The Ivy: Rivals (6 page)

Her lips froze in place, her eyes zeroed in on Callie’s nametag.

“Oh—oh no, this? No!” Callie cried, throwing her hand over her chest. “I promise I am just as sick of having my butt kissed as you are of, uh, kissing it.”

Grinning, the girl hoisted herself onto the counter next to Callie, wiggling to smooth out the wrinkles in her emerald green dress. “Today of all days we should be hunting down boys to kiss, not butts, am I right?”

Callie laughed.

“Though . . . from the looks of it,” the girl said, eyeing Callie’s dress, “you already have a boyfriend.”

“Yep. He’s out there.”

“And you’re in here?”

“He’s . . . very . . . popular,” Callie said, dissolving into inexplicable giggles.

“I see,” said the girl. “I’m Shelby, by the way. Shelby Samuel. No relation to Shell Oil, though, in case you were gonna ask.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Good,” said Shelby, lowering her voice in a conspiratorial way. “Because I think the rest of them may have made a terrible mistake.”

Callie laughed. “I’m Callie,” she said, pointing to her nametag. “Last fall’s ‘mistake.’”

“
Pssh
,” Shelby snorted with a sassy wave of her hand. “You’re the first person I’ve met tonight who doesn’t look like she’s trying to balance an invisible book on her head—or how about that one girl who turned up her nose at the very sight of me, as if I’d got dog doo-doo on my shoe?”

“Who—Anne?” Callie blurted gleefully. Swiveling around to make certain they were alone, she whispered, “I wouldn’t take it personally. I think that’s just the way her face is!”

Shelby threw her head back, her hearty laughter joined with Callie’s giggles.

“Ah,” Callie finally sighed, wiping her eyes. “But you know,” she said, suddenly solemn, “they’re not
all
bad.”

“Like your boyfriend?”

“Uh-huh.” Callie nodded. “And my roommate Mimi—she’s amazing—and the guys from across the hall, OK and Gregory—”

“Right,” Shelby agreed. “I know who they are.”

“Yeah,” Callie muttered, remembering that her roommate and neighbors enjoyed something of a celebrity status on campus. “Hey!” she blurted. “Have you ever noticed how it seems like everyone from New York, and all the international students, kind of knew each other beforehand—I mean, like before we even got to school and like they still somehow know . . . I don’t know . . .
more
than we do?”

“About what?” Shelby asked in a mock hushed tone, her eyes twinkling—though not unkindly.

“About . . . oh, I don’t know, East Coast things: all the unspoken rules and cultural stuff—and, well, don’t you ever feel like they’re all part of some super-secret members only network or club or something?”

Shelby grinned. “I think you might be right. In fact,” she continued in a whisper, “I believe we may have infiltrated their ranks and are trapped inside their headquarters at this very moment!” she said, pointing toward the doors.

“Huh.” Callie fiddled with her nametag, remembering the moment of panic she’d experienced earlier while trying to find it, scanning the wrong side of the table. It was the same feeling as when she’d watched Mimi and Vanessa receive those first little white envelopes. Even though she’d had no idea what was inside, she had desperately wanted one, though it was hard to say exactly why. . . .

Why
do
I care? Dana and Matt had no problem saying no when she’d extended the invitation—

“Callie Andrews, may I tell you a secret?” Shelby interrupted her reverie.

“Sure,” said Callie.

“When you came in, I wasn’t exactly hiding—I was actually looking for a way out.”

Callie sighed. “That door in the back leads out to the garden. If you follow the path on your left, it’ll take you all the way around the side of the club and out onto Garden Street.”

“Hallelujah, amen,” Shelby exclaimed dramatically, leaping off the counter and reaching for her coat and purse. “I mean—no offense to y’all or anything—I just thought I’d be stuck here all night!”

“Nope, you’re free!” Callie told her with a small smile. “Though—are you sure you don’t want to stick around?”

“I’m sure,” said Shelby. “But it was nice to meet you, Callie Andrews. Let’s do lunch in the dining hall sometime.”

“It’s a date,” Callie called as Shelby pulled the back door shut behind her. A moment later it swung open again, but it wasn’t Shelby; it was—

“
You
. Are you following me—
again
?”

