Lucky (12 page)

Instant Message Inbox

JennyHumphrey:
I’ve got a prospective attached to my hip. Want to help me entertain her?

JulianMcCafferty:
Sure thing.

JennyHumphrey:
Meet us at the coffee bar in Maxwell after class?

JulianMcCafferty:
How ’bout we go off campus instead? Ritoli’s?

JennyHumphrey:
Mmm, pizza. It’s a date.

Instant Message Inbox

BrandonBuchanan:
Hey, fellow Usual Suspect. How’s it going?

SageFrancis:
It’s okay… . Feeling a little freaked out though …

BrandonBuchanan:
Why I got in touch. Hoping to commiserate.

SageFrancis:
Think we should plan our alibis for tomorrow?

BrandonBuchanan:
It’s the most we can do, right?

SageFrancis:
Right. I’ll scratch your back if you scratch mine.

BrandonBuchanan:
I’d be up for that. Could offer your back a little massage, too. See you at the party tonight?

SageFrancis:
I’ll be there.

Brett rapped her knuckles against Kara’s closed door, her turquoise-and-scarlet beaded bracelets clinking together. Yvonne Stidder had left a note on Kara’s dry-erase message board asking if she wanted to have lunch. It was funny—in all the recent insanity, Brett had almost forgotten that anyone other than Kara and the other Usual Suspects even existed.

The past few days had reminded Brett of the floor-to-ceiling aquariums in the foyer of her parents’ McMansion. You could always tell when one of the tetras or rainbow fish was sick, because all the other fish would avoid them, as though the scent of death were clinging to them. Brett felt like one of the sick fish. But she wasn’t the only one. Behind closed doors or surrounded by whispers, she was positive the other “suspects” were drawing up alliances, calling on old friendships and favors in order to protect themselves from whatever wrath Dean Marymount was ready to unleash. Which was why she needed Kara now. She’d felt pretty panicked since her chat with Mr. Tomkins yesterday and wanted to get their stories straight.

“Come in.”

She pushed open Kara’s door. Heath Ferro was sprawled next to Kara on her bed, his head resting in her cross-legged lap while she braided his dirty blond hair. Um, what?

Heath’s prospective protégé reclined on the blue vinyl beanbag in the corner, his tiny legs propped up against the window, holding an open Batgirl comic book over his face. Probably trying to imagine what Batgirl looked like without her costume on. A Beastie Boys song played on Kara’s sound dock, and everyone seemed quietly absorbed in what they were doing. Given the serene, domestic-bliss feel of the scene, Brett wouldn’t have been surprised if classical music came on next.

“Another prayer answered.” Heath’s eyes lit up. He sat up quickly and scooted over, little half braids sticking out all over his head as he made room on the Batgirl comforter between him and Kara.

Brett sat gingerly on the bed. “So …” She looked first at Kara and then at Heath. “What are you guys up to?” Since when did Kara and Heath have hair-braiding sessions?

“I’m acting as a consultant for the party tonight.” Kara smiled, tucking her legs underneath her. She wore a flouncy polka-dot skirt that splayed out on the comforter like a tutu. “Heath had some
very
important questions he needed answered,” she added, turning to Heath, who winked back at her. In the Waverly T-shirt he’d been wearing since Marymount sent out the suspect list (a tongue-in-cheek effort to show his school spirit) and his worn-out Citizens of Humanity jeans, Heath looked like the quintessential smug prep-school boy.

“Don’t you guys think we should be, like, planning our alibis instead of planning a kegger?” Brett stood up. She pulled down on the bottom of her white Reyes button-up and turned to face Kara and Heath on the bed.

“A party always trumps a trial in my mind,” Heath said with a lazy grin, scratching his stomach through his T-shirt. “Come on, Marymount’s ‘list’ is such bull.” He made air quotes around the word
list
. “I’m seeing it for what it really is: an excuse to get drunk and miss class.” He reached a hand out for Sam to slap. “Right on, son!”

Brett just stared at him. Heath and his don’t-give-a-shit attitude. Didn’t he realize how serious this whole thing was? One of them could be gone
tomorrow
.

