Devious (4 page)

“Of course, sweetie,” Tinsley replied, closing her eyes. She loved the feel of Julian’s strong hands on her shoulders. “Why do you think I’m doing it?”

Tinsley had spent a relaxing, shopping-fueled Christmas in New York with her parents—her mom felt so guilty about abandoning Tinsley for Thanksgiving that they’d nearly maxed out her AmEx card on a Madison Avenue spree. But the highlight of her break was meeting up with Julian at the Carmichaels’ town house in Lake Placid. They’d spent long days on the slopes, making out on the ski lifts and racing each other back down the mountain. Julian was an even better skier than Tinsley, which drove her crazy—in ways good and bad. They spent their evenings curling up together in front of the fire with a bottle of wine, or soaking in the outdoor hot tub, watching the crystalline stars appear in the clear night sky.

Julian pressed his lips to the nape of Tinsley’s neck for a quick kiss before flopping facedown on his bed. He was so tall that his toes almost hung off the end of the regulation extra-long twin bed. The bottoms of his Diesel corduroys were frayed beyond repair. His blondish-brown hair was sun streaked from the days on the sunny ski slopes, and it had grown so long that he could pull it into a ponytail, which Tinsley kept threatening to chop off. “Come on over here. It’s your turn to be masseuse.”

“That’s not the worst idea you’ve ever had.” Tinsley stepped toward him, eager to run her hands all over his lean, muscular body, when a noise outside caught her attention. A few hearty male voices were followed by a chorus of girly giggles. It was the first night of Jan Plan, and since no one really had to get up in the morning, it was notoriously one of the best party nights. “But do you think we should maybe make a social appearance tonight? There’s something going on in Maxwell.”

Julian pushed onto his elbow and gazed up at Tinsley. He wore a gray T-shirt with a picture of a monkey wearing a space helmet. “You really want to go?”

Tinsley sank down onto the edge of the bed. She did, but she sensed that Julian didn’t. “I don’t know.”

“Well, we’ve got a whole month of parties to look forward to. I’d rather, you know, just be with you.” Julian grabbed a lock of Tinsley’s hair and twirled it around his finger, something he’d made a habit of recently.

Sweet. But a twinge of regret shot through her—she was Tinsley Carmichael, after all. Shouldn’t she be out there, in the middle of all the action? She thought fondly of last Jan Plan, when she and Brett and Callie had thrown an exclusive First Night party in their oversize Dumbarton dorm room. It was black tie, and invitation only, and they drank only the best Shiraz from Ryan Reynolds’s family’s vineyards.

But then Julian sat up and put his hand on Tinsley’s waist, right at the spot where her skinny black Earl jeans didn’t quite meet her tissue-soft Alice + Olivia T-shirt, and for a moment she forgot all about the rest of the planet. She crawled onto his lap, propping the heels of her new black leather Stuart Weitzman boots onto his nightstand, thinking, only fleetingly, what a shame it was to have such hot new boots and no one to gaze at them enviously.

“You know what I was thinking about?” Julian whispered into her ear, his breath hot against her skin.

Tinsley sighed dramatically, staring up at the giant black-and-white poster of a young Bob Dylan on the wall above Julian’s bed. “I can guess.” Yes, it was going to be so nice to have a whole month of hanging out with Julian, no classes, no responsibilities. She was going to start on her Jan Plan project tomorrow. She’d gotten a fancy new HD Nikon digital
SLR
camcorder from her father, and she’d been hoping to put together some kind of documentary. Over the summer, after she’d been—temporarily, it turned out—expelled from Waverly, she’d worked with her dad on a documentary about South Africa. Being behind the camera made Tinsley feel creative and powerful. Waverly Academy was, of course, not as exciting as Capetown, but she felt like she could make it work.

“Listen.” Julian brushed a lock of Tinsley’s dark hair behind her ear, then kissed her earlobe. “I know you’re going to make a film for your Jan Plan, and I was talking to Alan St. Girard and a couple of the guys at lunch. We’re going to try and write a kind of noir boarding-school mystery—you know, kind of Raymond Chandler meets
Carrie
.”

