The Ivy
WEST HOLLYWOOD HIGH
Class of 2010
Callie,
You’re a skinny bitch but I love you anyway. Have a great summer! xoxo Samantha
Hey Cal,
Thanks for always having my back in Calc. Without you, I don’t think I’d be graduating. Good luck next year! Kevin
Dear Legally Blonde:
(Seriously, it never gets old!) They say you’re a mega-genius and all, but I don’t hold it against you because you’re smokin’ hot. If you ever get bored with Evan, you know who to call—Jerry
Callie,
Don’t forget us when you’re famous!
Best, Lisa
Hahvahd,
Ditto what Jerry said – Ted, 555.3621
Callie,
Four words: Game Three, State Championships. Your header off of my corner kick = EPIC. I will remember it always, along with all the practices,all the sleepovers, all the pranks (the boys’ team
STILL doesn’t know who dyed their uniforms purple!), and of course, all the games. Even if you hadn’t scored the winning goal at State, you’d still be my Number One. Knock ’em dead at Harvard. Co-captains 4eva,
Mellissa
Cal,
Oh the irony, oh the cliché. What’s a best friend to say here in a yearbook anyway? It’s not like I’m not going to see you every day this summer (if I can separate you from Evan for two seconds, that is). But in all seriousness, I wouldn’t even know where to begin—so many things that I’m going to miss . . . Tuesday night fro-yo, Thursday morning “study” hall, working on the homecoming float, losing to you for homecoming queen!—still pissed btw ;)–staying at your dad’s and pretending we go to UCLA, pretending we go to UCLA so we could sneak into frat parties (definitely having a repeat this summer), using Ted and Jerry to meet older varsity athletes (oh wait, that one was just me), your first real bra, my first kiss, 7
th
grade gym class, auditioning for that reality show, The Secret Notebook, July 19
th
2006, poolside BBQs, beachside bonfires, “Mani-WHAT? Why are you touching my FEET?!?,” Fashion Police!, the real police (don’t blame me if that gets out when you’re Mrs. Davies, Esq., and Evan’s running for office), the night we “accidentally” locked ourselves in Bryan’s bathroom. . . .
Wow. There are just too many memories . . . and it’s summertime now, biatch, so let’s go make some more. Not going to say I’ll miss you . . . Not going to cry!
(OK, so maybe you’re worth it)
xxx Jess
Miss Callie Andrews:
Well, I must say it’s been a real pleasure competing with you over the past twelve years of our academic careers. The title of valedictorian was truly up for grabs toward the end, and I want to thank you for abdicating so gracefully. It cannot have been easy. They say the only reason one chooses Harvard over Yale is because one was not admitted to the latter, but I’m sure that’s not the case with you.
Best of luck,
Scott Hamilton Wentworth
VOLUME ONE
tHE
iVY
By
LAUREN KUNZE
in collaboration with
RINA ONUR
T
O
J
OSÉ
F
ÉLIX
A
LEGRÍA
FOR MAKING IT WORTH WRITING ABOUT
“I
DON’T WANT TO REPEAT MY INNOCENCE.
I
JUST WANT THE PLEASURE OF LOSING IT AGAIN.”
—F. SCOTT FITZGERALD,
THIS SIDE OF PARADISE
Contents
P
ARK
Y
OUR
C
AR IN
H
ARVARD
Y
ARD
D
earest Froshlings: peons and future leaders of America, Move-in day is officially here, and the upperclassmen cannot wait to welcome you to Harvard: our humble abode. Working tirelessly for your benefit as usual, I have compiled a list of the five *crucial* things you should know before you set foot in the historic city of Cambridge. These are the rules. Your homework: memorize.
1. what to read
Ladies, for your BA:
Vogue, Vanity Fair
, and
Hello
magazines; read the
New York Times
in public and
Star
in private.
Gentlemen, for your BS: the
Wall Street Journal
and the
Economist
are the bare necessities.
Gold diggers, for your MRS:
Forbes
500, aka the Bible. Looks like at least three members of your newly admitted class are from families that made this year’s top 100.
2. what to drink
Anything to keep those baby genius neurons firing fast: Red Bull, Sugar Free Red Bull, or my personal favorite, a Venti Caffé Mocha from Starbucks. Better make it nonfat, sugar-free, no-whip if you plan to avoid gaining the Freshman Fifteen.
Also, please keep in mind: Beer is for middle schoolers and football players. You’re an adult now, kiddo: imbibe accordingly.
3. what to eat
Nothing. Seriously, do not eat. Especially not between the hours of 6
P.M.
–3
A.M.
Unless, of course, you’d like to gain fifteen pounds. Or, according to recent trends, what is fast becoming the “Freshman Twenty-five.” Damn you, inflation.
4. what to wear
I generally rely on a little something I call the “Three Ps.” That’s pearls, Prada, and La Perla. Of course, I understand that for some of you, this may be a little too much to ask. My only real request, then, is that you shower—daily. You’d be surprised how difficult most Harvard students seem to find this one easy task.
