Scandal

by Lauren Kunze

  And yet, even in spite of Vanessa’s clunky, obvious attempts at matchmaking, the evening flew by. Before Callie knew it, Tyler was announcing the winning bid on Penelope Vandemeer, a fellow freshman who had remained in the Pudding despite her threats to quit after reading the nasty things the older members had to say about her when the Insider published the Punch Book.

  “You’re next,” Callie said, smiling at Vanessa. “Revenge will be so, so sweet.”

  “I, for one, couldn’t be more excited,” said Vanessa, standing and smoothing her dress. “Just picture the look on Tyler’s face when he sees how many other men are interested in—”

  “AND NOW…” Tyler paused, glancing in their direction. “OK ZEYNA!”

  “What?” Vanessa gasped.

  “OK Zeyna to the stage please,” Tyler repeated, grinning wickedly. “And here he is, ladies and gentleman,” he cried as OK appeared, “our final contestant of the night!”

  “What!” Vanessa shrieked again. “Did he just—deliberately—skip me?”

  “C’est la vie,” said Mimi, winking at Callie. Even Dana cracked a smile. “Whoever digs a pit will fall into it,” she intoned, “and a stone will come back on him who starts it rolling.”

  “English, please,” Vanessa snapped.

  “That. Is. Life!” said Mimi.

  “Karma can be such a Thorndike,” Callie added, patting her on the back.

  Vanessa gaped. “But I—”

  “Educated in London but with origins in Nigeria, our final contestant’s claim to royal roots is no secret,” Tyler boomed, eliciting cheers from the crowd.

  “But now for a few things you probably didn’t already know about his majesty,” Tyler continued. OK grinned, hamming it up for the audience. “He loves any and all reality TV shows with America in the title, from Top Model to Idol. He likes long romantic walks on the stone pathway between Wigglesworth and Annenberg, virtual race car driving, and all music with the exception of the—and I quote—‘horrendous posers in Sexy Hansel’”—this incited some spirited boos—“and finally, would like all the ladies in the house to know that while he’s only twenty-five percent British and fifty percent royalty, he is a resounding one hundred and ten percent SINGLE!”

  Mimi rolled her eyes. “I suppose this is our cue to start the bidding,” she said to Dana. “Would you prefer to go first or should—”

  “TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY DOLLARS!” an upperclassman girl screamed from the center of the crowd.

  Tyler smiled into the microphone. “Ladies, please remember to raise your hands if you’d like to bid. Now I heard two hundred and fifty; do I hear two sixty? Yes, you there,” he cried, pointing to another girl. Several other hands had shot up in the meantime.

  “I guess we won’t be needed after all,” said Dana.

  Mimi narrowed her eyes. “This is just—”

  “All right, now we have three hundred from the lady in the back!” Tyler cried. “Next up—yes, you there, on the left—”

  “—absurde.” Mimi finished.

  “Is somebody—dare I say it—jealous?” Vanessa demanded.

  “Absolutement pas!” Mimi denied it with a wave of her hand.

  “And we have three hundred and fifty,” Tyler announced. “Going once…going twice…and—what the—”

  OK, eager, it appeared, for more bids, had removed his shirt and started circling it above his head. The crowd went wild.

  “Well, this is certainly a first,” Tyler remarked over the shrill sound of female screaming. He laughed as OK chucked his shirt across the lounge.

  “Four hundred dollars!” belted a senior who’d wrestled the garment away from her peers like a bouquet-crazed bridesmaid.

  “Ladies, please wait until I’ve called on you,” Tyler urged while OK, who’d been sauntering up and down the stage, reached to undo his belt. “Let’s try to keep this civilized—”

  “FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS!” It was Marcus Taylor, FM photographer and bartender at the Cambridge Queen’s Head pub, whose interest in OK had always been abundantly clear to everyone with the exception of his highness.

  Up on stage OK froze. Then, with a shrug, he beamed, sliding his belt out of its loops.

  “Is it over yet?” Dana asked, her fingers plastered over her eyes.

  “Going once…” Tyler warned. “Going twice…”

  “FIVE HUNDRED EUROS!” Mimi screamed, standing.

