Devious Page 3

  Heath set his sack down on the back of a large boulder. “Dude, I bought you that plane ticket to Switzerland so you could fucking learn how to man up. Apparently, it didn’t work.”

  “This has nothing to do with manning up.” Brandon stared at Heath, wondering if he had finally, literally, lost his mind. “We just can’t live out in the snow for three weeks. And are you trying to say there’s no tent?” Brandon noticed for the first time that the birch trees he’d seen had actually been chopped down and were strapped together with some kind of twine. They were leaning against the boulder to form a crude lean-to.

  Carefully, Heath laid the evergreen boughs on the bare ground beneath the birches before turning to Brandon. “Haven’t you ever seen Man vs. Wild?”

  Brandon pressed his gloves to his eyes. He was exhausted, and Heath was trying to be some kind of Discovery Channel hero? “Heath, that’s the shittiest shelter I’ve ever seen. We’ll freeze to death.”

  “I watched three entire seasons of Man vs. Wild over break, and that dude does not bring a fucking tent. He doesn’t have hot cocoa or goose-down pillows. He drinks his own piss if he has to.” Heath pounded his fists against his chest like King Kong. “Besides, that shelter is way better than anything you could make.”

  Brandon inhaled the cold, pine-scented air and tried to get a grip. Whistling off-key, Heath gathered together a small bundle of sticks and set about constructing a fire. Brandon had to admit, his roommate kind of looked like he knew what he was doing.

  But then Brandon poked his head inside the lean-to—which was easy, since there was no door. “Anything could just… walk right in.” It was about one degree warmer than being in the open air. “And there’s not exactly room for two people.”

  “Chill out, dude. It’s supposed to be small to keep the body heat in. It’s fucking cold out here.”

  Brandon groaned, too exhausted to fight. The jet lag was killing him. After he took a nap, he’d convince Heath to head back to campus and watch some more episodes of Man vs. Wild in the comfort of the Richards Hall common room instead.

  He unrolled his sleeping bag, which felt perilously thin, and lay down on the lumpy evergreen boughs inside the lean-to. He started to doze off while Heath busied himself around the fire. Brandon was dreaming of Hellie, of being curled up next to her in her white cotton short shorts under her covers, when the acrid smell of burnt flesh reached his nose. With a start, he sat up and moved out of the lean-to. Heath was crouched over the fire, holding a long stick with a piece of meat on it.

  “What the fuck is that?” Brandon tried to ask, but his face was numb. He slapped his cheeks, hoping he didn’t have frostbite, and moved toward the fire. When he looked up at the sky, he saw fat flakes of snow falling.

  “Meat is meat,” Heath said with a devilish grin on his face, which looked strangely frozen, like the Joker’s in Batman. “Don’t ask where it came from—just enjoy!” He held the spear out to Brandon. On it was the scrawny red body of a freshly skinned squirrel.

  Brandon’s stomach lurched. “That can’t be the only food we have.” Brandon turned away, rubbing his hands over the fire. “Where are the provisions?”

  “Those are for emergencies, dumbass.” Heath brought the stinky piece of meat to his mouth and took a tiny bite. “Mmm, tastes like chicken!”

  Brandon got to his feet, which were also alarmingly numb. “This is not going to work.” The fire was dying, and it was still fucking cold. His shoulder hurt from leaning against the boulder in the lean-to, where there wasn’t actually enough room to stretch out fully. He wasn’t about to cuddle up with Heath in there. “It’s, like, negative twelve degrees out and I can already feel my organs starting to freeze.” His stomach rumbled. “And I’m not eating anything that you catch.”

  Heath stood up as well. “Suck it up, pussy. It’s supposed to stay above zero—for tonight, at least.”

  Brandon rubbed his hand on his forehead, which felt like an icebox. “Don’t be an idiot. We can’t stay out here in these conditions, sleeping on the ground under a couple of tied-together tree trunks. We’ll freeze to death!”

  “Dude, Bear Grylls survived Iceland! The Alaskan Range! The Andes—and let me tell you, the conditions were a fuck of a lot worse than these.”

