by Lauren Kunze
“I don’t have anything to wear,” she muttered. And then, a bit louder: “You didn’t leave me time to change!”
“You don’t need time—you always look gorgeous, no matter what.”
“Now we know he is a liar,” Mimi joked from the couch, where she had returned to reviewing her most recent efforts for the Lampoon.
“All right.” Callie sighed, slinking into her room. Slowly she unwound the scarf she’d picked out especially for ice-skating. Then she began her search for something to wear, opening and closing her dresser drawers with a little more force than necessary.
In two minutes she emerged in her nicest pair of dark jeans and a button-up cardigan.
“Okay, let’s get this over with,” she said, heading for the door. She paused. Clint hadn’t moved. “What?” she demanded.
“Well . . .” he began. “I think you look great, but the invitation said “business casual,” and I think that means that girls are supposed to wear a dress? I just wouldn’t want you to be uncomfortable because you felt underdressed.”
Callie stared at him.
“I have an idea,” he said. “Why don’t you borrow something from Mimi again like you did the other night for dinner?”
“Bien sûr,” Mimi said. “Help yourself.”
Callie walked into Mimi’s room and opened her closet. There was a wide array of dresses, though only a small subset actually fit Callie, who was something of un éléphant to Mimi’s size zero. And within this subset Callie only felt comfortable borrowing a precious few with foreign labels that didn’t evoke the image of quadruple-digit price tags.
Sighing, she emerged with a simple black dress that would maybe zip with only a little stretching (of both the fabric and the imagination). “Is this okay?” she asked, holding it up.
“It’s perfect,” said Clint. “It’ll look great on you.”
“I was asking Mimi,” she said.
“Oui, oui,” Mimi said, waving her hand.
“Great, just give me a second,” she said, heading for her room.
“Take your time,” Clint called, sneaking a peek at his watch.
The dress was tight, but it zipped. Quickly Callie smoothed her hair and grabbed a small purse. Then she reentered the common room.
Shoes, she realized with a sinking feeling when Clint glanced down at her bare feet, were going to be a problem. She didn’t think she could get away with sporting the flats she had worn to Rialto; Mimi was nowhere near her size, and Vanessa was more likely to throw her Jimmy Choos at Callie’s head than to lend them to her. Suddenly her face felt hot; her tear ducts mobilizing as they readied for action. . . .
“Here, try these,” Dana offered, pressing a pair of low-heeled, patent leather Mary Janes into her hand—not the trendy, modern variety but the kind Callie had assumed they stopped making back in 1959. The kind that even her grandma was too hip to wear—and that was saying a lot, since her grandma was dead.
“Thanks,” Callie whispered, jamming them onto her feet. “Ready?”
“After you,” said Clint, holding the door. As she passed, he leaned down and whispered, “I was right about the dress—it’s stunning.”
“Mm-hmm, yeah, ah, yes, I see, hmm?” Callie said, smiling and nodding in—what she hoped—were the right places, all the while thinking, Owwww-o-wow, because her feet hurt like hell. Not only that, but Mimi’s dress felt like it was cutting into her skin, her stomach was grumbling with hunger, and she wanted to go home; away from the Faculty Club with its semi-creepy portraits of famous professors and university presidents lining the walls, leering at her ominously from between the throngs of faculty and students sucking up to the politico elite.
And it had only been twenty minutes.
Seventeen of which the senior to her left had occupied with an almost uninterrupted monologue, only stopping long enough, it seemed, to let Clint agree with him. Callie, who’d been daydreaming about ice-skating and hot apple cider, tuned back just in time to hear:
“. . . everyone knows that global warming is little more than a myth invented by the liberal establishment—”
“Yeah, I heard that we could solve the whole problem and dramatically lower temperatures,” Callie began, “if only America would convert to the metric system.”
The three boys, including Clint, all paused to stare.
“You know,” she floundered, “because Fahrenheit to Celsius would be lower. . . .”
Clint laughed. “That is funny, actually. But going back to what you were saying about campaign strategies in Middle America . . .”
