Tempted (10 page)

Sage’s pear-scented body lotion wafted over to him, and he was instantly reminded of their make-out session the night before. After walking her home to Dumbarton, he’d uncharacteristically pulled her behind the pine trees, and they’d kissed and kissed as the other revelers trickled home. For whatever reason, the Bond costume had emboldened him, but now, the morning after—he was back to questioning every single move he made.

Brandon took out his Italian leather journal and wrote a note for Sage with a single question—
Where are you applying?
He folded it into a tight triangle and cupped it in his palm. It wasn’t the kind of burning question that warranted a surreptitious, over-the-shoulder note pass, and he hoped she wouldn’t think it was totally lame. But he couldn’t stand sitting so close to her without some form of contact. He passed the note behind him, stealing a glance over his shoulder at Sage. She looked adorable, wearing a candy pink Theory sweater with a train of buttons running up the front and wide-leg Paige jeans, her long silky hair pulled back with tiny barrettes.

Her delicate fingers cleanly swiped the note from his palm, a perfect handoff. She wore a ladybug ring on her right index finger. Maybe he’d tear another piece of paper from his journal and write something about how the ladybug was almost as cute as she was. Or was that even more lame?

“Now, I want you all to be completely honest with me.” Mrs. Horniman tapped the edge of the hefty volume of
Great Expectations
she was holding in her hand, as if to remind the students of why they were here. Its gold lettering reflected the afternoon sunshine. “How many of you came in here today thinking you’ll get into college just because you graduated from Waverly?”

After a moment’s hesitation, a half-dozen hands shot up in the air, two of them belonging to Heath Ferro. “Wait, isn’t that the reason we
go
to Waverly?” he asked in mock innocence. He straightened one of the rolled-up sleeves of his faded blue Ralph Lauren oxford shirt.

Brandon rolled his eyes. Heath’s father was the president of an illustrious investment banking firm in the city, and his mother was an art critic for the
New York Times
. Both would probably shit a brick if Heath didn’t get into Princeton.

Mrs. Horniman pointed her copy of
Great Expectations
in Heath’s direction. “That’s what I thought, too. But I was waitlisted at my top three colleges, and you know why?”

She didn’t wait for the answer. Instead she walked around and perched on her desk. She pulled the belt of her oversize fall leaf-embroidered sweater tight around her waist. “Because I didn’t do any college prep. This seminar is all about how you present yourself.” She lowered her chin and stared down at the class over the rims of her glasses, her gaze finally resting on Brandon. “And note-passing is not the best way to make a good first impression.”

Brandon slumped in his chair. Busted.

“Let’s have a look, shall we?” Mrs. Horniman walked up to Sage and held out her hand. Sage scanned the room nervously and Brandon was glad he hadn’t acted on the cute-ladybug impulse. Actually, the question in his note was so boring, it was almost more embarrassing.

“Leave out the dirty parts,” Heath yawned, facing forward. “I don’t want to sully my virgin ears.”

Mrs. Horniman lightly slapped Heath on the back of the head as she made her way to the front of the room, note in hand. Heath screwed up his face like a five-year-old who wanted his mom.

Mrs. Horniman perched on her desk again and studied the note. “Very interesting,” she exclaimed. “I apologize, Mr. Buchanan. I had no idea this was class-related.” She addressed the class. “The question is, ‘Where are you applying?’ The answer: Bennington,
NYU
, Columbia, Sarah Lawrence, and … Harvard.” Mrs. Horniman looked at Sage. “I assume that’s your safety.” The class erupted in laughter and Sage blushed. Brandon rubbed the back of his neck and stared at his titanium Dolce & Gabbana watch.

“Now,” Mrs. Horniman announced, “today’s topic is the college essay. I will pair each of you up for some brainstorming. You’ll interview each other to sort out possible topics.”

Brandon felt his palms heat up at the thought of pulling Sage over to the corner and spending the rest of the hour just talking to her.

“Let’s focus on essay topics today,” Mrs. Horniman continued. “Next week we’ll try to shape our topics into something coherent. So the brainstorming can be spontaneous. Even if you think the topic is too silly, or too small, write it down. Later I’ll help you whittle the list down. And remember that sometimes two seemingly disparate topics can really be related, one strengthening the point you’re trying to make with the other… .”