“That’s such a great idea!” Tinsley exclaimed, tracing her finger along Julian’s jawbone. “You’re the one who thought of it, I’m sure.” She always forgot that Julian was just a freshman—he was so much smarter than any of the boys she knew when she was a freshman.

He shrugged modestly. “What can I say?”

Tinsley patted his cheek. “I’m pretty sure Heath Ferro’s Jan Plan freshman year involved interviewing all the girls at Waverly and asking what made them horny.”

“That’s not a terrible idea, either.” Julian grinned, a tiny dimple appearing beneath the corner of his lips. “But hey, you should work with us on the film. We’ll need a femme fatale, and you could teach us all about directing and setting up shots.”

“I’m flattered,” Tinsley said slowly. She slid off his lap and sat next to him. “Maybe.”

Julian tilted his head. “I promise I’ll try to keep them from hitting on you too much, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“That’s not it.” Tinsley stood up. She couldn’t very well tell Julian that it felt like a little
too
much to work on a school project with him—after all, they spent all their time together already. Suddenly Tinsley felt the need for some fresh air. She stretched her arms and grabbed her coat. “Listen, I’m going to run outside and have a cigarette, okay? I’ll be right back.”

She pulled on her brown wool herringbone Joie coat and tightened the belt. It was visitation hours, so girls were allowed in the boys’ dorm, but doors were supposed to stay open. According to the ancient Waverly handbook, which read like a fussy girls’ finishing-school manual from the 1800s, three feet had to be on the floor at all times in mixed company.

“Hurry back.”

Tinsley rushed outside, grateful for the cool burst of air against her skin. She hadn’t realized how warm it was inside Julian’s room until she was out in the dark evening. She pulled the half-crushed pack of American Spirits from her coat pocket and stuck one between her lips, automatically glancing around for teachers. She stuck to the shadows of Wolcott Hall, trying not to step in any mud. In the distance, she saw a couple of girls hurrying across the quad. In their impractically short skirts and high heels, they were clearly on their way to a party.

Tinsley wandered around the corner of the building, letting the cigarette smoke seep into her lungs and relax her. There, sitting on a bench directly under one of the iron gas lamps that lined the campus paths, was a girl in a short black jacket with a fur-trimmed hood. A cigarette casually dangled from her lips. Tinsley blinked. Lots of people smoked at Waverly, but no one wanted to get caught doing it. And this girl wasn’t exactly hiding it.

Then she realized. It was the girl from the chapel stage—the dean’s daughter. A worn-looking gray cap was perched haphazardly on her head, and her wild dark hair peeked out from beneath it.

The girl looked up. “Hey,” she said, coolly, taking another puff of a cigarette. Tinsley casually dropped her own cigarette butt to the ground and stamped it out with her toe before walking over to the girl.

“Do you always lurk around in the dark?”

“Only when I’m doing something I shouldn’t be doing.” Tinsley stuffed her gloved hands into her pockets. “But I see
you
don’t have the same healthy fear of authority.”

“When your daddy’s the dean, you develop warped ideas of what authority is.” The girl laughed. Her heart-shaped face was pale and surprisingly innocent looking. “Nice boots.”

Immediately, Tinsley felt vindicated. Her boots were just waiting to be appreciated. “Thanks.”

“I’m Isla,” the girl replied, crossing her legs. She wore a red wool miniskirt, black leggings, and a pair of knee-high Doc Martens.

“Tinsley Carmichael,” Tinsley replied.

Isla’s sea green eyes widened, and she leaned forward. A woven copper ring on her right index finger caught Tinsley’s eye. “I was
wondering
when I’d meet the famous Tinsley Carmichael. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Tinsley laughed lightly, but of course she was flattered by the recognition of her own notoriety. “Don’t believe it all.”

“That’s a shame. I thought there were going to be some cool people here.” Isla arched one of her thin eyebrows and took another drag of her cigarette. “Don’t worry,” she said as she caught Tinsley’s eyes on the unconcealed cigarette, “one of the perks of being the dean’s daughter is that it’s nearly impossible to get in trouble.”

