Tempted, Page 2

  AlanStGirard: Poor Julian—he really fucked that up!

  AlisonQuentin: Did U hear what he did? Jenny won't talk.

  AlanStGirard: Nah, he just plays dumb.

  AlisonQuentin: Maybe that was the problem.

  JennyHumphrey: I’m thinking Cleopatra. Too much?

  BrettMesserschmitt: Flaunt it, babe. Your secret admirer will take one look at you and finally come out of hiding!strong

  JennyHumphrey: We can always hope ….

  2

  A WAVERLY ADVISER HAS HER OWLS’ BEST INTERESTS AT HEART.

  Brett Messerschmitt kicked the pointy toe of her black Sigerson Morrison ankle boot against the leg of Mrs. Horniman's desk, trying not to be irritated that her adviser had summoned her to her office and then failed to be present. A steaming cup of coffee sat on the paper-covered desk, the only evidence of a recent human presence. Brett slunk into an uncomfortable wooden chair and proceeded to wait.

  The sound of heels clicking echoed down the hallway, and Mrs. Horniman's pear-shaped body appeared in the doorway, her salt-and-pepper gray bob swinging. “Good afternoon,” she said courteously as she plopped down behind her desk, her wooden chair groaning under her weight. “So sorry I’m late.” She pulled her white satin blouse away from her chest and fanned it, indicating a large, coffee-tinted wet spot. “Beverage mishap.”

  “No problem,” Brett answered automatically, straightening in her chair. Waverlies couldn't resist the temptation to make fun of Mrs. Horniman's name, sometimes speculating as to what her maiden name had been—Fuckmeister, Screwsalot—but in reality, she was one of the best advisers. She also taught all the mandatory college prep seminars, and knew exactly how to get her students into the most exclusive colleges. And everyone liked her tell-it-like-it-is attitude, even those who wondered out loud whether her husband lived up to his name in bed.

  Mrs. Horniman pushed her rolling desk chair backward and twisted the rod hanging from the blinds. Rays of late-afternoon light slanted across her desk. “How are you?” she asked earnestly, resting her elbows on her desk and leaning forward to look at Brett. She peered over the rims of her round red plastic glasses that looked like something an eighties news anchor would wear.

  Brett felt her tongue loosening, and had to fight the urge to spill out everything that had been going on with her, as if Horniman were her therapist instead of her adviser. Instead, she nodded. “Fine, thank you.” She glanced across the teak bookshelves full of college guides rendered outdated by the Internet, the pair of crystal doves cooing at each other on top of the desk, the handmade globe in its hardwood cradle in the corner. Mrs. Horniman was known to spin the globe during her you-can-go-anywhere-in-the-world speech she recited with passion the first time she sat down with a new advisee.

  Mrs. Horniman leaned back in her chair and pushed her red-framed glasses up on her nose. “I know that you've … ah … run into some bad luck lately.”

  Bad luck. That was a nice way to put it. Brett's whole junior year so far had been a string of bad luck—starting with falling for Eric Dalton, DC adviser and male bimbo, dumping her sweet boyfriend Jeremiah Mortimer, getting wrapped up in a few too many illicit parties, gaining notoriety as the only bisexual prefect in Waverly history, being present at the burning of a barn … Eep. Once Brett started to really think about it, she felt panic rising in her chest. What if Mrs. Horniman told her that she'd made such a disaster of her junior year, there was no way she'd get into Brown?

  Brett stared down at her chipped pale blue Hard Candy nail polish. “I guess that's a fairly accurate assessment.”

  “But, other than that …” The boxy black phone on Mrs. Horniman's desk rang and she pressed a button to silence it. “How is your semester going?”

  Brett shrugged, the panic mounting. “Okay, I guess.” She had forgotten, apparently, that as a junior, she was supposed to be thinking about her college applications, preparing for her SATs, and expanding her repertoire of extracurriculars. If she was serious about Brown—or Berkeley or Swarthmore or any of her other top choices—she needed to get her act together and stay out of trouble. And she needed Mrs. Horniman on her side.

  Mrs. Horniman folded her hands on her desk and locked her motherly gaze on Brett. “I want you to know,” she started, tilting her head to the side, her gray-brown hair falling to her shoulders, “that despite your recent … escapades … you're still one of Waverly's best students. The faculty here are always surprised to hear your name associated with the low-level mayhem that inevitably occurs when teenagers live together in close quarters.”

  Brett smiled at that summation of all the troublemaking that went on at Waverly, and smoothed out the crease in her pinstripe wool Theory trousers, nodding a small thanks. She blushed at the thought of teachers talking about her in private.

  “Look, I remember what it was like at your age, though when I went to Waverly things were less … conspicuous, let's say.” Mrs. Horniman leaned back in her chair and gazed fondly at the picture frame on her desk. Its back was facing Brett. “What I’m trying to say is, everyone here, including me, holds you in high regard.”

  Brett took a deep breath, feeling instantly soothed. Okay, so she hadn't messed her life up irreparably. The last two weeks at Waverly had been anxiety-inducing—the whole fire drama witch hunt followed by Jenny's near expulsion, coupled with her own personal turmoil, had frazzled Brett's nerves. She was still getting used to guys she hardly knew asking her to hang out just because they knew she'd kissed a girl—it was weird. But Brett suddenly felt safe and free in the cocoon of Mrs. Horniman's office, like things were going to start to come together for her again.

  “Thank you,” Brett said earnestly. “I appreciate you saying that.”

