“Does he even know where the school is?” Callie asked skeptically, pulling a translucent pink top on over her camisole.
Jenny narrowed her eyes. “Ever heard of GPS?” she answered back. The girls tittered, and Jenny leaned back against the window and lit up another one of Callie’s cigarettes—this time in triumph.
“L
ooks like someone got another Secret Satan prezzie!” Benny Cunningham trilled as she and Tinsley paused in front of Tinsley’s first-floor dorm room. A tiny package wrapped in pink construction paper sat in front of her door, a giant T. C. written in black marker on one corner.
“Whatever. I’m already tired of this.” Tinsley kicked it with her toe. She was simply not in the mood for any more shit. A
DVD
of some D-list movie called
Virgin Territory
had been shipped to her from Amazon the day before, and she’d thrown it into the lost-and-found box in the mailroom.
“Not all of us have hot young freshmen to keep us entertained.” Benny wrinkled her nose and tossed the hot pink boa she’d taken to wearing—a gift from her Secret Satan—over her shoulder. At least she wasn’t carrying around the fucking rat she’d been given. She’d decided the weather was too icy today and Thumper the ferret needed to stay home.
Tinsley unlocked her door and soccer-kicked the box inside. She dropped her bag and sat on the edge of her bed, her muscles twitching. She kept hoping she’d stumble onto her Secret Santa leaving her one of the mean-spirited presents, but no luck. It
had
to be a guy—no girl would be bitchy enough to tease Tinsley about her virginity. She couldn’t wait until the Holiday Ball, when everyone outed themselves to their Secret Santas— and she murdered hers.
She hoisted the package into her lap and tore into it. The pink cover of a book peeked out at her. She flipped it over and saw the title in big black letters:
The Everything But Guide: For Girls Who Won’t Go All the Way but Want to Do Everything But
. On the cover was a photo of a girl who looked disturbingly like Tinsley, grabbing at her clothes as if to ward off some sort of sexual attacker.
She threw the book against the wall, where it crashed into her framed photo of Plaza San Marco in Venice and fell to the floor. Enough was enough. She was sick of being worked up about the stupid virgin gifts. Why the hell did she care so much? It was stupid to let this bother her… but maybe it was even stupider to let herself be vulnerable to this sort of torture.
There’s an easy solution to that
, she thought to herself, grabbing up her coat and marching out the door. She tromped off to Julian’s room, the idea of sleeping with Julian picking up steam. Why the hell not? She’d wanted to for so long—maybe this was just the push she needed to take the plunge. Besides, they were going to do it eventually. Why not do it now and get it over with?
Tinsley pushed into Julian’s room without knocking. He jumped up from his bed, where he’d clearly been napping. “Oh, hey!” His face lit up at the sight of her. “You scared the shit out of me.” A copy of
The Remains of the Day
, required reading in freshman English, lay facedown on his pillow.
“Where’s Kevin?” Tinsley asked breathlessly, unzipping her down-filled Juicy Couture army jacket.
“His parents took him to dinner,” Julian answered, standing up and stretching his arms over his head. His Grateful Dead shirt rose up, revealing a strip of toned stomach.
“Good.” Tinsley reached over and locked the door, then leaned her back against it, enjoying the look of surprise on Julian’s face.
Julian took a step toward her. “And to what do I owe the honor of your presence?” His slow, crooked smile spread across his face, deepening the dimple beneath the left corner of his lips. Tinsley’s knees went weak.
“Let’s just call it your lucky day,” she said softly. She slid her arms out of her jacket first, letting it fall to the floor, then pulled her L.A.M.B. multicolored turtleneck up over her head. She shook the static out of her silky hair, her long locks tumbling across her bare skin.
Julian’s soft brown eyes widened as they ran across her pale pink lace-trimmed Cosabella bra. “I must be dreaming,” he said softly.
“It’s real.” Tinsley stepped toward him and pressed her half-naked body against his. She kissed him fiercely. She had to have him—they had to do this, now. She had to stop thinking about how Julian had lost his virginity to Jenny Humphrey and start thinking about something else. Like losing her own.
