Tempted (3 page)

Callie Vernon lifted up her taffeta skirt delicately with her matching baby blue-gloved hands as she made her way down the marble steps of Dumbarton Hall to the first floor. She took each step carefully, so as not to disturb the precarious balance of her glass slippers. She’d fallen in love with Cinderella when she first saw the Disney movie at age three, and had begged her mom to force her to mop the floors or mend their clothes in the attic. (Her mother had, of course, refused, saying, “That’s why we have a housekeeper, dear.”) But Callie had always dreamed about being the girl who made it through all that and came out—well, a princess. Teetering for balance on the delicate heels, Callie wondered how the hell Cinderella had managed to run down the giant staircase at midnight without falling on her ass.

Her dress was a sky blue strapless confection made of taffeta,with a tight bodice and a full, billowy skirt. She’d found it at the giant shopping mall in Poughkeepsie, after skipping her afternoon bio class last week and hailing a cab. She thought she’d have better luck finding an appropriate Cinderella dress there, in one of the department stores’ juniors’ section, or one of those tiny shops devoted exclusively to proms. She’d spent twice the cost of the dress at the tailor, having him add the puff sleeves that made it scream “Cinderella,” instead of just “suburban-girl prom.” But it had been worth it. The glass slippers had been surprisingly easy to track down online—there was a whole industry devoted to helping girls live out their Cinderella fantasies. The outfit wouldn’t have been the same without them, though she could feel new blisters popping up each time she moved.

Callie patted her hair, trying to judge how well her wavy strawberry blond locks were managing to stay in her messier version of Cinderella’s upsweep. She wanted to get the costume right, down to the black velvet choker and the blue ribbon around her head. The thought of winning the costume competition hadn’t crossed her mind—she just wanted to make Easy smile.

And, you know, maybe start
talking
to her again.

In the two weeks since the DC meeting that had kind of—but not really—decided Jenny Humphrey’s fate, Easy had barely said two words to Callie. Once he’d opened her phone and read an incriminating text from Tinsley congratulating them on their success in pinning the blame on Jenny, he’d completely shut Callie out. No calls, no e-mails, no texts. It killed her that he was still, after two whole weeks, so furious he could barely look at her.

But she knew he’d come back to her soon. Hopefully, tonight. She’d been waiting for him to come back to her on his own, but at this rate, it would be Christmas break before that happened, and so it was time to take action. She’d been dying to explain something to him—something that would make him realize she wasn’t the horrible person he clearly thought she was. Besides, what was the point of doing something nice for someone if they didn’t realize you’d done it?

And her confession would either work and send Easy racing back to her—or it wouldn’t. And things would really be over. But she pushed that thought from her mind, fantasizing instead about sneaking away from the silly, overheated Halloween party to one of the dark rooms in the Prescott building, Waverly’s faculty club, where the party was being held this year. Her knees weakened just thinking about it—it had been way too long since Easy had touched her.

The cell phone in Callie’s blue satin purse jingled to the tone she’d reserved for her mother, as if she could read Callie’s scandalous thoughts and wanted to put an end to them.

“Hi, Mom,” Callie answered wearily, holding the phone to her ear with her shoulder as she struggled in the lobby of Dumbarton to tug on her long black Ralph Lauren trench coat and a wide-brimmed Jeffrey Campbell rain hat. It killed her to ruin her outfit like that, but the freaking rain would not stop. She would just have to take the things off before making her entrance. She stepped over an orange plastic pumpkin filled with tiny Snickers bars, courtesy of dorm mother Angelica Pardee, and opened the front door. A cold, wet wind slapped her in the face as she emerged from Dumbarton and onto the leaf-strewn quad. A group of sophomore girls in short, revealing dresses and no jackets ran across the quad with their high heels in their hands and Callie rolled her eyes. Why was “Halloween costume” synonymous with “skank gear” to so many girls? “What’s wrong?”

“Why does something have to be wrong?” Her mother’s voice was softer than usual, like she was either making a strong effort to sound gentle or had had a glass of pinot grigio with dinner. “I just wanted to check in with my baby girl.”

Definitely wine. “Uh, thanks.” Callie gingerly made her way down the wet steps of the dorm. The glass slippers had about zero traction on them, despite the twenty minutes Callie had spent trying to scuff up the bottoms on the fire escape.

