The trip to New York was supposed to be a bit of a getaway, too. The somber mood on campus was almost too annoying to bear, so much so that Tinsley fancied a weekend away with her parents, who she hoped would be surprised when she showed up at their Gramercy Park apartment. But they were gone, the message on her mother’s voice mail saying they were in Amsterdam, and Tinsley had spent the evening watching reruns of
Sex and the City
and drinking some of their most expensive wine.
Tinsley shook off the memory of her lonely weekend in
NYC
, returning her attention to the party at hand. The opening riff of Metallica’s “Enter Sandman” boomed and the crowd pulsed at once. Tinsley slowly made her way back toward the entrance, secretly hoping that Julian was spying on her. She didn’t even know if he was
at
the party—it was the sort of thing he’d be too cool for, but it was also the sort of thing he’d be totally up for, in an unironic way. He’d been avoiding her, and she knew why—the whole Jenny thing, of course. But she also knew he’d get over it eventually. Besides, Jenny
hadn’t
been kicked out. And it didn’t look like Jenny and Julian were together anymore, either. So wasn’t it about fucking time for Julian to come back to
her?
She worked her way out onto the dance floor, everyone moving to make room for her as she swayed to the beat, dancing a few steps here and there with the various hot guys she came across, gracing them each with a few moments of her presence before moving on to the next one. But she couldn’t stop thinking about Julian. Where was he? It made her furious that she cared so much, even though he’d had the nerve to drop her like she was a leper. She thought for a moment the Civil War soldier might be him, but he was too tall. As she caught a glimpse of blond hair poking out of his hat, she realized it was a senior point guard who had notoriously odorous BO. Frodo was too short. The James Dean was too fat, and the guy dressed up like Han Solo was too … ugly. She quit scanning the room, not wanting to really know if Julian was watching her or not. She could only imagine he was and with luck he was having second thoughts. She’d been inspiring second thoughts her whole life.
Tinsley reached for her flask and moved toward Heath Ferro and Kara Whalen, who were standing off in a corner, whispering annoyingly. (Secondarily annoying to Jenny’s sudden conversion to Waverly demigod was Heath fucking Ferro dating a lesbo-wannabe with no fashion sense—how on earth had
that
happened?) Angelica Pardee, dressed as a not very convincing Dorothy from
The Wizard of Oz,
ascended the riser next to the empty punch bowl, a microphone in hand. The music stopped and an excited murmur rushed through the crowd.
“Hello?” Pardee said into the microphone, her full-skirted blue apron dress sticking out around her as if she had on a petticoat. Her reddish brown hair was pulled into two low ponytails at the sides of her head, both of which had been hair-sprayed into sausage-shaped curls. “Hello.”
Tinsley’s heart beat faster, and she surreptitiously slid her flask back into her garter belt. She moved casually through the crowd toward the front of the room, pretending to be looking for someone. “Excuse me,” she murmured, splitting the Blue Man Group on her way toward the stage.
“There are a lot of great costumes here tonight,” Pardee intoned seriously, as if worried about hurting someone’s feelings. “This year’s contest was an extremely tough call, I can tell, but everyone has cast their ballot and the wait is over.”
As Tinsley approached the stage, she touched the flask again to make sure it was secure—she didn’t want it dropping out on the stage for Pardee and the whole world to see.
“But tonight there’s only one winner.” Pardee paused dramatically, waving a tiny white envelope. Tinsley took a deep breath, feeling the eyes of the crowd turn toward her, waiting for her to rise up onstage and claim her rightful crown. She stared up at Pardee, her heart beating quickly, feeling, finally, that things were returning to normal.
“Give me a hand, will you?” she asked Alan St. Girard, who was dressed as Eminem. Alan held out his arm and Tinsley grabbed it, about to hoist herself up on the stage as Pardee pressed her lips to the microphone.
“And the winner is …” The audience was silent as Pardee fumbled with the envelope, pulling out a small square of paper. Tinsley lifted a silver art deco Manolo Blahnik off the ground, ready for applause. “Jenny Humphrey.”
