The Ivy (13 page)

Alexis Thorndike stood out from the center of the crowd, looking immaculate in her navy blue striped Chloe dress cinched at the waist by a wide brown belt. She was ignoring all the admiring looks she was getting. Instead, she had eyes for only one person, and that person was Callie.

Callie glanced to her left and then to her right: casting around desperately for Mimi or Vanessa. Unfortunately, they were both off at opposite ends of the room: Mimi surrounded by a group of upperclassman boys, Vanessa kissing up to the female members of her private school family tree. OK and Gregory weren’t there yet, and Clint was nowhere to be found.

She was alone. And her feet hurt. How did anyone ever manage in heels?

Lexi, on the other hand, was surrounded by a gaggle of girls, including Anne Goldberg, to whom she was muttering fiercely, staring daggers all the while.

“Hi, I’m Brittney,” a girl to Callie’s left said, smiling. Name tag: Red. Member.

“Callie,” said Callie, pointing to the blue square on her chest.

“So, Callie, where are you from?”

“I’m from Westwood, California.”

“Oh, very cool. Did you go to Harvard-Westlake?”

“No.”

“Oh. The Marlborough School?”

“No . . .”

“Brentwood? Archer?”

“West Hollywood High,” said Callie, putting her out of her misery.

“Is that . . . is that a
public school
?”

“Last time I checked.”

“Oh . . . Oh! Your dad’s that producer guy, you know, the one who, like, did all those movies—God, those were hilarious!”

“Uh, no . . . he’s a professor at UCLA.”

Brittney, nearly out of options, was starting to think exit strategies. “So, uhm, who do you know here?”

“Well, there are my roommates, Vanessa and Mimi, and these two guys who live across the hall, OK and Gregory. . . .”

Oh. She meant members.

“And, uhm, Clint Weber—”

“Clint! Ohmygod, so hot! And so nice,” Brittney exclaimed, thankful that she had finally found a common ground. “The thing with Clint is: he’s super cute and, like, way smart, but he’s almost
too
perfect, like you sort of wonder what must be wrong. . . . But I guess none of that matters because he’s
completely
off limits—if you want to live until your senior year,” she added, glancing at Alexis.

“Uhm . . . will you excuse me for a minute?” Callie asked.

“Sure,” said Brittney, looking relieved.

“Hi, I’m Brittney!” Callie heard her say as Brittney turned to a vaguely familiar blond freshman.

“Elizabeth.”

“Elizabeth . . . what a pretty name. Where are you from, Elizabeth?”

“Hancock Park.”

“And where did you go to school?”

“The Marlborough School.”

“Ohmygod, so you must know . . .”

One foot in front of the other, Callie instructed herself, wobbling in Vanessa’s heels as she joined a long line for the bathroom. Like base during a game of tag: as long as she was there, no one would wonder why she wasn’t busy socializing.

It was time to face the facts. No matter where she went at Harvard, no matter her accomplishments or achievements, she would never be like Mimi or Vanessa: born into an Old Boys’ network in this stupid, exclusive, impossible world that everyone seemed to want to be a part of,
including
, if she was honest with herself, well . . . me
.

But she just couldn’t picture herself gushing with empty compliments or implying that she had gone to one of LA’s elite prep schools and had the money it must have taken to buy the borrowed shoes on her feet. She would have to find her own place, on her own terms. Her dad was right: she shouldn’t waste time worrying about what other people thought. The members of the Pudding would either hate her or love her, and if they hated her . . . well, screw ’em.

Oh, but it was so much easier said than done.

She was next in line now, praying that whoever was ahead of her would take a while so she could stay just a little bit longer. . . .

“Toilet’s clogged!” a guy called, stepping out of the bathroom. “Can I get a plunger over here?” he yelled at several club members gathered under the archway that led to the main room.

“You’d think that when you’re the president you’d no longer get stuck cleaning up other people’s shit,” he muttered to Callie without really seeing her. Then he noticed her name tag.

“Callie—Callie Andrews, right?”

“Uh . . . yes.”