“I know things have been just crazy up there lately,” her mom continued. “How are you holding up?”

Callie skidded on a pile of wet leaves, then straightened herself. In the distance, she spotted a girl in a black witch hat rushing in the direction of the Prescott ballroom slip and crash-land in the middle of the quad. “I’m fine,” Callie answered distractedly. “Things aren’t that crazy here.” Well, besides her fucked-up relationship with Easy, but she didn’t want to get into that with her mom.

“Well, listen, sweetums,” her mother started in an even softer voice.

Callie bristled at the word
listen,
knowing that the real purpose of the governor’s call was about to be revealed. Of course she wouldn’t call just to chat. “I know that, despite what you say, you really could use a break. I’ve set up a retreat for you up in Maine. Some of my staff have done it; it’s going to be a completely
transformative
experience.”

Callie blinked her eyes. “A retreat?”

“Yes, sweetie. It’s this wonderful health spa. It’ll do wonders for you.” When she paused, Callie could hear her mother biting her fingernails, something she only did right before important state dinners. “I know you have your Halloween party tonight, so I’ve arranged for a car to pick you up afterward outside the gate. Midnight?”

As tempting as the offer was—she could really use a facial, a Swedish massage, a full pedicure, and some all-around pampering—all Callie could think about was fixing things with Easy. She needed to be here right now, with him. “Thanks, Mom, that’s really sweet.” As Callie approached the faculty club and spotted the lights inside, her heart started to beat faster. “But I don’t need a spa trip right now. Maybe before finals or something.”

Her mother clicked her tongue in disappointment. “All right, darling … but if you change your mind, I can have a car there in fifteen minutes. Just say the word.”

After exchanging pleasant goodbyes, Callie dropped the phone back in her purse. She climbed the steps to Prescott— couldn’t Waverly invest in some escalators?—smoothed her updo, and took a deep breath before pushing open the door.

The Prescott Faculty Club was only opened to Waverly students on very rare occasions, such as this year’s Monster Mash Bash, as the annual Halloween gala was affectionately called for reasons beyond Callie’s comprehension. Callie had only been in the building twice before—once for a fancy fund-raising alumni dinner with her mother when Callie was twelve, and then during freshman year, for Waverly’s winter formal. As she tossed her coat haphazardly onto a hanger in the coatroom and crossed the marbled floor of the lobby toward the main ballroom, she glanced at the black-and-white photographs of distinguished faculty members that lined the vestibule walls and rolled her eyes. She remembered going to winter formal with Brandon Buchanan and pointing at all the photos and whispering imagined sexual preferences to each other (can only do it with the lights off, has to be wearing a different-colored wool sock on each foot). Although it had kind of impressed her that Brandon had gotten together with Sage Francis, she had to admit she was also a teeny bit disappointed that he had finally gotten over her. Not that she wanted him to obsess over her for the rest of his life or anything—but still, it just kind of felt good to know someone thought she was fabulous. Especially now that Easy was so uninterested. For the moment.

Callie waved aside the dangling curtain of fake cobwebs hanging over the entrance to the ballroom—still gross, fake or not—and gaped at the scene in front of her. The distinguished ballroom—Teddy Roosevelt had held an enormous fund-raiser here a hundred years ago—had been transformed into a creepily beautiful
Nightmare Before Christmas
kind of wonderland. No cheesy orange and black cardboard cutouts in sight. Instead, the dark ballroom was covered with long strands of twinkling silver lights and yards and yards of glittering cobwebs that managed to look ethereal and beautiful. An old-time projector showed grainy black-and-white clips of classic scary movies—
Psycho, Dracula, Frankenstein
—on a giant screen. A line had formed in a doorway on the other side of the room, the sign above it reading in ghostly white letters,
HAUNTED
HOUSE
.

She scanned the room for Easy. People Callie half-recognized wore elaborate costumes or masks hiding their faces, or sported makeup so freaky it was difficult to tell who was beneath it. Was that him over there, in the rubber Nixon mask? It seemed like the kind of low-maintenance costume he’d wear, but just as Callie took a step toward him, the boy turned and she saw a strip of blond hair sticking out the back.

