Infamous (6 page)

“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?”

“Bingo,” Heath said excitedly. “He’s on, like, his third wife, who’s, like, Swedish….”

“If only my father could get to his third wife already, then I wouldn’t mind going home.” Brandon leaned back against his headboard and stared at Heath’s
Scarface
poster, wondering if anyone had ever told Al Pacino that he was “too gay.” Doubtful.

Heath ignored him. “And now they’ve got these two gorgeous teenage twin daughters. They go to Le Rosey in Switzerland, some girls’ finishing school. Spend the whole year yodeling and learning how to tie corsets, or some shit like that.” Heath’s voice gained momentum as he continued his description. “Anyway, they come back every Thanksgiving, and the rumor is, Teague Williams hooked up with both over Thanksgiving last year—
at the same time
.”

Brandon shook his head. “Only you would believe something like that.”

“I believe it to be true,” Heath said solemnly, crossing himself. “And if you won’t stick around and help me find out, well, that’s on you.”

Brandon sighed. Heath had momentarily taken his mind off Sage, whose heartless timing had threatened to consign Thanksgiving to an uninterrupted stream of self-pity, punctuated by a bland turkey dinner prepared by his stepmother and her even-more-hellish mother, who, along with his worshipping father, would sit and stare in awe as the twins mashed squash into their hair and stuffed broccoli up their noses.

“C’mon, dude,” Heath begged, “Swiss Misses. When will you ever be presented with this opportunity again?”

“Next Thanksgiving, apparently,” Brandon scoffed. “And I thought you said they were Swedish.”

“Swedish, Swiss, same thing,” Heath said. “It all spells
H-O-R-N-Y
. Guaranteed.”

Brandon looked at his packed bag. Even if he didn’t exactly believe everything Heath was saying, the alternative was much, much worse. “Okay, I’ll stay.”

“That’s what I’m talking about!” Heath yelled. He held his hand out and Brandon slapped it, his skin stinging as he unpacked his bag. “Look, bro, it’s about time you just relaxed and let me take care of things. I know
exactly
what I’m doing.”

Coming from someone who wore his boxer shorts three times before washing them but still managed to hook up with girls, Brandon wondered if maybe he did.

Jenny Humphrey stalked down the hallway of her Upper West Side apartment building, grateful to be inside familiar walls and out of the freezing-cold November night. It had taken the three girls half an hour to catch a cab outside Grand Central station—everyone in the world, apparently, was arriving in New York for the holiday. She was too happy to be home to be self-conscious about the yellowed molding and the smell of Mrs. Ullstrup’s two schnauzers next door. One of the hall lights was out, casting a dim shadow in front of apartment 9D. “This is it,” Jenny exhaled, dropping her heavy bag at her feet. “I knew a girl who lived in this building.” Tinsley peeked out the hall window at the traffic jam on West End Avenue.

Jenny waited for the cutting punch line—
And she was a skank.
Or
, And she always dressed like she was going to the circus
—but thankfully none came. Her nerves were on edge since she’d invited both Tinsley and Callie to spend Thanksgiving with her, though she ultimately hoped the holiday would bring the three of them closer together. As cool as it was that the three of them had been hanging out, she kept holding her breath, waiting for the next incident or guy-fight that would make the other two turn on her. She slipped the key in the lock and turned, but the lock held. “What the—” She jiggled the knob.

“Old man changed the locks on you?” Tinsley giggled. “Maybe he has a girlfriend and he wanted some privacy.”

“Ew.” Callie sighed, staring up at a cobweb over the door.

Jenny turned the key again and again the lock wouldn’t give. The locks began to click from the inside and Jenny pulled away. The door opened a crack and the pungent odor of patchouli wafted out of the apartment.

“Hello?” Jenny asked tentatively. “Dad?”

The door swung open and a bald woman in a resplendent orange robe opened her arms. “Welcome to our feast.”

Jenny felt her jaw completely drop. “Um, where’s my dad?” Could he really have a new girlfriend? Rufus had weird taste, but this was beyond weird. Had he somehow been evicted and neglected to tell her?

“Oh, child, you must be Jennifer,” the woman said, clasping her hands together as if in prayer. “And these must be your sisters.”

“We’re not related, actually.” Tinsley smiled sweetly, rubbing her gloved palms together. She was clearly enjoying the scene.

Callie stared in disbelief and Jenny felt all the blood rush to her head. From inside the apartment, they heard voices quietly chanting: “
Hare Krishna Hare Krishna Krishna Hare Hare
...”

Jenny peered around the woman and saw that her old, familiar apartment, where she’d grown up, taken her first steps, watched Saturday morning cartoons, was filled with other bald men and women, all dressed in the flaming orange robes. Everywhere—sitting on her couch, in her dad’s patched leather recliner, on the blue velvet armchair by the window where she liked to read. What the hell was going on?

Finally, Rufus Humphrey pushed his way through the bald dancing freaks from the back of the room. He was dressed in his familiar moth-eaten yellow pullover with an old pair of Dan’s black sweatpants that were about six sizes too small. His wiry gray hair was tied back with a garbage tie. “Honey-pie! You’re here.”

“Hi, Dad.” Jenny’s father scooped her up in a bear hug while the woman in the doorway sauntered back to the packed front room.

“What…what is this?” Jenny hissed. “Who are these people?”

“And you brought friends!” Rufus exclaimed in delight, holding his arms open to welcome Tinsley and Callie, who were cowering in the hallway. They each gave Rufus a perfunctory hug and then retreated. “They’re even more stunning than you described them.”

“Dad,” Jenny said sternly, standing between him and her friends before he could start telling Callie her hair was pre-Raphaelite and that Tinsley’s eyes looked like grape gumdrops. “What is all this?”

