The Ivy: Rivals (2 page)

Outside? It was the end of January in Cambridge, i.e., minus a billion degrees. “Um . . .”

“Need a smoke,” he muttered quickly. “Keep me company . . . please?”

“Fine,” she said suddenly, grabbing the ugly green poufy jacket that her father had given her. “I’ll be right back,” she added, leaning in to kiss Clint lightly on the lips.

Gregory turned abruptly, shaking a cigarette out of his pack.

“Take your time,” said Clint. “I’ll be here.”

Outside, the fountain in front of the Science Center had run dry, its edges rimmed with snow and ice. Above them, branches bent spindly and sinister, casting shadows on the pale ground under the cloudy, starless sky. Callie shivered.

“You cold?” Gregory asked, pulling his cigarette from where he’d tucked it behind his ear.

“What do you want?” she retorted.

“I want to talk to you,” he said, sparking his lighter.

“Yes, clearly, but what do you
want
?”

“I want . . .” Frowning, he took a long drag and exhaled a cloud of smoke. “I want to talk to you about Harvard-Yale.”

A derisive noise escaped her lips. “You’re only ten weeks late.”

“I know, but I’m here now,” he said, taking a step forward, “and I want to talk about what happened. I mean about what happened
after
.”

“You mean when I woke up alone in a hotel room and you were gone—or the part where you were completely silent over the break?”

“Callie,” said Gregory, tossing his cigarette aside. “I think there was a serious misunderstanding.” As he spoke, he reached into his pocket.

“So you didn’t have a—ah—
threesome
the second we got back to school?”

His hand froze. “Yes, but that was only after—”

“After you’d already been through everyone else in the greater Boston area?” she interrupted hotly. “Or before the fresh batch of transfer students arrived?”

“Oh, and you’re so perfect!” he snapped. “Or at least that’s what you’re letting Clint think, isn’t it? He doesn’t have any idea, does he, about what happened between us?”

“We were on a break,” Callie said, her voice trembling like the lid on a pot about to boil over.

“Really?” asked Gregory. “Because I’m not so sure he sees it that way, and I think your not telling him makes him look like a—”

“Don’t you dare talk to me about him!” Callie exploded. “Don’t even speak his name. You could never in a million years be half the boyfriend that he is!”

Gregory recoiled as if she had slapped him.

“I’m sorry,” she said, horror-struck. “I don’t know where that—I mean—I know it’s not relevant. . . .”

“Isn’t it, though?” His eyes burned the color of cold blue flames.

“Well, it’s not like you ever wanted”—she inhaled sharply, unable to remember when she’d forgotten to breathe—“to be my boyfriend.”

White powder was sticking to his dark hair. When did it start to snow? she wondered, noticing suddenly that she was shaking uncontrollably. Her knees knocked together—because it was freezing, and because she was angry, and because no matter what she did her legs would always feel weak when he was around. He breathed in deeply and then exhaled slowly.

“You’re right,” he said finally.

Am I?

“I’m not good enough. Not like Clint, anyway.”

She waited for him to say more, to admit that he
had
wanted to be her boyfriend—or to laugh in her face at the very idea. But he just stood there, looking at her, and suddenly she realized: it was true. He wasn’t good enough. At least not based on his past actions: the threesome and all the girls, abandoning her after Harvard-Yale, and even now in his inability to come out and say how he really felt, whether it was all part of a game or because he honestly didn’t know what he wanted enough to put it into words.

Callie could remember like it was yesterday when her mother used to constantly quote her therapist during the divorce:
A woman can’t change a man; he can only change himself.
Maybe one day Gregory would change, but it would be a colossal mistake to believe that
she
could be the agent of that change. And so Callie sighed and, pained by the dejected look on his face, said:

“You will be one day, for the right girl.”

Gregory took another step forward. “What if I’m already looking at her?”

“Then I would say . . .” Callie swallowed, shaking her head. “It’s too late.” The words nearly choked her. “Clint and I are back together.” She was 100 percent confident in her decision, so why did voicing it feel so terrible?