  “Five hundred…euros?” Tyler repeated. “Er, how many dollars is that?”

  “Approximately six hundred and fifty-eight,” called a boy near the stage.

  “SOLD!” OK yelled, grabbing the microphone. “To the lovely Miss Marine Clément—”

  “Now hang on just a minute,” Tyler interjected, yanking back the mike. “You there,” he called, pointing to the girl who, still clinging to OK’s shirt, had just raised her hand.

  “One thousand dollars!” she screamed, jumping up and down.

  OK’s face fell. Mimi, by contrast, appeared quite serene as she reassumed her seat.

  “One thousand dollars: by far the highest bid of the night!” Tyler echoed loudly. Then, with his hand only partially obscuring the microphone, he added with a stern look at OK, “Bro, seriously. The pants stay on.”

  OK frowned.

  “Going once…going twice…and…SOLD, for a whopping one thousand dollars to the lucky lady holding the shirt! What a way to end the bidding, folks! But wait—don’t head for the door just yet! ’Cause my man DJ Damien Zhang’s about to start spinning some serious tunes, so get ready to grab your favorite auctionee and hit the dance floor!”

  Half an hour later, after some halfhearted dancing, Callie stood making conversation with Bryan. Vanessa had abandoned them to go yell at Tyler. Dana had excused herself and Mimi had just flat out disappeared, much to the dismay of OK, who’d been cornered by his winning bidder and appeared unable to retrieve his shirt. And Matt, Callie felt certain, would be found wherever Grace might be—probably back at the Crimson offices, overseeing other reporters’ draft coverage of the auction.

  “So…you keep in touch with Jessica much?” Bryan asked, confirming Callie’s suspicions that her best friend was a heartbreaker.

  “Only about twice a day,” said Callie. “Even if it’s just a stupid Facebook poke.”

  Bryan laughed. “That’s good to hear. She planning a visit soon?”

  Callie sighed. “She keeps promising to come and then flaking out when I try to make her commit to actual dates—Oh, excuse me,” Callie apologized, spotting Vanessa who, having finally tired of Tyler, was motioning frantically at Callie from the bar.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” Vanessa gushed. Callie rolled her eyes. “But here,” Vanessa continued, thrusting her iPhone into Callie’s hands. “Call your dad.”

  “What?” asked Callie.

  “He called a few minutes ago looking for you.”

  “My dad…called you? Looking for me?” Callie repeated.

  “Yes, but since you seemed very busy dancing with a certain handsome gentleman from California, I explained that you were otherwise occupied.” Vanessa beamed. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

  “But…how did he get your number?”

  “Probably because you gave it to him after that five-pound hunk of scrap metal you called a phone finally put us all out of our misery by kamikaze-ing into the toilet, remember, genius? ‘If my parents don’t have a number where they can reach me, they will freak and think I died—’”

  “Oh, right,” said Callie. “Thanks,” she added, glancing at the phone. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Ask him for an iPhone!” Vanessa called after her.

  “Oh, to be you!” Callie shot back as she headed for the stairs, well aware that her paychecks from working the front desk at Lamont Library could only stretch so far.

  Outside, Callie dialed her dad’s cell. After a few rings it went to his voice mail. That’s weird, she thought, staring at the iPhone’s call log. It showed no record of an i
ncoming call from any of her father’s lines. Instead, the only incoming call was from a restricted number, registering above several other missed calls, also labeled restricted.

  She shivered even though it was a relatively temperate night. What if…?

  “Oh my god,” she muttered aloud, dashing back into the Kong.

  “Vanessa!” she called breathlessly when she reached the upstairs lounge, weaving her way across the crowded dance floor. “Vanessa!”

  Vanessa turned around from where she still stood near the bar. “Is everything okay—”

  “What did my dad say—exactly—when he called?”

  “Um, I don’t know, just that he was looking for you, and then when I said you were busy, he hung up?”

  “Yes, but did he actually say that he was my dad?” Callie demanded, grabbing Vanessa by the arms.

  “Huh.” Vanessa frowned. “To be honest, it was somewhat difficult to hear over the sound of DJ Damien mixed with Tyler’s colossal stupidity…but what other deep-voiced dude would be calling my phone looking for you at this time of night other than your da—Oh.” Vanessa paused. “You don’t think…?”

