Notorious (11 page)

“Three Diet Cokes,” Tinsley said, giving him her million-watt smile. “But we haven’t decided what else yet.”

“No problem. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

It was warm inside, and Brett fanned her face with the menu and remembered how last year, after the first big lacrosse game, she and Jeremiah had met Easy and Callie and Tinsley and Heath here for pizza. They had to order another one because the guys devoured the first so quickly. She and Eric would never be able to hang out with her friends like that, she thought a little sadly.

But they had something different—it didn’t have to be about eating pizza while the boys tried to flick a pepperoni into each other’s spiked drinks. This would be her first real love affair, with much more at stake. Tinsley and Callie chattered on about the rumor that the entire pizza family was extremely well endowed and whether or not they could prove it. Their waiter came back, and Tinsley put in an order for a deep-dish pie with extra cheese and mushrooms on half.

“Earth to Brett.” Tinsley waved her slender arm in front of Brett’s face. “Anybody home?”

Brett didn’t answer. Her eyes were fixed on the platinum link bracelet on Tinsley’s right wrist. She stared. Was that …
Eric’s?
It looked exactly like the one she had noticed him wearing when they went to Newport. The one from his great-great-grandfather. How on earth could Tinsley have it?

“That’s a cool bracelet,” Brett remarked, trying to keep her voice an alto although it sprang up to soprano in panic. “Where’d you get it?”

“Oh, my crazy aunt Elinore gave it to me the last time I saw her,” Tinsley answered, twisting her wrist to admire the bracelet. “She’s getting a little batty and gives away her shit whenever someone comes into her house. I walked off with this great pearl-drop necklace too.”

Huh. How likely was it that two incredibly rare and valuable platinum antique bracelets that looked exactly alike would appear in the teeny town of Rhinecliff?

Pretty unlikely.

Instant Message Inbox

To:
[email protected]

From:
[email protected]

Date:
Thursday, September 12, 9:43 p.m.

Subject:
Flappers and Philosophers

Eric,

It was such a pleasure meeting you this morning; consequently, I read the short story you suggested. I have a sinfully thin flapper dress that’s exactly like something a Fitzgerald heroine would wear. ... Thought you might enjoy seeing me in it sometime.

Much as I love being back at good old Waverly, sometimes I ache to feel the city pavement pounding beneath my heels again. Ever get the urge to disappear and hole up in a luxurious hotel suite, lounging in bed all afternoon and ordering Dom 1958 from room service? Thought daydreaming might be another thing we have in common …

T

Instant Message Inbox

BretMesserschmidt:
I just finished a bottle of Meet and you know what? I think we’ve gone slow enough. When do I get to see you next?

EricDalton:
Brett, I’ve been thinking. ...

BrettMesserschmidt:
Good things, I hope.

EricDalton:
The thing is, I don’t think this is a good idea anymore—it’s not smart. I’m sorry.

BretMesserschmidt:
Excuse me???

EricDalton:
Maybe we should do this face-to-face?

EricDalton:
Brett, are you still there?

BrettMesserschmidt:
Is there someone else?

EricDalton:
Of course not. But we need to go back to a purely student-teacher relationship, OK?

EricDalton:
Hello?

EricDalton:
Brett?

BrettMesserschmidt:
Yes, sir. I think I understand. Perfectly.

“I didn’t take the picture, did I? How is this possibly my fault?” Callie screeched into her cell phone, already tired of having to deal with yet another complaint from Nicholson Adams, her mother’s publicist. Apparently a photo taken of Callie at a late-summer pool party had shown up in the Weekend section of the
Atlanta Journal-Constitution,
with the snide caption
Mary-Kate Olsen, Nicole Richie, and Governor Vernon’s Daughter: Starving for Attention?
So what if she’d lost some weight in Barcelona, pining over the disaster that was her relationship with Easy? Who the hell’s business was it, anyway? Not the
Journal-Constitution
‘s and certainly not smarmy Nicholson Adams’s.

