Scandal

by Lauren Kunze

  “Callie!” Bryan’s face hovered above her, full of concern. “Callie, are you okay? I’m so sorry! I was trying for the ball and…”

  Callie saw the ref hold up a yellow card over Bryan’s shoulder. “I know—I’ll be fine,” she told him through gritted teeth.

  “Are you sure?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “Just give me another minute here.”

  Gripping her hand, Bryan continued to kneel next to her, waiting for her to recover. Clamping her teeth together, Callie placed her free hand on his arm and used it to pull herself to her feet.

  Her teammates cheered, and Bryan wrapped her in a giant hug, apologizing profusely.

  “Yeah, yeah,” said Callie, breaking away. “We’ll see if you still feel like hugging me when you lose.”

  “Seems like her mouth is still working fine,” Tyler called as Callie limped aside to let somebody else handle the free kick. Clint, who had come nearly twenty yards out of the penalty box, ran back toward goal.

  Wincing, Callie started a slow jog up the field. Her shin still hurt, but she felt fairly certain the injury wouldn’t result in anything more major than a nasty bruise. Just a few more minutes, she prompted herself, trailing behind the midfielders as they passed the ball up the field. So move it!

  She forced herself onward, her shin screaming in protest all the while. Bobby seemed on the verge of shooting, but at the last second one of the other team’s defenders kicked the ball out behind the goal line.

  The flag went up: corner kick.

  OK volunteered, sprinting over to take it. With less than a minute to go, the final whistle could sound at any second.

  Callie positioned herself in front of the goal along with the rest of the offense. Clint fidgeted near the front post, his eyes glued to OK. A tall, male defender planted himself directly in front of Callie. She watched OK wind his foot back, curling the ball in a perfect arc toward goal.

  The defender in front of Callie lunged, and the ball collided with his shoulder. Callie saw it bounce up into the air and she jumped, thwacking her forehead against the slick black-and-white leather with all her might.

  The ball was in the goal before her feet hit the ground.

  Tweet, tweet, tweet!

  “Blondie!” OK bellowed, lifting her onto his shoulders. “You did it!”

  Callie beamed. For the first time in months her head felt completely clear, no room for anything save elation.

  Vanessa, Mimi, and Dana streamed out onto the field with the rest of the spectators.

  “Are you okay?” Dana screamed, motioning at OK to lower Callie immediately.

  “A little ice and I’ll be fine,” said Callie, testing her leg out on the grass.

  “I said to knock down Tyler, not fall down and hurt yourself, you crazy klutz,” Vanessa lectured, throwing her arms around Callie.

  “Seriously, I’m fine,” said Callie. “Really,” she added to Bryan, who had come over to double-check. “Fine.”

  “Good game, Andrews,” Tyler called. “I can’t believe we have to go back to the house and tell them we were beaten by a freshman g—”

  “She’s not a girl!” OK insisted angrily. “Don’t call her that!”

  “Nice kicking,” Mimi said to OK.

  “Thank you,” he said civilly. “Nice…attendance.”

  “No shame in getting our asses kicked by a former high school superstar, Tyler.” Clint had come over from the goal, extending his hand toward Callie.

  Clasping Clint’s hand, she shook it.

  “You won,” he said.

  Callie smiled, letting go. “I know.”

  ELEVEN

  Garden Party

  * * *

  Dear Freshies,

  Well, it’s finally here: my favorite time of year. Time to dust off those wedges, pull out the pastels from the back of your closet, pick up a new pair of designer shades, and kick back while you wait for the invitations to start slipping in under your suite’s front door. That’s right, folks: it’s Garden Party season!

  What is a garden party, you ask? Oh, children, children, children. A garden party is a late-afternoon, springtime soiree featuring casual, colorful dresses; cocktails; dancing; and live music, and a little light snacking and conversation, too. Still uncertain what is entailed at this some-would-say-antiquated-but-I-say-delightful event put on by your favorite social clubs? Then please refer to Emily Post’s Etiquette, Chapter XIII, “Teas and Other Afternoon Parties,” (a book in this advice columnist’s opinion that will never go out of style), or my own set of slightly more modernized rules for one of the few types of gatherings on campus that hearken back to the olden days when decorum still mattered.

