by Lauren Kunze
“I’m not saying I blame you!” said Matt, holding up his hands. “You know she’s pretty high on the list of people that I—well, certainly have nothing nice to say about—”
“I know, I know.” Callie cut him off. “You two have your differences, and she and I certainly had a rough patch—okay, very rough,” she conceded at the look on Matt’s face. “But after I put my own membership on the line to get her into the Pudding, I don’t think she’s feeling left out anymore. And besides,” Callie added, thinking about the secret that only she knew, that Vanessa’s parents were in the middle of a nasty divorce, “you never know what kind of other things a person might be going through…private things that are just too painful to talk about.”
“Fair enough,” said Matt. “I mean, yeah, just think about how no one had any idea with Greg—”
“REASONS WHY SHE DIDN’T DO IT,” Callie said loudly, wanting desperately not to “just think about” anything having to do with him.
She didn’t do it:
a. No access to the Crimson
b. Why would she try to destroy the Pudding when all she wanted was to belong?
“Well,” Matt interjected, reading over Callie’s shoulder, “what if, when she didn’t get into the club during the fall punch season, she hatched a plot to take the entire organization down—only she had to make herself look credible by still pretending to want to join—”
Callie snorted and shook her head. “Sorry, Jack Bauer, but your conspiracy theory is missing one key piece of information.”
c. Didn’t join the Pudding until late spring—i.e., no access to insider information
“Huh?” said Matt.
“Whoever wrote all these articles,” Callie explained, pointing to the pile of printouts titled “Behind the Ivy-Covered Walls,” “was almost certainly in the Pudding already. How else could she—or he—have gotten access to all that inside information?”
“Hearsay?” Matt suggested. “Bugging devices? Wikipedia?”
“And,” Callie continued, rolling her eyes, “in order to publish the Punch Book—”
“Right, the list of people your club wants to punch in the face—”
“When did you get so snarky?” Callie asked, enacting said gesture lightly on his arm.
“When did you stop feeding me?” Matt retorted, eyeing the empty bags of chips and cans of soda in the trash can under her desk.
Callie laughed. “As you well know, the Punch Book was a secure electronic document compiled online at HPpunch.com where members wrote their anonymous and sometimes unnecessarily…”
“Snarky?” Matt volunteered.
“Yes, their sometimes snarky, or harmful, comments about prospective members. Meaning that, unless the Insider has some seriously genius level hacking skills—”
“We are at Harvard,” Matt said.
“Right,” said Callie. Even if my days here are probably numbered. She swallowed. “But still, the Insider probably had the Pudding’s password to access the Punch Book, which is another indicator that the Insider is a member.”
“Let’s not forget,” said Matt, “that whoever it is had your password, too.”
“Eugh,” Callie groaned. “Don’t remind me.”
“As did Vanessa,” Matt pressed on, making a note of it on the legal pad.
“And a little someone I like to call…you,” Callie shot back.
“Fine,” said Matt, handing her the pen. “By all means, add me to the list.”
Callie searched his face, but signs of the earlier spat had dissipated. “All right,” she said, turning the page with a sigh. She wrote in silence for a minute or two then handed him the list.
He did it:
a. Access to the Crimson offices
b. Had my password
c. Hates the Pudding/Final Clubs/other forms of elitism or exclusivity on campus
He didn’t do it:
a. Greatest friend a girl could have
b. Thinks I’m super-awesome
c. Would never do anything to get me in trouble/kicked out of school
d. Would never do anything to get his CRUSH (!!!) in trouble/demoted
e. Lexi in charge @ the Crimson probably = his worst nightmare
f. Is super-duper-super-awesome
Matt tutted when his eyes neared the end of the list. Then he smiled. “I have no idea what item d is in reference to,” he said, emphatically crossing out the word crush and replacing it with managing editor. “However,” he continued, “f is an excellent point, and as for e…” Frowning, he picked up that morning’s edition of the Crimson. “Just look at this!” he cried, flipping to an op-ed authored by Alexis entitled “In Defense of the Hasty Pudding Social Club’s Punch Process and Right to Privacy.”
