The Ivy: Rivals (15 page)

“As much as I love constantly talking about her with you,” Clint said without attempting to hide his sarcasm, “it’s already ten past four, and I’ve got to get to squash practice.”

“Okay,” she said. “Thanks for the coffee. So, I’ll see you tonight? I should be done here around seven thirty—”

“Actually, I’m sorry but I can’t tonight,” said Clint. “Pudding stuff.”

“Oh,” she said. “Okay. Hey! Is it because of that police thing?”

“Uh—no,” he said, “it’s something else. . . . Board only, though, so you don’t have to worry about it,” he finished, kissing the top of her head. “I will see you tomorrow for our weekly Wednesday lunch date.”

“Wednesday lunch date it is,” she agreed, waving as he left the offices.

A moment later her phone buzzed.

1 N
EW
T
EXT
M
ESSAGE
F
ROM
C
LINT
W
EBER

Smiling, she read:

BTW, I
FORGOT TO MENTION: WE
HAD A MEETING LAST NIGHT ABOUT
THE SOPHOMORE WHO KICKED YOU
OUT OF
G
ATSBY AND NOW
HE
’
S
BEEN KICKED OUT OF THE CLUB—
FOR GOOD.
I
APOLOGIZE AGAIN
THAT THE NIGHT TURNED INTO SUCH
A MESS
. R
EALLY
, I
COULDN
’
T BE
MORE SORRY. . . .

NO WORRIES
, she drafted back. Then, after thinking for a few seconds, she added:

P.S.
THERE
’
S SOMETHING
I
FORGOT
TO ASK YOU, TOO: TOTALLY RANDOM,
BUT YOU HAVEN
’
T BY ANY CHANCE
BEEN LEAVING ENVELOPES FULL OF
CASH ON
A
NNE
’
S DESK AT THE
P
UDDING WITH MY NAME ON THEM?

Her phone buzzed.

W
EIRD
. . . I
WONDER WHO IT
COULD BE
—
DEFINITELY
NOT
ME,
THOUGH!

Callie barely had time to consider his response, since she had been certain that Clint was the only logical explanation left, when her phone buzzed again:

A
LSO
. . . I
MISS YOU ALREADY!
C
AN
’
T WAIT FOR
W
EDNESDAY :)

Staring down at her phone, she beamed.

An odd gagging noise came from the vicinity of Matt’s computer.

“What?” she demanded, still unable to stop smiling.

“Nothing,” Matt muttered. “There’s just something about that guy. . . . He’s too shiny.”

“Shiny?” Callie repeated with a giggle.

“Yeah,” said Matt, sticking to his guns. “Shiny like . . . perfect. Too perfect. Or something.”

“Oh, Matt,” Callie said, shaking her head and putting her phone away. “There’s no such thing as too perfect.”

Chapter Nine
Busted!

March 8
Behind the Ivy-Covered Walls: Part III

4:02
PM
By THE IVY INSIDER

An op-ed appeared in the
Harvard Crimson
late this afternoon (“Narcissism and Objectification Run Rampant at Freshmen Fifteen Photo Shoot”) decrying one of the magazine’s oldest traditional articles, “The Freshmen Fifteen” (also published earlier this morning).

However, it appears the drama over the latest issue of the magazine was not confined to the offices of its editors.

Late last night the Harvard University police busted up a party at the Hasty Pudding social club supposedly intended to honor the so-called “fifteen hottest.” Two sophomores whose names have yet to be released were issued MIP citations (Minor in Possession) when discovered with open containers of alcohol on the club’s front steps. It is unknown at this point whether further legal action will be taken or if the university will see fit to discipline the individuals.

And yet it seems that their actions are merely a small sampling of what really goes on behind closed doors: the underage drinking, the drugs, and who knows what else. Even an e-mail from the club’s secretary sent to members this afternoon notes that the night was “fairly low-key compared to our other events.” So why did the police show at all?

