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Tinsley couldn’t help grinning. Waverly tended to go a little crazy over Valentine’s Day each year, but why not? Some enterprising
members of the Computer Society had seized the initiative years ago and created Perfect Match. It was like a dating game for
the student body: once a year everyone filled out an online personality survey, and a week later Perfect Match presented each
student with his or her “perfect match” based on the results. Supposedly it was meant to break down cliques and foster Waverly
spirit. Whatever. It was
fun.

Tinsley’s black Nokia vibrated in her pocket. That should be cupid in the form of her Perfect Match e-mail right now—right
on schedule to liven up the new term. She set her coffee down on the nearest table and smiled vaguely at Alison Quentin,
Kirin Choate, and Emily Jenkins—not that any of them were paying attention to her. They were all concentrating on their own
phones.

Tinsley remembered freshman year’s Perfect Match, when she’d scored a “perfect match” with none other than Bennett Styles,
the
hottest senior on the Waverly campus. Turned out he was a film buff, too. The previous year she’d deliberately filled out
her survey to make sure she would get matched with Easy Walsh, just to mess with Callie’s head—all in good fun, of course,
not that Callie had found it too amusing at the time. And wasn’t
fun
exactly what her life was sorely missing these days?

It had not been fun when adorable golden-eyed freshman Julian McCafferty had dumped her last month. The fact that she might
have had it coming didn’t lessen the pain, though she’d decided not to think about it anymore—a task that had not been easy,
thanks to her extra-special punishment after being busted at the party at the dean’s house. Everyone else had gotten strict
probation, which was bad enough. But that lying Isla Dresden had blamed the entire fiasco on Tinsley when, really, it had
all been
Isla’s
idea. And guess who Isla’s father, the dean, believed?

Which was how Tinsley found herself performing acts of community service around campus every day with Ben Quartullo, the surly
middle-aged groundskeeper. Talk about not fun. This was the same man Heath Ferro had once bribed into silence with
a Cartier watch, which hadn’t improved the old guy’s disposition any. Tinsley’s only way to pass the time was the extended
revenge fantasies she’d plotted out in her mind—because Isla
would
pay for what she’d done. If she hadn’t been spending all of her time with Isla, Tinsley wouldn’t have grown so far apart
from Julian, and they might still be together. The fact that Isla had trashed her own house and blamed it on Tinsley was really
just the icing on the
things-she-needed-to-pay-for
cake.

“Who’s your match, Tinsley?” Alison asked, holding her phone to her chest, her face flushed with excitement. “I got Parker
DuBois!” Her dark almond-shaped eyes glowed with pleasure. Parker DuBois was a gorgeous, half-French senior with to-die-for
blue eyes and golden brown hair that begged to be tousled by willing female fingers.

“Congratulations,” Tinsley said. She was building the suspense for herself by not checking her phone immediately, though she
could hear groans and squeals echo throughout the dining hall all around her. She took a sip of her coffee as if she couldn’t
be bothered with something as silly as Perfect Match, and only when she’d made that clear did she pull out her phone.

“Rifat Jones got Teague Williams,” Emily was telling the table, her Pilates-toned body stiff with tension as she leaned forward.
“Didn’t you hear her scream his name like a banshee?”

“That actually makes sense,” Kirin replied, frowning. “They’re both, like, athletic. But what do I have in common with Zachary
Webster?” She looked baffled. “Who
is
Zachary Webster?”

“A freshman,” Tinsley said matter-of-factly, and smirked
when Kirin groaned. Freshmen were supposed to be off-limits to upperclassmen. Obviously. If she’d followed that simple law,
Tinsley wouldn’t have been in a position to be dumped by one as a junior.

Tinsley flipped open her phone and scrolled to the e-mail that read
Perfect Match
. She opened it, wondering whose name it would reveal. Julian, maybe, to show him how wrong he’d been to leave her? That could
be satisfying. Or—much more exciting and probably less painful—someone hot that Tinsley hadn’t gotten around to really flirting
with yet? Like maybe Waverly’s star football player, Lance Van Brachel, who was sitting at a nearby table with a handful of
his other senior buddies, exchanging high fives over someone’s iPhone.

