“Oh, putain! Fils de pute! Il s’est cassé!”
Mimi cursed, pulling her jeans on over her wet underwear. “I will find him, I will find him,” she added, pushing past them out of the room. “He cannot have gone far. . . .”
“What on earth . . . ?” Vanessa asked.
“Don’t worry, we’ll explain later,” Callie replied, repeating Mimi’s curses silently as Gregory also walked out of the bathroom.
“All right,” said Vanessa. “Actually—I wanted to talk to you about something. . . .”
Oh, shit I’m a bad friend I’m a bad friend—
“It’s about Matt.”
What?
“Look, I know I’ve been asleep for a while, but I’m pretty sure that earlier he was hitting on me.”
Callie peered out of the bathroom to check on Matt, who at the moment was having what seemed like an intensely philosophical conversation with the fake plant in the corner. “Listen, man, I
know
,” she heard him murmur from across the room. “I’ve had
my
share of bad luck with the ladies, too, but that doesn’t mean you should stop putting yourself out there. . . .”
Callie, stifling a laugh, was pretty sure that hitting on a human being was the last thing that Matt had in mind.
“Look,” Vanessa started again, “I don’t want this to get weird, but I know you guys had your whole geek-crush thing going on before you wised up and found Clint, so I felt I should tell you and say that I don’t intend to act on it.”
Callie just stared. “I didn’t . . . I never liked . . .” She gaped, trying to explain.
“It’s all right, sweetie; I won’t tell anyone. It’s bros before hos, right? Or—er—chicks before dicks?”
Callie continued to stare at Vanessa, who, for all intents and purposes, appeared to be serious.
“Uh . . . thanks,” said Callie. “You really are great. In fact, you’re the best!” Elated with a sudden burst of affection, she gave Vanessa a big bear hug. As they embraced, her eyes locked with Gregory’s. She wasn’t sure how—perhaps the pot had made her temporarily telepathic—but she
knew
in that instant that they were both wondering the exact same thing: how to get back to that blue towel and steal a few more precious seconds alone. . . .
OK was back inside a room shaped exactly like his own, only for some reason everything was pink: the bedspread, the walls, the picture frames, the furry pillow resting on the chair at the desk. He blinked and rubbed his eyes, but when he opened them, the objects in the room still appeared just as pink.
He stumbled around as if he was looking for something but couldn’t quite remember what it was. He could see that he was naked, and
that
usually only happened right before he went to bed. . . . That was it! His bed: he was looking for his bed. Just the thought of it made him yawn enormously. . . .
He stared for a moment longer at the pink, velour bedspread before shaking his head and stumbling past the Marilyn Monroe poster that Matt’s mom must have given him and back into the common room.
There were TV sounds coming from behind the door immediately to his right. He had a television in his room so . . . clearly this was it!
Yawning deeply, his eyelids so heavy they were almost shut, he plodded into the pitch-dark room, pleased to have found it so that he could finally get to bed.
He was asleep before his body even hit the mattress.
There was a loud, girlish scream as Dana reached for the light, certain that somebody was attacking them—
“What the
heck
?” Adam screamed, hitting a high G again.
There was a deep groan and a “Shove off would you—I’m trying to sleep” before Dana found the light and discovered a very large, very naked visitor in her bed. . . .
Mimi, who hadn’t been able to find OK outside or on any other floor of their dormitory hurried back toward his room. Quickly she rushed up the stairs and walked into the hallway just in time to witness a livid, bathrobed Dana run out of C 24 chasing a naked, terrified OK back into C 23. Adam cowered behind her, looking almost as scared as OK.
“I swear I just popped in to borrow a cup of sugar!” OK screamed as Dana hounded after him.
Shaking her head, Mimi followed them back into C 23.
Dana was more than a little upset. She was yelling so loudly and so quickly that she was almost unintelligible: Mimi heard something about a “Wednesday” and a “waste of an education” several times, followed by a “don’t know what kind of drugs you’ve been doing” and a “glad you never invite me to these things, anyway.” In any event the message was clear: it was time for bed.
Dana stormed back across the hall, and Adam stood helplessly for a moment before evidently deciding that it would be safer to return to his room. Mimi, Callie, and Vanessa bid their farewells and trudged out into the hallway.
At the door to their suite Vanessa hesitated. “Uhm . . . I think I—forgot something. I’m just going to run back and get it. Good night. See you girls in the morning!”
Callie felt a nagging sensation in her stomach as she watched Vanessa, but she knew there was nothing she could do about it. Mimi looked at her and shrugged, then embraced her before entering her room. Callie paused for a moment, and then also returned to her bedroom. It would be a long time before she managed to fall asleep. . . .
Vanessa tiptoed back into C 23, smiling when she realized that everybody except Gregory had gone to bed. He was staring at the porn star poster, looking heartbroken.
