by Lauren Kunze
“Did you finish loosening all the screws in here?” the first guy asked.
A pause.
“En fait,” said Mimi slowly, “I have had an even better idea.”
“Oh yeah?” asked the second guy.
“Oui,” said Mimi. “I am thinking that we should steal her chair instead. Special treatment for a very special editor.”
The silence seemed to drag on forever.
“Brilliant. I love it.”
“Please, allow me,” Mimi insisted, intercepting footsteps that appeared to have been headed for the desk.
Callie spotted Mimi’s ankles move into view. Bending, Mimi pretended to grip the bottom of the chair. Now face to face with Callie, she widened her eyes, staring at the keys.
“But,” Callie mouthed, “I haven’t…”
Lips pressed together, Mimi shook her head and held out her hand.
In desperation, Callie mimed sliding one of the smaller keys off the ring.
Mimi nodded, grabbing the ring and doing it for her. Then, tossing the key at Callie, she straightened. “Whoopsie-daisy,” she said, holding up the ring. “Almost forgot these.”
“Come on,” said one of the guys. “We need to leave, now.”
“Je comprends, je comprends,” said Mimi, dragging the chair behind her.
Craning her neck, Callie saw Mimi grin and throw the Missoni scarf over her shoulder. “Un souvenir.”
“Great,” said a voice. From the sound of it, the owner was retreating toward the door. “Go time.”
Someone switched off the desk light, and then a few seconds later Callie heard the door to the office click shut. She forced herself to count to thirty before crawling out from under the desk. Her hand that held the flashlight was shaking, but she didn’t dare turn on the desk lamp again. Wiping the sweat from her brow, she picked up the key and inserted it into the lock.
It slid in easily.
Then it turned.
“Gottcha,” Callie murmured, yanking open the drawer.
There were only two items inside.
The first was a USB thumb drive labeled C, A—INSURANCE.
“You bitch,” Callie said, pocketing it. Months ago Lexi had mentioned having another copy of the tape, but until now Callie hadn’t known whether or not to believe her.
The second was a photo of a girl Callie didn’t recognize. With mousy brown hair and nondescript features, the girl, who appeared to be around Callie’s age, was incredibly overweight, her eyes averted shyly from the camera.
Callie froze, clicking off the flashlight. Tilting her head, she listened.
Silence.
Probably just my imagination, she decided, though she could have sworn she’d heard a sound. She waited another full minute just to be sure and then clicked the flashlight back on. She stared at the drawer for several seconds but then stuck the picture into her pocket along with the copies of her log-in records and Lexi’s day planner pages. Then she locked the drawer, praying that Lexi wouldn’t be struck with the urge to blackmail anyone, or store any other contraband inside of it, soon.
In less than three minutes Callie had found her way back into the hall. Pulling the front door open just a crack, she peered outside into the darkness. Plympton Street was deserted.
Tiptoeing onto the stone steps, she pulled the door shut gently behind her. Then, with one final glance over her shoulder, she sprinted the entire way home.
“Fancy meeting the likes of you here,” said Mimi from the overstuffed armchair in the common room, where she was midway through removing her shoes.
Callie grinned, leaning against the wall to catch her breath. “I take it you made it back to the castle undetected?”
Mimi solemnly raised a finger to her lips. “I have not the faintest of hints as to what you are speaking of. And where were you, out so late?”
“Just doing a little laundry.”
“Vraiment?” said Mimi, feigning disbelief. “Moi aussi! Our clothes are going to be so very clean.”
Callie laughed. “Good night, Mimi,” she called softly, heading for her room.
“Bon soir!”
Even though it was after 4 A.M., Callie had too much adrenaline pumping through her veins to even consider sleeping.
She spread the copies of Lexi’s day planner pages out across her desk. Then she pulled printouts of the Insider articles from a drawer and studied them one by one.
The first, “Behind the Ivy-Covered Walls,” had been submitted to FlyBy for publication (pending Grace’s approval) at 6:49 P.M. on February 3. Eagerly Callie scanned the photocopy of Lexi’s planner denoting details of her day on February 3.
Feb 3
8am-9:30am–FM morning meeting
11am-1pm–Government 1061
1pm–Lunch with G.B.
3pm-4pm–Economics 1011b Section
5pm-6pm–Pudding Board meeting
6pm–Dinner with the Roomies @ Dalí
9pm–Pudding punch drinks with A.C., P.V. and A.G. @ Grafton
Callie reread the entry three times, struggling to stifle the rush of emotion that accompanied the 1 P.M. appointment. “Focus,” she muttered aloud. How could Lexi have posted the article and simultaneously dined at Dalí? Maybe it had been a quick dinner, though the service at the tapas place had seemed deliberately slow the one time Callie had eaten there with Clint—plus, the restaurant wasn’t exactly close to campus.
Callie flipped to the next Insider article, “Behind the Ivy-Covered Walls, Part II,” submitted at 11:13 A.M. on February 19. Then she checked it against the day planner.
Feb 19
10am-11am: Yoga @ Karma Studios
12pm: Final FM mock-up meeting
2pm: Lunch with C.W.
6pm: Dinner with A.G.
