The Ivy: Rivals (29 page)

A horn tooted and the ferry’s engines chugged to life. Silently they continued to eat what was quite possibly the most delicious food Callie had ever tasted while the boat glided through the water. “I still can’t believe we pulled it off,” Callie murmured when her hunger finally began to subside. A light breeze started to blow as the boat picked up speed, providing cool relief from the hot afternoon sun.

“We make a good team,” Gregory remarked mildly, handing her a carton of coconut water. “You done with that?” he added, pointing at the remains of her meal. She nodded, and he swept the used napkins and paper plates back into the bag.

“I don’t know that I actually contributed much,” she insisted. “You were the one who thought of the restaurant and knew where to go to find it, and you’re the one who can speak Spanish. I mean, what if I’d
actually
gotten stranded with someone else or, even worse, on my own? I’m not—”

“I’m sure you would have figured something out,” Gregory said. “You’re a very resourceful girl.”

Callie narrowed her eyes.
“Tenacious.”

“Yes,” he replied. “You have an ample vocabulary as well.”

She laughed, leaning into him a little. He draped his arm over the metal frame of her chair, his fingers grazing her shoulder.

“Um . . .” she started, her mind drawing a complete blank as she looked into his eyes: bluer, even, than the water.

He met her gaze and—maybe she was imagining it—he seemed to be leaning in. . . . And now he was definitely reaching out to brush an errant strand of hair—wild with grime and soap and sand—out of her no-doubt dirty and sunburned face. . . .

Suddenly he frowned and quickly retracted his arm, turning away from her and staring out over the railing.

“Gregory—”

“Sorry,” he muttered.

“No, Gregory, I—”

“I
said
sorry. I didn’t—”

“I KNOW ABOUT THE NOTE!” she blurted.

Horrified, she froze. Why, why,
why
do I always have to open my big fat mouth without at least thinking a
little
bit first?

Slowly he turned back to look at her.

“So . . . what?” he finally said.

Her stomach plummeted.

“So . . .”

“Would knowing that earlier have changed anything?” he demanded.

“I . . . Maybe not,” she admitted.

He was silent.

This was it: do or die.

She picked
do
.

“Maybe knowing then wouldn’t have changed my mind, but what matters is that right now . . . well . . . it seems like
you’ve
changed, and I know that it’s probably because you’re with someone else, and oh god, you’re with someone else, and maybe I should be asking you if you’re happy before I say this, and if you are, then maybe I should leave you alone because that’s what you did for me when . . .” Deliberately ignoring his facial expressions she spoke faster and faster.

Her monologue had already spiraled totally out of control and yet she knew: “If I don’t say it now, then maybe I never will and maybe I should also—stop saying maybe and just—well, it seems like everything has changed:
you
changed, Clint changed, or maybe—
ugh
, there it is again, sorry—but really Clint was probably always this way and I’m just finally seeing things clearly and well . . . one thing that hasn’t changed are my feelings. . . .”

Oh god. She closed her eyes.

“My feelings . . . I still have . . . for you . . . I mean, I always . . . and I do—”

“Callie.”

Cool. Calm. Worst of all . . . amused.

Flinching, she opened her eyes.

He was less than two inches from her face.

He took her hands in his. “Stop. Talking,” he whispered.

And then he kissed her.

Wait
—no he didn’t. He came within an inch and then stopped, which she realized when she opened her eyes again, mortified for the second time. Or the 327,834
th
time, depending on when you’d started counting.

“Callie,” he repeated slowly, still holding her hands. “I feel . . . the same way.”

You do???

You do!

Wait.

But then why?

Oh no. He was mocking her again—he had been the whole time. He—

“But—”

Here it comes: the part where he laughs in my face.

“Before anything can happen, I have to talk to Alessandra first.”

Oh. Oh! She exhaled. How maddeningly-terribly-wonderfully-un-Clintlike-yet-frustratingly-torturous at the same time!

“Okay,” she finally managed, trying and failing to lean away.

“I know neither of us is perfect,” he started.

Good: because the guy she previously believed defined that term,
perfect
, didn’t really work out so well.

“And that we’ve both made mistakes . . .”

Right now the only mistake she could think of was why she hadn’t spent every possible waking moment kissing him—

“And I’m sure I’m probably going to make a few more.”

“Uh-huh . . .” How about starting with forgetting to wait to tell Alessandra? Would it really be
so
bad?

“But I want to start this the right way.”

“Right,” she agreed. “Right.”

Still, neither of them moved.