Clearing his throat, he began to skim, muttering certain segments aloud. “‘Anne Goldberg, secretary, stated this morning…all prospective members tacitly consent to the punch process by appearing at our first event…. This proves, if anything, why secrecy is so fundamental to our process…’ Oh yes, here it is. ‘Crimson staff writer Matt Robinson noted in an internal e-mail: “The Insider’s decision to target what is arguably the most progressive of these institutions is puzzling. Clearly the all-male Final Clubs are a much larger part of the problem.”’
“She quoted me—me!” he cried, tossing the article aside. “From a staff e-mail about the Insider. I didn’t consent to that comment, but I can’t do anything about it since she’s suddenly my boss! Only two days in charge and she’s already writing exactly the kind of socially biased articles that Grace loathes….”
Callie cringed. Grace, a junior, had taught Callie more about writing and editing than most of her professors. Unfortunately Grace probably also belonged on the list of “People Who Hate Me,” since a series of miscommunications over the course of the semester had led Grace to suspect that Callie was the Insider. As a result, Grace had believed she was doing Callie a favor by publishing the Insider articles on FlyBy without editing or alteration in their “mutual” quest to expose socially unjust organizations on campus.
Callie sighed, remembering the look on Grace’s face when Callie had insisted to the Ad Board that she was innocent—throwing Grace, as far as the older girl was concerned, under the bus. “I should probably add her to the list.”
“Are you kidding?” asked Matt. “She didn’t do it.”
“Yeah, but she does hate me,” Callie pointed out.
Matt pressed his lips together.
“And who knows?” Callie continued. “Maybe she could have used her admin access to figure out my password and then posted the articles herself.” Even as she said it, Callie knew it wasn’t true. Grace, who disapproved of publishing anonymously, never shied away from expressing her opinions—happy to print her feminist, anti–final club rants on the front page of the op-ed section. It also seemed highly unlikely that Grace would violate any of the journalistic ethics she so passionately preached to the COMPers at the start of each semester, including the importance of never hacking into a password-protected site.
Grace’s replacement, on the other hand, had no problem playing dirty to gain access to private material. In fact, Callie was willing to bet her favorite (and only) pair of Converse that Lexi had wasted no time installing a locked drawer in Grace’s old desk on the first floor of the Crimson offices: a place to stash other peoples’ secrets for a rainy day when the new interim managing editor needed a favor she couldn’t accomplish by asking nicely….
“But I guess ‘everyone’s a suspect until proven otherwise,’” Matt finished, rousing Callie from her thoughts. He had, albeit begrudgingly, added Grace to the list. “Who’s next?”
Rap-rappity-rap-rap…RAP-RAP! A knock sounded at the door.
Matt raised an eyebrow. “‘Shave and a Haircut’? Really? Is that really necessary?”
“Come in, Vanessa,” Callie called, ignoring him.
Slowly the door inched open, creaking on its hinges. A huge pair of over
sized sunglasses peeking over the popped collar of a Burberry trench coat appeared through the crack.
Matt leaned forward. “Were you followed?”
“I don’t think—” Vanessa started breathlessly. Then her eyes narrowed. “For your information,” she announced, pushing open the door, “I, unlike some people present, am actually taking this seriously.” She dragged several large shopping bags into the room. “And no”—she enunciated every syllable—“petty sarcasm aside, I was not followed. It’s only me and my entourage,” she continued, gesturing at the bags.
“Reeelax, girlfriend,” Vanessa ordered Callie, who was peering over her shoulder to make sure the common room was empty. “Marc Jacobs won’t say a word—we have Retail Therapist/Patient Confidentiality.”