What was previously believed to be a noise complaint from a neighboring building has now been confirmed as a whistle-blower from the inside. Perhaps it was an inside job. Maybe even
the
Insider. Stay tuned. . . . After all, actions speak louder than words.

“I
’ll put two pounds—sorry, dollars—on one fifteen. Over or under?” OK whispered to Adam, who sat next to him in the plush green chairs of the Science Center’s D auditorium.

“Under,” Adam whispered back, checking his watch and then looking at Mimi, who, after arriving late, had just settled into a seat several rows in front of them.

“What are they doing?” Callie asked Dana, who was frowning and shaking her head while their professor for
Science B-29: The Evolution of Human Nature
fiddled with the overhead projector.

“Gambling,” said Dana, her lips a tight, thin line. “He knows I don’t approve.”

“It’s not gambling,” Adam said, leaning over to address Callie. “Just a little friendly betting game we like to play to keep class more interesting.”

“Class is already interesting,” Dana hissed, writing the phrase
The theory of
in front of the word
Evolution
at the top of her page and then underlining
theory
twice.

Callie—who up until recently had been sitting with strangers, having tended to wait for Mimi until she realized doing so was making her late—was intrigued.

“How does it work?” she whispered. Dana harrumphed and bent over her notebook. The professor switched on his microphone and began to speak.

“Well, when we get here I pick a time, say, 1:04, when I think it’s likely that Mimi will arrive,” Adam began.

“And then I say ‘over’ or ‘under’ depending on whether I think she’ll show up earlier or later,” OK explained.

“When she gets here,” Adam continued, “we play double or nothing for the moment when she inevitably falls asleep.”

“I get to pick that time, 1:15 in today’s case,” said OK.

“And then I choose ‘over’ or ‘under,’” Adam finished.

“How is that not gambling?” Dana whispered, tired of pretending she wasn’t listening.

“It’s not gambling if he never actually pays me,” Adam assured her. “You owe me twenty-two dollars, by the way,” he murmured to OK under his breath.

“This is Lucy,” Professor Hanson—or as he was fondly known around campus, Professor
Handsome
—said. The projector displayed a photograph of what looked like a fossilized Neanderthal. “And this,” he continued with a click of his keyboard, “is Lucy’s great- great-grandmother.”

The screen lit up with the image of an ape scratching its head. Several students giggled.

Callie watched Dana sigh heavily and draw a line down the center of her notes. At the top of the left-hand column she wrote
Learned in Class
, then labeled the other column
Reality
.

“Humans are descended from monkeys,”
she scribbled on the left-hand side of the page. Then, across from it on the other side, she wrote:
“False: God created the heavens and the universe in six days, and on the seventh day he rested—Genesis.”

“I don’t mean to be rude,” Callie whispered, “but why are you taking this class?”

“Because it is best to know thine enemy,” Dana said. “Why else would I ever watch MSNBC programming?”

“Pay up,” said Adam suddenly, extending his hand to OK.

It was 1:13 and Mimi was fast asleep.

“Brilliant,” said Callie. OK groaned softly. “And does she fall asleep every time?” she asked.

“Every time.” Adam nodded. “Except the three times when she never showed. You still owe me for those, too,” he added.

“What? No fair! I thought we were calling those a draw!”

Bzzz-bzzz-bzzz
, Callie’s phone vibrated in her bag. “Sorry,” she whispered as Dana sighed again.

1 N
EW
T
EXT
M
ESSAGE
F
ROM
C
LINT
W
EBER

S
O IT
’
S WEDNESDAY . . .

Smiling, she texted back:
YEP!

Her phone buzzed again.

B
UT UNFORTUNATELY
I
CAN
’
T BRING
YOUR LUNCH TO
L
AMONT TODAY
BECAUSE
I
HAVE A STUDY GROUP
FOR MY GOVERNMENT MIDTERM
TOMORROW MEETING IN
W
IDENER
AT
1. S
O SORRY
. A
RE YOU GOING
TO STARVE?!

