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blanket and leaned over to peek under the bed. Completely empty. Wow, this girl didn’t even have any shit. “It’s empty under here—they’ll fit.”
    “Catwoman?” Heath scoffed as he gently set his half keg on the ground and pushed it under the bed. “She’s got a bat on her boobs—it’s Batgirl!”
    “You mean like Alicia Silverstone?” Julian straightened up after shoving his keg in place.
    Heath groaned. “No! That was a cruel bastardization of the real Batgirl, who has a genius-level intellect, superb computer-hacking skills, and more martial arts …”
    Julian and Tinsley exchanged glances. Tinsley grabbed Heath by the hand and pulled him toward the door. “You know how I love to hear you wax all poetic about cartoons and everything, but that girl is probably all shampooed and conditioned, so can we focus here?”
    “Right.” Heath headed for the door, giving one last lingering look over his shoulder. Julian looked amused. In fact, Tinsley noticed he always had that expression on his face, as if life in general entertained him. As they tiptoed back down the hall and out the back door, a beam of moonlight hit his cheek and Tinsley forgot all about being jealous that Heath Ferro was dreaming of hooking up with the loser girl next door just so he could roll around on her geeky bedspread.
    All she could think about was putting the first serious expression in Julian’s eyes. Even if he was just a freshman, she was going to make him fall in love with her.
    Email Inbox
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: Thursday, October 3, 8:12 a.m.
Subject: Dinner
E,
Tried calling but no response. In town for Trustees Weekend. Will meet you for dinner on Friday night at Le Petit Coq. 8 sharp. I’m making a reservation for three. Bring Callie.
J.L.W.

6
A WAVERLY OWL NEVER FORGETS WHO HIS GIRLFRIEND IS.
    Thursday morning, Easy Walsh strode across the quad, barely glancing down at the puddles left over from yesterday’s rain that his brown-and-tan Golas narrowly avoided. His eyes were glued to his Moleskine notebook, the one he used to jot down notes from Mr. Wilde’s lectures. Problem was, he was often more interested in sketching what he saw outside the window—an overfed squirrel trying to stick its nose into a crumpled pack of cigarettes, two girls in tank tops playing Frisbee, Heath Ferro reading
People
magazine—than paying attention to what his teacher had to say about manifest destiny and the Articles of Confederation. Easy flipped through the pages of sketches and his own barely decipherable writing and sighed. Twenty minutes of cramming was not going to help him pass this test.
    Even though he’d known about the test for two weeks, Easy hadn’t been able to bring himself to study. There were just too many other more important things. How could he be expected to hit the books when the leaves were changing color and Credo could smell the brisk scent of autumn and practically begged him to take her out riding? When winter came, it would be too cold to paint out in his secret spot in the woods. He had to take advantage of it now. He didn’t understand people who spent their whole lives doing things they
thought
they should do—they were never happy, were they?
    He closed the notebook and lit a Marlboro Red.
    The email from his dad this morning had irritated him more than he wanted to admit. He hadn’t yet told his dad about breaking up with Callie. Not that he ever confided in his dad. Easy and his father were exact opposites. Jefferson Linford Walsh, graduate of Waverly, Vanderbilt, and Yale Law School, partner in a high-profile southern law firm, father of four boys, three of them so far following almost perfectly in his footsteps, while the youngest one was an artsy fuckup who could barely manage to study for his first major AP History exam.
    Easy grabbed his phone and punched in his father’s private extension.
    “J. L. Walsh speaking,” his father’s voice