The Ivy: Secrets (19 page)

“Um . . . Actually, I think I might—”

Matt gave her a look that said,
Don’t you dare.

Lexi and Alessandra suddenly shrieked. Clint had just scored a point against Gregory, who had smacked into the back wall in his attempt to hit Clint’s high lob into the far right corner. Turning, Clint saw Callie. His mouth fell open in surprise but twisted slowly into a smile. He gave her a little wave with his racket, and she found herself waving back, smiling as he adjusted the turquoise sweatband holding back his shaggy, light brown hair. Adorable.

“Scoot over!” Callie cried, sitting next to Matt. Folding her arms across her chest, she stared straight ahead. You don’t own these bleachers, Lexi, and you don’t own Clint! “Wahoo! Let’s go Clint!” she cheered. Even though he probably couldn’t hear her through the glass, her words were bound to encourage others . . . to feel extremely irritated.

“The other one’s name is Clint?” Alessandra asked Callie, leaning over Matt.

“Mm-hmm.” Callie nodded.

“Cute!” said Alessandra.

Callie’s head jerked up, ready for a fight. But, seeing the goodwill in Alessandra’s eyes, she said instead, “I know, right?”

Matt groaned.

“You’re here to watch Gregory?” Callie asked, ignoring Matt.

“Yes,” said Alessandra.

“Cool,” Callie replied, surprised that she actually kind of meant it. Clint scored again and she clapped.

“I know him!” Matt offered excitedly. “He’s my roommate!”

“Is he?” Alessandra asked. “You guys have a great room! Love the leather couches.”

“You’ve been there?” Matt asked as if awestruck by the thought. But then: “You’ve been there,” he repeated in an entirely different tone. “Oh.”

Callie slid her arm around his waist and rested her head briefly on his shoulder. One day, she tried to tell him telepathically. One day the right girl for you will come.

“Excuse me,” said Alessandra, speaking to a boy behind them. “Do you have any idea what the score is?”

“Seven to six. Weber’s winning. Bolton was up, but it looks like he’s lost his focus for some reason.”

“And how many games in the set?” Matt asked, turning around.

“Best two out of three,” the boy answered. “Bolton dominated in the first round, but Weber came back to win the second, slow and steady. That’s why they call him the Tortoise.”

“So whoever takes this game wins the match,” Matt explained for Callie and Alessandra’s benefit.

“Does it matter?” Callie asked. “I mean, isn’t it only a scrimmage?”

“Yes, but they’re competing for spots: number one and number two, I think. Greg said the team’s leaving in a few days for the All Ivy tournament at Brown, and if he wins this match against Clint, he’ll be the first freshman to lead off in the tournament in . . . Well, I think, ever.”

Alessandra was nodding. “He seemed nervous about it,” she whispered. “He said he thinks his chances are slim.”

“He said that to you?” Callie blinked. It was difficult to picture Gregory confiding in anyone, let alone a girl. Callie sighed. You do not care, she reminded herself. And stop reminding yourself!

“Oh!” Matt yelled. Gregory had slammed the ball low and fast along the far right-hand wall, and Clint, who had abandoned the T for the left side of court, hadn’t made it in time.

“Seven all,” the boy behind them cried. “Let’s go, Bolton! Look sharp!” he hollered, clapping his hands three times.

Even Callie felt a slight thawing in her heart as she watched Gregory run his hands through his dark brown hair and wipe the sweat out of his eyes. She had never seen him look so intense about anything, or so exhausted. He arranged his feet, one inside the serving square and one out, and lifted his racket. The serve fell short.

Callie didn’t need to be able to hear through the glass wall to know that the words he was shouting were curses. Dragging his hands across his forehead and over his eyes again, he bent to retrieve the ball and then, looking apologetic for the outburst, tossed it to Clint.

Clint nodded calmly. His serve soared high and perfect, bouncing off the back wall. Gregory barely returned it, hitting low and to the left.

“Isn’t this exciting!” Alessandra exclaimed, gripping her cheeks with her hand. “Go—go—OH—
no!
” Gregory had dived and missed.

“Eight-seven,” the boy behind them whispered.

“Game point,” said Callie.