Gregory smirked. “Contrary to what you seem to believe, I am not aware of your whereabouts most of the time.” Reaching up into one of the cabinets, he pulled out a bottle of Maker’s Mark. “I don’t do pink,” he explained, pouring some into a glass. “Why are you in here anyway?” he asked after he’d taken a sip.

“Just having a minor existential crisis,” she muttered.

“Ah. Somebody’s been doing her reading for Postwar Fiction and Theory.”

“Ugh, the French existentialists are so dense!” she exclaimed. “Personally I can’t wait until we get to the later part of the twentieth century and start reading Coetzee, Ishiguro, McEwan—” She stared at him. “It was you.”

“Hm?” he asked, arching his eyebrows.

“
You
left those tickets in my drop-box.”

“Oh, to hear McEwan?” He swallowed the rest of his whiskey. “Yep, that was me.”

So casual. So very, very casual. “Why?”

“I bought them a month ago, before coach gave us our spring schedule. Turns out we have an away game that weekend. I noticed you reading
Atonement
in the library the other day, so I figured you might want them.”

But—why—he’d noticed?—
when
—and today, of all days? “There are two tickets,” she finally said stupidly.

“Yeah, well . . . you could take Clint,” he suggested.

“If you have an away game, won’t he be gone that weekend, too?”

Gregory shrugged. His glass made a loud clinking sound as he set it on the counter. “Look, it was either that or the trash, so I figured I’d give the whole
friendly
thing a try—”

“You thought you’d give it a try
today
?” she countered.

“
There
you are,” Clint cried, the kitchen doors swinging shut behind him. “We have
got
to get out of here,” he said. He had Callie’s coat thrown over his arm. Lifting it aside, he revealed a bottle of pink champagne. “We can still salvage the evening if we sneak out now. . . . Oh, hey, man,” he added, nodding at Gregory. “It almost seems like someone planned this whole party just to keep people from really celebrating tonight, doesn’t it?” he asked his teammate.

Maybe someone did, Callie thought darkly, remembering how genuinely sweet Lexi had sounded earlier when she’d complimented her new necklace.

Gregory nodded.

“Not to mention forcing people to talk about certain things before they’re ready,” Clint continued. “I think Tyler and Vanessa are about to break up—if they were ever together in the first place. They’ve been fighting outside the bathroom for the past twenty minutes: she keeps accusing him of flirting with the punches and telling him that they’re only interested because he’s the president, and no matter what she says, he keeps yelling ‘yellow’ over and over and over again. We’ve got to get out of here,” he repeated.

Callie laughed.

“Well, I should probably go find
my
girlfriend,” Gregory said abruptly, making his way to the door.

Girlfriend?
There it was again, this time straight from the horse’s mouth.

“Good night,” he called.

Callie breathed an enormous sigh as the door
whooshed
shut behind him, and then she beamed at Clint from across the room.

“Ready?” he asked. Coming over to the counter, he looped Callie’s coat over her head and used it to pull her toward him, one leg on either side.

“Ah!” she screamed. Then: “Oh . . .” His hands moved from her knees up the length of her thighs, up to the lacy rims of the black stockings Mimi had lent her for the occasion. Wrapping her legs around his waist, she kissed him. His hands on her hips, he pulled her closer, accidentally knocking over the bottle of champagne resting next to her on the counter.

Glancing at it, Callie grinned. “We’re in a kitchen,” she said.

“I know.”

“A
public
kitchen.”

“That is correct.”

She bit her lip. “Wanna get out of here?”

In response he lifted her off the counter and carried her over to the back door. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Chapter Four
The Ladies Who Brunch

Feb 19
Behind the Ivy-Covered Walls: Part II

11:13
AM
By THE IVY INSIDER

On Valentine’s Eve, the Hasty Pudding social club hosted a cocktail party called “STOP! In the name of LOVE.” The mandatory “stoplight” theme required students to signal their availability for sexual encounters using the color of their clothing. Though perhaps, given the power dynamics that govern the punch process, the term
sexual transactions
is more apt.