Everyone began to pair up, chairs dragging across the checkered tile floor. Brandon quickly turned his desk to pair up with Sage.

“Thanks for getting me busted.” Sage smiled. Her aqua eyes were a little red-rimmed and tired-looking, but she still looked gorgeous.

“Sorry about that.” Brandon shrugged sheepishly.

“Trying to get her thrown out before she even has a chance to apply to college?” Heath chuckled as he and Kara faced off, their desks uncomfortably close to Brandon and Sage’s. Brandon ignored Heath.

“Let’s break you guys up.” Mrs. Horniman made a motion like she was parting the Red Sea. “Mr. Buchanan, you go with Ms. Whalen. Mr. Ferro, pair up with Ms. Francis, our aspiring Benningtonite.”

Brandon gave Sage a wistful smile, and the four of them reshuffled their desks so that Kara’s faced Brandon’s, and Heath’s faced Sage’s. He couldn’t help glancing nervously at Heath, who was stretched back in his chair, his shirt rising to reveal the waistband of his faded smiley-face boxers.

“So, Sage,” Heath began, leaning forward. He drummed his fingertips against the wooden desk. “What did you wear on your first day at Waverly?”

“What?” Sage blushed. Brandon clenched his fist, annoyed that of all the people in the class, his girlfriend had been paired up with his perpetually inappropriate roommate.

“Ignore him.” Kara leaned over toward Sage, rolling her eyes. “He just wants attention.” She turned back to Brandon and pulled a notebook out of her backpack. “Let’s just try to come up with some topics. What about …” Her voice trailed off as she fingered her antique-looking coral drop earrings and tried not to glance over at Heath.

Brandon tapped his pen against his notebook and stole a glance at Sage. She was rubbing her chin. “I think I wore my Miss Sixty corduroy bell-bottoms. I used to be kind of a hippie.” She giggled and met Brandon’s eye—he was already imagining her in a pair of tight cords, braless beneath a white peasant blouse—before she turned back to Heath. “What about you?”

“My lucky Aquaman T-shirt.” Heath rubbed his cheek thoughtfully, clearly fond of the memory. “And guess what? It paid off.” He batted his eyelashes at Kara.

Kara pressed her bare lips together, clearly trying to suppress a grin. She clapped her hands together to get Brandon’s attention. “All right, Brandon. Who’s your favorite superhero?”

“I’m not sure there’s a college essay there, Ms. Whalen.” Mrs. Horniman appeared, hovering behind Brandon’s desk.Her pumpkin earrings jangled as she shook her head. “But I’d like to hear the answer.”

Superhero? Brandon felt his face flush. Everyone’s eyes seemed to be on him as he struggled to come up with a name. But the only thing that came to mind was the excruciating memory of himself at five, watching
Wonder Woman
curled up with his mother on the couch while his dad worked late. He even remembered running around the house swinging a leather belt and pretending it was a golden lasso. That was definitely
not
the kind of story he wanted to share with anyone—Heath was already accumulating bits of evidence of Brandon’s gayness, and he didn’t need to give him any more ammunition. What about Superman? No, that was possibly even gayer. He felt Sage watching his face, which made it even harder to think. “Uh, James Bond?”

Heath let out what could only be described as a giggle, and even Sage and Mrs. Horniman chuckled a little.

“James Bond isn’t really a superhero,” Kara pointed out politely, her brow wrinkled as if she were deep in thought. “In the conventional sense, at least.”

“Sure, not in the conventional sense,” Brandon huffed. “But he, uh, always gets the hot girls.” Heath held his hand up for a high five but Brandon ignored him, trying to catch Sage’s eye. She winked flirtatiously at him—wait, did she actually like it when he said stupid macho things? When he sounded like Heath?

Mrs. Horniman planted her hand on Brandon’s shoulder and gave him a squeeze. “Nice try, Buchanan. Just be grateful you weren’t asked that question by your Yale interviewer, or, I have to say, you probably won’t be spending your college years in New Haven.” She patted him encouragingly, then turned to face the class. “Everyone? I’d like you to choose a topic from the list you brainstorm today, and write up an essay to bring with you next week. Which means no goofing off today,” she finished, then moved away from Brandon to another group.

“James Bond?” Heath poked his finger into Brandon’s ribs once she was gone. “He’s a fuck of a lot smoother than you.”

