Infamous Read online

  Could she hitchhike? Did people even do that anymore? She could see the headlines already: Boarding School Girl on Way Home for Thanksgiving Disappears After Stepping Into Psycho's Car. Severed Limbs Found in Local McDonald's Parking Lot. The world had changed since the aging-hippie AP English teacher Doc Henderson had, as he so often put it, “thumbed it” crosscountry back in the groovy sixties.

  A horn blasted, jolting Brett up off the bench. A black Mustang idled in the parking lot. The horn sounded again and the window rolled down. Sebastian stuck his head out the window, the cold wind tousling his thick hair. “I thought I might find you here,” he said, flicking the ashes of his Marlboro into the air. “Need a ride?”

  Brett crossed her arms over her chest, wearily making her way toward him. “Well, you are the reason I'm stuck here in the first place.” But relief had leached all the anxiety from her body, and before she could think twice, she grabbed her bag, casually sauntering down the ramp to his car, careful not to let her pointy-toe Givenchy ankle boots slip on the slick concrete.

  “Then I guess it's the least I could do.” Sebastian rolled his eyes. “Could use the company, as long as you promise not to bring up Latin.” He gunned the Mustang, and she could tell by the look on his face that he'd done it accidentally. As cool as he thought he was, she felt like she'd gotten to him a little.

  “Isn't Rumson out of your way?” she asked suspiciously. She hated it that he knew she was from Jersey—her entire time at Waverly, she'd tried to remain mysterious about where she was from, generally relying on the fact that her parents owned a place in East Hampton to be enough of an answer for anyone. But it was tiring to keep up the charade, and Jenny, Callie, and that bitch Tinsley all knew she was from Jersey now, anyway. Normally, she'd have been embarrassed to have any friends from school pull up in front of her parents' gaudy faux-French mansion, but it couldn't be worse than Sebastian's house. And besides, he wasn't exactly a friend.

  “Don't worry. It's all included in the toll.”

  “And what's the toll?”

  “Gas, grass, or ass.” He smirked. “Nobody rides for free.”

  Brett scowled and Sebastian broke into a wide grin. “Just kidding,” he said. “You don't even have to kick in for gas. Just the pleasure of your company.”

  Brett hesitated. The idea of a long car ride with Sebastian on the heels of their hellish study session was as unappealing as eating food off the dining hall floor, but what choice did she have? “Yeah, sure,” she said, and walked around to the passenger side. Sebastian leaned over to open the door from the inside and a stale breath of cigarette smoke and Drakkar Noir blew into the wind. He wiped the passenger seat repeatedly, though it was perfectly empty.

  “Missed your train, huh?” he asked as he gunned the Mustang, this time on purpose.

  Brett nodded.

  He waited for her to say something. “Well, all right, then.” The Mustang darted out of the parking lot and before Brett realized it they were on the highway, barreling toward New Jersey. She watched the landscape whiz by and thought about calling her parents to tell them she was getting a ride home from a friend from school. She decided she'd wait until they stopped for gas or something, so Sebastian wouldn't get any ideas about them being friends.

  “What are you going to do when you're home?” he asked as he passed a slow-moving station wagon.

  “Just relax,” she sighed, settling into her seat. “A whole lot of nothing.” The thought of lounging on one of her mother's zebra-print armchairs, staring blankly at the giant flat-screen TV in the media room, was a little depressing. Ever since her father had opened his own plastic surgery practice when she was in elementary school, and performed an amazingly successful eyelid tuck on a celebrated New York society type, Dr. Messerschmidt had become the go-to surgeon for aging blue-bloods who wanted discretion.

  “And hang out with your Jersey friends?” he asked, glancing over at her.

  Brett laughed involuntarily. She hadn't seen her pre- Waverly friends in years and struggled to remember their names.

  Sebastian continued talking as if Brett had asked about him. “Me, I just like to get the fucking smell of boarding school out of my nose. Know what I mean?” He ran his fingers through his almost-black hair and glanced into the rearview mirror. He wasn't bad looking, really, if he could get one of those Queer Eye makeovers. His hair was too long and too gelled into place, but his smooth skin had a deep olive tone that made his deep brown eyes glint. And his cheekbones—he had the kind of cheekbones you only saw in Armani ads. “Like to see what's going on out there in the real world.”