“Tyler Green,” he said, holding out his hand. “I hear good things.”

“You—you do?”

“Yes.” He smiled. Leaning in, he added in a whisper: “Clint’s my roommate.”

“Oh!”

“He’s not here yet, but he should be any minute.” Suddenly Tyler seemed to remember where they were. “You don’t want to go in there,” he said, nodding over his shoulder. “But there’s another one upstairs on the left. It’s ‘members only,’ but hey, not for nothing I am the president. PLUNGER! SOMEBODY! NOW!”

Callie smiled weakly. “Uh, nice to meet you. . . .”

“You too. Come find me later when Clint gets here. Remember: upstairs on your left.”

She took her time locating the staircase, grateful for the excuse to continue avoiding the event. In a few minutes she’d have to return, but for now she was safe.

Well, not quite.

Gregory emerged from around the corner and stepped down onto the top stair just before she reached it. Stopping, he placed a hand on each banister. She wasn’t sure if she had ever been this close to him. There was a tiny scar on the left-hand side of his chin shaped like a miniature crescent moon.

“I didn’t know they were going to send a search party,” he said. “Or did you finally realize that you just can’t live without me—not even for five minutes?”

“I—uhm—you’re blocking the way,” she said. “Do you mind?”

Instead of moving he just stood there, smiling stupidly. “But ‘O, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?’”

“What is that?
Romeo and Juliet
?”

“Is it?” He shrugged. “I thought I made it up.” He still wasn’t moving. “Your line now.”

Callie rolled her eyes. “What satisfaction can you—”

“
Canst thou—
”

“—
canst thou
have tonight?”

“A kiss, of course.”

She laughed a little in spite of herself. “Only if you move.”

They stood for a moment, watching each other.

“Just one kiss . . .” said Gregory, his tone softening suddenly.

“You can’t be serious. . . .” she trailed off, forgetting herself and falling into his eyes like Alice tumbling down the rabbit hole: deep down into an abyss that was a maddening shade of blue. . . .

“Hey! I never noticed before,” he said, leaning down, “but your eyes are green.” He raised his hand, perhaps to brush the hair from her face, and as if he were a hypnotist, her eyelids began to feel heavy. His hand compelled her forward, up closer and closer until her eyes started to close and—

—and he tapped his finger expectantly, once on each cheek.

Callie froze, lips parted in confusion.

“Oh!” said Gregory, his voice aching with amusement. “I forgot that in
California
they don’t kiss to say hello! What should we do, then—
dude
—will a high five suffice?” He held up his hand, his eyes alight with triumph.

“
Move
,” she breathed, pushing past him. But before she could round the corner, she felt his hand on her shoulder:

“Hey—wait a minute now, I was only kidding,” he said without a touch of remorse, his eyes dancing along the lines of her collarbone, down, down across her hips. . . .

“Yeah,
right
,” said Callie, her voice trembling. “Look, can’t you just leave me alone?”

“I can’t, I’m obsessed with you,” he said sarcastically. Turning, he walked back down the stairs.

Shaking, she found the bathroom. She slammed the door, locking it behind her. Whirling around to face the mirror, she found a girl the color of a ripe tomato wearing a little black dress staring back at her.

Jamming on the faucet, she wet a towel with cool water and dabbed her face, neck, and arms. Focus, she chided herself. Get a grip! Then she sat down on the edge of the toilet seat and rested her head in her hands: waiting for her heart rate to stabilize. It was a nice bathroom, really . . . no reason she shouldn’t stay just a few more minutes . . . or an hour.

Then again, if she spent the entire event locked in the bathroom,
they
—Lexi, Anne, Gregory—would win.

Resolved, she emerged from the bathroom. She walked down the stairs and reentered the main room with her head held high—only to realize: she was alone. Again
.
What was she supposed to do, walk up to a group of people and interrupt their conversation? And why did every opener she could think of sound like a cheesy pickup line: Is this seat taken? Can I get you a drink? That dress is stunning. . . .

She felt a presumptuous tap on her shoulder.

