The Ivy: Secrets (22 page)

“Anyway, Andrews—to your success,” Grace toasted her abruptly. “And yours, too, Robertson,” she added before Matt could open his mouth. Then she drained her glass in one long gulp. “Fantastic responses all around,” she said, slamming it on the counter. “Can’t remember the last time a piece drew so many comments, and our circulation is through the roof. It’s almost like the student body has finally figured out how to read.”

Callie was all for literacy, but she couldn’t help but wonder who specifically had read it. Had Clint while he was away at Brown? Or just a few hours ago after he’d returned?

Following Callie’s gaze, Grace nodded toward Clint. Matt wandered away looking disappointed that Callie was hogging all of Grace’s attention. “That’s some friend you got over there,” Grace said.

“He’s not really my friend, exactly,” said Callie, staring at her cup.

“No? It almost came to blows half an hour ago because of you.”

“Really? Wait,
what
?”

“Some guys—or rather, chauvinist pigs—were over there earlier talking about you. Saying how they wouldn’t mind getting their hands on a copy of that tape and some other things I won’t repeat. That one stood up like he was ready to take on all three of them. He said something, and they all started apologizing like the little pansies that they are. Then he said something else, and they practically sprinted out of the bar.” Grace chuckled.

Callie stared at Grace, looked at Clint, and then back at Grace.

“ . . . good looking, too,” Grace was continuing, “but not my type, if you know what I mean,” she added. “Too bad he used to date The Devil Wears Prada. That’s a deal breaker, if you ask me.”

“Too bad he used to—what—date
who
?”

“Alexis Thorndike, of course—as in your former COMP director? Huge stick up her butt and a nasty habit of collecting other peoples’ secrets?”

“Oh!” Callie cried. Grace had clearly guessed the identity of her blackmailer. “Great nickname,” she said with a laugh.

Grace nodded. “You’ve got too much potential to waste on what is, between you and me, a sorry excuse for a magazine. And, if last week’s article is any indication, you’re going to be a great addition to our team.”

Callie nodded absentmindedly, watching Clint throw back his head and laugh.

“Of course, you’re going to have to work for it—harder than you worked for
FM
, but I’d say that you’re up to the task, right, Andrews?”

“I—uh—what? You’re saying I would be a good fit for the
Crimson
?” Callie asked.

“Yes, Andrews,” Grace said, rolling her eyes. “Why don’t you stop by my office next week after you’ve picked up your first COMP assignments and we can go over them together?”

“You would really do that? I mean, yes, of course, yes! That would be amazing!” Callie cried, temporarily forgetting everyone else in the room. “Thank you!”

“No guarantees, Andrews,” Grace said gruffly. “Wouldn’t offer if you didn’t have potential . . . Anyway, got to get going now.” She nodded, sliding off the stool. “Enjoy the party.”

“Thanks,” Callie repeated, but Grace was already gone.

Callie looked around the room. Mimi and OK were playing foosball, and Matt was sitting in a crowded booth with a bunch of the other
Crimson
editors. I need more friends, she thought, crumpling up her napkin and hopping off the bar stool. Back to the old alone-in-an-awkward-social-situation standby otherwise known as: bathroom time!

Callie picked her way through the plush couches and armchairs and rounded the corner to join the line. There were three girls ahead of her—and from the size of their purses and scope of their outfits, they all looked like they would take a very long time in the single-room stalls. Perfect. Callie leaned back against the wall and closed her eyes.

“Hi, Callie,” said a cool voice on her right. “So nice to finally see you out again.”

Aw, crap. “Hey, Anne,” Callie said, turning. “How are you?”

“Good,” said Anne, giving Callie a once-over with her ever-appraising eye. “No costume?”

“Nope.”

Anne frowned. “Well, I guess all that matters is that you’re actually here.”

Callie nodded. Wait—what?

“Of course, participation in these events isn’t
mandatory
,” Anne continued, “but as secretary it is my job to ensure that everyone attends at least a few and makes an effort to bond with the other members.”

Callie stared at her. Other members? As in . . . Am I still . . . ? “Um—about my dues—I know I’m super late—”

Anne silenced Callie with a wave of her hand. “You got them in eventually and that’s what counts.”

“I . . . I got them in eventually?” Callie repeated, dumbstruck.

“Yes,” said Anne. “I received the envelope you left on my desk at the clubhouse, though next time you probably shouldn’t leave so much cash lying around unattended.”

“I . . .” Callie frowned. “But—”

“I think it’s your turn,” Anne interrupted brusquely as a door opened on their left.

Safe inside the bathroom, Callie stared at herself in the mirror. What—who—why—
who
—when . . . She splashed cool water on her face. Mimi, she decided, drying off her hands. It had to be Mimi. Opening the door and heading back toward the bar, she resolved to ask her right now—

“Callie.”

Clint was there waiting for her.

“H-hi,” she stammered, staring at the ground.

“Hey.” He looked at her. “There’s an empty couch in that alcove over there,” he said, tilting his head toward it, “and it’s pretty quiet, too. Sit with me for a minute?” he asked.

