someone else on the faculty you might feel more comfortable talking to?”
Jenny shrugged her shoulders again helplessly. Today was the first day of classes. She hadn’t even met her teachers yet.
“Well then,” Mr. Dalton continued, “thanks for coming in, Jenny. I guess we’ll have a full trial next week. How’s Monday?”
“Yes, that’s fine,” she replied hollowly. “Um, thanks.” She glanced at Brett as she left Mr. Dalton’s office, hoping for an encouraging smile, but Brett was examining her fire-engine-red split ends, looking totally bored.
Jenny closed the heavy oak door behind her, wondering if it had been really stupid to tell them that she wasn’t ready to make a statement. What was this,
Law & Order: Boarding School
?
All of a sudden, she was face-to-face with Easy Walsh, standing outside the door to Mr. Dalton’s office, waiting to come in. As soon as they locked eyes, her heart began to race.
She’d been so consumed with possibly getting in trouble and possibly being considered Waverly biggest slut ever that she’d let their intimate little back-rub session slide to the back of her mind. Now she remembered the nice warm feeling of Easy’s body next to hers.
“Hey.” She swallowed quickly.
“Huh?” Easy stared at her blankly, his blue eyes droopy and tired-looking. He wore a tattered marigold-yellow T-shirt that read LEXINGTON ALL-STARS . “Oh!” He widened his eyes.
“Um, how do you feel?” Jenny persisted shyly.
“I …” He lurched off to the left, his eyes still wide. A strong smell of stale vodka was oozing out his pores. “I … you were just in there?”
“Yes.” Jenny felt tipsy just breathing the same air as Easy.
He started to say something else, but then the door opened, and Mr. Dalton stuck his blond head out. “Mr. Walsh, it’s your turn.”
Without saying goodbye, Easy staggered into the office. Jenny turned and padded down the stairs into the bright sunshine. On a low tree branch directly above the pathway sat one of those fat great horned owls. She froze. Was this the same one that had tried to kill her just two days ago? She narrowed her eyes.
The owl finally blinked slowly at her, as if it were stoned, then looked away.
Jenny hurried past it on her way to her first class. It was the first and possibly only triumphant moment of the day. She’d won a staring contest with an owl.
13
IN TIMES OF EMOTIONAL DISTRESS , A WAVERLY OWL
SHOULD LISTEN TO HIS INNER OWL .
“Glad to see you could make it,” Dalton greeted Easy. Last night’s Ketel One binge had left Easy feeling like the gunk he picked out of Credo’s feet before a ride. He slumped into a black leather Eames office chair and stared blankly at Callie’s roommate, Brett, who was seated across from him in a totally see-through purple blouse. His new adviser looked about eighteen, a welcome change from his old adviser, Mr. Kelley, who was so ancient he could barely remember his own name and had finally retired last year at the age of about a hundred.
“Hello, Easy,” Brett greeted him in an exaggerated authori-tative tone, making a few notes in a yellow steno pad. “Have a good summer?”
“Uh-huh,” Easy grunted, staring up at the ceiling. Brett might have thought she was Miss I-have-power-over-you-because-I’m-a-prefect, but Easy wasn’t buying it. He and Brett used to be close. They’d had French class together freshman year, and for the final discussion presentation, instead of getting up in front of the class and having an inane conversation, Brett had had the idea to make a morbid, Godardian French-phrase short film with an antique Super-8 camera. Easy was her partner for the class and therefore the existential star of the film. He got to say weird stuff in French like, “
Mon omelette du jambon est mort
,” and, “
Les yeux
—the eyes—are in pain.” Monsieur Grimm had loved it and had given them both A’s.
“E. Francis Walsh,” Dalton addressed him, eyeing his file
Jenny shrugged her shoulders again helplessly. Today was the first day of classes. She hadn’t even met her teachers yet.
“Well then,” Mr. Dalton continued, “thanks for coming in, Jenny. I guess we’ll have a full trial next week. How’s Monday?”
“Yes, that’s fine,” she replied hollowly. “Um, thanks.” She glanced at Brett as she left Mr. Dalton’s office, hoping for an encouraging smile, but Brett was examining her fire-engine-red split ends, looking totally bored.
Jenny closed the heavy oak door behind her, wondering if it had been really stupid to tell them that she wasn’t ready to make a statement. What was this,
Law & Order: Boarding School
?
All of a sudden, she was face-to-face with Easy Walsh, standing outside the door to Mr. Dalton’s office, waiting to come in. As soon as they locked eyes, her heart began to race.
She’d been so consumed with possibly getting in trouble and possibly being considered Waverly biggest slut ever that she’d let their intimate little back-rub session slide to the back of her mind. Now she remembered the nice warm feeling of Easy’s body next to hers.
“Hey.” She swallowed quickly.
“Huh?” Easy stared at her blankly, his blue eyes droopy and tired-looking. He wore a tattered marigold-yellow T-shirt that read LEXINGTON ALL-STARS . “Oh!” He widened his eyes.
“Um, how do you feel?” Jenny persisted shyly.
“I …” He lurched off to the left, his eyes still wide. A strong smell of stale vodka was oozing out his pores. “I … you were just in there?”
“Yes.” Jenny felt tipsy just breathing the same air as Easy.
He started to say something else, but then the door opened, and Mr. Dalton stuck his blond head out. “Mr. Walsh, it’s your turn.”
Without saying goodbye, Easy staggered into the office. Jenny turned and padded down the stairs into the bright sunshine. On a low tree branch directly above the pathway sat one of those fat great horned owls. She froze. Was this the same one that had tried to kill her just two days ago? She narrowed her eyes.
The owl finally blinked slowly at her, as if it were stoned, then looked away.
Jenny hurried past it on her way to her first class. It was the first and possibly only triumphant moment of the day. She’d won a staring contest with an owl.
13
IN TIMES OF EMOTIONAL DISTRESS , A WAVERLY OWL
SHOULD LISTEN TO HIS INNER OWL .
“Glad to see you could make it,” Dalton greeted Easy. Last night’s Ketel One binge had left Easy feeling like the gunk he picked out of Credo’s feet before a ride. He slumped into a black leather Eames office chair and stared blankly at Callie’s roommate, Brett, who was seated across from him in a totally see-through purple blouse. His new adviser looked about eighteen, a welcome change from his old adviser, Mr. Kelley, who was so ancient he could barely remember his own name and had finally retired last year at the age of about a hundred.
“Hello, Easy,” Brett greeted him in an exaggerated authori-tative tone, making a few notes in a yellow steno pad. “Have a good summer?”
“Uh-huh,” Easy grunted, staring up at the ceiling. Brett might have thought she was Miss I-have-power-over-you-because-I’m-a-prefect, but Easy wasn’t buying it. He and Brett used to be close. They’d had French class together freshman year, and for the final discussion presentation, instead of getting up in front of the class and having an inane conversation, Brett had had the idea to make a morbid, Godardian French-phrase short film with an antique Super-8 camera. Easy was her partner for the class and therefore the existential star of the film. He got to say weird stuff in French like, “
Mon omelette du jambon est mort
,” and, “
Les yeux
—the eyes—are in pain.” Monsieur Grimm had loved it and had given them both A’s.
“E. Francis Walsh,” Dalton addressed him, eyeing his file
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