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  Sebastian looked up as if he’d heard the sound she hadn’t quite made, and his full lips curled into his usual amused smile.

  “You’re totally checking me out,” he said, his low voice teasing.

  “What?” Brett shrugged so that her bright red hair swung out from behind her ear. “Who are you, again?”

  “I’m the guy you’re still checking out,” he said with that pure, easy confidence that sounded like a swagger. “You can’t help yourself.”

  They’d been playing this game ever since Sebastian had admitted that while he’d dated a lot of girls before Brett, he’d never felt this way about any of them. Brett’s own romantic history was a bit tangled, but she knew she’d never felt anything like this, either. Naturally, Sebastian had taken that as an opportunity to be a wiseass, which, Brett had to admit, made her feel more cherished and adored than any sweeping proclamation or intense recitation might have done.

  She waved her hand dismissively, but the side of her hand caught the edge of her coffee cup. The dark, hot liquid spilled across her bright orange plastic tray, soaking her picked-over muffin.

  “Great,” she said, frowning at her tray. “Happy Monday morning.”

  “See?” Sebastian said with satisfaction. “You’re so into me it makes you clumsy.”

  Brett stuck out her tongue at him.

  “I’m pretty freaking amazing,” Sebastian continued, grinning while he spread his hands out as if he were too hot to touch, “so I can’t really blame you. The truth is, I actually feel sorry for you.”

  “I’m a little less interested in this game without coffee, Sebastian,” Brett told him, narrowing her eyes at him.

  Sebastian sat up and leaned across the table, bringing his full lips tantalizingly close to Brett’s. His dark eyes filled with devilish glee.

  “I feel so sorry for you that I’m going to get you more coffee,” he said, standing up. “A splash of milk and two Splendas. Coming right up.”

  Brett watched him walk away, unreasonably touched that he knew how she liked her coffee—so much so that she had to reach up and feel her face to see whether she was wearing a goofy, lovesick smile. Which of course she was. Instead of embarrassing her, it just made her giggle.

  The volume in the dining hall suddenly spiked, as phones everywhere beeped and rang and her Nokia vibrated loudly from the depths of her glossy maroon Burberry satchel. Brett was startled for a moment but then remembered that it was Perfect Match day—the best part of February and Valentine’s Day, if you were single. It was Waverly tradition that all the Perfect Matches went to the annual Valentine’s Day Ball together instead of with whomever they might happen to be dating at the time. Assuming, of course, that it wasn’t the same person, which it almost never was.

  A few tables away, Verena Arneval let out a whoop, then started whispering excitedly to Emmy Rosenblum, brandishing her BlackBerry. Even sad Suzanna Goldfinger, who lived next door to Brett in Dumbarton, was staring fixedly down at her flip phone at the table where she sat apart from the others, looking, well, less droopy than usual.

  Brett gazed across the dining hall and saw Sebastian’s lean back as he bent in close toward the coffee machine. Then she glanced across the table. His phone was just sitting there, abandoned. Like he wanted her to check it. Her own phone was still vibrating intermittently in her bag, but she ignored it. She reached over and picked up Sebastian’s phone instead.

  She clicked open the Perfect Match e-mail, telling herself that she was just curious. It was funny how Perfect Match was only a survey, and yet everyone acted like the results meant something. Brett told herself she was simply interested in what Sebastian’s results might be—on, like, a sociological level. It had nothing to do with the fact that he’d dated almost every single female member of the student body—only a slight exaggeration—and that Brett was a little tiny bit insecure about it.

  Nothing to do with that at all.

  But as Brett read the e-mail, her eyes scanning over the words until they reached a name, she felt herself freeze solid in her chair.

  She had to read the name again, just to be sure she wasn’t hallucinating something so vile. So… unacceptable.

  Brett heard a familiar, obnoxious peal of laughter float through the air of the dining hall, and she swiveled around, knowing who she would see before her gaze found Sebastian. He was still over by the coffee machine. But this time, he was sporting a new appendage: Isla Dresden.