“OH MY GOD—I SEE THEM—I SEE THEM!” Vanessa’s voice cut shrilly across the water.

“Callie!”

“Gregory!”

“Oh, we were so worried—”

“—we thought—”

“Knew you would find a way!”

“Why are you still up there?”

At some point during their conversation the boat had docked, and most of its passengers had disembarked. Neither of them had noticed.

“Get off quick, before the ferry goes back to the island!”

Callie and Gregory looked at each other and started to laugh.

“What do you think?” he asked. “We could give up our lives on the mainland and just live here from now on. . . . Maybe open a restaurant—
maybe
—if that maybe seems like a good idea to you?”

“Gee, I don’t know,” she said, pretending to think about it. “School is kind of important.”

“You’re right,” he agreed, standing. “And there are several pressing matters I need to attend to just as soon as we return.”

She smiled. “Well, in that case,” she said, jumping up, “the sooner we leave, the better!”

OK, Matt, Mimi, and Vanessa enveloped them as soon as they reached the dock, smothering them with hugs and reassurances and demanding to know what had happened. At one point Callie met Gregory’s eyes and he smiled. In the grand scheme of things the present interruption—and even the added complication of someone else, who was probably waiting for him back at the airport now with the rest of the upperclassmen—barely mattered. From this moment on they had all the time in the world. And, for the first time since school had started, Callie couldn’t wait to get back to Cambridge.

Chapter Sixteen
Insider Outed

Apr 4
Behind the Ivy-Covered Walls: Part IV

6:32
AM
By THE IVY INSIDER

The “Punch Book” is a traditionally written paper document or booklet used by Final or other social clubs during the punch process to record and share anonymous commentary on prospective members. Often considered one of the most confidential parts of the process, the punches (and all nonmembers) are supposed to remain ignorant of said punch book’s existence. In the service of maintaining secrecy many Final Clubs literally burn the paper book before inaugurating a new class of punches: a purging ritual deemed to be in the best interests of members new and old.

Recently, several clubs, including the Hasty Pudding, have recreated the aspects of the punch book online for convenience sake; however, with modernity comes a new set of problems on how to eradicate the primarily anonymous remarks—which one can infer might have the potential to be damaging to both the punches and the members.

Although elections for this spring’s class have long since drawn to a close, it seems the Hasty Pudding social club has neglected to erase the electronic record containing their private thoughts on each of their new members and those less fortunate who did not make the cut. The comments compiled on the password-protected site HPpunch.com appear to illuminate the true membership criteria for the Pudding, the inner workings of the society, and the values espoused by the members of the club.

Some particularly telling examples include the following:

Of Shelby Samuel, Class of 2014, one member writes,

“ABORT! ABORT! She is NOT, as previously believed, THE Samuel of Shell Oil.”

Of Sydney Hauser, Class of 2013, another writes,

“If she talks about how much homework she has or anything else school-related one more time, I’m going to stick a fork in my friggin’ eye. Headed on the fast track to Cutsville: let’s kick this nerd to the curb before I lose a perfectly good eye over it.”

Of Penelope Vandemeer, Class of 2014, someone notes,

“Grating. So grating. Is the private jet
really
worth a monologue on the merits of Prada over Gucci?”

Another member disagrees, and finds Ms. Vandemeer,
“charming, classy,”
and in possession of an
“excellent taste in fashion.”

Of Vanessa Von Vorhees, Class of 2014,

“What a leech! Give me some room to breathe, woman! Though you can tell she really wants it, if personal space invasion is any indicator.”

Of Aaron Thomas, Class of 2014,

“Enough with these recruited athletes! I sure hope he can throw a football better than he can carry on a conversation.”

Of Chip Hallisburg, Class of 2013,

“One word: unibrow.”

Of Hugh Herbertson, Class of 2012,

“So, so gay. And I mean that in the best possible way. ;)”

Of Alessandra Constantine, Class of 2013,

“Yeah, yeah, I can see that everyone else loves her, but what good is she to me if she already has a boyfriend?”

Women, or so it seems according to the remarks above, are only valuable in terms of their personal or parental assets (be it a jet or lack of oil shares) and sexual availability, while derided for other commitments, most notably to academics.

Members appear to go easier on their male punches, noting that athletic skill may not compensate for a lack of social grace, though clearly not all male prospective members were immune to comments regarding their physical appearance or sexual orientation.*

* While the site is no longer live, readers can view the full contents of the punch book online here:

Behind the Ivy-Covered Walls: Part V – Pudding Punch Book Revealed

C
allie raced back to Wigglesworth and took the stairs two at a time, determined to find Gregory—despite her previous resolution to give him some space so he could gracefully end things with Alessandra—and discover why he had missed that morning’s emergency meeting at the Pudding.