It had become a Wednesday tradition for Clint to swing by FlyBy (the to-go food service from which the new more-than-daily-news website derived its name) and bring Callie a bagged lunch at Lamont, where she had to be for her one o’clock shift directly after class.

N
O WORRIES
! I
CAN RUN BY
F
LY
B
Y; IT
’
LL ONLY MAKE ME TEN
MINUTES LATE.

Callie smiled and put her phone back in her book bag, trying to concentrate on Professor Handsome’s—ahem—
Hanson
’s words rather than his face. It was a bit difficult with Dana sighing, Adam arguing, OK weaseling his way out of debt, and the sight of Mimi slumped over in her seat where Callie would have bet ten to one that she was snoring.

Plus, a minute later, her phone buzzed again.

D
ID YOU REMEMBER TO PICK UP
YOUR BOOKS FOR
F
ICTION
&
T
HEORY SO YOU COULD FINISH THE
READING BY TOMORROW IN TIME FOR
CLASS
?? (T
HIS IS ME REMINDING
YOU, AS PROMISED
!)

Crap! She could picture the exact location of her books now, sitting on the edge of her bed. Shaking her head, she texted back:

THANK YOU! I
TOTALLY FORGOT,
AS YOU GUESSED.
W
ILL HAVE TO
SWING BY
W
IGG BEFORE WORK.
B
UT DON
’
T WORRY ABOUT LUNCH,
I’
LL FIGURE SOMETHING OUT!

“Can you
please
put that away?” Dana hissed when Callie’s phone buzzed for the third time.

“Sorry,” Callie whispered back. Turning the ringer on silent, she stole a covert glance at the screen.

Y
OU
’
RE THE BEST
. M
AYBE WE
CAN GRAB DINNER LATER IF
I
GET
ENOUGH STUDYING DONE IN TIME.
I
F NOT WE
’
LL DO SOMETHING BIG
S
ATURDAY NIGHT AFTER WE GET
BACK FROM OUR AWAY GAME.

“Hand it over,” said Dana, holding out her hand.

Cringing, Callie passed her the phone. “Sorry!”

“Stop apologizing and start taking notes!” Dana whispered back.

“Okay,” said Callie, settling into her chair and jotting dutifully in her notebook for the rest of the hour.

“Someone’s in here!” Vanessa called from behind the bathroom door.

“Oh, sorry,” said Callie, backing away. “Will you be done soon? Because I kind of have to pee!”

“Go away!” Vanessa yelled.

Oh-kay . . . thought Callie, walking into her room and grabbing her books. Coming back into the common room, she opened the door to the mini-fridge: one four-pack of Red Bull, one banana peel (minus the banana), and a couple of packets of sweet and sour sauce from The Kong. Callie wrinkled her nose. Straightening, she noticed a half-eaten pack of Double Stuf Oreos sitting on the couch.
Bingo—

Suddenly a weird retching noise came from the bathroom.

Callie paused, looking at the Oreos and then looking back at the bathroom.

“Everything okay in there?” she called, taking a few steps toward the door.

She was met with the whoosh of the toilet flushing.

“It’s fine!” Vanessa called, but now Callie could hear something that sounded an awful lot like crying.

Checking the time on her cell phone, she stood for a moment, debating. Then she dialed the front desk at Lamont and told them that she was going to be a little bit late.

“Can I get you anything?” Callie asked. “Water? Red Bull?”

“There’s a sink in the bathroom,” she heard Vanessa mutter.

“Right,” said Callie. “Well, if you want to talk, I’ll just stay out here for another minute or so. . . .” She sank onto the floor and rested her back against the bathroom door.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Vanessa said in halting tones from where she was also slumped on the floor, her head separated from Callie’s by a mere inch and a half of wood.

“Did something happen with Tyler?” Callie ventured.

A sob escaped Vanessa’s lips. “I don’t want”—
sob
—“to talk”—
sob
—“to you!”