Clint served and Gregory hit it back with everything he had. Sprinting across the court, Clint sent the ball flying backward; it bounced off the glass wall and reached the front one just above the lower red line. Callie’s fingernails dug into her jeans. Gregory scooped the ball up easily with his backhand, and it
zinged
down the far wall, moving deadly fast—only this time, Clint was ready for it.

All eyes in the bleachers darted back and forth, back and forth: Gregory, Clint, Gregory, Clint, Gregory, Clint, Gregory—

“WEBER WINS!” the boy behind them roared, leaping to his feet.

“Eeee!”
Callie shrieked, standing and clapping wildly. Even Matt and Alessandra were on their feet shouting. Through the glass Callie saw Gregory drop—or was it throw? She couldn’t tell—his racket on the ground. Callie’s cheers caught in her throat. Gregory sank onto the floor after it, forehead in his hands. Clint stood still behind him, and then walked over and placed a hand on his shoulder. They stayed that way for almost a minute, until finally Gregory grabbed Clint’s outstretched hand and let the older boy help him to his feet.

The glass door opened and snatches of conversation were suddenly audible: “ . . . sorry, man . . .” Gregory was muttering, “. . . got a little intense there toward the end . . .”

“No worries, buddy,” Clint said, slapping him on the back. They bent over their gym bags and grabbed water bottles. “You played a great game. Seriously. I’ll be looking over my shoulder for the rest of the semester.”

Gregory winced.

Callie and Matt hung back, but Alessandra approached the court. “Hey, you,” she called, smiling at Gregory.

“You came,” he observed, sounding less than thrilled. Probably because he’d just lost, Callie decided.

“It was a great game,” Alessandra said, smiling at Clint. “Fantastic to watch,” she added, leaning in toward Gregory.

Gregory just grunted and took a swig from his water bottle. Then he dumped the remaining contents on his head. As he shook out his hair, some of the droplets landed on Alessandra and she recoiled, but he either didn’t notice or didn’t care.

“So, what are you up to later?” Callie heard her ask.

“Gotta shower,” Gregory muttered, zipping his racket into its case and throwing some extra squash balls into his bag. Looking up, he noticed Callie staring. Slowly a smirk spread across his face. “You wanna join me?” he asked loudly, throwing an arm around Alessandra’s shoulders. She giggled and, looking embarrassed, pushed him playfully in the ribs. Horrified, Callie averted her eyes.

“Let me just say bye to Callie and Matt,” said Alessandra, and before Callie knew it the other girl had returned.

“So nice to meet both of you,” Alessandra said sweetly. “I’ll see you again soon?”

“Nice to meet you too. . . .” Callie was transfixed by what was happening behind Gregory: Lexi had made her way over to Clint and was congratulating him on the match. If Callie strained, she could
just
hear them. . . .

“Yes, absolutely,” Matt jumped in. “Great game, dude!” he called to Gregory.

“Thanks,” said Gregory, ambling over to join the conversation. “Didn’t go exactly the way I’d hoped . . .”

He kept talking, but Callie had stopped listening. Instead she had angled her left ear toward Lexi and Clint and was eavesdropping intently:

“You didn’t have to come, you know,” Clint said.

“I know,” said Lexi, “but I wanted to surprise you!”

Callie missed the next part, biting her lip as Matt exclaimed loudly and reenacted one of Gregory’s serves. Soon, however, she could hear again.

“ . . . used to come to all of your games,” Lexi finished.

Clint was silent for a moment. “There’s a lot of stuff that we used to do when we were dating that
friends
don’t do.”

“Right,” said Lexi shortly. “And I was just here to show a little
friendly
support.”

“I appreciate that,” said Clint. “I really do.”

“Well, you can’t win ’em all,” Matt said with a shrug, and Callie snapped back into the conversation.

“No, you can’t,” said Gregory, his eyes resting briefly on Callie. “Let’s go,” he said to Alessandra. “See ya back at the room.”

“See ya,” Matt echoed. “Callie . . . Callie!”

“What!” she cried, furious. From the looks of it, Clint had just told Lexi he would be right back, but Callie hadn’t heard so she couldn’t be sure. Oh, wait—

“Hey,” said Clint. “It’s Matt, right?”

“Right,” said Matt.

“Clint.”

“Nice to meet you, man.”

“You too,” Clint said, looking at Callie. “So, what’d you think—of the game, I mean?”

Callie cocked an eyebrow. “Your nickname is the Tortoise?”