Highlights from the meeting—or lowlights, depending on how you looked at it—kept echoing through Callie’s head as she flew down the second-floor hallway:

Anne urging that they settle down to keep this from “turning into a witch hunt.”

Tyler reprimanding several male upperclassmen members for almost violently accusing various new admits of being the Insider, and then saying, with a very grave look on his face, that the article was “indisputably an inside job.”

Lexi agreeing and pointing out that only a member could have accessed the password-protected site.

Members blindly accusing other members of being too “bitchy” or “superficial” or “downright deplorable” in their commentary, which was met with cries about speaking “under the condition of anonymity,” or “can’t you take a joke?” or “personally I wouldn’t take back a single thing I said.”

People glancing around the room suspiciously, noting that only half the club had even showed up for the meeting, though obviously it was Monday morning and people had class or simply had yet to check their e-mail.

Penelope marching in to say that while she wasn’t “deactivating—
yet
,” she hoped they all knew that the jet was not available for club use.

Someone wailing that “technology will be the end of us!” and insisting they should have stuck to tradition and a paper book because paper, unlike computers, can still burn. The member and computer science major who had set up HPpunch.com shaking his head in disbelief and then concurring with Lexi and Tyler that only a person in possession of the password could have breached the site’s security.

Tyler finally kicking everyone out except the board but warning members that they could expect to set aside a fair amount of time for further discussion and possible questioning in the following week.

No doubt about it, the meeting had been bad. Very bad. Callie was still having a hard time wrapping her mind around having, as Tyler had so dramatically cried, “a traitor in our midst.” Who would do such a thing?

Without knocking, Callie burst into the common room of C 23.

“
Gregor
—oh. Ah, hi . . .”

Alessandra sat slumped on the couch while OK gingerly patted her back. She looked as if she’d been crying. Apparently Gregory, who did not appear to be on the premises, had failed to end things as “gracefully” as he had hoped. What’s more, he seemed to have left the task of comforting his now ex-girlfriend in the questionably capable hands of OK.

Alessandra glanced at Callie, distraught written all over her face. “I just can’t believe it. . . .”

“I . . .” Callie grimaced. “I’m so sorry,” she apologized uncomfortably, staying by the door.

“Did you know about all of this before I did?” Alessandra demanded.

“I—well—no—I mean, I suppose I had an idea . . . what was coming. . . .”

“Really?” Alessandra screeched. “Because I didn’t have a clue!” Then, to what looked like OK’s extreme discomfort, she threw her head onto his chest. “How could he not say something earlier!” she wailed. “How could he
leave
me just like that: all of a sudden and with no warning?”

Callie stood there stricken. OK appeared equally unsure what to say. “There, there, chin up,” he eventually started, lightly stroking Alessandra’s hair. “None of us could have seen this coming . . . He didn’t say anything to us either, and we’re his roommates.”

Callie arched her eyebrows at OK, trying to communicate that he was overdoing it just a bit. After all, from what Vanessa and Mimi had said on the beach, everyone on their floor had suspected that Callie and Gregory might end up together sometime soon, even if neither of them had expressly said anything since their return late Saturday night.

“. . . just gone when we woke up this morning,” OK was continuing. “Must have left in the middle of the night.”

Wait—what?

“Left . . . as in left
Cambridge
?” Callie said slowly. Not Alessandra?

“I thought you said you knew!” Alessandra cried from the crook of OK’s chest.

“Knew what exactly?” Callie asked, her eyes darting from OK to Alessandra.

“About what happened to Bolton,” OK said. “Why he left school without saying anything to anyone.”

“Left
school
?” Callie repeated in alarm. Without thinking, she darted into his bedroom, the door to which had been left wide open. Drawers jutted out from his dresser, practically empty except for the odd T-shirt or sock. Most of the hangers in the closet stood bare as well, save for several jackets, slacks, and dress shirts. His squash racket and gym bag rested on the floor, but other than that, there were no suitcases anywhere, including the one he’d used over spring break.

“He’s really gone,” Callie murmured numbly, wandering back into the common room.

Alessandra moaned.

“But . . .” Callie started. “What . . . Why . . .”

“Here,” said OK, lifting his iPad off the coffee table.

“What . . .”

“Just read it,” he instructed, gesturing pointedly at Alessandra.