Somebody—probably Matt—had written a name across each boob. On the right: Harold. On the left: Maude.
“He’s in for a beating when he wakes up,” Gregory said, tearing his eyes from the poster and grinning at Vanessa. “What up, V?”
“Well . . .” she started, staring at her hands. “I was just wondering if . . . if maybe I could sleep here tonight?”
“Uh—well, sure,” he said, eyeing her quizzically. “I mean, I don’t think that the couch will be very comfortable but it’s yours if you want it. What happened? Another fight? It seemed like you three were getting along so well?”
“Oh
no
,” she cried. She tried to laugh, but the sounds got stuck in her throat. Encouraged by the way his eyes fell on her chest, she took a step closer. “What I meant was: can I stay here tonight with
you
—you know, in your room?”
He was silent, staring at her.
She smiled flirtatiously, trying to disguise her nerves. “My weed-smoking virginity doesn’t have to be the
only
one you take tonight. . . .”
Gregory’s face changed abruptly—as if a bucket of cold water had just shocked him into clarity through the post-pot haze. Forcing himself to tear his eyes away from Vanessa’s chest, he looked up and met her gaze.
“V, I’m sorry, but I can’t. You’re
gorgeous
,” he added as something in her face seemed to collapse from the inside, “but the truth is—”
He paused. This was normally the part where he drew on his arsenal of the usual excuses:
I’m married—gay—have herpes—Value our friendship—Let’s just be friends?—It’s not you, it’s me—Just got out of prison—Only got a month to live—Slept with your sister—Phone fell down a toilet—Thanks, I’d love to, but I have a meeting with my psychiatrist. . . .
But in the end he broke the mold and, for perhaps the first time, he told the truth. “The truth is I think you’re great, but I have feelings for someone else.”
She was on the verge of demanding to know
who
was standing between her and the man she’d just offered her virginity when suddenly it hit her like a sack of bricks:
“It’s not—is it?”
His glance toward the floor was as good as a yes.
“Oh—silly me,” said Vanessa, backing out of the room as fast as possible. “I should’ve known! Well, see you later!” she managed, turning and slamming the door—lest he notice that the “later” had been swallowed by an involuntary sob.
Once she was safely inside her own common room, Vanessa headed straight for the bathroom. She locked the door behind her and then sank to her knees. Leaning over the toilet, she stuck her finger down her throat and pulled the proverbial trigger. . . .
For a long time after it was over, she stood there, transfixed by her image in the mirror. Then she washed her face, brushed her teeth, turned, and clicked off the light.
Chapter Fifteen
What Goes around Comes around
D
earest Froshlings:
There’s an old joke that goes . . .
Private school: $30,000 per annum. SAT tutor: $10,000. College counselor: $15,000. Bribing the authors of your letters of recommendation: $1,500. Final phone call to the Dean of Admissions (aka the promise to donate a new building): $5,000,000+.
A Harvard education: priceless. For everything else, there’s Daddy’s MasterCard.
But in all seriousness, I know that Harvard can be a little more *expensive* than you had originally anticipated. Whether it’s the dues you’ve got to pay after your unexpected admittance into a Final Club or that expensive dinner you shouldn’t have charged to your already maxed-out credit card, no one can argue that sometimes college students just
need
a little extra cash. For some reason I’ve had an awful lot of blog posts lately asking what students can do around campus for said extra cash, so—by popular demand:
spare change:
Attempting to Narrow Harvard’s Socioeconomic Gaps
1. get a job:
This may seem obvious to many of you, but for those of you who have never really worked a day in your life on anything other than a problem set, try getting off your lazy ass and GET A JOB! There are ample opportunities for grunt work at Harvard: from grading papers to working the library front desk to calling alumni for donations to working as a barista in Lamont Café. . . .
2. participate in a psych study:
Depending on the study, this option can be risky, but there are always eager psych/med students around Harvard willing to pay if you’ll let them poke you, prod you, or look inside your brain. Some studies are as benign as clicking a button, but some (and unfortunately these are usually the ones that pay the big bucks) bear an eerie resemblance to Stanley Milgram’s Obedience to Authority electric shock experiments. . . .
3. find a patron or a sugar-daddy/mommy:
I think this probably works better in the movies than it does in real life, but go ahead and dare to dream. . . . Now I ain’t sayin’ she’s a gold digger, but I’m sure there must be plenty of wealthy, unattractive people lying around at Harvard somewhere just waiting to be exploited. If
The Real Housewives of Orange County
can do it, then so, my friend, can you.
4. hook up with a tf/professor:
Now, I’m certainly not advocating *blackmail* per se, but perhaps you might try encouraging them to . . . request your silence. If nothing else, at least you might earn an A for your efforts.
5. start an escort service?
