The Ivy (7 page)

“You mean Michael San
del
, the Communitarian?” Callie corrected her. “He
is
kind of famous . . . and I bet the course is good if that many people show up to take it. . . .”

Vanessa let her bags, and her jaw, sink dramatically toward the floor. “Honestly, Cal, I cannot
believe
you sometimes! Who
cares
whether or not the class is good; it’s all about the environment, the people, and the vibe.”

“What?” mumbled Callie. She picked up her day planner and verified that Mondays and Wednesdays at one o’clock were free.

“Haven’t you realized that we have yet to go on a single date?” asked Vanessa. “Our romantic involvements thus far have been limited to getting dumped—that was you—random hookups, sleazy seniors, and don’t even get me started on Mimi’s nightly sexcapades. It’s completely unacceptable.”

Callie was silent.

“Anyway, what I’ve finally realized is this: we’ve been looking in all the wrong places: seniors, upperclassmen . . . it’s never going to work. We have to tap the untapped resources, discover the uncut diamonds in the rough. . . . We have to find us . . .”

She paused dramatically.

“A freshman.”

Callie rolled her eyes.

“Stop—I know what you’re thinking!” Vanessa continued. “Two weeks ago I was all for ‘upperclassmen only,’ too, but today I realized something. I was doing a little research”—and by research, she meant Facebook stalking—“and do you remember that guy I hooked up with the other night? Jeffrey?”

“I think it was Jeremy.”

“Whatever. I found out today that he has a girlfriend. She’s a senior, too, but get this: she is
busted
. And not just too-ugly- to-make-the-cheerleading-squad ugly, or got-cut-from-the-first-round-of-
America’s-Next-Top Model
ugly, but, like, ugly-you-look-deformed ugly.”

Callie giggled, finally setting
The Q Guide
aside.

“So I’m thinking, ‘What gives?’ He’s like,
super
hot, and his girlfriend looks like Marilyn Manson. Why stick with crotchety old Manson when you could have a youthful Monroe?”

Callie thought that a “youthful Monroe” was a little generous for Vanessa, but she waited, intrigued nevertheless.

“That’s when it hits me. Shovel-face over here must have started dating what’s-his-name during their freshman year, four years ago, before he realized he was hot! Before he even
was
hot. You have to catch them when they’re young and still at the bottom of the food chain, before they can appreciate their own potential, and then you raise them to adore you, to rely on you, to need you. Get it? It’s like a . . . it’s like a . . . fish farm! That’s it! Project Fish Farm. Don’t you see? Justice is the ideal pond.”

Callie laughed as she pictured Vanessa going to class with an enormous net and lassoing a bunch of poor, pimpled, unsuspecting freshman boys and dragging them kicking and screaming to a giant pool of water surrounded by a tall, wired fence.
Fish Farm
:
a
boot camp for future husbands of the certifiably insane.
Watching it would be better than watching reality TV.

“Okay, you win,” Callie capitulated. “But if I take Justice with you, will you take Ec 10 with me?”

“Investment strategies and future venture capitalists? Now you’re talking sense!”

Callie shook her head and pulled out her study card, adding
Justice
underneath
Ec
10
and
Expos
.

“Great!” she cried, starting to relax. “Three down, only one more to go! Now listen to a description of this English class called the Nineteenth-Century Novel—”

Callie stopped midsentence as OK barged into the common room, panting. His face shone with sweat. Frantically he wheeled around and bolted the lock on the door.

“Well,” said Vanessa loudly, “I’m glad you could finally make it to our open house event. Would you like a special tour of the premises?”

OK gave her a blank stare, apparently impervious to sarcasm. “Do you—” He paused. “Please pardon the imposition, but do you mind if I stay here for just a moment?”

Callie and Vanessa exchanged a look. “Why?” asked Callie. “Is something wro—?”

Loud clumping noises suddenly filled the room. It sounded like a stampede of wild animals had broken loose outside in the hall.

“Oh, bollocks! Bloody hell!” OK cried, jumping up and darting across the room to stare out the peephole. He shrieked and then came scampering back. “I’m screwed! Absolutely,
royally, screwed
. . .”

“Well, if you’re actually royalty like they say, I don’t suppose there’s any other way. . . .” Vanessa paused, listening to the voices that were coming from the hall.

“Where is he?”

“Which one’s his room”

OK moaned and closed his eyes. “Hide me!” he pleaded.

“First, tell us what’s going on,” Vanessa instructed.

“I—well,” OK began, “I’m trying to give some people the slip.”