Congratulations, Tinsley Carmichael!
the e-mail read.
Your perfect match is… Heath Ferro.

Tinsley choked on her coffee. She almost spit it out but somehow managed to get it down without spewing.

Heath Ferro?

Really?

Tinsley scanned the dining hall until she finally located his dirty blond head in the crowd. He was lounging in a chair at
a table with Lon Baruzza and Ryan Reynolds, looking as lazy and foulmouthed as ever. His air of self-confidence was complemented
by his maroon Waverly blazer slung across a white Hugo Boss dress shirt. Ever since he’d had the not-so-bright idea to spend
his Jan Plan camping in the icy, cold winter woods like Waverly’s own Bear Grylls of
Man vs. Wild
fame—except less British and much, much dirtier—Heath had been even more obnoxious than usual.

How exactly was
Heath Ferro
her perfect match? She had pretty clearly put
smart
and
funny
in her likes column, not
horny
and
gross.
On the other hand, Heath had wanted her desperately since freshman year. She considered the possibilities. She could definitely
do with being wanted desperately at the moment. Maybe this was exactly the boost she needed.

She took her time walking over to Heath’s table, knowing that the slower she walked, the more attention she drew. And Tinsley
was nothing if not a fan of attention.

“Hey, Ferro, guess what?” she said when she reached him, bumping her hip into the back of his chair and gazing down at him
with her violet eyes. “Your dreams came true.”

“Unless you’re about to tell me that Jessica Alba is waiting for me in my room, preferably in a bikini, I’m thinking not,”
Heath replied, glancing up from the remains of his breakfast to bump fists with Ryan and Lon. His plate had leftover pancakes
and the fatty remains of bacon in an Olympic-size swimming pool of maple syrup.

Tinsley gazed at her supposed “perfect match” critically. Heath might have been obnoxious, but the truth was, he was also
pretty hot, with those chiseled cheekbones and green eyes. There was a reason so many otherwise smart and choosy girls had
succumbed to the wiles of a guy who was
proud
of his man-whore status.

“Even better than that,” she purred.

“Better than Jessica Alba?” Heath asked. He looked at her then, his dirty blond hair falling into his eyes. “Unlikely, Tinsley.
Very unlikely. Alba is currently ranked number one on my To-Do list. And it’s a short list.”

“According to Perfect Match,” Tinsley said, ignoring the typical Heath commentary, “
we
are a perfect match.”

She expected one of his usual smarmy remarks—something about sexual positions, maybe, or about how many times he’d imagined
this very moment while alone in his room, with only his right hand for company. She was prepared to issue the usual cutting
retort—but with a little flirtatious edge, because why not? Why not play the game?

But all Heath did was nod. Like he was distracted. Or like he didn’t care?

“Cool,” he said.

Tinsley followed Heath’s gaze and had to bite back a particularly nasty curse when she saw where—and at whom—Heath was staring.

Isla Dresden, that treacherous, two-faced bitch, was taking her sweet time walking across the dining hall, sporting a flashy
gold-sequined Nanette Lepore minidress, black tights, and black Cole Haan ankle boots, her dark hair
deliberately
tousled into wildness. She looked like she should be headed out for a night of VIP room clubbing, not carrying a plastic
cafeteria tray across the dining room at breakfast time.

Tinsley wanted to scratch the smug smile off Isla’s pale, heart-shaped face. That might go a long way toward making her feel
a little bit better about what Isla had done—and do something about the oddly deflated feeling Tinsley was currently experiencing.

“And, gentlemen, let me direct your attention to number two on the list,” Heath said. He let out a low whistle. As the
rest of Heath’s Neanderthal friends laughed appreciatively, Tinsley could only stare with them at Isla, well aware that if
she was even
on
Heath’s list anymore—something that should have gone without saying—she was now ranked
below
the dean’s attention-craving daughter.

She let out her breath in a huff. Was Isla
always
going to steal her thunder?