No, that’s probably bad advice. Starting a fake charity: also bad advice. Seriously, don’t do that. (And don’t blame me if you get caught.)
Well, those are all of my creative ideas for the moment. Please feel free to write in to the blogs with your own suggestions or any further questions.
Also, I want all of you freshmen out there to please keep in mind: whether you make your own money or were born into it like the best—er, rest—of us, no matter how fabulously “rich” you may feel, you still have to pay your dues to those who are “richer” than you both in knowledge and in years. Contrary to the impression you may have formed, simply having money at Harvard does
not
equal social mobility. No freshman will ever be exempt from paying Harvard’s “social taxes,” and upperclassmen will always be unshakably—as it should be—at the top of the campus Food Chain.
Go forth and prosper,
Alexis Thorndike, Advice Columnist
Fifteen Minutes
Magazine
Harvard’s Authority on Campus Life since 1873
S
wipe. Stamp. “Have-a-nice-day!” Swipe. Stamp. “Have-a-nice-day!” Swipe. Stamp. “Have-a-nice-day!” Swipe. Stamp . . .
Callie stared miserably at the clock: 6:51.
Only nine minutes left to go until her four-hour shift working the desk at Lamont Library would end: her exhilarating new job that paid a generous twelve dollars per hour to swipe (students’ identification cards), stamp (the due date into the library books), and bid a cheerful farewell (“Have-a-nice-day!”) even on days like today when she felt anything but cheerful. The combination of virtually no sleep the night before and her “green-over” was making her feel stupid and slow, as if every movement took extra effort and inordinate amounts of concentration.
With every monotonous swipe she pictured another quarter dropping into her imaginary piggy bank, still hundreds of dollars away from being able to fund her Pudding membership.
She glanced across the foyer at Lamont Café, where many fellow members were congregating, sipping coffee, and gossiping. She could see Anne Goldberg at a table close to the counter, always keeping half an eye on newcomers in the doorway or the cute boy a few tables over while pretending to concentrate on her books.
Just over a month ago their lifestyle as Harvard’s social elite had seemed so far out of reach; now, miraculously, they had accepted her as one of their own. She finally understood what it meant to belong.
Well, not quite . . . she thought, stamping a library book for a pretty, senior girl whom she had met during initiation. It pained her to let them see her working, but she had no other choice. If she was lucky, after a semester of working four-hour shifts three times a week, she’d be able to afford the price of being popular.
She cringed as she recalled the telephone call she’d had with her mother about the Pudding earlier that week. She should have known that her mom—who had raised her to be frugal and cautious with money—would never understand why she
needed
to belong to this club. She had only been two sentences into her explanation when her mother had cut her off.
“I don’t understand why you should have to pay people in order to keep them as friends.”
And
that
had been the end of it.
“I like your headband,” the senior girl said, smiling as she loaded the books into her tote bag.
“Thanks,” said Callie, smiling back and reminding herself that she ought to be thanking Vanessa, who had given Callie the red, oriental silk headband earlier that week because it “clashed” with her own reddish hair.
Over the past several days Vanessa had been truly amazing. She had taken Callie on a Girls Only spa excursion the Saturday after the e-mail disaster, where the pain of getting waxed and plucked for the first time had effectively distracted her. Yesterday morning Vanessa had even insisted on proofreading Callie’s pieces for her second COMP portfolio, which were due the following week. In a way Vanessa’s sympathy about the Evan Incident and her attitude of total forgiveness made Callie feel even worse about the Pudding. But on the other hand, being able to confide in someone had been such a relief. Two months ago she never would have guessed that Vanessa might be the sole friend at Harvard whom she chose to take into her confidences, but Vanessa had proved supportive and nonjudgmental beyond any of Callie’s expectations.
These days it seemed like their bond was stronger than ever before—especially after such a crazy time last night. Especially, Callie couldn’t help but think, since I heard her coming back just a few minutes after she left.
Vanessa had been fast asleep when Callie headed to class that morning so she hadn’t had a chance to get the details yet, but she had a feeling that nothing serious had happened.
6:57
P.M.
: only three more minutes of torture until Callie could grab a bite to eat, finish her homework, and pass out in her tiny twin bed. . . .
Just then a scrawny freshman boy who looked like—and may very well have been—a fourteen-year-old genius approached the counter and whined in a nasal, prepubescent voice:
“Uhm, I’m looking for the Quantum Electrodynamics textbook for my advanced level physics course. According to the library’s database, it
should
be located in the stacks on the fourth floor, but I’ve been up there looking and am certain that it’s been misplaced. I already filed a Missing Book form and arranged to pick up a different copy from Widener Library tomorrow, but I really thought you ought to know so you can go up there and verify that it’s actually missing before you leave today.”
He finished, looking at her expectantly.
