The Ivy: Secrets (15 page)

Uh-oh. That had come out a tad too angry.

But Gregory just smiled. “Smushing?” he repeated. Matt giggled again. “I’m not sure what that is, but I’m pretty sure I haven’t been doing it with Lexi. She’s my cousin’s best friend; she’s like a sister to me. I’ve known her since I was two.”

“Told you so,” said OK, looking triumphantly at Callie.

“Told you so . . . when?” asked Gregory, his eyes narrowing. “You were asking about—what? Whether or not I was dating someone?”

“No,”
said Callie, facing down OK with an expression she prayed would paralyze his mouth. “I don’t care who you date.”

“Well, you do care a little,” OK teased. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have cornered me after Thanksgiving break and asked me to tell h—”

Finally registering the look on Callie’s face, he stopped talking.

“Tell me what?” asked Gregory, his eyes darting back and forth between OK and Callie.

“Nevermind,” OK muttered, staring guilty into his soup. “Just drop it.”

“I have to go,” Callie said, standing abruptly. Without looking back, she headed straight for the line to bus her tray.

“Wait,” said Gregory. He had followed her. “Is he talking about . . . what I think he’s talking about?”

Callie set her tray on the conveyer belt. “Look,” she said turning. “Whatever I might have said right after Thanksgiving break . . . I don’t mean it anymore.”

“You don’t mean it anymore?”

“No.”

“Well, then—”

“I have to go. I’m late.” And with that she left the dining hall, trying not to dwell on the way his expression had suddenly, mysteriously, lit up or the nagging sensation—which she couldn’t seem to shake—that somehow, for some reason, there was something she had missed.

“Ooh,” said Callie, her hand entwined with Clint’s, their arms swinging as they made their way down Brattle Street, “and what about the part where she wails,
‘
I’m going to be forty!’ and he asks when, and she cries ‘Someday!’?”

“Yes,” Clint agreed. “That part’s good, too.”

“And what about all those sweet older couples talking about how they met and fell in lo—” Clint twirled her around and stopped her mouth with his lips. For the moment reminiscing about
When Harry Met Sally
gave way to kissing.

“And how about that restaurant scene!” Callie cried when Clint finally let her up for air. “‘I’ll have what she’s having!’”

Clint laughed, shaking his head with a tolerant smile. This line of conversation had begun when they exited the theater; lasted over two mugs of steaming hot chocolate piled high with luscious whipped cream at Burdick, the famous Harvard Square chocolatier; and was now—apparently—compelling enough to carry them all the way home. “I can’t believe that was your first time seeing it,” he said.

“I can’t either!” she exclaimed. “I loved it. Loved-it,” she added, standing on her tippy toes to kiss him again. She knew she should be more careful in public, but it was dark out and she didn’t recognize anybody on practically deserted Mt. Auburn Street. Plus, sometimes kissing Clint was just too impossible to resist.

“What other surprises do you have in store for me?” she asked when they had started walking again.

“Actually, there is something that I could use your help with,” said Clint. “If you’re willing to stop by Adams for a few minutes.”

“This isn’t a trick to get me to spend the night, is it? Because like I said earlier, I’d love to but I have—”

“Have to go home and edit your final COMP portfolio and then get up at the crack of dawn so you can run errands and turn it in,” he recited. “I know. But this won’t take more than thirty minutes and it’ll be fun—I promise.”

“Oh-kaay,” said Callie.

A few minutes later Clint was unlatching the gate that led to Adams courtyard: a secluded area full of cement benches tucked away under towering trees, sequestered from the hustle and bustle of the neighboring streets by the various wings of Adams house. Tonight the usually grassy ground was covered in a powdery layer of new-fallen snow, gleaming white as the moonbeams bounced off it. Callie relished the soft crunching feeling her feet made when they sank into the snow, leaving tracks behind as they walked. The courtyard was lit by nothing but two black gas lamps and the moonlight. No one else was around; they were all alone, and it was beautiful.

“Hey—what’s that over there?” Callie asked, pointing to a cluster of what looked like . . .

