The Ivy: Secrets (16 page)

Callie waited.

“In fact, I see no reason why any of your work has to go to waste,” Lexi said, gesturing toward Callie’s pieces that were still fanned out across the table. “If you can show me that your priorities are in order.”

“How?” Callie asked.

“What was one of the last things that I said to you when we returned from Thanksgiving break?” Lexi asked, spinning ninety degrees in the chair to face her.

“Don’t—I mean—that I shouldn’t let myself get distracted by upperclassmen.”

“So, you
do
remember,” said Lexi.

Callie breathed a tiny sigh. “You want me to break up with Clint.”

“Callie, you’re thinking about this all wrong. You see, it’s not about what
I
want; it’s about what
you
want. Do you want to make
FM
and preserve your reputation? Or do you want to sacrifice it all for a fling with someone I promise isn’t right for you?”

Callie was silent. “I’ll do it,” she finally whispered. “As soon as we get back from break, I’ll do it.”

Lexi shook her head. “Not good enough.”

“Now, then,” Callie said. “I’ll go over there and—”

“I see no reason for you to go all the way over there,” Lexi said, standing. Gesturing toward her chair, she said, “Sit. I think it would be best—easiest—if you wrote it down and sent him an e-mail.”

Callie was all too familiar with the break-up e-mail. Was she really about to end things with Clint the way Evan had with her? Were there any other options?

Silently she pulled up a browser and logged into her e-mail, clicking on Compose New Mail. The screen had gone slightly blurry, but she forced her eyes to focus while her fingers formed the words.

She cycled through the usual string of clichés. It’s not you—you’re great—it’s me. I’m just juggling too many things right now. I need to focus on my work; I don’t have time for a relationship. Maybe we can still be friends.

Reading over her shoulder, Lexi shook her head. “You and I both know that the first thing he’s going to do when he reads that is call you and ask for an explanation.”

Callie
did
know that, actually, and she had been banking on getting away with it. No such luck. Her fingers trembling, she deleted a few lines and typed:
I think it would be best if we didn’t talk for a while. Please don’t try to contact me. It will just make everything harder.

Silent tears were leaking out of her eyes when she finally reached the end of the e-mail.

“Looks okay,” said Lexi, skimming over her shoulder. Suddenly she placed a pale hand on Callie’s back. “You’re making the right decision. I know you probably hate me now, but one day maybe you’ll thank me. I have known Clint since the beginning of our freshman year, and you two do not belong together. Even though you can’t see it yet, I’m actually saving you the heartache and trouble of finding that out the hard way.”

Callie jerked out from under Lexi’s hand.

Lexi sighed. “I guess that’s it, then. Send it, and you’re home free.”

“No,” said Callie, spinning to face her. “I’m not sending this until I have assurances that you won’t release the tape—not today and not ever.”

Lexi narrowed her eyes. Then she smiled. “I see you’re finally catching on to the way things work around here. Maybe you’re not so dumb after all.” She nodded thoughtfully. “Fine: you have my word not to release the tape—”

Callie shook her head. “Not good enough. It needs to be destroyed. So either hand it over, or delete it in front of me right now.”

Lexi fixed her with a hard stare. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather have me guarantee you a spot on the magazine?”

Callie looked at her. “You could—you could do that? But what about the selection process—all the work that everybody else put in?”

Lexi shrugged. “A couple of the editors owe me favors. . . . And most of them already like you. Or your work, anyway.”

My work, thought Callie. My work can—and, more important,
should
—speak for itself. Anything I get will be because I earned it. That’s one of the differences between you and me, she thought, meeting Lexi’s eyes. “No.”

“Suit yourself,” said Lexi. Then, reaching into her purse, she pulled out a set of keys. Bending, she unlocked the bottom drawer of her desk. Callie caught a glimpse of the items inside but barely had time to wonder how many other peoples’ potentially life-ruining secrets were kept locked away in that drawer before Lexi was slamming it shut and handing her a small, white USB flash drive. Her initials, C.A., were printed across it.

Her hands shaking, Callie stuck the flash drive into the side of the computer. The removable storage device window immediately materialized. A single file titled Captain’s_Practice.avi was inside. Breathing deeply, she opened it. Five seconds later she hit Close and, sensing Lexi’s smirk over her shoulder, yanked the flash drive out of the USB port.

Suddenly Lexi leaned in over the keyboard and, before Callie could react, tabbed into her e-mail and clicked Send. Callie watched in horror as the Message Sent notice popped up on the screen. Straightening, Lexi sighed.

Furious, Callie hit the Logout button and then stood, shoving the flash drive into her pocket. Pulling on her coat, she headed for the door.

“Have a wonderful trip home!” Lexi called at her retreating back. “Now that you’re done you can finally relax over the—”

Callie slammed the door shut behind her, cutting Lexi’s sentence short. Practically running, she stumbled down the stairs, finally giving free reign to the sobs she’d been restraining. She didn’t dare let herself even glance across the street at Adams House when she burst outside—there was no telling when Clint would read the e-mail, but she would probably be on a plane to LAX before he even had a chance to open it. The flash drive was so lightweight she could barely feel it in her pocket bouncing against her thigh as she ran home to pack.