Seriously? She stared back at him, hoping he’d be intimidated by the fact that, even as a girl, she was at least a head taller than him.
He didn’t budge.
Lucky me! she thought with an aggravated sigh, coming out from behind the checkout counter and heading toward the stairs. She glanced back over her shoulder before opening the double doors. Sure enough, he was still standing there, staring. She had no other choice: he was clearly going to stay put and make sure he fulfilled his vigilante library duties by forcing her to approve that stupid missing book form.
Slowly she climbed the stairs. Having no prior need for a little light reading in advanced physics, she had never been up to the fourth floor stacks. Rumor had it that since so few people cared about quantum electrodynamics, the fourth floor stacks were a preferred destination for clandestine library encounters, usually of an illicit, sexual nature. . . .
Catching two people in the act would certainly be the icing on a fan-freaking-tastic day, she thought as she followed the confusing arrows toward the quantum mechanics section.
Wandering through the stacks was like wandering through a maze, but eventually she found the right aisle. The Q section was low down, close to the floor. As she squatted to search for that little pinprick’s textbook she thought she heard voices coming from somewhere in the adjacent row.
She didn’t think much of it until she distinctly heard the words
shame
,
COMP
, and
magazine
spoken by a female voice, and then another female voice give a muffled reply.
Holding her breath, Callie inched past the Q and R sections all the way down to the S titles: a point from which the conversation was suddenly far more audible.
“. . . a little bit about how the COMP evaluation process works. We cut over fifty individuals during the first round, so now there are about sixty people left to compete for ten coveted spots.”
So she’d heard right. They were talking about some sort of COMP! Of course, it could be for a different organization, but she knew there were about sixty people vying for places at
FM
.
“Each of our current editors is responsible for reviewing five portfolios a day, which means that we’ll have the results of the second round tallied shortly after we return from Thanksgiving break. Less than thirty people will continue for the third and final round.”
Bingo! They were
definitely
talking about
FM
, and this girl had to be one of the editors. Callie strained to hear the voice, grasping for familiar nuances or intonations, but the tone was too muffled by all the dense Erwin Schrödinger books to identify the speaker.
“Competitors’ portfolios are supposed to be completely name-blind and anonymous, but it’s pretty easy to tell who each person is based on the pieces they’ve submitted. Regardless, each editor scores the pieces on a scale of one to ten, and then gives the portfolio an overall score before passing it on to the next editor. At the end of the process all of the scores are compiled and averaged. The ten people with the highest scores win a spot on the magazine after the third round, though usually there’s a run-off and we all take a vote based on—other qualities.”
Callie couldn’t believe her luck!
Nobody
outside of the
FM
editors knew the specific details of how COMP selection worked, and yet there these two mysterious girls were, somewhere between
Space-Time Structure
and
Statistical Thermodynamics
, about to reveal it all. . . .
“Now, so far the ‘anonymous’ COMPer in question has done much better than I’d expected. By some fluke of nature the scores on her first portfolio were actually very high—even a few tens, which are unheard of for a freshman.”
Callie’s heart stopped. Could it be—was it possible—that these girls were talking about
her
? She tried not to let her ego speed ahead of her as she processed the phrases “even a few tens” and “unheard of for a freshman.” In high school, whenever her teachers had announced that the standard deviation was skewed because somebody had outscored everyone by a significant margin, they had always given Callie a significant look, and she knew, just
knew
, that she was the person they were talking about.
As quietly as possible, she crouched and began to pull out one heavy book after another, while the other girl, whose voice was softer and harder to hear, was murmuring something about “read her pieces” and “really talented.”
Working quickly, Callie cleared an area large enough for her to poke her head into. She could see through a serendipitously empty space between the books in the adjacent aisle. Cautiously she looked from left to right—thank you again, Advanced Theoretical Physics, for being so boring—before lying stomach to the floor and sticking her head through the gap.
“. . . too much drama and too much controversy for the magazine. As you might imagine, we have an image to protect, and that image is
crucial
to the success of our publications.”
Crap, Callie thought irritably, squinting: all she could make out was a scuffed gray floor and somebody’s navy blue Longchamp bag resting against the bookshelves. That bag could belong to anybody in
FM
: you could spot at least eighty of them on any given day during Justice. . . . Did she dare try to shift the position of a book from the shelf in their aisle? It seemed just a little too risky. . . .
She was about to reach out and move it anyway when she suddenly froze.
“. . . image: it’s the same reason I advocated to keep her out of the Pudding—and unfortunately, we both know how that turned out, don’t we? It’s a way she has with men: manipulating them and wrapping them around her finger with that bleach blond hair and that whole transparent act about being an innocent little California girl. It’s amazing how she had both Tyler and Clint salivating at her heels so that they just
couldn’t
say no. . . .”