“But what if I have something that might change your mind?” His hand moved to his pocket again, reaching into the place where he kept his cigarettes.

What if . . . Suddenly it felt like every molecule in her body was on fire, aching to know what he had to say. And then, just like that, her blood ran cold and she knew. Nothing could erase his actions, and: “Nothing you could say would change my mind. I chose—I
choose
Clint.”

His resolve appeared unshaken as he pulled—not cigarettes—but a small white piece of paper from his coat. Worn and folded over several times, the paper rested in the palm of his hand. She thought that perhaps, whatever it was, he planned to give it to her. But instead he stared straight into her eyes, his expression unreadable.

“You’re happy, aren’t you,” he said after what felt like an eternity had passed.

Not at this precise moment, but . . .

“With him,” he clarified. “You’re happy with . . . Clint.”

Slowly she nodded.

“You should get back inside, then.”

She hesitated.

“Go,” he said.

And so she went, down the stairs to where it was warm and where Clint was waiting for her, resolved never to look back.

If she had, she would have seen Gregory standing in the snow, lighter in hand, flicking the silver cap back and forth. Once, twice, and then, on the third try, it caught. The flames licked up and consumed the tiny piece of paper in his hand until it was too hot to hold, and he dropped it, watching it flutter to the ground. For a moment it continued to burn until, charred and forgotten, it turned to ash in the snow.

“ROME IS ON FIRE!” OK yelled. “ROME IS ON— Oh, bloody hell,” he muttered, realizing that nothing he said could make Callie stop kissing—

“Clint!” Mimi called, separating them. “It is time to go,” she continued, spinning Callie around and pushing her toward the door.

“But it’s not even midnight!” OK cried.

“Not you, Cinder-poppins,” said Mimi, shaking her head. “
Mais elle
. I have promised to make her leave before high noon.”

“Right,” said Callie, without bothering to correct her. “Crimson COMP starts tomorrow at nine
A.M.
, sharp.”

“Oh, l’humanité,”
Mimi muttered.

“I’ll just get my coat,” said Clint, starting for the door.

“Bah-bah-bah!” Mimi tutted loudly, grabbing the back of his toga. “She also made me promise to make certain she left
alone
.”

“Oh, the humanity,” Clint intoned. “I’m just going to walk her home,” he added.

“I have heard that one before,” Mimi said, releasing his toga nonetheless. “Just be gone by the time I am home. Wait. Who knows when that will be, least of all
moi-même. . . . Voyons en suite
; in twenty minutes I am calling Dana and I am telling her to get the hose.”

Callie laughed. Clint shook his head and then followed her outside.

When they were in front of Wigglesworth, Callie leaned against the entryway. For the hundredth time that night he kissed her but, like every other time that night, it still felt like the first time.

“Thank you,” she said when they finally broke apart.

“For what?” he asked. “Walking you home—but
not
coming up?”

“For choosing me,” she said, standing on the top step and resting her hands on the lapels of his coat.

“Choosing you?” he repeated, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiled. “Over who—all the other applicants?”

“Yes,” she said solemnly. “Over anyone else you could have had.”

“It was never a choice for me,” he answered. “You had me at ‘I’m sorry I just spilled coffee all over your sweater.’”

Callie beamed and kissed him one last time before sending him off into the night. Maybe he hadn’t fully had her in the beginning, but there was no doubt about it that he had her now.

The next morning Callie lingered in the foyer of the
Harvard Crimson
’s headquarters, staring down the hall that terminated in the stairs leading to the second floor offices, including those for
Fifteen Minutes
magazine. Lexi was probably up there now, putting the fear of God into this semester’s round of hopefuls. Taking a deep breath, Callie turned right. Grace Lee, the managing editor who had helped Callie publish her article about the tape, stood at the front of the room with the other staff members, including Callie’s closest guy friend, Matt Robinson. Quickly Callie joined the other COMPers, who were arranged among the gray desks and computers.

