by Lauren Kunze
“How is Alexis?” Mr. Weber said, blinking rapidly.
“She’s doing well,” Clint said, opening his menu.
“She sent such a lovely Christmas card this year,” Mrs. Weber remarked. “It’s too bad we won’t get a chance to see her before we leave. Are you sure she can’t make it to lunch tomorrow with Tyler?”
“She’s busy.”
“Pity.” Mr. Weber grunted, signaling their waiter. “Another Glenlivet on the rocks, please.”
“Anything sound good to you?” Clint asked Callie, peering over her shoulder at the menu.
“Er . . .” Mimi had urged Callie to order the most expensive thing on the menu to prove she had cojones (Thank you, Spanish lessons with Gregory), but from Vanessa’s derisive snort Callie had deduced that this would be ill-advised and had decided ahead of time that she should order something priced in the middle range. The only problem was that there were no prices: just first, second, and third course options, followed by dessert. Not to mention the names of some of the courses:
Raviolini was easy enough to parse—probably some form of miniature ravioli. But curried skate wing, fontina fonduta, and oxtail ragu? Were they secret words that you learned only in East Coast Society? She wished Vanessa, who was fluent in all dialects of B.S. (Boarding School), P.S. (Prep School), and WASP (“Whatever Are you Speaking of, Penelope?”), were there to guide her through. Vanessa would have remembered to warn her about the possibility of a prix fixe menu, and she certainly would have known what to do with the weird spoon-shaped thing above the place settings. All Callie could think was that it looked to be the exact same size as her nose.
“What were you thinking of getting?” she asked Clint.
“Probably the mushroom soup, the gnocchi, and the skate wing. And then maybe the apple-quince crostada for dessert?”
“Nice! Me too,” said Callie.
Clint squeezed her hand again three times to signal: you’re doing great.
Jury’s still out, thought Callie.
“Where did you say you were from again, Callie?” Mrs. Weber asked after the waiter had taken their orders.
“Los Angeles,” said Callie.
“Oh my, aren’t you far from home, then,” Mrs. Weber said. “Do you miss it terribly? And how do your poor parents cope?” she continued before Callie could answer. “We discouraged Clint from applying to Stanford for that very reason.”
“It was kind of tough to stay in touch at first because of the time difference and what with everything going on. . . . I mean, just that: freshman year is very hectic. My mom used to freak out if I didn’t answer her e-mails within twenty-four hours, but now we’ve scheduled a phone call every Sunday at the same time no matter what; well, my dad was at seven and my mom was eight at first, but now they switch off because my mom said she could tell by my ‘lack of enthusiasm’ that I was repeating stories for a second time.”
“Divorced? I see,” Mrs. Weber murmured, arching her perfectly plucked eyebrows. “And what do they do for a living?” she inquired, unfolding her napkin across her lap.
“My parents?” Callie asked, copying her.
“Yes.”
“My mom is a lawyer, and my dad is the head of the mathematics department at UCLA.” Normally Callie referred to him as an “absent minded professor,” or a “professional math geek,” but neither of those descriptions seemed to match the lace tablecloth or chandeliers.
“Entertainment law, I presume? She’s not the Andrews of Andrews, Cuttering, and Donne, is she—”
“Uh, no,” said Callie. “She works for the government in the California Department of Public Health.”
“Oh,” said Mrs. Weber. “Well, the state government certainly needs all the good people it can get,” she said charitably. “Your budget’s a wreck, and don’t even get me started on the state of your school systems!”
Callie nodded, trying to arrange her features in a way that conveyed her sincerest apologies on behalf of her state. Mr. Weber nodded, too, flashing her what she thought just might be a commiserating smile.
“Education is sort of Mom’s pet cause,” Clint explained.
“Absolutely,” said Mrs. Weber. “It’s one of the most important things. Where did you say you went to high school again, dear? Was it Harvard-Westlake?”
And just like that, it was Pudding punch all over again.
“No, actually, I went to public school,” Callie said.