“Snowmen!” Clint exclaimed. “That’s what I wanted to show you. Come on,” he said, taking her hand. Together they crossed the courtyard. Snowmen—about fifteen of them—in various shapes and sizes had been erected under a giant oak tree.

“Adams House has a competition every year to see who can build the best snowman,” Clint explained.

“Wow,” said Callie, looking around. Some of the snowmen were just your average top-hat-and-scarf-wearing-with-a-carrot-for-a-nose variety, but others were cleverer or downright creative, decked out in wild accessories: a khaki vest and a fishing pole; a pipe, a pair of horn-rimmed glasses, and a bowtie; a cowboy hat and a bandanna; an apron and a chef’s hat; and more. “So cool!” Callie exclaimed. “What do you get if you win?”

“Besides infinite glory?” Clint chuckled. “Gift certificates. This is ours,” he continued, pointing to two lumps of snow. “Our blocking groups’ snowman, I mean. Tyler and Bryan have been working on him all morning.”

“Where’s its head?” Callie asked. Given that this was the first year she had even seen snow, let alone a snowman, she wasn’t exactly an expert, but all of the other snow people seemed to be constructed of three giant snow balls.

“That is why I want your help!” Clint said. “Frosty needs a head. And a stylist.”

“Head first,” said Callie, stepping back to assess the situation. “But how do you . . . ?”

“It’s easy—I’ll show you.”

Following his lead, she sat cross-legged in the snow and started helping him pack the powder together. When it was about twice the size of a tennis ball, they stood and started to roll it along the ground.

“I can’t believe this actually works!” Callie cried, watching the ball of snow grow bigger and bigger with each roll. She knew she probably sounded like a five-year-old, but she didn’t care.

Clint smiled. “I think that’s big enough,” he said. “Shall we?”

She nodded and they hoisted the head on top of the base.

“Perfect!” said Callie, clapping her hands together. “Now, how do we accessorize?”

“Ah,” said Clint. “Wait here.” He ducked into the bike entrance of Adams and disappeared, returning moments later carrying a giant plastic bin.

“Where did you get all of this?” Callie asked in amazement, pulling out a rubber chicken, some flippers, and a turquoise sequin vest.

“Every year my house throws together all the stuff lying around in the Lost and Found, and people drop off old outfits from theme parties or clothes that they were planning to donate to Goodwill. Sometimes Adams Pool Theater contributes worn-out costumes or extra props, too.”

Callie pulled out a big electric blue feather boa and threw it around her neck. “Do you think I can keep this?” she asked.

“But what about poor Frosty?” Clint exclaimed. “He’s so cold and . . . naked.”

“Naked, hmm. I see your point.” Callie unwound the boa and wrapped it around Frosty’s neck.

“Nice,” said Clint. “So, we’re going for a sort of, like, diva theme?”

“Yes!” Callie agreed. “I like it!”

Rifling through the bin, they selected:

Callie arranged the wig and placed the tiara on top while Clint walked over to the bushes in search of some twigs to use for arms. By the time she had stuck the false eyelashes and lips into the snow to make a face, he had returned. She selected two of the sticks, and he broke them down to size. Then Callie stuck them in the snow and wrapped the Mardi Gras beads around at the wrist. Picking up a discarded stick, she prodded the humongous bra. “Can you . . . ?”

“Yes.” Clint laughed, reaching for the bra and draping it so it hung across the arms and covered the “chest.” Stepping back, they surveyed their handiwork.

“Something’s not quite right . . .” Callie began.

“He needs some pants,” said Clint.

“He?” Callie echoed incredulously.

“She?” Clint stared at their creation. “You’re right. Our snow lady is a SheMan, a . . . Shenoman.”

“A Tranny Man!” Callie yelled. “Who is definitely, definitely in need of some pants.” She rooted around in the bin. “Aha!” she cried, lifting out a yellow sarong printed with hideous orange suns. She tied it around at the waist. “There,” she said, sighing happily.

“What’ll we name her?” Clint asked, wrapping his hands around Callie’s waist and nuzzling her ear.

Callie thought for a moment. “LaRhonda.”

“LaRhonda the SnowSheMan,” Clint said. He was silent for a minute, holding Callie tight. “We should sign our work!” he suddenly announced. Grabbing a spare twig, he leaned over and wrote in the snow:
Callie & Clint, December 2010.