“Aw, dammit,” said Clint, laughing. “Who told you? I’ll have to have a word with him later.”

Callie laughed. “Most nicknames usually have
some
justification.”

“Freshman year I wasn’t very good at sprints,” Clint admitted.

“You seem okay now,” Matt observed.

Lexi was still standing over by Clint’s gym bag, watching Callie’s every move. Eff it. “So . . . uh . . . do you want to get together later, maybe grab a cup of coffee?” Callie asked Clint. “I feel really bad about the way . . . um . . . yeah.” Ugh. Callie waited, feeling about as uncomfortable as Matt looked right now. Possibly more.

Clint stared at her, saying nothing. No doubt he was mentally reviewing certain phrases from her e-mail that were completely at odds with her present behavior.

“There were reasons. . . .” Callie started. “I mean, factors . . . that made me act a certain way . . . only I—”

“Okay,” Clint interrupted her. “I’ve got to hit the showers and take care of a few other things, but why don’t you give me a call later and we’ll figure something out?”

That . . . was not . . . a no! Callie felt so happy she could kiss him. Instead she nodded and said, “Yes, I’ll call you later.” Then, grabbing Matt’s elbow, she turned her back on Lexi’s seething glare.

On the walk home Callie felt a spring in her step. She wanted to lean over the side of Anderson Memorial Bridge as they crossed the Charles and scream
Freeeeeeeeeedom
at the top of her lungs. Lexi had nothing left to compel Callie to do her bidding. Now, instead of Callie’s boss and blackmailer, Lexi was Just another girl I know from the Pudding who used to have me occasionally run her errands.
FRREEEEEEEEEEEEEDOM!

Clint had seemed confused, hurt, and even a little angry. But he had spoken to her and hadn’t said no to coffee, and if she could see him, maybe she could figure out a way to explain what had happened. After all, there was nothing left to stop her from telling Clint whatever she wanted. From
doing
whatever she wanted. Maybe she could even describe how Lexi had orchestrated the breakup without revealing too many details. And then the breakup could turn into a make-up and then—

Callie’s phone beeped in her pocket. They were just on the outskirts of Harvard Yard now, underneath the entrance to Dexter Gate. Callie grinned. Somehow she knew it would be Clint texting to say he couldn’t wait to see her later. Still smiling, she flipped open her phone.

“Callie, what’s wrong?” asked Matt. “You look—”

“That FUCKING BITCH!” Callie exploded, hurling her phone into a snowbank. Spinning around and flailing wildly, she kicked the snow, blindly screaming a string of expletives.

Matt froze. Then he retrieved her cell phone and let her carry on for a while. Kicking the brick archway, she screamed, grabbing her foot and hopping around, wailing. Finally she grew quiet. Reaching out tentatively, Matt touched her shoulder.

“WHAT’RE YOU—” Wheeling around to face him, she stopped short. Then she burst into tears.

“Oh, Matt!” she sobbed, launching herself into his arms.

He wrapped them loosely around her, patting her head. “What is it?” he whispered into her hair. “What’s wrong?”

She swallowed, taking several deep breaths. “Matt,” she said eventually, speaking into his shoulder, “I need your help.” Slowly she looked up. “But first there’s something that I have to tell you.”

T
he day dawned dark, gray, and miserable. For the first time in weeks it was raining, not snowing, and the water poured down in torrents, mixing with the snow on the ground until it melted into wet, brown sludge and flooded the pathways that curved through Harvard Yard. No feet stayed dry; no good mood was safe.

Callie used to think that Harvard Yard was one of the most idyllic places in the world—now not so much. She was on her way back from the gym and soaked to the bone, ill prepared for the weather as usual in stretchy black pants and a hooded sweatshirt. Water splashed as she trudged through the puddles, hurrying home.

She was just passing the John Harvard statue when her cell phone started to ring.

“Crap,” she muttered, pulling it out of her gym bag and watching it get wet instantaneously. It was Matt. “Hey, Matt, can I call you right ba—”

“Callie? Callie, we have a problem.”

Callie stopped in her tracks. If there was a problem, she knew there was only one thing it could be about: the interview. Matt had assured her that, though it was “
technically
unauthorized” and that he wasn’t “
technically
allowed to publish articles without following the ‘proper protocol,’” he would somehow manage to get it into the paper.

