The Ivy: Rivals (20 page)

It looked like she had missed the opportunity to vote on approximately fifteen prospective members. It was almost six o’clock and they were just getting started on last names beginning with O. No word from Gregory about why he was MIA and no word from Clint about whether he wanted to stay together or never see her again. Sighing once more, she put away her phone.

Her father still stood with Professor Stanislauss, probably talking about some mathematical concept far beyond her grasp. It was wonderful to see him again after these past few months apart, but it also reminded her of how he could no longer solve her problems the way he had when she was eight years old, always ready with a Band-Aid when she scraped her knee or a huge bear hug after a rough day in school, like that one time she’d gotten her hand stuck in the goldfish bowl.

In a weird way the connection to home made her feel more alone than ever. She was on her own, and despite his considerable intellect and general Best-Dad-in-the-World-ness, Dr. Andrews had no solutions for everything going on with Clint, Gregory, or even Vanessa. Unless, of course, she could convince him to kidnap Alexis Thorndike. She almost laughed at the thought of trying to explain Lexi to him.
What is a Thorndike and why is it bothering you so much?
he would probably say, before ruling the entire situation a Mom Problem, just as he had done with periods and her one big fight with Jessica back in high school.

Catching his eye, she smiled at him.

“Ready for dinner, kiddo?” he called, coming over to her.

Smiling, she slipped her arm through his. “You betcha, Daddo!”

A few hours later they were sharing their favorite dessert—an ice cream sundae with extra hot fudge—in the lobby of his hotel.

“Ugh,” she groaned, dropping her spoon with a clatter and silencing the never-ending buzz of her phone.

“Seriously, Calbear,” said her dad, watching her, “what’s the deal with all this phone stuff?”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I should have just turned it off.”

“It’s okay,” he said, taking a huge spoonful of ice cream. “You’ve been good about it, even though I could see you itching to answer all night. Who keeps calling you, anyway? It’s not that boyfriend your mother made me promise to spy on this weekend, is it?”

Callie closed her eyes at the word
boyfriend
, trying not to groan again. “They’re not calls; they’re texts,” she explained. “It’s that club I joined last semester,” she continued. “Today is the day we’re voting on new members and they want to know if I say yay or nay.” She paused, picking up her phone. “On . . .
ew
. . . Vandemeer
comma
Penelope.”

“Sounds like a nay,” said her dad. “I can tell just from the name.”

“Very perceptive of you,” Callie agreed, spooning some hot fudge covered in crushed walnuts into her mouth. Still, she refrained from responding in the negative, having decided on the way to the airport that the very idea of voting on someone made her uncomfortable. She would make only one exception: to vote yay on Von Vorhees, Vanessa. After what had happened with the Pudding last semester, she owed her that much.

“So, is this club that same Jell-O society that you needed extra money for last semester?”

“It’s called the Pudding,” she said meekly.

“Well, whatever it’s called, your mother and I discussed it and—”

“Wait,” said Callie, lowering her spoon. “Since when do you and Mom
discuss
things?”

“What are you talking about? Your mother and I have plenty of amicable discussions.”

Callie raised her eyebrows, leveling him with a
look
.

“All right, fine: you got me,” he said with a smile, taking another bite of ice cream. “Although you may be surprised to know that your mother and I have become considerably friendlier since you left for college. I think it must be a combination of that empty-nester syndrome and mutual fear that you’re going to get yourself in some sort of trouble somehow so far away from home.”

Oh, if only he knew. “Trouble” didn’t even begin to cover it. She forced a smile. “Hey!” she cried. “First you’re
friendlier
, then you’re hanging out, and before you know it . . . bam! You’re back together.”

“Not in this lifetime.” He laughed, but it sounded a little sad. “Anyhow, back to the Jell-O. Your mother and I had a few
friendly
conversations about it, and we have no problem with your membership, given your decision to get a job and pay your own way.”

Well, not exactly, but close enough. She nodded, shoveling more ice cream into her mouth. She had managed to cover some of her dues with her measly wages from the library, but she had run out of ideas as to who had footed the rest of the outstanding bill.