“Well, that’s even more impressive,” Mrs. Weber said, sounding sincere. “You must be extremely tenacious.” That part sounded less like a compliment.
“She is very impressive,” Clint said as what appeared to be the curried skate wing arrived. It looked like some type of fish. Sort of. Bravely, Callie took a bite.
“How’s your dinner?” Clint asked, smiling widely at her as if it were all going along swimmingly. Maybe he thought it was. Maybe . . . it was?
“Delicious,” Callie lied.
An awkward silence ensued, broken only by the sounds of Mrs. Weber’s cutlery as she took miniscule bites of her entrée.
Then again, maybe it wasn’t.
“So, Mr. Weber,” Callie finally said. “Clint tells me you played squash at Princeton?”
This turned out to be the right thing to say. Like she had unstopped a drain, the fond memories of his Princeton days flowed, from playing squash with wooden rackets in his eating club to working on the Daily Princetonian, carrying them all the way through the main course and onto dessert. As much as Callie hated to admit it, Lexi had done her a favor.
“Those were the days,” he said after sharing a story about the consecutive all-nighters he had pulled during his tenure at the Daily Princetonian. “Tell me, Callie,” he said, “are you working on anything interesting right now for the Crimson?”
“Yes,” she replied. “In fact, just earlier today Clint and I went to hear Governor Hamilton speak at the Kennedy Center so I could take notes for a piece we’re doing on his visit to campus this week.”
“Oh, did you?” Mrs. Weber said, sounding casual but suddenly seeming far more interested in this line of conversation than anything her husband had uttered in the past half hour.
Clint shifted in his chair and took a big bite of his sorbet. (Mystery of the weird spoon-shaped thing solved!)
“That’s right,” Mrs. Weber continued. “Now that you mention it, I do seem to recall him saying that he would be in town when we had him to dinner last month. No wonder Alexis is too busy to make lunch tomorrow; no doubt she wants to spend as much time as possible with her uncle!”
Eeigah—Callie tried not to flinch at the sound of Alexis’s name surfacing in the conversation for the second time. Oddly enough, Clint, whose foot had started jiggling up and down, seemed even more uncomfortable than she felt.
“Tell me, darling: Did you have an opportunity to approach him afterward and raise the possibility of a summer internship like we discussed?”
“No,” Clint said shortly.
“Well, when then? Perhaps at the cocktail party this Thursday—” she said, shattering all pretenses that this turn in the conversation had simply occurred to her out of the blue.
“Callie and I have a previous engagement,” Clint said, placing his hand over hers.
Mrs. Weber’s eyes flicked after it, and she frowned. “Darling, I’m quite certain that whatever you two have planned isn’t more important than your future, wouldn’t you agree, Callie?”
“Um—yes?”
“Mom,” Clint said softly, setting aside his spoon. “It is my future. My future. And I would love the opportunity to intern with Governor Hamilton or anyone else in Washington, which is why I plan to file an application and be considered—just like everyone else.”
Mrs. Weber let out a laugh that bore a haunting similarity to Lexi’s tinkling giggle—though perhaps the only commonality was that both sounds made Callie’s teeth stand on end.
“Another Glenlivet on the rocks, please,” Mr. Weber said
to the waiter as he cleared their dessert plates.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Mrs. Weber said, dabbing the corners of her eyes with her napkin. “We’d all prefer to believe that we live in a meritocratic society, but listen carefully when I tell you that, especially when it comes to politics, you have to milk every possible connection that you have while working constantly to forage new ones. That’s just how the game goes.”
Callie turned sharply to survey Clint. Was that the real reason why he wanted to be friends with Lexi?
Mrs. Weber cleared her throat. “Now, if you would just let me make one phone call—”
“No,” said Clint, a little too loudly. “No, thank you. That won’t be necessary.”
Callie downed a big gulp of water, hoping that the glass would conceal her smile.
“Suit yourself.” Mrs. Weber shrugged, signing the bill.
