The Ivy: Secrets (11 page)
Authors: Lauren Kunze,Rina Onur
“I searched high and low for tales that were mean,
But about Ms. Thorndike, not a dirty detail could I glean,
For when a bad thing is said,
Why, it’s ‘Off with your head—’
Because that’s—and I quote—‘what it means to be Queen.’”
The sound of Lexi’s tinkling laughter rang out above the slightly subdued applause. Her pearly white teeth gleamed in the candlelight. “I love it,” she said, standing and half curtsying as if she personally had done something to elicit their praise. “I want you to save it for me so I can have it framed.” She lifted her limerick from the table. “I actually picked Gregory,” she said.
“Uh-oh,” he called, rolling his eyes.
“Don’t worry,” she reassured him, her hand resting briefly on his shoulder. Callie took a big sip of her wine, unable to tear her eyes away as Lexi began:
“Tales of his womanizing have long been told,
But I’ve known Gregory since he was two years old.
His charms make girls faint,
And a saint he sure ain’t,
But his darkest secret is his heart of gold.”
“Stop,” drawled Gregory. “You’re making me blush. All lies, ladies, all lies,” he added, smiling across the table at Elizabeth, who lived above them on the third floor of Wigg. Elizabeth, to Callie’s horror, smiled back, seeming to have developed total amnesia for Gregory’s total amnesia regarding her name after they had presumably spent the night together at the beginning of the year.
Then—even more horrifying—Callie watched Gregory pluck a rose from the vase nearest him and present it to Lexi. Callie couldn’t hear what he was saying, but Lexi accepted the flower with a smile and let him lean in to kiss her cheek. Callie had to bite the inside of her own cheek to keep from asking OK, again, whether or not they were dating. Because it was really, really,
really
starting to look—
“My turn,” Gregory said standing. He cleared his throat.
“I think you all know my man Clint Weber.
His squash racket’s faster than a light saber.
Robbed the cradle this semester,
So I propose the nickname: ‘freshman molester’
In the hopes that from now on he’ll be on better behavior.”
Everyone burst into thunderous applause: several of the female members, including Elizabeth,
wahooed
with particular gusto, and the guy sitting next to Clint punched him on the arm. Clint winked at Callie. She tried to smile back, but her gaze was soon drawn as if by an electromagnetic force field back to the other end of the table, where Lexi was looking less than amused. That makes two of us, thought Callie. Wait—no—make that three, she added, noting that Gregory’s grin was more of a grimace.
Now it was Clint’s time to perform: he stood and delivered something altogether too polite about Elizabeth, who then roasted a veteran girl—the senior who had stolen Mimi away during the cocktail hour and was now looking at Callie in a manner that could mean only one thing.
“When it comes to Callie Andrews, I think we’re still very curious,
Though the secret to her Pudding membership is less than mysterious,
Bewitched Clint Weber’s eye,
One tipsy evening at the Fly,
And since then they say he’s been quite delirious.”
So . . . clearly the majority of members thought that Callie had kissed her way into the Pudding; big whoop—she’d been having nightmare flash-forwards about what rhymed with sex tape. Callie nudged Mimi and gave her a thumbs-up under the table, grateful that her roommate had neglected to mention the dining hall flash/fall incident or the not-remembering-who-Clint-was-when-I-spilled-on-his-sweater moment; Mimi nodded and raised an index finger to her lips. I like sober Mimi, thought Callie, making a mental note to tell her when they were alone.
“Your turn,” Mimi whispered, poking her in the side.
“Oh, right,” said Callie, climbing reluctantly to her feet. “Um . . .” She raised her champagne glass and drained it. The bubbles made her feel worse, not better. She took a deep breath.
“With regard to his antics, some say his political career can’t survive:
After Spice Girls greatest hits Britney is his favorite jive,
In a drawer he did urinate,
And asked his TF on a date,
But so what? I say we’ll be inaugurating Tyler as President in 2025.”
The room erupted into a roar. Tyler’s shrill wolf whistle broke through the crowd as people catcalled him or wiped the laughter-induced tears from their eyes. Callie sank back into her chair with a sigh.
“Miss?” said the waiter, who had returned under the same pretext of refilling her glass. As he leaned in, he slipped her another folded index card.
