The Ivy: Rivals (8 page)

“I’m really, really happy with my boyfriend, Clint. He’s all I want. So I can honestly say that you have nothing to worry about with Gregory—from me at least,” Callie said. Can’t make any guarantees on behalf of the rest of the female population. “But I think . . . I guess I agree with Lexi that he’s capable of reforming and could one day be . . . a really solid guy for someone. And it sounds like, from everything you said, that maybe that person is you.”

“You really think so?” Alessandra asked.

“Su—” The rest of the word was lost as Alessandra enveloped her in a boob-crushing hug.

“Isn’t Lexi
great
?” Alessandra exclaimed when they finally started down the stairs.

“. . . Sure,” said Callie, vowing to cut down on the white lies starting tomorrow.

“I’m so glad,” Alessandra finished with a huge smile, “that the three of us are all becoming friends.”

Chapter Five
Jackie or Marilyn?

A Brief Q&A with Governor Joseph Hamilton

Brought to you by
FM
Magazine

FM:
What type of degree would you recommend for a student who is interested in going into politics (other than the obvious: to make sure that it’s from Harvard!)?

Hamilton:
Harvard is certainly not a prerequisite; after all, you can get Cs from Yale and still go on to be president of the United States! But in all seriousness, drive and charisma will get you further than whatever you learn in Government or Social Studies, which is what I studied when I was here.

FM:
How does it feel to be the first moderate governor elected in a state that has voted Democrat in the last five presidential elections?

Hamilton:
It feels great! Frankly I interpret my election as a mandate for change. The people have spoken. That’s the beautiful thing about democracy.

FM:
What’s your favorite thing about your state?

Hamilton:
I’d like to be able to say that we have a mighty fine baseball team, but the truth is: I’m a Red Sox fan. Really, though, Maryland is a beautiful state with many local attractions, but it’s the people who make us great.

FM:
The FDA or NIH?

Hamilton:
Both are crucial federal institutes that do very different yet equally important things.

FM:
Final question: Jackie or Marilyn?

Hamilton:
I’m not really sure what that means, but this seems like a case where I should plead the Fifth.

The Word of the Week

By Grace Lee

Nepotism
(noun)

(From Italian
nepotismo
< Latin nepos (“nephew”), a reference to the practice of popes appointing relatives (most often nephews) as cardinals during the Middle Ages and Renaissance)

1. The favoring of relatives or personal friends because of their relationship rather than because of their abilities.

Nepotism
can get you very far in the world if you’ve got the right connections.

Nepotism runs rampant at Harvard. Of course, students cannot control who—or how famous—their relatives are. What they can control is how they use that favoritism.

Yesterday
FM
was granted an exclusive interview with Governor Hamilton over the
Harvard Crimson
. (His niece happens to be their advice columnist. Coincidence? We think not.)

Of all the things the interviewer could have asked about—his recent tiff with the labor unions, budget cuts to charter schools, teacher layoffs in Baltimore, the declining crime rate—it seems the most important was to learn the Governor’s response to the completely asinine question (unfortunately typical of the magazine) “Jackie or Marilyn?” which was, incidentally, no comment.

This
Crimson
editor also has no further comment.

“T
hank you all for coming to hear me speak today,” Governor Hamilton said from where he was standing behind a podium in the Starr Auditorium at the Harvard Kennedy School of Government. He bore a certain resemblance to the man for whom the center was named, tall and charismatic with boyish good looks and chestnut-colored hair that, save for a sprinkling of gray, was the exact same shade as his niece’s. “And remember, no matter what state you hail from, or with which party you vote, I wish you the best of luck wherever your career paths may take you, and in the remainder of the academic year.”

“Take enough notes there, Marie Meloney?” Clint asked, watching Callie scribbling in her spiral-bound notebook.

Clint had been poking fun at her with various nicknames ever since he’d caught her Wikipedia-ing “famous female journalists” the other day.