“I told you about this, Smoochie,” Rufus answered playfully, putting his large paw on Jenny’s shoulder and squeezing.

“Dad.” Jenny often got annoyed with her father, but now she was just furious. “I would remember if you told me that twenty chanting bald people would be in our apartment when I got home.” She lowered her voice on the word
bald
, in case any of them were listening.

“That’s strange.” Rufus rubbed his chin, his salt-and-pepper beard much fuller since the last time she’d seen him. “I was sure I’d told you.”

“Well, you didn’t,” she repeated sternly. A large animal darted out of the dining room and into the kitchen. It zigzagged on the tile, circling the kitchen table. Jenny realized in horror that it was a live turkey.

“You’re not going to…kill a turkey, are you?” Tinsley spoke up, eyeing the feathered animal that was now circling the couch. The baldies in robes laughed as it ran by them.

“Oh, heavens no. These are people from my ashram. I invited them over for the Festival of Thanks,” Rufus announced grandly. “We’re all cleansing ourselves during this great festival. And we honor the turkey. I’m glad you’re here—you can help share in our vegan feast.”

Jenny stepped reluctantly into the apartment and took in the scene. Every bald head in the front room turned and said, “Welcome.” She could feel Tinsley and Callie behind her, flabbergasted. She had to get them to her room, where they could regroup.

“We’ll be in my room,” Jenny announced.

“Oh.” Rufus frowned. “Your room is actually occupied. I gave up my room, too. But we can all bunk out on the couches. It’ll be like camping.” Rufus smiled as if he’d just solved a particularly thorny dilemma.

The turkey ran up to Callie and head-butted her Louis Vuitton bag, the wattle on its neck jiggling furiously. “Oh my God,” Callie whispered, her eyes bugging out. She shrank back in the hallway.

“We have to go, uh, make a phone call.” Tinsley hiked her bag over her shoulder, and she and Callie practically ran for the elevator. Jenny froze, unsure of her next move. Would she stay in her apartment out of loyalty to her dad, or did her loyalties lie elsewhere now?

“Look, Dad, I’m glad you’ve got your, uh, friends here. But it looks like a full house, so I’m going to find somewhere else to stay. Maybe at Tinsley’s,” she lied, hoisting her bag on her shoulder.

“Petunia Bottom!” Rufus cried. “But we’re eating at eight.”

“It’s not a big deal.” Jenny put her hand on her dad’s arm. “You guys can, uh, enjoy my room. I’ll give you a call tomorrow.” After a little more hushed insisting that she’d be fine, Jenny hurried down the hall and stepped in the elevator after her two friends.

“Let’s not speak of this again, ever.” Jenny punched the button for the lobby.

“It never happened,” Tinsley agreed, laughing. “But man, I thought
my
family was fucked up.”

“I think I have turkey snot on my bag from when that creature ran into it.” Callie examined her bag.

By the time the elevator hit the bottom floor, Jenny knew she’d survive the embarrassment. “There’s a coffee shop around the corner.” She tightened her yellow cashmere Banana Republic scarf, bracing herself for the icy evening. “I need some caffeine.”

“I need a drink,” Tinsley said wryly.

At Melnyczuk’s, the Ukrainian coffee shop with a nearly unpronounceable name, the girls grabbed a booth by the window and ordered three cups of coffee from the beleaguered waitress, who didn’t look too happy to be working on the day before Thanksgiving.

“We need a hotel room,” Callie said, determined to state the obvious. “And fast.”

She looked up hotels on her iPhone, reading off the numbers to Tinsley and Jenny, who quickly dialed them with growing anxiety. A flurry of calls to the Four Seasons, the Soho Grand, the Plaza, the New York Palace, the Peninsula, the Ritz in Central Park, the St. Regis, and Trump Tower confirmed what Jenny had suspected: All the hotels were full for Thanksgiving.

“This is awful.” Callie shook her head, her voice verging on whiny. Her pretty face was scrunched up into a scowl, and she looked as if she were about to burst into tears. “
Now
what?”

Tinsley threw her phone down on the table, slopping the recently refilled coffees onto their tiny china saucers. “What do you have to fucking do to get a hotel room in this town?” she asked angrily.

“Do you think the fumes from the floors in your apartment are really as toxic as your mom said?” Callie asked nervously.

Jenny remembered what Tinsley had told her on the train. Tinsley’s accusation about Jenny taking everything—from boys to life in general—too seriously had stung, more so because Jenny couldn’t disprove it. Well, here was her chance.

“Look, maybe we’re overthinking this,” Jenny offered. “We’re three girls on our own in Manhattan,” she went on, dabbing at a coffee stain with her napkin. “No rules. We can do whatever we want.”

“Except get a hotel room, apparently,” Tinsley pointed out, her cool violet eyes staring straight at Jenny challengingly.

Jenny squared her shoulders and met Tinsley’s eyes, eager for the chance to show the other girl what she could do. “Let’s just see about that,” she replied, motioning for the check.

Brett dropped her suitcase on the Italian marble floor of her foyer. Her body was tired from the long ride in the cramped front seat of the Mustang, her brain exhausted from fending off Sebastian’s relentless questions. She’d successfully convinced him that she wasn’t, in fact, the hot dog girl from summers ago. Or maybe he was just humoring her. The whole ride had been intense, trying to fight all of Sebastian’s efforts at some kind of shared life experiences just because they were from the same state. She’d been incredibly relieved to finally pull up in front of her parents’ house.

Sebastian had whistled as he pulled into the circular driveway—and even Brett had been away so long, she’d forgotten how huge (and showy) their mansion was. The exterior was designed to look like the Palace of Versailles, complete with a fountain out front where a reclining Poseidon cuddled a nearly naked cherub. “Cool digs,” he’d said, without a trace of irony, before she bid him a terse goodbye.