She took a deep breath and blew it out slowly, trying to calm herself down.
Toward the front of the screening room, all of her friends were together, obviously having a blast, while Jenny felt lonelier by the second. Tinsley and Brett were whispering in each other’s ears. Alison Quentin looked half-nervous and half-thrilled to be sitting so close to that mysterious hottie Parker DuBois. Even Kara Whalen was laughing with Ryan Reynolds—when she wasn’t giving him skeptical looks. Meanwhile, Jenny was essentially in movie theater Siberia. At least she had a giant bag of Cool Ranch Doritos and two cupcakes that she’d liberated from the dining hall. Unfortunately, she also had the sudden, self-pitying urge to eat all of it by herself. So much for a romantic night. Her date for the evening was officially vanilla buttercream frosting.
Jenny sighed and stretched out her diminutive legs. She wore a red wool miniskirt over black tights and her flat black Steve Madden fold-over boots. She’d paired it with a black-and-tan plaid Nanette Lepore jacket she’d found marked down to almost nothing in a bargain bin at Bloomingdale’s and an embellished white tank from Anthropologie. To top it all off, she’d let her curls spill in wild abandon down her back and had carefully applied just a hint of Callie’s Chanel Black Jade eyeliner around her brown eyes. What a waste of a cute outfit. She might as well have worn her pajamas. Which, she decided, she was going to do, stat. She’d go home and have herself a little pity party with her snacks and her sudden bad mood. She sat up, ready to make her escape.
“Is this seat taken?”
Julian McCafferty appeared before her, tall and shaggy-haired and wearing that cute smile she’d fallen for all those months ago. For a moment, Jenny had a sudden, perfect memory of Julian’s soft lips pressed against hers out at Miller Farm back in the fall. She could feel the cool night air teasing her skin and that giddy, catapulting sensation in the pit of her stomach, that sense that everything was about to change. But just as quickly she remembered everything that had happened since then: how Julian had lied to her—well, failed to mention the fact that he’d been with Tinsley. She’d been so hurt when she’d found out, she couldn’t look at him the same way.
But Jenny was with Isaac now, so maybe things had worked out the way they were supposed to. She didn’t harbor any bad feelings toward Julian anymore. Which was just as well, since he was, supposedly, her Perfect Match.
“It’s all yours,” she said, waving at the seat next to her. She was glad to have the company. “Please.”
Julian sank down into the seat and stretched out his long legs. He wore dark wash True Religion jeans with shredded holes at the knees. Knowing Julian, the holes were probably not for fashion but from wear. He unzipped his Everlast hoodie to reveal a faded Thelonious Monk T-shirt. He smiled at her, his easy, teasing smile that revealed the dimple in his cheek. Jenny relaxed against the back of her seat.
“How’s it going, Match?” he asked. Jenny couldn’t help sitting up a little bit straighter.
“I had no idea you were so into Britney Spears, my top musical influence,” she teased. “That must be how they matched us up.”
“She’s a personal passion of mine,” Julian replied at once, completely deadpan. “I loved the insouciance of her ‘Oops!… I Did It Again’ period but have been very much impressed with her recent resurrection with the ‘If You Seek Amy’ phase.”
“Plus she still looks pretty hot in a Catholic schoolgirl outfit,” Jenny said, giggling.
“Yeah, that too.” Julian settled back in his seat and put his battered black Converse sneakers up on the seat in front of him. Down in front, faculty members waved lingering Owls toward the seats that remained, and the overhead lights flickered in warning. “So I hear the Three-Legged Race is the favorite Valentine’s week Perfect Match activity.”
“It is?” Jenny had been more interested in the romantic kissing possibilities at the movie and the ball. But then again, she’d entertained those fantasies when she’d been convinced that she and Isaac would be each other’s match.
“Some of the guys in my dorm were plotting out strategies for winning.” Julian shrugged.
