The Ivy: Rivals (11 page)

Clint sighed. “I know you two have your history; but she and I have a history as well. We dated for over two years. She has a good side and bad side like everyone else: you just happen to have had exposure to the worst side. But that doesn’t mean that’s all there is to her.”

Callie was silent.

“Would it help if I said that part of it had to do with parental pressure about the summer internship?”

“Ugh, no,” exclaimed Callie. “That would be worse.”

“Look,” he started, “I wouldn’t fault you if you wanted to be friends with your ex, and he’s
clearly
not the greatest—”

“That’s totally different,” she cut in. “Because Evan is evil and I
don’t
talk to him.”

Clint sighed. “Well, do you see me getting jealous of any of the other guys chasing after you? Like what about the one from across the hall—”

Callie inhaled sharply.

“What’s his name? Matt? The one who’s always following you around with the puppy eyes? Or what about when someone at the Pudding or some random party hits on you when I’m not around? Or hey, even with Bolton I sometimes get the sense that I’m interrupting something, even though I know that nothing would ever happen there.”

Callie stared at the ground, kicking up some snow.

“The point is that you have a right to be friends with whoever you want,” Clint finished. “And while I’m certainly not immune to jealousy, ultimately it doesn’t
really
bother me because I trust you. I trust that if you don’t want to be with me or if you’d rather be with someone else—that you would tell me.”

She stayed silent, watching the snow arc out from her shoe.

Clint sighed. “To be completely honest . . . there is something that I’ve been keeping from you—”

Callie froze.

“
Only
because I thought it would upset you,” he insisted, “but I think telling you now might put these Lexi fears to rest.”

She waited.

“When you broke up with me in that e-mail—”

“That Lexi forced me to send,” Callie interrupted.

“That you sent of your own free will due to pressure from Alexis,” he corrected her. “Anyway, after that, over winter break she tried to get me to take her back. We went skiing with a big group in Vermont, and even though I wasn’t with you and thought that you never wanted to speak to me again, I still didn’t go for it. Okay?”

“Okay,” Callie murmured, feeling more disturbed than comforted. “But I didn’t need to know that. I mean, whatever you did those times we were broken up is your business, and it’s all in the past now, like we agreed that night at the Harvard Pub when we got back together.”

“‘Times’?” he asked.

“Hmm?”

“‘Times,’ as in plural?”

“Yes,” she said. “You remember, Harvard-Yale?”

“We weren’t broken up then,” he said. “We were taking some time to think.”

“Yeah,” she agreed. “I suppose there’s a difference.”

“It was a fuzzy gray area,” he conceded. “But I still wasn’t with Lexi—or anyone else—then either.”

Damn. Every time she thought the Gregory incident at Harvard-Yale was truly best left buried in the past, the universe kept hinting that she should try, once again, to confess. And yet, the more time that went by, the more she had to lose.

“Clint,” she finally blurted. “I have to tell you something.”

“I have to tell you something, too.”

“You first.”

“No you.”

“No—

“I love you.”

What?

“I . . .” she started.

“Wait!” he said. “Don’t say it back now just to say it. You should wait until you’re ready.”

“Okay,” she said. “Well, in that case . . . I am ready . . . to do
this
.” Pulling him toward her, she kissed him: exceptionally, exceptionally glad that he had gone first.

Chapter Seven
The Not So Great Gatsby

“T
yler, could you please ask Callie to change the radio station? She knows I detest this song,” Vanessa said from the backseat of Clint’s BMW.

“Clint, could you please tell Tyler to tell Vanessa that I love this song and I’m not changing it?” Callie said from the front.

“What, you’re not speaking to
Tyler
now?” Clint asked, sounding amused.

“Oh,” said Callie. “Whoops.”

“Tyler, could you please tell Callie that she’s completely retarde—”

“Enough!” Tyler yelled, throwing his hand over Vanessa’s mouth. “This car is
not
big enough for the four of us
and
all of your girlie problems. I don’t care who broke whose Britney CD or who told the other one that her butt looked fat—you two are either going to play nice or you’re not allowed to talk for the rest of the ride!”

