by Lauren Kunze
Alexis Thorndike.
Each member got a plus three: one for a date and two for a couple. As Callie had learned last semester when she mistakenly thought Gregory and Lexi were dating, the two of them had a semi-permanent, fully platonic plus-one arrangement. Now the question was which came first: the chicken or the egg? Did Clint ask Gregory and did he invite Lexi—or was it the other way around?
“Hey, man, glad you guys could make it!” said Clint, giving Gregory a handshake-hug. “Lexi,” he added, kissing her cheek, “you look lovely as ever.”
Before Callie could react, she found herself in Gregory’s arms. “Good to see you, Caliente,” he whispered, pressing his lips against her ear. She could smell the whiskey on his breath.
“Some help would be great,” said Clint, grabbing a case of champagne. Gregory followed suit, and then Clint turned to Callie: “Could you ladies stand guard while we’re gone? Normally I wouldn’t ask because it’s so cold, but the Lampoon’s right across the street and they’ve been known to have sticky fingers.”
“Uh . . . sure,” said Callie.
“We’ll be right back.”
Callie eyed the sixteen remaining cases of champagne in the trunk. Sixteen divided by two was eight, times roughly three minutes per case equaled twenty-four minutes alone with Lexi.
“So, uh . . . I like your dress,” Callie ventured. And truly the dress was spectacular: black and silver, sequins and fringe and lace.
“Thanks,” Lexi muttered.
Silence.
Twenty-three minutes . . .
“Where did you, um, where’d you get it?” Callie asked.
Lexi snorted as if to say, Oh, just a little store on the corner of Dream-on and You-can’t-afford-it.
Right. Guess I’d better cancel the matching friendship bracelets I just ordered.
Twenty-two minutes . . .
“So where’s Alessandra?” Callie asked.
“I believe she has Crimson business tonight,” Lexi said with a worrisome gleam in her eye. “Which is why I suggested Gregory as a plus one after Clint invited me—though surely he already told you that?”
“Yes,” Callie lied, trying to keep her expression blank. “We tell each other everything.”
“Somehow I doubt that,” Lexi murmured, watching Gregory and Clint reemerge at the top of the stairs.
“What’s that supposed to me—”
“I completely forgot,” Clint called, coming toward them, “that we have a whole bunch of sophomore initiates just dying to carry things.” As he spoke, the back door opened and a group of guys appeared. “Shall we?” he said, offering an arm to Callie.
“Absolutely,” she said.
Stepping through the doors to the Fly was like stepping through a time machine back to the summer of 1922. Twinkly lights hung from the ceiling like a canopy of leaves in the forest, casting a soft glow on the couples: guys in white tails with white gloves and girls with white gloves in white dresses. A live jazz band played in the corner of the dance floor. Along the opposite wall an enormous champagne fountain, the golden liquid infused with dashes of red berries, bubbled merrily atop a white tablecloth next to bowls of truffles and chocolate-covered strawberries, platters of gourmet cheeses and fat green grapes. Cigarettes and cigars fanned out in lines on various surfaces, and Callie watched a girl place one in a long old-fashioned cigarette holder, which she extended toward her date for a light.
You were right, Mrs. Jacobsen, Callie mentally conceded to her tenth-grade English teacher, who had given Callie an A- on a paper arguing that the novel—one of Callie’s all-time favorites—was beautiful but failed to resonate with the “America of today.”
Clearly, the old money “East Egg” contingent was alive and well and Callie, like a “West Egg” party crasher, must strive to blend in as best she could. Harvard, or at least this facet of it, was her green light, her dream, and maybe on Clint’s arm she could convince them that she belonged. . . . But maybe, as it had for Gatsby, the dream would soon come crashing down and she would wind up shot in the back of the head, with Lexi or Vanessa standing at the edge of the swimming pool, holding the smoking gun.
“Champagne?” Clint asked.
“Thank you,” said Callie, accepting the glass flute.
