“Think your Secret Satan’s going to give you another romantic present, Jenny?” Kaitlin prompted, still holding the camera on Jenny. “Like maybe a kiss?”
“I saw Cliff Montgomery, that water polo guy, staring at you yesterday when you were making your salad at dinner. Like, really staring.” Claire rubbed her cheeks for warmth. “You guys would look totally hot together.”
Jenny exhaled, her breath a cloud in the dark December air. Her Secret Satan had left a copy of J. D. Salinger’s
Franny and Zooey
in her mailbox that morning, and she’d spent the afternoon reading it, searching for clues about why he’d given it to her. She still couldn’t figure it out, but she loved the book— and she was dying to tell him so. If it was a him. But it had to be, right? A girl would have given her lip gloss or something. For a second, she let herself imagine Cliff Montgomery, who had a mop of dark, curly brown hair that made him look like a young, cute Bob Dylan, waiting for her outside class to walk her home.
“I’m betting on Ryan Reynolds.” Izzy pulled her thick scarf tighter around her neck. “I know he’s kind of skeevy, but I hear he’s got a soft side.”
“And I think his family owns a vineyard in Napa. And a jet.” Kaitlin stepped gingerly over a patch of ice, the camera wobbling in her hand. “He could whisk you away for romantic weekends in wine country.”
“You’re so lucky, Jenny,” Claire said mournfully. “I really am not excited to meet the person who got me a bottle of Astro-glide.”
“Look.” Jenny pointed ahead to the Cambridge House, a little colonial-style redbrick house on the very southern edge of campus, barely visible through a thicket of overgrown pine trees. Her stomach was fluttering madly at the thought of who could be behind her sweet Secret Santa presents. “I think that’s where we’re going.”
As they approached the building, red light seemed to be spilling from the shade-covered windows. She’d never actually been inside Cambridge House—it was reserved for the writer-in-residence, whose sole responsibilities were to teach one writing workshop a year and oversee the publication of
Absinthe
. It was a cushy gig. This year’s writer-in-residence, Josip Rosnichov, a hard-drinking, fifty-something Russian, had given his final reading at the Reynolds Atrium last week and had gone back to Saint Petersburg. Cambridge House was wide open until the next unstable and probably bizarre writer arrived in January. It was the perfect spot for an unofficial party.
“What about the ball at the Prescott Club?” Claire asked, pausing to shake snow off her feet before they stepped inside. “Are we going to that later?” A note of concern crept into her voice.
Jenny turned her head so the camera could catch her in profile. At Yvonne Stidder’s Thanksgiving party in New York, Tinsley hammered it into Jenny’s brain that she should be enjoying life and not taking boys too seriously. Jenny imagined herself flitting around the party, flirting like mad, making her Secret Santa and all the other guys fall madly in love with her. She’d be sure to piss off Tinsley, who’d been so cold to her recently, for good measure. Finally she answered: “Would you rather go to a school-sponsored party, or the best illegal party on campus, with the Raves?”
She didn’t wait for a response and knocked on the black heavy wooden door of Cambridge House. It instantly swung open, revealing Heath Ferro in a Santa hat, a tight white T-shirt, and a pair of green suspenders holding up a pair of red furry pants trimmed in white. A pair of bells swung on a gold-braided rope around his neck.
“Welcome to the Inferno,” he said grandly. “Touch my bells.”
“Gross.” Jenny edged past him into the smoke-filled foyer. A narrow staircase led up to the second floor, already crowded with girls in party dresses.
“Or my pants. What about you lovely ladies?” Heath asked as the freshmen skirted past him, giggling.
“He’s so hot,” Claire whispered, glancing back at him over her shoulder. “Maybe he’s your Secret Santa.”
“I think my gifts would have definitely been X-rated. I’m pretty sure he’s the one who started the whole Secret Satan thing.” Jenny surveyed the scene. The front room of Cambridge House had been completely wrapped in red cellophane, and fake yellow construction-paper flames ran up the walls. A giant white dry-erase board was propped up over the fireplace, featuring a drawing of stick figures with angel wings engaged in devilish behavior. All the lightbulbs had been replaced with red bulbs and Jenny recognized fellow Owls, dressed in cocktail party attire, smushed into couches and gossiping in the corners.