“Fine by me,” said Callie. “Though if she can actually stop talking for five minutes, I might die of shock—”

“Is that a promise?” snapped Vanessa. “Because—”

Tyler clamped his hand over her mouth again. “Turn up the radio, man,” he said to Clint, while muffled
MMmmmMMMmmmmMM
sounds continued to come from Vanessa. “And change the station, would you? Sorry, Callie, but nobody likes this—
OW
!” Vanessa appeared to have bitten him.

A smooth saxophone filtered from the speakers. “How’s this?” Clint asked.

“Nice,” said Callie. “Very 1920s jazz age—”

“I don’t remember giving you permission to speak,” Tyler cut in.

“Fine,” Callie muttered, twisting the long string of fake pearls entwined around her neck. In the back Vanessa fiddled with her fishnet stockings.

Tonight they were on their way to, if not the most talked about, then certainly the most exclusive party of the year: The Great Gatsby. Even Mimi had failed to finagle an invitation. With their feather headdresses and flowing silk gowns, Vanessa’s a dark red with fringe and Callie’s a pearly gray with a skirt that twirled when she spun around, both girls looked like they had stepped out of a Prohibition-era speakeasy. Tyler and Clint wore white tails and white gloves with their tuxedos, because—as Callie had learned in the last five minutes—white tie was a level above black on the continually confusing formal attire scale.

“Why do we have to drive again?” Vanessa asked. “Walking would be faster.”

“Because,” Tyler said with a sigh, “I didn’t think you would want to help us carry eighteen cases of champagne all the way to the Fly. You might break a nail.”

“Hey!” Vanessa cried, digging said French-manicured “works of art” into his knee.

“Ours is a very
abusive
relationship,” Tyler explained, leaning forward between Clint and Callie. “But I can’t help it—she makes me crazy!” he exclaimed, nuzzling her neck in a deliberately annoying way.

“Ow—Tyler—stop—my hair—my
hair
!”

Callie laughed.

“You couldn’t have at least warned me that
she
was going to be here?” Vanessa asked when she had finally managed to push Tyler away. Her feather headdress had not survived the skirmish. That would probably earn Tyler a few more bruises and nail scratches later.

“Hey, Clint,” said Tyler, cheerful as ever. “Did you know that when women cohabitate, their menstrual cycles often synch? We learned all about it last week in my Women, Gender, and Society seminar. College dorm rooms in particular have been known—”

Vanessa’s blow caught him on the back of the head.

“Ow! Woman! That’s going to leave a mark,” he said, rubbing his head and pretending to look angry. “On second thought, no it’s not. You’re about as strong as a baby kitten and twice as cute.”

“Oh, shut up,” said Vanessa. “Are we there yet?”

“Tyler,” said Callie, “you deserve a medal.”

“I do,” he agreed solemnly.

Vanessa snorted and folded her arms.

“Jeez Louise, Clinty,” said Tyler, “I hope they’re not this bad over spring break.”

“What’s happening over spring break?” asked Callie.

“Puerto Rico, baby—I booked us a villa. Sleep all day, booze all night, cruise the waves, eat bananas—”

“No way—” Vanessa began.

“Absolutely not,” finished Callie.

“What?” asked Tyler. “You don’t like bananas? Everybody likes bananas! ”

“We are
not
staying in the same villa over spring break,” said Vanessa. “I already have to live with her during the year. I shouldn’t have to suffer on my vacation, too.”

“Hey—easy there,” said Clint. “And you can relax because Tyler’s only teasing: we booked more than one villa so you two can stay as far away or as close together as you want. Plus,” he added, turning the car into the Fly’s lot, “as of right now it looks like almost everyone in the Pudding is going, plus half the Phoenix and the Spee.” Pulling into a parking space, he killed the engine.