  ALEXIS THORNDIKE’S GUIDE TO GARDEN PARTY ETIQUETTE

  Proper Attire: Linens, light colors, bright colors, or even appropriate patterns. There’s no such thing as dim lighting outside in spring, so ladies, please: don’t be caught dead in that bottom-booty-baring outfit you’d wear to a 10 P.M. party at the Spee. Instead, dress as if you were meeting your future mother-in-law for afternoon tea shortly after she’s asked you to start referring to her by her first name, Coco. Ladies, also note that shoes may be removed in the event that you are invited to play Ping-Pong or cornhole or even a pickup game of croquet. Large sunglasses and even larger hats: encouraged. Sandals: mandatory—grass and mud will prove fatal to your favorite stilettos.

  Proper Conversational Topics: The weather—it’s so gorgeous. Classes—they’re almost over. Your dress—it’s so fabulous. Your summer plans?—sound incredible. A stroll?—I’d love to.

  Remember to KIL (that’s “Keep It Light”) lest you kill the conversation.

  Proper Food and Drink: Fortunately, if your hosts are worth their weight in handwritten paper invitations, you needn’t fret: all of the food offerings will be bite-sized, from tiny triangle cucumber sandwiches to mini macarons and tea cakes. Punch will be served in bowls and glasses (I personally find that real glassware always encourages better behavior), and please do not allow anyone to see you sipping anything stronger than white wine, champagne, or beer. Day drinking under the hot afternoon sun is nothing short of dangerous, and often—when not performed by seasoned experts—leads to egregious violations of the above, and below.

  Proper Dance Moves: No grinding. No crumping. No moonwalking. No breaking, locking, or popping, and absolutely no preludes to the so-called “horizontal mambo.”

  Proper Plus Ones: Actually, it’s perfectly acceptable to fly solo at these low-key events. The goals are mixing and mingling, after all, and you might do well to bring a girlfriend since oftentimes a date will only drag you down.

  —Alexis Thorndike, Advice Columnist @ FM Magazine

  * * *

  “Can I interest you ladies in a cucumber sandwich?” a waiter asked, extending a silver platter.

  “Thanks,” said Callie, taking seven and piling them one after another on a cocktail napkin. “What?” she added at the expressions on Mimi and Vanessa’s faces. “I’m hungry!”

  Vanessa shook her head. “Food is supposed to be for show, not for eating!”

  Callie shoved one of the tiny triangle sandwiches into her mouth. “That—is the most—ridiculous thing—I have ever heard,” she said between bites. “According to who?”

  Vanessa tilted her head toward the gazebo in the back of the Hasty Pudding’s garden, next to the benches underneath the willow tree. “Who do you think?”

  Callie turned.

  Alexis Thorndike leaned against the gazebo’s white wooden railing, presiding over the party as per usual.

  “Whatever,” said Callie, going to work on her last sandwich. “I’m so over all of this.”

  “Say it ain’t so, Blondie,” cried OK, coming over to where the girls stood in a group near the flower beds lining the brick pathway winding up to the rear entrance of 2 Garden Street. He wore a white linen suit over a pink shirt, pulling it off without a second thought. Callie eyed him jealously, feeling frillie
r than she ever had in her entire life, forced by Vanessa to wear a poufy pink dress covered in green bows that made her feel like an upside-down cupcake.

  “Yes, cheer up,” Vanessa insisted. “We couldn’t have asked for better weather, and finals are still so f—”

  Vanessa cringed, remembering that Callie might not make it that far. It was the second Sunday in May, and her hearing was only a week away.

  “Where’d Matt go?” Callie asked OK grumpily.

  “Last I saw him, he’d been unlawfully detained by a young lady over by the dance floor,” said OK. “Ah yes, see? Right over there.” Matt stood near the shiny wooden planks that had been laid out over the grass next to the gazebo, ready for the live band’s arrival at six. Brittney, a sophomore in the club, appeared utterly fascinated by him. Callie watched her pluck his glasses off his face and put them on her own, striking a so how do I look? pose.

  Callie smiled in spite of herself. Although there was zero chance of a love connection—even glasses couldn’t change Brittney’s belief that Africa was a country—Matt’s confidence certainly seemed to have increased exponentially since Jessica’s visit.