“But…” Julian’s voice trailed off as Tinsley’s lips moved to his throat, kissing him right below his ear, which always drove him crazy. He groaned, and then, as if it was taking every ounce of willpower, pulled back away from Tinsley and stared into her eyes. “What are you
doing
?” he asked, touching his hand gently to her hair.
“You.” She tugged his worn-out T-shirt over his head and the faint smell of Julian’s deodorant permeated the room. A spark shot through her body and her hands tugged at the button on his faded dark Rock & Republic jeans. Tinsley felt like a conductor, all the parts of the orchestra moving at her command as she pushed him back down on his bed. It was crazy. She couldn’t believe it was going to finally happen.
“Are you sure about this?” Julian asked, his eyes wide with surprise. “I mean, really sure? Did Ryan Reynolds spray you with some of that tribal aphrodisiac shit?”
“You don’t even need to ask.” She’d never been more sure of anything in her life.
They both kicked off the rest of their clothes and tumbled together under Julian’s comforter. She never imagined it would be so easy and laughed at herself for being all worked up about the various mechanics, and trying to plan the thing, down to the kind of music that would be playing in the background. How stupid. She didn’t care what music was playing.
“Do you have… a condom?” she asked, trying not to feel shy. She’d always thought that people weren’t ready to have sex if they couldn’t say the word
condom
without embarrassment, but her face flushed anyway. Wasn’t there a more elegant way to take care of things?
“Uh, yeah.” Julian sat up and pulled open his desk drawer, fumbling around and knocking a pencil to the floor. “Here.” He pulled out a small plastic square, and Tinsley felt her heart sink. He kept condoms in his desk drawer. What for? She hadn’t realized it until then, but she’d kind of hoped he wouldn’t have any.
She tried to push the thought from her mind and get back into the mood as Julian’s hands ran across her body again. But this time, the image of him touching Jenny the same way consumed Tinsley’s brain. She wondered if Jenny had ever come bursting into his room, tearing off her clothes and ravaging him just as Tinsley had. The stupid grin she imagined on Jenny’s pink-cheeked face as she and Julian did it made her groan out loud. “Shit!”
Julian released the pressure on her back. “You okay?” he asked worriedly.
Tinsley rolled off him and stood up. Now she was really shaking, but she didn’t want Julian to see. She grabbed her jeans from their crumpled heap on the floor and stepped into them. “I’m sorry,” she said weakly. “I can’t do this.”
“It’s okay,” Julian reassured her, wrapping his comforter around his body. “We definitely don’t need to rush.” He patted the bed and grinned up at her, his shaggy blondish hair tucked behind his ears. “But please come back and let me kiss you.”
Tinsley sucked in her cheeks and turned her back on Julian in order to keep her composure. She snapped her bra back into place with shaking hands. How stupid of her to think she could make it all go away by sleeping with him.
That
wasn’t what she wanted. What she wanted was for Jenny to have never existed—to have never shared something so special with the guy
she
was madly in love with. And unfortunately, she couldn’t make that happen. “I don’t mean that…. I mean, I can’t see you anymore.”
“Wait, what?” Julian sat up in bed, suddenly wide awake. “Why not?” His golden brown eyes widened, and Tinsley felt a twinge of regret at the sight of his bare chest peeking out from under his comforter.
“It’s just not going to work,” she said coldly, tugging her sweater on. She forced herself to picture him tumbling naked in that very bed with Jenny Humphrey in order to keep her anger at the forefront of her emotions—and keep from crying. It worked. Tinsley had always been much better at being angry than sad. She grabbed her jacket from the floor.
“You can’t be serious?” Julian jumped out of bed, quickly throwing on his dark jeans. As much as Tinsley wanted him to stop her, she knew it wouldn’t do any good. Jenny had won. She’d gotten to him first, and ruined him.
Tinsley grabbed the doorknob before Julian could touch her. She gave him the coldest stare she could muster. It was easier than she’d thought. “I’ve never been more serious in my life,” she said, and slammed the door.
