The Ivy: Rivals (3 page)

Blegh. She shivered. She preferred, when possible, to block out the disturbing little factoid that he and Lexi had dated.

“So sorry I’m late,” a low alto trilled as its owner breezed into the room. Every single head turned to look. It was like somebody had cued the opening credits to
Baywatch
, and Alessandra Constantine—the frustratingly gorgeous sophomore transfer student and sometimes bedfellow of one Gregory Bolton—bounced in, her tousled dark curls unfurling behind her as if she had her own invisible wind machine. She may as well have been wearing a red bikini instead of a red sweater, the way every man in the room was staring at her now. Grace watched her, too, but her expression appeared scornful rather than stupefied. “Somebody . . .” Grace said, waving her hands toward Alessandra like she was a spill that needed mopping.

“We’ll do it!” Matt cried, his hand rocketing skyward. Callie restrained an eye-roll. Seriously? Was she really
that
good-looking? Gregory certainly seemed to think so, and Matt, even though the Gregory factor of that equation essentially meant that Matt didn’t stand a chance—

“Hi, you two,” Alessandra said, sitting in front of the free computer next to them and grinning with her full, pouty lips. “We need to create a log-in name and a password, right?” As she spoke, she leaned in toward the monitor, reminding them exactly how apt Callie’s private nickname for her was: Perky Boobs.

If cartoon bubbles could materialize in real life, Matt’s would currently read,
Durrh
. . . .

Please, spare us the drool, Callie thought, actually rolling her eyes. Reaching over to Alessandra’s keyboard, she typed in her new username. Then, she pulled up the
Crimson
home page and clicked on the link to set up a new account, as Matt had done for her five minutes earlier. Alessandra watched closely, hoping perhaps that appearing rapt with attention could atone for her lateness.

“Fast learner.” Matt nodded at Callie.

She grinned. “Only with computers,” she said wryly. As for the other stuff—friendship, love, and making the right choices —well, we’re getting there.

Slowly but surely she was getting there.

Chapter Two
The View from the Inside

Feb 3
Behind the Ivy-Covered Walls

6:49
PM
By THE IVY INSIDER

Last week
FM
magazine published an article glorifying various “(in)famous” parties on campus. The five events featured are all hosted by one of eight male Final Clubs: institutions that often weather accusations of elitism, sexism, and “just plain dumb.” Even though the article purports to be “your guide to getting in,” it’s no secret that 85 percent of students on this campus will never be allowed through the doors.

So what
really
goes on behind the ivy-covered walls? It’s initiation season here at Harvard, and rumors are proliferating while odd events occur across campus. On Tuesday during Shopping Period several female students were spotted wearing mustaches to class. On Wednesday a group of male sophomores performed a synchronized dance in drag to a Katy Perry song on the steps of Memorial Church. But are these arguably lighthearted pranks indicative of what transpires in private away from the public eye?

Not according to a recent blog post on
FM
’s write-in advice page, where an anonymous student from the class of 2013 asks: “Dear Lexi: One of my roommates came back from a Final Club initiation event with cigarette burns all over his arm. None of the rest of us made it into a club this year, and he refused to tell us what happened. Should we be concerned?” Contrary to the advice proffered by the editors at
FM
, the answer is yes.

Given the recent publicity surrounding an X-rated video created on a high school dare (ref:
“Sex, Lies, and Videotape: The Story of an Initiation Gone Awry”
at www.thecrimson.com), it seems unlikely that clubs will enforce previously documented rituals requiring initiates to snap cell phone photographs of a female in flagrante. However, it’s anyone’s guess as to what the mob mentality will produce next.

In the meantime, spring punch season is about to begin at the Hasty Pudding social club. Despite an age- and gender-neutral admit policy, this private institution still caters to a predominantly white, trust-fund-wealthy faction of the student body and should be considered anything but progressive. Stay tuned for an insider’s look at the rules and values underlying their punch process and what happens at 2 Garden Street, their independently owned building beyond college control. Shocking secrets may soon come to light that could force even the university—officially disaffiliated with the Final Clubs since 1984, when the organizations refused to go coeducational in accordance with Title IX legislation—to stand up and take notice.