“Did I tell you that you look beautiful tonight?” he said, pocketing a cigar and leaning in to kiss her on the cheek. “I’m pretty sure I’m the luckiest man in this room.”
Callie smiled. The jazz band struck up a faster number.
“Dance?” Clint asked, offering her two white-gloved hands.
“Sure!” she said, setting aside her champagne and placing her palms on his. “Um . . . how . . . ?” She had no idea how to dance to this kind of music.
“I think the fox-trot was popular back then,” Clint said, steering her out onto the floor.
“Fox-what?”
“Fox . . . oh.” He dropped her hands. “Dance wasn’t a part of your curriculum back in California?”
“Dance was a part of your curriculum in Virginia?” she countered.
“Well—yes.” The corners of his eyes crinkled. “There was seventh-grade dance class, when all the girls were a head taller than the boys and the only thing we learned was how to covertly wipe the sweat from our hands and that staring straight ahead could get you in a lot of trouble.” As he spoke, he took her left hand in his right and wrapped his left arm around her waist. “Now I step forward with my left and you go back with your right,” he said, moving his foot in tandem with hers and gripping her tight. “Next there was general cotillion training—that was my freshman year. We were taller, but the girls were just as terrifying. Now you brush your right foot with your left as you step back again,” he said, stepping forward as she stepped back. “Good. Now brush your right foot to the left before we step to the side,” he explained, and she followed his lead, “and the other foot follows quickly and—rest.”
Other couples were twirling around them, but Callie could barely hear the music clipping along, lively and upbeat. She and Clint moved at their own private pace; the rest of the world melted away.
“One more time, slowly,” he said, never breaking eye contact. “Back, back, side, together,” he directed. “Right, left, right, left . . . Exactly, just like that,” he said as they repeated the movements slowly. “Last of all, we had the debutante balls. By then mastering the basic steps was the least of our worries, and we were far more concerned over who would escort whom and everything that came with it. . . . Although the girls were, oddly, still just as terrifying,” he finished with a laugh. He stopped suddenly.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Why, Ms. Andrews,” he said, pulling her close, “I do believe you’ve mastered the fox-trot!”
“Did I? I did!” she cried. “Ooh, sorry!” she added, leaping off his toes.
He laughed. “Shall we?” he said, holding up his hands again.
“Yes,” she agreed, smiling. And then they were dancing. Back, back, side, together; Right, left, right, left; Slow, slow, quick, quick. Right back slow; left back slow; right side quick; left together quick—they whirled across the floor as naturally and easily as any other couple under the canopy of lights. Finally, flushed and out of breath, they slowed, the music mellowing into softer, smoother jazz.
Clint’s lips brushed against the top of her cheekbone. His breath tickled her ear, his hand firm on the small of her back. She closed her eyes and breathed him in. It was a perfect moment. The perfect moment to say . . .
“Clint,” she whispered.
“Yes?”
“I . . .”
Off in the distance, propped against the back of a leather couch, she saw Gregory. He was staring straight at them. He held her gaze for a full two seconds. Then, tossing the stub of his cigarette into an empty glass, he left the room.
“You . . . what?” Clint prompted, leaning back to look at her.
“I—I want to hear more about what it was like to gro
w up in Virginia,” she said quickly.
“Not so fast,” he said. “I already told you all about dance class. It’s your turn to tell me something about California.”
She sighed.
“What?” he asked, twirling her slowly.
“Nothing,” she said. “I just miss it.”
“What do you miss the most?”
What didn’t she miss? Back in California everything had always been so easy. Instead of crazy on-again off-again Vanessa she had Jessica, her unwavering best friend since first grade. Parties involved somebody’s house, preferably with a pool, and maybe a stolen six-pack—but no themes. The temperature rarely dipped below a cool seventy-two degrees, meaning she could rock shorts seven days a week without giving a second thought to what she was wearing. And she’d barely had time for her boyfriend, let alone boy problems, with soccer practice thirty hours a week—an extracurricular where her talent was so obvious she’d never had anything to prove. Likewise, getting all As was almost an afterthought, with her parents—god, how she missed them—always in the background to cheer her on, there to love her no matter what.