“Thank you,” she said, opening it under the table.
Brilliant roast! And she was right: I
am
delirious.
Enough so to write this:
Callie Andrews is completely sublime.
She’s the type of girl that makes a guy rhyme.
Shortly after I met her,
She spilled coffee on my sweater,
But I didn’t care because I knew that one day she’d be mine.
Callie’s breath caught in her chest—and not just because her dress had grown a few shades tighter over the course of the meal. With all the stress spiking her cortisol levels to dangerous heights, she had almost forgotten how nice something as simple as a single compliment could feel. Her eyes slightly blurry, she stole a glance down the table at Lexi and Gregory, who were giggling over discarded drafts of their limericks. Their heads were bent close: whispering, laughing, touching. . . .
Something snapped, and in an instant, Callie made her decision. Turning the poem over, she scribbled on the back of the card:
What are you doing later?
Motioning over the waiter, she pressed the card into his hand. Then she watched him make his way to Clint. Clint’s entire face lit up while he read, and the glow felt infectious, wrapping around her from the other side of the table. Lexi could
have
Gregory; what she couldn’t have was both.
The dinner was drawing to a close: people were getting out of their seats to say hi to members at other tables, exchange copies of limericks, or pose for photos. Anne looked as if she was trying to make another announcement, but she soon threw her hands in the air and then walked into the kitchen. A minute later she returned lugging an enormous set of speakers. Callie checked her phone. 10:02
P.M.
: party time.
She waited in her chair, watching the area empty as people trickled out into the main room, where the lights were quickly dimmed and the speakers plugged in. Only when the wait staff had begun to clear the tables did she stand.
“Hey,” said a voice as a pair of arms wrapped around her from behind.
Since Lexi was nowhere in sight, Callie allowed herself a full three seconds before she slid out of Clint’s grasp.
“The reason I’ve been avoiding you,” she said, turning and thinking quickly, “is because of . . .
FM
COMP.”
“I understand that you’re a very busy girl with lots of goals—that’s part of why I like you,” said Clint. The flecks in his gray-green eyes were the same golden color as the candlelight filtering through the bubbles in the leftover champagne.
“Well, yes, I’ve been very busy,” she agreed, “but I’m also worried that talking to you—
seeing
you—could jeopardize my chances of making the magazine.”
“Oh? Why’s that?”
“Because Lexi . . .” Callie paused, casting around for the right way to phrase it.
“I don’t think you need to worry about
that
,” Clint cut in with a smile. “True, we have a complicated history, and she’s sometimes been . . . possessive, but based on the way she was acting tonight . . . Well, you heard her: she called you her favorite!”
Uh, emphasis on the word
acting
. Subtext: so lost on most boys.
“I’m sure she’s moved on by now,” he added.
Right. With
my
neighbor.
“So
we
don’t have anything to worry about—”
His hands reached for hers, but Callie recoiled. He looked at her questioningly. “I know we have a lot that we still need to talk about, but I thought—I mean, did I misinterpret?”
“Oh—no, not that,” she said quickly. “Just, look: I’m sorry if it seems like I’m being paranoid, but getting on the magazine means everything to me right now, so do you mind if when we’re in public we keep whatever’s going on here a . . . secret?”
So many secrets . . . It seemed to be the trend these days. She looked at him pleadingly.
“Sure,” he said, smiling his eye-crinkling grin. “Anything you want.”
“Okay,” she said, breathing deeply. This could work. It had to. She was done staying away from him. “Maybe later we could meet up and talk?”
“You could come over to my place,” he volunteered.
“
Just
to talk,” she clarified. “Like you said, we still have a lot to talk about.”
“Talk . . . yes,” he said, staring into her eyes. “Just talk. Sure. Like I said, whatever you want.”
“
If
I come over, do you
promise
that’ll be it—just talk, nothing else?”
“I promise.”
“So . . . to the party, then?”
“Yes, where I will do my best to ignore you. Which will be difficult, incidentally,” he said, leaning in to whisper in her ear, “because you look beautiful tonight.”
And so they parted ways.