  “You could read the paper, you know. Watch the news.” Brett stared out the window. New York City was somewhere out in the distance, and she kind of wished she and Bree could have blown off the whole holiday, stayed in her sister's Tribeca loft, and spent the weekend shopping in Soho instead of going home.

  “It's so fucking sweet to get away from all the Waverly assholes for a while.” He glanced over at Brett and gave her a smile that was simultaneously gentlemanly and lascivious. “Present company excluded.”

  “They're not all assholes.” Brett shot him a look. “And you go there too, you know.”

  “Not assholes, then.” Sebastian tilted his head and pursed his lips, as if deep in thought. “Just stuck-up pricks.”

  Brett giggled despite herself. Of course there were some snobs at Waverly—where weren't there?—but it didn't mean she loved it any less. She remembered how thrilled she'd been when she first set foot on the lush campus, where the ivy-covered buildings oozed old money and elegance. Of course, anti-authority Sebastian had to have a problem with it—or maybe it was all an act, since he was failing out. Better to act like it was a choice on his part than to admit some kind of failure. She turned and eyed him with interest. In the dark, his profile sharp against the window and the lights of cars hitting his face and disappearing, he looked much softer than in the daytime, when he was full of attitude.

  “Do you still have a lot of friends at home?” she asked finally, curiosity getting the best of her.

  “Loads,” he answered. He pulled a crushed pack of Marlboro Reds from the pocket of his leather jacket and shook one out. He popped it in his mouth and pushed the cigarette lighter in the dash. “Want one?”

  “Sure.” She shrugged. She took a Marlboro Red from the outstretched box and held it against the red-hot lighter, then passed it to Sebastian.

  “My best friend goes all the way back to the first grade,” he said, rolling down his window and blowing the smoke out. Brett rolled hers down too, enjoying the feel of the cold wind rushing at her face. It was kind of cute to hear a guy call someone his “best friend.” “We still go down to the shore, us and a bunch of friends, as much as we can,” he continued. “You go to the shore?”

  “Yeah, sure,” she answered dryly. “All the time.” In truth, she hadn't been in years. She'd spent her last two summers doing the sort of educational programming that would look great on her college applications—six weeks in Crete on an archeological dig, a month in Aix-en-Provence teaching English to low-income kindergartners. But her summers leading up to Waverly had been filled with the hot days and late nights along the Jersey shore, where her family would rent a place by the beach. It felt like ages ago, but as soon as she thought about it, the smell of coconut suntan lotion and hot dogs came rushing back to her. “Wildwood. We always went to Wildwood.”

  “Love Wildwood.” Sebastian tapped his fingers excitedly on the steering wheel. “You gotta love the pier, and the beaches. And the boardwalk at night.”

  “The boardwalk is gross.” Brett took a drag off her cigarette and exhaled. “Too many tourists.”

  “Yeah, but a lot of great memories.”

  “Not for me,” she sighed.

  “Why?” he asked, his interest piqued. “Get mugged or something?”

  Brett shook her head. “No, you just get tired of passing the same old souvenir shops selling the same ugly b
each mats and umbrellas with flamingos on them. It's kind of gross.”

  “Too good for Wildwood these days, huh?” Sebastian teased her. She ignored him and his eyes returned to the road, the traffic congesting as they moved closer to the city. “Man, this one summer, I'll never forget. I hung out with this chick, Clarissa. And my buddy, he fell hard for this girl who worked at the hot dog stand with her. We were, like, eighth-graders, and all he could talk about was this chick. Poor Neal—”

  Brett realized it just as Sebastian did and she squirmed in her seat, rolling down her window a little more and flicking her ashes out.

  “It was you!” he cried out, the car veering toward the other lane. “It was totally you.”

  “Could you watch the road, please?” she demanded, taking a long drag off the cigarette. “What was me?” Her only hope was to confuse him. She definitely remembered her friend Clarissa making out with some greasy guido the eighth-grade summer they'd spent working at the Snack Shack. And of course she remembered Neal, with his spiky blond hair and surfer shorts. He'd been her first kiss, and it had been kind of fun, for eighth grade. But she'd broken it off with him after a couple of weeks of holding hands along the beach when Ethan, the older, private-school kid whose father owned the Snack Shack, started hanging around, flirting with her and calling her “Beautiful.”

