Tempted by Cecily von Ziegesar
Suddenly, the memory of her and Julian's first kiss jolted her like an electric shock. Sitting on the tree stump, outside the barn, under the clear night sky filled with stars like diamonds. Their kiss had been so unexpected, and yet so natural, as if they'd both known all along it was going to happen.
Well, it had been perfect … until she found out he'd been fooling around with Tinsley Carmichael. Those first few days after he'd told her about Tinsley had been terrible. All she could think about was Julian comparing her kisses to Tinsley's. He'd sent her e-mails, and texts, all trying to explain, and asking her to please give him another chance. But it was too late. It was impossible to think about kissing Julian again without thinking about Tinsley Carmichael's tongue in his mouth. Ew.
Drew slid into the driver's seat as Jenny eased into the passenger's. “I, uh, don't think I’ve been in a Mustang before,” she noted, hoping he couldn't detect the hesitation in her voice. The car was pretty cheesy. Its all-black leather interior gleamed as if it had been recently polished with a soft cloth diaper, and there were no signs of the normal McDonald's wrappers or crushed cigarette butts. But the smell of Drakkar Noir permeated the interior and Jenny cracked the automatic window a tad, just enough to let in some fresh air without soaking the car with rain. A giant platinum S encrusted with what Jenny hoped weren't real diamonds dangled on a chain from the rear-view mirror.
Drew blushed as he adjusted the rearview mirror. “Pretty classy, huh?” He traced the sparkling S with a fingertip. “I guess I’ll have to make sure your first time in a Mustang is an experience.” He put the car in reverse and stepped on the gas. Jenny felt her stomach drop a little as the wet gravel spun beneath the tires and they whirled out of the parking lot. The bare branches of wet trees reached for the sides of the car as they sped through the Waverly gates. Jenny settled back in her seat, not sure where they were going—or why, exactly—but she was definitely going to appreciate it.
“Find some music if you want.” Drew wiped a slash in the fog on the windshield with the sleeve of his Le Tigre jacket.
Jenny settled back in her seat and flipped through a worn CD wallet with a Dropkick Murphys sticker plastered on the front. She watched the tiny stores in Rhinecliff flash by and wished it were sunny out so they could wander around arm in arm.
“My roommate's from Jersey, and he's got some kind of guido tastes.” Drew nodded toward the CD case. “He's cool, though.”
“Where are you from?” Jenny asked. She wondered what her father would say about her going for a ride with a boy she'd just met—well, she knew what he'd say. But somehow, she felt totally comfortable around Drew. Jenny flipped past Bon Jovi and My Chemical Romance, looking for something a little more … she didn't know. A little less Jersey, maybe.
“I moved around a lot as a kid,” Drew answered, running a hand through his short, sandy hair as the other remained poised on the wheel. “San Francisco, Chicago, Vermont, a couple years in Guam, a little time in Germany.”
“Really?” She had no idea where Guam was, but it sounded exotic. “That must have been interesting.”
“Not really. I kind of just wished I could, you know, have a less complicated answer when someone asks where I’m from.” Drew's mouth curled into a half-grin. “So where are you from?”
“New York,” Jenny proclaimed, a little surprised at how proud she was of the fact. She spotted a CD with a black-and-white photograph of an elephant in a top hat. “Oh, I love the Raves.” She slid the CD into the player and turned the volume up. “My brother turned me on to them,” she added, not wanting to brag about the fact that she'd actually spent a lot of time hanging out with the band, part of the reason she'd been “asked” to not return to Constance Billard last year.
“Where does your brother go?” Drew turned the volume up a little, which Jenny took as tacit approval of her choice in music.
“He's at Evergreen,” she said. “Out in Washington State.” She missed Dan and hoped he'd forget the lame plan he'd e-mailed her about last week. He was thinking of spending Thanksgiving working on Habitat for Humanity houses in Spokane. Couldn't he for once be normal and come home for some of Rufus's famous overcooked suckling pig, stuffed turkey, and cranberry-marshmallow-yam pie? She smiled at the thought. “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
“What's your favorite place in New York?” Drew asked at the same time, his fingers drumming the steering wheel. They both laughed.