“I miss . . . surfing,” she finally said.
“Surfing?” he asked.
“Yep,” she replied. “Sometimes in the spring Jess and I would roll out of bed at the crack of dawn, head over to the beach, and just ride the waves until the sun came up. It was the only athletic activity we could ever compromise on since she’s much more of a Yogalates-because-the-gym-is-right-next-to-Fro-Yo kind of a girl. And even though we’d shower before school, my skin would still smell salty all day. It was the best.”
“Sounds amazing,” Clint agreed. “I’d love to learn how to surf.”
“Maybe if you come to visit one day, I can teach you!” she said. “Plus, Jess has been dying to meet you.”
“So you’ve been talking about me a lot, huh?” he teased.
“Well—yes.” She blushed. “But that’s only because—I mean not only but partly because—Jess and I tell each other everything.”
“Well, I can’t wait to meet her,” he said. “The next time we get a vacation, it’s a date.”
“Speaking of vacations . . .” She frowned slightly. “Well, about spring break.”
“Yes?” he prompted. “What about it?”
“It sounds incredible, but won’t a trip like that be kind of, well, expensive?”
Clint smiled. “Don’t you worry about that,” he said, twirling her again.
What was that supposed to mean? Surely he wasn’t thinking . . . “Clint I am worried, because I’m not sure . . .” Briefly she closed her eyes. “I’m not sure if I can afford it.”
“It’s already taken care of.”
“But—”
“Think of it as an early birthday present.”
“But—”
“Excuse me,” someone said, tapping Clint on the shoulder. It was Bryan, who had been two years ahead of Callie back at West Hollywood High and was also a member of the Fly. “Sorry to interrupt,” he continued, “but Clint, they need you upstairs.”
Clint broke away from Callie but did not let go of her hands. “I hate to leave you like this. . . .”
“Go!” she urged, waving him away. “I’ll be fine.”
“You sure?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Be right back, then,” he said, kissing her cheek.
She watched him disappear up a flight of stairs that led to another members only level of the club. Looking around, she spotted Vanessa and Tyler in a darkened corner, making up from whatever pseudo fight had happened most recently. Other than that, she recognized no one; even Lexi and Gregory were nowhere to be found and everyone else was coupled up, older, and totally unapproachable.
Sighing, Callie slipped through a door at the back of the great dance hall into a smaller, quieter room where couples were mingling. The air was hazy with smoke. Her breath caught in her chest and she coughed; Lexi and Anne stood at the end of a long line for the bathroom. Time for Plan B.
Doubling back, she scanned the room once more. Still no Clint. So, glancing over her shoulder, she pushed through another door: this one heavy and made of dark wood that she had only ever seen members passing through.
She was alone on a landing at the top of a staircase leading down. The walls were lined with old photographs (like 1898 old) of former club members. She hesitated, but only for a moment—there was bound to be a bathroom on the first floor, and if someone caught her, she could always play the I-had-to-pee card; after all, what’s the worst that could happen?
Treading lightly, she bounded down the stairs and found herself in a large foyer. To her left she saw a dining room with double doors that probably led to a kitchen; on the right, a living room that looked promising. At the far end of the living room a wooden archway opened out into another room: a vast library. Hardcover volumes lined the shelves; lamps with red shades protruding from the walls cast a maroon glow on the wide brown leather couches, also lit dimly by the dull remaining embers in the brick fireplace.
Callie reached out to run her fingers along the spine of a green volume on her right. She was halfway through sliding it off the shelf when she heard a voice, faint at first, but then louder and louder, accompanied by the sound of muffled footsteps coming down the stairs. In another second the speaker would arrive in the living room, effectively trapping her. Shoving the book back into place, she ducked through another arched opening just beyond the shelf.
