only Tinsley could have as much luck winning Julian over.
21
A WAVERLY OWL DOES NOT ENGAGE IN ILLEGAL DRINKING—UNLESS IT IS SANCTIONED BY A FACULTY MEMBER.
Brandon took another swig of kirsch, the sweet cherry taste burning the back of his throat. The alcohol—they'd been drinking throughout the afternoon, from the first course of lauded German sausage to the last course of recently slaughtered turkey—made his head buzz and he closed his eyes, resting momentarily. What with the murdering of a defenseless bird, the repeated rounds of Dutch Blitz, and an extended sauna with his roommate and their old German teacher, suffice it to say that Thanksgiving had been surreal this year. Maybe not the worst Brandon ever had—he remembered being stuck in the Newark airport for eighteen hours once, on his family's way to Bermuda, his cranky, pregnant stepmother shoveling Hostess cupcakes into her mouth like she was a refugee—but close. After a whole day trapped inside Mr. Dunderdorf's house, Brandon was feeling claustrophobic and jittery, ready to dash out the door and run all the way back to campus whenever the opportunity presented itself.
But Heath refused to let him. “Dude,” he kept whispering, “don't be so gay.” Brandon couldn't help it—he could only be called gay so many times in two days before he had to prove he wasn't. And so Brandon let himself be convinced the twins were worth it, if only so that he wouldn't have to trudge back to his dorm room and sit alone in the darkness, t
hinking about Sage.
“Dude,” Heath said, for like the ten thousandth time that day. “This stuff is, like, grain alcohol.” Heath let out what could only be described as a giggle as he tipped his glass back. He licked his lips, his eyes glazing over slightly.
“Here we are.” Mr. Dunderdorf thundered back into the front room with a family photo album tucked under each arm. Brandon wished he could've begged off, as Mrs. Dunderdorf had hours ago—she said she needed to take care of some things in the kitchen, but when Brandon went to the bathroom, he spied her sitting on a kitchen stool watching a soap opera on a tiny TV. “Nothing like starting at the very beginning. This is the house I grew up in.” Mr. Dunderdorf pointed at a faded black-and-white photograph of a small, Alpine lodge, four men in lederhosen and two angry-looking goats standing sternly in front of it. Brandon wanted to kill himself.
“Do you have any more cherry water?” Heath asked innocently, holding up the glass he'd emptied for the fifth time. “It's just so delicious.”
Mr. Dunderdorf's eyes twinkled. “You've got a taste for kirsch, eh? Excellent.” He strained to hoist himself up from the couch, and Brandon was grateful for the chance to get the old man's lederhosen out of his sight. “Let's see.” He disappeared into the kitchen.
Heath stretched out his legs and closed his eyes. “What time did he say the twins were getting in?”
Brandon searched his memory, but his brain was fuzzy. “Late.” His stomach rumbled. He knew it made him look like a pussy, but he hadn't been able to eat any of the turkey Mrs. Dunderdorf sliced onto his plate without thinking of the poor animal scurrying around the backyard. Maybe he should work for PETA and hook up with some of those hippie animal-rights girls. Then he remembered his brief, ill-fated tryst with “I don't see anyone exclusively” Elizabeth from St. Lucius, and realized he'd already tried that.
“Christ, I wish they'd just get here already,” Heath mumbled. He licked his lips again. “I'm already shitfaced.”
“Yeah, me too,” Brandon seconded. He avoided looking at the cuckoo clock as it chimed the hour—Brandon couldn't even keep track of the dongs, and couldn't bear to glance at his cell phone. “Hey, what are their names, do you remember?”
Heath sat bolt upright. “Shit, I don't know. Everyone just calls them the Dunderdorf twins.” He pressed his fingers to his temples, trying to channel all the gossip of years gone by for a mention of the twins' first names. “Dammit.”
Mr. Dunderdorf reappeared with a fresh bottle of kirsch, and Brandon drained the last few gulps in his glass before holding it out for a refill. Mr. Dunderdorf filled both their glasses, but only halfway. “We should pace ourselves, gentlemen, no? I'm sure you're not used to drinking.” He nudged past Brandon and retook his seat between them, spreading the photo album out on his wide lap.
“This is a shot of me on the Waverly lawn when I arrived for my first year of teaching.” Mr. Dunderdorf turned a page with his wrinkled hands. The whole house smelled like German sausage.
“Who's that?” Brandon asked, pointing at the young man standing next to Dunderdorf.
“That's your very own Dean Marymount,” Mr. Dunderdorf replied. “He was one of my most promising young German students.”
“No way.” Heath leaned forward. “He had hair.”
“Oh, yes.” Mr. Dunderdorf nodded. “He was quite the ladies' man.” The professor took a long drink of kirsch.
“Really?” Brandon asked, sensing that Dunderdorf was something of a gossip. Maybe they could at least get some juicy stories out of their long, wasted day.
Dunderdorf snorted. “He was known to have a few faculty dalliances in his day.” He rubbed his chin, covered in white stubble. “Not that I know much about that.”
“Like with who?” Heath wanted to know. Brandon knew it was a major goal of Heath's to have sex with some hot young teacher before graduating—but the best he'd managed to get so far was a pat on the head from Mrs. Seraphim, the chemistry teacher.
Mr. Dunderdorf shook his head. “It's not for me to say,” he answered, to their disappointment. “I doubt you would know any of them anyway.” He flipped the page as a way of putting an end to the conversation. “Ah, our trip to EuroDisney,” he sighed.
