The Ivy (9 page)

Vanessa materialized out of nowhere with three drinks in hand. “Sex on the Beach!” she said loudly over the music, thrusting a cup at Callie.

“What?” asked Callie, staring down at what looked like a piña colada.

“SEX-ON-THE-BEACH!” Vanessa cried again, pointing. And Callie suddenly understood: in the corner of the room, atop a mound of imported sand, a half-naked couple looked—and may well have been—in the middle of the act.

Next to them on the “beach” a giant kiddy pool was filled with not water but a disturbingly bright blue-colored liquid and hundreds of neon straws.

“Mini-soda!” Mimi screamed to a confused boy who’d just approached her. “No?” said Mimi, frowning. “Brent? Brad? Chadwick?”

“Tyson,” he said, forgiving her on the spot and steering her onto the dance floor.

“She loses her English when she drinks—can’t understand a word she’s saying!” Vanessa yelled at Callie.

Callie wasn’t listening. Instead she was staring at a tall, shirtless boy with sexy-shaggy brown hair who had just brushed up against her arm on his way to the dance floor. Pausing, he looked back: he was strangely familiar, yet unrecognizable in the dark.

Her eyes widened as she sipped her drink. She wanted to follow him out onto the dance floor, but such a bold move would first require a little liquid courage. . . .

Four piña coladas later she was in the midst of violating the one rule she’d made at the beginning of the party:
Do not drink from the neon straws in the kiddy pool.
Now she could not for the life of her remember why. Was it because little kids usually peed in kiddy pools? There weren’t any kids at this party! Plus, she was so thirsty and the water was so blue. . . .

The band had been replaced by a DJ, the lights had been dimmed, and the guests were now dancing wildly in a frenzied crowd. Vanessa, usually the encourager, had suddenly turned enforcer.

“Come on, Cal,” she urged, “that’s probably not the best idea. . . .”

“Shmanessa!” cried Callie, her eyes blurry and unfocused. “Vanurssa . . . I luvvrrve you. . . . He-he. You have such pretty faces!”

“That’s great, Callie. I love you, too, but maybe we should go sit down for a second?”

“
I
love you, too, Callie!” said a nearby boy, sliding into the conversation. “Would you like another drink, sweetheart?”

“Thanks but no thanks,” said Vanessa, stepping in between Callie and Trouble with a capital T. “Why don’t you go crawl back into the Dumpster where you came from?”

Shrugging, he walked away. With a smile Vanessa turned back to Callie.

She was gone.

“Oh, shit,” Vanessa muttered, shaking her head.

“I thought maybe you’d be a little more excited to see me?” asked a voice on her right.

“Bryan!” cried Vanessa. “It’s great to see you! It’s just, I lost Callie and I’m worried about her because I think she’s had too much to drink. . . .”

“I’m sure she’s fine,” Bryan replied, laughing a little. “It’s always the normal-seeming ones who turn out to have a real wild and crazy side—”

“Well, wild and crazy or not, I still need to find her,” Vanessa said. Smiling apologetically and refusing Bryan’s offer to help her search, she made her way toward the restrooms.

Inside the bathroom a girl was getting sick—but thankfully, she wasn’t Callie. Next Vanessa checked the coatroom and discovered, to her chagrin, the same couple who’d been together earlier on the “beach.”

“Sorry!” cried Vanessa as she hurried away. “Now where would I be if I were Callie. . . .” she muttered under her breath, really starting to worry as she made her way back into the room adjacent to the dance floor: a lounge filled with swirling cigar smoke and massive leather couches. There she spotted Mimi in tight embrace with yet
another
boy. Or maybe this was the same one from Wednesday. It was hard to keep track.

“Mimi!” said Vanessa gingerly. “Uhm . . . sorry to interrupt, but have you seen Callie anywhere?”

“Là-bas,”
said Mimi, pointing to a darkened corner. And sure enough, there was Callie: sprawled across a couch on the other side of the room.

But she was not alone. Attached to her lips was a boy: a sketchy, random, probably older, and, all right, fine, yes, incredibly handsome boy.