Pardee glanced down at Tinsley, puzzled, as if she were a rock star and Tinsley were a psychotic fan about to jump onstage and tear off her shirt. Tinsley stumbled back into the crowd as the room erupted in applause and whistles—for
Jenny!
Tinsley felt her eyes burn with anger. Was this
really
happening?
“You look cute, Eminem,” Tinsley whispered in her seductive voice, hoping Alan was drunk enough to be convinced she was hitting on him—instead of being so arrogant to think she’d won. “Catch ya later.”
Tinsley tossed her short bobbed hair, longing for the security of her long locks falling down her back. She felt faint as she pushed away from the stage and spotted Jenny Humphrey, face plastered with an all-too-innocent grin, making her way toward the stage in some kind of Roman slave girl getup. She pushed past Benny and Celine, who were clapping madly. Traitors.
Unbelievable.
What happened to tradition? To Tinsley Carmichael being chosen queen of the Halloween ball?
Apparently, there was a new queen in town—and judging from the hoots from the crowd, Tinsley was the last to know.
The rain tasted like acid on Easy’s tongue as he drunkenly navigated his way to his secret spot in the woods, unable to stomach any more of the stupid Halloween party. His hiking boots plodded across the muddy ground as he wove his way through the damp branches, wet leaves smacking his face. He left his shearling-lined jean jacket unbuttoned, enjoying the feel of the cold wind through his shirt. When he finally made it to his clearing, he stumbled over to the large rock and sat down on it, instantly feeling dampness seep through his jeans. He was wet, cold, and uncomfortable, and somehow that seemed appropriate. Telling Callie off, after weeks of dreaming about it, was nothing like what he’d expected. He’d read enough poetry and looked at enough paintings to know that heartbreak was supposed to be inspiring, and that getting over it was supposed to be vindicating. But instead of inspired, Easy just felt like shit.
He pulled out the half-squashed joint Alan St. Girard had given him earlier to cheer him up. But as he lit it and stared out at the wet clearing where he’d painted Callie’s portrait, all he could think about was that day when she’d come out here to pose for him. She’d been wearing her fancy shoes and expensive sweater. Her hair had gotten caught in a tree, and at that moment Easy had felt like he wouldn’t be able to breathe anymore if he didn’t kiss her right then.
Jesus.
That
was the Callie he loved. That was the Callie he wanted so badly his palms started to sweat when he waited for her to appear at the stables, or out in the woods, or at the bluffs.
But when he saw Callie dressed up like a goddamn princess, prancing around the Halloween party like the entitled little debutante she always pretended not to be … that was the Callie he couldn’t
stand.
All the anger he’d built up over the last few weeks, all his frustration with her for refusing to care that she’d almost gotten an innocent girl expelled, came boiling over.
Instead of being flooded with relief at finally saying what was on his mind, he had been deprived of any sense of satisfaction by the hurt look on Callie’s face. Something in him stirred, and he threw down the rest of the joint and began to stumble back across campus.
The windows of the faculty club—tiny blurred squares of light in the darkness—came back into view. Was she still there? He tilted his face upward. The cold rain felt soothing on his face but didn’t help him figure anything out. Why did Callie have to get sucked in by Tinsley? Why was Callie so afraid to be herself, the kind and funny and generous person Easy knew she really was? He understood the need to fit in—kind of—but why was it so pathological with Callie? She’d always been like that. Once, he’d shown up at her dorm room to take her to the drama department’s production of
The Glass Menagerie,
and when he hadn’t instantly complimented her on her new little black dress, she proceeded to rip it off in front of him and start pulling on a pair of jeans. It had been kind of hot, actually, now that he remembered her tugging the dress over her head, standing in her room in just her pink lacy bra and panties. But crazy, too. What did Callie have to be insecure about?
Easy tripped over a discarded pumpkin on the Commons and did a face-plant in a pool of cold rainwater, his clothes instantly soaking through. Fuck. He felt the beginnings of a deep chill stirring somewhere in his bones but shook it off, slowly staggering to his knees and making his way to his feet as a gale-force wind swept through campus.