“Marie Meloney started working for the
Washington Post
when she was just sixteen; she interviewed all kinds of famous people, from Mussolini to Marie Curie, and was best friends with Eleanor Roosevelt. I would be extremely lucky to have half the career that she did,” Callie retorted, her pen still flitting furiously across the page.

“Okay—jeez,” Clint said with a laugh, “by all means go ahead and finish that novel you’re working on.” It was true that she had, perhaps, been a tad overzealous, trying to write down everything the governor said word-for-word. But Grace had ordered her there on assignment—she loved saying that, “on assignment”—and she was determined to be thorough. “Just don’t forget that we have dinner plans,” Clint added.

“How could I forget?” she said, finally slamming her notebook shut. “I’ve been losing sleep over it for days!”

“Relax, they’re going to love you,” Clint said, rubbing her back.

Callie was not so sure. If Clint had snuck up behind her in the library five minutes earlier while she was surfing the web the other day, he would have found her on the Wiki for “The Webers.” Yes, they had their own Wikipedia page. They also had vacation homes in Nantucket (which turned out not to be, as previously believed, the name of an Indian reservation) and the Bahamas, box seats at the DC Opera and FedEx Field (home to the Washington Redskins), a wing named after them in the Smithsonian, and one humble hundred-and-twenty-foot “sailboat.” His mom was some sort of famous Washington lobbyist, and his dad worked at a think tank (which turned out not to be, as previously believed, a clear glass enclosure in which you float around and think).

To excuse this Vanessa-ish behavior she could only claim self-defense, and news of Clint’s family prestige failed to excite her, unless excitement had the exact same symptoms as dread.

“Eight o’clock at Rialto,” Clint reminded her. “Want me to pick you up after you go home to change?”

She raised her eyebrows. “I did this on purpose, you know,” she said, pointing to the tomato soup stain on her plain white T-shirt. Her mom had a rule against white for a reason.

“I know,” he said, grabbing her hand and kissing it. “Just like you spilled coffee on me the first time we
officially
met so you’d have an excuse to talk to me.”

“Exactly,” she said, following him out of the auditorium. “Now tell me one last time: is there anything else I should know about your parents before I meet them? Any pet peeves or—”

“I would avoid mentioning the bill proposing more funding for Virginia school systems that just recently failed to pass—it was one of Emilee’s pet projects—and John will only warm up to you if you know something about squash or old Western films or, if all else fails, you ask him about his Princeton days.”

That voice, sweet and musical like wind chimes—wind chimes in the middle of a storm, that is—could belong only to one person.

Alexis Thorndike was walking directly behind them, eavesdropping.

“I’m
so
sorry about the mix-up earlier,” she said, falling into step beside them. “Callie if I had known you were coming, I would have saved you a seat in the front row as well.”

“We were fine in the back, weren’t we?” Clint said, smiling at Callie. “But we do appreciate the thought.”

We, we, we
—the sound of it filled Callie with an unbelievable satisfaction, and not just because it had probably caused Lexi’s blood temperature to spike to a whopping 212 degrees Fahrenheit.

“Uncle Joe will be in town through the end of the week if you’d like me to introduce you. Perhaps at the Faculty Club’s cocktail party this Thursday evening? I could easily swing you an invitation—both of you.”

How very charitable, thought Callie. Will you be able to count that toward your community service hours?

“Thank you,” said Clint, picture-perfectly polite, “but unfortunately we have other plans that evening.” He took Callie’s hand.

“I’ll forward you the evite—just in case you change your mind.”

“Sounds good,” he said, ignoring Callie’s frown.

“Well, then,” Lexi said, stopping, “I suppose I’ll see you later. Do give Emilee and John my fond regards.”

When they were just out of hearing range, Callie made a vomiting sound.

Clint closed one eye. “Was that really necessary?”

In response she did it again.

“Real mature,” he said, smiling nonetheless.

“I’m sorry, but ‘do give Emilee and John my fond regards’?”