Heath leaned in. “Are those your daughters?” Brandon leaned in too. The photo was of Mr. and Mrs. Dunderdorf and two blond six-year-old girls dressed in matching Minnie Mouse costumes.
“Yes,” Mr. Dunderdorf said. He sighed. “All these years. It seems like only yesterday they were this small. You'll see when you meet them.”
“I can't wait,” Heath said anxiously.
“What are their names?” Brandon asked.
Mr. Dunderdorf pointed at the matching Minnies. “This is Helga, and this is Gretchen.”
Heath made a face behind Mr. Dunderdorf's back, as if to say, They'd better not be as ugly as their names.
“You'll see when you become fathers yourselves,” Mr. Dunderdorf told them, wistfully. For a second his eyes got watery, and Brandon hoped he wasn't about to cry. Instead he sneezed, then blew his nose on the faded handkerchief stuffed in his shirt pocket. “It all goes by too fast.”
Mr. Dunderdorf flipped over a few pages in the photo album, fast-forwarding the years. “Here's a more recent picture,” he said. “My lovely girls.”
Heath choked on his kirsch, coughing into his hand. Brandon leaned in to see the picture of two gangly blondes in lederhosen, both flashing sets of braces complete with attached headgear. One of the twins had some kind of ultra-kinky perm, her blond hair in tiny corkscrews, while the other had a polka-dotted turquoise headband and leather half-boots that looked like they belonged on Miami Vice.
Brandon shot Heath a glare. Hot girls? Delicious Swiss Misses? More like metal-mouthed ugly ducklings with zero fashion sense and what looked like terrible cases of acne. The whole stupid day had come down to this—what a nightmare. How the hell was he supposed to make Sage jealous by making out with a girl who looked like she had a recycling center in her mouth?
Heath pretended not to notice Brandon's look, instead asking Mr. Dunderdorf if kirsch was the national beverage of Germany—because if it wasn't, it certainly should be. Pleased by his students' interest in German culture, Dunderdorf refilled their glasses once again.
The next three photo albums were a blur of boring stories, terrible pictures, and poses of the unattractive twins in just about every city in Eastern Europe. Brandon felt his own eyelids staying closed longer between blinks.
“You boys are tired,” Mr. Dunderdorf announced, slamming the photo album shut.
“Yes!” Brandon said, suddenly awake. At last. They could stumble back home, pass out, and erase this entire day—maybe starting with last night, when Sage dumped him—from his memory. Brandon's legs wobbled and he caught himself on the arm of the couch.
“Upstairs.” Mr. Dunderdorf pointed. “You can sleep it off in the spare bedroom. No sense in going back to campus. That could be bad for both of us, no?” He shook the empty bottle of kirsch mischievously.
“Oh, we couldn't impose,” Brandon protested, but even as he said it he wondered if he'd even be able to make it back to the dorms. His forehead was sweating, and suddenly, drinking all that kirsch no longer seemed like a great idea.
“I insist.” Somehow, Heath and Brandon reluctantly agreed—at this point, they were totally defeated. As they followed Dunderdorf up the musty carpeted stairs that reminded Brandon of his grandmother's dilapidated Victorian in Danbury, Connecticut, Brandon's legs felt heavy and wooden. Dunderdorf led them to a spare room with two twin beds pushed under the pitched ceiling. The rest of the space was crammed with boxes marked alternately with the names HELGA andGRETCHEN. As a testament to how exhausted they were, Heath and Brandon sank into their respective beds without investigating the treasure trove—in normal spirits, Heath wouldn't have rested until he found some satin panties and put them under his pillow.
“How did I let you talk me into this?” Brandon asked drun
kenly. “I thought they were supposed to look like Heidi Klum.”
Heath moaned before rolling over and kicking the covers onto the floor. Brandon stared up at the slanted ceiling, his mouth dry, his brain haunted by the image of Sage's beautiful face laughing at him.
EmilyJenkins: U just missed it—TC just slapped down Sleigh MH.
BennyCunningham: AFT. That girl's a BEEYOTCH. Any bloodshed?
EmilyJenkins: Not yet. But I think it has something to do w/ JULIAN.
BennyCunningham: Not surprising it's about a boy again—even a frosh.
EmilyJenkins: Dunno…TC ended up looking bad…. Maybe SMH finally can get back at her.
BennyCunningham: My money's on Tinsley. Every time.
EmilyJenkins: What if Sleigh comes back to Waverly?
BennyCunningham: She's not sharing my room!
22
A WAVERLY OWL KNOWS HOW TO HAVE A GOOD TIME IN ANY SITUATION—JUST NOT TOO GOOD A TIME.
Callie hoisted herself onto a red leather stool at the granite kitchen counter and stuck her thumb in the almost empty glass pan of brownies sitting on top of the stainless steel stove. She licked off the crumbs, wishing someone had thought to save her a whole brownie. (Although, with Yvonne's brother and his friends, who knew what they were laced with.) Parched from the day's activities, she raised her wineglass and took a huge swallow.
Ellis tossed his hooded parka on a kitchen stool and fanned through the stack of pizza boxes piled on the counters, looking for any leftovers. “Man, you're a half an hour late for dinner and it's all gone.”
Callie laughed, kicking off her soaked socks. She wasn't used to hanging out with guys just as friends. There was something completely refreshing about it, and she hadn't laughed so much in one day in a long, long time. After they'd creamed the two ten-year-olds in a snowball fight, they'd crossed into Brooklyn and strolled through Park Slope, peeking through the windows of all the closed boutiques. They'd stopped for scallion pancakes at a Chinese place that was open, but even so, Callie was starved by the time they made it back to the Upper East Side.
Infamous Page 13