Didn’t I
just
tell him to leave me ALONE? She turned, furious, to really give Gregory a piece of her mind and—

Found Clint. He was grinning from ear to ear, extending a glass of champagne in her direction.

“I didn’t realize
you
would be here tonight,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “What a pleasant surprise!”

Pleasant indeed. He looked
incredible
in his coat and tie. He smiled. Instantly she relaxed. “You’re just all about the surprises, aren’t you?” she said.

“I’m not surprised by how beautiful you look tonight.”

“Really? I thought you said you liked me messy and dirty?”

“I don’t remember using the word
dirty
.” He laughed as she started to turn pink. “But there’s a time and place for everything.”

Callie smiled and sipped her champagne.

“Seriously, though, I’m really glad you could make it. Want to come with me and say hi to some people?”

Clint stayed near Callie for the rest of the night. Placing his hand on the small of her back, he would guide her around the room, introducing her to other members of the Pudding and making sure that her champagne glass was never empty.

Maybe it was the champagne or maybe it was Clint, but Callie felt like a protective shield had been cast around her: any worries or fears were now on Mute. Even Lexi with her jealous stares and angry whispers didn’t seem quite so scary anymore.

By the end of the night she was no longer a nameless face. Instead, she had become The Girl Who Clint Weber Couldn’t Take His Hands Off Of. It wasn’t quite as good as just being Callie Andrews, but it was a start.

“Ready to go?” asked Clint. She nodded slowly as if in a dream. “C’mon, then . . . I’ll walk you home.” He held up her coat and helped her into the sleeves. She closed her eyes, allowing him to wrap the jacket around her.

“So you’ll let me know about lunch on Tuesday?” Brittney cried, rushing over as they were halfway out the door.

“Sure.” Callie smiled. “I’ll let you know.”

Clint put his arm around her waist as they walked down the steps, and she rested her head on his shoulder. The champagne bubbles had risen from her stomach into her brain, and she couldn’t stop giggling as he guided her across the Yard.

When they arrived in front of Wigglesworth’s bright green door, Clint turned to face her. He brushed his hand against her cheek, but this time she was determined not to get her hopes up. . . .

Feeling faint, she began rifling through her purse in search of her key card.

She could feel his eyes boring into her, his breath smelling sweetly of champagne. She was searching deeper and deeper within her purse when suddenly, without warning, the thought of Gregory floated into her head. He had been such an
asshole
earlier. He was really nothing compared to Clint. . . . Clint is so per—

Her fingers closed around the edge of something thin and hard.

“Found it!” she cried, brandishing the card victoriously.

“Yes, you did.” He smiled, cupping her chin in his hands. And then he found her lips.

Chapter Ten
Strange interlude

E
ven though it was barely nine o’clock on a Friday morning, the sun was already shining brightly through the dusty windows, casting a glow on the two individuals who were sleeping soundly, side by side. Callie was curled up at an awkward angle, but Matt was stretched out flat on his back. He was smiling.

Bbbbrrrrringgggg! BRrrriinnng! Brrrrrinnng!

Callie groaned and rolled over. Her back was aching and her entire body felt sore. She opened one eyelid. There was Matt’s face: inches away from her own. Her eyes flew open in horror.
What the hell happened last night?

“Make it stop. . . .” Matt muttered, groping for her phone.

Looking up: Callie spotted one green desk lamp;

Down: a ratty oriental rug;

Left: stacks of papers scattered across the floor;

Right: empty cans of Red Bull overflowing the trash;

Up again: old newspapers framed and mounted across the walls . . .

The Crimson
. Relief swept over her as it all came flooding back: how she and Matt had vowed to pull an all-nighter in order to finish their work for COMP. At some point they must have fallen asleep. . . .

Thank goodness I didn’t hook up with him, she thought, well aware that delirium due to sleep deprivation could often lead to bad decisions of which, in the words of Alexis, Plato would not approve. Recently Callie had managed to get back into Matt’s good graces, and she didn’t need to go messing it all up—though he did look cute in a dorky sort of way with his hair all rumpled and his glasses askew. . . .