“So you don’t even want to talk about what
we
were doing at the party?” Brett asked challengingly. She put her hands on the hips of her 7 For All Mankind jeans and locked eyes with Heath, not daring to look at Kara.

“Sam, buddy.” Heath turned his half-braided head toward his Mini Me. “Grab some hallway, will you? I need some alone time with my girls.”

Sam popped up from the beanbag, looking like he was about to salute Heath. “The pony express rides again!” he hailed in his surprisingly deep voice. He held out his hand for a high five from Heath, but Heath kicked out his leg instead, directing Sam toward the door.

“What do you think is going to happen in here?” Brett blocked Sam’s exit, still staring at Heath. “That we’re going to have some sort of orgy?” She had meant it as a joke, but there was a hard edge to her voice that she couldn’t control.

“Relax, baby,” Heath said, still smiling, his green eyes shining. “You’ve got to loosen up.”

Kara giggled nervously, like she wasn’t sure what to do. She took off her glasses and looked up at Brett, her head tilted slightly, as if trying to figure out what was going on.

“I
did
loosen up.” Brett couldn’t stop herself. “And look what’s happened.” She’d meant the comment for Heath, but Kara blinked several times and looked as if she’d just been slapped. Brett wanted to apologize. But with Heath and his little Mini Me hanging on her every word, all she could do was back out of the room, not bothering to close the door behind her.

Kara followed her out into the hallway, gently closing the door to her room behind them. “What’s going on?” Her hazel eyes were filled with concern. Now that her eyes were no longer obscured by glasses, Brett noticed her delicate dark lashes, which were long and curly, even though she wore no mascara.

Brett shrugged her shoulders and fiddled with the pearly buttons on her shirt. She wanted to tell Kara about what had happened in Dean Marymount’s office yesterday, about how worried she was. She knew that they’d done nothing wrong—they’d had nothing to do with the fire, and kissing another girl was hardly against the rules—but she also knew that once they got into that interrogation room, anything could happen. They really
could
get kicked out of Waverly, if someone wanted them gone. But she didn’t trust herself to say anything else right then. “I’m gonna go take a nap. I’ll see you at the party later.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to come back in?” Kara tilted her head back toward the doorway. An Amy Winehouse song Brett liked was now filtering through the door. “I snagged some peanut butter cookies from the dining hall for you.” She smiled hopefully.

Brett shook her head. “Nah, seems like you guys were having more fun without me anyway.” She turned on her heel and made her way down the dark hallway, not looking back to see the hurt expression on Kara’s face.

Brandon let the depressing sounds of Wilco wash over him as he lay on his bed, thinking about the dean’s suspect list. He was going to need a better alibi than “I was too busy telling off my girlfriend of five minutes to start the fire.” Marymount would probably make him reenact the scene with Elizabeth in front of everyone, and for the rest of Brandon’s tenure at Waverly people would whisper, “Mr. Open is closed,” and snicker whenever he walked past. Fuck. At least Sage Francis had seemed receptive to his IMs earlier. It was sort of cowardly to approach a girl via text message, but you couldn’t blame a guy for testing the waters. After all, what if that prospective girl Chloe had heard wrong? He didn’t need another disaster of Elizabethan proportions. This time, his motto was “Slow and cautious.” He’d planted the seed, and tonight at Heath’s alcohol-drenched party, he’d attempt to water it.

A drumbeat came out of nowhere, trampling the lead vocals of his favorite song. It took him a minute to realize it wasn’t a drum at all, but someone knocking on his door. If it was fucking Sam again, he was going to kill him—but then Sam apparently wasn’t the knocking type. He’d stormed through the door at seven-thirty that morning while Brandon was still toweling off from his shower, asking Brandon snidely what color dress he’d be wearing today. Goddamn little Heath clone.

The door swung open. Sage Francis was standing in his doorway, wearing a short wool houndstooth Chanel dress, her long pale blond hair clipped out of her face with two tiny dragonfly-shaped yellow sequined barrettes.