  “What about all these missed calls?” said Callie, holding up Vanessa’s phone. “Also from a restricted number?”

  “They could be from anyone,” Vanessa said gently, examining the call log. “Sorry, but I try to screen as often as possible, even when it comes to the numbers I do recognize.”

  “What?” cried Callie. “Why?”

  “Answering the phone the first time someone calls is, like, so overeager. Do you want whoever’s calling to think you’ve got nothing better to do than sit around waiting for it to ring? Screening a call or not responding to a text is the fastest way to let a guy know how desirable you—Oh, what’s the use trying to teach you these things when you’re clearly not even listening?”

  “It was Gregory,” Callie whispered, her eyes bright. “I know it.”

  Vanessa scrunched up her nose. “Just like you know Alessandra is lying about the fact they’re still together?”

  “Yes, I do know and I think I can prove—” Callie stopped short, glancing suspiciously over her shoulder. “Any chance you’re ready to leave?” she asked.

  “Sure,” said Vanessa. “This party’s a bust anyway. I wouldn’t go on a date with anyone here even if they’d had the fair opportunity to pay me.”

  Callie laughed. “I’ll get our coats.”

  When they were outside, Vanessa rounded on her. “So what’s the deal?”

  “Before Gregory disappeared, he left me…a note,” Callie confessed quietly as their heels clicked along the cobblestones.

  “What?” said Vanessa, stopping outside Dexter Gate. “Where? When?”

  “On a Post-it…right before he disappeared, I think.”

  “A Post-it?” Vanessa repeated skeptically, starting to walk again. “What’d it say?”

  Callie took a deep breath. “‘Callie: My apologies for the delay.’”

  “That’s it?” Vanessa frowned. “I mean…sorry.”

  “It was significant,” Callie persevered. “He stuck it on a book that we both love and then left it for me to find.”

  “Left it where?”

  “In his room.”

  “So you found this note in his room?”

  “Actually Alessandra found it.”

  Vanessa stared at her. “Was it even signed?”

  “Initialed. G. B.”

  “Let me get this straight,” Vanessa started slowly, halting in front of Wigglesworth, entryway C. “Out of everything he could have done to explain his absence or tell you how he feels, he chose a Post-it, and you think ‘sorry for the delay’ actually means ‘wait for me, baby,’ except it’s in, like, code or something because even though it’s addressed to you he somehow…knew that Alessandra might find it before you did?”

  “Exactly,” said Callie, though for some reason it sounded incredibly far-fetched when Vanessa said it out loud. “Or maybe he meant to write more, but he…ran out of time?”

  “Okay,” said Vanessa. “I—er—hate to be the voice of reason here, but when I think back to your track record with notes and to his track record in general…” Vanessa made a face as if she didn’t like what was about to come out of her mouth. “This isn’t the first time he’s vanished in the morning and left you with no explanation,” she pointed out, recalling Gregory’s behavior after Harvard-Yale.

  “Yes,” Callie admitted, “but that was because of Clint—”

  “Clint—Alessandra—there’s always someone else, or something else, keeping you two apart,” Vanessa interrupted. “When are you going to stop making excuses for him and admit that maybe it’s just not meant to be?”

  Callie recoiled, stunned.

  “Sorry!” Vanessa wailed instantly. “I’m sorry, that came out—ugh! What I’m trying to say is it’s not you, it’s me. It’s not me, actually, it’s my mom. Her therapist and her spiritual guide from the Manhattan Kabbalah Centre are both on vacay this week, so she won’t stop calling me and spewing all this psychobabble bullshit about my dad and—”

  “It’s okay,” said Callie, placing a hand on Vanessa’s shoulder. “You don’t have to explain yourself. Let’s just…go inside.” She scanned her key against the lock. “Anyway,” she continued as they mounted the stairs, “you might be right. Maybe I should stop making excuses for him. Maybe we really aren’t…meant to be.”

  “Are you okay?” Vanessa asked, pausing at the top of the stairs.

