Devious Read online

  “Really?” Brett’s eyes lit up. She’d read Les Misérables last year in Madame Renault’s class, and it was wildly romantic—in that French, completely heart-shattering way. “Nineteenth-century French fashion? How fun.”

  “Yes, completely.” Chrissy clapped her hands, her blond hair falling across her forehead. It was refreshing to be in the presence of someone else whose hair color was a shade that did not appear in nature, Brett thought as she tucked her stop-sign-red hair behind her ears. Maybe she needed to hang out with theater girls more often. “It’s going to rock!”

  “So, that’s what all this stuff is for?” Brett asked, picking up a thick art history book covered with bright orange Post-it notes. Edith Piaf was playing softly on the stereo. When Chrissy did something, she really got into it. “Inspiration?”

  Chrissy nodded, snatching up a black-and-white photograph of a Parisian street crowded with horse-drawn carriages. “I’ve sort of grabbed everything I could get my hands on at the library. French art, French history.”

  Brett held up a copy of Julia Child’s Mastering the Art of French Cooking. “French food?”

  “Okay, I don’t know what I was thinking with that one.” Chrissy laughed, fumbling through the pictures on the floor. “I had this postcard of the Venus de Milo. Where’d it go?”

  Brett stood up, noticing some postcards thumbtacked onto the bulletin board above Chrissy’s desk. “She’s naked, isn’t she? I hope you’re not getting more ideas,” Brett giggled. She’d forgotten how nice it was to work on something creative. This was kind of what she imagined her Vogue internship would be like, minus the sitting-on-the-floor part.

  “Here it is.” Brett plucked the postcard of the Venus de Milo statue from the board. She was about to turn back to Chrissy when something else caught her eye. A postcard of a tiny coastal Italian village, brilliant white buildings covered in jumbles of red tiles. Brett squinted. It looked like the same town in the photograph Sebastian had given her for Christmas—the village where his grandmother lived on the Amalfi Coast. Sebastian’s family spent three weeks every summer there. Had he sent Chrissy a postcard?

  That was… sweet. But also a little odd. Did boys really send friends postcards?

  “What do think about a sort of sixties retro, boho-peasant look? You know, revamped a little?” Chrissy asked, chewing on the end of a pink Hello Kitty pencil. “Sort of like Nicole Richie meets… Hunchback of Notre Dame.”

  “I think it could work,” Brett answered, absentmindedly. She was sure that at some point in her lifetime she’d sent a platonic male friend a postcard. Hadn’t she mailed Brandon Buchanan a postcard of the Parthenon from Athens one summer? It was just a nice way to keep in touch. “But maybe I should have told you sooner, I don’t know anything about sewing.”

  “I’ll teach you.” Chrissy laughed, ruffling her hair with her left hand. “It’s easier than you think.”

  Brett smiled back. Okay, she liked Chrissy. Besides, any friend of Sebastian’s was a friend of hers.

  Right?

  Instant Message Inbox

  JulianMcCafferty: Miss you.

  TinsleyCarmichael: U R sweet.

  JulianMcCafferty Just took The Third Man out from the lib. Wanna watch tonight?

  TinsleyCarmichael: Maybe… Thought I might stop in at the party in Richards’ basement. U in?

  JulianMcCafferty: I kinda feel like doing some research for the script.

  TinsleyCarmichael: Oh. OK. Maybe I’ll stop by after.

  8

  A WAVERLY OWL KNOWS THAT THE FUTURE IS MUCH MORE INTERESTING THAN THE PAST.

  Callie peeked around the open door of the rare books library on Tuesday afternoon. She was ostensibly looking for a quiet place to prepare her ideas for her psychology project, but in reality, she was just drawn to this room. It was a beautiful space—a second-floor balcony with a polished mahogany railing looked out over the distressed leather armchairs and glass-doored bookcases below. Glass-covered display tables offered up rare editions of leather-bound manuscripts, and diffuse light filtered in through the tall, curtained windows. It was almost always empty save for Mr. Gruber, the rare books librarian, who stayed in his second-floor office and fawned over the recently acquired first folio of Shakespeare with white gloves.