  Sebastian leaned against the table, Isla leaning in toward him. She tipped her upper body close to his, no doubt giving Sebastian the great news that she of all people was his Perfect Match. She leaned in even closer, shaking her tousled curls back from her face, and put her hand on Seb’s muscled arm. Brett reached up and fingered the ends of her short, sleek red bob.

  Rather than cutting Isla off and bringing Brett—his girlfriend—her much-needed coffee, Sebastian was smiling. Talking. While her coffee sat in his hand, getting cold. Isla let out another rolling, riotous laugh.

  Brett felt her whole body overheat, and she knew her cheeks probably matched the fire-engine red of her hair. She wouldn’t be surprised if actual steam were coming out of her ears. He was flirting.

  She knew that she should trust him—that she’d promised to trust him, and that he’d given her absolutely no reason not to.

  But if Sebastian didn’t want her to be jealous, then he shouldn’t flirt with über-skanks right in front of her face.

  5

  A WAVERLY OWL KNOWS THAT A WELL-LAID PLAN

  ALMOST ALWAYS GOES AWRY.

  Brandon Buchanan congratulated himself on a perfectly executed morning. His distressed brown Red Wing boots crunched into the leftover snow piled high on the sides of the shoveled and salted pathways, and the blustery February wind dropped little flakes onto his navy blue Ralph Lauren toggle coat from the trees above. He tugged his Paul Smith wool hat tighter over his ears, imagining that even from this distance, he could hear the screams and whoops and general carrying-on from the dining hall.

  It was a bright but freezing Perfect Match day, and that meant full-scale Waverly madness, which Brandon had deliberately avoided by grabbing an early breakfast. This year, though, he was feeling pretty good about the whole thing. He’d slaved over his survey, carefully calibrating each response to be sure he’d be matched with Callie the way he knew in his heart he was supposed to be. He’d put down all of her likes as his, all of her dislikes as his—and he should know them, because he’d made a study of Callie Vernon for years now. Whatever happened with his Jan Plan project, he knew that his real work of art was his Perfect Match survey. He’d spent hours on it, and he was one hundred percent certain that he would be matched with Callie.

  He veered off the main pathway and took the smaller one that led out toward the science complex, a more roundabout route toward his morning biology class. Things with Callie had been good—if a little bit distant—for the past month. It was the way he’d always imagined it would be if they got back together, and he told himself there was nothing wrong with taking things slow, easing into it. She’d been a little thrown by Easy’s reappearance out of nowhere the night of the dean’s party—but who wouldn’t be? The guy was like some horror-movie cliché. Every time you thought he was finally gone, he’d pop right back up. This time, he was all ripped and moody from military school, which might have annoyed Brandon if he thought he had any reason to be threatened by the latest Easy Walsh resurrection.

  But Easy wasn’t a factor anymore. Callie was all his. Granted, they hadn’t hooked up in weeks, but that was just because of the whole probation thing. They’d practically been under house arrest. If he could just kiss her again the way he was dying to do, he was sure things would be hot and amazing, like they had been before the party at the dean’s house.

  Brandon’s phone beeped from his coat pocket, and he paused outside the biology building. He pulled his iPhone out and glanced down at the screen, readying himself for his Perfect Match.


  What. The. Fuck?

  He didn’t recognize the name. How was that even possible?

  “Um, Brandon?”

  He looked up to see a girl he’d never laid eyes on before. She was an inch or two shorter than him, with dark auburn hair twisted into uneven braids on either side of her face. She wore a Waverly blazer that hung loosely on her slim shoulders over what looked like old Gap jeans and a bright green sweater. Black-rimmed glasses completely overpowered her face. She shifted from foot to foot nervously.

  “Do I know you?” Brandon asked. She blushed, and he realized how rude that sounded. “Sorry,” he said, feeling like a jerk. “I just…” He made a half-assed kind of gesture with his hand.

  “I’m Cora McSweeney,” she said, and gazed expectantly at him. Her eyes were huge and brown, so large for her face that they almost reminded him of an anime character’s eyes. But she was looking at him meaningfully. Was he supposed to recognize her?