Brandon ran his hand through his spiky golden-brown hair and leaned back in his chair. “Shut up. Horniman was making me nervous.”

“My brain is like a giant brick today.” Kara rubbed her temples. “We were up way too late last night.”

“Well, I suggest we reconvene this weekend with a little incentive.” Heath brought an imaginary bottle to his mouth and took an invisible chug. “The questions will flow more freely under those circumstances. And the answers, too.”

“Hey, if it’ll help me get into Harvard, how could I refuse?” Sage tilted her head at Brandon, her eyes already flashing with excitement.

“You’re all right, hippie chick.” Heath held out his fist and Sage punched it. “Details to follow. Buchanan, you in?”

Brandon sighed, but nodded in agreement. He needed an essay topic, and they certainly weren’t going to get anything done today.

One thing James Bond didn’t have: a jackass roommate.

Tinsley descended the steps of Dumbarton, her white Oliver Peoples aviators pulled over her eyes. The skies were filled with ominous rain clouds that threatened to burst at any moment. She zipped up her black Diesel bomber jacket, feeling low-key in a pair of gray J Brand slim-fit jeans and black flats.
Demure,
she reminded herself as she fought the urge to turn back inside and crawl under the covers.
Indifferent. Unperturbed
.

Jenny’s crowning at the Halloween party had been a fluke, of course—was there some kind of underground campaign among underclassmen and other losers to put one of their own up onstage? It
had
to have been rigged. But Tinsley was surprised at how much it still stung the morning after. She’d slept badly, waking up in starts and then falling back asleep only to find a slutty-looking Cleopatra waiting for her in her dreams.

She concentrated on holding up her chin as she strolled across campus. It wasn’t like she really cared about the stupid costume competition, anyway. She was on her way to Maxwell Hall to study for her intro to art history midterm, where she’d spread her books out on a coffee table and curl up in one of the luxurious overstuffed armchairs. In full public view, she’d show how completely and utterly unbothered she was by the fact that little Jenny Humphrey had stolen her thunder.

Tinsley’s phone buzzed to life from inside her leather Fendi messenger bag. As she opened the bag to reach for it, her entire stack of art history study cards tumbled out, scattering across the wet concrete sidewalk in front of Maxwell. Fuck.

She bent down to start picking them up, hoping they wouldn’t get completely soaked through. As she reached for a Botticelli note card she noticed a tall, thin boy coming down the Maxwell steps, headed directly toward her. Julian.

“Hey.” Tinsley glanced up at him only briefly as she tucked the card into her bag, praying that Julian was too much of a gentleman not to help her out, no matter how mad about the Jenny thing he might still be. But really, shouldn’t
Tinsley
be the one harboring a grudge, since he’d gone behind her back and started hooking up with the little skankette in the first place?

She heard the shuffle of his sneakers against the wet concrete.

“Hey,” he said at last, and stepped toward her with a curt nod. The sight of Julian, hesitating at the bottom of the steps in his olive-green hoodie and faded brown 7 For All Mankind cords, his longish hair pushed behind his ears, made her knees weak. Finally he bent down to reach for some of the scattered cards.

“Thanks,” she said, careful not to let her hands stray too close to his as he snatched the cards up hurriedly.

Julian shrugged and let out some kind of affirmative grunt. He handed her a Michelangelo card with a bright red oak leaf stuck to the dates on the back.

Tinsley bit the inside of her cheek. A strand of hair slipped loose from her ponytail, falling in her face. She stood up slowly so that she was looking down at him. “So, uh, where were you last night?”

Julian didn’t look up, instead handing her the last few damp cards. He put his hands on his thighs and then straightened up. She’d forgotten how tall he was—almost a head taller than her. “In my room,” he answered nonchalantly.

“Everyone was looking for you at the party,” Tinsley lied, shuffling the stack of index cards in her hands. She smoothed a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Yeah? Like who?” Julian asked, his voice flat. Finally, his brown eyes met hers. But instead of the warm ones she knew, they were utterly emotionless.

“Well, me, for one,” Tinsley said softly. She could feel his resistance, but she couldn’t help herself. She wanted to grab him by his shoulders and press her lips to his and make him remember how good it felt. She took a step toward him, her black Tory Burch flats scuffing against the wet pavement.