“Well, we both have early classes in the morning so we should probably get going,” Clint said. “Mom, Dad: thanks for dinner. I’ll see you for lunch tomorrow.” Standing, he offered Callie his hand.
“Yes, thank you so much for dinner,” Callie echoed. “It was so nice to meet both of you.”
“Wonderful to meet you, too, dear,” Mrs. Weber said, standing.
“It was our pleasure,” Mr. Weber said, smiling at Callie.
“Ready?” asked Clint, taking her coat from the waiter and helping her into the sleeves.
“Yep,” she said. “Thanks again,” she called over her shoulder, and then followed Clint out of the room.
When they had made it to the brick pavilion outside The Charles Hotel, Callie took what felt like her first breath all evening. “Well,” she said, “I guess that wasn’t a total disaster.”
“Are you kidding?” asked Clint, pulling her close. “They loved you!”
“Really?”
Clint laughed. “Well, my dad definitely loved you, and my mom . . . didn’t hate you.”
Maybe . . . but clearly not as much as she “didn’t hate” Lexi. “You sure about that?”
“Yes,” Clint affirmed. “And please disregard that whole ‘tenacious’ comment—she’s just overprotective.”
“Mm,” Callie murmured. Te·na·cious (adjective)—as far as she and her old SAT flashcards were concerned—simply meant persistent, determined, or not easily dispelled. In other words, not an insult.
“So . . . my place?” he asked, breaking her reverie.
She gasped in mock horror, whacking him on the arm. “But you just told your mother that we had to be up early for class!”
“Oh, I intend to go straight to bed,” he said, grabbing her around the waist and smothering her cheeks with kisses.
“Ahg!” she cried until he finally let her up for air. “Okay, okay, you win! Just let me text Mimi to let her know I won’t be bringing her dress back until tomorrow.”
Breaking away, she pulled out her phone. But, instead of texting Mimi, at the last second she texted Vanessa instead:
JUST ONE QUESTION: WHAT DOES
“TENACIOUS” MEAN IN WASP?
A moment later her phone buzzed:
1 New Text Message from Vanessa V
PROBABLY A SYNONYM FOR GOLD-
DIGGER. MAYBE GOLD-DIGGING
WHORE, DEPENDING ON CONTEXT.
WHY?
Callie looked at Clint, who was smiling and holding open the bright red door to Adams House, before texting back:
ABSOLUTELY NO REASON.
Chapter Six
A Very Important Date
Dearest Froshies:
It’s precisely this time of year when you’ve survived Valentine’s Day and may even be starting to ponder your Spring Break plans that you also begin to wonder: are you and your significant other a good match? Before you book that cozy bed-and-breakfast for two, you might want to complete the following quiz.
Quiz: Is he a Sinner, a Saint, or Simply an Undeniable Douchebag?
1. Saturday is date night and you have a whole evening prepared, but he cancels at the last minute because:
a.“The Big Game’s on TV and it’s just us guys, but why don’t you drop by after? And oh yeah: wear that thing I like.”
b.“My chemistry class is killing me. Would you mind bringing over some work so we can study together? I promise there’s a foot rub in it for you afterward. . . .”
c. He doesn’t bother canceling at all but rather shows up an hour late. You are livid, naturally, but then he makes up for it by surprising you with something bigger and better than you had originally planned.
2. You’re in a restaurant and he takes the liberty of ordering for you while you’re in the rest room. He:
a. Orders the steak, but there’s only one problem: you’re a vegetarian. Oh, and he also forgot his wallet in the car.
b. Orders all of your favorite foods, including dessert, and then he pays for it.
c. Orders two options, which you share family style, and then you split the bill, so that you’re starting to feel really comfortable: until you get home, and realize that you had food in your teeth the entire night and he said nothing.
3. You ask the fateful question, “Do I look fat in this dress?” Apart from the obvious—what were you thinking?!?—he responds:
a. “’Course not, babe, though your ankles do look a little chubby in those shoes. But that’s just ’cause you have chubby ankles. Aw. . . don’t cry. . . . I like your chubby ankles!”
b. “I think that you always look terrific in whatever you’re wearing, but if you’re not comfortable, then you should change.”
c. “I’m not falling for that one.”