She nodded.

They sat, their knees angled toward each other but still a foot apart.

“Wow,” he said finally, running a hand through his hair. “So that was the big secret, huh?”

She nodded.

“I thought . . .Wow,” he said, shaking his head.

Say something else, Callie pleaded silently, praying that she wouldn’t cry.

“Callie,” he said, looking her in the eyes. “I am so . . .
incommunicably
sorry that this happened to you.”

Not that! she thought, her chin starting to tremble.

“If I ever happen to see that guy . . .” He shook his head.

That’s better. Thoughts of pounding Evan to a pulp always improved her mood. They were quiet for a moment, then Clint said, “And the upperclassman who had a copy . . . ?”

There was no need for him to say the name out loud. Callie nodded.

Clint exhaled. “Wish I could say I was surprised. ”

Callie suddenly found her voice. “That e-mail I sent you—I never wanted—I mean:
she
made me do it.”

Clint looked thoughtful. “I’m going to be honest, I don’t see how she could
make
you do anything. Yes,” he continued, before Callie could protest, “she is capable of some pretty conniving behavior. But I think that ultimately the only real power she has over you is what you’re willing to concede her.”

Callie opened her mouth to object to his flippancy about all the things Lexi had made—yes,
made
—her do that semester. But when her eyes met his, the words got stuck. The more she thought about it as they sat there quietly on the couch, the more she wished that he had been around to voice this wisdom a lot earlier. But he had never had the opportunity, and that was also her fault.

As if echoing her thoughts, Clint said, “I just wish you would have told me from the beginning. I do understand why you didn’t. But if you had . . .” He shrugged. “Maybe things would have turned out differently.”

Now Callie wanted to cry again. “You mean . . . there’s no hope that we . . . ?”

Clint looked at her and then cupped her chin in his hand. “I didn’t say that.”

“Well, then . . .” Her eyes were wide.

Clint dropped his hand. “First, I think there was one thing that you said that we need to address.”

Callie cringed, not wanting to think about that horrible, horrible e-mail.

“Freshman year really isn’t the best time for a relationship. Especially when you have so many other things that you want to do. I mean, you have your whole life to have boyfriends. But you get only four years of college.”

Callie glanced around the room: the Cambridge Queen’s Head Pub. She thought she had a pretty good idea of what constituted “college” by now—though there was still, no doubt, lots left to learn—and she knew that even in her plans for the
Crimson
and everything else she wanted to do, there was still room for Clint. After all, one of the things she had realized that semester was that happiness and sanity ought to occupy a high place on one’s list of priorities.

“You’re right,” she said. “It
can
be tough to balance a relationship when you have all these other things you’re not sure if you want to do instead.” She paused. “But back then—before break—I was still trying to figure out what exactly it was that I wanted. Now I know, though,” she said, looking at him and smiling in satisfaction with the full conviction she finally felt. “What I want is you.”

He grinned. “Right back attcha, kiddo,” he said, his laugh lines crinkling. “You just gotta promise me one thing, though.”

“Anything,” she said, eager to hurry up and skip to the part where she leaped into his arms.

“From here on out, no more secrets.”

She froze. This was it: should she tell him about what had happened with Gregory? Or should she leave the past in the past—as she was finally ready to do—and concentrate wholly on the future? Briefly she closed her eyes. He had said very specifically: “from here on out.” She smiled. It was a promise she could make. “From here on out,” she echoed. “No more secrets.”

Leaning in, he kissed her. And for the first time, Callie kissed him back without worrying about who was watching.

A gust of wind whooshed through the pub as the double doors swept open, and a chill crept down Callie’s back, despite the warmth of Clint’s embrace. Snuggling even closer into his arms, she continued kissing him, angled away from the entrance and oblivious to the boy who, his hair rumpled and cheeks pink with cold, had just burst into the bar. Traffic, as she had rightly guessed, had kept him along with half of the squash team stuck on the road until less than ten minutes ago, when he’d texted OK and come running straight to the Queen’s Head Pub.

His eyes darted around wildly, settling finally on the couple in the alcove on the left.

They were kissing.

He froze in his tracks. But after only a moment’s hesitation, he was moving again. In another twenty seconds he was standing in front of the couch.

“Hey,” said Clint, breaking away from Callie. Callie turned and, seeing Gregory, stared up at him in surprise. His blue eyes were, for once, devoid of irony, and radiating with the same intensity as when he had kissed her on the balcony in the rain. Another involuntary shiver shot down her spine.

Without bothering to return Clint’s greeting, Gregory kneeled so they were at eye-level. “Callie,” he said. “I have to talk to you.”

About the Author

LAUREN KUNZE
grew up in Piedmont, California, and is the author of
The Ivy
. She enjoys reading, running, theater, writing bad poetry, and making Rina read her writing. At Harvard, Lauren studied English and neurobiology, and she has indefinitely deferred graduate school to focus on creative writing.

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