  “This punch is delicious!” Dana declared, returning from one of the tables set up along the far wall of the garden with her second or third cup. “What’s in it?”

  “Uh…” Mimi looked at Vanessa. “Punch juice?”

  “Delicious,” Dana repeated, smacking her lips together. “You know, I must admit that I am pleasantly surprised. When I accepted your invitation, I expected the worst; but I was wrong to have prejudged all of your parties as hedonistic orgies. Tell me, are they always like this?”

  “Oh yes,” said Mimi, nodding vigorously. “And they only become more…civilisé with every extra glass of punch!”

  “Wonderful,” said Dana.

  “It is, Dana,” said Vanessa, snagging two glasses of prosecco from a passing waitress. “It really is.”

  “Fine,” said Callie, accepting the champagne flute from Vanessa. “Might as well try to enjoy it.”

  “That’s the spirit,” said Vanessa.

  “Uh-oh,” said OK. Callie followed his gaze to Matt and Brittney, who seemed to be refusing to return his glasses. “Excuse me, ladies,” he continued. “WonderPrince has some rescuing to do.”

  “What’s that over there?” asked Dana, pointing at two large pieces of plywood arranged opposite each other on the lawn. Each had a small circular hole cut into one end and was elevated off the ground at a thirty-degree angle.

  “Those are cornhole platforms,” Vanessa explained.

  “What is this ‘cornhole’?” asked Mimi, wrinkling her nose.

  “It’s a beanbag tossing game,” said Vanessa. “It’s fun. Each team of two stands behind their plywood and tries to toss a bean—or corn—bag through the hole in the other team’s platform. You get three points if you make it, and one if you land the bag on the platform.”

  Mimi started at the platforms. “And how does one win this baghole?”

  “Cornhole,” said Vanessa. “Whichever team reaches twenty-one first wins.”

  “Let us play!” declared Mimi. Squinting, she sized them up. “I choose Dana,” she announced finally.

  “Thank you,” said Dana, looking pleased.

  “What!” shrieked Vanessa. “I’m the only one here who actually knows how to play!” she called, following Dana and Mimi over to the platforms.

  “Thanks a lot,” said Callie, stooping to retrieve a beanbag.

  “No offense,” said Vanessa. “I know you’re good with your feet on a soccer field and all, but I’ve seen your attempts at balance or aim in other scenarios and well…”

  “Come on,” said Callie, tossing the beanbag up and catching it. “This is Mimi and Dana we’re talking about here. We can totally take—oops.”

  Vanessa bent over to retrieve the bag that Callie had just dropped.

  “Don’t say it!” Callie warned her.

  “Wasn’t going to,” said Vanessa.

  “Qu’est-ce qui prend tant de temps?” Mimi cried impatiently from behind the other platform. “Are you afraid?”

  “Yeah,” Dana yelled, looking unsure how to trash-talk. “Are you experiencing anxiety over the possibility of losing?”

  Callie laughed.

  “After you guys!” Vanessa shouted.

  Three seconds later Mimi’s beanbag soared straight through the hole in their platform.

  “Beginner’s luck!” Vanessa called, watching her own beanbag fall about a foot short.

  Mimi and Dana celebrated with a double high five. Then, with an underhand toss, Dana lobbed her beanbag through the air.

  It landed on Vanessa and Callie’s platform, an inch away from the hole.

  “What’s that? Four-nothing?” called Matt, approaching with OK. Brittney trailed at their heels.

  “Uh…wanna come over here and give Little Miss Hopeless some pointers, Matt?” asked Vanessa, handing Callie a beanbag.

  “Sure,” he said, looking grateful. “Now, Callie, just swing your arm back and then step forward as you throw—oh.”

  Her beanbag had landed on the grass, midway between the platforms.

  “Next time, you might want to try keeping your eyes open,” Matt suggested. “But not to worry, you guys can still catch—”

  Mimi’s beanbag plopped, for the second time, straight through the hole.

  “Crap,” said Vanessa.

  OK had joined Mimi and Dana across the way, assuming the role—from the sound of it—of their coach.