He stepped back. Callie stared at the ground. Turning to him, she said: “You’re so swee—”

The end of her sentence was lost in a face full of snow.

“How dare you!” she shrieked, wiping the snow from her eyes. Scooping up a fistful, she hurled it at him. Was this it—her first snowball fight?

He dodged, bending to pack more snow in his hands.

Before he could throw it at her, however, she rushed over and tackled him. She screamed and they toppled over, their fall broken by the snow. Landing half on top of him, she clamored to restrain his arms with one hand and gather some snow in the other. Her hand closed around an icy clump, but before she could rub it in his face, he sat up and kissed her.

They were both too covered in wet flakes already to realize that it had started to snow: tiny little dots no bigger than confetti or particles of dust, sprinkling unnoticed over their hair and eyelashes.

“I’m really going to miss you,” Clint said, leaning away to look at her.

“It’s only ten days!” Callie cried. “Then you’ll be back for squash—”

“And you’ll be back for
FM
—”

“Maaaybe.”

“But still . . . ten days is a long time.”

“Will you wait for me?” Callie said melodramatically, kissing his nose. It felt cold underneath her lips.

“I
guess. . . .
”

Callie narrowed her eyes, her hand closing around the loose snow next to her knee. Then, gently, ever so gently, she smashed it in his face.

“Waaaah!” she cried, darting away as he tried to catch her. The snowball he had hurled after her broke across the tree she had dived behind for cover. Sneaking up to the trunk, Clint feigned left and she ran right, ending up back in his arms.

She was at his mercy. Her eyes opened wide, pleading, and his hand went slack. The snow fell back to the ground. Wrapping his arms around her, he twined his fingers through her hair and pulled her to him. It would be a while before they broke away.

Across the street a single light burned brightly in the second-floor offices of the
Harvard Crimson
. The building loomed just high enough that, if one were on the second floor near the western window—which happened to be the window situated directly above the desk reserved for the current
FM
COMP director—that person would have an excellent vantage point from which to spy on whatever might be transpiring in Adams courtyard.

As she watched her ex-boyfriend and her “favorite mentee” wrestle in the snow, the girl who was working alone in the offices whispered words that fell on empty ears, “Callie Andrews: you are so dead.”

C
allie raced up the stairs to the
Harvard Crimson
two at a time, her heart pounding in her chest. It was 1:59. She felt like the living embodiment of Finagle’s Law of Dynamic Negatives: Anything that can go wrong will—and at the worst possible moment.

Not one but two printers in Lamont Library had jammed while Callie had hastened to print her final pieces—and that was only after she’d had to open every single file in her folder entitled COMP Drafts because she’d forgotten to separate the finals from the earlier versions and discards. Earlier that morning she’d purchased the wrong coffee filters—cone shaped rather than square—and had been ordered back to CVS by an irritable, under-caffeinated senior. Then, on top of everything else, she’d forgotten her hat, scarf, and gloves, and so her fingers and ears felt like they were about to fall off.

The warm air that rushed over her as she pushed open the doors to the
Crimson
and headed down the hall hardly offered any relief: instead of the chill ebbing away she experienced what she imagined—based on her mother’s description—must be similar to the hot flashes normally associated with menopause. Sweat dripped down her back by the time she reached the second floor. Wiping her brow, she opened the door a crack. The clock on the wall read 2:01, but the offices were—mercifully—empty. A wooden box stacked high with manila folders and labeled
FINAL COMP PORTFOLIOS
rested on the table.

Slipping inside, she pulled off her coat and slid her final portfolio into the middle of the pile. No need to give Lexi any extra excuses like “you were sixty seconds too late” to disqualify her. Then, yawning widely, Callie walked over to Lexi’s ergonomic “throne.” Glancing over her shoulder to verify that no one was there, she sank onto the plush black material. She twirled around and bounced up and down, yelping out loud when she pulled a lever on the side and the seat shot into the air.