“A three-legged race requires strategic planning?” Jenny asked, laughing. Only at Waverly. She tried to imagine her classmates at Constance Billard even discussing a three-legged race and couldn’t. No way.
“Heath Ferro was telling everybody at lunch that he has a secret recipe for a certain Three-Legged Race Iced Tea,” Julian said, tapping his fingers against his legs as if drumming along to music in his head. “Without any iced tea in it, of course. He says the goal is to booze up as much as possible and then blame any falling down on the race, not the drinking.” He grinned. “But he would say that.”
“I like winning more than drinking,” Jenny said with a little shrug. “But then again, I don’t see why we have to choose between the two.”
Julian’s eyes met hers, and he nodded.
“You are a girl after my own heart, Jenny Humphrey,” he said, his brown eyes twinkling.
Jenny laughed. “We are going to dominate the race,” she said. “Especially if everyone else is staggering around trying to recover from Heath’s iced tea.”
“I think we should take a bait-and-switch approach,” Julian said, leaning in like he was imparting deep, dark secrets and didn’t want anyone to overhear him. “I think we pretend to get loaded on the iced tea and then smoke everybody straight off the starting line. Then we enjoy the iced tea—as, like, a victory drink. Homemade Waverly champagne.”
Jenny tapped her fingers against her chin, like Dr. Evil mulling over a plan for world domination. “We’ll already have an advantage,” she mused. “You’re so tall and I’m so short that no one will think we’ll be able to pull it off.”
“Bait and switch,” Julian said again, laughing. He put his palm in the air. “High five, Match. I think we’re going to kick some ass.”
Jenny smacked his palm with hers as the lights started to go down. As the room darkened and a few Owls started applauding, she realized with some surprise that planning their three-legged-race strategy with Julian had actually taken her mind off Isaac.
At least, for the moment.
9
A WAVERLY OWL DOES NOT ENTERTAIN
MULTIPLE SUITORS.
Callie stretched in her comfortable leather recliner and propped her feet up. She admired her weathered tan Marc Jacobs ankle wedge boots for a moment, then made sure the huge bag of popcorn she’d been unable to resist was still held securely between her knees before tipping her head back so she could see the huge Cinephiles screen completely unimpeded.
“If you push back even farther,” Alan St. Girard said from beside her, “you can, like, almost tip over into the ceiling.”
Obviously, he was stoned. He was always stoned. But Callie pushed back anyway and giggled when she saw that he was right, stoned or not: if she tilted her head back as far as she could, she felt like her recliner was almost in free fall. Trust Alan to have discovered something like that.
“How many movies did you watch in here before you figured that out?” Callie asked, turning her head sideways so she could look at Alan, the most random “perfect match” of all time. Exactly what did they have in common? Her occasional use of herbal tea to soothe a sore throat and his all-day, everyday love for herbal refreshment didn’t really scream compatible.
Alan grinned, his hazel eyes sleepy, and crossed his arms over his faded-to-gray North Face hoodie. It had a hole in one elbow and several bleach stains.
“Um. One?” He shrugged. “I like to lean.”
Callie was still giggling when she felt someone sit down on her other side. She twisted around to look and felt her breath catch.
Easy.
He wore his familiar, paint-spattered, worn-in Levi’s and threadbare black sweater, but his short hair reminded her this wasn’t the Easy of old times.
“Hey,” she said softly.
“Hey.” He didn’t smile, though his dark blue eyes seeme
d to glow. “You want to share that popcorn?” he asked. “I’m hungry.” He looked past Callie and tipped his chin in the universal male sign of greeting at Alan. Alan flashed him a peace sign in return and settled back in his seat with his hands behind his head.
“Help yourself,” Callie murmured to Easy, indicating the popcorn she held on her lap. And whatever else he wanted. Like maybe her heart.
Easy smiled slowly, and Callie’s toes curled in her boots. And then the lights dimmed above them, and the screening room went totally dark.