Callie smiled weakly. “Still,” she started, gathering some of the papers off the floor, which, with three sets of feet and all the bags, was now completely congested. “You can never be too caref—”
“I won’t say a word either!” a voice chimed from one of the other bedrooms.
Matt looked scandalized. “Dana knows?”
“Roger that, D-meister!” Vanessa yelled at their roommate Dana, who was holed up working, most likely, on her advanced chemistry homework.
“It didn’t feel right to have her be the odd woman out in the suite,” Callie whispered, standing and struggling to shut the door, which had gotten jammed by all the papers.
“Mimi knows?” Matt yelped, his voice cracking.
Callie shrugged. “They’re my roommates. They’re like…family.”
“Why?” Vanessa snorted. “Because you can’t choose them but you have to live with them anyway?”
“What’s with all these bags?” Callie changed the subject, giving up on the door.
“Ah yes,” Vanessa said, reaching down. “I got you a present!” she explained, pulling a bulletin board out of the largest bag. “You know, to help you catch the perp?” she elaborated in response to their puzzled expressions.
“Exactly how is a bulletin board supposed to help?” Matt demanded.
“Um, hello,” Vanessa snapped. “Haven’t you ever seen CSI? You stick all the evidence on the board,” she continued, pulling a packet of thumbtacks out of another shopping bag, “and then you pace, and think, and then you catch the dirty bastard!”
“Well,” Matt started, picking up the yellow legal pad, “we already sort of have a system going….”
“Is that so?” Vanessa asked, snatching the list of “People Who Hate Me.” Before either Callie or Matt could protest, she started scanning the pages. Then, to Callie’s relief, she smirked. “You forgot to add that I couldn’t write a newspaper article to save my life!”
“For once we agree,” Matt muttered. “As you can see,” he added, raising his voice, “we’re already on top of this, and it’s getting sort of crowded in here so—”
“So you figured out who did it, then?” Vanessa put her hands on her hips.
Callie and Matt were silent.
“That’s what I thought,” she concluded. “Now where to put this,” she murmured, eyeing the walls. “Looks like the only place with enough room is right…oops.”
Vanessa had frozen in front of the stretch of photos taped above Callie’s bookshelf, staring at one in particular.
“Oops,” Callie echoed, quickly pulling the photo of her ex-boyfriend Clint off the wall. “I’ve been meaning to, er, take some of these down….” She stared at a photo from last November taken at the Harvard-Yale football game. She and Mimi had posed for the picture at the beginning of the tailgate, only at the last second before the shutter snapped, two boys had sneaked into the frame: OK…and Gregory. The camera had captured the sudden shock and delight that had registered on Callie’s and Mimi’s faces. Callie remembered how they had howled with laughter when the boys had seized them, pretending to tackle them and tickling their sides. The photo depicted what looked like two happy couples. Except OK’s love for Mimi had always seemed hopelessly one-sided, and as for Callie and Gregory, well—
“Earth to Callie,” Vanessa called. “Come in, Callie.”
“Sorry,” Callie muttered, plucking the photo off the wall and shoving it between two books on the shelves below. “Just give me a second to clear some space,” she added, reaching to remove a photo of Jessica, her best friend from high school, standing next to Callie on a surfboard at their favorite beach. Quietly detaching the rest of the photos, Callie tried to tune out Matt and Vanessa, who were bickering.
“You want to cut up this list?” Matt cried, waving the legal pad. “With scissors?”
“Yes, genius, with scissors.”
“Why?”
“To stick under the photos.”
“What photos?”
“The ones we’re about to print from Facebook!”
“Doesn’t that seem creepy?”
“Doesn’t the fact that someone pretended to be Callie for a few months to post all those articles seem creepier?”
“For the record,” Matt muttered, “I still think you did it….”
“And I still think you did it!” Vanessa chirped, hoisting up the bulletin board and grunting under its weight.
“Guys,” Callie started, backing away from her bookshelf and stacking the photos on her desk.