  “I’m sorry,” he said again, waiting for her to ask him whatever she wanted to ask and then go away. He couldn’t wait to text Callie and see who she’d been paired up with. Had she forgotten to turn in her survey? He couldn’t think of any other explanation for their not being matched.

  “I’m, um, your match,” Cora said softly. She gestured toward his phone. “For Perfect Match. I’m a senior, so it’s not like we were going run into each other in class or anything, so I just wanted to say hello when I saw you.”

  “Oh,” Brandon said. Seriously? This was his match? He suddenly had a flash of sympathy for poor Stacey Fournier, with whom he’d been paired last year. She was a senior and had been insulted about being matched with a sophomore. Now, Brandon suddenly understood what she was feeling—because he couldn’t help feeling a little bit insulted that this was his supposed “perfect match.” According to whom, exactly?

  “Thanks for saying hello—” he started to say.

  “Well, I just wanted to—” she started at the same time.

  They both broke off and laughed. Awkwardly.

  “Please, um, go ahead,” Brandon said. He remembered how mean Stacey Fournier had been to him a year ago. The least he could do was smile at this poor girl.

  “It’s okay that you have no idea who I am,” she said. Her cheeks were red, but her brown eyes were direct and warm. “We don’t exactly run in the same circles.” Her smile was shy and a little bit lopsided.

  Brandon blinked. He was surprised by how straightforward she was. In a good way. “We don’t?” he asked weakly.

  “Of course we don’t,” Cora said, her smile deepening. “It might surprise you, but there are some people at Waverly who don’t hang out with Ryan Reynolds in the building his father commissioned or fly seaplanes to school like Tinsley Carmichael. Maybe not a lot.” She wrinkled up her nose, holding back a laugh. “But some.”

  “Are you sure?” Brandon asked dryly. But he smiled.

  She laughed. “That’s what I’ve heard, anyway.”

  Brandon looked at her for a moment, then looked away, down the path toward his class.

  Cora shook her head as if dismissing whatever she’d been about to say next and squared her shoulders. Her chin tilted up. “I’ll see you tonight at the movie, I guess.”

  “Oh, um… Sure,” Brandon said. Cinephiles, the film group on campus, was screening Love Story that night, one of the most romantic movies of all time. He’d planned to see the movie with Callie, of course. There was nothing Callie loved more than unbearably romantic movies. He couldn’t wait for her to cry in his arms so he could comfort her.

  “Great,” Cora said, looking him directly in the eye. “I’ll see you there. I might even e-mail you first.” She smiled again. “Don’t freak out if I do.”

  “Don’t be silly….” Brandon said, and laughed awkwardly.

  Cora laughed—a real laugh—gave an awkward sort of wave, and then walked away.

  It was so unfair, Brandon thought, watching her walk down the path in the crystal-bright morning sunshine. How had the computer missed his perfect compatibility with Callie, after all the work he’d put into it? It wasn’t fair to him—and it certainly wasn’t fair to that poor Cora girl, who had probably been hoping for a real match, someone who would get excited about going to the movie screening together or take the time to actually stop and have a conversation.

  He turned to head toward his classroom but then stopped at the bottom step of the bio building. He hadn’t recognized Cora’s name when he’d read it—and he certainly wouldn’t have recognized her if he’d been asked to pick her out of a lineup. Or a yearbook. Or, really, anywhere.

  But she’d certainly recognized him.

  * * *

  OwlNet

  Instant Message Inbox

  * * *

  AlisonQuentin: Who’s your Perfect Match?

  BennyCunningham: Lon Baruzza. You?

  AlisonQuentin: Parker DuBois.

  BennyCunningham: Yum. Time to practice your French!

  AlisonQuentin: I already know the most important phrase: voulez-vous coucher avec moi?

  * * *

  OwlNet

  Instant Message Inbox

  * * *

  RyanReynolds: I got Kara Whalen. Maybe if I get her drunk enough at the ball, she’ll make out with a girl in front of me.

  AlanStGirard: In your dreams. Did you ever stop to think why you might have been paired with a lesbian?