“Ohmigod.” Izzy’s eyes were wide with amazement. “Kaitlin, make sure you’re getting all this.”
After shoving their coats into an overstuffed hall closet, Jenny spotted Benny Cunningham with Sage and Alison under an arrow that read Hell’s Kitchen. As she picked her way through the crowd, she paused here and there to allow Claire and Izzy and Kaitlin to catch up. Kaitlin kept stopping to film someone in a great outfit, or a couple kissing under a chili-pepper mistletoe. Jenny wrinkled her nose. The couple pulled apart. It was Ryan Reynolds and Alison Quentin. Guess he wasn’t her Secret Satan.
She turned around and almost walked directly into a vaguely familiar-looking guy with reddish brown hair and square black glasses. “Excuse me,” she said. She smoothed her hands down the sides of her dress.
The guy coughed into his hand and nervously picked at the fading Spider-Man logo on the front of the T-shirt he wore under a dark blazer. Jenny remembered where she’d seen him—always heading into the computer science lab when she was going to art class. He was one of those comp-sci nerds. “I’m, uh… glad you liked your barrettes.”
“Wait, what?” Jenny started, not sure she’d heard him right. She touched the dragonfly barrettes she’d put in her hair.
“They look pretty.” The skinny guy shoved his hands in his pockets nervously. “Did you get a chance to read
Franny and Zooey
? It’s like my favorite Salinger book. Better than
Catcher in the Rye
.”
Jenny’s stomach fell.
This
was the guy who’d been sending her the sweet, romantic presents? Not the sexy upperclassman she’d been dreaming about. This dorky, nearsighted guy with uneven sideburns and a too-big nose who was barely taller than she was. Why was this always
happening
? Why was she always getting her hopes up—only to get them crushed to pieces? This didn’t happen to Tinsley, or Brett, or Callie. Just her. In a flash, she remembered how Easy had dumped her to go back to Callie. How Julian had hooked up with Tinsley. How Drew Gately had tried to lie his way into her bed. Her heart thumped so loudly in her chest, she was sure everyone could hear it.
A cold chill ran down the back of her neck as Kaitlin focused her camera on Jenny.
Not now
, she thought, remembering all their giggling discussions about which hot upper-class guy could be giving Jenny such sweet gifts. That would make a great scene—juxtaposing that against
this
. The Spider-Man-wearing comp-sci guy stood in front of her expectantly.
“Um, yeah.” She rubbed her hands up and down her bare shoulders. “Thanks.” She gave the guy a half-smile, and even though she knew she was being rude, all she wanted was to get away from the camera before Kaitlin could get any more footage. Didn’t they know anything? Didn’t they realize how embarrassing this was for her?
Verena Arneval waved at Jenny from the kitchen doorway, holding up a glass of red liquid. “Jenny!” she cried out, already tipsy. “Get over here. When are the Raves coming?”
“I’m Michael,” the nerd said, glancing in confusion at the three freshmen girls who were crowded around Jenny—and staring at him with disappointed looks on their faces. Loud music with a pulsing beat pounded through the room, making Jenny’s heart beat faster. Michael held out his hand as Kaitlin trained the camera on his Spider-Man T-shirt.
Before she could do anything, Jenny felt a vibration at her hip and reached into her tiny silk bag for her phone. The number flashed as private, but Jenny was grateful for any sort of distraction. “Hello?” She felt the camera swing to her.
“It’s Damian,” a voice said, sounding far away.
Jenny winked at the camera. “It’s the Raves,” she announced loudly, feeling confident again as a titter went around the small circle. Alison and Benny and some others had stepped forward to listen. “What’s up?” Jenny asked into the phone. “You lost?”
“Sorry, babe,” Damian said, “we can’t make it. We won’t get up there in time.” A female voice on the other end of the phone shrieked in the background. “Shush!” Damian whispered.
“Oh.” Jenny tried to turn away, but people suddenly seemed to be surrounding her in every direction. She kept a plastic smile plastered to her face even though she felt like she’d been hit by a car. This couldn’t be happening. “Well, the party will go pretty late. Where exactly are you?”
Another shriek and another shush. “We got sort of… sucked into this other thing after our show, so we’ll be here for a while longer. Really sorry.”