8 pm: Black Tie Gala Fundraiser @ The Kennedy School
*Don’t forget to*
-Confirm the limo for Pudding brunch tomorrow AM
-Confirm the venue for Uncle Joe’s visit (Faculty Club?)
Yoga? thought Callie, trying, and failing, to picture Lexi relaxing and letting all the light fall into her spine—or whatever those yoga instructors preached. However, this entry did more than just confirm Callie’s long-standing suspicion (that yoga was of the devil)—it placed Lexi, in all likelihood, at the Crimson around the time the second Insider article was published. Granted, she would have needed to draft the installment in advance to post it so soon after yoga (not to mention appearing in public in workout clothes, which, according to Lexi’s columns, was a grave taboo). But still, this was promising. Lexi had clearly been at the Crimson for hours, even if she did eventually leave to have lunch with Callie’s then-boyfriend at the time, Clint.
Callie frowned, trying to stop wondering what they had talked about and continue examining the evidence. “Okay, ‘Behind the Ivy-Covered Walls, Part III,’” she mumbled aloud. “March eighth, at four oh two…What were you up to then, Ms. Thorndike?”
Mar 8
10am-11:30am: Art History 1214
12pm: Lunch with A.C.
*Remember to print your Gov Paper
2pm-4pm: Government 1061 Section
4pm: *GOVERNMENT PAPER DUE*
5pm-6pm: Study Group @ Lamont Library
7pm: Sign off on FM mock-ups @ the Crimson
8pm-C.W. @ Adam’s House (!!!)
Ah yes, 8 P.M. on the eighth of March: the night Clint had hooked up with Lexi (unless you counted their kiss at Gatsby a few days earlier after Callie had left the party with Vanessa). Not that Callie needed any further proof of Clint’s douchebaggery—after all, he’d confessed to everything over spring break shortly after Gregory had given him a black eye—but it was strangely satisfying to see his lies documented in black and white. It made her miss having a boyfriend that much less.
Callie yawned, reading the entry again, but nothing in particular stood out. Lunch with Alessandra at noon seemed perfectly normal, given how hard Lexi had been wooing her to join the Pudding. And again, so long a
s she had already written and saved a draft of the third installment, Lexi could have arguably made it to the Crimson by 4:02 P.M. to submit it.
Callie’s eyes lingered on the 8 P.M. entry, the double underline stinging ever so slightly. Earlier that day Clint had lied to her face, insisting that he had to miss dinner to make a meeting at the Pudding that evening. By “meeting” he had clearly meant “sex date” and by “Pudding,” “my bedroom.” Oh, well, thought Callie. No use crying over—
She bolted up in her chair. Clint hadn’t just lied to her face that day—he had lied to her face in the Crimson. He’d brought her coffee and then excused himself in order to make his four o’clock squash practice!
“Oh my god,” said Callie as the memories continued to return. That was also when she had discovered, shortly before Clint had arrived, that Lexi and Grace used to be roommates during their freshman year. And that sometime before the end of the semester, most likely after Grace had made the Crimson and Lexi had been cut, Lexi had mysteriously transferred out of their room. Midway through her search that day, Callie had had to log back into the Crimson’s website. Callie closed her eyes, recalling the conversation she’d had with Matt who, as usual, had been sitting next to her.
“Huh…that’s strange,” she had muttered.
“What?” Matt had asked.
“Oh, nothing,” she’d replied. “It just says that it logged me out of our internal server because I was logged in at another location.”
Matt had shrugged it off, blaming a buggy system or a session timeout. But he’d been wrong. Because, as Callie realized, the Insider had been there in that room on that very day, shortly before 4 P.M. readying to post the latest article. Using Callie’s username and password, the Insider had logged into Callie’s account from somewhere else in the room—at computer station 17, 20, 22 or 25, to be specific.
Callie held her breath, sensing she was on the verge of a major discovery. But no moment of clarity came. There had been plenty of students, COMPers and staff alike, in the first floor offices working that day, but no one stood out in particular as having acted suspiciously. And—there was no way around it—Callie felt fairly certain that Lexi had not been anywhere in the vicinity, since Callie had checked several times before stalking her former COMP directors on the internet.
“Fuuughhidditybug.” Callie groaned, throwing her head down on her desk. She kept her forehead pressed against the cool wood for a minute or two before straightening. Maybe the final day planner entry, when compared to the final insider installment, “Behind the Ivy-Covered Walls Part IV,” published at 6:32 A.M. on April 4, would have some answers.
Apr 4
11am-1pm–Social Studies 22b
1pm–Lunch with C.W.
5pm–C.W. Squash Match @ Malkin Athletics
***EMERGENCY MEETING AT THE PUDDING***
10am
“Dammit!” cried Callie. “Shit, shit, shit!”
A faint cough sounded from Vanessa’s room next door.
“Crap,” Callie muttered, succumbing to another yawn. Exhaustion hit her like a sack of bricks. Head pounding, she slowly stacked all the papers on her desk and then returned them to the bottom drawer.