  RyanReynolds: Ouch.

  6

  A WAVERLY OWL IS RESOLUTE IN HER DECISIONS.

  Callie tugged her hooded pink Juicy robe tighter across her narrow torso and sat down on her bed with a soft sigh. Across the room, Jenny was already dressed in a pair of boot-cut black Banana Republic cords that could almost pass for Sevens and a funky, deep blue V-neck sweater. She was standing with her back to Callie, pulling her mass of brown curls into a ponytail. Callie ran her hand through her fresh-from-the-shower hair and then let it drop. She couldn’t seem to get moving today, even though she had class in less than an hour and really should have been dressed already. She couldn’t quite bring herself to get up and admit the day had begun—because she wanted to keep daydreaming.

  Last night she’d stayed outside with Easy until they were both chilled through to the bone. Callie had come back upstairs still in a trance, before she’d happily drifted off to sleep, her mind filled with Easy, Easy, Easy.

  “So?” Jenny turned to look at Callie, her brown eyes sparkling. Her high ponytail swung perkily behind her. “You were going to tell me about your dreams last night. I bet I can guess what they were about,” she teased.

  Callie smiled slowly. “You’re only half right,” she said.

  She’d dreamed that she was reclining on some kind of plush red velvet chaise, dressed in a fabulous Old Hollywood–esque gown, her strawberry blond hair in perfect pin curls. Easy had been stretched out beside her, his blue eyes glowing with love and his military-toned body packed into a sleek suit that the real Easy would only wear to a wedding. The dream would have been amazing enough if it had stopped there. But it hadn’t. Brandon had been right there, too, on her other side. The cool, confident Brandon that Callie had fallen for all over again during Jan Plan, in a perfectly cut Burberry suit with a knowing look in his golden brown eyes.

  Each one of them had held a bunch of red grapes, which they took turns feeding to Callie as she lay between them like Cleopatra. First, Easy pressed a cool, sweet grape to her lips, then Brandon teased her with the next. Callie could still practically taste the fruit on her tongue.

  You’re a goddess, Dream Easy whispered.

  You’re perfect, Dream Brandon agreed.

  It had practically killed Callie to wake up. No wonder she’d taken a twenty-five minute shower during which she’d completely forgotten to put her Frédéric Fekkai conditioner in her hair and had only gotten out because the water ran cold.

  “Wow,” Jenny said softly when Callie finished describing the dream. Callie kept the details of kissing Eas
y the night before to herself. Some things were private, scandalous, and all hers.

  “Yeah.” Callie felt her smile slip away as the truth hit her. The dream was real. Not the grape part—which was too bad, because she’d always kind of wanted to be Cleopatra—but the facts. Both Easy and Brandon were in love with her. And unlike in the dream, she couldn’t have both of them at the same time.

  “I never have dreams like that,” Jenny complained, moving over to her desk and starting to pile up her books and notebooks. “Last night I dreamed about being late for a class and having to recite the Declaration of Independence, but in Latin. There were no grapes—and definitely no man-slaves.”

  Callie laughed, but her mind was racing. She pulled her knees up under her chin, watching Jenny fill her messenger bag with the materials she’d need for class. She looked over at her own bag, thrown in a heap on top of her messy desk, and sighed. Last night she’d been so sure of what to do: break up with Brandon and be with Easy. Simple. She’d never loved anyone the way she loved Easy. But wasn’t that the whole problem? She and Easy hurt each other again and again and again, like they couldn’t seem to help themselves. He’d even dumped her for Jenny earlier this year, and yet she’d still gone ahead and lost her virginity to him. She didn’t regret it—they were like magnets, always coming together, but never for very long before they were pulled apart. And what was a magnet if it was on its own, pulling nothing?

  Meanwhile, Brandon was good to her. Always. He cared about her, and he would never treat her the way Easy had treated her—or even the way she’d treated him. He was funny and sweet, and they’d spent all of last month together. Could she really throw that away, just because Easy was back? It would crush Brandon. Besides, she and Easy would probably implode the way they always did. Their relationship was way too volatile.