“Finally,” said Vanessa, throwing open her door. “Tyler, come on!” she yelled, racing for the staircase at the edge of the parking lot. A faint green light was glimmering above the door at the top: the only entrance through which nonmembers were permitted to enter. Once inside, another set of stairs led straight to the second floor, where guests of members were allowed on special occasions, in contrast to the first floor of the brick mansion, which was strictly off-limits to all but the members.

“Hey,” said Tyler as Clint opened the car door for Callie, “do you guys mind if I . . .”

“Go,” said Callie. “I can help Clint carry the champagne.”

“Thanks, buddy, I owe ya one,” he said before Clint could protest.

“Tyler—now!”

“Coming, princess!” he yelled, running to catch up with Vanessa.

“I’m glad you’re my girlfriend,” said Clint, smiling at Callie as he opened the trunk.

Callie laughed. “I’m glad I’m not Vanessa’s boyfriend,” she said, reaching for a case of champagne.

“Hey, now—what do you think you’re doing?” he asked, putting a hand on her arm.

“Helping you carry the champagne.”

“I can’t let you do that,” he said, shaking his head.

“Seriously?” she asked. “Why not?”

“Need some help over here?” a voice called. Turning, she saw Gregory walking toward them. His bow tie hung loose and untied around his neck, black to Clint’s white, and on his arm was . . .

Alexis Thorndike.

Each member got a plus three: one for a date and two for a couple. As Callie had learned last semester when she mistakenly thought Gregory and Lexi were dating, the two of them had a semi-permanent, fully platonic plus-one arrangement. Now the question was which came first: the chicken or the egg? Did Clint ask Gregory and did he invite Lexi—or was it the other way around?

“Hey, man, glad you guys could make it!” said Clint, giving Gregory a handshake-hug. “Lexi,” he added, kissing her cheek, “you look lovely as ever.”

Before Callie could react, she found herself in Gregory’s arms. “Good to see you,
Caliente
,” he whispered, pressing his lips against her ear. She could smell the whiskey on his breath.

“Some help would be great,” said Clint, grabbing a case of champagne. Gregory followed suit, and then Clint turned to Callie: “Could you ladies stand guard while we’re gone? Normally I wouldn’t ask because it’s so cold, but the
Lampoon
’s right across the street and they’ve been known to have sticky fingers.”

“Uh . . . sure,” said Callie.

“We’ll be right back.”

Callie eyed the sixteen remaining cases of champagne in the trunk. Sixteen divided by two was eight, times roughly three minutes per case equaled twenty-four minutes alone with Lexi.

“So, uh . . . I like your dress,” Callie ventured. And truly the dress was spectacular: black and silver, sequins and fringe and lace.

“Thanks,” Lexi muttered.

Silence.

Twenty-three minutes . . .

“Where did you, um, where’d you get it?” Callie asked.

Lexi snorted as if to say,
Oh, just a little store on the corner of Dream-on and You-can’t-afford-it.

Right. Guess I’d better cancel the matching friendship bracelets I just ordered.

Twenty-two minutes . . .

“So where’s Alessandra?” Callie asked.

“I believe she has
Crimson
business tonight,” Lexi said with a worrisome gleam in her eye. “Which is why I suggested Gregory as a plus one after Clint invited me—though surely he already told you that?”

“Yes,” Callie lied, trying to keep her expression blank. “We tell each other everything.”

“Somehow I doubt that,” Lexi murmured, watching Gregory and Clint reemerge at the top of the stairs.

“What’s that supposed to me—”

“I completely forgot,” Clint called, coming toward them, “that we have a whole bunch of sophomore initiates just dying to carry things.” As he spoke, the back door opened and a group of guys appeared. “Shall we?” he said, offering an arm to Callie.

“Absolutely,” she said.

Stepping through the doors to the Fly was like stepping through a time machine back to the summer of 1922. Twinkly lights hung from the ceiling like a canopy of leaves in the forest, casting a soft glow on the couples: guys in white tails with white gloves and girls with white gloves in white dresses. A live jazz band played in the corner of the dance floor. Along the opposite wall an enormous champagne fountain, the golden liquid infused with dashes of red berries, bubbled merrily atop a white tablecloth next to bowls of truffles and chocolate-covered strawberries, platters of gourmet cheeses and fat green grapes. Cigarettes and cigars fanned out in lines on various surfaces, and Callie watched a girl place one in a long old-fashioned cigarette holder, which she extended toward her date for a light.