His smile seemed forced as he tossed the phone into her lap.

“Score!” she joked as it landed between her thighs.

He smiled ruefully and shook his head, then lay back down, spread-eagled.

“Hello?” Callie said, answering her phone.

“Callie?” Clint’s voice crackled over the line.

“Clint! Hi! What’s going on?” she asked, straightening up immediately.

“Sorry, did I wake you? I can call back late—”

“No!” Callie cried, jumping from the floor and smoothing her hair as if he could somehow see her through the telephone. “I’m awake, I’m awake, I swear! What’s up?”

“Well, again, I’m sorry for calling so early, but I wanted to ask you as soon as possible: do you have any plans for tonight?”

“No, I don’t have any plans at all!” Callie cried eagerly—perhaps a little
too
eagerly, because she quickly corrected herself: “Er . . . I mean, nothing
special
.”

She began to pace around the tiny office, grinning at Matt, who was still lying disconsolately on the floor.

“Great!” Clint replied. “Then would you like to go to a date event tonight?”

Callie covered the phone’s mouthpiece with her hand and did a victory dance. Matt groaned and got to his feet.

“Date event!” Callie squealed.

Matt winced and headed for the door. Callie turned, motioning distractedly that he should stay, but he shook his head and mouthing, “
I’ll see you later
,” escaped into the hall.

In the meantime Clint was explaining: “Yes, the Bee is having a date event tonight at a club in Boston as part of their third round of Punch.”

“The Bee? Doesn’t that mean it’s going to be a bunch of sophomore girls? I thought freshmen weren’t even allowed to go!”

Clint laughed. “Wow, you’ve only been here for six weeks, but you already know all the rules! Well, according to
my
rules, you are allowed to go, but only if you agree to go as somebody’s date.”

There was an awkward pause, and his words started to tumble out a little faster: “It’s usually a pretty good time. It’s a theme party, called the Mad Hatter’s Ball, meaning everyone is expected to show up wearing a crazy hat, though there’s this one guy who comes every year wearing a chicken suit. . . .” Clint’s laugh sounded nervous. Adorably nervous: like he was worried that she might turn him down. (As if anyone in their right mind ever would!)

Speaking faster still, he added: “If you’d feel more comfortable, you can invite Mimi and Vanessa. A couple of my friends still don’t have dates and I’m sure they’d be thrilled to take either of your roommates—”

“But
I
would be
your
date, right?” Callie asked.

“Yes!” he exclaimed, sounding relieved. “Yes, fantastic.”

“Cool,” she said smoothly as a wave of confidence swept over her. “And I
will
bring Mimi and Vanessa—I’m sure they’d love that.” (And by “love that” she meant “worship me forever.”)

“Great! We’ll pick you up tonight in front of Wigglesworth at ten. You just need formal attire and some sort of a hat, the crazier the better.”

Callie suddenly thought of something. “Wait—you said it’s at a club in Boston? Does that mean we need to have IDs? Because you know . . .” She felt herself starting to blush.

“Relax,” he said. “I know you’re not twenty-one yet. It’ll be taken care of.”

“Awesome.” Callie yawned, too sleepy to ask for more details. “So, all I need is a dress, a hat, and my roommates, and I’ll see you at ten?”

“Right,” said Clint. “See you at ten.”

Callie was elated. But then, as she gazed at her papers scattered across the floor, the paper cups half filled with stale coffee, and the empty pizza boxes from Pinocchio’s overflowing the trash can, her spirits started to sink.

In the corner stood a stack of boxes filled with old
FM
issues from the past ten years that she was supposed to finish archiving before the weekend was up. On the desk she caught sight of a draft of her piece about “Scoping a Campus Character.” Lexi’s unforgiving red pen had covered it in so many cutting comments that it looked like a wounded soldier bleeding crimson ink.

She sighed. As long as she was in the
FM
offices, forced to write draft after draft of pieces that were never going to appear in the magazine, she felt trapped in Lexi’s territory. But it wasn’t just limited to the building. Everything worthwhile at Harvard had been annexed under
Queen
Alexis’s domain: the
Crimson
, the Pudding, Clint. . . . No matter where she went, she always felt as if she was crossing some invisible boundary.