“Central Park, probably,” Jenny said, surprised at how quickly it came out. “The Strand, of course. The little shops on St. Mark's. The Met.”
“I love Central Park,” Drew offered.
He turned the car onto a heavily wooded street, the almost bare trees forming a dark canopy over their heads. “Have you even been down here before?” he asked, glancing at Jenny. “This is where the Rhinecliff elite live.” He slowed the car down as they passed the first house, a sprawling Tudor with a red Porsche in the driveway.
“Not bad.” Jenny spotted a modern-looking house that was all glass and wood and sharp angles. It looked just like the house Brett had said Eric Dalton lived in. She wondered if he was inside right now, hooking up with some other underage girl, or if he'd cleared out of the area altogether.
Drew rested his hand casually on the stick shift as they passed a monstrous Georgian with two Hummers in the driveway. “So,” he asked suddenly, his voice low and suggestive. “Are you glad you didn't get kicked out?”“Duh,” Jenny answered playfully, shifting in the leather seat to face him. She tossed her curly brown hair back over her shoulders. “Otherwise I wouldn't be riding in a Mustang right now.”
Drew's eyes crinkled as he smiled. “That'd be my loss.” They turned off the wooded street and headed back toward the main drag, disappointment surging through Jenny. She'd kind of hoped Drew would want to … she didn't know. Park somewhere? It sounded sketchy when she thought about it.
“Someone told me you had your bags packed and everything,” he added. “Is that true?”
Jenny remembered that awful afternoon, randomly flinging clothes and her personal belongings into duffel bags and suitcases, trying desperately to hold back tears. She shuddered and shifted in her seat. She wanted to play it cool with Drew. “It wasn't a big deal.” She traced her finger in the fog forming at the bottom of her window. “I don't have that much stuff.”
Drew chuckled. “Well, I’m glad it worked out.”
There it was again, the same thing he'd said to her at the Halloween party. What did he mean by “worked out”? Just say it, she thought. She turned and smiled at him and he smiled back. “Yeah?” she asked, trying to prompt him to say more with her eyes. Could it really be Drew who'd paid off Mrs. Miller to say her cows started the fire? If so, how long had he been watching her from afar? How come he'd never said anything before?
“Yeah,” Drew replied easily. “If you'd left Waverly, we never would've met.” He glanced at her as he pulled out into Main Street traffic. “And I really wanted to meet you.”
Jenny giggled. “Well, I’d really like to meet whoever saved me.”
“Would you?”
“Yeah, of course.” Jenny bit her lower lip playfully. She searched Drew's face for some unmistakable sign, but he was concentrating on the road. An old lady stepped into the crosswalk in front of Nocturne, the newish twenty-four-hour diner that had quickly become a favorite Waverly hangout. She waved her cane angrily in the air, as if Drew had come too close for comfort.
“What would you say to him?” Drew asked, a devious look coming over his face. He accelerated as the old lady cleared the crosswalk.
Without missing a beat, and not really knowing where it came from, Jenny said, “Maybe I wouldn't say anything. Maybe I’d show him.” A ray of sunshine blasted through the rain clouds momentarily and then disappeared. Jenny wished that they could take the top down and that everyone could see her with Drew as they rolled through the streets of Rhinecliff.
Drew pulled into the Waverly parking
“So,” he said.
“So …” She trailed off.
Their eyes met, and they both moved their faces closer. Jenny noticed the sweet smile on Drew's lips as his mouth met hers. She felt her body melt and relax as he pressed against her, his mouth warm and syrupy and exactly what she wanted. A Jacuzzi warmth spread through her as she felt her hand reach out to touch Drew's neck.
A loud tapping behind her jolted Jenny out of her pleasant oblivion. She jumped back from Drew, her heart almost flying out of her chest.
Drew pulled away slowly, smiling. “Guess my roommate wants his car back.” Jenny whirled around to see a face in the passenger-side window.
“Oh,” Jenny said, taking a deep breath. “Guess so.”