“How soon could you get to the Greenhouse Café?” he continued, the edge in his voice becoming more and more pronounced.

“I’m only a second away right now, but I’m sweaty and soaking wet. Is there time for me to run home and—”

“No, no time. Get there as fast as you can. I’ll be there in five, maybe ten. And, uh,” he added, seeming to speak more to himself now than to Callie, “try not to panic.”

Something was definitely very wrong. Callie tossed her phone into her bag and headed back toward the Science Center’s Greenhouse Café. When she arrived, it was unusually empty—some students were still away on vacation, and everyone else was probably hiding inside their dorms. Callie ordered two hot chocolates through chattering teeth—one for her, one for Matt—and then chose a table in the corner.

She had been waiting for less than a minute when someone approached the table and cleared her throat imperiously.

Callie looked up, surprised to see Grace Lee staring down at her.

“You,” she said. “Callie Andrews.” It was less of a question, more of an accusation.

“Uh-huh?” said Callie as Grace sat without invitation. “We spoke after that review session for the Nineteenth-Century Novel and then again at the
Crimson
meeting—”

“Yes,” said Grace, staring her down. “Apparently one meeting was all you felt the need to attend before attempting to hijack my page five. Of course, having never actually participated in any sort of
Crimson
-related activity, you had no way to know that I check my paper meticulously every night before it runs—
especially
on Wednesdays, when our newest editors are responsible for doing the final read-through.”

Callie swallowed. “I don’t—I’m not really sure what you’re—”

“Lee!” a voice, Matt’s, called from across the café. He nearly tripped over himself in his haste to join the table. “Lee, listen to me—I’m so sorry—she didn’t know—it was my screwup—”

“Robertson,” she snapped, slamming a copy of the article he had written—the article about Callie—down on the table and jabbing a finger at the byline. “You are absolutely right: this is your screwup. In fact, I’d go so far as to call it a monumental fuck-up.”

Matt gulped.

“I don’t know what’s gotten into this year’s neophytes,” she continued, shaking her head in disbelief. “You’ve been editors for five minutes and already you think you own the place. That you can just sneak your amateur excuse for a story into my paper without editing, or fact-checking, or any regard for the consequences.”

Callie was finally starting to understand the difference between the way she feared Grace in the classroom—for her cold brilliance, unflinching analysis, and decimating counterarguments—and the way Grace was probably feared by her staff. It was wholly possible that Callie was about to witness a tiny Asian girl make a man twice her size start to weep.

“We have a reputation,” Grace continued, after a beat. “A certain level of quality that we’re expected to maintain. This isn’t
Fifteen Minutes
magazine. This is the
Harvard Crimson
. There’s a
reason
that new staff members aren’t allowed to publish unsupervised. But
you
think that you’re above all that—don’t you, Robertson?”

“Please,” Callie cut in, “it wasn’t him—it was my fault.”

“Oh, excuse me. Are you on my editorial staff? Or are you the girl who came to one meeting and suddenly thinks she knows everything?”

Callie and Matt were both silent.

“I . . . I’ll . . .” Matt whispered, looking close to tears. “Of course I accept full responsibility for violating protocol.”

Callie’s shoulders slumped. Matt had mentioned that it wasn’t “technically” allowed to add last-minute, unapproved articles to the paper, but he had never said a thing about how he could get kicked off the
Crimson
. Hopefully Matt’s “momumental fuck-up” wasn’t something that you could be expelled over, or arrested, or executed, or— Calm down, she instructed herself. She was still soaking wet but too numb now to feel cold. Instead she felt defeated and trampled, like the leaves rotting outside in the gutter.

“You’re damn right you will,” Grace agreed. “The rules matter . . . even if this right here,” she continued, holding up Matt’s article, “is one of the most solid pieces of reporting I’ve seen from a freshman.”

A pause.

“Wh—what?” Matt choked out when he could finally speak again.

“You,” Grace Lee continued, pointing at Callie, “are very brave to tell your story in this paternalistic institution.”

“I—uh—thanks,” Callie stammered.

“And the writing,” Grace added, turning to Matt, “isn’t half bad either, though it could use some editing.” She still wasn’t smiling when she said, “It seems the main issue here is that we need to go bigger. I’m thinking front page, more direct quotes, references to last week’s feature on privacy and technology, and maybe even an op-ed or two in section C.”