Callie stood in the empty room in her camisole and Hanky Panky low-rise boy shorts, the phone having rung when she was about to put on her pajamas. As Nicholson proceeded to lecture her on how an eating disorder would reflect badly on constituents’ views of her mother’s family values, she looked at herself in the mirror. She turned to take in her thin body from a variety of angles, but nowhere did she see anything resembling the pin-thin bodies plastered in all the magazines. She certainly wasn’t anorexic or anything—she’d just scarfed down three pieces of gooey Ritoli’s pizza and half a bottle of champagne.

“Is my mother concerned that her daughter has an eating disorder or that people
think
her daughter has an eating disorder? If she’s actually concerned about
me
, tell her that next time she can call herself.”

She was about to hang up when he said, “Just try to eat something every once in a while, okay?”

“Eat this!” she screamed before hanging up. Then Brett walked through the door, looking like she’d witnessed a car crash. She’d gone outside with her cell phone when Nicholson called.

Callie pulled on her red satin pajama bottoms. “What’s the matter, sweetheart?” Her voice immediately softened, and she was surprised at how the word “sweetheart” came out of her mouth so effortlessly. In her post-Easy existence, she must be transferring her thwarted affections onto her friends.

“Eric just IMd me,” Brett blurted, her voice full of disbelief. Her normally pale face was a ghostly white. “He … he doesn’t think we should see each other anymore.”

“What?” Callie grew cold.
Shit
. This sounded like Tinsley’s doing. Had she really made a move on Mr. Dalton?
Already?
“Did he say why?”

“He said it wasn’t ‘smart.’” Brett shook her head slightly. “But two days ago he didn’t care if it was smart or not when we were practically naked in his bed.”

“Did something change that made him realize how much trouble he could get in?” Callie asked dubiously. “Maybe he bumped into Marymount and freaked?”

“Maybe.” Brett bit her lip and looked like she was about to cry. “But I don’t know. He didn’t say anything about Marymount.”

Callie wondered if Brett had any suspicions that this had something to do with Tinsley returning, but of course Callie wasn’t about to say anything. God, why was everything a fucking secret this year? “Well, it was just an IM, right? How much could he say?”

Brett stared at Callie blankly. “But I felt … so close to him. We almost did … it.” At this, Brett’s knees seemed to collapse under her and she fell dramatically onto her bed. “And then I just told him that I wanted to finally do it for real. And he just wrote back, saying it was over. It makes me feel so … sick and … stupid. Like I was some silly kid and he lost his patience with me.”

“So fuck him. He’s a jerk anyway,” Callie gushed vehemently. Of course she desperately wanted to cheer Brett up, but she also felt a tiny bit relieved not to be the only dumped girl in Dumbarton 303.

“Who’s a jerk?” Tinsley demanded, standing in the open door with her BlackBerry sticking out of the kangaroo pocket of her cutoff sweatshirt.

No one answered right away, and just as it was about to become awkward, Callie lamely filled in with, “Nicholson, my mom’s publicist.” If Brett and Tinsley didn’t settle their issues soon, she was going to flip out. “Fuck him, telling me I’m too skinny.”

Tinsley smiled indulgently. She’d go ahead and pretend she believed that’s what they were talking about if Brett found it so impossible to speak when she was in the room. Fine. Tinsley was tired of giving Brett space for her moods—she could go right ahead and kiss her ass. “You are awfully thin, Cal. Your clothes have been looking kind of baggy.” Which was true.

Callie rolled her eyes and shot Brett a thanks-for-nothing glare when Tinsley was hanging up her towel, but Brett was lying on her bed with her taxi-yellow Kate Spade rubber rain loafers still on, a single yellow leaf stuck to the bottom of one, staring straight at the ceiling, clearly in her own depressed world. Callie wondered what could distract her and immediately thought of Café Society.

“Where’s the fourth Musketeer?” Tinsley pointed at Jenny’s cot.

Brett glanced up disinterestedly. “She’s in Sage and Emily’s room. They have a French test tomorrow.”