Benny Cunningham appeared from out of nowhere in a hot pink silky Ginger and Java minidress with a jeweled strap that hung around her neck. An enormous white leather Fendi bag with an even more enormous gold buckle hung over one shoulder, a tiny stuffed dog poking its head out.

“I hope that thing’s not real.” Callie pointed her blue gloved finger at the animal, whose beady black eyes looked disturbingly lifelike.

Benny tossed her head, sending her silky platinum wig cascading over her bare shoulders. She arched her back and flashed Callie her best Paris Hilton pout. “It was the best I could do from the toy aisle at
CVS
.” She twirled a lock of hair around one hot pink-polished finger and scanned the room. “I’m dying to find out if you blondes really do have more fun.”

Callie nodded. “Uh-oh. I think Emily Jenkins is a Paris, too.” Across the room, the curvy senior, in a short plaid skirt and tight white button-down that revealed a bright red bra beneath it, stood in the drink line, fixing her blond ponytails.

“Are you on crack?” Benny scoffed as she fumbled through her giant bag. She pulled out a large bottle of Paris Hilton perfume. “She’s Britney, circa 1999.” Benny glanced over her shoulder and handed the perfume bottle to Callie. “It’s vodka— we can share.”

Callie glanced around the room one more time for Easy, then put the bottle to her lips and took a sip of badly scented vodka.

She just hoped her Prince Charming would show up before midnight, or she might lose her slipper
and
the contents of her stomach, too.

“Wait, are you Tommy Lee Jones from
Men in Black?
” “What?” Brandon Buchanan’s jaw dropped as Sage Francis strode through the entrance of the Prescott Faculty Club, wrapped in a sophisticated tan belted trench coat. Brandon touched the silky lapel of his black Armani tuxedo in panic. “No, James Bond, remember?” He’d told Sage about his costume a few days ago—was it so hard to imagine him as the ultra-debonair international spy that she had actually confused him with an old geezer like Tommy Lee Jones?

Sage’s green-blue eyes, covered in smoky gray eye shadow, widened with amusement. Long diamond earrings dangled from her ears and glittered in the light of the lobby’s chandelier. “I’m just teasing. Of course I remember.”

“Oh.” The door behind her opened, letting in a gust of cold air along with a pack of seniors wearing dorky seventies clothing and blue T-shirts that read
THE
BRADY
BUNCH
. Brandon gently led Sage by the elbow over to the coatroom at the side of the lobby.

“But who’s Bond without his Bond girl?” Sage started to unwrap her long trench coat, and Brandon couldn’t take his eyes off her. Her lips, painted a deep, movie star red, curved into a mysterious grin, and her pale blond hair was pulled back into a long, slick ponytail high on her head. Brandon helped her as she shrugged the coat off her shoulders, turning around to reveal a long, slinky emerald green evening dress with a plunging neckline.

Brandon’s mind scrambled to come up with a witty Bondism to casually throw out to let Sage know how great she looked, but he couldn’t stop staring at how perfect her simple diamond pendant necklace looked nestled in the shadow of her stunning cleavage. He coughed. “You look … amazing, darling.”

Sage lowered her chin and gave Brandon a long, devastating stare that turned his legs to jelly. “Why thank you, Bond,” she said in a deep, throaty voice.

“I thought you were coming as a Girl Scout,” Brandon said, after he’d stuffed their coats into the overcrowded coat-room. He placed his hand on Sage’s lower back—a Bond move, he hoped—and steered her toward the main entrance to the ballroom.

Sage’s stiletto heels clicked against the polished hardwood floors, audible even over the thumping music. “I thought Vesper Lynd sounded a little sexier.”

“Well, here you are, Vesper,” Brandon said grandly as he handed Sage a plastic cup filled to the brim with the sticky sweet orange punch boiling in a cauldron under the
WITCHES
BREW
sign in the corner. He suppressed the dorky urge to point out the sign’s incorrect punctuation. It didn’t seem very Bond. “Just how you like it—shaken, not stirred.”

“Thanks, James.” Sage took the cup and gave him another smoldering look. Brandon fingered his black necktie, the knot rubbing mercilessly against his Adam’s apple as he swallowed a mouthful of the awful punch.