“Allow me,” Matt cried, grabbing the bulletin board from Vanessa.
“No!” Vanessa shrieked, maintaining hold of one end. “You’re doing it wrong! You’re”—she tugged on the board—“doing”—she yanked with all her might—“IT”—Matt let go of the board—“wron—ahghhh!” Vanessa cried, catapulting backward onto Callie’s bed. The bulletin board tumbled on top of her. Callie rushed to Vanessa’s aid, but Matt beat her there, grabbing the board, which Vanessa, still clinging to the other end, used to tug him down onto the bed. Callie dived in an attempt to separate them—and that was the exact position they were in when a voice called from the common room.
“Doing what wrong?”
Callie, Vanessa, and Matt all froze, their heads swiveling in the direction of the speaker, whose impeccable British accent made him instantly identifiable. OK Zeyna, ebony skinned and taller even than Matt, stood visible through the crack in Callie’s door.
“Nothing!” Callie cried, recovering first and leaping off the bed.
“What is going on in there?” OK called, starting toward her bedroom.
“NOTHING!” Matt and Vanessa chorused, sitting up and slowly relinquishing the bulletin board.
“Why won’t anybody tell me anything anymore?” OK demanded. “First my top mate disappears in the middle of the night”—Callie winced—“and won’t return any of my phone calls, and then you all keep having these secret meetings—”
“It’s, uh, just—a school project,” Callie yelled, reaching down to scoop up the papers jammed under the door. “For…uh…linear multivariable algebraic derivative calculus.”
OK, who had been steadily advancing, stopped in his tracks. “Ah,” he said. “Say no more. I won’t be a bother. I just stopped by to see if—”
“Mimi’s not here!” Vanessa yelled wickedly.
Whirling around, Callie silenced her with a glare. Then she shoved the papers into Vanessa’s arms, miming that Vanessa and Matt ought to start clearing all the Insider materials off the floor. Not that she didn’t trust OK—he had always been a solid friend; she just couldn’t afford to trust anyone else right now.
Poking her head back out into the common room, Callie forced a smile. “Would you like me to give Mimi a message?”
“Actually, for everyone’s information,” OK boomed, “I came here looking for Dana—”
“What?” Dana called from her bedroom.
“Dana! You’re here!” OK cried as Dana appeared in her doorway.
“Correct,” she said shortly, eyeing him suspiciously. “Well, then—what is it?”
“Dana…Dana…” he began, furrowing his brow. “I’ve come to ask you…if…say!” His face li
t up. “You don’t happen to know why Adam is cross with me?” Adam, the fourth inhabitant of the suite directly across the hall, was Dana’s boyfriend.
Dana’s eyebrows knit together. “Just replace the toothbrush and all will be forgiven.”
“Excellent,” said OK. “Right. Maybe a color less similar this time or—”
“That should be fine.” Turning, Dana looked at Callie. “Shouldn’t you have left by now?”
“Huh?” said Callie. “Left for what?”
“Don’t you have Literary Theory from two to four in the Barker Center on Thursdays?”
Callie’s eyes went wide. “Shit!” she cried, grabbing her phone. It was 3:45. She’d missed almost the entire lecture. Maybe if she ran she could catch Professor Raja right after class.
“Shoot,” Dana corrected.
“You memorized all of our class schedules?” Vanessa yelled through the wall.
“Someone had to do it,” Dana called back.
“Dammit!” Callie cursed. “Sorry,” she added, darting around Matt and Vanessa in search of her book bag.
“Darn it,” Dana urged patiently.
“You couldn’t have said anything earlier?” Callie cried, locating her bag under her bed.
“You seemed pretty busy…with math,” Dana retorted primly. Dana felt the same way about lying as Mimi did about going to bed before midnight: it was something that ought to be avoided at all costs.
“Crap,” Callie muttered.
Vanessa paused midway through piling papers atop Callie’s desk, her head cocked toward the wall. “Poop?” she ventured.