  But Callie wasn’t exactly interested in the books. She loved the rare books library because it was the first place Easy Walsh had kissed her. Even though they’d broken up, she couldn’t stop thinking about him. And she didn’t really want to.

  Callie rubbed her arms and sank into a leather loveseat. Mr. Gruber claimed he maintained the sixty-degree temperature for the sake of the books, but Callie suspected he didn’t want students lingering in his private lair. (She hoped he didn’t do anything too weird in there.) At least she’d come prepared, wearing her coziest Juicy Couture cashmere lounge pants and hoodie. A couple of Dumbarton girls had thrown an appletini party in the upstairs common room last night, and Callie was still a little hungover. It was nice to be alone to brood.

  “Callie. You’ve got to let me work with you.”

  Callie cringed when she heard a male voice. She looked like crap today. But she realized with relief that it was only Brandon Buchanan. Even though they’d dated all of freshman year, she didn’t quite think of him as a guy. He had nicer clothes than she did, his skin was always perfectly moisturized, and he was just a little too neat.

  Except… he looked kind of scruffy today. Stubble covered his chin, and his golden brown hair stood up a little wildly, as if he hadn’t showered yet.

  “What are you talking about?” Callie demanded crossly, closing the leather notebook where she’d been doodling instead of working. “Why would you want to work with me? And I don’t have to do anything.” Ms. Emory had rubber-stamped her proposal to work alone, which suited Callie just fine.

  “I didn’t mean to say it like that,” Brandon said sheepishly, running a hand through his hair. His rumpled Ben Sherman button-down looked like he’d slept in it. “Sorry.”

  “What’s with you?” Callie turned her back to him and pretended to look at her notebook. She grabbed her tube of Smash-box lip gloss and spread some on her lips. “I thought you were doing some camping thing with Heath.”

  “Yeah, well.” Brandon headed toward one of the display tables and touched the edge of an old copy of Charlotte’s Web. “Turns out Heath’s insane—imagine that. And since I value my life, I thought I’d be safer doing a different project.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Pritchard said you were working alone, so I kind of hoped I could butt in and help you.”

  Callie eyed Brandon. Something about him was different, and it wasn’t just the beard scruff and the wrinkled shirt. She hadn’t talked to him in ages, but she’d heard that he’d spent his Christmas vacation hooking up with one of Professor Dunderdorf’s hot daughters in Switzerland, having sex nonstop. She hadn’t believed it at the time—Brandon practically had a scarlet V, for Virgin, branded onto his forehead. But now he seemed different, somehow. Maybe it was true.

  “Fine,” she said at last. It could be kind of fun to work with Brandon. He was always polite, and he could be counted on to do the boring things, like typing up notes or putting together a bibliography. “Basically, I just want to explore the idea of what love is—and try and figure out if true love is a real thing, or if it’s like some kind of security blanket….”

  “And let me guess, you’re going to find that out by interviewing a bunch of your friends—girls who think true love is what they feel for Prada?” Brandon asked incredulously, chuckling a little as he crossed his arms over his chest.

  “Hey!” Callie shot him an evil look. Since when was Brandon so cocky? “If you don’t like my project, you can go back to the woods with Heath.” She stuck her tongue out at him.

  Brandon held his hands up defensively. “You’re right. I’m totally at your mercy. And, honestly, I think it’s a cool topic. Really.”

  Callie sniffed. She unzipped her Prada
bag, feeling slightly self-conscious, and thrust a sheet of paper at him. “The interviewing is only going to be part of the project, anyway. The rest is research on the psychology and chemistry of love. But here’s my question list, if you’re interested.” She flicked open her phone and glanced at the time. She didn’t know why, but she wanted Brandon to know she had better things to be doing than talking to him. Even though she didn’t.

  “Do you believe in love at first sight?” Brandon read off, a funny grin on his face. “Or do you just want to believe in it?” Brandon looked up at Callie, who felt herself blushing. She kind of wished she’d taken the time to throw on some less-frumpy clothes. Not that she cared what Brandon thought, but just to seem a little more professional. Normally, he’d be drooling all over her. Instead, he was looking at her with that slightly bored, amused look in his eyes.