Tinsley sat down next to her on the bench. The cold quickly seeped through her jeans, but she didn’t care. “What are the other perks?”

Isla laughed, one of those loud, carefree, completely infectious laughs. “Have you ever been inside the dean’s house here? It is fucking sweet.” Isla’s wide eyes made her look slightly wild—probably an accurate assessment.

“I have, actually,” Tinsley admitted proudly, rubbing her arms with her leather-gloved hands. “Once, as a freshman, this guy and I snuck in. It was a weekend Marymount was away, and we raided the wine cellar.”

Isla nodded, impressed. “Nice.” She got to her feet and flicked her cigarette butt into the snow, where it sizzled out. She straightened her cropped leather jacket. “Any other exciting hiding places on campus?”

Tinsley grinned and rubbed her hands together, thinking of the times she and Julian sneaked into the Cinephiles screening room to make out. “I just met you. I can’t tell you all my secrets.”

Isla threw her head back and let out a long laugh that echoed through the quiet night. “Tinsley Carmichael,” she said slowly, lighting another cigarette and taking a long drag. “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

Email Inbox

Ms. Pritchard,

I know I handed in my Jan Plan proposal this afternoon to do an “outdoor survival” project with Heath Ferro, but after thoughtful consideration I realized I might be better suited to a different project. I know that tomorrow is the deadline for proposals. Is it all right if I e-mail you in the afternoon?

Thank you,

Brandon

Email Inbox

Brandon,

Don’t worry too much—I wasn’t convinced the “Survivor” project was really up your alley. I do need your new proposal by 5:00 pm tomorrow, so please make haste. If it helps, one of my other advisees, Callie Vernon, is working alone on a project that could probably use two people, in case you’d like to get in touch with her.

Look forward to reading your proposal!

Best,

MP

B
right and early on Tuesday morning, Jenny let the front door to Stansfield Hall slam behind her as she headed toward the dean’s office. As suspected, her adviser, Ms. Rose, had told her she needed to get permission directly from the dean if she wanted to work on her own. Now she just needed to convince him she was justified.

The administrative building was silent except for the muffled sound of music and the hissing of the old metal radiators. The wet bottoms of Jenny’s dark green Wellies squeaked against the waxed wooden floors. For the first time, she wondered if teachers appreciated Jan Plan as much as students. After all, they didn’t really have to teach classes, just look in on their advisees and occasionally lead an independent study.
Did teachers have their own parties?
she suddenly wondered, trying to picture Ms. Rose standing around a keg with the anal Latin teacher, Mr. Gaston. Or doing body shots. Ew.

Shaking that disturbing image from her mind, she marched toward the new dean’s door. Mr. Tompkins, Marymount’s secretary, was not at his desk—in fact, it was empty except for a Waverly pencil cup and a flat desk calendar. When a dean left, did that mean their secretary had to leave, too? Like with a presidential administration?
Guess I just go and introduce myself
, Jenny thought, butterflies fluttering in her stomach. She glanced at herself in the reflection of the large, café-style mirror that hung in the waiting area. She’d chosen her black three-quarter-sleeve Banana Republic top and a pair of Seven jeans she’d found at a thrift store years ago and loved to paint in. The paint splatters, she hoped, would make her seem serious about her art project.

Just as she raised her hand to knock on the door, it flung open. Jenny leaped back in surprise—and so did Dean Dresden. “Oh! Hello there.” He stepped back, dropping a stack of brightly colored paint samples to the floor.

“I’m so sorry to interrupt,” Jenny blurted out, bending down to pick up a handful of the small squares of paper. The office was a huge room with enormous bay windows that looked out over the quad. Over the outstretched bare branches of the trees, a tiny glimpse of the blue-gray Hudson River was visible in the distance. “I can come back if this is a bad time.”

“No, no.” The dean grinned, grabbing the rest of the samples from the floor. “My wife’s just been hounding me to change the color of the office before I get completely settled. So excuse the mess. And please come in.”