Matt, who three seconds ago seemed scared to the point of peeing his pants, had started to nod enthusiastically.

“And, Robertson—if you think you’re going to get away without showing the article to a copy-editor this time, you’re dead wrong. In fact, forget the wrong—you’re just dead.”

“Of course,” he agreed deferentially. “But does that mean that I’m allowed . . . well, that I’m still allowed to write it?”

Grace nodded. “I will oversee the article personally. And I want you to collaborate,” she said, nodding at Callie. “Don’t think for a minute that you’ll be allowed to sidestep any aspects of the COMP process; this is strictly because I think it’s crucial that we capture your voice and your perspective. We’ll run the story sometime next week. Think you can handle that, Robertson?”

“Absolutely,” he said, grabbing a pen and scribbling a note in the margin of the draft.

Callie hadn’t really heard anything after “we need to go bigger.” The front page? She’d been hoping to hide in the back of the paper behind the hopelessly under-trafficked sports section. Just a little article to out herself before Lexi had a chance. But a feature? Everyone in the school would read it.
Everyone.

“I’m not . . .” she started, “I’m not sure this is the best—”

Grace Lee put on her most sympathetic grimace. “Look. I admire what you’re doing. And I’m not going to lie: it will be tough, and there may be unfortunate consequences that you’ll have to be prepared to deal with as best you can. But what you’re trying to accomplish here—it’s not something you can do halfway. It’s up to you: all or nothing.”

Callie closed her eyes and took a deep breath. All or nothing.

“Let’s do this,” she said. “No more secrets.”

“You’re making the right decision,” Grace said, reaching out briefly to touch Callie’s arm. Callie scrutinized her from across the table. Good decision, bad decision—great story, either way. But something told her to trust Grace, and when it came to Matt, she knew she was safe.

Abruptly Grace stood. “All right, then, you two. I expect the first draft to be on my desk by ten
A.M.
tomorrow. If you’re late, you can both bid your spots on the
Crimson
good-bye.”

“It’s a date,” Matt agreed. Then, realizing what he’d said, the color drained from his face. “I mean, uh—”

Grace cut him off with one shake of her head. She took a few steps away from the table, but then she turned back. “By the way, Andrews, just out of curiosity: would you mind telling me who it is that’s threatening to expose you?”

Callie gave her a tight-lipped smile and shook her head.

Grace nodded. “Didn’t think so,” she mused. “No matter,” she added in a low mutter. “I think I have an idea anyway. . . .”

After she had gone, Callie and Matt released a mutual sigh. Both of them had forgotten to breathe through most of the meeting.

“Whew! That was a close one.” Matt whistled. Callie slid the now lukewarm hot chocolate toward him across the table.

“Tell me about it,” Callie agreed. “I thought she was going to kick you off the paper.”

“Hmm—oh—what? No, that’s just how she talks. She likes me, I can tell.”

Callie stared at him, one eyebrow raised.

“Didn’t you hear? She thinks I’m a good writer! She said it was the most solid piece—”

“I heard.”

Matt smiled. “Well, badass reporter genius skills or not, we should probably get started on this as soon as possible. Where should we work on it?”

“Why don’t we get changed and head to Widener?” she suggested, deciding this was the safest—most secluded—option.

“Perfect.” He smiled.

Callie tried to nod in all the right places while he chattered about their future at the
Crimson
—“how awesome was Grace” (apparently being verbally abused within an inch of your life and being referred to repeatedly by the wrong name was some kind of a turn on?)—and tried to reassure her that the article was certain to be a success.

But Callie was barely listening.

As Matt marched onward, out into the rain, out to greet his future at the
Crimson
, no doubt followed by
The
New York Times
, two kids, a white picket fence, and a wife named Grace, Callie was marching somewhere, too: Certain Social Suicide.

Many hours later when the rain subsided and the sun had set, Callie and Matt were still burning the midnight oil in Widener Library. Back in Wigglesworth Vanessa had just poked her head inside of C 23.

“Yoo-hoo,” she cried. “Anybody home?”

“Oi! Come in!” OK called from where he was sitting on the leather couch.

“Hey,” she said, plopping next to him. “Do you mind if I put on
America’s Next Top Model
?”