Classic (9 page)

Poor Jenny,
she thought as she wrapped her scarf around her neck and threw her coat back on, still not quite meeting Isaac’s gaze. There
she’d been, thinking Isaac was so sweet and so nice, and the truth was that he was lying and cheating the whole time. Dating
poor Jenny and leading this other girl on, too.

Suddenly Brett felt completely justified in her jealousy of Isla and Sebastian. Guys were obviously capable of anything.

You just never knew.

T
he Waverly Field House was filled with Owls in varying states of obvious intoxication, and the volume was reaching fever pitch.
Matched couples were scattered about, figuring out how to tie themselves together with the regulation rope bindings for the
Three-Legged Race. Callie and Alan stood a little bit back from the starting line of the current heat of three-legged competitors,
watching the mayhem unfold. Verena Arneval and her tall, geeky senior match hobbled for three wobbly steps and then collapsed,
her partner squashing her into the AstroTurf of the Field House grounds.

“Heh. Face-plant,” Alan said from beside her, laughing. “Ten points!”

Callie smiled but said nothing. She had yet to uncover one single thing she and Alan had in common, but by now she’d come
to appreciate their pairing’s randomness.

Reason number one for this newfound appreciation stood on one side of the crowd, his dark blue eyes brooding and stormy whenever
they landed on Callie. Which was roughly every three seconds. Reason number two stood almost directly opposite, his leg tied
to the geekiest girl to ever wear a maroon Waverly blazer. Easy. Brandon. Easy. Brandon. Callie felt like she was watching
some kind of Ping-Pong competition as her head swung back and forth between them.

Easy caught her eye from where he stood, arms crossed, just watching her. His dark brows rose, like he expected her to do
something—and she knew exactly what that something was. After all, she’d promised, hadn’t she? Callie swallowed. And then,
against her will, she felt her head pulled around to find Brandon’s gaze on her—just as troubled and just as dark.

Callie felt her breath go shallow. She hadn’t even had more than a sip or two from Alan’s flask, but her head was spinning.

“Christ,” Alan said, looking at her with a bemused sort of alarm. “Are you okay? You look like you’re tripping the hell out.”

“I just… I can’t…” Callie felt the Field House walls closing in on her, as if she were being gripped and squeezed by a giant,
sweaty fist. Alan threw down the rope he’d been halfheartedly trying to tie into a decent knot and took Callie’s elbow.

“Forget this,” he said. “Let’s get out of here. I have a much better idea.”

Easy stared at her from off to the right, Brandon from the left.

Callie knew she was a coward, because she dropped her gaze and let Alan usher her far away from them both. He led her outside,
where the snow had started to fall again. It wasn’t until they’d reached the coffee bar in Maxwell that she was able to breathe
normally. She let Alan direct her to one of the comfortable couches in the deserted student hangout and sank down into the
plush cushions. She closed her eyes, breathed through her nose, and willed herself to be calm.

“Here.” Alan plunked a large coffee in front of her and flopped down next to her on the couch.

“Um, thanks,” Callie said. She pushed her strawberry blond waves back from her face and unzipped her royal blue Michael Kors
coat, letting it fall off her shoulders. She didn’t know what kind of coffee Alan had bought, but it didn’t matter. Anything
would do. And if she needed anything stronger, she knew where he kept his flask.

As she picked up the cardboard cup, Alan dug in one of the interior pockets of his coat. He pulled out a ziplock baggie, opened
it, and then grinned at her.

“Brownie?” he asked.

Callie raised an eyebrow. She didn’t have to ask what was in it. This was Alan St. Girard.

“I thought you were a smoker,” she said. “When did you turn into Rachael Ray?”

“I like edibles,” Alan said, still grinning. “It’s a natural progression. It attracts significantly less teacher attention
and makes a great mid-class pick-me-up.”

Callie decided she didn’t care. Maybe her life would make
more sense if she viewed it from the Alan St. Girard perspective.
He
was certainly never in danger of succumbing to a panic attack, was he? Hardly. She accepted the proffered brownie and took
a huge bite. She expected it to taste like dirt and weeds, but it didn’t. Chocolaty goodness exploded on her tongue. She sighed
happily. “Betty Crocker would be proud.”

“It’s all yours,” Alan said, pulling out a second brownie for himself. “Bon appétit.”

They both settled back against the couch, and finally, slowly, Callie relaxed. She could feel the tension gradually leaving
her body with every breath she took. It helped that Maxwell, usually overrun with Owls and the very last place anyone would
ever go to relax, was like a ghost town tonight.

“Everybody must be at the Field House,” she said after a while. “Maybe to escape the snow.”

“Waverly is falling down, falling down, falling down…” Alan sang to the tune of “London Bridge.” He was wearing a tie-dyed
T-shirt from Ben & Jerry’s that read
CHERRY GARCIA,
and suddenly Callie couldn’t stop giggling.

She visualized Easy and Brandon as Three-Legged Race partners, bound by the legs and hating each other but grimly soldiering
on toward the finish line—only to collapse in a tangle of limbs. All to the tune of Alan’s ridiculous song.

She collapsed against the back of the couch, laughing uncontrollably. Alan laughed, too.

“I don’t even know what you’re laughing about,” he said after a few moments while Callie wiped tears from her eyes.