Huh, she thought. From this vantage point she could see over the top of entryway A in Adams House and into the courtyard. In fact, if she leaned in and peered over the computer screen, she could definitely make out the bright yellow color of LaRhonda’s wig, the tiara winking in the pale end-of-December sunlight. Yawning again, she smiled. So this was what it felt like to be done: done with finals, done with COMP, and best of all, done with staying away from Clint. Soon she’d be done with secrets, too—how exactly, she wasn’t sure, but she had ten whole days to devise a strategy to deal with the one tiny little tape of a problem standing between her and a stress-free—dare she say—normal?—existence.

Leaning back, she closed her eyes. She barely heard the door as it clicked open behind her. But the sweet, tinkling voice that sounded a moment later acted like twelve volts of electricity to the spine.

“Callie, dear,” said Lexi, shutting the door. “We need to talk.”

“Callie!” Vanessa called, knocking on her bedroom door. “Are you in there?” She waited a moment and then entered, nudging the door open with her hip because her hands were full with an enormous gift basket. The wicker handle was topped with a big bright red bow; the basket itself was stuffed with cookies, mixed nuts, crackers, cheeses, two bottles of wine and a wine glass, gourmet coffees and teas, jellies and jams, a festive holiday mug, bath salts, eau de toilette, and a Princess eye mask identical to the one Vanessa slept in every night.

There was also a card tucked underneath the bow. On the front was a picture of a hairy butt, and on the inside it said,
Thank you for saving mine!
Underneath Vanessa had written:

Callie’s room was, as usual, kind of a mess. There were stacks of papers everywhere, mostly with the heading
FM
COMP piece draft # XX, heavily marked with different colored pens. Vanessa peered at the organizer that lay open on Callie’s desk. Under today, December 21st, she had written in all caps and underlined twice:
2 P.M. – FINAL COMP PORTFOLIO DUE
. Vanessa checked her watch.

It was 2:10. “Hmm . . .” she mused aloud. Setting the basket on Callie’s bed, she pulled out her roommate’s desk chair and sat down. Glancing around the room, she blew a gust of air through pursed lips. Then, her eyes fell across the computer screen. A folder called COMP Drafts had been left open. She read through some of the titles, giggling: “Pop Culture Words for ‘Hooking Up’ and What They Really Mean,” “Dry-Cleaners in Harvard Square: An Ode to Arrow Street,” and “Top Ten Beauty Buys That Will Certainly, if Nothing Else, Drain Your Wallet.” She clicked the last one open and scanned through the list, nodding approvingly and humming to herself. Minimizing the window, another heading caught her eye, “The Roommate from Hell.”

Chewing on the end of her hair, she clicked open the file and started to read. A few sentences in, she started to frown. Midway down the page her face fell. Looking at the sidebar, she reread the folder title, COMP Drafts. Her eyes darted over to where Callie had written 2
P.M. – FINAL COMP PORTFOLIO DUE.
Then she pulled the article back up and read it until the end. Two spots of color almost the same shade as the reddish strands in her hair flamed on either cheek. Breathing heavily, she stood and slammed the laptop shut.

She whirled around, reaching for the basket, and then stopped—

“Gregory?” she blurted in surprise. He was standing in Callie’s doorway.

“Hey,” he said. “Is Callie here?”

“No,” said Vanessa through gritted teeth.

“Something wrong?” he asked.

“Nope,” she said. Suddenly seizing the basket, she thrust it into his arms. “Here, take this, would you? Holiday present from me to your room,” she explained, ripping off the card and shoving it into her pocket.

“Uhh . . . thanks?” he said.

“You’re welcome.” She paused. “Well, I’d love to stay and chat, but I’ve got a plane to catch.”

“Oh. You’re flying back?”

“Yep. You driving?”

“Yes. I have to leave in twenty minutes to pick up my car from the garage.”

“Cool. Well, maybe I’ll see you at a party sometime over break,” said Vanessa, sliding past him.

“Uh, Vanessa?” he called when she had almost reached her room.

“Yes?” she said, turning.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Yes?” she repeated, her cheeks still flush.

“Uh, well. I was wondering . . .” He looked extremely uncomfortable. “Has Callie ever said anything to you about me?” His brow furrowed in disbelief, almost as if he couldn’t believe he had just uttered the previous sentence aloud. “I mean,
recently
. Has she said anything about me recently?”