  Callie swallowed. “I’m fine. But it’s true: if he really wanted to reach me, wouldn’t he have found a way? And definitively dumped Alessandra?”

  “Eh.” Vanessa shrugged. “Look on the bright side: if you’re right and she’s lying, then at the very least he hasn’t contacted either of you.”

  “She is lying.” Callie furrowed her brow. “And you know what? I can prove it!” Grabbing Vanessa’s hand, she dragged her down the hall, stopping in front of suite C 23.

  “Callie, what are we—”

  “Shh,” hissed Callie, holding a finger to her lips. Then, opening the door, she pulled Vanessa inside.

  It was dark, but they could hear noises coming from OK’s bedroom.

  Noises of a certain nature known to inspire giggles, which Vanessa succumbed to but quickly stifled. “Looks like someone got more than just a date tonight,” Vanessa whispered as they tiptoed across the room.

  Callie shook her head, ushering Vanessa into Gregory’s empty bedroom and shutting the door softly behind them.

  “What are we doing in here?” Vanessa asked, flicking on the light.

  “Proving that Alessandra was lying,” Callie said, crossing to the desk. “Ah-ha!” she cried a moment later, holding up an old copy of the Crimson.

  “So what?” said Vanessa.

  “The other day at the Pudding, Alessandra said that when Gregory called her, he told her that he’d essentially never even heard of the Ivy Insider.”

  Vanessa appeared unimpressed.

  “Look!” Callie insisted, pointing to the headline for an op-ed about the Insider.

  “I don’t see how that proves anything,” said Vanessa. “Just because there’s a copy of the Crimson in our bathroom right now doesn’t mean that I’ve ever read a word of it!”

  Callie narrowed her eyes.

  “What!” Vanessa cried. “It’s not like you’re COMPing anymore…eesh—sorry. My bad, again.”

  Callie sighed, setting the newspaper back down on Gregory’s desk. “Hey!” she called in hushed tones. “Come here and take a look at this.”

  “What now?”

  “There,” said Callie, pointing to the trash can. “All the way at the bottom. I think it’s a printout of an Insider article!”

  “Ew!” said Vanessa, whacking Callie’s hand away. “Don’t touch that—it’s garbage.”

  “Precisely,” said Callie, dropping her arm and straightening. “And what do you think he was doing with that
article before he threw it away?”

  “What?” asked Vanessa, her eyes going wide. “Are you saying…?”

  “Yes.” Callie nodded. “He—

  “—wrote it!” Vanessa exclaimed at the same time Callie cried, “read it!”

  Callie stared at her. “Wait, wha—”

  A high-pitched moan sounded from somewhere in the vicinity of OK’s bedroom.

  Callie froze and then motioned to Vanessa that it was time to leave. Quickly they turned off the light. Racing across the common room, they shut the front door just in time to block out what sounded like OK doing a Tarzan yell.

  Catching each other’s eye, they burst into giggles.

  “Gross,” said Vanessa when she could speak again.

  “So gross,” Callie agreed, opening the door to their common room. “I mean, I love the guy, but that doesn’t mean I want to hear him…uh, you know…”

  “Hear who what?” asked Dana, poking her head up from over the top of the overstuffed armchair, where she had curled up with a book.

  “Hey, Dana!” Callie called, starting to giggle again.

  “It’s nothing,” Vanessa assured her. “Nothing at all. Where’s Mimi?”

  “Lampoon initiation, probably,” said Dana. “She mentioned that it started today.”

  “Oh,” said Vanessa with a yawn. “Well, I don’t know about you two, but I’m exhausted!”

  “Same here,” said Callie, heading for her bedroom. “Good night, you guys!”

  Once inside she kicked off her shoes. She was halfway out of her dress when she paused, staring at the bulletin board on her wall. Frowning, she shook her head.

  After pulling on pj’s, she plucked Gregory’s copy of Persuasion off her shelf. The photo from Harvard-Yale fluttered out alongside it. She glanced at Gregory’s face, and then at the thumbtacks on her desk, and then back at the board, Vanessa’s words reverberating like a bad echo. Could he be…? No, she decided, sticking the photo back on her bookcase and plopping on her bed with the book. “Definitely not,” she muttered aloud as she started to read.