The movie flickered upon the screen, and Callie watched, but she could hardly make sense of what she was seeing. She registered plaintive piano music, snow, and brick buildings that reminded her of the Waverly campus, but that was about all she took in. All of her attention was focused on Easy. He sat so close beside her that she could smell the faint hint of the Irish Spring soap he used, and she could feel the heat of his muscular shoulder against hers.
“Thanks for the popcorn,” Easy murmured into her ear. His hand brushed hers inside the cardboard bucket, and their eyes met—then held.
Callie looked away first, feeling suddenly shy. Or maybe she just couldn’t believe that Easy was really here, right next to her with his dark blue eyes fixed so intently on hers.
Callie watched a few more minutes of the movie, still not really seeing anything. She was suspended in a dream where there was nothing but Easy and the rest of the world had fallen away entirely. Hours could have passed. Days, even. But she was snapped out of her trance when Alan suddenly jerked up and stood up from his seat.
“Are you okay?” she whispered. Alan usually moved slowly.
“This dude’s voice is tripping me out,” Alan said, gesturing at the screen. “I’m out of here.”
He nodded a good-bye in Easy’s direction and then took off. Callie watched him go, noticing for the first time that it was standing room only along the walls of the screening room. A flash of guilt washed over her when she saw that Brandon was one of the people standing there. She had ignored a call from him earlier, not to mention a few texts. She hadn’t felt like talking to him… because she didn’t know what to say. She didn’t know what to do. She bit her lip and noticed he was standing with a very geeky-looking girl she’d never seen before.
The girl’s awful plaid skirt and ugly glasses looked almost silly next to Brandon’s perfectly worn-in APC New Standard jeans and a black Pringle cashmere zip-front sweater with stand-up collar and oxford gray stripe across the chest. Talk about an odd couple. She almost laughed when she realized that the girl had to be Brandon’s Perfect Match.
Brandon’s eyes caught Callie’s from across the room. He pushed away from the wall and came over to slide into Alan’s abandoned seat, leaving his match without a backward glance. Suddenly Callie found the whole thing a lot less funny. With Easy on one side and Brandon on the other, she’d been thrust back into last night’s dream. Except this was real. It just involved hot, buttery popcorn instead of sweet red grapes.
Callie kept her eyes trained on the movie screen and bit back a nervous little giggle. She reached into the bucket for more popcorn, not sure what else to do.
Brandon brushed against her fingers with his as he grabbed a handful. Then, seconds later, Easy did the same.
Nobody spoke.
Callie suddenly found herself wondering if a girl could actually die from sensory overload. She felt as if her skin was too tight, like it was stretched too thin over her body. She could hardly manage to catch a full breath. It was awful and wonderful at the same time.
And then, suddenly, Easy and Brandon both jerked back—and Callie realized that the two of them had touched each other’s hands rather than hers in the popcorn bucket.
Easy glared at Brandon’s perfect, unwrinkled sweater that looked like it belonged on a male model and his hair gelled just so. Why had he even come over here? Why couldn’t he leave Callie alone? Easy dug his fingers into his jeans and reminded himself that the guy was still technically with Callie. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. She was staring straight ahead at the screen, her jaw set, tugging on a strand of her wavy strawberry blond hair—which she did whenever she was stressed out.
Easy leaned back into his seat and tried to focus on the movie. Ryan O’Neal was carrying his wife over the threshold of their new apartment, but Easy didn’t care. His mind was racing. Why was Callie stressed? And why hadn’t she broken up with Buchanan yet? She’d had plenty of time to do it today…. Did she not want to?
Brandon could not believe that Easy Walsh was lounging in the seat next to Callie like a moody, blue-eyed flashback. He did not like the way the night was going. At all.
First he’d been waylaid by Cora on his way into the Cinephiles screening room. The girl had turned out to be as hard to shake off as a barnacle from the underside of one of his dad’s boats. She would not stop talking—so Brandon had missed his opportunity to find Callie before the lights went down. He’d seen her sitting with her Perfect Match, Alan, which was fine, but he hadn’t seen Easy Fucking Walsh until Alan had left and he’d taken his spot.