B
rett Messerschmidt crumbled a slightly stale blueberry muffin between her fingers and idly wished she’d gotten herself a bagel
instead. A glance at her nails confirmed that her Vernis Please! Purple by Night polish was starting to chip. She looked across
the table at her dark-eyed, dark-haired senior boyfriend, Sebastian Valenti. He was sprawled back against his chair, his vintage-looking
John Varvatos long-sleeved T-shirt with the word
BOWERY
emblazoned across the front hugging his lean, muscular chest. His long legs were kicked out under the table, touching Brett’s
sleek black Stuart Weitzman knee-high boots while he toyed with the remains of his omelet. She only just barely kept herself
from sighing with smug happiness.

Sebastian looked up as if he’d heard the sound she hadn’t quite made, and his full lips curled into his usual amused smile.

“You’re totally checking me out,” he said, his low voice teasing.

“What?” Brett shrugged so that her bright red hair swung out from behind her ear. “Who are you, again?”

“I’m the guy you’re still checking out,” he said with that pure, easy confidence that sounded like a swagger. “You can’t help
yourself.”

They’d been playing this game ever since Sebastian had admitted that while he’d dated a lot of girls before Brett, he’d never
felt this way about any of them. Brett’s own romantic history was a bit tangled, but she knew she’d never felt anything like
this, either. Naturally, Sebastian had taken that as an opportunity to be a wiseass, which, Brett had to admit, made her feel
more cherished and adored than any sweeping proclamation or intense recitation might have done.

She waved her hand dismissively, but the side of her hand caught the edge of her coffee cup. The dark, hot liquid spilled
across her bright orange plastic tray, soaking her picked-over muffin.

“Great,” she said, frowning at her tray. “Happy Monday morning.”

“See?” Sebastian said with satisfaction. “You’re so into me it makes you clumsy.”

Brett stuck out her tongue at him.

“I’m pretty freaking amazing,” Sebastian continued, grinning while he spread his hands out as if he were too hot to touch,
“so I can’t really blame you. The truth is, I actually feel sorry for you.”

“I’m a little less interested in this game without coffee, Sebastian,” Brett told him, narrowing her eyes at him.

Sebastian sat up and leaned across the table, bringing his full lips tantalizingly close to Brett’s. His dark eyes filled
with devilish glee.

“I feel so sorry for you that I’m going to get you more coffee,” he said, standing up. “A splash of milk and two Splendas.
Coming right up.”

Brett watched him walk away, unreasonably touched that he knew how she liked her coffee—so much so that she had to reach up
and feel her face to see whether she was wearing a goofy, lovesick smile. Which of course she was. Instead of embarrassing
her, it just made her giggle.

The volume in the dining hall suddenly spiked, as phones everywhere beeped and rang and her Nokia vibrated loudly from the
depths of her glossy maroon Burberry satchel. Brett was startled for a moment but then remembered that it was Perfect Match
day—the best part of February and Valentine’s Day, if you were single. It was Waverly tradition that all the Perfect Matches
went to the annual Valentine’s Day Ball together instead of with whomever they might happen to be dating at the time. Assuming,
of course, that it wasn’t the same person, which it almost never was.

A few tables away, Verena Arneval let out a whoop, then started whispering excitedly to Emmy Rosenblum, brandishing her BlackBerry.
Even sad Suzanna Goldfinger, who lived next door to Brett in Dumbarton, was staring fixedly down at her flip phone at the
table where she sat apart from the others, looking, well, less
droopy
than usual.

Brett gazed across the dining hall and saw Sebastian’s lean
back as he bent in close toward the coffee machine. Then she glanced across the table. His phone was just sitting there,
abandoned. Like he
wanted
her to check it. Her own phone was still vibrating intermittently in her bag, but she ignored it. She reached over and picked
up Sebastian’s phone instead.

She clicked open the Perfect Match e-mail, telling herself that she was just curious. It was funny how Perfect Match was only
a survey, and yet everyone acted like the results
meant
something. Brett told herself she was simply interested in what Sebastian’s results might be—on, like, a sociological level.
It had nothing to do with the fact that he’d dated almost every single female member of the student body—only a
slight
exaggeration—and that Brett was a little tiny bit insecure about it.

Nothing to do with that at all.

But as Brett read the e-mail, her eyes scanning over the words until they reached a name, she felt herself freeze solid in
her chair.