Standing, she stretched. Spotting the log-in records, USB thumb drive, and photograph where she had tossed them on her bed, Callie grabbed them. She was about to throw the photograph into the drawer along with the other two items when she paused, reexamining the face of the girl in the picture. In this light it looked oddly familiar.
“Or you’re just delirious,” Callie muttered. Nonetheless, before she crawled, fully clothed, underneath her covers, she tacked the photo onto the right-hand side of the bulletin board, where it would remain, all but forgotten, long after sleep obliterated her consciousness.
NINE
And the Plot Thickens
The Harvard Crimson
NEWS OPINION FM MAGAZINE SPORTS ARTS MEDIA
* * *
Have You Seen THE CHAIR?
Managing Editor’s essentials still missing, among other things, in the wake of Lampoon break-in
By ALESSANDRA CONSTANTINE, CRIMSON STAFF WRITER
Published: Thursday, April 21
Sometime between late last Tuesday night and early Wednesday morning, the Crimson suffered a massive break-in. In the downstairs offices the culprits loosened every screw. In the upstairs offices they superglued every chair and trash can, and various other typically mobile itmes to the floor. Needless to say, all work at the paper came to a grinding halt on Wednesday as editors stopped working in order to repair the damage.
The Harvard Lampoon, a semi-secret Sorrento Square social organization that used to occasionally publish a so-called humor magazine, has now publicly claimed responsibility for these atrocities, confirming widespread rumors proliferating all over campus.
The Administrative Board has declined to respond to the paper’s formal request that disciplinary action be taken against the pranksters. “Former Harvard Provost Paul H. Buck set a very clear precedent for how to handle these so-called ‘Pranking Wars,’” a high-ranking administrator commented Wednesday night. “As he said back in 1953 when the Crimson presented the Russian embassy with the Lampoon’s ibis as a symbolic peace offering, ‘Everyone’s taking it as a big joke.’”
In this case the joke may yet be on the Lampoon, and perhaps the Crimsonites will, as they did back in 1953, be the ones to have the last laugh. The Lampoon’s ibis is still missing, and its sudden disappearance, or so the Pooners claim, amounted to the Crimson having “fired the first shot.”
Crimson managing editor and author of FM’s exceedingly popular advice column, Alexis Thorndike, is reported to be in negotiations for a trade: the ibis, a copper-colored weathervane that normally decorates the top of the Pooner’s castle, for her chair. The chair is a custom-made ergonomic work of art by Eames for the Herman Miller company, designed specifically for Ms. Thorndike and presented as a gift upon her acceptance onto FM magazine during her very first semester at Harvard—a rare incidence of a freshman making the magazine on her first attempt in the fall. It features black fabric and a rosewood trim and is mounted on wheels for maximum movement and flexibility. Fortunately, it appears that no other items were taken from Ms. Thorndike’s office.
If you’ve seen the chair or have any other pertinent information, please contact tips@FMmag immediately.
* * *
Grace threw the paper down onto a rickety metal table outside Café Pamplona, a tiny little coffee shop on Bow Street a mere block from the Crimson offices. Callie jumped back as the table wobbled and her tea sloshed over the sides of her cup, filling the saucer below.
“Er, everything okay there?” Callie asked Grace, grabbing a napkin.
“Frankly, no,” Grace said shortly, sinking into her chair. “Have you seen this sloppy excuse for a newspaper?”
“Um, yes,” said Callie slowly. “I…read about that break-in. Seems like people are saying that the Lampoon was responsible? It’s really too bad—”
“Not that.” Grace shook her head. “The break-in is a minor blip compared to the travesty that has become our copyediting department. Under my administration stories like these never would have gone to print!” She jabbed her finger on that Thursday’s cover story, a follow-up piece about the escalating prank war between the Crimson and the Lampoon.
Callie squinted at the byline: by Alessandra Constantine.
“I thought new staff members weren’t allowed to publish so early?” said Callie, taking a sip of her tea.
“They weren’t.” Grace frowned. “Not until the Devil Wears Prada, as you like to call her, started playing favorites. Now the only requirement for landing a cover story is her liking you.”
“I’m guessing all of your articles have been printed in size four-point font on the back of the so-called ‘Sports Section’?”
“You joke,” said Grace, grimacing, “but it hits just a little too close to home.”
Callie s
kimmed the opening paragraph of Alessandra’s article. “Oops,” she said, smiling in spite of herself. “Major typo alert! I guess it’s true what they say: supermodels don’t make the best spellers.”
“It’s actually probably not her fault,” said Grace. “Those typos were likely added by someone else when the article was transcribed. And as for the choice of subject matter…Well, let’s just say that in a week when students staged another walkout in an economics lecture, Obama visited the Kennedy School, and even that Asian basketball player scored a lot of goals—or baskets or whatever—the most important thing happening on campus was clearly determining the location of Alexis Thorndike’s missing chair.”
“Mm-hmm.” Callie nodded absentmindedly, now engrossed in the article. Grace continued to prattle on, criticizing Alexis and making a mild case in Alessandra’s defense, insisting that all novices are a little sloppy when they get started, even including the Insider, whose initial installments had required a fair amount of general editing.
“Andrews!” Grace barked. “Andrews, are you listening to me?”