“I think we should go save her,” Vanessa said, turning to Mimi. “She’s completely wasted.”

“All right,” Mimi answered, looking at her companion like he was a rerun of an old TV show that she could catch again any time she pleased.

“Wait!” he cried, downcast and sullen. “I didn’t even get your name! Maybe you could give me your number so I could call you sometime?”

“Je suis désolée, mais je ne parle pas l’anglais,”
Mimi answered with a cold little shrug.
“Au revoir.”

They made their way across the room until they were hovering over Callie and her newfound friend, whom Vanessa would later dub “Sketchy McKisserson.” In the dim light Vanessa thought she could discern a handsome, eligible, and oddly familiar face under all that long, shaggy brown hair. She hesitated for a moment, worried that she might accidentally be “cock-blocking” her roommate in the Jane Austen sense of the term: that is, inadvertently preventing a socially fortuitous match. Then again, even if this guy weren’t a sleazy bastard, Callie was still way too drunk to be making out with anybody.

“Sorry, buddy,” said Vanessa, grabbing Callie and dragging her up off the couch. “It’s way past her bedtime.”

“Wait!” he said, standing. “Let me walk you guys home.”

Vanessa paused, squinting through the darkness at his face as if she was trying to place where she had seen him before.

“I am thinking we can take it from here,” Mimi said, stepping in and wrapping an arm around Callie’s waist.

“Bye!” cried Callie, tripping on herself as her roommates supported her between them. “You’re a kood gisser. . . . Ahg! I mean, a good kisser. . . . I like you!”

“Thanks,” said Mimi, to whom Callie’s comment had accidentally been addressed. “Let us get you home,
ma chérie
,” she added, patting her on the head.

As her roommates were escorting her toward the door, Callie snatched up an inflatable monkey and tucked it safely under her arm.

“Soo-vuh-near!” she cried, showing it to Vanessa.

“Yeah, you picked a good one, you little klepto,” Vanessa said. “Now let’s get that little monkey home—he must be pretty tired. I bet he’s going to feel sort of sick tomorrow after playing in the kiddy pool.”

Between the two of them, they managed to escort an extremely wobbly, incoherent Callie back to Wigglesworth. They followed her into her bedroom to make sure she made it safely, and Mimi watched as Vanessa slid Callie’s flip-flops off her feet, guided her into bed, and pulled the comforter up around her chin like a patient, loving mother.

“That was quite decent of you, taking care of her tonight,” Mimi whispered.

“What?” said Vanessa. “Oh, it was nothing—”

“Nessa?” Callie asked blearily through half-closed eyes. “Nessa . . . I kissed a boy!”

“Yes you did, you bad girl.” Vanessa laughed. “Now go to sleep!”

“Very, verrrry bad.” Callie yawned. “If only I could remember his . . .”

Where am I? Callie woke with a start. She lifted her eyelids, which felt heavy like dumbbells, and recognizing her bedspread, allowed them to shut once more.

Where are my clothes! she wondered, lids jolting open again. With enormous effort she threw off the bedspread: gold dress—
check
, no strange bedfellows—
check
.

Slowly she began to piece together her fractured memories from the night before. There had been something involving a monkey, a swimming pool, and a pool table. No, that couldn’t be right. . . .

The hazy image of shaggy brown hair swam into focus: hair that fell irresistibly across a pair of light green eyes, obscuring a face without a name. . . .

Yes, there had definitely been a boy: a boy who had cornered her, whispering that he’d noticed her from the moment she’d arrived and had been trying to think of how to approach her all night. He’d looked at her in a way that made her feel, for the first time in a long time, like she was the only girl in the world. . . .

Then again, maybe the entire episode had only been a dream. That bit about the monkey certainly didn’t make sense.

Suddenly she noticed her clock: 3:00
P.M.

Ugghh . . . I’m completely worthless! Too lazy to take off her dress, she pulled on some tattered gray sweatpants and lumbered into the common room.

