The Ivy (3 page)
Gregory, sweaty and shirtless, was laboring up the stairs under the weight of a ginormous box.
Callie stepped out into the hall, forgetting, along with the end of her sentence, that he was the devil incarnate.
But then he opened his mouth: “Yo, Matt. If you feel like taking a break from flirting, let me know because your TV is a little heavy. Plus, you’re wasting your time anyway since apparently she’s got a boyfriend. . . .”
Boyfriend—what boyfriend?
I mean, put a shirt on, you jerk!
Matt’s smile did not quite conceal his embarrassment. “See you later?”
“Sure,” she said. She looked at Gregory. He ignored her.
Whatever, she thought. It’s not like I’ll have to see him all the time or anything. At least he doesn’t live—
Matt grabbed the other end of the box, and both boys walked into C 23: the suite directly across the hall.
The door swung shut. The names on the whiteboard read: A
DAM
, M
ATT
, O
KECHUWUKU,
and, in indelible ink, G
REGORY
.
What fabulous luck.
As Callie turned to go back into her own suite, she noticed something inside the door’s metal drop box that hadn’t been there before. It was a glossy magazine: completely black except for the words
Fifteen Minutes
, which were written across the top in white curly lettering.
Curious, she grabbed it. Perching on an overturned box, a desert island in a sea of underwear, she opened the magazine and began to read.
Dearest Froshlings: peons and future leaders of America,
Move-in day is officially here . . .
OR
T
HE
W
EEK
O
THERWISE
K
NOWN AS
“C
AMP
H
ARVARD
”
http://fm_homepage/advice/topics/freshman_year/blogspace
Dear Alexis:
I already finished moving in, but there’s still a week left before classes begin. We haven’t gotten any homework yet, so I’m at a loss for what to do!
—Grays Resident, Class of 2014
Dear Quintessential Harvard Student:
Welcome to “Camp Harvard”: the week you should use to gain that mythical knowledge they call “real life experience.” (FYI: in the real world Common Sense is typically defined as street smarts,
not
“an influential pamphlet written by Thomas Paine in 1776.”) Now is the time to learn the definitions of some pop-culture, non-SAT vocab words like
hangover
and
hookup
. I imagine some of you will discover that booze and sex are almost as fun as solving differential equations and conjugating Latin verbs. . . .
(And of course, for those of you who prefer to learn about sex in the classroom instead of doing the fieldwork yourself, stay tuned for the University Health Services’ “Practice Sex—Safely” initiative: a mandatory “wellness” seminar you’ll all be attending sometime this week.)
—Alexis
Dear Alexis,
I walked into the freshman dining hall and was surprised to see just as many cliques as there were in high school, if not more. Where do I sit? Where do I belong?!
—Hurlbut Resident, Class of 2014
Dear Ms. Identity Crisis:
You are obviously one of those unfortunates who thought that college would be a golden opportunity to “reinvent” yourself free from the social disasters that characterized your high school experience. Oops, wrong! Instead of asking yourself where you belong in Harvard Society, ask yourself this:
What did I score on my SAT?
The answer will help you figure out where to sit in the dining hall: with the Recruited Athletes (lowest scores), the Affirmative Action Discretionary Slots (low scores), the Aristocracy (low scores; big donations), the Meritocracy (high scores; no donations), or the Asians and Indians (2400).*
Additional opportunities for soul searching: this Thursday at 2
P.M.
is the Annual Harvard Activities Fair, where you can sign up for information on an array of extracurricular activities. If that’s still not enough, visit Mental Health Services and their team of world-renowned therapists for free lollipops, happiness (Prozac), study buddies (Adderall), and advice.
—Alexis
*While there is a kernel of truth to most stereotypes, please take these with a grain of salt! ;)
Dear Alexis:
What sort of schedule can we expect to have in the coming months?
—Pennypacker Resident, Class of 2014
Dear Control Freak:
Sunday–Thursday
: Work, Class, Work, Nap, Work, Eat (if time), Nap, Work, Class, Sleep (4 hour maximum), Caffeinate, Class, Paper, Test, Work . . .
Thursday (evening)–Sunday (mid-afternoon)
: Drink, Eat (if time), Drink some more, Binge Drink, Party like a Rock Star, Party like a Senior, Make Out with a Senior, Try not to Puke on a Senior, Sleep (14 hour minimum) . . .
(There’s a reason they call us extreme.)
Welcome to college,
Alexis
H
i, my name is Callie. I’m from California and uh . . . let’s see . . . I played soccer in high school, I drive a 1967 red Mustang convertible, and I’ve never been arrested.”
“Thank you, Callie,” said the senior sitting at the head of the circle, leading the new residents of Wigglesworth Dormitory, entryways A–F, in a rousing game of “Two Truths and a Lie.”