What would January Jones, who played the perfect blond 1960s housewife on Mad Men, do? Callie thought, cocking her hand against her hip and doing her best interpretation of standing there and looking pretty. After all, she had the shoes to fit the part, even if the shoes didn’t quite fit.
“Can I get you a drink?” she asked Clint during a lull in the conversation.
“That would be wonderful.” He grinned, the irony escaping him. “Make it a Jack and Coke, please.”
“Coming right up,” she said, smiling back when she realized she now had at least a five-minute excuse to escape.
Her feet pinched as she walked away. Then again, Betty Draper was a chain-smoking alcoholic who not-so-secretly hated her children—perhaps a poor choice of fictional character to emulate.
Callie’s shoulders relaxed while she waited at the bar for Clint’s drink and a diet soda (no way was she drinking at an event like this—that’d be almost as stupid as drinking during the first time you met your mother-in-law, or at dinner with the Webers—not that those two were related). Take as long as you want, Mr. Bartender, sir, Callie willed him: I could happily stand here all night—
“Hi, Callie!” a low, silky voice said from her left. “How are you?”
Callie turned to find herself facing Perky B—Alessandra, right, because they were “friends” now and it was high time she dropped the nickname—in pearls with less makeup, and cleavage, than usual.
“Hi,” Callie said, smiling back. Alessandra + a Cocktail Party could potentially = Gregory: her eyes darted around the room, but she didn’t see him anywhere. “How are you?”
“Bored,” Alessandra confessed. “I was only invited to this because my dad’s a major campaign contributor.”
Callie nodded. Big business tycoon + Desire for tax breaks = likely Moderate with Conservative Tendencies, aka closeted Republican with commitment issues in a Democratic-leaning state. “Well, I was only invited,” she started, “because my boyfriend’s mom is a little bit controlling and—”
Alessandra’s eyes had suddenly gone wide.
All the blood drained from Callie’s face. “He’s standing right behind me, isn’t he?”
“False,” said an unmistakable voice from over Callie’s shoulder. “Hiya, neighbor,” Gregory continued, swooping in to kiss Callie’s cheek before draping an arm over Alessandra’s shoulders. “And hello, beautiful.”
Without thinking, Callie touched her glass to her cheek, a single square inch of which felt like it was on fire.
“I told you that I don’t like it when you call me that,” Alessandra said. She rolled her eyes at Callie. “Doesn’t it make you feel like he can’t even remember who you are, neighbor?”
“Okay, wow. Sorry, Tiffany.”
“It’s, like, my name is Alessandra,” she said, ignoring him and speaking to Callie, “not Babe, or Beautiful, or—what was it you called me that one time when we were in bed? It was a Spanish word for—”
“TIME for another DRINK,” Gregory interrupted loudly.
“Don’t bother,” Alessandra said, with a perfect execution of her simpering pout. “Ladies’ room. If I’m not back in five minutes—”
“You snuck out the window?” Callie supplied.
“Exactly.” Alessandra smiled and then excused herself.
Dammit, thought Callie, smiling back. I actually like her. Even if her boobs sometimes seem to divert a
significant portion of blood flow away from her brain—and everyone else’s brain, if Gregory’s face was any indication—she’s kind of cool. . . .
“My girlfriend is hot,” Gregory said. “Possibly the hottest girl at this school. You know she turned down a modeling contract back in LA before she transferred here?”
“I should go,” Callie blurted. “Clint’s ice is melting,” she added, rattling his drink.
“What a lucky guy,” said Gregory, “to have someone to fetch his drinks for him.”
Callie debated throwing said drink into Gregory’s stupid, smirking face. In fact, the only thing that stopped her was the sight of Lexi leading her uncle over to Clint and introducing them. Lexi’s hand rested on Clint’s upper arm while she laughed at something he’d said, tossing her immaculate curls and exposing her small, even teeth.
“Don’t they make the perfect couple?” Gregory remarked, following her gaze.