Taking the tablet, Callie spotted the familiar format of the
New York Times
online edition. Frowning, she sank onto the couch opposite OK and Alessandra and started to read.

“This can’t be happening,” Callie murmured, barely understanding what she had read. “I mean, it has to be a joke or something—”

“Some joke,” OK muttered.

“He did mention problems with his dad,” she continued vaguely, “but I thought . . . had no idea . . . So, he really didn’t say anything to you, Alessandra?” she asked, raising her voice. “About this or—um—anything else before he left?”

Alessandra shook her head.

“I have to call him,” Callie said, standing. “Make sure that he’s okay. . . .”

“You don’t think that we already thought of that?” Alessandra said acidly, glaring at her.

OK nodded grimly. “I’ve already dialed his cell about a billion times.”

Crap, thought Callie. Worry was quickly evolving into panic. Forcing a deep breath, she pulled out her phone. “It can’t hurt just to try,” she murmured. Maybe, for her, he would answer.

Fingers shaking, she dialed his number. Her romantic concerns felt petty and irrelevant now—all she cared about was whether he was all right and that he knew she would be there for him through whatever happened next, in whatever capacity—friend, girlfriend—that he needed.

The line rang and rang.

Nobody picked up. Then the automated recording started instructing her to leave a voice mail, but suddenly, halfway through, she heard the familiar beep of Call Waiting.

Oh, thank god.

“Gregory? Gregory,” she exclaimed. “We were all so worr—”

“Callie. It’s Grace.” The newspaper editor’s voice crackled over the line.

“Grace? What—”

“Where are you?” Grace demanded.

“In Wigglesworth . . .” Callie said slowly. From Grace’s tone something sounded severely wrong. Well, something
was
severely wrong, but even if Grace knew about Gregory, why would she contact Callie? She didn’t even know Gregory or that he and Callie were semi-involved—

“Wigglesworth!” Grace exclaimed. “You were supposed to be here ten minutes ago!”

Oh, crap. Between unpacking from spring break and everything else that had happened in the past few hours, Callie must have completely forgotten some important
Crimson
business.

“Grace, I’m so sorry,” she started, motioning apologetically to OK and Alessandra that she had to leave. “I’ll come back as soon as I can,” she whispered to them, covering the mouthpiece of her phone. Alessandra looked like
never
would also be perfectly acceptable, but OK gave her a grateful wave before she walked out the door. “Just give me two minutes,” she continued speaking to Grace, “and I’ll meet you over there at the
Crimson
.”

“The
Crimson
?” Grace screeched. “No, just come straight to University Hall. I’m already here—like I said, the meeting was supposed to start ten minutes ago!”

“What meeting?” Callie asked, stopping in her tracks. “What about University Hall?”

There was a pause on the other end of the line. “You didn’t see the e-mail, did you?” Grace said quietly.

“No,” said Callie, opening the door to C 24. “I was at an emergency meeting for the Pudding all morning because of the latest Insider article. . . .” Quickly Callie walked into her bedroom and clicked on her laptop.

“Yeah, well, your Pudding
friends
weren’t the only ones who decided that the latest installment from the Insider caused a bit of an emergency,” Grace snapped. “The administrative board also noticed, and they summoned both of us to appear before them in a meeting at noon. Which was now . . . twelve minutes ago.”

Her eyes wide, Callie skimmed the e-mail at the top of her in-box that was indeed from the administrative board, summoning her to a mandatory meeting in University Hall at noon.

“But . . . why
me
?” Callie cried, wondering if everything that had happened in the last half hour was all just part of some crazy nightmare. In a daze she pinched her arm. No luck: she still stood in front of her computer, her bed neatly made.

“Just get over here,” Grace said. “We’ll be waiting.”

Then the line went dead.

“Ms. Andrews, thank you for joining us today,” Dean of Harvard College, Phillip A. Benedict, boomed from the head of a rectangular table in a conference room in University Hall. Callie had never met him in person, but she recognized him from his photograph in the brochure for Freshman Parents Weekend. A man and a woman sat on either side of him, wearing suits and looking stone-faced and severe, while Grace was at the other end of the table closest to the door. Obeying Dean Benedict’s gesture that she should sit, Callie took the chair next to her managing editor.

“I was just explaining to Ms. Lee,” the dean continued, “what a grave situation we have on our hands here with this most recent column from the person who calls herself the, ah, ‘Ivy Insider,’” he said, waving a printout of the article. “The author of this article has, to my mind, clearly crossed an ethical line—would you agree, Ms. Lee?”