“But I do worry that you might be losing track of yourself out here, Calbear,” he continued. “At home it always seemed like soccer was the thing that kept you focused and grounded, and without it I imagine you may be having a tough time figuring out exactly who you are or how to relieve stress without a ball to kick around the field. And I’m guessing there’s plenty of stress to deal with,” he finished, looking at her. “And not just schoolwork but other things, too: the kind of stuff that I can’t always help you with.”

So, so right. Suddenly she found herself blinking rapidly, unsure what to say.

“Fortunately I know I raised you—okay,” he admitted, “so your mom helped a little—to be capable of handling anything that comes your way. While it’s fine to try new things and even make mistakes, I just want to make sure that you remember who you are and where you come from and that your old man loves you . . . and you’re not allowed to marry anyone who isn’t willing to move to California.”

Callie laughed. “I love you, too, Dad.”

“Enough to let me have the last bite?” he asked, pointing to the sundae with his spoon.

“Sure,” she said. “Uh-oh, there it goes again,” she added while her phone buzzed on the table. The text message notice indicated that it was from Mimi. Opening it, she read:

S.O.S.O.S. W
ITCH-LADY IS
ALMOST CONVINCING EVERYONE TO
VOTE AGAINST
V
ANESSA
. C
AN YOU
GET TO LE CLUB
???????

“Dad,” she said, starting to stand. “I’m so sorry, but—if you don’t mind—I really have to go.” Fortunately, his hotel, the Sheraton Commander, was on Garden Street less than two blocks away from the Pudding. If she ran, she could make it.

“Is it something for that club?”

“Yes—well, yes and no. I have to do something related to the club, but it’s not
for
the club, it’s for a friend.”

“Well,” he said, “go on, then. It was a long flight, and I was planning to hit the hay soon anyway. I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, standing and giving her a final hug.

“Thanks, Dad,” she said, throwing her arms around him. “Thanks for dinner—and for everything.”

He smiled down at her. “You betcha!”

Hour Thirteen (T Minus 40 Hours until Parental Departure): In which Callie sprints to the Pudding and makes a speech of epic proportions.

“Well, it seems like everyone’s had their say on Ms. Von Vorhees,” said Anne from where she still sat in front of the room. “Time to put it to a vote—”

“WAIT!” Callie cried, exploding into the room, red-faced and panting. “Sorry,” she said, bending over and resting her hands on her knees. “Is it all right if I—” she added, taking a sip of Anne’s water without waiting for an answer. Looking up, she saw Mimi grinning at her; unfortunately, the double thumbs-up sign didn’t inspire any particular words. Everyone stared, including Lexi, Tyler, and Clint, who were all still posted in the front row. Taking a deep breath, Callie decided just to wing it.

“Vanessa
really
wants to join this club. Like, really,
really
wants it.”

“So?” said Lexi, smirking. “Since when has that been an aspect of our criteria?”

Callie met her gaze. “Maybe it hasn’t been an, er,
aspect
of the criteria in the past, but my point is that it should be. So what if we already have a lot of people like her?” Callie said, naming one of the anonymous complaints she had read on HPpunch.com. “Although I have to say, as someone who lives with her, that there really is no one quite like Vanessa,” she added. Mimi nodded in agreement.

“And if it seems like she’s ‘trying too hard,’” Callie continued, “that’s only because of how badly, like I already said, she wants it. And you know what? That’s the kind of club that
I
want to be a part of, too. Not the type of place that excludes people just to feel exclusive but somewhere that allows anyone who genuinely wants to be here belong—even if they’re a little wacky or annoying from time to time.”

Callie took a deep breath, ignoring Anne’s horrified expression as she filched another sip of water.

“So,” she concluded, “if she goes, I go.”

“Fine by me,” Lexi muttered.

“
Moi aussi,
” Mimi called from the back. “I go, too.”

Callie beamed. At least they could all sit alone together in the room on Friday nights with no more clubhouse. . . .

Or maybe not: a couple of the sophomores seemingly on the verge of voting with Lexi previously were glancing anxiously at Mimi who, much like Alessandra, had been one of last semester’s high-priority punches.