  “We’re supposed to be asking the subjects, Brandon, not each other.” Callie rolled her eyes. But as her eyes fell on Brandon’s smirking face, she had a thought: this was where he’d walked in on her making out with Easy Walsh sophomore year, the night of the Absinthe lit mag party. She’d been dating Brandon all year, but all it took was one smoldering look from Easy that night, and she’d followed him into this very room. They’d kissed for what seemed like hours before Brandon, searching for his girlfriend, finally walked in on them. He was probably reliving that humiliation over and over again. No wonder he was acting weird.

  Brandon opened his mouth to reply, when a loud buzzing stopped him. He fumbled in the pocket of his jacket for his phone. Was he taking a call after practically begging her to join her project? Glancing at the number, his face completely lit up. “Heyyyy,” he said in a lowered voice, reflexively turning his back on Callie for some privacy. “I was just thinking about you.”

  Callie’s jaw dropped. He was taking a call from his Swiss girlfriend? How rude. Quickly, Callie tried to look busy, shuffling through her papers and jotting down notes on the questions.

  Brandon leaned his elbows on one of the glass display tables that housed a priceless medieval prayer book, something that would have given Mr. Gruber a heart attack. Tiny signs that read NO LEANING in florid cursive writing were taped all over the cases. “Nothing much. I’m just working with Callie on this project about love, interviewing people and stuff…. Callie? Yeah, but… that’s ancient history.” There was a pause, then he laughed. “Yes, exactly.”

  Callie dropped her notebook to the floor with a slap. She’d never felt more insulted. Since when did Brandon think of her as ancient history? It hadn’t been that long ago that they dated. And she wasn’t ancient anything.

  Brandon held the phone to his ear with one hand as he casually ran his fingers across the parchment-colored globe in the center of the room. He had an annoying grin on his handsome face. As he spun the globe on its axis, the continents and oceans blurring together, Callie noticed the way his shirt tightened against his biceps. Had he been working out?

  Irritated, she marched toward him and held out her wrist, angrily tapping at the spot where a watch would be if she wore one. An amused look crossed Brandon’s face before he turned away again. “Look, Hellie, I’ve got to go. We’re in the middle of something. I’ll talk to you later, okay?” Reluctantly, he ended the call and slipped the phone back into his pocket.

  “I need you to focus, Brandon, if you want to work with me on this.” Callie was amazed at how bitchy she sounded. She took a deep breath.

  “Yes, Captain.” Brandon replied, giving her a mock salute. He smiled cheerfully, but for once his clear green eyes were totally devoid of the look of puppy-dog longing she was used to seeing there.

  And somehow, it made him look even more handsome.

  Callie shook her head clear. Was it the weird, oxygen-heavy air in here that was making her feel light-headed? Because she couldn’t possibly be attracted to Brandon Buchanan again.

  Could she?

  Email Inbox

  From: [email protected]

  To: Women of Waverly list

  Date: Tuesday, January 4, 9:15 P.M.

  Subject: The Science of Love

  Hey, Ladies!

  Wanna help me out by participating in my Jan Plan project on LOVE? I know everyone has an opinion on the topic. So, please join me to answer some thoughtful questions tomorrow afternoon from 2–4 pm at Reynolds Atrium. Snacks will be provided!

  Thanks,

  Callie

  9

  A WAVERLY OWL ISN’T AFRAID TO PLUNGE INTO A NEW PROJECT.

  Tinsley pushed open the steamed-up door to the Waverly Athletic Club on Tuesday afternoon, her red canvas yoga bag slung over her shoulder. Mabel Moody, a senior Tinsley had taken Italian with, was teaching an Ashtanga yoga class as her Jan Plan project. So much better than calculus. Tinsley had a few hours before she had to e-mail her Jan Plan proposal to her adviser, and she planned to think it all through while in Downward-Facing Dog.

  Tinsley flashed her ID card at the check-in desk. A senior jock named Bradley waved her through, barely glancing up from his iPhone screen. She strode across the lobby, heading for the girls’ locker room just as the door to the boys’ locker room swung open. Out sauntered Isla Dresden. She wore a super-short black turtleneck dress and a pair of patterned tights. Her expression was nonchalant, as if exiting the boys’ locker room was a normal Tuesday afternoon activity.