A
nnoyance gripped Brandon as he took his latest Secret Satan gift out of the unmarked cardboard box left on his doorstep. This time, his brilliant Secret Satan had given him an alarm clock with a plastic pole dancer that slid up and down the pole. He set the alarm once, out of curiosity, and when it went off, a built-in strobe light lit up the tiny dollar bills painted on the miniature stage floor. It could’ve been one of those funny, tacky gifts that make great conversation starters. The only problem was the young chiseled plastic pole-dancer was a
guy
. One who looked disconcertingly like David Hasselhoff.
Brandon stuffed the whole thing back in the box, tossing it into the garbage can under his desk. Someone was definitely going to a lot of effort to torture him. At least no one had seen him open it.
Unlike
the box someone had put in his mailbox that morning, cleverly writing the address of Brandon’s home in Greenwich in the return address spot. But instead of receiving some kind of end-of-semester care package from his father, he’d found himself in the middle of the mailroom, holding a plastic sperm-shaped piggy bank with a stupid smile on its face and a coin slot on its back. Ryan Reynolds had dropped in a quarter as he passed, and the fucking thing’s tail wiggled. Brandon had dropped the whole thing in the recycling bin amid snorts and giggles from his classmates, wondering who was to blame.
He reached for his iPhone out of instinct, wishing he could just call Hellie and hear her voice. But the whole time-difference thing made her feel even farther away than she was. Brandon had just gotten back from practice, but she was probably fast asleep. That thought entertained him for a moment—he remembered her sliding into a loose gray T-shirt and a pair of black jersey short shorts before he’d left her room, and he always kept that image close to his heart. Instead, he logged onto his Yahoo! Instant Messenger and typed in Sweet dreams. He stared at the screen, willing her to be awake and write back, but nothing. He was just about to log off when her name popped up.
Hellie:
Hey, sexy boy. I was just dreaming about you.
Brandon:
I’ve been thinking about you all day. How was your drama rehearsal?
Brandon typed furiously, as if their connection could be lost at any moment. His heart raced at the thought of Hellie, sitting awake in the dark, tossing and turning in bed in her short shorts, dreaming about
him
.
Hellie:
Sucked. You would think the crown prince of Egypt could muster up some passion as Macbeth, but he’s like a wet fish.
Brandon laughed at Hellie’s mixed metaphors.
A wet blanket? A cold fish?
Hellie’s mother was Swiss and had met Mr. Dunderdorf when he was on sabbatical in Geneva. Hellie and Gretchen had grown up in Switzerland, and when Dunderdorf came to teach at Waverly, they stayed behind at boarding school. God, what Brandon would have done to get her to transfer to Waverly.
Brandon:
I think you mean cold fish.
Hellie:
Oops, yes. Long day of classes and my brain isn’t functioning well.
Brandon:
I wish I could be there.
Hellie:
Me too!
A smile curled Brandon’s lips.
Brandon:
You must have done something fun today?
He regretted this question immediately, worried that it would bring an avalanche of tales about guys trying to hit on her and her sister—because he knew better than anyone that every guy in the room would want to.
Hellie:
Gretch and I snuck off to Geneva for a late dinner. We drank too much wine and complained about how much better American men are.
The smile on Brandon’s face grew.
Brandon:
I haven’t had a drink since that kirsch your father gave us at Thanksgiving. It almost killed me.
Hellie:
I’m glad it didn’t. I brought home a bottle of my favorite wine that we can drink the next time we’re together.
Brandon took a deep breath. He’d fantasized about jumping onto a plane and jetting off to Europe to see Hellie, but it wasn’t exactly realistic. Finals, for one thing. But mostly, his hard-ass father would kill him if he charged a last-minute plane ticket to Europe to visit some girl he’d only hooked up with twice.
Brandon:
Sounds good.
That was kind of lame, he thought. Couldn’t he think of anything better?
Hellie:
Want your hot body. Now.
Brandon blushed, his thumbs hovering over the keyboard, unsure of what to say. He’d loved the pictures Hellie had been texting—and he’d told her as much, in e-mails. But this was like… phone sex. What if Heath walked in? His heart raced and he was about to type I think about your smooth, naked skin every night when the screen popped again.