need to relax,” she whispered in a low, throaty voice.
But he couldn’t relax. Callie had told him the morning after the fire that she was positive Jenny had started it out of jealousy. Which meant that when she said “
whoever
was responsible,” she really meant Jenny. And what was that hushed phone call with Tinsley about in the stables the other day? It was weird that Callie and Tinsley were suddenly all chummy again. Easy sat up suddenly. “You’re not up to anything, are you?” he asked. His words hung in the air, and he worried that he was just being paranoid, but it was too late.
Callie blinked her eyes slowly. Her lashes were blond and pretty without the black gunk she had on them half the time. “Of course not.” She tossed her head, her strawberry blond hair falling messily into place. She’d cut off her long locks a few weeks ago, and now they fell right around her shoulders, framing her long, thin neck. “I just meant that we’re innocent and don’t have anything to worry about.” She leaned forward again and nibbled on his earlobe, her hot breath in his ear. “Now where were we?”
Easy closed his eyes. Being with Callie felt so good. He didn’t want their relationship tainted by his paranoia about Dean Marymount’s suspect list and the fire. If she said there was nothing going on, there was nothing going on. “We were right here,” he whispered back, and kissed her soft, pillowy lips. Callie had said it from the beginning: They were together again, and that was all that mattered.
Instant Message Inbox
CallieVernon: I can’t go through with this.
TinsleyCarmichael: Huh?
CallieVernon: EZ suspects I’m up to something.
TinsleyCarmichael: And?
CallieVernon: And … I can’t risk it. Can you take it from here?
TinsleyCarmichael: Jesus. Grow some, C.
CallieVernon: Don’t be like that. You know you’ve got cojones for both of us.
14
A WAVERLY OWL KNOWS A PICTURE IS WORTH A THOUSAND WORDS .
Normally Jenny loved the buzzing sounds of her favorite art class, portraiture. The stools scraping across the concrete floor and paintbrushes scratching across canvas were usually enough to inspire her to get to work. Once the scent of oil and turpentine hit the air, she couldn’t have stopped if she wanted to.
But today, her fingers felt heavy and sluggish. Even with her purple ArtBin spread open in front of her, and all her Derwent drawing pencils lined up according to hardness, her hands were rigid with worry. She stared at the blank white drawing paper. Mrs. Silver had instructed them at the beginning of class to draw or paint whatever they liked, so long as it “tapped into their innermost thoughts and feelings.” It was sort of a hippiedippy exercise, but everyone seemed excited to get a break from all the strict rules they faced elsewhere. While all the other students were busy sketching or painting, Jenny had frozen up. It was as though she’d been trying so hard to suppress her innermost thoughts and feelings that now she couldn’t access them, like a faucet that had gone dry from lack of use.
Mrs. Silver suddenly loomed over Jenny’s shoulder, her round, friendly Mrs. Claus-like face screwed up in a question mark. Today she wore a purple-sea-horse-batiked minidress with sparkly silver leggings and dark brown Ugg boots.
“Trouble getting started?” she asked, plopping a doughy hand down on Jenny’s shoulder. Jenny nodded slowly.
“Put the pencil down,” Mrs. Silver instructed her. Jenny slipped the charcoal pencil back in the tray, in its correct spot between 2B and 4B. When had she become so anal? “Now. Take a deep breath.” She inhaled and exhaled quietly, hoping no one around her would think she was about to have a seizure or something.
“No, no, no,” Mrs. Silver clucked. Her frizzy gray hair was pulled back into two messy buns near the back of her head, but new wisps escaped each time she moved. The sea horses on her minidress danced. “That wasn’t deep enough.
But he couldn’t relax. Callie had told him the morning after the fire that she was positive Jenny had started it out of jealousy. Which meant that when she said “
whoever
was responsible,” she really meant Jenny. And what was that hushed phone call with Tinsley about in the stables the other day? It was weird that Callie and Tinsley were suddenly all chummy again. Easy sat up suddenly. “You’re not up to anything, are you?” he asked. His words hung in the air, and he worried that he was just being paranoid, but it was too late.
Callie blinked her eyes slowly. Her lashes were blond and pretty without the black gunk she had on them half the time. “Of course not.” She tossed her head, her strawberry blond hair falling messily into place. She’d cut off her long locks a few weeks ago, and now they fell right around her shoulders, framing her long, thin neck. “I just meant that we’re innocent and don’t have anything to worry about.” She leaned forward again and nibbled on his earlobe, her hot breath in his ear. “Now where were we?”
Easy closed his eyes. Being with Callie felt so good. He didn’t want their relationship tainted by his paranoia about Dean Marymount’s suspect list and the fire. If she said there was nothing going on, there was nothing going on. “We were right here,” he whispered back, and kissed her soft, pillowy lips. Callie had said it from the beginning: They were together again, and that was all that mattered.
Instant Message Inbox
CallieVernon: I can’t go through with this.
TinsleyCarmichael: Huh?
CallieVernon: EZ suspects I’m up to something.
TinsleyCarmichael: And?
CallieVernon: And … I can’t risk it. Can you take it from here?
TinsleyCarmichael: Jesus. Grow some, C.
CallieVernon: Don’t be like that. You know you’ve got cojones for both of us.
14
A WAVERLY OWL KNOWS A PICTURE IS WORTH A THOUSAND WORDS .
Normally Jenny loved the buzzing sounds of her favorite art class, portraiture. The stools scraping across the concrete floor and paintbrushes scratching across canvas were usually enough to inspire her to get to work. Once the scent of oil and turpentine hit the air, she couldn’t have stopped if she wanted to.
But today, her fingers felt heavy and sluggish. Even with her purple ArtBin spread open in front of her, and all her Derwent drawing pencils lined up according to hardness, her hands were rigid with worry. She stared at the blank white drawing paper. Mrs. Silver had instructed them at the beginning of class to draw or paint whatever they liked, so long as it “tapped into their innermost thoughts and feelings.” It was sort of a hippiedippy exercise, but everyone seemed excited to get a break from all the strict rules they faced elsewhere. While all the other students were busy sketching or painting, Jenny had frozen up. It was as though she’d been trying so hard to suppress her innermost thoughts and feelings that now she couldn’t access them, like a faucet that had gone dry from lack of use.
Mrs. Silver suddenly loomed over Jenny’s shoulder, her round, friendly Mrs. Claus-like face screwed up in a question mark. Today she wore a purple-sea-horse-batiked minidress with sparkly silver leggings and dark brown Ugg boots.
“Trouble getting started?” she asked, plopping a doughy hand down on Jenny’s shoulder. Jenny nodded slowly.
“Put the pencil down,” Mrs. Silver instructed her. Jenny slipped the charcoal pencil back in the tray, in its correct spot between 2B and 4B. When had she become so anal? “Now. Take a deep breath.” She inhaled and exhaled quietly, hoping no one around her would think she was about to have a seizure or something.
“No, no, no,” Mrs. Silver clucked. Her frizzy gray hair was pulled back into two messy buns near the back of her head, but new wisps escaped each time she moved. The sea horses on her minidress danced. “That wasn’t deep enough.
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