The lights in Dumbarton caught his attention, and he zigzagged across the lawn toward the dorm. Dumbarton looked like a carved jack-o’lantern, the darkened windows standing out against the scattering of lights in the rooms of those who had either returned early from the party or not gone at all. He wished that he and Callie had skipped the party-they could’ve cuddled under the covers, naked maybe, and eaten buttery microwave popcorn and Halloween candy. But he quickly chased the thought from his mind. Callie probably would have whined about staying home from a big social event.
He braced himself against the wall of Dumbarton, willing himself to be sick and just get it over with. He wanted the alcohol out of his body, along with his feelings for Callie. She would never change, and they would never be together, so what was the point?
He spotted the old oak tree that swayed in the wind, the same tree he had once climbed to surprise Callie, who had been studying in her room on the third floor. Easy gripped the lowest branch, his hands slipping off the cool, wet bark. He reached up again, this time with both hands, and hoisted himself up. Before he knew what he was doing, he was climbing. The ground began to recede as he slowly made his way up the branches worn away by the footprints of various male Owls hoping for an eyeful over the years. He passed the initials J. D. C. + M. E. C. that someone had carved in the trunk long ago, the whole carving like a prehistoric cave drawing.
A light popped on in the window across from Easy and he ducked involuntarily. Squinting, he recognized a girl from his American history class, dressed as Tinkerbell.
“Hello, Tinkerbell,” Easy called, laughing. The farther up he moved, the better he felt. He was in the middle of seriously considering whether or not he could spend the night cradled in one of the thicker branches when the tree shook violently in the wind. Easy froze, steadying himself. He leaned against the trunk, bracing himself on one of the sturdier middle branches.
Another blast of wind shook the tree, its few leaves rustling. Easy closed his eyes, the wind drying his damp costume. The tree swayed, bending toward Dumbarton. He mistook a cracking noise for distant thunder and realized only too late that the tree was not bending in the wind—it was breaking under his weight. The cracking exploded into a long, loud static sound as the windows of Dumbarton came closer and closer. Easy slipped off the branch, the ground spiraling toward him. He reached out for one of the lower branches as the top of the tree crashed into the dorm. The sound of glass shattering filled the air and someone screamed as Easy thudded to the ground, landing on the empty gun holster he’d bought at the drugstore in town in a weak effort to look like a cowboy, the rivets like rocks against his cold skin.
Easy didn’t know how long he’d been on the ground before the flashlight shone in his eyes. It could’ve been hours, he guessed, but he knew better when he saw Mr. Quartullo, the night security guard. Mr. Quartullo had a well-earned reputation among the faculty and students alike for brooking no nonsense, and the sight of him meant Easy was really in trouble.
“Shit,” Easy muttered.
“Yes, Mr. Walsh,” Mr. Quartullo said. “I’d say so.”
The first sirens of a fire truck could be heard in the distance, and Easy wondered if the cops would be coming to escort him off campus. His mind spun a thousand lies about how it wasn’t really his fault, that it was the wind and the rain, that the tree was old. Then the opposite thought occurred to him. He would take responsibility for what he’d done and finally get kicked out of Waverly.
But maybe that wouldn’t be the worst thing that could happen. Getting away from Waverly would get him away from Callie.
Twenty minutes later, Easy waited in Mrs. Horniman’s office, suddenly doubting his plan. He’d psyched himself up to face Dean Marymount and was a little confused when Mr. Quartullo brought him to his adviser’s office instead. The guidance counselor had always been on Easy’s side through all his troubles— she showed up at the student art shows to admire his work, and she kept reminding them that Waverly was a microcosm of the world and that he just had to graduate to see what it had to offer. Coming to her office, soaking wet, still a little drunk and slightly stoned, Easy felt disappointed in himself in a way he hadn’t expected.
The door creaked open and Mrs. Horniman shuffled in, her hair pulled up under a maroon-and-blue Waverly Owl cap. She yawned, covering her mouth with her dainty hand. “Trick or treat?” she asked as she sat down.
Easy shifted uncomfortably in his chair. His jeans were soaking wet, and he glanced back at the giant muddy footprints he’d left on the clean floor. “Well,” he started, but he didn’t know what to say.