Her roommates were already gone when she arrived: Mimi had left the night before, Dana had departed earlier that morning, and Vanessa’s LV luggage was no longer by the front door where Callie had spotted it a few hours ago. They hadn’t even had a chance to speak since the ec exam, but in all honesty, Callie felt relieved to be alone. Right now she couldn’t bear to face anyone.

Pulling her suitcase out of the closet, she began jamming her possessions inside. After a few minutes she pulled the tiny white flash drive from her pocket and stared at it. Now that she had it, what was stopping her from running over to Clint’s and telling him not to open his e-mail? Perhaps because any explanation would involve telling him about the tape, which she couldn’t imagine doing, having just been through hell to keep the contents a secret. But maybe it was the tiny voice in the back of her head reminding her that
all
of her problems that semester could be traced back to a boy. Make that
boys
, plural. She stuck the flash drive back in her pocket.

Yes, she had finally recovered the tape. But was it really worth the price?

C
allie sat at the desk in her tiny bedroom in Wigglesworth and stared at her computer screen, absentmindedly clicking Refresh for what was probably the bajillionth time. Only this time, instead of the notice that “FAS Grades will be posted starting after noon on January 5
th
: please be patient and try refreshing the page if they do not immediately appear,” the browser redirected. Her heart skipping, she keyed in her login information

She reread them twice just to be sure she wasn’t missing anything. A sigh escaped her lips. Not bad! she thought, starting to smile. Well, sure, they
were
the lowest of her lifetime, but it’s amazing how a small adjustment of standards—and thinking there’s a good chance you’ll fail everything—can help you see things in a different light.

Flipping open her cell, she dialed Matt’s number. He picked up on the second ring. “Hey.”

“Grades are up,” she said. “Did you see?”

“Yep, I’ve been refreshing the page for the past twenty minutes and it finally worked.”

“Ha. Great minds think alike.”

“How’d you do?” he asked.

“Not too bad,” she said. “Better than I expected.”

“Me too,” he said, yawning over the line. “B plus in Expos but—”

“That’s what everyone gets in Expos,” Callie finished for him.

“Mm-hmm,” he said, yawning again.

Callie giggled. “What’s with the yawning—were you up late last night or something?”

“Me? More like my roommate,” he grumbled. “Slept on the couch again, but this one—this one was a loud one. Never saw her, but I heard her. Oh, I heard her. Man, I cannot
wait
to switch rooms this semester!”

Callie forced a laugh.

“Hey, how’d econ end up?” he asked suddenly.

“B. You?”

“A
minus
.”

“I win.”

“Speaking of econ,” said Matt, “you did not have to get me a present for tutoring you!”

“It’s not just for helping me; it’s for Christmas, too. Does it fit?” She had bought him a royal blue sweatshirt from her favorite surf shop in Venice Beach and left the package outside his door late last night after she’d arrived from the airport.

“Yes. I’m wearing it now.”

“Cool. What about Justice?” Callie asked.

Matt was silent.

“Matt? You still there?”

“Shit! Hang on.”

“What?”

“Just got an e-mail from the
Crimson
.”

Callie’s blood ran cold. “What’s it say?” she cried, tabbing over to her e-mail and clicking Refresh three times. No new messages appeared.

“Hang on . . .” he muttered, “I’m reading.”

Callie’s fingers tapped a tattoo on her desk, her foot bounced up and down, up and down, up and—

“It says they just posted the results in the offices for
Crimson
and
FM
.”

“What?” cried Callie, leaping to her feet. “Now?” she added, flinging open her dresser drawer and pulling out the first pair of jeans she touched. Yanking them on, she hopped back over to her computer. “Ah, here it is,” she said, clicking on an e-mail from “The Editors at
FM
” that had just arrived.

“So,” said Matt, “meet me in the hall in two minutes?”

“Yes! Two minutes!” she cried. Dashing over to her closet, she started rifling through her clothes.

Matt chuckled across the line. “You nervous?” he asked.

“Nervous?” she echoed, only it came out sounding more like “Nerf-ush?” because she had pulled her sweatshirt on backward and the hood was now stuck over her head, her ear tilted to trap the phone against her shoulder. “Yes,” she confirmed, twisting and hopping to straighten out the sweatshirt. “I mean, I did everything they asked, and—
gaaah
,” she cried as her phone tumbled to the floor. She wrestled with the sweatshirt and, finally throwing it off, picked up her phone. “Sorry! Just—see you in the hall! In two minutes!”

Matt laughed again. “Okay, bye for now.”