The second hand of the clock on the wall ticked into the twelve position and the minute hand shivered up to nine. Everyone drew quiet without Grace having to summon their attention. “I’ll keep this short and sweet, people.” She spoke in a clipped tone. “You do what we ask when we ask you. And now, to introduce you to the people who do the asking, we’re going to split into small groups. Business Board,” she barked. “You’re in the conference room. Graphic design and photography are upstairs at the end of the hall—make a right, not a left, or you’ll find yourself interrupting
FM
magazine and at the mercy of their COMP director. Incidentally, all those interested in joining the magazine, leave now and go up to where you belong. Writers and editorial, you stay down here with me.”

Nobody moved. Grace exchanged a knowing look with the editors on either side of her. “What do you people think the word
daily
under our byline means? Anyone?” She surveyed the room. “It means that we have to put out a paper every, single day. So move!”

This time they moved. From the front Matt winked at Callie. She chanced a tiny wave in return. “Now,” Grace said when everyone had settled, “the newest members of our editorial staff will be coming around to get you set up on the computers. Use your last name followed by your first initial for the log-in, and then pick a password.”

Callie smiled and motioned to Matt, who quickly materialized by her side. She sat in front of a computer, and he perched next to her on the edge of the desk.

“In the meantime,” Grace continued, “I’m going to tell you about a new feature that we’ve added to the paper this semester: the FlyBy blog. The FlyBy blog will be an exclusively online source for more-than-daily campus news, oddities, and . . .
gossip
.” She grimaced when she said the last word, almost like it had caused a foul taste.

“How is that different from
FM
?” called out a sophomore boy Callie recognized as also having been cut from the magazine last semester.

“It’s not that different,” said Grace, a tiny spark in her eye. “In fact, it’s very similar to the magazine—only better.” She grinned wolfishly. “Or it will be soon. That part is up to
you
. Since this division of the paper is new, we’ve decided for now to allow any staff member to post an article, or even a string of recurring columns, to the blog, to get a feel for what works—including COMPers.”

Excited murmurs and glances filled the room. COMPers, as Callie knew all too well from her experience at
FM
, normally weren’t allowed to do
anything
. At least not write anything that would ever see the light of day—they were certainly encouraged to do lots of coffee fetching, Red Bull buying, grunt work, and staying until 2
A.M.
writing practice articles, and then editing and re-editing until someone came around and yelled at them for doing it wrong, at which point they were expected to edit some more.

And I signed on to do this again? Callie thought. I must be nuts.

“Of course, anything you attempt to post will be subject to my administrative approval,” Grace added. “But with that said I do encourage all of you to take this opportunity to publish online and start building a readership. Now I’ll leave you in the capable hands of our newest staff members”—Callie grinned at Matt—“who will familiarize you with our basic systems and software. Then we’ll reconvene in twenty to discuss your first assignments.”

“How cool is Grace?” Callie asked Matt as she turned on her computer.

“She is . . . the coolest,” Matt agreed. Leaning over her, he pulled up the home page for the
Crimson
’s internal website.

“Are you going to go for it?” she asked.

“Oh—gee—wow. You know, I don’t know because she’s, like, my boss, and I don’t know if—”

“I meant your own column on FlyBy,” Callie said with a small smile.

“Oh, yeah—I knew that,” he said, turning away so Callie could key in a password. “And the answer is that I’m not sure—about the
column
, of course,” he mused. “My regular workload is going to keep me pretty busy. It’d be a great chance for you to get your stuff out there, though. Maybe you could even reuse some of the pieces that you wrote for
FM
?”

“Interesting idea,” Callie murmured, and it was—at least compared to the alternative, which was burning them, along with everything else that Alexis Thorndike had ever touched. Though technically—she thought as she and Matt pulled up the FlyBy page and started skimming an article about some nerd who had built a tracker back in 1999 that could determine Natalie Portman’s exact location on campus for his CS-50 final project—that purging process included Clint.