Adored (4 page)

Teague covered his mouth and coughed, “Bullshit.”

Brandon set down his fork. What the fuck? “Dude, trust me. She was totally hot.” He glanced up for backup from Heath, but he’d disappeared to refill his Sprite glass.

“If by ‘hooking up with a Swedish model’ you mean you ‘beat it to pics from Victoria’s Secret all weekend,’ then…” Ryan trailed off, smirking.

“Dude, she’s
Swiss
,” Teague corrected him, shoveling a forkful of salad into his mouth.

“Oh, right. My mistake.” Ryan leered at Brandon and the others chuckled at the joke.

“You don’t believe me?” Brandon asked, suddenly getting that these guys weren’t teasing him because they were jealous—but because they thought he was making it all up. His face flushed and he tugged at the collar of his Ben Sherman shirt. “Ask Heath.”

“You’re asking us to believe a guy who claims he sat next to Miley Cyrus on a flight to L.A. and she let him feel her up in the bathroom?” Ryan snorted loudly, and Brandon thought about how satisfying it would be to give him a black eye. “Just please tell me that you didn’t share the same catalog.”

Lon coughed up the last of his Diet Coke and Alan slapped him on the back a couple of times. “Take it easy, baby.”

Brandon considered whipping out his cell to show him the scrapbook of flesh-baring photos quickly filling up the memory in his Nokia, but he didn’t want to give them the satisfaction. After all, why should these douchebags get to partake in Hellie’s heavenly beauty simply for doubting and mocking him? No way.

“If you’re going to Switzerland over Christmas, will you get me one of the cuckoo clocks with the little dude who comes out and hits something with a hammer?” Teague asked, his lazy green eyes amused. “I think that would look good in my room.”

Brandon grabbed his tray, his knuckles white with rage. The conversation had devolved into an argument about whether or not Miley Cyrus was actually a virgin. None of them noticed as Brandon slunk away, his forehead burning with frustration. As he returned the tray to the kitchen, he caught sight of Heath sitting at a table with Brett Messerschmidt and Sage Francis, his arms waving in the air and his mouth wide open. For a second, Brandon thought he must be talking up Brandon’s artful seduction of the Swiss sexpot in front of Sage, Brandon’s ex-girlfriend. It was about time Heath did something for him.

But then he saw that Heath was just trying to look down Brett’s shirt, and he realized he was going to have to fight his own battles.

O
n Wednesday afternoon, Callie Vernon dropped her pale blue pleated Tocca peacoat onto one of the coat pegs that lined the foyer of the dining hall. She took a deep breath and strode into the crowded lunchroom, scanning the crowd for familiar faces. Even though Easy Walsh hadn’t been at Waverly since he had been expelled more than a month ago, she couldn’t help looking for his face whenever she walked into a room. It was a reflex.

When she’d been dating Easy, it had seemed like there were practically hundreds of hot, available Waverly boys eyeing her from the fringes, waiting until she was single again. Now it was time to pick one. In her new gray wool Alice + Olivia minidress and fringed suede Roberto Cavalli boots, she knew that finding a new boy shouldn’t be too hard.

She spotted Brett, sitting at a crowded table by one of the enormous stained glass windows next to Benny Cunningham and Sage Francis. Benny’s green cowl-neck sweater made her look like a leprechaun, and Sage, since she’d dumped Brandon Buchanan, had reverted back to wearing far too much makeup. Neither of them was much competition. Callie grabbed a tray, still warm from the dishwasher, and tossed her wavy strawberry blond hair over her shoulder as she halfheartedly passed through the food line.

A tall, borderline-cute sophomore boy narrowly avoided running into her with a tray piled high with grilled cheese sandwiches and french fries. “Watch where you’re going,
chica
,” the sophomore muttered rudely under his breath. Callie blinked. Since when were unattractive underlings rude to
her
? Maybe she’d underestimated the difficulty of finding a datable Waverly boy.