And now Callie wouldn’t even look at him. She wouldn’t snuggle up to him or hold his hand. She shot a look at Easy, and Brandon felt the same old jealousy seep through him. He gritted his teeth. No way, he thought stubbornly. There was no fucking way that Callie would do this to him again. She’d told Brandon repeatedly that Easy was in her past—but, something inside him whispered, now that Easy was back from playing soldier, all bets were off.
No. He refused to believe it. She wouldn’t—couldn’t—do this to him, not again.
But he wasn’t about to take his eyes off the two of them, just in case.
Callie stared straight ahead, afraid to look at either boy. What had she been thinking? She couldn’t handle the two of them at once. She could hardly handle one of them at a time! She’d been with Brandon sophomore year when Easy had swept her off her feet, and she was technically with Brandon now—and, more to the point, the previous night when she’d made out with Easy outside Dumbarton. This messed-up love triangle had been plaguing her for years. But she couldn’t be with them both at once. She had to choose.
Callie blew out a breath. Her dream had very quickly become a nightmare.
* * *
OwlNet
Instant Message Inbox
* * *
HeathFerro: The Three-Legged Iced Tea is primed and ready! Bring your flask and tell your friends.
RyanReynolds: On. It. And what is up with your ex gf? She was cool at first but got kinda crazy because I talked during the movie last night. That movie sucked ass!
HeathFerro: Mention her to me again and you’re cut off.
RyanReynolds: Dude. Chill.
HeathFerro: You know the rules. Break them at your peril.
* * *
OwlNet
Instant Message Inbox
* * *
SageFrancis: I hear Heath made a vat of something toxic.
BennyCunningham: God, I hope so!
SageFrancis: Want to head over there and get some before the race this afternoon?
BennyCunningham: You know it! Remember last year? I had three sips of whatever he made and did a header two jumps off the starting line. Too funny.
SageFrancis: I need to get wasted so I can block out Drew Gately. How is he my match???
BennyCunningham: Ew. He’s so gross. You can have some of mine if you need it.
SageFrancis: Promise me you’ll pick me up if I pass out on the ground. You know he won’t!
BennyCunningham: I have your back.
* * *
OwlNet
Instant Message Inbox
* * *
IsaacDresden: Hey there, Match. I was wondering if you wanted to come over this afternoon before the Three-Legged Race? My sources tell me it’s a lot more fun with some cocktails, and I can get us into the wine cellar here. I know the dean.
BrettMesserschmidt: I like the sound
of that! What time? I get out of calc at 2.
IsaacDresden: I’ll meet you right after that on the quad?
BrettMesserschmidt: C U then!
10
A WAVERLY OWL KNOWS WHEN TO MIND HER OWN
BUSINESS—AND WHEN TO MIND SOMEONE ELSE’S.
Brett stuck her hands into the pockets of her navy double-breasted coat and buried her chin against the blue-and-black plaid Armand Diradourian scarf her sister, Brianna, had sent her as a part of her latest care package from New York. Ahead of her, Isaac led the way up the steps to the dean’s house. His house.
The last time Brett had been here, she’d stormed off from the infamous Jan Plan party, furious with Sebastian. That memory did not exactly inspire her to be any more excited about this visit. But Isaac was really nice—he’d met her on the quad as promised and they’d had a nice walk over—and Brett really could go for a glass of wine to get her mind off his bitchy, boyfriend-stealing sister. She didn’t know why she’d been paired up with Isaac. He seemed sweet, but as far as Brett could tell the only thing they had in common was that they both liked Jenny.
She walked up the steps behind him as he tugged off one of his brown leather gloves and flipped open the box that concealed the security pad beneath. She watched him tap a very long string of numbers into the machine.
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