by Lauren Kunze
DEDICATION
FOR MY READERS
Contents
Dedication
Prologue
One: J’accuse…Who?
Two: I Pledge Allegiance
Three: Going Once, Going Twice…Sold!
Four: Eat, Party, Love
Five: I Love You, Grace Lee
Six: East Meets West
Seven: The Hangover
Eight: Breaking, Entering, and Pranking
Nine: And the Plot Thickens
Ten: The Wigglesworth Walruses
Eleven: Garden Party
Twelve: The Birkin List
Thirteen: The Hearing
Fourteen: Insider Ousted
Fifteen: Yardfest
About the Authors
Credits
Thanks
Copyright
About the Publisher
PROLOGUE
Monday, April 4: 2:43 A.M.
Gregory Bolton cursed and swiftly silenced the ringer on his cell phone. The incoming number displayed on the caller ID did not match the one he’d nearly finished dialing prior to the interruption.
“I’m coming.” He answered the phone in hushed tones. “Just give me another minute.”
“I’m afraid we don’t have another minute, Mr. Bolton.” The voice of Noel Rubenstein, the Bolton family attorney, crackled over the line. “We needed you back in Manhattan yesterday.”
Gregory peered behind the shade of his bedroom window in Wigglesworth Dormitory overlooking Massachusetts Avenue. The street was completely deserted save for a black Lincoln town car parked directly below. “I had to make sure all of my ‘affairs are in order’ like you said,” he muttered, turning back from the window, “and to figure out a way to tell—”
“To tell who what?” the lawyer interjected sharply. “Mr. Bolton, was there anything ambiguous about my instructions to say nothing to nobody? No e-mails, no texts, and no phone calls except to answer this number and this number alone.”
“Right,” Gregory mumbled, casting around his room. His eyes fell on the far wall, where his bookshelf stood next to his dresser. “But what about…a note,” he said, sliding his copy of Jane Austen’s Persuasion off the shelf.
“A note?” Mr. Rubenstein yelped. “You’re joking, right? Please tell me you’re joking. Please tell me that you did not just suggest setting down your reasons for leaving in writing. Do you have any idea what could happen if anyone were to find such a note?”
“What if I left it,” Gregory started, almost as if speaking to himself, “where only someone could find it…and only if she knew where to look?” Setting the novel on his desk, Gregory flipped to a particular section toward the end.
“Mr. Bolton,” the lawyer began while Gregory uncapped a pen with his teeth. “If you do not cease whatever it is that you’re thinking about doing immediately and get in this car—which, I might add, is draining the paltry remainder of your father’s funds by the minute—then I will come up to fetch you myself.”
“Uh-huh,” said Gregory, fixated on the yellowed pages of the text.
“I mean it,” Mr. Rubenstein barked. “Your father authorized me to use whatever means necessary, and I would have absolutely zero qualms about dragging you out of that dormitory by your hair—”
“All right, all right, I’m coming,” Gregory conceded, though he’d made no move toward his bags. “Just remind me again: it’s okay to leave my laptop as long as I turn it off, right?”
“WHAT?” Mr. Rubenstein sputtered, sounding apoplectic. “I said to pack the computer—that was the very first thing—have you even been listening to me at all, Mr. Bolton?”
“Not entirely, to be honest—no.” Gregory almost smirked. His laptop, ready to go in its case, sat behind him, leaning against the rest of his things by the door.
“Young man, just because your father—Oh, shit—” A string of expletives exploded from the lawyer’s end of the line.
Gregory froze, gripping his pen. “What?”
“The Times article just went live,” Mr. Rubenstein spat. “The media vultures must’ve wanted to make this morning’s edition—”
Gregory frowned, staring at the book on his desk.
“—a miracle the reporters aren’t here already,” Mr. Rubenstein continued ranting. “Now Mr. Bolton listen carefully for once in your life, because this is my final offer: if you are not down here within the next sixty seconds, this car is leaving without you, and you can find your own way back to New York and fight off the reporters—and who knows, maybe also the authorities—all by yourself. I hear the Chinatown bus is cheap.”
Gregory closed his eyes. Then, standing, he threw his backpack over his shoulder. “See you in fifty-seven seconds,” he said, hanging up his phone. Frantically he scanned the surface of his desk, his eyes alighting on a stack of Post-it notes. Plucking one, he stuck it onto the cover of Persuasion and then quickly scrawled a message.
A moment later he’d gathered his bags. Pausing, he looked at the book in his hands and then up at the door. It would take only several more precious seconds to cross the common room and exit into the hall, where he could easily slip it into the metal drop-box on the door directly opposite his suite.
Shaking his head, he turned and propped the book prominently on the top of his bookshelf, where it could be discovered by anyone—or make that someone—who might take the time to examine his collection. Then, with one last look over his shoulder at the slim volume, he left.
ONE
J’accuse…Who?
* * *
To my darling Campus Scandalmongers:
My how the rumor mills have been churning! While I may not have all the answers re:
WHY a certain campus “It” boy is still mysteriously missing after vanishing in the middle of the night; and
WHO is the person responsible for the “Ivy Insider” articles attempting to trash the Hasty Pudding, one of the oldest, most elite clubs on campus; and
WHAT is going on with The Crimson—The Pudding?—The Economy!—The Country!
