fabric of our community. If we want the school to be honorable, we must be honorable individuals. An Owl is, above all, moral, principled, and an upright citizen. These are the qualities every Waverly student should embody, a truth I hope the prospectives—our future Waverly Owls—will intuit from you this weekend as you continue to inspire their quest to join the Waverly community.” Marymount paused dramatically, drawing in his breath and making sure he had everyone’s attention before he delivered his next line: “Of course, it goes without saying that anyone who doesn’t embody the qualities we cherish dearly at Waverly does not belong here, and can only become a blemish on Waverly’s long-standing, hard-earned reputation. Rest assured that Waverly will not suffer any embarrassments on my watch. That much I promise you.”
Marymount looked up from the podium, his cold blue eyes searching the crowd like a hawk. Tinsley glanced around at her classmates. Everyone around her had averted his or her eyes, seemingly afraid to make eye contact with the dean. The only person oblivious to the dean’s ominous message was Sam, who had just discovered that the buttons on his shirt were a pearly pink and not white. He stared down at them in dismay. Tinsley wondered how he’d overlooked the Peter Pan collar and pleated shoulders.
She glanced again in Jenny’s direction. She hung on Mary-mount’s every word, looking worried, her dark curls less perky than usual. Next to her, Chloe turned and caught Tinsley’s eye. The prospective gave her a super-obvious wink, looking like she was trying very hard not to wave and shout, “I’m friends with Tinsley!” She might not have been all that suave, but she was invaluable.
Tinsley smiled. Dean Marymount didn’t realize—at least, not yet—that the person he was describing to a T was, in fact, little Jenny Humphrey. How could anyone with a chest like that have morals?
Email Inbox
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: Monday, October 14, 10:27 P.M.
Subject: Meow!
Meow Mrowr (Dear Jenny),
Everyone here at West 99th Street and West End Ave misses you, especially me, Marx the Cat. Rotting milk doesn’t taste the same when you’re not around, and I can barely muster the energy to chase mice onto the fire escape. I’ve taken to sleeping in your old bed, but the girl who sleeps there now, the one that doesn’t have any hair—what breed is she, a Sphinx?—doesn’t seem too happy about that. Probably because she only wears black, a color that shows up fur very nicely.
Dearest Jenny, my favorite owner, when will we be seeing you again? Your absence is as tough to swallow as a very large furball.
Sincerely,
Marx the Cat
P.S. Please call your father! He seems lonely without you. He won’t stop brushing me.
13
THE WAVERLY LIBRARY IS A PLACE FOR SERIOUS STUDY .
Tuesday morning, Callie caught a whiff of oil paint in the air as she turned the corner on the second floor of the library, her Costume National heels clicking. She glanced at her slim Cartier bracelet-watch with tiny diamonds circling the face and smiled to herself. Right on time. It was her first trip to the Staxxx, a super-private nook of the library reserved for those studying for the SATs and known for its lack of surveillance by the roving librarians. The books on the corner shelves were mostly old encyclo pedias and obsolete reference books, so no one ever wandered there accidentally. Some enterprising student had started a private library on the lower shelf of the Staxxx: tattered copies of
Lady Chatterley’s Lover
,
Lolita
, a Henry Miller omnibus of
Sexus
,
Nexus
, and
Plexus.
And of course there was the issue of
Playboy
featuring nude photos of Madonna taped underneath the far bookshelf, courtesy of the Waverly Class of 1985.
She found Easy sitting in one of the three diner-like study booths, the seats cushioned in itchy orange plaid wool. The idea behind the booths had
Marymount looked up from the podium, his cold blue eyes searching the crowd like a hawk. Tinsley glanced around at her classmates. Everyone around her had averted his or her eyes, seemingly afraid to make eye contact with the dean. The only person oblivious to the dean’s ominous message was Sam, who had just discovered that the buttons on his shirt were a pearly pink and not white. He stared down at them in dismay. Tinsley wondered how he’d overlooked the Peter Pan collar and pleated shoulders.
She glanced again in Jenny’s direction. She hung on Mary-mount’s every word, looking worried, her dark curls less perky than usual. Next to her, Chloe turned and caught Tinsley’s eye. The prospective gave her a super-obvious wink, looking like she was trying very hard not to wave and shout, “I’m friends with Tinsley!” She might not have been all that suave, but she was invaluable.
Tinsley smiled. Dean Marymount didn’t realize—at least, not yet—that the person he was describing to a T was, in fact, little Jenny Humphrey. How could anyone with a chest like that have morals?
Email Inbox
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: Monday, October 14, 10:27 P.M.
Subject: Meow!
Meow Mrowr (Dear Jenny),
Everyone here at West 99th Street and West End Ave misses you, especially me, Marx the Cat. Rotting milk doesn’t taste the same when you’re not around, and I can barely muster the energy to chase mice onto the fire escape. I’ve taken to sleeping in your old bed, but the girl who sleeps there now, the one that doesn’t have any hair—what breed is she, a Sphinx?—doesn’t seem too happy about that. Probably because she only wears black, a color that shows up fur very nicely.
Dearest Jenny, my favorite owner, when will we be seeing you again? Your absence is as tough to swallow as a very large furball.
Sincerely,
Marx the Cat
P.S. Please call your father! He seems lonely without you. He won’t stop brushing me.
13
THE WAVERLY LIBRARY IS A PLACE FOR SERIOUS STUDY .
Tuesday morning, Callie caught a whiff of oil paint in the air as she turned the corner on the second floor of the library, her Costume National heels clicking. She glanced at her slim Cartier bracelet-watch with tiny diamonds circling the face and smiled to herself. Right on time. It was her first trip to the Staxxx, a super-private nook of the library reserved for those studying for the SATs and known for its lack of surveillance by the roving librarians. The books on the corner shelves were mostly old encyclo pedias and obsolete reference books, so no one ever wandered there accidentally. Some enterprising student had started a private library on the lower shelf of the Staxxx: tattered copies of
Lady Chatterley’s Lover
,
Lolita
, a Henry Miller omnibus of
Sexus
,
Nexus
, and
Plexus.
And of course there was the issue of
Playboy
featuring nude photos of Madonna taped underneath the far bookshelf, courtesy of the Waverly Class of 1985.
She found Easy sitting in one of the three diner-like study booths, the seats cushioned in itchy orange plaid wool. The idea behind the booths had
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