  Brandon shook his head slowly. “Come on. Let’s go back to campus. We’ll go on some kind of special survivor hike out in the woods tomorrow—but seriously, we’re going to die if we stay out in this tonight.” And the thought of dying out here and never seeing Hellie again seemed like the worst thing on earth to Brandon at that moment.

  Heath parked himself down in front of the fire and took another bite of squirrel meat. “I’m staying, man.”

  Brandon stared. Heath had that same determined look that crossed his face every time he needed to prove some obnoxious point. “Fine, I’ll let you keep my sleeping bag. You’ll need it.”

  Heath scoffed, licking his fingers. “I don’t even need mine.”

  “If you’re not back in two days, I’ll send out a search party.” Brandon pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and checked for reception. The next best thing to having Hellie waiting for him when he got back to his room was a steaming-hot deep-dish pizza from Ritoli’s.

  And at least he was man enough to admit it.

  Instant Message Inbox

  RyanReynolds: Hey, sexy. Have a nice break?

  AlisonQuentin: Eh. Good to be back, as always.

  RyanReynolds: U going to the party in the basement of Maxwell tonight?

  AlisonQuentin: Wouldn’t miss it. Someone should invite the Dresden kids, no?

  RyanReynolds: The girl, at least. I don’t like the looks of that dude.

  AlisonQuentin: What don’t you like? He’s hot.

  RyanReynolds: Yeah, that’s the problem.

  WildernessMan Log: Heath vs. Wild

  By Heath Ferro

  Day 1

  Woke at dawn to scout woods. Found prime location for shelter and built lean-to with birch saplings using ivy vines and trusty titanium Rambo 5.0 Full Tang knife. Too bad no one could see me do it. Returned later to settle in for the night with BB, who quickly pussied out. No worries. HF needs no one.

  Noon temp: 24 degrees F. Not so bad.

  Food: Created a snare and caught first squirrel. Cooked him on a stick till he was nice and crispy. Found some dark brown mushrooms beneath the snow for a late-night snack. Nothing more satisfying than catching and eating your own food.

  Warmth: Plenty of wood for the campfire. Pine needles on floor of the shelter provide plenty of cushion. Cold is invigorating!

  Mood: Excellent. Head feels clear. About to fall asleep with a full belly under the stars after a long day of work. All those babies back on campus, curled up under their down comforters, don’t know what they’re missing.

  5

  A WAVERLY OWL CAN ALWAYS SPOT A KINDRED SPIRIT.

  “A little higher… a little more. Harder, please…. Oh, yes, that’s it,” Tinsley moaned.

  “Do you have any idea how dirty that sounds?” Julian McCafferty took his hands off her shoulders mid-massage. Tinsley was sitting backward in Julian’s desk chair, staring out the darkened window, as he worked all the tension out of her shoulders, tight from an early-morning indoor tennis match. The soothing sounds of an old Death Cab for Cutie song emanated from his Bose SoundDock.

  “Of course, sweetie,” Tinsley replied, closing her eyes. She loved the feel of Julian’s strong hands on her shoulders. “Why do you think I’m doing it?”

  Tinsley had spent a relaxing, shopping-fueled Christmas in New York with her parents—her mom felt so guilty about abandoning Tinsley for Thanksgiving that they’d nearly maxed out her AmEx card on a Madison Avenue spree. But the highlight of her break was meeting up with Julian at the Carmichaels’ town house in Lake Placid. They’d spent long days on the slopes, making out on the ski lifts and racing each other back down the mountain. Julian was an even better skier than Tinsley, which drove her
crazy—in ways good and bad. They spent their evenings curling up together in front of the fire with a bottle of wine, or soaking in the outdoor hot tub, watching the crystalline stars appear in the clear night sky.

  Julian pressed his lips to the nape of Tinsley’s neck for a quick kiss before flopping facedown on his bed. He was so tall that his toes almost hung off the end of the regulation extra-long twin bed. The bottoms of his Diesel corduroys were frayed beyond repair. His blondish-brown hair was sun streaked from the days on the sunny ski slopes, and it had grown so long that he could pull it into a ponytail, which Tinsley kept threatening to chop off. “Come on over here. It’s your turn to be masseuse.”