She regarded Alan for a moment. He was scruffy and silly
but really one of the nicest guys she knew. She had the sudden urge to spill everything to him. It might be the best idea
she’d ever had, or at least a much better idea than many of the ones she’d had recently. It wasn’t just because of his special
brownies, either. He was Easy’s roommate and friend. And he was also friends with Brandon. And unlike some of the other guys—like
Ryan Reynolds or Heath Ferro—he wasn’t likely to use anything she told him against her. That just wasn’t his style.

“Well?” he asked. “Should I sing a different song?”

“It’s Easy,” Callie said. “And Brandon.”

Alan blew out a breath, as if he’d just climbed up a huge hill. He shook his head. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s… a whole thing.”

“It really is,” Callie agreed with a sigh.

Before she knew it, the whole long, tortured saga poured out of her. She and Alan were the only people in the whole of Maxwell,
and their little couch felt like a safe little oasis from the drama of her life. She told Alan everything, going all the way
back to when she and Easy had started making out in the rare books room in the library at that party at the beginning of sophomore
year, even though Callie had been dating Brandon at the time. She went over every single excruciating detail of her relationship
with both boys—well, not
every
detail—and she didn’t spin the story to make herself look any better.

As she talked, she played with the edges of her open, cream-colored Joie cardigan and the belt loops of her brown Theory slim-legged
cargo pants. It was as if she couldn’t sit still. And when she was finished telling Alan all of her secrets, she felt
much better. It was like finally getting her legs waxed and her eyebrows shaped after letting it all go for far too long—she
felt smooth and clean.

“Whoa,” Alan said after a few moments. “That’s some intense shit.”

“I know,” Callie said, and suddenly she was giggling again. “But it’s my life.”

Alan laughed. “I guess you’re stuck with it, then.”

“I guess.” She let her head fall back against the couch. “What would you do?”

Alan shifted his position on the couch with a thoughtful frown. He stuck his long legs out in front of him and shoved his
hands into the pockets of his Diesel jeans. “I would go back in time and choose one of them,” he said, after a moment or two
of intense consideration. “With no overlap.”

Callie sighed and closed her eyes. If only time travel were an option. Unfortunately, Alan’s brownies weren’t
that
powerful.

“But I get that you can’t exactly do that,” he continued. “It’s like the three of you are caught in a vicious circle. Like
it’s an undertow, and none of you can get your heads above water.”

Callie tugged harder at her belt loops. She pictured Easy and Brandon caught in the pull of the ocean off some deserted beach,
tossing and turning in the waves, and she could save only one of them. She looked at Alan. “That’s exactly what it feels like.”

Alan shrugged. “So you break the cycle,” he said matter-of-factly.

Callie frowned. “How do I do that?”

“You break up with
both
of them,” Alan said, stroking his beard. “The way you should have years ago. Then you wait and see who fights the hardest
for you.”

“They’re not going to fight each other, Alan,” Callie said, rolling her eyes.

“They would if this was a Bruce Lee movie,” Alan replied immediately. He shook his head, as if to clear it of images of martial-arts
masters. “But that’s not what I mean. You watch and see who fights for you. In, you know, a nonviolent way. Whoever that is,
well, that’s the one you’re meant to be with.”

Callie stared at his goofy stoner grin and his kind brown eyes. She thought about how helpless she felt when Easy was around.
He was like a fire she could never quite put out. And she thought about how good Brandon was to her, how understanding and
sweet, never angry or demanding. And she thought about how little she wanted to hurt either one of them yet again.

Alan might possibly be the most brilliant person she’d ever encountered.

“Oh my God,” she breathed. It was all clear to her. Finally. “Thank you, Alan!” she cried, and gave him an impulsive hug.

“You got it,” he said, grinning.

Callie flopped back against the couch and couldn’t help smiling. Because for the first time since she’d walked into the foyer
at the dean’s house and seen Easy Walsh standing there surrounded by broken glass, she had a plan.

“I
t’s all in the knees,” Julian said with mock-seriousness, demonstrating his three-legged technique by dropping into a squat
every other step, throwing his arms out as if he were surfing, and pretending not to notice the spectacle he was making of
himself in the middle of the Field House.

“You realize that everyone is staring at you, right?” Jenny asked, trying to stifle a giggle. Students were packed into the
bleachers that ringed the interior of the Field House, waving maroon Waverly banners and wearing Waverly sweatshirts in support
of the race, like it was a varsity event.

“They’re trying to figure out my secret.” Julian held Jenny’s gaze as he dropped into a particularly low squat. Jenny couldn’t
help it anymore and burst out laughing. She was pretty sure it wasn’t thanks to Heath Ferro’s wicked concoction.
That
had already taken out two sophomore girls, at least four freshmen,
and one unwise senior soccer player who’d reportedly chugged four entire pint glasses of the stuff in Richards before staggering
his way up to the Field House. He’d puked all over a goalpost and was now sleeping it off beneath the bleachers.

Julian stopped his squat walk, and the two of them headed for the makeshift winner’s circle near the starting line. A race
was still in progress, with the usual level of mayhem and silliness. Alison Quentin and Parker DuBois were hobbling down the
racecourse, teetering and tottering like a seesaw. Verena Arvenal and her senior partner couldn’t walk more than two steps
without falling over—which made him angrier and angrier while Verena only laughed. Only Jenny and Julian had managed to keep
their cool. They’d won their preliminary heat by following the strategy they’d plotted out the night before at the movie screening.
No one had expected them to make it this far.

Jenny waved excitedly at Brett and Isaac as they walked over, having also just won their heat. That meant they got to stand
with Jenny and Julian in the winner’s staging area, waiting for the final match that would determine the overall winners of
the big race.