“N
ext up we have Penelope Vandemeer, also from New York, New York,” Anne Goldberg, secretary, said as she clicked to a new slide of the PowerPoint presentation she was currently delivering in the living room of the Hasty Pudding social club. “Deerfield alum, like yours truly, and at least half the board,” she added, the corners of her mouth curling up—quite demonstrative, given her usual frosty demeanor—like she had just referenced a hilarious inside joke.

“The family has a gorgeous estate in Palm Beach, not to mention the house on the Cape,” a girl, one of the Deerfield alums, chimed in. “One week in January she had her father fly half the sophomore class down to Florida for the weekend—in their jet.”

Anne nodded. “I think we can all agree that she certainly has a lot to offer?”

“Second!” called Tyler, Clint’s roommate and president of the club (in addition to Vanessa’s Man-Candy-Consecutive-Whatever), over from where he lay stretched across a chaise lounge.

“Third!” cried OK, which earned him an elevated eyebrow from Mimi, who was perched next to him on the windowsill. “What?” he muttered. “Look at her. Blond and plump: just my type.” Mimi smirked and flicked her dark brown hair over her shoulder.

“A show of hands from the board only, please.” The speaker, whose sweet, clear voice rang from the front row of folding chairs set up for the occasion, didn’t even need to turn her head of flawless chestnut curls in order to command the room.

Alexis Thorndike.

Callie stifled a yawn. She, along with thirty-odd members of the club who were cycling in and out depending on their class schedules, had been cooped up in the living room for hours discussing the list of potential punches for that spring. Everyone had already submitted—anonymously via the secure website HPpunch.com—the names of students whom they thought would be “a good fit, and would uphold the standards and style of our organization.” Then Anne had compiled that list and used her résumé-perfect proficiency at Microsoft Office applications, with the aid of photos lifted from Facebook, to create a presentation. Callie couldn’t wait to get to class, and not just because it was the first official week of courses now that Shopping Period had drawn to a close.

“It’s settled, then,” Anne agreed with Lexi, as good sidekicks always do. She made a check on her clipboard. “Next!” she chirped, clicking her way to the subsequent slide. “Chip Scooner Hallisburg the third of Gladwyne, Pennsylvania,” she continued, followed by a summary of why he had been overlooked the previous fall.

Callie turned to Clint, who was sitting next to her on a couch in the back by the piano, and gave him a look that clearly read:
When
is this going to be
over
? He squeezed her thigh. “Hang in there, kiddo,” he murmured as a heated debate about inbreeding, Quakerism, and unibrows was brewing.

“You said this was supposed to be the ‘fun’ part,” Callie muttered.

“But there’s an easy solution here, and we all know what that is,” Brittney, a sophomore who made her namesake on
Glee
look like a genius, cried. “MANSCAPING. How else do you think I got rid of the nickname Tarantula Arms back in middle school?”

Clint tilted his head, glancing at Callie from underneath his long, light brown lashes.

“Okay, maybe a little,” Callie conceded. “But still—”

“
Ahem
.” someone cleared her throat from the front of the room.

Callie dropped her voice to a whisper. “Doesn’t the whole thing make you kind of—I don’t know—uncomfortable?”

“Which part?” he whispered back. Anne checked
yes
on Chip (inbreeding for the win!) and clicked to the next slide.

“Never seen her before, but she’s pretty cute,” a guy called from the piano bench.

“Eh,” said another senior Callie had never spoken to. “I give her a seven.”

“No,” countered the other, “at least an eight.”

Callie shook her head, then whispered, “The way they’re blatantly ranking people based on looks, or money, or what else they can ‘bring’ to the club—”

Anne glared at her from the front of the room. “Show of hands, please?”

Clint shrugged and whispered back, “How else would you have them do it? GPA? Hours of community service?”

Callie stared at him.

“I’m just saying,” he said, shifting in his seat. “I think it’s flawed as much as you do, but this is the way it’s always been done— Hey! That guy Dudley,” he suddenly called as Anne clicked to the next slide, “is a
sick
squash player. Sophomore walk-on and already starting at third. Definitely gets my vote.”

He turned back to Callie. “What’s wrong?” he murmured, twining his fingers through hers.