For the rest of the evening nothing could diminish the glow illuminating her from the inside—that special kind particular to a happy secret. Not even Vanessa’s arrival at close to midnight could dampen her mood—in fact, Callie probably would have overlooked her roommate altogether if Vanessa hadn’t stopped to talk to Tyler and Clint, whom Callie kept stealing covert glances at through the duration of the party.
At five minutes to one her phone beeped.
H
EY, GORGEOUS,
I’
M READY TO
TAKE OFF.
S
EE YOU AT
A
DAMS IN
15
OR SO?
Smiling, she texted back:
I’
LL BE THERE IN
10. C
AN
’
T WAIT!
M
y dear little Froshtitutes:
Finals may be right around the corner, but as we near the end of reading period, the student body’s study focus starts to slip. You decide to go out for just
one
hour, have no more than
one
drink, be back at Lamont by
one
A.M.
, and before you know it, you’re waking up in an unfamiliar room with one hangover, one strange bedfellow, and it’s one in the afternoon. There’s no way to turn back the clock, but you can attempt to exit the situation as gracefully as possible.
THE MORNING AFTER:
Rules, Etiquette, and Helpful Hints
THE NIGHT BEFORE:
No matter how crazy things get, any clothing that comes off in the course of the evening must be located, folded neatly, and placed within reach of the bed
before
you pass out in it. Tossing your undergarments all around his common room the night before in a “fit of passion”
may
seem like a good idea at 3
A.M.
, but it will be a whole different story in the morning when you wake up without them. You’ve all heard of Emily Post’s guide to dressing—please consider
this
rule your Guide to
Un
dressing.
THE WHAT’S-HIS-NAME:
Never, no matter what, under any circumstances, even CIA interrogation, reveal that you are unable to remember the name of the person lying next to you. Either a) perform a quick visual scan of the room for identifying objects—term papers, awards, discarded nametags, whatever; or b) invent a pet name—if you can’t think of one, rely on the old (and surprisingly gender-neutral) standbys: grandpa, killer, or son.
WHAT’S IN YOUR PURSE:
Of course, since you were going out for only
one
hour and
one
drink, you’ve forgotten to wear waterproof mascara and carry the other bare necessities one might need to conceal—like, say, concealer—your nighttime romp the next morning when you inevitably wake up looking like a raccoon who stepped into a bathtub holding an electrical appliance (Urban Dictionary:
sex hair
). So when you wake up—and you’d better pray you wake up first—grab your clothes (next to the bed where you put them) and your purse (stocked with makeup essentials and a hairbrush) and make a beeline for the nearest bathroom to fix your face!
CUDDLE A DELICATE BALANCE & MAKE AN ACCEPTABLE EXCUSE:
Do not over-cuddle and do not under-cuddle, but rather try to channel Goldilocks and get the amount of cuddling just right. When it is time to leave, instead of inventing a specific lie on the fly (bound to be too vague or too specific 95 percent of the time) simply use the Twenty Minutes Rule: “Thank you for your hospitality. I would love to stay, but I have to be somewhere in twenty minutes.”
WHAT TO TAKE/WHAT TO LEAVE BEHIND: TAKE:
While you should obviously never steal anything, you may want to *borrow* some item of clothing, depending on the length of your walk home and what you were wearing the night before. A little black dress or miniskirt may have seemed socially acceptable at a Final Club the night before (though, freshmen, you will be hard-pressed to spot an upperclassman without a scarf and sweater)—but in the morning you’re bound to get some judging glares. So please do borrow some kind of cover-up: not only will you look classier on the walk home, but you’ll have an excuse to bring it back—or a nice new sweater (I swear, my lips are sealed).
LEAVE:
If, and only
if
your mistake might not be a mistake and you want to see him/her again but aren’t sure how to broach the topic between fixing your face and making your meeting in twenty minutes, slip an item of jewelry onto the nightstand. Either he/she will be in touch to let you know you lost it, or you’ll have an excuse to drop by and see if you left it there. Conniving? Yes. Effective? Yes.
NEVER TAKE OFF YOUR SHOES:
When you walked out the door with high heels on the night before, you made a choice, and you have to honor it: think of it as a social contract. I don’t care how intoxicated you get, or how much your feet hurt from dancing, or how silly your heels look the morning after—DO NOT REMOVE THE SHOES. If you do, I have no words but
Oh, for shame, for shame
.