Jenny hoped the camera couldn’t detect the lump in her throat. She heard a click in her ear and said, “Hello? Are you there?” No response. A line of sweat formed on her forehead, but she didn’t wipe it. “Well, don’t worry about it, Dam. We totally understand,” she said into the phone, even though he’d hung up.
“What did they say?” Claire asked excitedly, twirling her long pearl necklace around her forefinger.
“Are they on their way?” Izzy demanded, reflexively touching her hair.
“They… can’t make it,” Jenny sputtered out. Everyone around her groaned. This was worse than being humiliated by a boy.
“That’s a shame.” Benny exchanged a look with Sage before they linked arms and disappeared. Almost instantly, the looks on her three followers’ faces turned from disappointment… to disbelief. As if she’d made it all up. As if she
weren’t
friends with Damien Polk!
Well, okay, so she wasn’t, really. But she
knew
him. And the Raves were her one claim to fame—the one truly exciting thing that had happened to Jenny in her boring fifteen years of life. And now… everyone probably thought she was a poser.
“Are you sure that was him?” Claire asked, tilting her head.
Kaitlin kept the camera rolling, zooming in for a close-up on Jenny. “Maybe you heard him wrong?”
“How well do you know him, again?” Izzy asked timidly.
All the anxiety of the past few days rushed volcanically through Jenny’s veins—she felt a trickle of sweat run from under her arms down and around her back and her face suddenly felt as red as her surroundings. “Oh my God will you please get out of my face for one second?!” she cried, pressing her hands to her temples.
Michael, who had been hovering nearby the whole time, slunk away, looking sad and confused. Kaitlin dropped the camera, and Jenny wiped the sweat away before it could ruin her makeup. She knew people were watching her, but she couldn’t help it—how could Kaitlin be so stupid to keep the camera rolling through humiliation after humiliation? “Do you always have to be on top of me?”
Shaking, and feeling as if she was going to pass out, Jenny pushed past Claire and Izzy and Kaitlin, who stepped away as if they’d been slapped. A path opened for her, as if no one wanted her to touch them. Tears of frustration filled Jenny’s eyes, but she’d be damned if she’d let everyone see her cry.
If this was what it felt like to be a star, Jenny preferred to be a nobody.
B
ethany Kephardt wrapped herself in her long black wool Michael Kors coat, slipping her hands into a pair of leather gloves. Brett stood off to the side and watched helplessly. The Holiday Ball was so boring that even alumni were already starting to trickle out the doors. The DJ had gone on a smoke break and failed to return—he’d probably ended up wherever everyone else was—and had just left the CD of Muppets Christmas songs on repeat. If she had to hear Miss Piggy scream “
Five gold rings
” one more time, she’d hurl the plate of uneaten bite-size salmon crostini into the Christmas tree. An ancient-looking couple jitterbugged on the dance floor, oblivious to the fact that “The Twelve Days of Christmas” wasn’t exactly a great dancing song.
Only sparsely filled, the winter wonderland Brett had worked so hard to create looked more like an unused set of a holiday television special. The yearbooks had been flipped through and politely closed on the tables, the catered food left mostly untouched by the alumni and faculty and assorted freshmen and sophomores scattered around. A strand of lights on the tree went dark, and Brett turned her back on the whole scene, shaking with disappointment and anger.
The doors to the Prescott Faculty Club blew shut and Brett knew Bethany Kephardt was gone for good, taking Brett’s chances of getting into Brown with her. A moment later, another rush of cold air came from the door, and Brett whirled around to see who else was leaving.
Instead, Sebastian was making his way through the crowd around the door. His dark head bobbed above the thin crowd as the guests eyed him, wondering if he was the first in a stream of students that were simply running really late. Heads turned and necks swiveled, but it was clear that Sebastian didn’t have any other students in tow.
He smiled when he saw Brett, and she’d never been more grateful to see him—although she was still annoyed. Why hadn’t he come
on time
? His wet shoes squeaked as he crossed the dance floor. “I thought I’d find you here.” He pushed his dark, gel-free hair out of his face and eyed her dress appreciatively.
“Why?” She fingered her hair nervously. She’d swept the sides up into two large clips, and it felt a little strange not having the comforting swish of her hair against her face. “Because I gave up my life for two weeks to plan this whole thing? And then nobody comes?” She felt her voice rising and struggled to keep it under control. At least there was no one around to hear it.