The Ivy: Secrets (6 page)

“Thank you, Ms. Andrews,” said Mary Anne after a beat. People shifted back in their chairs. Grace Lee had bent her head over the essay, and Callie could imagine her eyes flitting across the page, scrutinizing every word. “Several astute points,” Mary Anne continued, “and a good note, I think, on which to end our discussion.”

Callie looked at the clock. Sometime during her bumbling analysis that was probably equal parts bullshit and brilliance—she was too light-headed to tell or care at this point—the second hand had mercifully clicked its way to two o’clock. Freedom.

Freedom to go to work, anyway, where she could count the minutes standing between her and food. Quickly she started shoving her papers into her bag, picturing a giant burrito from Felipe’s with everything on it: guacamole, sour cream, salsa. . . .

“Don’t forget,” Mary Anne was saying as people began to stand up and stretch. “Bryce’s review session covering close-readings of key quotations is tomorrow at three in Emerson.”

Callie stood and ducked into the hall. What about a big slice of pepperoni pizza from Noch’s? She hurried down the steps. Or even a huge bowl of cereal from Annenberg. When she reached the bottom she sensed somebody behind her, following closely at her heels.

It was Grace Lee. Callie blinked: for a moment there Grace’s head had looked like a sandwich. Grace fell into stride next to her and gave her a hard look. “Freshman, right?” she asked as they stepped out into the freezing December air. Before Callie could answer, she continued: “You write well, if a bit naively.”

“Um, thanks,” said Callie, deciding that this was high praise coming from someone so scary smart. “My name’s Callie—”

“Andrews, right. I know,” Grace said, waving the packet that contained her paper. “I wonder: have you ever considered COMPing the
Crimson
? This semester’s COMPers have been a little light on talent so we’re looking for new blood in the spring.”

“Wow, um, thank you,” Callie stammered, her stomach growling again. They had stopped under the trees outside of Sever Hall. Discreetly she glanced over Grace’s head—which barely reached Callie’s shoulder—to the brick staircase leading up to the courtyard in front of Lamont. “I’m actually still in the running for
FM
, but I have no idea if I’m going to make . . .”

Grace’s face changed abruptly. “I see,” Grace said. Then she nodded curtly and walked off as suddenly as she had appeared. Callie stood still for a moment, then shrugged and headed toward Lamont.

Her feet dragged as she trudged up the stone steps to the library. She was coming to dread her time at work almost as much as she dreaded running into Vanessa on her way to the bathroom, or worse, into Gregory on her way down the hall. Trapped behind a desk, there was no escape from whoever might decide to frequent Lamont; she was stuck.

She slung her bag over the counter and slipped in front of the reference desk, sinking onto the tall, uncomfortable stool that faced the computer. She stared blankly at the screen for a few minutes, hoping it hid her from whoever might be lurking in the reading room or Lamont Café. She checked her e-mail. Then Facebook, then Twitter, and then
The New York Times
. No major world catastrophes, friend requests, op-eds, or interesting tweets in the past hour or so. She fidgeted. She bit her nails until she realized there was nothing left to chew.

When students arrived at the counter with their books, she stamped the due dates silently, daring them to speak to her. Few tried. Not that she’d been bothering to look in the mirror lately, but she could imagine what she looked like: a zombie. No, worse: a zombie in need of a shower. An ugly, grimy, scary corpse zombie from
Night of the Living Dead
and not the sexy stuff of teenage-girl, undead fantasies—in need of a shower. Did zombies take showers, or did showers make them melt? And was it weird that thinking about zombies was making her hungrier? Or no, it’s witches that melt, like in
The Wizard of Oz
. . .

A mobile tweet popped up from @alexisthorndike:

Callie frowned. Slowly she raised her eyes and saw the very thing she’d been dreading staring at her from a table inside Lamont Café.

Alexis Thorndike.

Lexi waved cheerily, phone in hand. She was smiling so widely Callie could have sworn she could see the glint of her teeth from across the room.

Grandmother, what big teeth you have!

The better to eat you with, my dear!