“
Which
people?” asked Callie.

“I’d rather not say.”

“Fine,” said Vanessa, standing and heading toward the door. “Then we’ll just have to go outside and see for oursel—”

“No!” cried OK, racing to block the door. Eyes wide, he looked from Vanessa to Callie. “It’s the paparazzi,” he whispered finally.

“The paparazzi!” cried Vanessa, glancing in the mirror to check her hair.

“Yes, the so-called ‘journalists’ who report the news back home and in London.”

“Oh.” Vanessa’s face fell.

“Here?” asked Callie. “But why . . . ?”

“They believe I’m involved in some sort of scandal,” said OK. “But I haven’t actually got anything to do with it!”

“What sort of a scandal?” Vanessa demanded.

“Vanessa, clearly it’s private!” cried Callie.

“Not anymore!” Vanessa exclaimed.

OK sighed. “I suppose I owe you ladies an explanation. It’s about my girlfriend—my
ex
-girlfriend, actually—who is rather famous, or should I say
in
famous, back in Britain. We haven’t spoken since summer, but apparently she just eloped with some techno music singer and the tabloids . . . the tabloids . . . ,” he trailed off with a groan.

Vanessa’s lips parted in disbelief: “Are you telling me that your ex-girlfriend is
Sissy
from
Sissy and the Space Cadets
? She’s like Miley Cyrus’s British soul sister, only with less
Disney
and more pole dancing!”

“So you’ve heard of her,” OK answered, nodding glumly. “Our relationship was terrific fun for a while, but in the end Father was right: she’s a bit too wild, even for me—always getting tattooed in the wrong place and photographed at the wrong time. . . . Anyhow, when it came time to end things she asked if I wouldn’t mind keeping up appearances for a while to spare her from the additional press. . . .

“Then, next thing I know, she’s in Germany hosting an international music festival and promoting her new album alongside some bugger called Franz or Hans—”

“Hans?” Vanessa interrupted. “Don’t you mean Hansel Eberhardt, the ‘Techno Prince of Europe’?”

OK frowned. “He’s not actually a
real
prince, you know.”

“Yes,” said Vanessa, “but he does
really
know how to wear a pair of tight, white pants!”

“It must have been so hard on her,” Callie interjected. “First getting dumped and then having to deal with all the gossip and attention . . .”

“Hard on
her
?” OK asked, staring at Callie. “
She’s
the one who tipped off the papers in the first place! Probably married the poor bloke just for a bit of extra attention. Wanted proper revenge, didn’t she? Well, she’s gotten it all right; that’s for certain. Won’t leave me bloody well alone—”

There was a pounding at the door. Everyone froze.

But then Mimi’s voice grew audible from the hall: “For the love of— LET ME IN! Who bolted the door?”

OK moaned and made a beeline for the bathroom.

As Vanessa opened the door, Callie caught a glimpse of several reporters crowding around on the other side of the hall.

“Oh mon dieu,
girls
,” cried Mimi, waving a copy of
Tatler
as she slipped into the room. “Have you seen this article? ‘The Secret Heartache of an African Prince,’” she began. “‘Okechuwuku Zeyna, one of Nigeria’s brightest stars, was recently devastated by the news that longtime girlfriend—or so he thought—Sissy Seraphina had been married to Sexy Hansel frontman Hansel Eberhardt, in Berlin the previous weekend. Her new album,
Two Princes
, is set to drop this month. Sources say that Okechuwuku, a first-year at Harvard University, was overheard vowing to duel his usurper in a fight to the—’”

“Mimi he’s—” Callie began.

“Here,” Mimi finished as OK emerged from the bathroom.

Vanessa giggled and tossed her hair. Turning toward Callie, she silently mouthed, “
Candidate!
”

Project Fish Farm had begun.

Chapter Five
Big Fish

“P
ROCRASTINATION IS LIKE MASTURBATION: IT’S FUN FOR A WHILE, BUT IN THE END, YOU’RE ONLY SCREWING YOURSELF.
”
—
ANONYMOUS

S
anders Theatre is a stately, cavernous arena located in the western wing of Memorial Hall. The stage in the middle of the main room is surrounded by a mahogany semicircle of balconies and pews, adorned on either side by statues of famous colonial Americans dating back to the early nineteenth century. Refracted light shines in muted, colorful hues from the stained glass window above the balcony, illuminating the Latin inscriptions engraved on the wall above the stage.