“Oh, please,” said Lexi, rolling her eyes. “This is just ridiculous—”

“I go, too,” said another voice, its owner standing.

It was Clint. Callie stared at him, her eyes prickling, and even though his face was carefully devoid of expression, he was, for the first time all week, looking back at her.

“Hell, so do I,” said Tyler, leaping to his feet. “I already vowed to beat up everyone who didn’t vote for her but now—what the heck—if you don’t want her, then I’ll resign my presidency.”

“Tyler,” Lexi said sharply, “you can’t just coerce them by threatening—”

“Oh, stop talking,” Tyler interrupted, “and let’s get on with the vote. Callie, you can sit down now,” he added. “Anne?”

“Yes,” she said, tearing her eyes away from her now empty water glass. “A show of hands, please.”

Hour Fourteen (T Minus 39 Hours until Parental Departure): In which the votes are in and the members of the Pudding summon their new initiates to the John Harvard statue.

Callie and Mimi huddled together at the base of the John Harvard statue, struggling to stay warm. The rest of the members were assembled nearby, preparing to place the calls commanding new members-elect to “
Get to the John Harvard statue, now
.” In a matter of minutes they would arrive.

“Hey,” said Callie, taking a few steps forward, “is that a . . .”

“. . . it is!” she called triumphantly to Mimi a few seconds later.

Somebody had left a soccer ball on the grass in the middle of Harvard Yard.

“Weeeeeeeee!” Callie yelled, dribbling full speed while Mimi called after her through chattering teeth and swatted at OK, who had immediately rushed over to offer his services as a personal space heater.

The sounds faded save for the rush of wind through Callie’s hair and the soft crunch of the grass beneath her toes. After a long day of sitting and texting and trying not to break teacups, running felt absolutely amazing. At the edge of the Yard, about two hundred feet away from the group now, she doubled back, muttering commentary all the while:

“And Rooney fakes left and then takes it up the side; my god, look how fast—he breaks through the Liverpool fullbacks and then—wait for it—he shoots—he SCOR—
Ahhhhhh!
”

In the darkness, unaware of how fast she’d been moving, she had accidentally kicked the ball as hard as she could straight into the head of an oncoming figure—

THWACK!

The ball smacked against the boy’s palms as he caught it—

“And the shot is BLOCKED in a phenomenal save from Liverpool keeper Pepe Reina,” Callie heard Gregory cry, her horrified expression melting into a smile as she raced toward him. “But wait,” he continued, “Rooney is on the move again, rushing Reina, hoping that he’ll make a mistake—but Reina is too quick and—”

“And
oh
, a MASSIVE punt from the Liverpool keeper!” Callie shouted, still in announcer mode, as Gregory kicked the ball. They watched it soar, arc, and then drop, all the way over the fence on the other side of the yard.

“You follow the Premier League football clubs?” Callie asked breathlessly, two bright spots on her cheeks. “I always assumed that was OK who TiVoed all the English games!”

Gregory shook his head. “Never assume that anything of quality was TiVoed by His Highness.”

“Seriously!” Callie laughed. “Well, we should totally watch a game together some—”

“I should have known,” a voice said suddenly from behind them. The color draining from her face, Callie turned: Clint stood only a few feet away. “I was going to compliment you on the way you stood up for Vanessa,” he said, “but I wouldn’t want to interrupt.”

“No,” said Callie, “wait—”

“No, no,” Clint reassured them, backing away. “It’s fine. I’ll leave you two alone.”

Dammit!

“Gregory,” she said, turning to him, “I’m sorry, but—”

“Go,” he said with a nod.

“Sorry,” she called again, racing after Clint, who had hurried to rejoin the crowd near the John Harvard statue. The punches had started to arrive, but Callie barely noticed what was happening around her as Tyler began to read from the list of names, calling each new member forward one by one. Her cheeks were still flushed, and her eyes kept darting back to Clint, hoping to catch his gaze: to convey with a look that there was nothing going on with Gregory beyond a random, wild moment of pure—
friendly
—connection, because they were friends now; that’s it.