This event was the culmination of a grueling thirty-six hours spent poring over a slide show featuring photographs of the club’s prospective punches. The top-secret process has sometimes been referred to as “The
Ass
ets Assessment”—pun intended—because the majority of the conversation revolves around the punch’s physical appearance and (parental) net worth. This spring’s meeting was no exception. Male students ranked female prospects on a scale of 1–10 while female members designated certain underclassmen as “high priority” based on a mysterious value system.

For a further glimpse at the posturing typical of 2 Garden Street, refer to the screenshot below of an anonymously submitted invitation, traditionally slipped under a prospective punch’s door in the middle of the night.

Brunches and lunches are a standard means of weeding out people prior to the second event. The school wasn’t invited, but perhaps the Insider will be. . . .

“A
ndrews!” Grace barked at the close of the Sunday morning meeting. The rest of the COMPers stood and started gathering their things. “A word, if you please.”

Callie froze, wondering what sort of trouble she might have gotten herself into this time. In the past three weeks since COMP had started, she had completed every assignment on time, never missed a meeting, and had avoided any accidental drunken make-outs with her COMP director’s ex-boyfriend. Though if Grace had an ex or even a current boyfriend, Callie doubted she would know, since Grace refused to allow her personal life to interfere with her professional persona—if last week’s Teddy Bear Incident was any indication.

(On the Tuesday after Valentine’s Day a teddy bear that looked suspiciously like the one Callie had seen Matt carrying in their common room had showed up on Grace’s desk. After furiously confronting the staff, who met her with total silence, Grace had used large thumbtacks to secure the bear to the
Crimson
’s main bulletin board with the words
IS THIS YOUR IDEA OF A JOKE?
tacked underneath. Poor Matt—
if
he was responsible.)

“What’s your take on these Ivy Insider posts on FlyBy?” Grace asked, coming over and perching on the corner of Callie’s desk.

Okay, not what I was expecting.
“Um . . . Whoever’s writing them seems to strongly dislike social clubs?”

Grace folded her arms, scrutinizing Callie. “So—you don’t know
who’s
writing it?”

“Don’t
you
know?” Callie countered.

“I have my ideas. . . .” Grace was still staring at her in a manner reminiscent of the Terminator or some other robot with X-ray vision. “But I can’t say for certain. The person responsible has been posting everything anonymously, subject to my administrative approval—
whoever
that person might be.”

Was Grace trying to confide in Callie: to confess that
she
was behind the blog? Callie had known Grace long enough to witness several of her anti-Final Clubs, anti-elitist, anti-hetero-normative, “phallocentricity” of Harvard society rants. But the newspaper itself published frequent op-eds in this vein, so it wouldn’t make any sense for Grace to disguise her already highly publicized opinions under a veil of anonymity. Would it?

“Any guesses?” Grace prodded.

“Maybe . . .” said Callie, starting to nod very slowly. “But
whoever
it is must have some kind of inside source, because they seem to know a lot of specific details about certain organizations . . . things that only a member would know.”

“Right,” Grace agreed, nodding now too. “Maybe a member with a
reason
to hate these institutions but who can still blend in like she—or he—belongs.”

“You don’t think . . .” Callie stared at Grace, wondering if she could possibly be implying that Callie was the Insider, given the blog’s fleeting reference to the sex tape article. “I mean . . . I’m not . . .”

Grace cleared her throat. “While as a journalist first and foremost I cannot claim to condone the anonymity factor—”

Right, thought Callie.

“—and will continue vetting the content thoroughly to ensure that it does not violate our ethical standards, I certainly sympathize with the motive and general sentiment,” Grace finished.

Callie stayed silent. Grace’s tone still seemed to signify an implicit double meaning, almost like she had caught Callie red-handed at something but was urging her to continue while she, Grace, looked the other way. “You do know that I’m in the Pudding, and that I COMPed
FM
and that I still read the magazine, right?” Callie finally said.

“Yes,” said Grace. “Just like you know that as managing editor of the
Crimson
and head of all its affiliates, I cannot personally disband any of our publications—even the ones that glorify images of certain deplorable institutions that the Insider is working hard to dispel.”

“Grace,” said Callie. “I’m not the Insider.”

“Of course you’re not,” Grace said, standing. “And I only created FlyBy to offer multiple perspectives on the social side of campus in order to dilute the highly questionable advice and opinions that flow from the corrupt hands of a tiny self-congratulating subset.”