This is the place where orators like Winston Churchill, Theodore Roosevelt, and Martin Luther King Jr. delivered speeches to change a nation; where some of the world’s most renowned musicians have traveled from afar to grace the stage; where eminent academic and literary figures have gathered to share their knowledge and insight with the younger generations.

This is also the place where students in the later stages of adolescence go to gawk, flirt, sleep, whisper, twitter, poke, surf the web, and even—on occasion—to learn.

Welcome to Justice with Professor Michael J. Sandel, the Anne T. and Robert M. Bass Professor of Government at Harvard University, Mondays and Wednesdays at one
P.M.
Section times TBA; open to Freshmen–Seniors.

Callie wiggled uncomfortably in her seat, trying not to wrinkle the brand-new, never-been-worn Marc Jacobs sundress that Vanessa had insisted she borrow for their first day of class. Because they had arrived with less than two minutes to spare—Vanessa’s fault, in Callie’s opinion, for forcing her to change; Callie’s fault, in Vanessa’s opinion, for her naive failure to cooperate—they were sitting all the way up in the balcony, right behind—to Callie’s horror; to Vanessa’s delight—a large group of JAQs (Jewish American Queens), PSPs (Prep School Princesses), and WASPs (predatory, flying, stinging insects).

The PSPs were instantly recognizable in their miniskirts and frilly blouses or variants of The Uniform: that classic, East Coast private school look that consists of designer jeans, polo shirts, and pearls. Every movement sounded like money.

Vanessa, her blue headband harmonizing with her Ralph Lauren polo and navy Longchamp shoulder bag, was a perfect clone.

“Hi!” she cried, addressing the girls in a tone that made Callie cringe. “What’s up, guys?”

Some of them merely turned, the charms on their timeless, silver Tiffany bracelets clinking, and faced forward once more, but a few greeted Vanessa by name and asked how she was doing. Callie couldn’t remember any specific faces from The Dining Hall Debacle of the Decade (or so it was being called on Twitter) and wondered if any of them could recognize her.

Sure enough, the girl seated directly in front of Vanessa frowned as her gaze traveled from Callie’s plain shoulder bag down to the “ten-dollar, bargain-bin flats” that Vanessa had tried, and failed, to talk her out of wearing.

“I like your dress,” the girl said suddenly. It didn’t sound like a compliment. Callie was trying to decide whether or not to say thank you when the girl added: “I’m Anne. What’s your name?”

“Callie. Callie Andrews.”

“And I’m her roommate, Vanessa Von Vorhees!” Vanessa chimed in, pinching Callie on the thigh in a way that clearly said
I told you so
about the dress.

Seriously? thought Callie. She found it hard to believe that people actually cared about this stuff. Why should it matter what she wore to class—or, for that matter, ever?

“Freshmen, right?” said Anne with an appraiser’s eye.

“Right,” said Callie.

“By the way,” Vanessa added as Anne started to turn back around, “I absolutely adore
your
dress! Who’s it by?”

As Anne replied, Callie’s eyes began to wander around the room.

Most of the other first-years were clustered in the front rows closest to the stage. Callie spotted Mimi sitting next to OK among a crowd of people who looked distinctly foreign. OK had edged as close to Mimi as possible. Any closer and he’d be sitting on her lap.

Glancing to her left, Callie was startled to find Gregory staring back at her. Before she could look away, he gave a deceptively friendly wave and then mouthed: “
I caught you!
”

He was surrounded by a seersucker-and-loafer-wearing entourage whose attire indicated that if your pastel-colored polo featured an alligator or a man on horseback, you were welcome to join their Gentlemen’s Club. It would have looked much more fitting if they were holding mint juleps instead of MacBooks, betting on horses rather than waiting for class to begin.

Turning around quickly before Gregory could fathom new ways to embarrass her, she caught sight of a bunch of people in the very back of the balcony wearing gray sweatpants and sweatshirts featuring the Harvard Department of Athletics logo. What would have happened if she hadn’t busted up her knee? Would she be cracking jokes with the athletes instead of hovering on the outskirts of the prep school crowd, faking it miserably in Marc Jacobs?

Down on the stage a man who did bear a striking resemblance to
The Simpsons
character Mr. Burns began tapping the microphone and clearing his throat.

Vanessa pulled her MacBook out of her purse. “Time to start taking notes!”

Surprised, Callie followed Vanessa’s example and removed her laptop from her bag. Quickly she logged into her e-mail while Professor Sandel discussed the logistical aspects of class. There were no new updates from Evan. Suddenly, a chat box materialized:

Vanessa:
look at my computer screen!