  “That’s not the worst idea you’ve ever had.” Tinsley stepped toward him, eager to run her hands all over his lean, muscular body, when a noise outside caught her attention. A few hearty male voices were followed by a chorus of girly giggles. It was the first night of Jan Plan, and since no one really had to get up in the morning, it was notoriously one of the best party nights. “But do you think we should maybe make a social appearance tonight? There’s something going on in Maxwell.”

  Julian pushed onto his elbow and gazed up at Tinsley. He wore a gray T-shirt with a picture of a monkey wearing a space helmet. “You really want to go?”

  Tinsley sank down onto the edge of the bed. She did, but she sensed that Julian didn’t. “I don’t know.”

  “Well, we’ve got a whole month of parties to look forward to. I’d rather, you know, just be with you.” Julian grabbed a lock of Tinsley’s hair and twirled it around his finger, something he’d made a habit of recently.

  Sweet. But a twinge of regret shot through her—she was Tinsley Carmichael, after all. Shouldn’t she be out there, in the middle of all the action? She thought fondly of last Jan Plan, when she and Brett and Callie had thrown an exclusive First Night party in their oversize Dumbarton dorm room. It was black tie, and invitation only, and they drank only the best Shiraz from Ryan Reynolds’s family’s vineyards.

  But then Julian sat up and put his hand on Tinsley’s waist, right at the spot where her skinny black Earl jeans didn’t quite meet her tissue-soft Alice + Olivia T-shirt, and for a moment she forgot all about the rest of the planet. She crawled onto his lap, propping the heels of her new black leather Stuart Weitzman boots onto his nightstand, thinking, only fleetingly, what a shame it was to have such hot new boots and no one to gaze at them enviously.

  “You know what I was thinking about?” Julian whispered into her ear, his breath hot against her skin.

  Tinsley sighed dramatically, staring up at the giant black-and-white poster of a young Bob Dylan on the wall above Julian’s bed. “I can guess.” Yes, it was going to be so nice to have a whole month of hanging out with Julian, no classes, no responsibilities. She was going to start on her Jan Plan project tomorrow. She’d gotten a fancy new HD Nikon digital SLR camcorder from her father, and she’d been hoping to put together some kind of documentary. Over the summer, after she’d been—temporarily, it turned out—expelled from Waverly, she’d worked with her dad on a documentary about South Africa. Being behind the camera made Tinsley feel creative and powerful. Waverly Academy was, of course, not as exciting as Capetown, but she felt like she could make it work.

  “Listen.” Julian brushed a lock of Tinsley’s dark hair behind her ear, then kissed her earlobe. “I know you’re going to make a film for your Jan Plan, and I was talking to Alan St. Girard and a couple of the guys at lunch. We’re going to try and write a kind of noir boarding-school mystery—you know, kind of Raymond Chandler meets Carrie.”

  “That’s such a great idea!” Tinsley exclaimed, tracing her finger along Julian’s jawbone. “You’re the one who thought of it, I’m sure.” She always forgot that Julian was just a freshman—he was so much smarter than any of the boys she knew when she was a freshman.

  He shrugged modestly. “What can I say?”

  Tinsley patted his cheek. “I’m pretty sure Heath Ferro’s Jan Plan freshman year involved interviewing all the girls at Waverly and asking what made them horny.”

  “That’s not a terrible idea, either.” Julian grinned, a tiny dimple appearing beneath the corner of his lips. “But hey, you should work with us on the film. We’ll need a femme fatale, and you could teach us all about directing and setting up shots.”

  “I’m flattered,” Tinsley said slowly. She slid off his lap and sat next to him. “Maybe.”

  Julian tilted his head. “I promise I’ll try to keep them from hitting on you too much, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “That’s not it.” Tinsley stood up. She couldn’t very well tell Julian that it felt like a little too much to work on a school project with him—after all, they spent all their time together already. Suddenly Tinsley felt the need for some fresh air. She stretched her arms and grabbed her coat. “Listen, I’m going to run outside and have a cigarette, okay? I’ll be right back.”

  She pulled on her brown wool herringbone Joie coat and tightened the belt. It was visitation hours, so girls were allowed in the boys’ dorm, but doors were supposed to stay open. According to the ancient Waverly handbook, which read like a fussy girls’ finishing-school manual from the 1800s, three feet had to be on the floor at all times in mixed company.