Maybe Lexi would melt if Callie dumped a bucket of water on her perfect chestnut curls. Callie pictured sloshing it all over her newly dry-cleaned dress (free delivery via Cinder-Callie), and watching her disintegrate, green and bubbling like acid. She almost smiled back.

Instead she ducked her head and pulled her worn, ancient copy of
Pride and Prejudice
out of her bag. Skimming through it, she began marking the pages with important quotations that seemed likely to appear on the test. Too bad she’d left Hawthorne at home. What a shame. If only she were in a library . . . Smiling, she gave in and started rereading from the beginning.

“Ahem.”
Somebody cleared his throat loudly, breaking her reverie. Sighing dramatically, she kept her eyes on
Pride and Prejudice
. She took her time finishing the sentence, then painstakingly pulled a bookmark out of her bag and stuck it between the pages before finally setting the book on the circulation desk. Only then did she look up.

She narrowed her eyes, knowing that the effect might be slightly diminished due to the fact that her heart had started pounding so loudly he could probably hear it, even from two feet away.

“I need a book,” said Gregory.

And
I
need a drink. An apology. An explanation. A hug. FOOD! Anything other than
this
. “You’ve come to the right place,” she said, gesturing sarcastically. “Although there’s this new invention called the computer—it’s really amazing. You type in the name of the book, and then it tells you where to find it. All without ever bothering the person behind the desk.”

“Fascinating, but I need a textbook. And last I checked, they keep them behind the desk, though I’m
terribly
sorry to bother you.”

Oh. Dammit. “Which one?”

“
Intermediate Microeconomics
by Varian.”

Callie narrowed her eyes. “Why do you need
that
textbook?”

“So I can study.”

“Study what?”

Gregory rolled his eyes. “Economics.”

“But you’re not
in
economics.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Then why haven’t I seen you in class?”

There was a flicker of his old smile. “I didn’t realize you were looking for me in class . . .”

“I wasn’t,” she snapped.

“Well,” he said, seeming irritated again, “I’m not in your class because I’m in 1010a.”

“No you’re not. The intermediate level is only open to sophomores and juniors.”

“I skipped.”

“Right.” Because the rules don’t apply to you.

“Can I have the textbook?”

“Fine!” she cried, standing. Slipping behind the shelves, she bent down, stopping when she spotted the
V
s. Varian—there it was. So he’s in genius-level econ—what do I care? Textbook in tow, she walked back to the counter.

“Hey!” she cried, her face flushing crimson. “Put that down!”

Without an iota of guilt Gregory set her copy of
Pride and Prejudice
on the counter, sliding the bookmark back into place. His blue eyes were bright when he met her gaze. “‘She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me.’” He quoted Darcy’s famous line. “Classic. I love that part.”

That they both loved the same books—once upon a time that had sent butterflies fluttering from her stomach out to the tips of her fingers and down to her toes. Now it was a twist of the knife. That he could quote from memory just drove the blade in farther, deeper, straight into the left-hand side of her chest. How many other girls had fallen for his tricks? And how could he be so cruel, to deliberately remind her that she had stupidly—oh, so stupidly—fallen, too?

Never again, she vowed. Never—not even if he stood there and recited the entire book from memory—again. Wordlessly she scanned the textbook and slammed the Due Back in One Hour stamp on the front page so hard that it smudged. Then she flipped the front cover shut and shoved the book across the counter.

He made no move to take it.

“Is there something else?” she asked as coldly as she could manage.

He looked at her, his fingers drumming the counter. “The other day . . . in the hall . . . when I . . .” He trailed off. “You seemed—”

She closed her eyes. Thinking about “the other day in the hall” made her sick. She had no idea how he was about to torment her, but she knew if it involved threesomes or her stupid unreturned “I miss you,” she simply could not survive. “Just. Go. Away,” she said through gritted teeth.

“So . . . that’s what you really want, then?” he muttered. For a moment he looked as if she had slapped him. But then he shrugged, and suddenly he was Gregory again. “Fine,” he said acidly. “Like you said, ‘Let’s just stay as far away from each other as possible,’ right?” he added, picking up the book. Before she could answer, he turned, heading for the café.