Callie looked. Vanessa had navigated to the Facebook profile for Anne Goldberg, class of 2012. As Callie squinted at the photo, recognition dawned: this was the same girl who had complimented her dress and was currently seated directly in front of them. That’s not creepy . . . no, not at all.

Vanessa:
i knew it! she’s anne GOLDBERG, she went to Deerfield. she’s in the pudding!

Callie:
the pudding? what’s the pudding?

Vanessa:
you’ve never heard of the PUDDING? really Cal what would you do without me? will explain after class. what a find!

Callie watched Vanessa tab back over to Facebook and click the Add as Friend button on Anne Goldberg’s profile. Callie saw “The Pudding” listed as one of Anne’s activities.

What could it be? she wondered, annoyed that Vanessa wouldn’t tell her. A Jell-O appreciation society?

It was just like Vanessa to dangle information without offering an explanation. Callie decided that ignoring her would be the best punishment. She deliberately closed the Gchat box into which Vanessa was typing “check out those hotties to our right i think i recognize the one sitting next to grego—” and opened Microsoft Word, tuning in to Professor Sandel, who was patiently explaining to a horrified-looking first-year that the John Locke he was referring to was not a character on the popular ABC TV show
Lost
.

As Sandel settled into his lecture, Callie’s fingers flew across her keyboard, eager to record every word:

“Five people are tied to a train track,” he postulated, “and the train is coming full speed ahead. You can’t do anything to untie them, but you do have the option to pull a lever that will divert the train onto a different track. There is only one person tied to this alternative track. What do you think is the ‘right’ thing to do?”

“Pull the lever!” someone shouted from the third row.

“Why?” Sandel asked with a crafty smile.

“Because it’s better for one person to die than five.”

“Ahh . . . how utilitarian of you. But now let me ask you this. Instead of standing near a lever that can switch the direction of the train, you are standing on a bridge above the tracks. There is a very
large
lady standing next to you on the bridge, and you can choose to push her down onto the tracks, which will also stop the train and save five peoples’ lives. Do you do it?”

This time the speaker hesitated. One of the boys sitting near Gregory piped up: “Yeah! Push her off!”

Sandel laughed. “But wouldn’t you feel guilty about pushing her? Doesn’t that intuitively seem more ‘wrong’ than simply pulling a lever?”

“No, she’s fat,” the boy muttered so only the balcony could hear.

“What was that?” asked Sandel.

“I said: No, it shouldn’t matter if you
feel
worse about pushing her off than you would about pulling the lever, because saving five people’s lives is still the right thing to do.”

“So, what you’re telling me is that the right thing to do is to always sacrifice the one person in order to save the five?”

“Yes,” said the boy confidently, smiling at his peers.

“And this larger woman . . . what if she were your mother instead?” Sandel finished triumphantly. The grin faded from the boy’s face.

Turns out, there
is
such a thing as a highbrow “yo mama” joke.

“That’s what I thought,” said Sandel. “Community often trumps utility. Now if you would all turn to page nine of Bentham’s
Principles of Morals and Legislation
. . .”

There was a rustle of pages as people—upperclassmen, mostly—began searching for their texts. Callie turned to Vanessa, intending to ask if she had known they were supposed to buy the books ahead of time. Vanessa was still typing furiously, but her notes had nothing to do with Professor Sandel’s lecture.

Instead Vanessa was working on an Excel spreadsheet:

Callie watched in awe as Vanessa would look up, glance around the room, identify a freshman *fish* of interest, and then locate her newest target on Facebook. She would scan his profile, examine his list of friends, take notes on her spreadsheet, and then finally click the Add as Friends button if he satisfied her criteria.

Once again it was difficult to decide if Vanessa was insanely funny or simply insane. With effort Callie tore her eyes away from Vanessa’s computer screen and tried to focus on her own, but it was considerably harder to concentrate on the lecture now that she knew what Vanessa was doing. She wondered if the list were in order: had Vanessa put Gregory in the number one spot on purpose, or was that simply a coincidence?

She glanced over in his direction and found him, once again, staring back at her.

Is
he a mind reader? Quickly she bowed her head low over her laptop, willing herself to focus. . . .

Callie’s shoulders slumped with relief when a chiming clock announced the end of the hour: class had been very interesting but not entirely because of the lecture. She stood to leave, tugging anxiously at her borrowed dress. The plan: return to her room as soon as possible and change before the dress gets wrinkled or ruined.