“Are you actively trying to make me hate you,” Callie seethed, wheeling around, “or are you really just naturally this detestable?”
This seemed to amuse him to no end, his blue eyes winking in the dim light. Staring at her, he visibly struggled to suppress his laughter. (Apparently the earth-moon-sun position of the evening => Wildly-entertained-at-your-expense.)
“Want to play a game?” he finally asked.
“What?”
“Do you want to play a game?” he repeated, enunciating.
“What kind of game?” she asked, leaning away as he leaned toward her.
“A little game I invented to make tedious social functions like these more bearable. I call it . . . I Bet You Won’t Say. I give you a word or phrase that I bet you can’t manage to casually insert into a conversation, and if you pull it off, I’ll give you . . . a dollar.”
“Like what?”
“Like—oh, I don’t know—like platypus. If you can say platypus within the next five minutes without stopping an entire conversation, then I am prepared to make you a very rich lady.”
Callie stared at him. “I have to go.” Turning, she made her way over to where Clint and Governor Hamilton (though perhaps by now he had asked Clint to call him “Uncle”) were yammering away like old fishing buddies while Lexi presided over the exchange.
“. . . your article on Reaganomics literally changed my life,” Clint was saying. Callie handed him his drink. “Thanks,” he said, keeping his eyes on the governor. “I thought I understood the Tax Equity and Fiscal Responsibility Act before,” Clint continued, “but I might as well have been a Little League player claiming to understand what it’s like to pitch in the World Series. . . .”
“You a Red Sox fan, son?”
“Is the sky blue, Governor?”
“I like him,” Governor Hamilton said to Lexi, clapping Clint on the back.
“Oh, excuse me, sorry, sir,” Clint said, as if seeing Callie for the first time. “This is my friend Callie.”
Friend? Oh, excuse me, sorry, sir, I thought I was your girlfriend. My bad!
Lexi beamed. Callie forced a smile and shook hands, hoping she wasn’t expected to contribute to the conversation even though baseball and taxes were her two all-time favorite topics!
“Now, could you three excuse me for a moment?” Governor Hamilton said. “Professor Madoff’s been eyeing me all night—no doubt hoping to talk my ear off about the national debt—and I need to give him five minutes. But don’t think I’m letting you off so easy,” he said, turning to Clint. “I fully expect you to find me later so we can talk ball—and maybe a little politics, too,” he added with a wink.
“Excellent, sir,” said Clint, returning the governor’s viselike handshake.
“I’ll be right back, too,” Lexi said, spotting Alessandra, who had just emerged from the rest room (no luck sneaking out the window, it seemed). Callie watched Lexi enfold Alessandra in a hug as if she were her long-lost twin sister—or perhaps just the daughter of her uncle’s important campaign donor and the Pudding’s most high-priority punch.
Clint turned to Callie. “On a scale of one to ten,” he said, his eyebrows knitting together, “how miserable are you?”
Oh, thank god. “Um, eight? And a half,” she confessed.
“Well, you’re doing great,” he said, squeezing her hand.
At what—smiling and nodding? Only speaking when spoken to?
“Is it all right if we stay for just another twenty minutes—a half hour, max? I know I haven’t been the most attentive date tonight, and I’m sorry, but getting a little more time alone with the governor could be the deciding factor for a summer internship. You understand, don’t you?”
Callie nodded, trying to keep her face from flinching in reaction to her unfortunate shoe situation. Junior summer internships were important; everybody knew that. What was her twenty or thirty more minutes of probably-not-going-to-result-in-paralysis foot pain to the future of his career? After all, relationships were supposed to be about compromise. “I’ll just go sit over there—by the bar—until you’re done.”
“Thanks, you’re the best,” said Clint, leaning to kiss her forehead.
Taking a step, she winced, and her ankle twisting, she stumbled.
“Are you okay?” Clint said, catching her. “You didn’t have too much to drink, did you?” he asked, his hands on both her arms.
“No!” she said. Suddenly she smiled. “No, it’s just my clumsy platypus feet.”