  “Hey, what were you doing in there?” Bradley appeared next to Tinsley, a silver whistle around his neck. His burgundy polo shirt with the Waverly crest was two sizes too small. “That’s the boys’ locker room.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Isla smiled sweetly, tousling her wet hair. Tinsley raised an eyebrow. Had she showered in there? “I’m new here.”

  “Oh, right.” Unconsciously, Bradley kneaded his oversize bicep with his other hand. “Well, if you ever want a private tour…”

  Isla pursed her curvy pink lips. “I’ll keep that in mind.” A crowd of students streamed through the front door, and Bradley reluctantly returned to his post at the front desk.

  Tinsley, who’d been silent through the whole exchange, was about to scoot into the girls’ locker room when Isla caught sight of her. Her eyes lit up. “Just the girl I’ve been looking for.”

  “Not in the boys’ locker room, I hope.” Tinsley was pleased Isla had sought her out. Normally, she was a little wary whenever a pretty new girl showed up on campus, but Isla seemed like she wanted to play nice. “I haven’t been in there in ages.”

  “Nah.” Isla lowered her voice. “I was just doing a little recon for my Jan Plan project. That’s why I was looking for you, actually. I thought you might want to work with me.”

  Tinsley glanced at her watch. She was going to be late for the yoga class, but suddenly she didn’t mind. “Okay, I’m intrigued.”

  “Look at this.” Isla dropped her leather saddle bag on the glass-topped coffee table in the lobby and pulled out an oversize photography book. Tinsley followed her, stepping over an abandoned copy of Men’s Health. “This is one of my favorite photographers. Look at the incredible things he does.”

  Tinsley watched as Isla flipped the pages. It was an amazing book of portraits, Vogue-style spreads that showed people in crazy, improbable scenes: a model wearing a bikini on a snow-covered mountain top, or a pair of outrageously high heels while running around a track. It was a study in contrast, mixing fashion with cool backgrounds and scenes from life. “This is gorgeous.”

  “Right?” Isla grabbed the book and held it open in front of her. “Imagine how even more gorgeous these pictures would be if the models were you and me. We should totally photograph each other, using this as inspiration.”

  Tinsley bit her lip. The full-page spreads were classy, museum-quality photographs. She could easily imagine herself in a white-walled art gallery, surrounded by giant reproductions of these photos—except, of course, with her as one of the models. “I don’t know,” Tinsley replied, at last. “I’m not sure it’s exactly my thing.”r />
  In truth, Tinsley had always fantasized about being a model. Once, when she was eight, a modeling scout spotted her throwing bread to the ducks in the Central Park duck pond and pressed her card into Tinsley’s mom’s hand, begging her to call. But Tinsley’s mother refused, insisting that it was more important for Tinsley to rely on her wits than her looks. So far, both had proven useful.

  “Come on,” Isla pleaded, snapping the photography book shut. “Think how many cool shoots we could do around campus. Maybe we could find some old wedding dresses and rappel down the side of the chapel in them.” Isla’s eyes sparkled with excitement. “You have to work with me. I can’t do it alone.”

  For a moment, Tinsley thought of Julian. He’d asked her to work on his film with him, and she’d told him she’d think about it. It was a cool project and everything, but the last thing Tinsley wanted was to become one of those couples who never had any separate interests, who were content to lounge around together wearing nasty sweatpants all day. Sweatpants couples. It gave her nightmares. “Let’s do it,” she said, after a beat.

  Isla’s green eyes lit up. “Excellent. I’ve got my camera with me.” She shook the Nikon bag hanging at her side. “Can you start now?”

  A pack of senior guys in sweaty workout clothes came clattering out of the weight room. Tinsley felt their eyes fall on her and Isla. It was a good feeling. “Sure,” she replied, tossing her hair. “Let’s do it.”

  “I was hoping you’d say that.” Isla fumbled through her bag for a second, her wavy dark hair falling in front of her face. She grabbed something bright red and tossed it to Tinsley. “Put this on.”

  “Are you crazy?” Tinsley giggled as she held the tiny string bikini up against her coat. She could already see Bradley staring at them from behind the counter. “Do you always carry a spare bikini with you?”