“Nothing . . . I’m just wondering, I guess, um, what they said—about me?” She cringed, bracing herself.

“Cutest freshman on campus, hilarious but usually not because she means to be on purpose, killer smile, awesome eyes, sharp as a whip, and has excellent taste in men.”

“No way!” She leaned into him, smiling a little. “Really?”

“Well, no,” he said, throwing an arm around her shoulders. “You weren’t in the slide show because nobody had any idea who you were before
I
punched you in secret, remember?”

Right. Great. Though perhaps anonymity was preferable to being talked about, if today’s discussion was any indication. Good thing she had already made it into the club early first semester, lest her slide read:
Callie Andrews—Boyfriend Stealer; Sex Tape Maker; Failed Candidate for
FM
magazine; Parental Income Tax Bracket: 28%; Current Bank Account Balance: $32.50 . . .

The sharp sound of a wolf whistle cut across the room. Alessandra Constantine’s face filled the giant projector screen.

“Smokin’,” said the boy on the piano bench.

“An eleven out of ten,” concurred Mr. I-give-her-a-seven.

“What’s her phone number, and where can I find her?” another called.

“Careful,” Tyler warned. “She’s spoken for. Right, Bolton?”

“What?” a distracted-sounding voice from behind Callie asked.

“She’s your girlfriend, isn’t she?” Tyler prompted, nodding at the slide.

Callie peered over her shoulder. Gregory sat slumped low in an easy chair, a book propped on his knee.

“Sure,” he said. “Whatever.”

Too cool to pay attention like the rest of us, Callie thought as he resumed reading. Nevertheless, she craned her neck trying to catch the title. . . . Wait—GIRLFRIEND?!? The one term he had always seemed astronomically incapable of uttering, and now for it to slip out and be confirmed so casually with a mere “sure, whatever” on a random weekday at approximately 1:45 p.m.—

“Ms. Constantine,” said Anne, barreling on, “is the daughter of Oliver Constantine, as in Constantine Capital Investments, and Luciana Constantine, neé Garcia, as in the former supermodel. Needless to say, Ms. Constantine is a high-priority punch. Gregory, you’ll talk to her”—he nodded—“and ladies, you’ll be extra
proactive
about asking her to lunch?”

The lunches started after the first punch event, a cocktail party at the clubhouse, and were supposed to allow members a chance to get to know punches in a more intimate, informal setting. Members were also “unofficially” responsible for footing the bill. Callie tried not to think about how many hamburgers she could afford for $32.50—maybe six, minus the fries? Because nothing says “Elite Secret Society” like a McDonald’s McValue Meal.

“All right.” Anne summoned their attention. “It’s a quarter to two, and I know some of you have class; I think that leaves time for one more: Vanessa Von Vorhees, from New York, New York. As most of you already know, we cut Ms. Von Vorhees in the final round last fall. Normally in these cases, it is club policy not to put the punch through another season, and we cannot overturn a blackball once it has been invoked. However, given that the member who invoked said blackball has graduated—”

“Only took her five and a half years!” the boy on the piano interjected.

“Ah, yes,” Anne agreed, “Leanne certainly did take the—er—scenic route. In any event, perhaps we ought to reconsider, given that multiple members submitted her name.”

Mimi looked up sharply from the windowsill and stared at Callie. Callie shrugged. It just so happened that she
had
submitted Vanessa after overhearing her remind Mimi every day for a week—not that Callie would ever admit this to anyone, least of all Vanessa.

“No discussion necessary,” said Tyler, standing. “I’m the president, and I say that she’s in.”

“Yeah,” someone muttered, “because you want in her pants!”

“That’s how all the freshmen girls seem to be doing it these days,” Lexi’s voice rang out across the room. The juniors sitting next to her broke into giggles. “No offense, Tyler,” she continued, turning, her eyes sliding over Callie and Clint as if they weren’t even there. “But she doesn’t exactly bring anything new to the table.”

Clearly Lexi felt no loyalty to the promise she had made Vanessa last semester of a guaranteed membership in the club; probably because Vanessa had failed to deliver her end of the bargain: to provide dirt on Callie. Callie had overheard the entire exchange in the stacks of Lamont Library, where she worked part-time behind the reference desk for roughly two hamburgers an hour. Back then, Vanessa’s betrayal had seemed inevitable, but now Callie knew better.