“Hey,” he said, trying not to betray his surprise. He ran his fingers through his hair, suddenly self-conscious about his plain white Hanes undershirt—was it pit-stained?—and grateful for his still-crisp pair of charcoal gray Theory trousers.

“Hi.” Sage smiled confidently. Brandon had always thought of Sage as one of Callie’s generic, giggling friends. But on her own, framed in his doorway, she looked … different.

“So, uh … how’s it going?” Brandon asked casually. His slow and cautious method was one thing, but he hadn’t been prepared for an ambush. He glanced around the room sheepishly, hoping she wouldn’t notice the pair of Heath’s polka-dotted boxer shorts on the floor near his bed where he’d left them. Or, if she did, he hoped she at least wouldn’t think they were his.

Sage shrugged her shoulders. “After our chat earlier, I thought I’d drop in.” She nodded at the Latin textbook lying facedown on Brandon’s neatly made bed, on top of his Ralph Lauren down comforter. He quickly smoothed out the wrinkles where he’d been lying and sat up. “Studying?”

Brandon shook his head no, although he did have a Latin recitation in the morning. Apparently he was going to miss it for Marymount’s US meeting. Not exactly a fair trade. “
Thinking
about studying.” Sage giggled, and Brandon felt emboldened. “Come on in.” He was grateful when she left the door open—at least some of Heath’s disgusting sweaty gorilla-man odor would vent into the hall.

“I have a geometry test on Thursday, but it’s a little hard to study for it, knowing I might be expelled before then.” Sage sat down on the edge of Brandon’s unmade bed. There was something about the way she perched on the corner of the bed, his white chenille throw blanket swirling around her tanned legs, that made Brandon suddenly sit up a little straighter.

“Come on. Why would you be expelled?” Brandon demanded. “You didn’t have anything to do with the fire.” He hoped that didn’t come out as a question. Because he really doubted she did. With her wispy, corn silk blond hair and bright blue eyes, it seemed next to impossible Sage could do something so devious. She was the picture of innocence. He envisioned her with wings on a Hallmark card.

Sage shrugged her shoulders again and ran her fingers over a snag in the blanket that Brandon had never noticed. “Well, I’m on the list.”

“
Everyone’s
on the list.” Brandon waved his hand casually, hoping that it was a leading-man, reassuring gesture. If he had made up the list, it would have had only a few people on it: Tinsley—because really, who else would be wicked enough to start a fire—and Easy Walsh, just because Brandon wouldn’t mind seeing him get expelled. Even if he had started to think Easy wasn’t such a bad guy after all, he couldn’t help recalling the image of Easy and Callie running, barely clothed, from the barn. He doubted they’d do anything intentionally, but they were the only people who were in the barn for sure. And he really didn’t love the idea that his ex-girlfriend was doing the deed with Easy Walsh, in a
barn
of all places. Gross. He was totally over Callie, but a girl like that deserved one-thousand-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets for her first time—if the rumors about what they were doing in there were actually true, and not just a bale of hay.

“You’re not worried?” Sage asked incredulously, her small mouth dropping open so that Brandon could see one neat silver filling in a molar. She rocked back and forth, smoothing a strand of her fine blond hair off her forehead. Brandon briefly wondered whether she’d want to hook up in a barn—she seemed more the white lace, canopy bed type. Much more Brandon’s style.

“Great dress,” Brandon blurted, realizing he’d been staring at Sage’s slender legs.
Great dress!
It sounded pretty innocuous, and who wouldn’t want to hear that they were wearing a great dress? But he sounded totally gay.

“Bought it at a thrift store,” she admitted, running a finger lightly over the hem.

“Wow.” Brandon lowered his voice and raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Scandal,” he noted. Girls had this weird thing about vintage being so much cooler than new. He didn’t get it. Vintage clothes just meant that someone had already sweated in them.

“You couldn’t even imagine.” Sage looked up at him through her long eyelashes, feigning embarrassment. “It’s actually from this totally random church yard sale in Great Barrington.”