She threw some mesclun greens onto her plate and sprinkled some chunks of feta on top. But as she plopped a couple of plump cherry tomatoes onto her salad, a strange image flashed before her eyes: Easy Walsh, maybe fifteen years from now, still with his stunningly crooked smile but with laugh lines and broader shoulders, living happily on a Kentucky horse farm. The vision was complete with racehorses and a down-to-earth Kentucky girl with long, light-brown hair and hands that weren’t afraid of getting dirty. She saw him popping fresh garden tomatoes into the girl’s mouth—skank!—and the two of them rocking together on the front porch while the sun set behind a giant maple tree.

“Is something wrong with the tomatoes?” Emmy Rosenblum asked, wrinkling her nose and looking at the tiny cherry tomatoes Callie had unconsciously picked from her salad and left sitting on the edge of the salad bar.

“I, uh, thought I saw a bug on one,” Callie muttered, grabbing her tray and heading for the soda machine. She filled a plastic cup with ice water and tried to calm her beating heart.

Why was she acting like such a freak? How hard could it be to find a guy, really? Waverly was fifty-two percent male, according to the statistics on the Web site, so the odds were in her favor. Callie filled another glass with Diet Coke and surveyed the room for the best-looking guys. Immediately, her eyes lit on Brandon Buchanan carrying his tray to the tray return. Yes, Brandon was gorgeous, in an overly put-together, ironed-his-underwear kind of way, but he was
Brandon
. She’d been down that road and just couldn’t be with someone who used more beauty products than she did. She needed someone who was as good-looking as Brandon but with an edge.

Her eyes rested on Alan St. Girard, sitting at the table Brandon had just vacated. She briefly considered him: he was kind of cute, and he hung out with the right people. He’d dated Alison Quentin, the pretty Korean girl on her floor in Dumbarton, for a few months, so he had decent taste in girls. The scruff would have to go immediately, of course, but all that would take was a razor. She fantasized that underneath the layers of long-sleeve thermal shirts and the fog of stale pot smoke, he was a gold mine.

Except, Callie remembered miserably, he’d been Easy’s roommate. Which meant whenever she sneaked into his room, she’d be faced with Easy’s empty bed and would think of Easy, and the look on his face atop the Empire State Building.

As Callie fumbled to pick a fork and knife from the silverware tubs, her hazel eyes narrowed in on Parker Dubois. He sat alone at a small table with a book open in front of him. He was the impossibly hot senior that everyone pretended was from Belgium, though she knew he was really American with a French dad. There was even a rumor that he was descended from European royalty. She watched as Parker ran his fingers through his golden brown hair and turned a page in his book. Suddenly Callie realized she’d never, not once, seen him flirting with a girl. He
had
to be gay.

Heath Ferro, who’d planted himself next to Brett, stood up and called, “Princess! Over here!” Callie fought a surge of irritation—like she needed him to wave her over to Brett’s table. At that exact moment, a beam of sunlight shot through the stained glass window and struck Heath’s jawline. He looked handsome, standing there in a navy blue crew-neck sweater fitted around his toned soccer body.

But ew. Did she really want to end up on YouTube in some homemade porno made with a handheld device hidden in Heath’s closet? Heath would do for an emergency make-out session if she got really desperate, but he was
far
from boyfriend material.

Callie dropped her tray onto the heavy oak table and slid into the empty chair next to Brett. “Hey,” she greeted everyone glumly.

Benny nudged Callie’s tray with a long, unpolished fingernail. Callie’s plate of lime Jell-O cubes jiggled. “How can you eat that stuff, Cal? It’s made of gelatin, which is, you know, made from the jelly in pigs’ hooves.”

Heath reached over and stabbed one of Callie’s Jell-O cubes with his fork. He popped it in his mouth defiantly. “Mmm, pig hooves.”

Callie focused her eyes on her salad, but her mind wandered. Maybe she’d have to date a teacher… or a townie, she thought despairingly. Her parents had been high school sweethearts, and her mother was always reminding her that Waverly was the perfect place to find a husband.
Soul mate
, she nauseatingly called it. For the longest time, she’d been convinced that Easy was the one… but she’d clearly been wrong about that. The whole thing made tears of frustration spring to her eyes, but she pressed her eyelids together to keep them from smudging her olive green Benefit eyeliner.