“So you’re not trying to, like . . .” Callie glanced over her shoulder to where the teddy bear still hung, crucified, on the bulletin board. “. . .
destroy
the magazine or anything, are you?”

Grace stared at her for a full count of three and then erupted into laughter. “Jesus, Andrews, would you look at your face?” she asked. “Remember, I’m not the one with a drawer full of other peoples’ secrets locked away in my desk.” She laughed again. “Although it is true that there’s no telling what will happen to
FM
once FlyBy takes off.” She paused, appearing to consider it. “One thing I can say for certain is that from a personal standpoint, I would have no problem seeing a shakedown in the leadership upstairs.”

Callie cracked a smile. “That would be something. . . .” she conceded. She pictured Lexi dethroned (from her ergonomic office chair) and forced into exile (i.e., to go live in the quad), allowed to drink only tap water and use only gym-regulation shampoo and obligated to take public transportation to class. A tiny shiver of fear ran through her for entertaining the very thoughts, and she quickly pushed them out of her mind. Her strategy this semester involved lying low and staying as far away from Lexi as possible. So if a showdown was brewing between
FM
and FlyBy, or between Lexi and Grace, Callie refused to be caught in the middle.

“If it’s all right with you, I have to run,” she said, standing. “I’ve got a brunch to get to that started ten minutes ago.”

“Ah,” said Grace with a nod. “For the Pudding, isn’t that right?”

“Yep,” said Callie.

“Makes sense,” Grace replied. “Run along, then. I look forward to reading your next installment.”

Callie stopped just before the door. “On the recent renovations to the men’s soccer facilities?”

“Right,” said Grace, nodding again in that oddly exaggerated way. “On the recent renovations in the men’s soccer facilities.”

“Good afternoon, and welcome to the Harvard Club of Boston. Please follow me to the main clubhouse dining room,” the maitre d’ said, leading the way up an enormous staircase carpeted in plush, crimson velvet.

Callie looked at Mimi, her eyes wide. “Mimosas, mimosas,” Mimi said by way of encouragement. “Mimosas without bottom—”

“Bottomless,” Callie hissed as they made their way up the stairs.

“Watch who you call bottomless; there is not a lot of junk
dans ton
trunk either,” Mimi muttered back, smacking Callie on the rear.

Callie shrieked but quickly suppressed her giggles a moment later for they had arrived. With its hanging chandeliers and bay windows draped with thick red curtains to match the Oriental rug and cushiony lining on the ornate wooden chairs, the main dining room was everything that Callie had come to expect from the Harvard Brand. It was also fairly empty for a Sunday, and a little noise went a long way.

Alexis Thorndike, who had been placed by some twisted hand of fate (otherwise known as Tyler) in the same brunch group as Callie, didn’t even turn to bother with the
You’re-late-and-perpetually-inappropriate
look Anne was giving them now. The two junior girls were seated around a table near the window with four spring punches, including Vanessa, a girl called Penelope whom Callie recognized from the slide show, and another named Sydney whom she’d met at the first event, and, last but certainly not least, Alessandra. The latter sat between Anne and Lexi like she was their favorite little sister. Callie and Mimi, who had missed the limousine due to
Crimson
and
Lampoon
duties respectively, took the empty chairs on either side of Vanessa, completing the punch-member alternating order.

“Quick, you’ve got a lot of catching up to do,” Vanessa muttered. She grabbed a glass pitcher full of orange juice and champagne and filled Mimi’s glass. “The limo had an open bar so—”

The rest of her sentence was rendered wholly irrelevant when Anne let forth the most delicate, ladylike burp—but it was still a burp—that Callie had ever heard, followed by quite possibly the oddest thing ever to come out of Alexis Thorndike’s mouth, second only to “Callie, you’re my best friend”: a giggle.

“Mmm! Excuse me,” Anne said, slightly mortified. Then, patting the corners of her mouth with a napkin, she drew herself up and, with a look of immense dignity, explained: “In Tokyo the Japanese consider it customary to drink during a business dinner and are reluctant to do dealings with those who abstain. Why? Because they assume that if a person refuses alcohol, it means they have something to hide: some ugly character flaw that would surface if their inhibitions were at bay. And so we must drink during punch brunches, too, to determine if we shall fare well in friendship and in club business.
Kanpai
,” she finished, raising her glass.