“Now, which do you guys think is the lie?” he prodded.
“Soccer?” Gregory asked in a bored voice from the other side of the circle. “When you have so much trouble staying on your feet?” Callie glared. He was sitting next to Matt, alongside what must have been their other two roommates, Adam and Okechuwuku. One of these guys was a tiny white man; the other, a huge black man. In the spirit of being a color-blind narrator: it was
impossible
to guess which was which.
“You don’t look like the type who knows how to drive a stick shift!” another boy, from entryway B, called.
“Do too!” Callie insisted. “But I don’t actually drive a Mustang. You got me.”
“Great, wonderful,” the senior said. “Now next up we have . . .”
Callie turned to look at Mimi, who was seated directly to her right.
Mimi had fallen asleep.
“next up we have . . .” the senior repeated louder.
Callie nudged Mimi.
“
Qu’est-ce que tu f—
Oh!” said Mimi, blinking rapidly. “
What are we doing?
” she whispered at Callie.
“Just say your name, then two truths and a lie,” Callie whispered back.
“Hi, my name is Mimi, and I’m an al—Ah, ha-ha,” Mimi gave a nervous giggle as she looked around the room. “
Pardon, je veux dire
: Hi, my name is Mimi and . . . my two truths are . . . I have been kicked out of two boarding schools in the past four years, and I speak five languages. And my lie is I have a tiny tattoo
sur mon pied
.”
The senior at the front of the room stared as Vanessa and Callie started to snicker. Mimi shrugged and closed her eyes once more.
“All right . . . thank you, Mimi,” the senior said, looking put out.
Callie tucked her hands behind her knees, locking them together in an effort not to be rude even though she was dying to check her cell. It had been three days, and still no word from Evan.
“Next?” said the senior, turning to Dana. Dana looked up from the pad of paper on which she had been furiously scribbling notes, almost like there was going to be a test later.
“Dana Gray. Goose Creek, South Carolina. And I’m really not comfortable with lying.”
Vanessa’s hands flew to her face in an attempt to stifle an embarrassing whoop of laughter, and it was all Callie could do not to break down herself as the senior leaned in to peer at Dana, no doubt searching for some indication that she was kidding.
“You know, I’m not sure that you guys quite understand how to play this game. Why don’t I go ahead and take my turn, show you how it’s done?”
“By all means, enlighten us,” Gregory said, smirking.
“Hi, my name is Charlie Sloane, I’m from Auburn, Massachusetts, and in case you were wondering, I’m your prefect: that guy you call when you get into trouble and need someone to get you out of it. Not that you guys will be getting into any trouble,” he added, his eyes traveling around the circle from Callie, who had cracked and pulled out her phone, over to Mimi, who had started to snore. Dana nodded emphatically.
“Wait a second,” the ebony-skinned boy sitting to Matt’s left (Okechuwuku, Callie guessed) leaned in and addressed his roommates in a BBC British accent. “Which part of that was the lie?” He looked genuinely confused.
Vanessa started to laugh again. Charlie Sloane, prefect, turned bright red. “No, uh, sorry—I was just explaining my job. Anyway, my name is Charlie Sloane, I’m a senior in Mather House, I study mechanical engineering, and . . . and . . . Oh, never mind. Why don’t we just call it quits? After all, you guys have a whole year to get to know each other, right?”
“Right,” said Vanessa, standing quickly.
“Now, hang on just a second. Before you leave, I have some very important literature that I need to pass out,” he said, handing them each a pamphlet as they stood up to stretch. “My contact information is on page three: please don’t hesitate to get in touch with any questions you have or advice you might need.
“Seriously, guys,” he continued as they began to file out of the room. “Freshman year can be tough. It’s all right to ask for help when you need it. And it’s also okay to have some fun!
“Not too much fun!” he added nervously as he watched Mimi slip the leaflet he’d just handed her on the university’s Drug and Alcohol Policy into a nearby trash can. “And don’t forget: our ‘Practice Sex Semin’—I mean, our ‘Practice Sex
Safely
’ Seminar starts tomorrow at 4
P.M.
!”
“Whaa-AT?” Dana cried as they headed for the stairs, wailing like a police siren in response to the word
sex.
No doubt tomorrow would be her first foray into the world of awkward educational videos.
What’s another name for students who undergo Abstinence Only sex “education” programs? Callie thought. Oh, that’s right: parents.
“Well, Dana,” Vanessa began, interrupting Callie’s thoughts. “Tomorrow you are going to learn that, contrary to popular belief down in Goose Creek, babies do not actually come from the stork. . . .”
Callie frowned. Dana may be naive, she thought, but she’s not dumb. . . .