The driver's side door opened and his roommate stuck his head inside. He took in Jenny with surprise, as if he'd been expecting someone else. His dark eyes smiled mysteriously at her. “Cleopatra, right?” Jenny recognized Drew's roommate from the Halloween party—he was the handsome dark-haired guy who was dressed like someone on the Sopranos. Inexplicably, he was still wearing his gangster costume, his thin white T-shirt strangely inappropriate for the weather, the gold chains still hanging around his neck.
“I guess so.” Jenny stepped out of the car, her shoes sinking into the wet gravel lot.
“This is Seb,” Drew said by way of introduction. He leaned his elbows on top of the car and tilted his head at Jenny. He looked like he was still thinking about kissing her.
“And this is Seb's car,” Seb added, grabbing the keys from Drew's hand. “And he's got some shit to do, so thanks for bringing it back.”
“No problem,” Jenny said, grinning at Seb's Jersey accent. She flashed Drew a smile and held her hand up in a little wave. She could tell he wanted her to stay and hang out, but she was floating from his kiss and she wanted to save more for later. Maybe she'd go get a cup of hot chocolate in Maxwell and pretend to read Much Ado About Nothing while she replayed their perfect* kiss in her head.
She was glad it had worked out.
15
A WAVERLY OWL KNOWS EXTRACURRICTJLARS ARE AN IMPORTANT PART OF CAMPUS LIFE.
Easy waited under the eaves of the dining hall on Friday evening as the rain picked up in intensity. A spray of water from the gutters overhead trickled onto his already wet Waverly blazer, and he cursed himself for leaving his waterproof North Face jacket back in his room. He couldn't help thinking that maybe if he started wearing his Waverly blazer around and looking more like the model student the dean wanted him to be, Marymount would be less likely to buy him a one-way ticket to military school.
The rain eased momentarily and he stepped out from under the overhang, sloshing briskly across the quad toward the field house. Mrs. Horniman's parting suggestion that he get involved with some extracurriculars was less a suggestion than a direct order, one he knew he couldn't afford to ignore. It was kind of late to be joining a sports team, but what were his other options? Join the drama club and snag a role in one of their pseudo-intellectual minimalist plays where two characters sat on stage and talked about death in pig latin? Besides, Coach Cadogan, the twentysomething soccer coach, had tried to bribe Easy into coming out for the team after seeing him and Alan St. Girard keep a Hacky Sack in the air last spring for a Waverly record two and a half hours. Maybe he could just sit on the bench?
He'd had a passing interest in girls’ field hockey when he first starred dating Callie, but that probably wasn't what Horniman had in mind.
The door to the field house was cracked open, and a toxic wind of sweat and mentholated creams permeated the air. He heard a symphony of metallic weights clanking as he approached the door. He paused before pushing through to find Heath working out in the far corner with his soccer cronies, Lance Van Brachel and Teague Williams. Apparently, it took three guys to bench-press—one to do the work and two to stand around and cheer him on. Along the back wall, beneath the giant maroon-and-blue Waverly banners, some other guys shot a game of horse on the half basketball court. There was Brandon Buchanan, in what looked like tennis whites, Ryan Reynolds, Lon Baruzza, Erik Olssen, and Alan, who was the kicker on the football team and got ribbed mercilessly for it. He claimed to love it because he was never on the field for more than two minutes in any game, ever. Other than that, the field house was empty—no girls in field hockey skirts stretching or doing gymnastics.
Easy took a deep breath. Maybe doing some sort of activity would help him focus and get his mind off Callie, an obsession that had gotten him too many reprimands, half a dozen teacher conferences, multiple probations, and several near-expulsions. He'd gone through a Nietzsche phase last spring after taking Dr. Rosenberg's Intro to Philosophy class, and remembered a quote from one of the dog-eared library books: “Ah, women. They make the highs higher and the lows more frequent.”
“You lost, Walsh?” Heath panted as he lifted himself off the weight bench. His heather gray SMILE IF YOU WANT TO KISS ME T-shirt was drenched with sweat.
Easy tipped his chin, the way he'd seen jocks acknowledge each other on campus. He had nothing to say to Heath, but he didn't know Lance or Teague that well and felt like he'd stepped into enemy territory.
“Where's Coach Cadogan?” Easy asked, suddenly self-conscious in his Waverly blazer when all the other guys wore sweaty shirts and shorts.