She stood in a small enclave: the space occupied almost exclusively by a huge mahogany desk with chairs on either side, piled high with winter coats. The walls were lined with more books, including the wall Callie flattened herself against now while she held her breath. Opposite her she noticed a plaque that read, OFFICE OF THE PRESIDENT. Closing her eyes, she prayed that the president, whoever he was, had elected to remain upstairs.
“You can’t keep doing this,” a male voice said, too muffled to identify. There was a crinkling sound as whoever had spoken sat down on a couch.
Callie listened, straining to hear the answer, but the other person in the room must have spoken very softly or stayed silent.
The first speaker’s voice came again in hushed, barely audible fragments: “. . . I am involved now. . . . You can’t just keep covering your tracks and expect to get away with it. . . . A lot of people could get hurt.”
Callie held her breath, edging along the wall closer to the opening. She could still hear only snatches of the conversation: “. . . come clean now . . . the fallout will be worse the longer . . .”
Balancing with her left palm on the desk, she leaned forward, inching her right ear as close as possible to the source of the sound—
“IT WASN’T YOURS TO TAKE!” the voice suddenly boomed. Startled, Callie lost her balance and gripped the desk for support. Unfortunately, her fingers closed around a coat. She dragged it with her as she went down, knocking a lamp off the desk in the process. When she hit the floor, several other coats promptly fell on top of her.
For a moment she let herself lie there partially buried, hoping in vain that the coats would conceal her or that the people in the other room hadn’t heard the commotion.
“Typical,” a voice said, lazy and low. Its owner stood leaning against the archway. “So typical.”
“Gregory?”
“Nice underwear,” he replied.
Her knees snapped together, and she pushed herself off the floor. Peering around him, she looked out into the library: “Who else is . . . oh,” she finished, watching him pocket his cell. “You were on the phone. Who were you talking t—?”
“Shhhh—” he hissed suddenly, grabbing her arm and cocking his head to the right.
“What? Wh—” Her eyes grew wide as he pushed her up against the books lining the wall, his hand over her mouth, the other raised, a finger to his lips. But in another second she understood, the sounds now audible from the living room.
“We are most certainly not
crashing this party!” an indignant voice cried. That BBC British accent could belong to only one man on campus and one man alone, but if there was any doubt it was dispelled a moment later.
“Unhand me, you imbécile pompeux!” cried the unmistakable voice of Mimi.
“I imagine you thought that by coming in masks, we wouldn’t catch you,” a third, male speaker said derisively. “Very clever . . .”
“Ah, merci.”
“Hey! The masks were my idea—”
“Enough!” The male speaker silenced OK.
Gregory, whose hands had fallen to the shelf on either side of Callie, pressed a finger to her lips. His eyes gleamed with the same suppressed laughter he had stopped not a moment too soon.
“Now can you see yourselves to the door,” the member continued, “or am I going to have to literally kick you out?”
“Spare her!” OK cried theatrically. “And take me instead!”
Callie couldn’t help it: she snorted. Her hands flew to her mouth, but fortunately no one—save Gregory—seemed to have heard, the voices dwindling as the member, or so she imagined, dragged Mimi and OK by the scruffs of their necks toward the front door. Gregory, who had instinctively grabbed her wrists, slowly let go as they heard the front door slam, followed by the sound of singular footsteps thudding back upstairs.
“We probably shouldn’t be down here,” Callie whispered after she finally managed to subdue her elated giggles.
“You’re probably right,” he agreed, strolling out of the president’s office and throwing himself onto a leather couch with irritating bravado. “But ‘I’ve been drunk for about a week now, and I thought it might sober me up to sit in a library.’”
“Gatsby?” she asked, perching on the edge of the couch in spite of herself.
“The one and only.”
“It’s a favorite of mine, too,” she offered.
“I wouldn’t exactly call it a favorite,” he replied.
“Oh, so you just routinely memorize quotes from things that you don’t like?”
“You don’t have to like something to find it interesting or . . . irritatingly persistent.”