My final piece of advice is that you avoid engaging in the sequence of stupid decisions that will lead you to find yourself in this situation in the first place. But I’m an idealist and a dreamer, and I know that sadly I have to prepare myself, and you, for the harsh realities of this college life.
Seriously, whatever you do, don’t take off the shoes,
Alexis Thorndike, Advice Columnist
Fifteen Minutes
Magazine
Harvard University’s Authority on Campus Life since 1873
C
allie’s eyelids fluttered open and a low moan escaped her lips. Her entire body felt heavy in that deliciously well-rested way; the weight of a feathery down comforter above her and pillows below to match caressed her in a warm embrace, like she was sleeping in a fluffy, heated cloud. She stretched, and the bed seemed to span for miles—in contrast to her tiny twin, in which one wrong roll sent you over the edge and onto the floor.
On this particular morning—or rather, early afternoon—after Limericks she had the entire thing to herself, because Clint, in honor of his “promise,” had slept on the couch.
“You said just talking!” he cried at four in the morning when she indicated that she might be interested in more than cuddling. “You made me promise, remember?”
“No, I forget. . . .”
“Really? Because you were quite emphatic earlier that I promise—”
“I know what I said!” she cried, whacking him with a feather pillow. “And I hereby officially release you from said promise!”
“Nope,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m sleeping on the couch.”
“Uggh,” she groaned, throwing the pillow over her own head. Why, why was he so
good
all the time?
“What would my promises be worth if I didn’t keep them?” he teased, lifting the pillow off her head and kissing her forehead.
“Fine,” she said. “Get out.”
Rolling over, Callie buried her face in the pillows and smiled. Clint’s bedroom in Adams House, where he lived in a suite with Tyler and a couple of other junior guys, had always been her safe haven, even before the problems with Vanessa had started. It was the Vanessa-free zone. And now it was also the site of Callie and Clint’s reconciliation, which had been far less traumatic than she had expected. When it came time to address the reason for the split (or “break” or whatever it had been), which had been Callie’s freak-out when they were on the verge of sex, she had miraculously, accidentally, gotten herself off the hook with almost no explanation at all. . . .
In the early hours of the morning, with no light save for the soft glow emanating from the lamp on his desk, they had lain on Clint’s bed: stomachs down, elbows bent, chins propped in their hands, and faces only a few inches apart. In that moment Callie had contemplated telling him the truth about what had happened with Evan. She had been wrestling with the dilemma all night. On the one hand, telling him would not only alleviate the enormous weight on her shoulders from worrying about what would happen if he found out, but it would also diminish some of Lexi’s power over her. Maybe Clint could even help by convincing Lexi to destroy the file instead of showing it to the entire school. On the other hand, if he knew—if he saw it—he may never look at her the same way again. That way he had been looking at her all night, and was looking at her now as he tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and whispered that she could tell him anything.
“At the end of high school,” she began, “my ex-boyfriend . . .”
She paused. This was it: do or die. She stared at him, wanting to memorize everything about his face: his smile, the crinkles around his eyes, the way he let his light brown hair grow too long and fall into them, and particularly, the expression. She wished there were some means to capture the way he saw her now: not necessarily for what she was but rather for what she wanted to be. She had been aching for someone to look at her that way ever since Clint had broken it off and then Gregory had abandoned her the morning after Harvard-Yale. Could she really risk losing that feeling again now after she’d already had a taste? And—if she told Clint about Evan—shouldn’t she also tell him about Gregory?
She took a deep breath, her fingernails digging into the sides of her cheeks. “My ex-boyfriend once . . . did something . . . without my consent—”
Clint’s brows drew together in alarm. “Oh, Callie,” he whispered softly.
“I—uh—” she stumbled, realizing what she had implied yet unsure how to correct herself.
“Don’t say anything more,” Clint said, sitting up and wrapping his arms around her. “Is this—is this all right?” he asked gently, sitting cross-legged and guiding her head into his lap.
She nodded and he stroked her hair.