Like I said—when? Just now? Did I . . . The room started to spin, and Callie exhaled, realizing that she had been holding her breath. She inhaled slowly, her eyes darting toward the clock. She had been on duty for . . . only twenty-three minutes and fourteen seconds? How was that possible! Was she really stuck here for another ninety-six minutes and forty-three seconds? Forty-two . . . forty-one . . . forty . . .

Her eyes inadvertently flicked back over to Lamont Café. Her breath caught in her chest. Lexi rose gracefully out of her chair and embraced Gregory, kissing him once on each cheek. He smiled and said something. She laughed and gestured toward the table, taking the textbook he had just offered her and spreading it open between them. Their heads bent together as he pulled out a notebook and pen. Callie couldn’t see his face; his back bent indifferently toward her.

Callie closed her eyes, as if doing so could erase the image.

But there was no denying what was clearly unfolding before her:

Gregory and Lexi. On a date, or at least something that strongly resembled a datelike gathering—their second if you counted the night he ditched Lexi to save Vanessa from James “The D-Bag” Hoffmeyer at the Mad Hatter’s Ball.

How did they know each other anyway? Was it a secret New York, everyone-knows-everyone-who’s-anyone type of thing? Did they have a history? Did he
like
her? Did she like him? Did—

Callie walked over to the cart of books waiting to be re-shelved and started sorting them. Well, started
pretending
to sort them.Her mind was so fuzzy she knew she’d have to re-sort them later, but at least for the time being her hands were occupied, and the watery feeling in the corners of her eyes could be blamed on the dust motes floating off the ancient volumes.

She was just pulling Tennessee Williams’s
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof
back from where she had accidentally shelved it as poetry when she heard a voice say quietly,

“Hey there.”

She knew from the slightly southern lilt and the sound—like liquid sunshine—who it was without having to look.

“Hi,” she said, turning, a smile playing on the corners of her lips in spite of the exhaustion and near starvation.

Clint grinned and let his backpack slide to the floor, then propped his elbows on the reference desk and leaned toward her.

“Do you need—” she began, sitting back on the stool in front of the computer. “I mean, can I help you with something?”

“As a matter of fact,” said Clint, smiling even wider, “you can.”

“With a book,” she asked, flushing and trying to stay professional.

“Yes,” he agreed, leaning across the counter even farther. “A book.”

“I’ll look it up,” she said, moving the mouse to tab out of her e-mail and open a new browser. “What’s it called?”

“It’s called . . .
Come to Lunch with Me
.”

Come to
— She stopped typing midway through the word lunch. Her stomach growled. “Lunch?”

“With me,” he added, eyes twinkling, not unkindly, with amusement.

“Um, I would love to . . .” The hair on her neck and arms had just crept up like reeds standing to attention in a chilly gust of wind. Someone was staring at her. She looked over Clint’s shoulder, and sure enough, there she was.

Alexis.

She was gripping the sides of the
Intermediate Microeconomics
textbook, glowering. Gregory stood in line at the coffee counter, waiting to order drinks. Slowly Lexi shook her head once.

“But I can’t. I have to work,” Callie whispered.

“That’s cool.” Clint’s smile was unwavering. “What time do you get off?”

“Four,” said Callie distractedly, watching Lexi dig into her shoulder bag and pull out her cell phone. Gregory returned to the table with two cups and set one in front of Lexi. He did not glance in the direction of the reference desk.

“A late lunch, then.”

“Clint, I—I can’t,” she said, her eyes darting away from his face and falling blankly on her e-mail.

“You can’t or you don’t want to?” he asked.

She was silent. Did she
want
to? Was there anything else in the world that she didn’t want
more
?

“Look,” said Clint, taking her silence as a bad sign, “I had some time to think over break, and I realized I made a mistake, giving you an ultimatum like that. It was wrong: immature, pushy. I got frustrated and was out of line. Of course I want my girlfriend to feel like she can tell me things—anything—but in order for you to feel comfortable about opening up, I have to be a good boyfriend first.”