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solid in
     her chair.
    She had to read the name again, just to be sure she wasn’t hallucinating something so vile. So…
unacceptable.
    Brett heard a familiar, obnoxious peal of laughter float through the air of the dining hall, and she swiveled around, knowing
     who she would see before her gaze found Sebastian. He was still over by the coffee machine. But this time, he was sporting
     a new appendage: Isla Dresden.
    Sebastian leaned against the table, Isla leaning in toward him. She tipped her upper body close to his, no doubt giving Sebastian
     the great news that she of all people was his Perfect Match. She leaned in even closer, shaking her tousled curls backfrom her face, and put her hand on Seb’s muscled arm. Brett reached up and fingered the ends of her short, sleek red bob.
    Rather than cutting Isla off and bringing Brett—his
girlfriend
—her much-needed coffee, Sebastian was smiling. Talking. While her coffee sat in his hand, getting cold. Isla let out another
     rolling, riotous laugh.
    Brett felt her whole body overheat, and she knew her cheeks probably matched the fire-engine red of her hair. She wouldn’t
     be surprised if actual steam were coming out of her ears.
He was flirting.
    She knew that she should trust him—that she’d promised to trust him, and that he’d given her absolutely no reason not to.
    But if Sebastian didn’t want her to be jealous, then he shouldn’t flirt with über-skanks right in front of her face.

5
A WAVERLY OWL KNOWS THAT A WELL-LAID PLAN
ALMOST ALWAYS GOES AWRY.
    B randon Buchanan congratulated himself on a perfectly executed morning. His distressed brown Red Wing boots crunched into the
     leftover snow piled high on the sides of the shoveled and salted pathways, and the blustery February wind dropped little flakes
     onto his navy blue Ralph Lauren toggle coat from the trees above. He tugged his Paul Smith wool hat tighter over his ears,
     imagining that even from this distance, he could hear the screams and whoops and general carrying-on from the dining hall.
    It was a bright but freezing Perfect Match day, and that meant full-scale Waverly madness, which Brandon had deliberately
     avoided by grabbing an early breakfast. This year, though, he was feeling pretty good about the whole thing. He’d slaved over
     his survey, carefully calibrating each response to be sure he’d be matched with Callie the way he knew in his heart hewas supposed to be. He’d put down all of her likes as his, all of her dislikes as his—and he should know them, because he’d
     made a study of Callie Vernon for years now. Whatever happened with his Jan Plan project, he knew that his
real
work of art was his Perfect Match survey. He’d spent hours on it, and he was one hundred percent certain that he would be
     matched with Callie.
    He veered off the main pathway and took the smaller one that led out toward the science complex, a more roundabout route toward
     his morning biology class. Things with Callie had been good—if a little bit distant—for the past month. It was the way he’d
     always imagined it would be if they got back together, and he told himself there was nothing wrong with taking things slow,
     easing into it. She’d been a little thrown by Easy’s reappearance out of nowhere the night of the dean’s party—but who wouldn’t
     be? The guy was like some horror-movie cliché. Every time you thought he was finally gone, he’d pop right back up. This time,
     he was all ripped and moody from military school, which might have annoyed Brandon if he thought he had any reason to be threatened
     by the latest Easy Walsh resurrection.
    But Easy wasn’t a factor anymore. Callie was all his. Granted, they hadn’t hooked up in weeks, but that was just because of
     the whole probation thing. They’d practically been under house arrest. If he could just kiss her again the way he was dying
     to do, he was sure things would be hot and amazing, like they had been before the party at