  “You're welcome,” Mrs. Horniman replied, smiling. Brett noticed a reddish lipstick stain on her left incisor. “Remember that I’m always here. You can always come to me with anything, be it school-related or otherwise. Don't forget that.”

  “I won't,” Brett promised. She gripped the sides of the chair, about to stand up and make her way back to the library, feeling ready to hit the SAT prep books now.

  “And to prove that I’m not just whistling Dixie …” Mrs. Horniman continued. Brett relaxed her arms and covered the attempted exit by rubbing the sleeves of her pink-and-black striped L.A.M.B. puff-sleeve mock turtleneck. “I’m going to ask for your help.”

  “Sure, anything.” Brett nodded eagerly, excited at the thought of working on some new project for Mrs. Horniman that would bring her back into the administration's good graces. Help out with the college fair? Not a problem. Help design a new college prep course syllabus? Sure thing.

  “One of my senior advisees is in danger of not graduating.” Mrs. Horniman opened a manila folder on her desk that had been sitting there throughout the meeting, and Brett wondered if that was the whole reason she'd been called here. “He's a … well, I hate the world troubled—it's so overused, especially in my line of work. Let's just say that he needs someone to get his studies on track. You up for it?”

  Tutoring? Brett's heart sank. She'd always been one of the smarter kids in class, and so she was used to teachers relying on her to help out the other students who weren't exactly getting it. But she never understood why it was her responsibility to teach someone to conjugate French verbs, or whatever—it wasn't like she was the one getting paid. And now? Her adviser wanted her to save a lazy senior from flunking out? Brett guessed that the kid's parents were of more concern to Waverly than the senior himself—she knew from experience that rich kids couldn't flunk out of Waverly. They could be kicked out, for sure, and occasionally asked to take leaves of absence, but they rarely flunked out—and she guessed that her new mentee must be in the super-loaded category.

  But one look at the shelves filled with college catalogs, many of them to places Brett had never heard of, was enough to remind Brett that a little kissing up couldn't hurt.

  “Absolutely,” Brett replied, knowing she had no ch
oice. “Tell me what I can do.”

  “I think he'll really respond to you—you both have, ah, similar backgrounds,” Mrs. Horniman added, shuffling a few papers in the file before looking up at Brett.

  Brett tried to parse the meaning of this cryptic message and waited for Mrs. Horniman to explain further—maybe his father was a filthy rich plastic surgeon, too? His mother a Teacup Chihuahua collector? But she didn't and Brett shrugged it off as Mrs. Horniman just trying to sell her on the idea. She handed a robin's egg blue index card to Brett across the table. It read SEBASTIAN VALENTI, along with all of his contact information, in pencil. As if he could be easily erased if he failed.

  Or if Brett did. As she stood, she glimpsed the front of the picture on Mrs. Horniman's desk, the one she kept glancing down at with a smile. It was a photo of Mr. Horniman, in his polo shirt and khakis, leaning on a golf club on a luscious green lawn somewhere with palm trees. The picture could've been taken by anyone, she supposed, but somehow she could tell it had been taken by Mrs. Horniman. How else to account for the look on her husband's face as she snapped the picture? Was that what love looked like?

  Brett stared at the picture as she swung the strap of her Prada backpack over her shoulder, thinking of Jeremiah. All of her betrayals lunged at her at once: cheating on Jeremiah with Mr. Dalton, then dumping Jeremiah when she found out he'd slept with Elizabeth—even though they'd been broken up when it happened—and then the thing with Kara, which had clearly had more to do with her than with Jeremiah. Brett rubbed her fingertips against her temples. She wouldn't take herself back if she were Jeremiah. He'd have to be crazy.

  “And,” Mrs. Horniman added, her green eyes twinkling deviously, “the experience will look great on your résumé.”

  Brett nodded and forced a smile as she let herself out of Mrs. Horniman's office. At least now she had a project, one that would help her forget about Jeremiah and the gaping hole he'd left in her life.

  A project named Sebastian Valenti.

  From: [email protected]

  To: [email protected]; [email protected]; [email protected]; [email protected]; [email protected]; [email protected]; [email protected]; [email protected]; [email protected]

  Date: Wednesday, October 30, 4:45 P.M.

  Subject College Preparatory Seminar

  Dear students,

  As you all know, every college application requires a recommendation from your guidance counselor. But before I can send you off into the wild blue yonder with my seal of approval, you know you must complete my four-week college preparatory seminar. Trust me—it's for your own good, as I will coach you, prep you, guide you, and steer you in the right direction—toward Princeton, Harvard, the Sorbonne, or wherever you'd like to go.

  Three P.M. tomorrow. My room in Hopkins Hall. Come with open minds.

  Best,

  N.H.

  From: [email protected]

  To: [email protected]

  Date: Wednesday, October 30, 5:15 P.M.

  Subject Meeting

  Sebastian,

  As you may know, I’m currently the junior class prefect and Mrs. Horniman gave me your e-mail and mentioned that you could use a little help with your academic performance. I would be happy to help you out in whatever way I can.

  Are you free to meet in the library after class tomorrow? Mrs. Horniman told me you have a big Advanced Latin test next week and I can help you study for it. If not, I’ll be at the Monster Mash Bash tomorrow night, dressed as Daphne (from Scooby-Doo). Feel free to come up and introduce yourself, and we can find a suitable time to meet.

  Best,

  Brett

  3

  YOU CAN TAKE THE PRINCESS OUT OF THE BALL—BUT SHE'LL STILL BE A PRINCESS.

  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 gea
r” 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.”