Thirty seconds later Callie was pacing the hallway, her hands jammed in her pockets to keep from knocking and yelling at Matt to hurry up already. In her rush she had barely stopped to greet Dana and Mimi and let them know where she was going. Dana had returned to campus, along with Adam, in time for the Harvard Republican Club board elections (Adam was running for vice president and Dana was managing his campaign—whatever
that
entailed), and OK had enrolled Mimi in a seminar called something like “Science of the Physical Universe 27: Science and Cooking, from Haute Cuisine to Soft Matter Science,” which Callie was pretty sure was a cooking class. According to Mimi, Vanessa would be on vacation with her family for the next two weeks, which was probably—or so Callie assumed—why she hadn’t returned any of Callie’s calls over the break. Suddenly—
finally
—the door to C 23 popped open.

But it wasn’t Matt who stepped outside.

Instead it was a girl: her long wavy hair, so dark brown it was almost black, swirled wildly down her shoulders, just below breasts so perky and perfect, it would be a crime if they were actually found in nature. She had full, heart-shaped lips, high cheekbones, and whether it was the low-cut sweater or the sultry pout Callie couldn’t say, but everything about her radiated sensuality. She was by far the prettiest girl Callie had ever seen in these parts. Alarmingly pretty, in fact.

“Hi!” said the girl, smiling.

Callie nodded, embarrassed that she’d been so obviously staring. But then suddenly she grinned. Safe trip home to the state school from whence you came! she thought evilly, watching the girl disappear down the hall. And may you never return! Ha, no worries on that front. Those who came once never came back. This, it seemed, was the
only
matter in which Gregory was actually reliable.

“There you are!” Callie exclaimed when Matt finally walked into the hall. “Is that—is that gel in your hair?” she asked, peering at him.

“No!” Matt cried, his hands flying to his head.

She was somewhat curious to know why Matt had felt the urge to do his hair—not to mention lie about it—but she decided not to press the issue. “Let’s go!”

They stepped outside, and the freezing air stung Callie’s face, making her eyes water. The walk to the
Crimson
stretched out before her, feeling longer than usual, nearly endless. Her head felt oddly empty when they finally arrived in front of the old brick building.

Together they walked into the foyer stacked with newspapers and down the hallway that opened into the offices that had been the scene of many an all-nighter last semester. There, at the end of the corridor, a group of students was clustered around a spot on the wall. The lists were up; the results were in.

Two girls squealed, hugging each other and jumping up and down while one boy high-fived another. A girl Callie recognized as a sophomore, however, bit her lip and then, shoulders slumped, ducked into the restroom down the hall.

Callie touched Matt’s hand and then left him in front of the list of people who’d secured positions on the
Crimson
. The
FM
results were directly in front of her now. She could sense a dangerous feeling growing inside of her. It was hope.

Her eyes scanned the list once, then twice, and then a third time just to be sure.

Even though it was alphabetized and there was clearly no point to continuing, she read it a fourth time, all the way through. Then finally she tore her eyes away. No amount of rereading could add her name to the list.

Someone accidentally shoved her, and she let the inertia carry her sideways. She had failed. Not just at writing but at everything: grades, friendships, love life, proving that she could be excellent at something other than kicking a ball from one end of a field to another . . . All of the all-nighters, all of the rewrites, all of the time spent—no, time
wasted
—all of it was for nothing.

The walls of the
Crimson
suddenly seemed like the inside of a fun house: slanting down, sinister, waiting to crush her. Her chest felt tight; her breathing came in quick, haggard gasps. She had to get out.

Shoving her way through the crowd, she rushed down the hallway, oblivious to the pile of neatly stacked newspapers she sent flying.

Outside she gulped down icy air by the lungful. The sunlight hurt her eyes and she squinted, bending and placing her hands on her knees while she struggled to return her breathing to normal. In a minute she was on the move again. Matt would be out any moment to console her, but she knew that his kind words—or the look on his face as he tried to conceal his own excitement—would break her. And so, instead of heading home to Wigg, she made her way into the heart of Harvard Square.

She passed Grafton, Daedalus, Tommy’s, and all the other restaurants and shops: the foreign landmarks of last semester now seemed strangely familiar. Slowing when she hit Mt. Auburn Street, she stared at the towering façades of Final Clubs: the huge mansions owned by the Fly, the Phoenix, and the Spee. This was Harvard: a massive ivy-encrusted enclosure that let only an elite set inside, populated by various brick buildings that were headquarters to clubs even more arbitrarily exclusive based on wealth, parentage, athletic prowess, race, or sex.

What . . . is the password . . .
she imagined a disembodied voice might say if she were to knock on a door.

Whatever. Not like she’d be going out this semester. This semester would be about work, lying low, and staying out of trouble. Trouble: a word for which
boys
was a synonym—and antonym, as far as
staying out of it
was concerned. Boys/Trouble: that was Number One on the List of Things to Avoid This Semester. Number Two: Complications. Which meant no trying to reconcile with Clint—
even
though things were now definitively done with
FM
and that damaging file deleted forever so there was no real reason to stay away from him anymore. Right? Wrong! Wait—what?

She shook her head violently as she walked on. Boys were half the reason she had landed in this mess in the first place. It didn’t matter how cute they looked in their cashmere scarves. Or the way they always held the door. Or picked the perfect movie for a cold winter night. Or taught you to build your very first snowman . . .