“What’s wrong with that?” he asked.

“Oh, not much, except for
everything
,” she replied.

“I think it’s nice,” he said mildly.

“Yeah, nice the way the wicked witch fed Hansel and Gretel before she tried to eat them!”

“You certainly have an active imagination, Soupy Meloney.”

She was quiet for a moment, watching the uneven bricks exposed beneath patches of sludgy snow on JFK Street disappear beneath her feet. “How’d she know you were coming, anyway?” she blurted suddenly.

“Who?”

“Lexi. She saved you a seat; she must’ve known you were coming.”

“Oh. Right,” he said. “We’re in the same government class.”

Callie scuffed her shoes along the bricks, kicking some dead leaves. They were mushy and far less satisfying than the crisp entrails of autumn or, for that matter, a soccer ball. Or Lexi’s stupid face.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, managing to sound both tolerant and resigned.

“Nothing,” she muttered. “I just didn’t realize . . . that you two are friends.”

“Is that a problem?’ he asked. “Because as much as I hate the idea of making you uncomfortable,
I’m
not comfortable with the idea that my relationship should dictate my choice of friends.”

Completely and totally reasonable. Still, she stayed silent.

Stopping, he took both her hands. “But I have only
one
girlfriend,” he said, leaning in to kiss her forehead. “And she doesn’t have to worry about sharing me with anyone else because she’s cute and brilliant and totally adorable.”

“Yeah, well, we’ll see what your parents have to say about that.”

They had reached Wigglesworth.

“See you tonight?”

“I can’t wait.” She forced a smile. For it to be over.

The lounge at Rialto, the four-star restaurant in The Charles Hotel, where Clint’s parents were staying, was all cream, black, and beige, lit by pale yellow candles and separated from the main dining room by a set of gauzy curtains. The Webers sat on two stools at the bar, a dapper middle-aged couple whose color scheme was an eerie match for their surroundings. Mrs. Weber, impeccable in black and cream, looked like the love child of Anna Wintour and Coco Chanel, exuding nothing but warmth as she turned, stood, and hugged her son, but then smiling at Callie in a way that seemed more Wintour-ian than Chanel. Mr. Weber wore a black suit, but something in his expression was distinctly—or perhaps indistinctly—beige. His eyes kept flicking back and forth between his wife and their surroundings, tracking her movements almost as a small dog might take cues from its owner. Smiling, he extended his hand toward Callie.

“Mom, Dad,” said Clint, who stood next to her and whose face was miraculously calm given how hard she was squeezing his hand, “this is Callie.”

“Hi,” said Callie, letting go of Clint and shaking hands with Mr. Weber, pressing her knees together to keep them from shaking, too.

“Lovely to meet you, dear,” Mrs. Weber said, kissing Callie on the cheek. “We’re so pleased that you were able to join us this evening. Clint tells us that you normally keep very busy with class and various extracurriculars.”

“Um, I guess—yes,” said Callie, following them into the dining room. Was she supposed to sit or remain standing until they did it first—and what was she supposed to do with her coat? At that moment a waiter fell from heaven and offered to take her jacket before pulling out her chair. Relieved, she sank into it. Callie: 1; The Evening: 0.

Looking down, she saw eight different types of cutlery including a weird spoon-shaped utensil looming above her plate. Callie: 1; The Evening: 1.

“She writes for the same magazine as Alexis, isn’t that right, sweetheart?” Mrs. Weber asked Clint, smiling at Callie.

“Well, actually,” Callie started, wiggling in her chair, “I didn’t, well, m—”

“Callie is COMPing the
Harvard Crimson
, which is much more prestigious than the magazine,” Clint interceded smoothly, squeezing her hand under the table.

“How
is
Alexis?” Mr. Weber said, blinking rapidly.

“She’s doing well,” Clint said, opening his menu.