  “Hurry back.”

  Tinsley rushed outside, grateful for the cool burst of air against her skin. She hadn’t realized how warm it was inside Julian’s room until she was out in the dark evening. She pulled the half-crushed pack of American Spirits from her coat pocket and stuck one between her lips, automatically glancing around for teachers. She stuck to the shadows of Wolcott Hall, trying not to step in any mud. In the distance, she saw a couple of girls hurrying across the quad. In their impractically short skirts and high heels, they were clearly on their way to a party.

  Tinsley wandered around the corner of the building, letting the cigarette smoke seep into her lungs and relax her. There, sitting on a bench directly under one of the iron gas lamps that lined the campus paths, was a girl in a short black jacket with a fur-trimmed hood. A cigarette casually dangled from her lips. Tinsley blinked. Lots of people smoked at Waverly, but no one wanted to get caught doing it. And this girl wasn’t exactly hiding it.

  Then she realized. It was the girl from the chapel stage—the dean’s daughter. A worn-looking gray cap was perched haphazardly on her head, and her wild dark hair peeked out from beneath it.

  The girl looked up. “Hey,” she said, coolly, taking another puff of a cigarette. Tinsley casually dropped her own cigarette butt to the ground and stamped it out with her toe before walking over to the girl.

  “Do you always lurk around in the dark?”

  “Only when I’m doing something I shouldn’t be doing.” Tinsley stuffed her gloved hands into her pockets. “But I see you don’t have the same healthy fear of authority.”

  “When your daddy’s the dean, you develop warped ideas of what authority is.” The girl laughed. Her heart-shaped face was pale and surprisingly innocent looking. “Nice boots.”

  Immediately, Tinsley felt vindicated. Her boots were just waiting to be appreciated. “Thanks.”

  “I’m Isla,” the girl replied, crossing her legs. She wore a red wool miniskirt, black leggings, and a pair of knee-high Doc Martens.

  “Tinsley Carmichael,” Tinsley replied.

  Isla’s sea green eyes widened, and she leaned forward. A woven copper ring on her right index finger caught Tinsley’s eye. “I was wondering when I’d meet the famous Tinsley Carmichael. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  Tinsley laughed lightly, but of course she was flattered by the recognition of her own notoriety. “Don’t believe it all.”

  “That’s a shame. I thought there were going to be some cool people here.” Isla arched one of her thin eyebrows and took another drag of her cigarette. “Don’t worry,” she said as she caught Tinsley’s eyes on the unconcealed cigarette, “one of the perks of being the dean’s daughter i
s that it’s nearly impossible to get in trouble.”

  Tinsley sat down next to her on the bench. The cold quickly seeped through her jeans, but she didn’t care. “What are the other perks?”

  Isla laughed, one of those loud, carefree, completely infectious laughs. “Have you ever been inside the dean’s house here? It is fucking sweet.” Isla’s wide eyes made her look slightly wild—probably an accurate assessment.

  “I have, actually,” Tinsley admitted proudly, rubbing her arms with her leather-gloved hands. “Once, as a freshman, this guy and I snuck in. It was a weekend Marymount was away, and we raided the wine cellar.”

  Isla nodded, impressed. “Nice.” She got to her feet and flicked her cigarette butt into the snow, where it sizzled out. She straightened her cropped leather jacket. “Any other exciting hiding places on campus?”

  Tinsley grinned and rubbed her hands together, thinking of the times she and Julian sneaked into the Cinephiles screening room to make out. “I just met you. I can’t tell you all my secrets.”

  Isla threw her head back and let out a long laugh that echoed through the quiet night. “Tinsley Carmichael,” she said slowly, lighting another cigarette and taking a long drag. “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

  Email Inbox

  From: BrandonBuchanan@waverly.edu

  To: MarielPritchard@waverly.edu

  Date: Monday, January 3, 9:15 P.M.

  Subject: Jan Plan

  Ms. Pritchard,

  I know I handed in my Jan Plan proposal this afternoon to do an “outdoor survival” project with Heath Ferro, but after thoughtful consideration I realized I might be better suited to a different project. I know that tomorrow is the deadline for proposals. Is it all right if I e-mail you in the afternoon?

  Thank you,

  Brandon