  Vanessa’s next toss landed on the platform, but Dana’s beanbag quickly flew back, striking the top of their platform and then sliding down through the hole.

  “Ten to one!” OK announced loudly.

  Keeping her eyes open wide, Callie threw her beanbag. This time, it fell about two-thirds of the way across.

  “That was…better,” Matt encouraged, clapping a hand on her back.

  Vanessa groaned. Callie giggled, picking up her champagne flute and taking a sip. “That was terrible!”

  “I’m glad you seem to finally be enjoying yourself,” Vanessa muttered. “Oh, come on!” she yelled in disbelief as Mimi’s beanbag soared through the hole in their platform for the third time in a row. “That’s, like, statistically impossible!”

  “I am statistiquement impossible!” Mimi screamed back when OK was done whooping and twirling her around.

  Several other garden partygoers had gathered around to watch, including Tyler, who arrived just in time to make Vanessa miss her next shot.

  “We call winner!” Tyler announced. Callie turned, but Tyler’s usual partner in crime, Clint, appeared to be on the other side of the party near the gazebo, socializing with his girlfriend and her standard gaggle of junior girls. Instead, Tyler stood with a group of seniors.

  “I’m afraid it doesn’t look like they’ll have to wait long,” Matt muttered as Dana scored another point.

  “Yeah!” OK yelled, hugging Dana. “That’s my Dana! Boo-yah!”

  “Enough!” cried Dana, though she looked moderately excited.

  “Hey!” Matt said a moment later. “You actually hit the bottom of the platform this time!”

  “Woo!” Callie cried, raising her hands over her head.

  Vanessa finally cracked a smile, even as Mimi sank her fourth shot through the hole.

  “Seventeen!” OK screamed, beside himself.

  “I must admit,” Tyler called, coming over to Callie, “after that soccer game, I am enjoying seeing you lose at something.”

  “Enjoy this,” Vanessa muttered, sinking her first shot.

  “Nice,” said Tyler. “You’ve got a good arm on you. Though I should know, given the way you used to abuse me.”

  “Aw,” said Vanessa as Dana readied for her next throw. “You miss me, don’t you?”

  “Not at all,” said Tyler, taking a sip of his beer.

  “Well, good,” said Vanessa. Dana’s beanbag teetered on the edge of
the hole and then fell through. “Because I’m seeing someone else now.”

  “Oh yeah?” asked Tyler. “And who might that be?”

  “Twenty points!” OK cried, running around in circles and trying to force Dana to do a victory dance. “Only one more and we win!”

  “We?” Mimi asked. “When you have done nothing except to make me a headache?”

  “I’d rather not say,” Vanessa said to Tyler.

  “More like he doesn’t exist.” Tyler smirked.

  “Oh, he more than exists,” said Vanessa. “In fact, he’s here now—right, Callie?”

  “Uh—yeah, totally,” said Callie, trying to aim the beanbag.

  “Is that so?” asked Tyler. “Where? Because I’d love to be introduced. After all, I’m technically the host.”

  “Uh…” Vanessa faltered. “Um…well…”

  “It is I,” Matt suddenly announced, throwing a stiff arm around Vanessa, “who is…her boyfriend.”

  Callie dropped the beanbag and it fell—through the hole…in her own platform. “Score,” she whispered awkwardly, picking it up.

  “Tyler,” said Tyler, holding his hand out to Matt.

  “Matt—aka Matt of Vanessa and…Matt.”

  “That’s right,” said Vanessa, looking torn between relief and revulsion. “We have a nickname.”

  “Blondie, throw the beanbag!” yelled OK.

  “Oh,” said Callie, “right.” Deciding to try her original strategy, she closed her eyes and threw. Opening one, she saw the beanbag jutting off the closest end of Dana and Mimi’s platform.

  “You did it!” Vanessa shrieked, breaking away from Matt.

  “We won!” Callie screamed. “We won!”

  “No you did not!” shouted Mimi from across the way as her beanbag soared through the air. It landed on the platform, missing the hole by a hair. “We did! C’est vingt-un, bitches!”

  All of a sudden OK grabbed Mimi and kissed her on the lips.

  “Quoi—what are you doing?” she cried, throwing him off with surprising strength for someone approximately one half of his weight.