4. At a party he:
a. Leaves you on your own for most of the night, but that’s all right: you’re self-sufficient and doing fine on your own—until you spot him standing a little too close to that cute girl from his Government class.
b. Stays glued to your side all evening until you’re starting to wish you had the number for a codependency counselor.
c. Asks you frequently if you’re having fun or if he can get you another drink, but he sometimes forgets to introduce you or include you in the actual conversation.
5. When you meet his parents for the first time, they:
a. Laugh, then there’s an awkward silence followed by “Girlfriend?”
b. Exchange a knowing smile and say, “So, this is the one. . . .”
c. Say it’s so lovely to finally meet you, but then one of them accidentally refers to you by the name of his most recent ex.
Mostly (a)s: You are dating a Douchebag. Exit the relationship immediately. He may not even notice that you’re gone.
Mostly (b)s: You are dating a Saint. Though almost too affectionate at times, this one definitely has marriage on his mind.
Mostly (c)s: You are dating a Sinner, but like Billy Joel said, “I’d rather laugh with the sinners than cry with the saints: the sinners are much more fun.” So enjoy it while it lasts, but remember: sometimes even the good relationships die young.
“Ice-skating? That sounds dangerous,” Dana said, looking up at Callie from the textbooks she had spread across the coffee table in their common room.
Mimi was also eyeing her skeptically: “You look like a giant poufy white sugar ball—”
“Marshmallow,” Callie supplied.
“Marshmallow—even more than usual,” Mimi finished.
“I think it’s the hat,” Dana suggested.
“That is certainly one source of the problem,” Mimi murmured. It was a rare occasion when Mimi and Dana agreed, but today the decision seemed unanimous: Callie’s outfit for her contentious, potentially future-ruining Thursday night date with Clint was anything but attractive.
“Maybe you need some knee pads,” Dana began.
“No, no, the padding is already too much,” said Mimi. “Tu ressembles à un éléphant.”
“Come on, guys. It’s not so bad,” Callie said. “This is what you wear when you go ice-skating!” Of course, she didn’t really know
since she had never actually been ice-skating. In fact, before coming to Harvard, she had never even seen snow: the only kind they had in Los Angeles was a Schedule II controlled substance.
“I think that you look perfect just the way you are,” Vanessa called, poking her head out of her bedroom. “Positively tenacious—”
“Don’t make me hurt you!” Callie cried. Half joking, she rushed Vanessa like a linebacker might a quarterback.
Screaming, Vanessa slammed the door to her room, and Callie smacked straight into it. Oddly enough, she bounced.
“Did you guys see that?” She whooped. “I didn’t feel a thing! Not a thing!” she called, catapulting into the opposite wall and whooping again when she bounced.
“Whoa, what’s going on in here?” a male voice called from the doorway, sounding amused.
Callie whirled around. She saw the flowers first, followed by Clint. In a suit.
A suit?
“I didn’t realize that ice-skating was a formal event,” she cried, cursing herself for getting the dress code wrong—again.
Clint chuckled. “Actually . . . there’s been a slight change of plans,” he explained. “I’ve been thinking that it might be a good idea for me to swing by that event at the Faculty Club after all.”
“The Governor Hamilton thing?” Callie asked, her feet suddenly feeling rooted in place.
“Yes. Do you mind? It started only twenty minutes ago, so if we leave now we won’t be too late.”
“You couldn’t have mentioned this earlier?” she asked, removing her hat. Her hair shot up, wrought with static electricity.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t decide until the last minute, and well—I’m just sorry,” he said, coming toward her. “I brought flowers?”
Callie stayed where she was. “I thought we were going ice-skating.”
“I know,” he said, setting the flowers down so he could put his arms around her. “But we can do that anytime, and Governor Hamilton’s only in town for one more night. . . .”