  “God, I knew you were familiar, but I thought it was just from around school, you know?” He glanced over at Brett, examining her with an intensity that made her nervous, and not just because it meant his eyes were off the road. “Your hair wasn't so red then, right? Shit, you had those tight little yellow T-shirts you all wore. With like a giant smiling hot dog on it.”

  Brett gripped the passenger door with her right hand, trying to keep her cool. She faked a yawn, trying not to think of the vaguely pornographic smiling hot dog T-shirt still lying in the bottom drawer of her bureau at home. “I worry for your sanity sometimes.”

  “I thought Clarissa's friend's name was L-something.” His brow wrinkled. “Like, Leona? No, wait…Lenore. It was totally Lenore. Wow.”

  “Interesting. Since my name is Brett.” She hoped he couldn't see how red her face had become. Lenore was her middle name, and she'd spent that whole summer making everyone call her that because she was tired of having a boy's name. She flicked the cigarette butt out the window, then rolled the glass up.

  “Hey, if you're telling me that it wasn't you, then it wasn't you,” he said, flipping through the radio stations. “But you're totally lying. Wait until I tell Neal.”

  “You get together with him for Thanksgiving, do you?” Brett was desperate for any other subject.

  Sebastian shook his head. “Nah, Christmas. Thanksgiving is a bust. It's just me and my old man watching football, mostly. The occasional kegger. But hey, it beats being at school.”

  A Springsteen song started up and Sebastian cranked it. “The Boss,” he said as he tossed his butt out the window. “Excellent.”

  Brett rolled her eyes. “Can you turn it down?” She pressed her hands to her ears.

  “What?” he asked incredulously.

  “Turn it down, or off,” she yelled over the music.

  “No way!” Sebastian banged his fists on the steering wheel. “No way you're asking me to turn down the Boss.”

  Brett reached for the knob and snapped it off. “Not asking, really,” she said.

  Sebastian shook his head. “I don't know what your problem is, Lenore.”

  “Do I have to have a problem just because I think Bruce Springsteen is overrated? And old?” Her voice was withering, but it didn't get a rise out of Sebastian. He just shook his head sadly and turned the radio back on, quickly switching it to another station.

  “There's Jersey in you somewhere,” he said, “as much as you try to deny it.”

  From: [email protected]

  To: Undisclosed Recipients

  Date: Wednesday, November 27, 6:45 P.M.

  Subject: Pre-Turkey Day party!!

  Hi everyone,

  Just a reminder about the party tonight at my place. The 'rents are in London, so we're really going to light it up! The liquor of the night is Turkey Hill rum, but feel free to bring anything else. We'll have bobbing for apples, pin-the-thong-on-the-turkey, and other fun games!

  I think I included everyone I ran into on the train, but if I left anyone out, it was inadvertent, so invite whoever you want. There's plenty of room!

  80th and Park, #7—Google map attached. Nine o'clock. See you then!!

  Xoxo,

  Yvonne

  6

  THE WAY TO A WAVERLY BOY'S HEART IS THROUGH HIS…

  Brandon sat on his bed, staring into his open suitcase full of shit he'd packed for a stupid weekend at home. His entire Dr. Brandt skin care line, from the exfoliating cleanser to the poreless purifying toner to the vitamin C overnight moisturizer. His Acqua di Parma shaving set that came in its own leather zipper case. Sage's words—You're too feminine—burned in his brain and it was all he could do to keep from nodding in agreement. She'd pretty much called him gay. Maybe he was.

  Well, not in that way, not that there was anything wrong with that. He certainly didn't want to go around kissing guys or anything, but it wasn't the first time someone suggested he was gay because of his need for beauty products, his designer clothes, his obsessive neatness. He knew he wasn't really gay, but it hurt him that the girl he was totally crazy about could just lash out at him like that. Sage Francis. She'd seemed so…perfect. She'd said she loved getting the sweet little messages he left in her mailbox or stuck in her bio textbook when she wasn't looking. It had all been a lie, apparently. Sage couldn't wait for Brandon to grow a pair and throw her onto the ground like a caveman.

  “Dude.”

  Brandon hadn't noticed Heath enter the room. He looked up to see his roommate in his quilted Ben Sherman bomber jacket, a bright red knit cap pulled down over his ears. “You're still here?