“Did he do something?” Callie called. “Pressure you in some way? Because if he did, I’ll kill him, or at least have Clint punch him in the—”

“Just—shut up—about—Tyler!”

“Fine,” said Callie, hugging her knees to her chest. “I’ll talk about something else then. So, OK and Adam have invented this betting game that they play in our Human Nature class, and today . . .”

Vanessa never responded or gave any other sign that she was listening, but midway through the story the crying noises stopped. And, though Callie couldn’t be sure, at one point when she had been describing what she could remember of Dana’s notes, she thought she heard a giggle.

“You know,” Callie said, when she had run out of stories from class, “the day I found out that I tore my ACL—and that my soccer career was basically over—I hid in the bathroom for like six hours. The bathtub, actually, to be specific. But eventually you realize that you have to come out, because it’s uncomfortable, or you get hungry . . . maybe for some Double Stuf Oreo—
ah
—
OW
!”

Callie’s head clunked against the tiled floor. Blinking, she stared up at Vanessa, who loomed over her, her hand still on the doorknob from when she had suddenly yanked it open.

“I have to go—to the library,” Vanessa said, stepping over Callie and grabbing her bag off the couch. She had washed her face and managed to eradicate all signs of the recent meltdown except for a slight puffy redness around her eyes.

“Great,” said Callie, sitting up, “I’m on my way now too so I’ll walk you!”

“Actually, I forgot: I have a hair appointment,” Vanessa said, heading for the front door.

Sighing and rubbing the back of her head, Callie watched her go.

“I’m
so
sorry I’m late— What . . . what are you doing here?”

Gregory stood in front of the reference desk, holding a bagged lunch in one hand. There was another bag near him on the counter. “Nothing,” he said. “I was just leaving.”

“Is that—is this for me?” Callie asked, going behind the desk and picking up the bag.

“Uh . . . yes. If you want it,” he said.

“Thank you?”

He shrugged. “Clint and I are in the same econ section at noon, and he mentioned that he couldn’t do it and how grumpy you get when you’re hungry, so I off—I mean he asked me to bring it to you instead . . . since I was already planning to come here to do the reading for class tomorrow anyway. It’s no big deal.”

“Great minds,” said Callie, lifting up her copy of Kazuo Ishiguro’s
Never Let Me Go
.

“How are you liking it so far?” Gregory asked, gripping the back of the spare chair next to her desk.

“I’m loving it,” she said. “And I would totally be able to finish on time for tomorrow . . . if we didn’t also have to get through these,” she concluded, pointing to her copies of
Writing and Difference
and
Of Grammatology
by Jacques Derrida, aka her New Least Favorite Unintelligible Postmodern Deconstructionist.

“You know the headline for his obituary in the
New York Times
read, ‘Jacques Derrida, Abstruse Philosopher, Dies at Seventy-Four,’” Gregory said with a smile.

“They know what they’re talking about over at that
Time
s,” she said wryly. “Wish I knew what
he
was talking about when he said . . . well, everything. I mean, just listen to this,” she said, opening
Writing and Difference
as he sat down.

“That philosophy died yesterday, since Hegel or Marx, Nietzsche, or Heidegger—and philosophy should still wander toward the meaning of its death—or that it has always lived knowing itself to be dying . . . that philosophy died one day, within history, or that it has always fed on its own agony, on the violent way it opens history by opposing itself to nonphilosophy, which is its past and its concern, its death and wellspring; that beyond the death, or dying nature, of philosophy, perhaps even because of it, thought still has a future, or even, as is said today, is still entirely to come because of what philosophy has held in store; or, more strangely still, that the future itself has a future—all these are unanswerable questions.”

She looked up. “Seriously, what does that mean?”

“I don’t know,” said Gregory, laughing a little and unwrapping his sandwich.

“It’s all one sentence!” she exclaimed, pulling an orange out of her lunch bag. “Just
one
sentence out of fifty billion others like it! How on earth are we ever supposed to understand this thing?” she cried, letting the book clunk onto the table. Both hands free now, she began to peel her orange.