“
Yeeeep!
” she cried, throwing her hands over her eyes. The sudden glare of light streaming in from the windows was deadly.

Mimi, Vanessa, and Dana were all waiting for her on the couch. Mimi held a glass of water and some Advil; Vanessa, a steaming cup of coffee. Both were smiling tolerantly. Dana was frowning, but her
I-told-you-so
expression of disapproval was softened by the bagel and cream cheese she held in her outstretched hand.

“You guys are the best.” Callie moaned. She plopped down on the armchair and reached for the Advil.

“We know!” sang Vanessa cheerfully. Her eyes glinting, she added: “Guess who kissed a
boy
last night?”

Dana clapped her hands over her face in horror. “How did you
know
? Oh, I swear I didn’t mean to do it; it just happened. . . . It was—it was an accident!”

Callie, Vanessa, and Mimi were silent for a moment; then they burst into hysterical, delirious laughter.

“Wow, I guess
I’m
the only one who
didn’t
get busy last night.” Vanessa laughed.

“
What?
” said Callie, completely bemused.

“Oh, Callie, please,” said Mimi. “Do not be coy with us, darling.”

“Yeah,” Vanessa chimed in. “I’d believe it if you couldn’t remember his name, but there’s no way you can’t remember his tongue!”

“Oh dear,” said Callie, frowning as the memories returned. “Was it really that bad?”

“
Bad?”
said Vanessa. “Sweetie—no! It’s about time!”

Vanessa and Mimi exchanged a knowing look, and Callie wondered for a moment if they were messing with her, when she suddenly spotted an inflatable monkey sitting serenely in the corner of the common room. . . .

Chapter Seven
Comping

C
AN YOU KEEP UP
?

A
s September faded into October, the days grew shorter and colder. Chilly winds blew leaves crisply about the Yard, and students arrived for their classes pink-cheeked and red-nosed, bundled in hats and scarves.

Though unused to the weather, Callie had managed over the past few weeks to acclimate to her new environment, gradually falling into a comfortable routine.

After breakfasting at eight thirty, she would read during her time before class. Morning lessons lasted anywhere from one to three hours, then off to lunch with Matt, Vanessa, or Mimi, if you could find her. Following lunch were the afternoon classes; then she would head to Lamont and spend four hours completing the work she could have done in two if she’d chosen a less social venue.

Dinner in Annenberg often stretched across several hours as students rotated around the room speed-dating style. Following dinner the hours between eight and twelve were reserved for reading, which she preferred to do in her bedroom or on the common room couch.

On any given evening around eleven thirty you could almost always find all four roommates scattered about the common room: Dana color-coding her Life Sciences notes and looking up, furious, every time Vanessa sighed dramatically (which was often) or tried to initiate a conversation about which boy she liked best that week (oftener still—though obviously nobody compared to her “one, true love,” aka Gregory); Mimi, whose eyes always seemed half-closed, was usually sleeping in the armchair instead of working.

Callie’s focus generally lasted until around midnight, when she would throw down her book—awakening Mimi with a start—and demand to hear interesting stories from the day. Vanessa would then declare that she was hungry (she made a point of never dieting at night because that would be, like, neurotic). If the refrigerator was empty, they would order pizza or sketchy Chinese food from The Kong: restaurant by day, dance club by night.

Uninvited but always welcome, the three girls (Dana preferred to stay behind and study) would often troop across the hall with their snacks to exploit Matt and Gregory’s comfy leather couch and the miraculous wonders of TiVo. Mimi was finding that she had a strange affinity for violent American video games, and OK, to no great surprise, was still suffering from a not-so-strange affinity for Mimi.

All in all, life was good, and lately Callie was finishing her reading earlier than usual, sometimes even reading ahead. At the beginning of the year she’d been anxious about balancing school and extracurriculars (or, more like her dad had been anxious, reminding her that the three most important things were “academics, academics, and academics”). But now, with COMP right around the corner, she was settled, confident, and eager to begin.