“She sent such a lovely Christmas card this year,” Mrs. Weber remarked. “It’s too bad we won’t get a chance to see her before we leave. Are you
sure
she can’t make it to lunch tomorrow with Tyler?”

“She’s busy.”

“Pity.” Mr. Weber grunted, signaling their waiter. “Another Glenlivet on the rocks, please.”

“Anything sound good to you?” Clint asked Callie, peering over her shoulder at the menu.

“Er . . .” Mimi had urged Callie to order the most expensive thing on the menu to prove she had
cojones
(Thank you, Spanish lessons with Gregory), but from Vanessa’s derisive snort Callie had deduced that this would be ill-advised and had decided ahead of time that she should order something priced in the middle range. The only problem was that there were no prices: just first, second, and third course options, followed by dessert. Not to mention the names of some of the courses:

Raviolini
was easy enough to parse—probably some form of miniature ravioli. But
curried skate wing
,
fontina fonduta
, and
oxtail ragu
? Were they secret words that you learned only in East Coast Society? She wished Vanessa, who was fluent in all dialects of B.S. (Boarding School), P.S. (Prep School), and WASP (“Whatever Are you Speaking of, Penelope?”), were there to guide her through. Vanessa would have remembered to warn her about the possibility of a
prix fixe
menu, and she certainly would have known what to do with the weird spoon-shaped thing above the place settings. All Callie could think was that it looked to be the exact same size as her nose.

“What were you thinking of getting?” she asked Clint.

“Probably the mushroom soup, the gnocchi, and the skate wing. And then maybe the apple-quince crostada for dessert?”

“Nice! Me too,” said Callie.

Clint squeezed her hand again three times to signal:
you’re doing great
.

Jury’s still out, thought Callie.

“Where did you say you were from again, Callie?” Mrs. Weber asked after the waiter had taken their orders.

“Los Angeles,” said Callie.

“Oh my, aren’t you far from home, then,” Mrs. Weber said. “Do you miss it terribly? And how do your poor parents cope?” she continued before Callie could answer. “We discouraged Clint from applying to Stanford for that very reason.”

“It was kind of tough to stay in touch at first because of the time difference and what with everything going on. . . . I mean, just that: freshman year is very hectic. My mom used to freak out if I didn’t answer her e-mails within twenty-four hours, but now we’ve scheduled a phone call every Sunday at the same time no matter what; well, my dad was at seven and my mom was eight at first, but now they switch off because my mom said she could tell by my ‘lack of enthusiasm’ that I was repeating stories for a second time.”

“Divorced? I see,” Mrs. Weber murmured, arching her perfectly plucked eyebrows. “And what do they do for a living?” she inquired, unfolding her napkin across her lap.

“My parents?” Callie asked, copying her.

“Yes.”

“My mom is a lawyer, and my dad is the head of the mathematics department at UCLA.” Normally Callie referred to him as an “absent minded professor,” or a “professional math geek,” but neither of those descriptions seemed to match the lace tablecloth or chandeliers.

“Entertainment law, I presume? She’s not
the
Andrews of Andrews, Cuttering, and Donne, is she—”

“Uh, no,” said Callie. “She works for the government in the California Department of Public Health.”

“Oh,” said Mrs. Weber. “Well, the state government certainly needs all the good people it can get,” she said charitably. “Your budget’s a wreck, and don’t even get me started on the state of your school systems!”

Callie nodded, trying to arrange her features in a way that conveyed her sincerest apologies on behalf of her state. Mr. Weber nodded, too, flashing her what she thought just might be a commiserating smile.

“Education is sort of Mom’s pet cause,” Clint explained.

“Absolutely,” said Mrs. Weber. “It’s one of the most important things. Where did you say you went to high school again, dear? Was it Harvard-Westlake?”

And just like that, it was Pudding punch all over again.

“No, actually, I went to public school,” Callie said.

“Well, that’s even more impressive,” Mrs. Weber said, sounding sincere. “You must be extremely tenacious.” That part sounded less like a compliment.