“Yes,” Lexi agreed, “and cheers to Japanese Pop Culture, one of the easier core classes offered at this school and for which we have a study guide on file at the club.”

Penelope and Sydney looked suitably impressed, while Vanessa nodded in a very all-knowing, slightly off-putting way and Alessandra gave a tiny shrug as if to say,
Study guides are merely the concern of people who are actually interested in studying.

Mimi glanced at Callie, her gray eyes wide, and then downed her mimosa in a single gulp. “
Un autre, s’il vous plaît,
” she said, waving her hand at Vanessa. The corners of her mouth twitched. “And please do not go forgetting my fellow member and your fellow roommate Caliente, who is also very thirsty.”

Vanessa rolled her eyes but filled Callie’s glass as well. Leaning back, Callie took a sip, beginning to enjoy herself.

It was short-lived. A waitress arrived and Anne ordered appetizers and entrees for the table, urging their server to “keep the champagne coming.” With a sinking sensation, Callie remembered a little tidbit from the pre-punch meeting that she had otherwise conveniently managed to block out of her head:
We expect you—unofficially, of course—to treat the punches to lunch from your personal accounts,
Anne had said.
So it was done for you, and so you shall do for them. . . .

Callie wondered if she would be able to pick up enough extra shifts at Lamont to cover her portion of the meal. Biting her lip, she exhaled and then downed a giant gulp of her mimosa. Perhaps Anne would consider some kind of an installment plan—if it was even worth the humiliation to ask.

A voice in the back of her head that sounded uncannily like Grace’s whispered, “The social clubs offer limited to no financial aid options, making it nearly impossible for students from more disadvantaged socioeconomic backgrounds to join.”

Callie took another sip and tried to appear something other than
bored to tears
while Penelope told a harrowing tale from her boarding school days.

“. . . and that was the day when my life really changed,” Penelope was finishing. “Finally I realized: I don’t
like
Gucci—
unless
it’s Gucci Premiere haute couture.”

“That is just
so
spot on,” Anne agreed. “You know, I really wish we had spent more time together when I was still at Deerfield.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” Vanessa jumped in. “The other day in Armani—”

“Speaking of wishes,” Lexi interceded, “Alessandra, I do wish I could persuade you away from the
Crimson
and into joining
FM
. As I’m sure Callie can tell you, we have much more fun.”

Callie almost choked on a walnut from her pear and endive salad. Lexi smiled sweetly at her while she took a huge sip of water.

“But Callie’s COMPing the
Crimson
with me,” Alessandra said slowly. “She helped me get set up on my very first day.” Alessandra beamed at her. Callie, still short of breath, could only nod in return.

“Yes, well, most unfortunately Callie was cut from my magazine in the final round—to my great disappointment, as I’m sure you can imagine,” Lexi said.

Callie spit the remainder of her mimosa back into her glass; luckily no one seemed to notice, save for Vanessa, who kicked her under the table. Frowning, Callie was about to kick her back when Vanessa shot a
Don’t-you-ruin-this-for-me
look in her direction.

“I fancied myself as something of a mentor to her,” Lexi breezed on, “but now she’s gone over to the dark side, to that dreadful Grace. You’ll see soon, dear,” she added to Alessandra.

“She is super intense,” Alessandra agreed.

“I think she’s brilliant,” Callie blurted.

“Perhaps,” Lexi conceded without missing a beat, “but there is a reason why they call her the femi-nazi. She basically hates everything that any reasonable person would consider ‘fun’ on this campus. That’s why her little FlyBy project will, regrettably, struggle to retain a readership and ultimately fail, because she just doesn’t know how to give the readers what they want: glamour, entertainment, and excellent—if I do say so myself—advice.”

“A lot of people seem to be talking about that Ivy Insider thing,” Vanessa piped up.

Lexi smiled serenely. “A mere fluke on an otherwise uninteresting site,” she said, waving her hand. “Honestly I wouldn’t be surprised if Grace were writing it herself. It sounds exactly like her: ‘Social clubs are the root of all evil; they must be destroyed.’ But allow me to let you all in on a little secret.”