I can dispel one particular rumor right now: no, my new position as interim managing editor at the Crimson will NOT detract from my weekly duties as FM’s favorite advice columnist! I am pleased to report that with the proper delegating—and dismantling of the historically short-lived blog formerly known as FlyBy—I still have plenty of time to provide the guidance you so desperately need. And what could be more topical this week than:
How to Survive a Scandal Unscathed
1. Fire everyone in charge. Check! The Ad Board already took care of this one. For those who haven’t seen it yet, the Crimson released a formal apology penned by the staff member whose oversight led to the disastrous publication of the Pudding’s Punch Book, a private document in which club members recorded their, shall we say, unflinching, opinions of prospective members. Luckily there’s a new sheriff in town: that’s right, c’est moi!
2. Disappear in the dead of night. Campus “It” boy Gregory Bolton has successfully dodged answering any questions regarding his finance-maven father’s dodgy behavior in the hedge fund industry by leaving campus on the eve before that scandal broke, and has yet to respond to anyone’s—including this advice columnist’s and serious girlfriend, Alessandra Constantine’s—attempts to contact him.
Have you heard from him? If so, let us know he’s okay by e-mailing [email protected] and remember: innocent of hedge fund fraud until the SEC takes you away!
3. Deny, Deny, Deny. Instead of lying, try denying—Bill Clinton style! How many clever interpretations can you future politicians/defense lawyers/Ponzi schemers invent? It was borrowing not stealing; checking the answers not cheating; résumé perfecting not padding…. “No, I did not have sex with t
hat woman! At least not on Tuesday.”
4. Frame someone else/Catch the true culprit. Used up the last of the toilet paper? Made a mess of the common room? Not to worry: just blame your roommate! Duh, that’s what they’re there for! But, on the flip side, if your conniving, toilet-paper-hogging roomie blames you, by all means, catch them in the act! (Note: TP hoarding is not advised.)
5. Pray that something bigger comes along. Fortunately for the Ivy Insider (whoever he or she might be), something even more interesting is happening in the real world (yes, that thing that occasionally occurs outside of Harvard’s much-touted ivy-covered walls). Boltons, Bankruptcy, and Bailouts, oh my! Have hedge funds ever been hotter?
6. Make drastic changes to your physical appearance. Wait—whoops—scratch this one. We all remember how that haircut* turned out for Keri Russell’s character on college-based drama Felicity…. Wait, what’s that? You don’t remember? Oh yeah, right, cause that show—and its ratings—faded into oblivion as soon as she chopped off her hair.
My parting thoughts are these. When you’re beautiful and have it all (like Gregory and Alessandra), people will always try to kick you when you’re down. Why? Because they’re jealous. And when it comes to the most exclusive clubs on campus, haters always gone’ hate. Why? Because they’re jealous!
As expected, even though the club’s secure server was hacked and the club members’ privacy was breached, “popular” (oh, the irony) opinion on campus has cast the Insider as a champion of the non-belonging 80 percent (Occupy Final Clubs!). Sorry, Nerds, but your hero is not long for this world. While the Administrative Board has insisted on strict confidentiality regarding any suspects, there’s no doubt that a Student-Faculty Judicial Board hearing awaits the culprit, who almost certainly won’t be returning to campus next fall…or ever.
So scandal-magnets, keep your heads up and try to remember what Oscar Wilde said.
“There is only one thing in life that is worse than being talked about—
—And that is not being talked about.”
Alexis Thorndike
Interim Managing Editor @ The Harvard Crimson
The Nation’s Oldest Continuously Published Daily College Newspaper since 1873
Advice Columnist @ FM Magazine
Harvard University’s Authority on Campus Life since 1873
* * *
Callie Andrews closed her eyes. Maybe I’m having a nightmare, she thought wildly, and in a minute I’m going to awake. My room will be clean. I’ll know who to trust. And as for the past seventy-two hours: gone—poof!—erased.
Her lids flew open.
Damn.
Papers still covered every imaginable surface of her tiny bedroom in Wigglesworth dormitory. Annotated with highlights and sticky notes, they littered her twin bed and the desk beneath the window, spilling onto the small stretch of floor usually reserved for old soccer sweatshirts and dirty laundry. Various headlines confirmed the unfortunate reality of her present predicament.
But the mess wasn’t the worst of it. Matt Robinson, Callie’s first-ever friend at Harvard University, had also just raised his voice at her for the first time, ever.
“I cannot believe that you would even suggest that I had anything to do with this!” he continued, slamming the highlighter he’d been using on her desk.
“I don’t see what’s so hard to believe,” Callie replied, sounding out her words slowly like a foreigner speaking an unfamiliar tongue. “You were with me at the Crimson almost every day,” she stated. “You knew my log-in and my password—in fact, you practically set up my account. And it’s no secret that you hate the Final Clubs, and the Pudding, and everything that the elite campus societies stand for!”
Matt shook his head, appearing at a loss for words.