Lance, a senior with an extra-large head, jammed his thumb in the air. “On his back in the office,” he said. “Says the rain makes his back ache.”
Easy wasn't sure if he should bother Coach Cadogan, but he also wasn't sure if just showing up at the gym would count with Mrs. Horniman. He looked at the grease board outside Coach Cadogan's office and saw the notice: ALL SPORTS CANCELED TODAY DUE TO RAIN. WORK OUT INSTEAD, YOU BIG BABIES.
Brandon let out a howl as a wide jump shot bounced off the rim and rainbowed back toward the weight bench. “Heads up!” he called out. The basketball bounced off a stack of worn blue exercise mats and rolled toward Heath.
“Girls!” Heath shouted as he booted the ball back toward the court. “We're trying to pump up here! Keep your balls to yourself.”
Brandon picked up the ball and bounce-passed it to Easy. “You want in?” he asked. His normally gelled-to-perfection hair was damp and tousled, and he looked much more relaxed than usual. Apparently, dating Sage Francis was treating him right.
Easy shrugged and dropped his canvas messenger back on the floor, sliding his wet Waverly blazer down on top of it. “Sure.” He carried the ball onto the court, his wet shoes squeaking.
“Traveling,” Alan joked as he ran up behind Easy and tried to steal the ball from him.
“You guys playing horse? What letter is everyone on?” Easy asked, bouncing the ball in front of him and holding Alan back with an arm. His older brothers used to make him play basketball with them just so they could have someone to knock to the ground. No wonder he thought jocks were assholes.
“U,” Ryan called out, bouncing in place on the balls of his feet. Some part of him was always moving—he kept tapping his foot, snapping his fingers, rubbing his knees—and Easy wished he would either get some Valium or get laid.
Easy eyed the basket. “There's no U in Horse.”
“We're playing Bullshit,” Lon answered, lunging for Easy in an effort to snatch the ball. “Sounds like you can't get horses off your mind. What do you do with them out in the stables all day, anyway?” He leered at Easy.
“Same thing you do with Benny.” Easy bounced the ball a few times in front of him. He felt the rubber dimples in his callused hands as he let the ball fly. He opened his eyes in time to see it bounce hard off the backstop and right to Lon, who was reputedly getting nowhere with Benny Cunningham after weeks of sneaking her out to the gazebo.
“Cold,” Ryan shouted, thumping his fist against his chest and laughing. He held his arms out for the ball. Lon passed it to him, then good-naturedly flipped off Easy. Ryan bounced the ball and hurled it toward the basket, the bottom strings of the net whooshing as the ball fell just short.
“I haven't seen you fucktards make a shot yet,” Heath called out, tearing his shirt off and jogging over to the court, apparently needing to be half-naked to shoot properly.
“Be our guest,” Brandon said. He pumped the ball in Heath's direction. Heath caught it and dribbled in place.
“Fuck, I’m bored,” he said. He heaved the ball more at Brandon than the basket. “How long can we stay cooped up in here?”
“Yeah, me too,” Lance said. “I’m going for a jog. Who's in?”
“Me,” Teague said. “It's just a little rain.”
The rest of them watched as Lance and Teague donned their maroon Waverly windbreakers and headed out into the rain. Easy scratched his head and tried to imagine why anyone would want to run at all, much less run in the rain. Lon practiced his jump shot while everyone else stood on the sidelines.
“You know what we need to do?” Heath asked suddenly, staring up at a large banner that read WAVERLY BOYS’ SOCCER DIVISION CHAMPS 1977. “We need to organize a Men of Waverly club.”
“A what?” Lon shouted from the court.
“You heard me,” Heath answered. “We need something for times like these, when we've got nowhere to go and nothing to do. The chicks have their little club, so why shouldn't we?”
“You mean like a poker club or something?” Ryan asked, wiping drops of sweat off his forehead and looking less-than-enthused about spending time with a bunch of guys.
“Strippers, poker, sure, whatever.” Heath rubbed his hands over his bare chest, deep in thought. “The point is, there are enough of us that we should band together and give the ladies a run for their money.”