Thus, on Friday the first of October, after running into each other at Hemenway Gymnasium, Callie and Matt were heading across the Yard back to Wigglesworth, discussing
The
Harvard Crimson
’s COMP information session that they would be attending at three o’clock. Matt was planning to check out the daily newspaper’s editorial board; whereas Callie still had her heart set on
Fifteen Minutes
magazine. She had grown addicted to the magazine in recent weeks—especially the advice columns and blogs—and couldn’t wait to meet Alexis officially.

Now Callie was listening to Matt as he outlined the other major organizations on campus—trying her best not to shiver as the autumn wind brushed past her legs, which were bare save for her running shorts. Matt’s older brother—former member of the
Harvard Lampoon
—had apparently “popped a blood vessel” when Matt told him he was thinking about COMPing the
Crimson
.

“Why?” asked Callie, laughing as they walked down the steps past Widener Library on the way to their dorm.

“Well,” Matt began, “the
Crimson
and the
Lampoon
have been bitter rivals since forever ago, when the
Crimson
staff stole the
Lampoon
’s mascot from their castle and presented it as a gift to the government of the Soviet Union. The Lampoon retaliated by stealing the president of the
Crimson
’s chair and giving it as a ceremonial gift to the prime minister of Iceland. Apparently nowadays the
Crimson
keeps the president’s chair chained to the wall. I can’t wait to see if it’s true!”

“Wait a second: did you say that the
Lampoon
has a
castle
?”

“Yeah, haven’t you noticed that big purple and yellow building right across the street from Lowell House? It’s pretty hard to miss—I mean, it’s a castle, and when the weather is nice, the members are always sitting outside playing music and throwing things at unsuspecting pedestrians. My brother says that inside there are tons of secret passageways and relics from the famous pranks they’ve pulled over the years.”

“So, can anyone who wants to just go inside?” Callie asked, ready to tear off in the direction of the castle immediately.

“Unfortunately, no,” Matt answered, shaking his head. “Nobody is allowed inside except for members, and you can’t even get into their parties as the guest of a member until your senior year. Same thing goes with the
Crimson
. You have to go through several intense rounds of writing practice newspaper articles—or humor pieces, in the case of the
Lampoon
—and then they judge you on how journalistic you are, or how funny you are, or the strength of your artwork or ability to solicit ads for the business board. . . . You get the idea.”

“Right,” said Callie, nodding. “And once we finish COMP, we’re in?”

“Well,” said Matt, “sometimes it’s not that easy; otherwise everyone would do it. Joining is considered a rite of passage, and some organizations make people COMP for a year and a half before letting them in, just to mess with them or test their commitment.”

“A
year and a half
?”

“Yeah, it’s pretty brutal,” said Matt, opening the door to his room and holding it for Callie. She stepped inside.

“Wow,” she sighed, making herself comfortable on the leather couch. “I really hope we both make it before our sophomore year.”

A dreamy expression passed across Matt’s face as he savored the way she had said “our” before “sophomore year.”

“Especially since by sophomore year,” she was saying, rousing Matt from his trance, “we might be busy punching Final Clubs. Which one do you think you’ll join?”

“I don’t think I’ll be joining any of them,” he answered, his expression turning serious. “I’m just not okay—”

“What?” someone yelled from one of the bedrooms.

“Oh! Not talking to you buddy, sorry!” Matt yelled back.

“Bloody hell, not again. . . .”

Matt chuckled. “No matter how hard we try, that just keeps happening. Anyway, as I was saying, I’m just not
comfortable
with the fact that the male clubs don’t allow women to join and that they only let girls inside the building based on the shortness of their skirts.”

“Hey! That’s not
entirely
true,” Callie cried. “There are a few all-female clubs, and plenty of women get invited to the parties because they are
friends
with members, regardless of skirt length.”

“That may be,” said Matt, making a visible effort to keep the jealousy out of his voice, “but I still wouldn’t want a woman I cared about to go to some of those parties, and Callie”—this was the moment of truth—“I care about
you.
”

Suddenly the door flew open and Gregory strolled into the room.