Clint laughed. “Platypuses are a graceful aquatic species that would probably be offended by that comparison.”
“Hey!” she cried, whacking him but laughing nevertheless.
“I’m sorry,” he said, hugging her. “So we’re all good?”
“Yep!” she said. “I’ll be waiting!” Debating exactly how unacceptable it would be to remove her shoes, she hobbled back over to the bar, where Gregory happened to be sitting on a stool staring into his drink.
“I did it!” she cried, tapping him on the shoulder.
“You did what?” he said, barely turning to look at her. (Uh-oh. The moon-sun-earth position had clearly shifted dramatically in her absence.)
“I said platypus in a conversation.”
“Good for you,” he said, taking a sip of his drink.
“It wasn’t even weird or anything,” she continued, hopping onto a neighboring stool.
“Have you ever considered that might be because most of what comes out of your mouth is already weird anyway?”
She searched his face for any trace of amusement but found none. “Well . . . you owe me a dollar.”
“Shit, not again,” he muttered suddenly, pulling his phone out of his pocket. Reading the name on the caller ID, he stood and cursed. “I have to take this,” he said. “Here,” he added, pulling some bills out of his wallet and flinging them at her.
“But this—”
“Tip the bartender for me,” he called over his shoulder. Then he was gone.
Callie stared at the bills in her lap. There were three twenties, a five, and two ones.
What the hell was that about? she wondered, slipping the five to the bartender and pocketing the rest. She would give it back tomorrow, along with a reminder that not everyone could afford to be so damn careless with their funds. Speaking of which—was it possible that Gregory had been playing the role of her Secret Pudding Fairy Godperson?
She knew it wasn’t Mimi. . . . There was a chance that it was Clint, but she couldn’t bring herself to ask, fearful of how the whole you-have-way-more-money-than-I-do-and-sometimes-I-can’t-afford-everything-that-you-can conversation might go. Glancing over her shoulder, she looked for Clint. Quickly she turned back to the bar. He was standing with Lexi again, but his attention seemed focused on the governor, who had his hand on Clint’s shoulder like he was offering some fatherly advice.
“I think I’ll take that drink now,” she said to the bartender, whom she had waved away only moments earlier.
She drank it as slowly as possible, amusing herself with
people-watching and silently redubbing their serious conversations based on body language. Sure, I’ll balance your budget if you tell me who did your hair plugs, Professor Platypus!
Twenty minutes passed, and then thirty, and then forty, at which point she turned again to find Clint. Still cozying up to Lexi on the far end of the room, only this time the governor was nowhere nearby—
Standing, Callie made her way to the back exit of the Faculty Club. Once outside, she slipped off her shoes. On the two-minute walk back to Wigglesworth, the snow stung only slightly more than the tears leaking from her eyes, freezing as they rolled down her cheeks.
“Wake up, Callie . . . wake up!”
Callie groaned into the darkness. “It’s the middle of the night.”
“I know,” Clint whispered. “You really ought to learn to lock your front door.”
“What do you want?”
“I’m sorry that the event ran over,” he began.
“S’all good,” she murmured, burying her face in her pillow in case he could see her expression in the dark.
“No, it’s not. I was a jerk, but I’m going to make it up to you.”
“Can we talk about this another time?” she asked, rolling over.
He stayed where he was, crouched near the head of her tiny twin bed. “We don’t have to do any talking,” he said, “but I am going to have to ask you to come with me.”
“Come with you . . . where?” she asked.
“That’s a secret.”
“Are you crazy? It’s two o’clock in the morning. I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“I think you are,” he said, reaching for her coat.
“Clint—seriously? No, what are you doing?”
“Just put this on and come with me. It’ll only take a minute, I swear.”
She didn’t move.
“Please?”
“Only a minute?”
“Yes.”
“And then you’ll go away and let me sleep?”
“Yes.”
“Fine,” she murmured, swinging her legs over the side of her bed. “But you literally only get one minute. . . .”