“Mmm . . . yeah!” said Vanessa, her eyes oddly bright, her voice sounding just a tad too cheerful. “As a matter of fact, she has. Just the other day in the bathroom at Clint’s she called you an asshole, said that Harvard-Yale was a huge mistake, and that you’re a womanizing whore.”

“She said all that—just the other day?”

“Maybe that’s not exactly a direct quote, but you get the gist,” said Vanessa, opening the door to her room. Looking at his face, her expression softened ever so slightly. “I wouldn’t take it
too
personally,” she said. “That’s practically a compliment in comparison to some of the things she has to say about me.”

Gregory didn’t seem to have heard a word. He appeared confused, his eyebrows knit together. But then his face went slack. “Cool, thanks,” he said. “That’s really all I needed to know.”

“She’ll probably be home any minute now—if you want to hear her say it to your face.”

“Nope,” he said. “Have a good break. And thanks again for the—uh—this?”

“You’re welcome again.”

“Need to talk about what?” Callie said, jumping out of the chair.

Lexi hadn’t bothered to plaster on her usual mask of kindness—today she just looked livid.

Callie had to remind herself to breathe.

“Oh, I think you already know,” said Lexi, making her way over to the box of COMP portfolios. “I gave you a very simple set of instructions, which you failed to follow.”

“I don’t know what you’re . . .” Callie started, giving up halfway through. Lexi, who was sifting through the stack of portfolios, clearly wasn’t listening.

“You disappointed me, Callie,” she said, reading the name on top of each portfolio before setting it aside. “And I had such high hopes for you. . . . Ah.” Her hand closed around the manila envelope that Callie had slid into the center of the stack. “Such a shame,” she said softly, flipping through the pages. “So much work . . . and all of it . . . gone to waste.”

Callie tried to speak but found that she couldn’t; nor, for that matter, could she move: her feet seemed to have frozen in place. “I . . .” she finally managed to sputter. “I—”

“Save it,” Lexi snapped. “I know you’ve been seeing Clint. Honestly I thought you would have been smarter—that maybe you would have figured out by now that nothing escapes me. I know everything about everybody, and pretty soon, everybody is going to know everything about you!” Callie’s COMP portfolio landed on the table between them with a loud
thwack
. Some of the papers scattered, fanning out across the wood.

“Please,” Callie whispered. “I’ll do anything.”

“I’m afraid it’s too late for that,” said Lexi. Crossing over to the computer on her desk, Lexi stepped around Callie and turned it on. Callie stood helplessly, watching her take her chair.

“It’s kind of poetic, isn’t it?” said Lexi, her eyes fixed on the monitor as the machine whirred to life. “The same computer on which you so stupidly left your e-mail open could be the origin of your on-screen debut. . . .”

Callie had a wild fleeting fantasy of shoving the entire computer—monitor, keyboard, and all—or Lexi, along with her chair, through the second-floor window. She shook her head. No way. There was
no way
Lexi would release the tape while she was standing right there. “You wouldn’t dare…” Wait a second. “My e-mail? You found the tape—because I left my e-mail open?”

“Like I said, I don’t see why some of the editors think you’re smart.” Lexi snorted. “Now let’s see. Facebook? YouTube? Maybe a simple e-mail to cweber at fas will do—”

“You wouldn’t!” Callie cried, finally finding her voice.

“Well,” said Lexi, pretending to stop and think, “maybe there is one thing you could do.”

Callie bit her lip so hard she was almost certain she drew blood. Do I really have to say it again? She looked at Lexi: the corners of her lips were twisted up in a tiny smile, waiting. Okay, fine. “I’ll do anything. Anything you want,” Callie muttered, determined not to cry.

“Now, there’s the attitude I’ve been looking for!” Lexi chirped. “I think . . . perhaps . . .” She was drawing it out on purpose. Callie wanted to slap her. Thirty more seconds and she probably would. “Perhaps if you could think of a way to really prove to me, once and for all, that you are dedicated to this magazine, to your and our reputation, and to the future of your career, I might reconsider.”