  “What's up with you?” Heath said, resting his hands on his hips. “Are you listening to Natalie fucking Merchant again?”

  “It's Lucinda Williams, shithead.” Brandon quickly zipped up his duffel bag before Heath could make some wisecrack about his “beauty regimen.” “Sage and I just broke up, all right?” Brandon confessed.

  “Hells, yeah!” Heath held up his gloved hand. “High five. Single again.”

  Brandon kept his hands in his pockets. “No, she broke up with me.”

  Heath dropped his hand to his side. “Oh, well, sorry then, dude. That sucks. Happy Thanksgiving, though, right?”

  Brandon knew this was the best Heath had to offer in the consolation department, so he accepted it. “Yeah, thanks.”

  “What did she say?” Heath asked. He plopped down on his unmade bed, pulling off his snow-covered hat and shaking out his shaggy, dirty blond (as in dirty and blond) hair.

  Brandon's pulse quickened. No way could he utter Sage's words in front of Heath, who would mercilessly repeat them for the rest of Brandon's existence. He could imagine coming back for a Waverly reunion twenty years on and having a balding Heath walk up to him and ask, “You still too gay?” Or worse.

  “I don't know, man.” He tried to sound annoyed. “Just a bunch of girl shit.” Heath nodded wisely.

  Alan St. Girard popped his head in the door, reeking of marijuana. “Later, ladies,” he said, his eyes red and puffy. “Gobble, gobble.”

  “Cock-a-motherfucking-doodle to you!” Heath called back, but Alan had disappeared down the hall with his bag. “Dude,” Heath addressed Brandon, unzipping his jacket and leaning back against his pillow. “Chicks. I get it. They don't know what they want. And if they say they do, they're lying.”

  “I thought things were going fine.” Brandon was a little surprised to be opening up to Heath, who was about as sensitive as a freight train. But Heath Ferro, despite his many, many shortcomings, had been the victim of a harsh rejection just a few short weeks ago, when Kara Whalen, with whom he had b
een uncharacteristically enamored, had dumped him on his ass. Brandon had actually seen Heath cry, something he almost wished he'd gotten on camera, just so he could threaten to upload it on YouTube the next time Heath tried to walk around their room in those ripped boxers that barely covered his parts.

  Health bolted upright. “I've got an idea.”

  “If it's that thing about stealing a pair of panties from every girl on campus and making a giant parachute again, I'm not interested.” Brandon heaved his duffel bag to the floor.

  “We could do that,” Heath said excitedly, “or we could do something ten times cooler.” He smiled, waiting for Brandon to guess, but Brandon just stared at him, arms crossed over his chest. “Let's stay here for Thanksgiving.”

  Brandon let out a snort. “Yeah, of course. We'll stay here for Thanksgiving. And what? Go to the international students' dinner? I heard there's gonna be charades.”

  “Will you just listen?” Heath begged. It clearly drove him crazy that Brandon didn't appreciate his particular brand of brilliance.

  “I'm listening.” Brandon shook his head as he searched for the number for the private car that was supposed to pick him up soon. “I'm just not believing what I'm hearing.”

  “What if I gave you two choices for Thanksgiving break?” Heath ventured. “You could either A) spend it with your boring family—no offense, mine's boring too—or B) stay here and have hot Swedish sex all weekend long?”

  “But you're not Swedish,” Brandon smirked.

  “Hardee hardee hah.” Heath made the horsy face Brandon hated only second to his whinnying. “But the Dunderdorf twins are!”

  “The who?”

  “Dude, do you even go here?” Heath bundled up a stinky soccer practice T-shirt from the pile next to his bed and chucked it at Brandon.

  “Yeah, yeah.” Brandon ducked out of the way. “I'm listening. The Dusseldorf twins. What about them?”

  “Dunderdorf, dickhead,” Heath corrected him. “Mr. Dunderdorf's twin daughters.”

  “Our freshman German teacher?” Brandon asked, remembering unpleasant days listening to the ancient Dunderdorf read from his fat, equally ancient volume of Goethe, stopping at irregular intervals to point at students and ask them to translate the last sentence. He remembered not believing the teacher's handlebar mustache and wondering vaguely if it was against Waverly's dress code. “Isn't he, like, seventy-eight?”