5. who to meet
Some like to limit their social milieu to the people whose last names are the same as the major buildings on campus, or to those admitted due to their God-given talents in crew, squash, or equestrianism. My advice, however, is to put your Socially Darwinian attitudes aside, and get out there and meet some genuine Harvard dorks. They may look and smell a little different from the rest of us, but without them, Harvard wouldn’t have nuclear weapons, MIT wouldn’t have a weather machine, and I never would have made it through Math 21a.
Armed with these five simple rules, you stand a chance of surviving your first semester (don’t worry, most people do—with exceptions).
And oh, I almost forgot: the Unspoken Rule—Rule #6. Since you’re new, I’ll give it to you straight: Freshmen girls, stay away from the upperclassmen boys. They only care about only one thing, and it doesn’t involve your perfect high school transcript.
Welcome to life in the Bubble,
Alexis Thorndike, Advice Columnist
Fifteen Minutes
Magazine
Harvard University’s Authority on Campus Life since 1873
C
allie Andrews struggled under the weight of two enormous cardboard boxes which, in a typical move, she had stacked one on top of the other, confident that she could handle the load. She was wrong. As her foot edged over the final step of the staircase leading up to the second floor of Wigglesworth Dormitory—her home at Harvard for the next year—the top box, the one her mother had insisted on labeling “
INTIMATES
” with a huge permanent marker, started to slip.
“Here, let me give you a hand with that,” said a voice from over her shoulder.
“No, that’s all right I’ve got it—” she began, but before she could say that she was stronger than she looked, thank you very much, he stepped into view. She gasped and both boxes plummeted to the floor, flaps flying open and contents scattering everywhere.
Under normal circumstances spilling your
INTIMATES
,
OLD SOCCER STUFF
, and other items of a highly personal nature all over the hallway on this day, move-in day, the very first day of college, and—if the cheesy graduation speech by Scott Wentworth the nose-picking, perpetually sweating valedictorian of West Hollywood High who beat Callie out by an infuriating fraction of a grade point average were to be believed—the “First Day of the Rest of Your Life,”
could
be a bit embarrassing. Callie, however, was completely distracted.
Once during her junior year at semifinals for State, a soccer ball had hit her squarely in the solar plexus. That was sort of what she felt like now: unable to breathe or speak as she struggled to remain upright. Recovering her balance, Callie ran a hand through her post-red-eye airplane hair, cursing herself for neglecting to brush it that morning or bother with any makeup. She could almost hear the voice of her best friend, Jessica, who had already started at Stanford two weeks ago, saying, “I told you so, Cal—doesn’t matter if you’re going ten miles to a party or ten feet to my pool. You gotta get your face fully on before you leave the house because you never know when you’re going to have a date with destiny.”
For a moment she could see nothing but his eyes. The color was irrelevant (blue, if you must know), but the expression was magnetic: intensity masquerading as indifference, the look carrying a challenge:
Entertain me, or I will entertain myself at your expense
. His mouth twisted in a smirk so natural she had to assume that this was its default expression. Even in silence, he appeared to be mocking her.
Callie felt her cheeks grow hot. “Oh—uh—yikes,” she stammered, bending down and shoving her bras and underwear back into the box, cringing as she reached for her smelly shin-guards and wishing, for once, that she had listened to her mother (“The doctor said no more soccer for at least a year; do you really think your shins are going to need guarding in college?”). Instead Callie had insisted, a tad bit dramatically, that they were the closest thing she had to a teddy bear (seeing as she slept with them on the night before every big game) and without them she was like a warrior without her armor, at which point Theresa Frederickson-Andrews—no, make that Theresa Frederickson (it’d been three years since the divorce but Callie still had to remind herself) threw up her hands and shook her head, muttering the oft-repeated phrase “just like your father.”
In a way, though, it was true: without soccer—a busted ACL had put Callie out of commission at the end of last season for possibly forever—she wasn’t quite sure who she was anymore. Thankfully as the rapt—raptly asleep, that is—audience had lapsed into a collective heat coma on graduation day, good old Scott Boogers Wentworth had also promised that “college is a prime time for reinvention.” So far it was looking like she had a jump start on redefining herself as the dorm klutz.
“I’d offer to assist you,” said the box-droppingly handsome Reason-for-the-mess, still watching with poorly concealed amusement and looking like help was the furthest thing from his mind, “but usually I like to buy a girl dinner or at least a drink before I handle her undergarments.”
Callie froze over a ratty pair of white boy shorts—observing, with a frown, that this particular color and style seemed predominant—before she stood up and said: “Thanks, but I have a boyfriend.”
The smirk on his face faltered for an instant but then expanded to a smile. “What makes you think I was asking?”
Oh.
What
did
make me think he was asking? she wondered, mentally kicking herself and trying not to let that smile distract her . . . or that thick, dark brown hair . . . or the way his upper arms were straining against the fitted sleeves of his
Harvard Squash, Class of 2014
polo . . . or—
Crap—stay focused!
She bent down, stuffed the last of her old soccer shorts into the box, and jammed the cardboard flaps shut.