Tinsley rolled her eyes and flicked on the black Harmon Kardon stereo that took up one of the window seats. Radiohead came blaring out of the surround-sound speakers, and Tinsley tweaked the volume a little before flopping down on her stomach next to Callie. Her short PJ Salvage pink polka-dot boxer shorts showed off her long, toned legs. “We have some important business to discuss, girlies. We need to come up with some guidelines for Café Society.”

“Rules?” Brett asked, sitting up so that she could check out Tinsley’s wrist again, but it was now bare. Convenient. Or was she just paranoid? Brett went to her dresser and pulled from the top drawer her favorite thing to sleep in—one of Jeremiah’s oldest J.Crew button-downs that was as soft as a tissue and so faded you could barely see its blue stripes. She’d slept in it for so long that it would have been weird to return it to him after she broke up with him.

“More like objectives,” Tinsley said, rolling onto her back and crossing her ankles. “Or goals, if you will.”

Suddenly Brett felt like she was at a slumber party with her best friends back in sixth grade. She grabbed her bottle of Kiehl’s Crème de Corps and perched on the end of Tinsley’s bed. Her bare legs were shaved smooth in anticipation of an evening with Eric. So she’d wasted her time, but it was still nice to have freshly shaven legs.

“Number one. No boyfriends,” Brett said, forcing a smile for Callie and Tinsley.

Tinsley noted Brett’s sudden enthusiasm. “Exactly. It is very critical for our growth as young women not to be hampered by whiny, self-involved boyfriends who are just trying to cramp our style.”

“Two,” Callie chimed in, her face glowing with interest. “Alcohol should always be involved.”

“Three.” Tinsley parted her hair in the middle and smoothed down each half so that she looked like a hippie. “Society members are encouraged to hook up with random, pre-approved gorgeous guys in a non-boyfriend, purely-for-fun sort of way.”

“What?” Brett suddenly wondered if this whole project was just another way for Tinsley to reassert her dominance over everyone. “I thought this was just
talking
about hooking up.”

“What fun would that be?” Tinsley demanded. “But I’m definitely not talking about group sex or anything. Not yet, at least.” She flashed her wicked smile, the one that made you wonder if she was serious about anything at all or if life was just one giant game to her.

Maybe that’s why Tinsley never gets her heart broken
, Brett thought. That, and a face that would put Helen of Troy to shame.

“So who are these gorgeous guys?” Callie asked, rubbing Dr. Hauschka chapstick on her lips and handing it to Brett.

“Whoever we want them to be.” Tinsley spread her hands out as if to indicate that these gorgeous guys were right there in front of them, just waiting to be chosen.

“Parker DuBois,” Callie suggested. “He’s sexy.” Callie liked to think of herself as a good matchmaker, having put together and dismantled many of Waverly’s notorious couplings due to behind-the-scenes manipulations. And while she was certain Parker and Brett would get along beautifully—they were both arty and moody—Parker was so hot, Callie wouldn’t mind getting her lips on him either.

“What about Charlie Soong?” Brett offered. Charlie was a junior from Taiwan who could often be seen with a guitar and was supposedly a Taiwanese pop star, though he didn’t talk about it. The girls had Googled him once last year and discovered that there were hundreds of Web sites run by rabid teenage fans in Taiwan sharing gossip, photos, sightings, and wondering what his life was like at the private boarding school he attended in the States. It was very surreal. “He’s got those great soccer legs, even if he sings a cappella.”

“He’s a possibility,” Tinsley mused, wondering what a Taiwanese pop star would be like to kiss. Maybe they did it differently there. She stood up and walked over to the antique oak mirror to examine her eyebrows for errant hairs. One of Tinsley goals for herself—one she never would have shared with her adviser—was to make out with someone from every single country on earth. Or at least the ones she could get to without a parachute or a dogsled. And what about that really tall guy she’d seen coming out of the woods with Brandon and the other boys? Whatever his name was, he wouldn’t be a freshman forever. He could go on the list.

“You know who has to be first? The pizza guy,” Callie said eagerly, still thinking about his warm brown eyes and tousled dark hair. He’d always smell like fresh pizza, which would be even better than having to eat it. “Toss me my South of the Highway?” Callie asked Tinsley, who was standing close enough to Callie’s dresser to grab her nail polish.