When her eyes opened again, they focused on the door to the dining hall—and the gorgeous guy with floppy black hair and chiseled features coming through it at that exact moment, as if by fate. Her eyes scanned the well-built athletic body, hidden under a pair of dark, pressed khakis and a navy blue Ralph Lauren polo shirt.

Who. Was.
That?

“Who
is
that?” Callie whispered under her breath, trying to disguise the urgency of her question by nibbling on a sliced cucumber. She felt faint. This was exactly how it happened in movies. Just when the heroine was at her most desperate, in walked her savior.

The tone in Callie’s voice made Brett immediately put down her tuna sandwich. “Who?” She whirled around to see who Callie was talking about. Standing beside a table of seniors, Sebastian reached out and grabbed a french fry off Celine Colista’s plate. In his polo and khakis—which he must have run out and bought immediately after their conversation yesterday—he might have looked like any other athletic Waverly guy. But with his dark, thick hair totally devoid of gel and falling lazily across his forehead, highlighting his dark brown eyes, he looked… totally transformed. And amazingly… gorgeous.

“Ohmigod!” Benny pressed her elbow into Brett’s side, her pink-glossed lips falling open in disbelief. “That’s totally your greaser!”

“That
can’t
be Sebastian,” Sage whispered, taking in the scene.

Brett leaned back against the hard slats of her chair and crossed her arms over her chest. Okay, so maybe Sebastian was half right. He certainly had managed to call attention to himself with his new look, but that didn’t
mean
anything. As soon as he started talking, all the Waverly girls would realize he was still the same sexist, maddeningly lazy Sebastian Valenti.

But before she could say a word, Callie, Benny, and Sage had all scooted away from the table. “I forgot—I wanted to talk to Celine about something,” Callie announced deviously, heading in Sebastian’s direction with Sage and Benny on her heels.

Brett found herself rolling her eyes and turning away, not wanting to see the girls fawning over Sebastian—his prophecy fulfilled. She knew, of course, that he was doing it more to annoy her than to actually impress the ladies, though he looked like he was clearly enjoying the newfound attention. When she glanced up, he was talking to Benny Cunningham, but his eyes were on Brett. He tilted his head at her and mouthed a
What’s up?
She quickly glanced away, pretending she hadn’t seen.

“You know that dude?” Heath asked, peeling back a banana and taking a giant chomp. He stared enviously at Sebastian. “He’s got like six chicks all over him and he just came in the door!”

“I’m late for a meeting.” Brett glanced at her antique silver watch. She had six minutes to get over to Hopkins Hall. While she’d been annoyed before about having to meet Mr. Wilde, who’d recently been promoted to DC adviser, she was grateful for the excuse to leave the dining hall. The last thing she wanted to do was watch Sebastian gloat about how right he’d been. She ditched her tray and grabbed her short, gunmetal gray quilted Diesel jacket from the coat pegs. She zipped it up and sauntered out the foyer without a second glance at Sebastian and his merry band of followers.

If he was trying to annoy her, it was a good start.

Email Inbox

Dear Dad,

Just kidding. Sort of. Some freshmen girls asked if they could make a documentary about
moi
for their film class! How cool is that? It’s because they think I live a glamorous life or something—it’s all very flattering. I promise not to reveal any embarrassing family secrets—like how my father wears rainbow-colored suspenders—so don’t worry. Although actually, you’d probably love that.

And no, I’m not neglecting my schoolwork, I swear. Finals are coming up, and I think I’m pretty ready for them. Oh and I’m sending you some pics of the snow-covered campus. It’s pretty amazing. In the city, the snow’s always brown—but here it’s actually white!

Love you lots. Hugs and hair balls to Marx, too.

Jenny

T
he door to Mr. Wilde’s office on the second floor of Hopkins Hall was half-open, and the sounds of Radiohead obscured Brett’s knock. Gerald Wilde was the popular history teacher who’d taken over the Disciplinary Committee after Eric Dalton, the young Latin teacher with whom Brett had unwisely had an affair, had been “let go” earlier in the semester. Brett poked her head in the doorway and saw Mr. Wilde sitting at his desk, his brow furrowed as he scribbled something on a pile of papers. He looked young enough to be a college student—in fact, he’d been the resident hot young teacher on campus before Eric Dalton showed up.