Straightening, she met his eyes. He stared right back. For a moment he was silent: she a deer; his gaze the headlights. Then his eyes danced wickedly. “I’m flattered,” he said, taking a step forward, “but you should know that you’re really not my type. I wonder, though . . . how would your
boyfriend
feel if he knew that it’s only the first day of school and I’ve already seen your underwear?”
The perfect comeback was right on the tip of her tongue—really it was—but for some reason when he was standing this close to her, it became difficult to think or, for that matter, to even remember that she had a boyfriend whose name was . . .
uhm
. . .
Beep, beep, beep
!
1 NEW TEXT MESSAGE
FROM
E
VAN
D
AVIES
Ducking her head, she flipped it open and read:
H
EY BABE
! S
O SORRY BUT
I’
M GONNA HAVE TO BAIL
ON OUR PHONE DATE
TONIGHT
. I
NITIATION
FOR THE FRATERNITY I’m
RUSHING STARTS TODAY
AND THEY’RE ABOUT TO
CONFISCATE MY CELLULAR!
LOVE YA THOUGH, MISS
YOU CRAZY
!
Evan, her boyfriend of two years, who could, she decided, definitely take this jerk in a fight, was currently about a billion miles away (okay, two thousand nine hundred and ninety-six, but who’s counting?) probably cleaning toilets in the soccer fraternity he was rushing at UCLA. They had promised to call each other every single day.
N
O PROBLEM
, she texted back, meaning it without pausing to dwell on how quickly the promise had been broken or why she didn’t particularly care.
“Was that him?” This guy’s voice was so deep and alluring that it almost made her want to lie and say it wasn’t—that, in fact, she had made up the whole boyfriend thing on a crazy whim in the first place. . . . His smile grew even wider as if he could read her mind. “The so-called ‘boyfriend’?”
“No,” snapped Callie. “I mean, yes it was him but no, he’s not my ‘so-called boyfriend.’ He’s my real boyfriend, like, he actually exists. . . . His name’s Evan and he’s great,” she blurted. “Really great and really . . . tall.”
Dammit! Sometimes her brain said stop talking but her mouth just didn’t listen. At least this was better than Dual Mouth-Brain Failure, which she also suffered from. This involved a tendency to respond out loud to things that she had only imagined people might have said: the consequence of an overactive imagination and lack of what her mother called “a filter.” Her dad, a mathematics professor at UCLA, claimed that this tendency to be “too in her head” was the reason behind her “brilliance”—a “brilliance,” her mother joked, that she had inherited from her father and that most people had another word for: neurosis. That was, of course, back in the day when there were still jokes. These days, it was mostly fights: the kind where people loved each other so much (or so Callie chose to believe) that they couldn’t stand it—or each other.
“Well, I’d better get these to my room,” she finished vaguely, gesturing toward her boxes.
“And you’re sure you don’t want me to help take your ‘intimates’ off . . . your hands?” he asked, his eyes laughing as she stacked the box in question back on top of
OLD SOCCER STUFF
.
Yes—no—YES, I’m sure that NO, I don’t want you to! she miraculously managed to think without verbalizing. Then, taking a deep breath, she smiled sweetly. “Thanks, but I’m just down the hall in C twenty-four,” she said, nodding at the door that presumably led to her new home.
“What a coincidence, I’m—” he began, but before he could finish, that same door flew open and a girl stepped into the hall.
For the second time that day Callie felt her jaw drop.
The girl—with her straight, dark hair, impossibly high cheekbones, and huge gray eyes—was undeniably gorgeous.
As she moved closer, she lifted her fingers in a wave. Callie was halfway into waving back when she realized it wasn’t meant for her but rather for the beautiful
mean
boy standing by her side.
“C’est absolument horrible ici,”
the girl murmured, smiling at him.
“Je ne peux pas vivre une minute sans une fumer. Tu veux une cigarette, mon chérie?”
“Oh—hello,” she added as if seeing Callie for the first time. She spoke English with an accent that sounded partially French, partially British, and definitely snobbier—ahem, more sophisticated—than anything Callie had ever heard. She was waif thin, like a model, and her long, flowing dress, embellished with endless strands of funky jewelry, wouldn’t have been out of place on a runway in Paris.
Suddenly Callie’s white cotton tank top seemed too plain, her grass-stained jean cutoffs too short, and the doodles on her battered, beloved Converses dirty and childish. She’d spent her high school years not caring that her old ripped jeans cost twenty dollars while the “destroyed denim” preferred by her classmates sold for two hundred bucks a hole. Her wardrobe—along with the cell service package for her “grandma phone,” as Jessica affectionately called it since Callie was “literally the
only
person left in LA without an iBerryBlackPhone”—had simply been another casualty of
Le Divorce
. It sucked, sure, but Callie wasn’t one to whine. She was much more of a picture-your-problems-(or-enemies’-heads)-on-the-face-of-a-soccer-ball-and-just-kick-the-shit-out-of-it kind of a girl.
So why all of a sudden did she care? Perhaps it was the way
he
was treating the new girl: like she was a peer while Callie was a Space Alien from Planet Klutz, which was totally unfair because she was actually very coordinated—at least she was when it came to her feet.
She turned to the girl. “Hi,” she said. “I’m Callie.”