She needed to get some air. She left the office and headed down the stairs. She should have been thinking about what dress Vanessa might let her borrow and what funky hat she would wear, but instead she couldn’t stop obsessing about Lexi.

In the days that followed the Pudding event people who had never noticed her started greeting her in classes or as their paths crossed in Harvard Yard. It seemed her status had gone from “not” to “hot” virtually overnight. Yet nothing about her had changed. She still didn’t own the right clothes or purses or shoes. What she did have was the attention of what many of the older girls considered to be the most prized accessory of them all: Clint Weber. She’d refused to look when Vanessa Googled him but could tell from her roommate’s expression of silent awe that good looks and Southern charm were not his only assets.

Just last night when she was rushing toward the
Crimson
, a pretty, well-dressed sophomore, clearly an East Coaster, had stopped her in the street to ask where she’d purchased her jeans. Callie had smiled and answered vaguely, “Oh, just some LA boutique off of Rodeo Drive”—a colorful version of the truth, which was, in fact, that she’d owned them longer than she could remember and had no idea where they came from. Frustrated, she wondered why she’d bothered to lie; why she cared what some random girl thought about her stupid jeans.

And then there were the other looks. Maybe she was paranoid or exhibiting signs of latent schizophrenia and it was all just in her head, but the group of upperclassman girls that sat in front of her in Justice had been awfully cold: shooting her vicious glares during class or ignoring her completely.

Just when she was starting to feel like she was finding her place and even having fun, it was all going to be taken away from her because she had unwittingly crossed the most powerful socialite on campus.

Even with Clint on Callie’s side, Lexi would surely find a way to exclude her from the Pudding. Then she’d be left behind while everyone she knew or liked was admitted: Vanessa, Mimi, OK, and Gregory. Gregory . . .

“Gregory!” she blurted in shock as she nearly tripped over him. He was sitting on the front steps of the
Crimson
, accompanied, as always, by a bored expression and a cigarette. He stood up hastily to face her. His hands and cheeks were pink with cold—like he’d been waiting for a while.

“Hey,” he said, offering her a smile. A
real
smile.

Callie frowned, wondering what
real
ly funny or embarrassing thing she had done to elicit such a genuine expression. She put her hands on her hips and stared at him expectantly. He just stood there looking back without breaking the silence.

“Are you waiting for someone?” Callie finally asked. “I have a key so I could let you in. . . .”

“No thanks. I’m just enjoying the scenery,” he answered, staring straight into her eyes.

“Ohhh-kay,” Callie replied slowly, arching her eyebrows.

He did not elaborate.

She turned and started to walk away. He was more unpredictable than the location of a spherical pendulum with a nonlinear restoring force, or which cast member on
The Hills
would become the latest frenemy. It was maddening.

“Hey, Callie!” Gregory called suddenly, sounding—could it be?—embarrassed.

Callie turned and placed her hands on her hips, waiting.

“Are you heading back to the Yard?”

She nodded.

“Want to grab a cup of coffee or something?”

Callie froze, staring at him as he took a final drag of his cigarette before flicking it onto the brick sidewalk and grinding it under his heel. She couldn’t detect any irony in his tone, but that didn’t necessarily mean he wasn’t harboring malicious ulterior motives. Was this a trick—or a truce? An olive branch or another one of his twisted games?

Yes—no—okay—go to hell—sure, why not—
She was still wrestling with herself over how to reply when his NYC entourage rounded the corner, rowdy and obnoxious as usual. Out of bed before ten? The universe was truly out of whack.

“Hey, Casanova!” one of them yelled, while another one whistled rakishly. “Whassamatter, buddy? Already run through all the Wellesley blondes?”

“Yeah, man, what’s the deal? I thought you preferred outsourcing to BU?”

The corners of Gregory’s mouth twitched slightly, but his eyes never left her face. “Ignore them,” he said, keeping his voice low. He looked at her, still waiting for an answer.