Callie held his gaze from where she’d perched on the edge of her bed, the comforter barely visible beneath the remnants of a crazed, three-day (and counting) paper chase to discover the true identity of “The Ivy Insider”: the anonymous blogger who had posted a series of critical “exposés” about the Hasty Pudding social club from the offices at the Harvard Crimson using Callie’s log-in name and password.
There it was in black and white, on the copies of the time-stamped log-in records that the Administrative Board had sent over that morning: “candrews” online during every single instance of an Insider posting. The times on the article printouts next to her knee, highlighted in pink, were a match.
Except that she hadn’t written the articles. And she had no idea who had, or how to prove her innocence in time for her Student-Faculty Judicial Board hearing in May. Unless—
Her head jerked up and she locked eyes with Matt: one, two, three, four, and then five seconds passed before her face finally crumbled, all angry words and accusations giving way to a wail.
“I’m sorry!” she cried, burying her forehead in her hands. “I don’t know what I was thinking.” The words sounded squished through her wrists. “I wasn’t thinking. I can’t think anymore because I’m just—so—screwed!”
“It’s okay,” said Matt, sinking next to her. “And it’ll be okay.” Gingerly he patted her shoulder. “We’ll get this figured out.”
“Will we?” She lifted her head. “We’ve been going through this stuff for hours,” she said, gesturing at the papers, “and we still haven’t gotten any closer to figuring out who the Insider is or why they decided to frame me!” Swallowing, she took a deep breath. “All I’ve done so far is to accuse people, including the one—” Her voice broke. “The only person who’s been there for me from the very beginning…”
“Oh, stop,” said Matt. “You’re making me blush.” For once, though, he wasn’t blushing. In fact, he appeared utterly unruffled to be seated so close to Callie on her bed—a welcome change, as far as she was concerned, from the previous semester. These days, it seemed he had a new obsession: Grace Lee, Callie’s COMP director and the managing editor at the Harvard Crimson. Well, make that former COMP director and former managing editor, since, effective two days ago, the Ad Board had officially banned Callie from COMP and removed Grace indefinitely from her post at the helm of the school’s daily newspaper. The Ad Board had replaced Grace with Callie’s Number One Ivy Insider Suspect, otherwise known as:
Thorndike1 (noun)
1. The Campus Queen Bee
2. A Boyfriend Stealer*
3. One who is renowned in the arts of blackmail, trickery, and coercion
4. Exclamatory expression usually uttered when something terrible has happened
Callie shuddered to think of the alternative: that somebody, somewhere out there, might hate her more than Lexi did. Lexi, who had taken extreme measures—including blackmailing Callie with a sex tape shot in secret by her Huge Mistake of a high school boyfriend, Evan—to keep Callie from joining FM magazine and dating Lexi’s ex Clint Weber. (Both endeavors had succeeded even though Callie had eventually escaped Lexi’s undue influence by preemptively exposing herself in an article written for the Harvard Crimson.)
“Who could possibly hate me that much?” Callie murmured aloud.
“What was that?” asked Matt.
“Nothing,” she muttered.
“Well, hang on a second,” said Matt. “I think you might be onto something. We need a fresh approach, right, so why not make a list of everyone who hates you!”
“Wow, sounds like fun,” said Callie.
“We’re going to need more paper,” Matt said with a mischievous smile.
“Gee, thanks a lot!” Callie called as he opened the top drawer of her desk and fished out a yellow legal pad.
“Number one,” he began, marking the page. “How about—”
“Alexis Thorndike,” she interrupted.
“This again?” Matt asked. Sighing, he handed the pen to Callie.
Under Alexis’s name Callie wrote:
She did it:
a. She hates me
b. Access to the Crimson offices
c. Wants me out
of the Pudding
d. Wants to run the Crimson (?)
Taking the legal pad, Matt frowned slightly as he read. Then, grabbing the pen, he added:
She didn’t do it:
a. Would never jeopardize the Pudding/her social status
b. Already stole back Sweater Vest (sorry…Clint)
c. Already kept you off FM magazine
d. Already compromised by blackmailing you w/ high school tape
e. Usually in the upstairs, not downstairs, offices
f. How’d she get your password?
g. Haven’t we already spent enough hours going over this already?
“Fine!” Callie snapped, looking up from the list. “We’ll move on.”
“Number two,” said Matt, scribbling a name on the pad, “Vanessa Von Vorhees.”
Callie grimaced. “I still don’t think—”
“Reasons why she did it,” Matt continued aloud as he wrote, ignoring Callie. “She might still resent you for violating her ‘man-dibs’ or whatever you kids call it these days, and ditching her on her birthday to join that stupid Pudding club without her, and stealing her diamond earrings and then blogging about how she’s the second coming of Satan on Earth—”
“Now hang on just a minute!” Callie yanked the yellow legal pad out of his hands, where so far Matt had only managed to get down “She might still resent you.” “I never stole her diamond earrings; she just used that as an excuse to trash my bedroom back when we were fighting, which is why I wrote the draft of an article about an unnamed ‘roommate from hell’ intended purely for venting purposes not publication.”