“Am I interrupting something?” he asked, throwing his backpack onto the couch so that it almost hit Callie, landing next to her with a loud thunk.

“Not at all!” she cried, leaping to her feet. “I was just on my way out, actually. Have to do some reading for the Nineteenth-Century Novel before the meeting.”

“Jane Austen?” said Gregory. “She’s my favorite. Everybody likes
Pride and Prejudice
, but I’ve always felt that
Persuasion
is vastly underrated.”

“Oh,
please
,” Callie muttered, rolling her eyes—as if
he
even knew how to read
.
“So, I’ll pick you up at two forty-five?” she asked Matt.

“Oh . . . you’re taking him out on a date? Isn’t that sweet,” said Gregory.

“It’s a meeting, not a date,” she said through gritted teeth. She pulled the door shut behind her.

Matt let his face fall into his hands. “You know what, Gregory?”

“What?”

“Sometimes you really
suck
.”

Gregory grinned. “Thanks.”

Callie had been reading for barely five minutes when Mimi walked into the common room looking jittery and frazzled.

“Cigarettes,” she muttered, “need some cigarettes . . . No, no, you already had two packs today. . . . Coffee?
Oui
. . . need some coffee . . .”

“Mimi?”

“Callie, darling, I was just looking for you—I need some coffee—cannot concentrate at all—want to come with? My treat?”

“Uhm . . .” Getting coffee was probably the last thing that Callie felt like doing, but something in Mimi’s expression made her pause.

“All right,” she agreed, putting down her book.

A cold blast of wind assaulted them as they stepped onto the street, and Callie pulled the collar of her thin fleece closer around her neck, cursing the New England weather and cursing Mimi—then cursing herself for not changing out of her skimpy gym clothes. And she’d just been getting to the good part of the book, too: in, wouldn’t you know it,
Pride and Prejudice
. She’d already read it about a thousand times, but it was still classic, still a masterpiece. But
Persuasion
? It’s totally sophomoric. Underrated, my ass . . .

To make matters worse, the line at Peet’s Coffee was dauntingly long. What she wouldn’t give to be back in the fictional realm of the drawing room at Netherfield Park instead of here in the real world with Mimi. Sighing, Callie tried to think of an excuse to leave. . . .

“Yeah, I was really confused when I got an invitation to their first punch event,” a boy in front of her was saying, adjusting the red scarf around his neck. Even as a Fashion Ignoramus, Callie could still see that with his violently orange hair and copious freckles, this was a very poor choice of accessory.

“I mean, I don’t know
anybody
in the PC, I’m not a legacy, I don’t wear tuxedos to class, I don’t sing in an a cappella group, and I’m not ridiculously rich. But I decided that I ought to check it out anyway—”

“Oh no—don’t tell me that you actually went!” his friend exclaimed, a bucktoothed boy who was unfortunately short and stubby looking.

“I did,” said freckle-face, looking down at his hands. “And the members were just as confused as you are about why I was invited. . . .”

“Was it . . . ?” his friend asked in a hushed voice.

“
Lampoon
?” said freckles. “Yeah. They sent about twenty fake invitations to various sophomores, and then the members had to deal with explaining to us why we weren’t supposed to be there. They were pretty nice about it, for the most part, but I did overhear someone comment about ‘who shows up to this sort of event wearing a band uniform.’”

“What? You wore your
band uniform
? What were you
thinking
?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know. I had to go straight from practice and . . .”

Their voices faded away as they picked up their drinks and headed toward the door.

Numbly, Callie allowed Mimi to order for her. As of yet, nobody had stolen her homework or refused to compare answers on a problem set, so she had all but forgotten how ruthless her fellow classmates were rumored to be.

It was tragic how much acting and looking the part played a role. But if that’s what it takes to succeed, she thought, reaching for her coffee, then that’s what I’ll have to do. . . . She could hear Vanessa’s voice agreeing enthusiastically in her head, reminding her that people can’t
see
talent or passion when they first meet you—they can see only how you present yourself.
“I’m not asking you to change your personality, Cal. I’m just asking you to change your clothes!”