You were right, Mrs. Jacobsen, Callie mentally conceded to her tenth-grade English teacher, who had given Callie an A- on a paper arguing that the novel—one of Callie’s all-time favorites—was beautiful but failed to resonate with the “America of today.”

Clearly, the old money “East Egg” contingent was alive and well and Callie, like a “West Egg” party crasher, must strive to blend in as best she could. Harvard, or at least this facet of it, was her green light, her dream, and maybe on Clint’s arm she could convince them that she belonged. . . . But maybe, as it had for Gatsby, the dream would soon come crashing down and she would wind up shot in the back of the head, with Lexi or Vanessa standing at the edge of the swimming pool, holding the smoking gun.

“Champagne?” Clint asked.

“Thank you,” said Callie, accepting the glass flute.

“Did I tell you that you look beautiful tonight?” he said, pocketing a cigar and leaning in to kiss her on the cheek. “I’m pretty sure I’m the luckiest man in this room.”

Callie smiled. The jazz band struck up a faster number.

“Dance?” Clint asked, offering her two white-gloved hands.

“Sure!” she said, setting aside her champagne and placing her palms on his. “Um . . . how . . . ?” She had no idea how to dance to this kind of music.

“I think the fox-trot was popular back then,” Clint said, steering her out onto the floor.

“Fox-
what
?”

“Fox . . . oh.” He dropped her hands. “Dance wasn’t a part of your curriculum back in California?”

“Dance
was
a part of your curriculum in Virginia?” she countered.

“Well—yes.” The corners of his eyes crinkled. “There was seventh-grade dance class, when all the girls were a head taller than the boys and the only thing we learned was how to covertly wipe the sweat from our hands and that staring straight ahead
could
get you in a lot of trouble.” As he spoke, he took her left hand in his right and wrapped his left arm around her waist. “Now I step forward with my left and you go back with your right,” he said, moving his foot in tandem with hers and gripping her tight. “Next there was general cotillion training—that was my freshman year. We were taller, but the girls were just as terrifying. Now you brush your right foot with your left as you step back again,” he said, stepping forward as she stepped back. “Good. Now brush your right foot to the left before we step to the side,” he explained, and she followed his lead, “and the other foot follows quickly and—rest.”

Other couples were twirling around them, but Callie could barely hear the music clipping along, lively and upbeat. She and Clint moved at their own private pace; the rest of the world melted away.

“One more time, slowly,” he said, never breaking eye contact. “Back, back, side, together,” he directed. “Right, left, right, left . . . Exactly, just like that,” he said as they repeated the movements slowly. “Last of all, we had the debutante balls. By then mastering the basic steps was the least of our worries, and we were far more concerned over who would escort whom and everything that came with it. . . . Although the girls were, oddly, still just as terrifying,” he finished with a laugh. He stopped suddenly.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Why, Ms. Andrews,” he said, pulling her close, “I do believe you’ve mastered the fox-trot!”

“Did I? I did!” she cried. “Ooh, sorry!” she added, leaping off his toes.

He laughed. “Shall we?” he said, holding up his hands again.

“Yes,” she agreed, smiling. And then they were dancing.
Back, back, side, together; Right, left, right, left; Slow, slow, quick, quick. Right back slow; left back slow; right side quick; left together quick
—they whirled across the floor as naturally and easily as any other couple under the canopy of lights. Finally, flushed and out of breath, they slowed, the music mellowing into softer, smoother jazz.

Clint’s lips brushed against the top of her cheekbone. His breath tickled her ear, his hand firm on the small of her back. She closed her eyes and breathed him in. It was a perfect moment. The perfect moment to say . . .

“Clint,” she whispered.

“Yes?”

“I . . .”