They had reached the room. With the recent addition of a futon couch and a big overstuffed armchair, it was beginning to look more like a common room, less like a disaster zone. Mimi, Callie, and Vanessa settled onto the couch, but Dana headed straight for her bedroom, closing the door behind her.
“So what’s next for us today?” Mimi asked Callie, stifling a yawn.
“The Activities Fair!” Vanessa shouted before Callie could open her orientation packet. For some reason Vanessa seemed abnormally anxious to please—but only when it came to Mimi.
“What’s it like, having an ambassador for a dad?” she had asked Mimi on the morning after move-in day, when they were all sitting together in the common room getting to know one another for the first time.
“Meh,” said Mimi.
“I mean . . . you must get to hang out with famous people, like, all the time!”
“Yeah . . .” said Mimi.
“No need to be humble. I saw that picture of you in
Hello
magazine at the beach in Monaco with Andrea and Charlotte Casiraghi. Tell me, are they really as gorgeous in real life?”
“They are trolls.”
Despite her apparent background as some sort of European tabloid sensation, Mimi had given Callie the distinct impression that she was weary of the limelight.
In contrast, Vanessa couldn’t wait for her opportunity to shine. “We have to be careful what we wear this afternoon,” she was saying, “because the Activities Fair will be our first chance to really show ourselv—” Pause. “I mean, our first chance to really scope out the competit—” Pause.
“You mean to say that the Activities Fair is our first chance to meet new people, no?” asked Mimi, rolling her eyes.
“Exactly,” said Vanessa, grinning. She twirled a finger through her curls. “Think of all the gorgeous upperclassman guys who will be standing out there in the middle of the Yard, asking us to join the crew team. . . .”
“You’re planning to join the crew team?” Callie asked, shooting Vanessa a suspicious glance. The girl looked like she had never thrown a ball in her entire life, let alone rowed a boat.
“Lord, no, not me—though my mom would be thrilled to hear I was getting some exercise. She’s always trying to drag me to the gym, but the one time I actually went, she spent the whole hour sitting in the steam room drinking cucumber water and gossiping with her friends. . . .”
Trailing off, Vanessa made a face and looked at her lap, pinching her love handles absentmindedly. “People always say I got my father’s brain and my mother’s hips,” she continued, forcing a smile. “Thanks a lot, Mom, but do these come with a return receipt?”
As Callie and Mimi laughed, Vanessa glanced down at her watch. “Oh my
god
, would you look at the time?” she yelped, leaping to her feet. “Why didn’t anybody
tell
me that it’s already a quarter to two?” Then she sprinted toward her room wailing something about “how can I possibly?” and “only fifteen minutes!” Callie and Mimi exchanged a look.
“So, planning to sign up for any—what do you Americans call them?—‘extracurricular activities’?” Mimi asked.
“Yeah,” said Callie, leaning back. “I think I’d like to write for a journal or a magazine. I was really serious about soccer in high school, but I tore my ACL at the end of last season and my doctor says I need a break. What about you?”
“Well,” said Mimi, wiggling in her seat as if personal questions made her physically uncomfortable, “I used to play tennis during secondary school, but it was always Renee who . . .” she paused, frowning.
Callie tried to smile encouragingly.
“She was top twenty at Wimbledon when she was only sixteen,” Mimi offered as though that explained everything. “They all said she was ‘the youngest star in the past fifteen years.’”
“So that means that you couldn’t play anymore . . . ?”
“No,” said Mimi, frowning again. “Well, actually, yes. I mean, what is the point to really trying when anything I can do, she can do better?”
At that moment Vanessa erupted from her bedroom and began sauntering down the hallway like it was a catwalk, pausing to strike a pose in front of their new full-length mirror.
Towering imperiously in her four-inch heels, she turned to Callie as if her roommate were a charity case on a makeover show and lectured: “The
only
time it is appropriate to wear flip-flops is when you’re trying to avoid contracting foot diseases in a public shower.”
Callie stuck out her feet and wiggled her toes. Her flip-flops looked just fine to her: convenient, affordable, the perfect polyurethane blend of rubber and foam.
Mimi slipped away to change. Vanessa magnanimously called, “Here, try these,” tossing a pair of Tory Burch flats in Callie’s direction. Callie made no move to catch them. They landed next to her on the couch.
Vanessa didn’t notice. “Your earrings,” the lecture continued as she slipped on a pair of gold hoops, “should
always
complement your purse,” she instructed, gesturing toward a matching clutch.
“Marc Jacobs is a staple,” Vanessa explained, twirling to show off her purple jumper. “And last but not least,” she concluded, slapping a pair of Prada sunglasses onto her head, “always wear sunscreen.”