“It wasn’t—I mean, the way it happened isn’t exactly what—”
“Shhh,” he said, stroking her arm and bending to kiss her cheek. “You really don’t need to explain any further. I understand.” He was silent for a moment. “I just can’t believe
I
was such an asshole!” he exclaimed suddenly, running his hands through his hair. “The way I pressured you . . .”
“You didn’t pressure me at all!” she cried, sitting up to face him.
“I did,” he said, gripping his head at the temples. “I tried to force you to talk about it when you clearly weren’t ready. I didn’t—I mean, I should have guessed it was something awful.”
Callie started to reach for him, but her hands froze midway through the air. This was
not
the way things were supposed to go: Clint feeling guilty while she got away without confessing any of her sins by staying silent.
“Clint,” she said. “There’s something else I need to tell you.”
He looked at her in earnest. “Okay. But before you do, can I just say something?”
She nodded.
“I feel like such an asshole,” he muttered, “and I think I need to explain why
I
freaked out when you shut down and wouldn’t talk to me.” He took a deep breath. “The reason is Lexi.”
“Lexi?” Callie echoed. What
about
Lexi?
“One of the main problems in our relationship, and part of what eventually led me to end it, was that she always had some hidden agenda. She would keep things from me or shut down with no explanation—like you did that night—only she did it to introduce drama. She was constantly playing games or trying to make me jealous. She even implied that she had cheated on me once, just to see how I would react.”
And how would you? Callie bit her lip to keep herself from asking it aloud.
“It was all about power for her, you know? It was like we were constantly struggling to see who had the upper hand in the relationship. I’m not saying she’s a bad person or anything—”
Agree to disagree, thought Callie.
“But she did do a lot of messed-up things to make sure that she had the control.” Clint paused. “When it ended, I kind of promised myself that I wouldn’t ever put up with anything like that again. And that’s when you come along,” he said, smiling at Callie.
“You’re so different in every way,” he continued, taking her hands. “Things with you come so easily. And not because you’re shallow or uncomplicated or anything like that but because you’re down to earth and straightforward, and clumsy in a way that’s innocent and cute—”
“Stop!” she cried, blushing.
He laughed. “What I’m trying to say, basically, is that I think you’re amazing.”
Callie worried that if her smile grew any wider, her face would probably explode.
“Now what did you want to tell me?”
She blinked. “Nothing!” she cried a little too hastily. “I mean, just that . . . I think you’re amazing, too!” And with that, she leaned in and kissed him on the lips.
A few seconds later he broke away. “I’m pretty sure kissing was against your rules.”
She thought for a moment. “True,” she agreed. “But cuddling is permissible!” she cried, pushing him over playfully and snuggling into the crook in his arm. She sighed, staring at the ceiling. “You know what your room needs?”
“What?”
“Those glow-in-the-dark solar system things you can stick on the walls!”
“So third grade,” Clint said, laughing.
“No, no, you’ll see. I’m going to buy you some! Then it’ll be like we’re up on the top floor of the science center looking at the stars all the time.”
“So, you’re planning on spending a lot of time here in bed with me, huh?”
“Yep. I’m never leaving, so get used to it!”
“I definitely could,” he said, kissing the top of her head.
She lay there quietly for a moment. “So . . . boyfriend and girlfriend again, then?”
“Yes.”
“But for now can we keep that between the two of us?” she asked.
He was silent.
“Just until COMP’s over!” And the tape is destroyed. Somehow.
“If that’s what you really want . . . then it’ll be our secret.”
She smiled. “Our secret.”
They couldn’t have been apart for more than six hours—at least five and a half of which had been spent sleeping—but already she missed him. Yawning, she climbed out of bed and pulled on her favorite of his sweaters over the T-shirt and pajama bottoms he had lent her. Flinging open the door to his bedroom, she walked out planning to jump onto the couch—only it was empty. The extra sheets, blanket, and pillow were still there but no Clint.
She frowned. Where could he have gone? Suddenly it felt difficult to breathe. She remembered waking in a strange room, the sheets scratchy and unfamiliar, and rolling over to find that the space next to her was empty. Exhaling sharply, she shook her head. No, Clint was
nothing
like Gregory. Wherever Clint had gone, he would be back. And probably soon. Sighing, she turned, heading for the bathroom.
