carefully. “What do you want to tell me about last night?”
“With her here?” He pointed a thumb at Brett. “I thought these things were confidential.”
“I’m his assistant,” Brett jumped in quickly, sitting up straighter.
“She’s helping me with Disciplinary Committee procedures,” Dalton explained. “I think this qualifies.”
Easy looked back and forth between them. Whoa. Dalton was whipped—by Brett Messerschmidt!
“It says here that you’ve had quite a few problems with the rules over the last few years, Easy.” Dalton cleared his throat. “Disciplinary probation three times. Suspension twice. You were nearly kicked out once last year for not showing up to class after spring break. Countless arguments with teachers. Bad attitude.” He paused and flipped to a new page of the file. “Disruptive in class. Subpar grades. Almost no extracurricular activities. Caught with alcohol four times. Skipping sports practice. No team spirit …” He turned to another page.
Brett smirked.
“But …” Mr. Dalton held his index finger to the file and raised his eyebrows. He showed the paper to Brett and she cocked her head skeptically. Easy rolled his eyes. No doubt it was those fucking PSAT scores again. So he’d scored nearly perfect in all three sections—big deal. It was the kind of thing his parents salivated over, even though Easy couldn’t have cared less. Sneaking out of the dorm to watch shooting stars in the middle of the practice fields at two in the morning or walking barefoot in the creek behind the arts building at dawn—those were the kinds of things he cared about, things that he could remember when he was old and shaky. Not some stupid test score. Unfortunately, all the bullshit rules got in the way, when all Easy wanted was more perfect Waverly moments like those.
“You’re a legacy,” Dalton went on, glancing at his knotted cuff links. “But that shouldn’t mean anything. I mean, I’m a Waverly legacy too.”
“Really?” Brett squealed. “So am I!”
“My dad went here and my grandfather went here. And his brother too.” Dalton turned to Brett. “Basically, the Dalton men were Waverly Academy’s first graduating class.”
“As if I needed to know,” Easy muttered sarcastically. What was up with this teacher trying to impress Brett?
Dalton narrowed his eyes. “Look, I never expected to be treated any differently than anybody else. In fact, I think the teachers were harder on me because I was a legacy—they expected me to be an example for the other students.”
“Right.” Wasn’t
that
a load of bullshit. Easy gritted his teeth. He was a legacy, which was supposed to be this special thing, but he knew how it really worked: if your family had enough money to send successive kids (or generations) to Waverly, the administration would kiss your ass for the rest of your days. There weren’t any moral standards involved, just money. Heath Ferro was a goddamn legacy, after all, and look at all the shit he’d pulled!
Dalton leaned forward. “Scoff all you want, but you shouldn’t have been in Dumbarton last night, and you certainly shouldn’t have been … er … with that new girl Jennifer Humphrey.”
“Were you with Jenny?” Brett leaned forward, looking extremely interested.
“What did Jenny say about that?” Easy asked.
“She didn’t say anything.” Brett frowned. “She said she wasn’t ready to make a statement.”
“Oh.” Easy scratched his nose. He wasn’t sure what to make of Jenny and what had happened last night. After talking to her in the cafeteria, he’d convinced himself she was just a mirage. She didn’t look like she wore much makeup, if any, and she was tiny, where Callie was tall. She had miniature hands and feet, long eyelashes, and she carried around a bag that didn’t have big Gucci G’s plastered all over it. And she’d asked him about art. Callie wouldn’t dream of asking him about art. And last night—well that
“With her here?” He pointed a thumb at Brett. “I thought these things were confidential.”
“I’m his assistant,” Brett jumped in quickly, sitting up straighter.
“She’s helping me with Disciplinary Committee procedures,” Dalton explained. “I think this qualifies.”
Easy looked back and forth between them. Whoa. Dalton was whipped—by Brett Messerschmidt!
“It says here that you’ve had quite a few problems with the rules over the last few years, Easy.” Dalton cleared his throat. “Disciplinary probation three times. Suspension twice. You were nearly kicked out once last year for not showing up to class after spring break. Countless arguments with teachers. Bad attitude.” He paused and flipped to a new page of the file. “Disruptive in class. Subpar grades. Almost no extracurricular activities. Caught with alcohol four times. Skipping sports practice. No team spirit …” He turned to another page.
Brett smirked.
“But …” Mr. Dalton held his index finger to the file and raised his eyebrows. He showed the paper to Brett and she cocked her head skeptically. Easy rolled his eyes. No doubt it was those fucking PSAT scores again. So he’d scored nearly perfect in all three sections—big deal. It was the kind of thing his parents salivated over, even though Easy couldn’t have cared less. Sneaking out of the dorm to watch shooting stars in the middle of the practice fields at two in the morning or walking barefoot in the creek behind the arts building at dawn—those were the kinds of things he cared about, things that he could remember when he was old and shaky. Not some stupid test score. Unfortunately, all the bullshit rules got in the way, when all Easy wanted was more perfect Waverly moments like those.
“You’re a legacy,” Dalton went on, glancing at his knotted cuff links. “But that shouldn’t mean anything. I mean, I’m a Waverly legacy too.”
“Really?” Brett squealed. “So am I!”
“My dad went here and my grandfather went here. And his brother too.” Dalton turned to Brett. “Basically, the Dalton men were Waverly Academy’s first graduating class.”
“As if I needed to know,” Easy muttered sarcastically. What was up with this teacher trying to impress Brett?
Dalton narrowed his eyes. “Look, I never expected to be treated any differently than anybody else. In fact, I think the teachers were harder on me because I was a legacy—they expected me to be an example for the other students.”
“Right.” Wasn’t
that
a load of bullshit. Easy gritted his teeth. He was a legacy, which was supposed to be this special thing, but he knew how it really worked: if your family had enough money to send successive kids (or generations) to Waverly, the administration would kiss your ass for the rest of your days. There weren’t any moral standards involved, just money. Heath Ferro was a goddamn legacy, after all, and look at all the shit he’d pulled!
Dalton leaned forward. “Scoff all you want, but you shouldn’t have been in Dumbarton last night, and you certainly shouldn’t have been … er … with that new girl Jennifer Humphrey.”
“Were you with Jenny?” Brett leaned forward, looking extremely interested.
“What did Jenny say about that?” Easy asked.
“She didn’t say anything.” Brett frowned. “She said she wasn’t ready to make a statement.”
“Oh.” Easy scratched his nose. He wasn’t sure what to make of Jenny and what had happened last night. After talking to her in the cafeteria, he’d convinced himself she was just a mirage. She didn’t look like she wore much makeup, if any, and she was tiny, where Callie was tall. She had miniature hands and feet, long eyelashes, and she carried around a bag that didn’t have big Gucci G’s plastered all over it. And she’d asked him about art. Callie wouldn’t dream of asking him about art. And last night—well that
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