Over by the windowsill, OK was nudging Mimi. She wore the same guilty expression she had every other time someone called on her and she had been only half pretending to pay attention, or was half asleep. Yesterday in the common room Callie had also overheard Vanessa forcing Mimi to rehearse several talking points re: Vanessa’s assets for this exact moment.

“Um,” Callie mumbled, surprised as the words began to tumble out of her mouth, “as an alum of the Brearley School, Vanessa has multiple connections to this club and beyond. Her mother is on the board of three Manhattan charity organizations, and her father works at Goldman Sachs with, uh, I think—Gregory’s dad?”

Mimi beamed, and Clint gave Callie an approving look that seemed to say,
Now you get it: gotta play by the rules to win the game.

“He doesn’t work there anymore,” a voice said sharply from over her shoulder. She turned in time to see Gregory snap his book shut.

“Oh, sorry. My bad,” she mumbled. “What does he do again?”

“A lot of sailing and scotch drinking, though he does enjoy the occasional cigar.”

“He works at a hedge fund,” Clint explained. “A really, really famous one, actually. Greg’s dad pioneered this specific type of trading—”

Gregory stood suddenly, sticking his book in the back pocket of his jeans. “Cigarette break,” he muttered. When he reached the other side of the room, he added, “I’ll be outside if anyone needs me.”

Was Callie imagining it or had he looked straight at her when he said that?

“I should probably go, too,” she murmured to Clint as the people in the front row started discussing whether or not a blackball had a statute of limitations that expired when the blackballer graduated.

“You still have ten minutes to get to class,” Clint said, checking his watch.

“Yeah, but it’s the first official day, so I don’t want to be late.”

“All right,” Clint said, leaning in to kiss her cheek. “See you later, for dinner? If we’re done by then.” He laughed.

“Yes,” she agreed. “Dinner.” Gathering her things, she slipped out of the room.

Gregory, as expected, was sitting on the club’s front stoop, midway through a cigarette.

“Hey,” she said, hovering near the banister. “Everything okay with you?”

He exhaled a long puff of smoke. “What are you, my friend now?”

“I could be,” she said slowly, setting down her book bag and sitting two feet away from him on the stone step.

He took another drag. “Nah,” he said, tossing the cigarette away. “I don’t have friends who are girls.”

“You don’t think men and women can be friends?”

“Nope,” he said, shaking his head.

Propping her chin in her hands, she watched the cars pass on Garden Street. “Well, I disagree.”

“Oh yeah?” he asked, turning to look at her. “Want me to prove it to you?”

His blue eyes honed in on her, and suddenly she felt trapped: torn between the urge to scoot away and to stay exactly where she sat. “How?”

Instead of speaking, he slid over to her, stopping when his knee just barely grazed her jeans. His fingertips were less than a centimeter from hers on the step above. She could see the faint, crescent moon–shaped scar on his chin, only an inch below his lips, as he leaned in, achingly close, until their noses were almost touching. There he remained, unmoving, staring at her with a challenge in his eyes.

Message received.

“I, uh, have to get to class,” she stammered, leaping up.

“Me too,” he said standing. “Where you headed?”

“The Barker Center.”

“Me too,” he repeated with mock
well-isn’t-this-just-such-a-coincidence
delight.

She narrowed her eyes. “Really.”

“Yep.”

“Well . . . I . . .”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” he asked.

He had proved his point about being friends, so why was he still standing so close? “Um . . . wha—”

“This,” he said, snatching up her book bag.

“Hey!” she cried as he started to walk away.

“Better hurry,” he called over his shoulder.

Feeling slightly breathless, she ran to catch up.

“You didn’t have to walk me the whole way here—now
you’re
going to be late!” She and Gregory were standing in front of the double-glass and wood-paneled doors to the main seminar room in the Barker Center. Cool winter sunlight filtered down through tiny skylights in the impossibly high ceilings, dappling across the pale tiled floors. A green and gold banister rimmed the marble staircase leading upstairs, and a massive wooden archway on their right opened out into a cozy rotunda café.