by Lauren Kunze
“So, is this club that same Jell-O society that you needed extra money for last semester?”
“It’s called the Pudding,” she said meekly.
“Well, whatever it’s called, your mother and I discussed it and—”
“Wait,” said Callie, lowering her spoon. “Since when do you and Mom discuss things?”
“What are you talking about? Your mother and I have plenty of amicable discussions.”
Callie raised her eyebrows, leveling him with a look.
“All right, fine: you got me,” he said with a smile, taking another bite of ice cream. “Although you may be surprised to know that your mother and I have become considerably friendlier since you left for college. I think it must be a combination of that empty-nester syndrome and mutual fear that you’re going to get yourself in some sort of trouble somehow so far away from home.”
Oh, if only he knew. “Trouble” didn’t even begin to cover it. She forced a smile. “Hey!” she cried. “First you’re friendlier, then you’re hanging out, and before you know it . . . bam! You’re back together.”
“Not in this lifetime.” He laughed, but it sounded a little sad. “Anyhow, back to the Jell-O. Your mother and I had a few friendly conversations about it, and we have no problem with your membership, given your decision to get a job and pay your own way.”
Well, not exactly, but close enough. She nodded, shoveling more ice cream into her mouth. She had managed to cover some of her dues with her measly wages from the library, but she had run out of ideas as to who had footed the rest of the outstanding bill.
“But I do worry that you might be losing track of yourself out here, Calbear,” he continued. “At home it always seemed like soccer was the thing that kept you focused and grounded, and without it I imagine you may be having a tough time figuring out exactly who you are or how to relieve stress without a ball to kick around the field. And I’m guessing there’s plenty of stress to deal with,” he finished, looking at her. “And not just schoolwork but other things, too: the kind of stuff that I can’t always help you with.”
So, so right. Suddenly she found herself blinking rapidly, unsure what to say.
“Fortunately I know I raised you—okay,” he admitted, “so your mom helped a little—to be capable of handling anything that comes your way. While it’s fine to try new things and even make mistakes, I just want to make sure that you remember who you are and where you come from and that your old man loves you . . . and you’re not allowed to marry anyone who isn’t willing to move to California.”
Callie laughed. “I love you, too, Dad.”
“Enough to let me have the last bite?” he asked, pointing to the sundae with his spoon.
“Sure,” she said. “Uh-oh, there it goes again,” she added while her phone buzzed on the table. The text message notice indicated that it was from Mimi. Opening it, she read:
S.O.S.O.S. WITCH-LADY IS
ALMOST CONVINCING EVERYONE TO
VOTE AGAINST VANESSA. CAN YOU
GET TO LE CLUB???????
“Dad,” she said, starting to stand. “I’m so sorry, but—if you don’t mind—I really have to go.” Fortunately, his hotel, the Sheraton Commander, was on Garden Street less than two blocks away from the Pudding. If she ran, she could make it.
“Is it something for that club?”
“Yes—well, yes and no. I have to do something related to the club, but it’s not for the club, it’s for a friend.”
“Well,” he said, “go on, then. It was a long flight, and I was planning to hit the hay soon anyway. I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, standing and giving her a final hug.
“Thanks, Dad,” she said, throwing her arms around him. “Thanks for dinner—and for everything.”
He smiled down at her. “You betcha!”
Hour Thirteen (T Minus 40 Hours until Parental Departure): In which Callie sprints to the Pudding and makes a speech of epic proportions.
“Well, it seems like everyone’s had their say on Ms. Von Vorhees,” said Anne from where she still sat in front of the room. “Time to put it to a vote—”
“WAIT!” Callie cried, exploding into the room, red-faced and panting. “Sorry,” she said, bending over and resting her hands on her knees. “Is it all right if I—” she added, taking a sip of Anne’s water without waiting for an answer. Looking up, she saw Mimi grinning at her; unfortunately, the double thumbs-up sign didn’t inspire any particular words. Everyone stared, including Lexi, Tyler, and Clint, who were all still posted in the front row. Taking a deep breath, Callie decided just to wing it.
“Vanessa really wants to join this club. Like, really, really wants it.”
“So?” said Lexi, smirking. “Since when has that been an aspect of our criteria?”
Callie met her gaze. “Maybe it hasn’t been an, er, aspect of the criteria in the past, but my point is that it should be. So what if we already have a lot of people like her?” Callie said, naming one of the anonymous complaints she had read on HPpunch.com. “Although I have to say, as someone who lives with her, that there really is no one quite like Vanessa,” she added. Mimi nodded in agreement.
“And if it seems like she’s ‘trying too hard,’” Callie continued, “that’s only because of how badly, like I already said, she wants it. And you know what? That’s the kind of club that I want to be a part of, too. Not the type of place that excludes people just to feel exclusive but somewhere that allows anyone who genuinely wants to be here belong—even if they’re a little wacky or annoying from time to time.”
Callie took a deep breath, ignoring Anne’s horrified expression as she filched another sip of water.
“So,” she concluded, “if she goes, I go.”
“Fine by me,” Lexi muttered.
“Moi aussi,” Mimi called from the back. “I go, too.”
Callie beamed. At least they could all sit alone together in the room on Friday nights with no more clubhouse. . . .
Or maybe not: a couple of the sophomores seemingly on the verge of voting with Lexi previously were glancing anxiously at Mimi who, much like Alessandra, had been one of last semester’s high-priority punches.
“Oh, please,” said Lexi, rolling her eyes. “This is just ridiculous—”
“I go, too,” said another voice, its owner standing.
It was Clint. Callie stared at him, her eyes prickling, and even though his face was carefully devoid of expression, he was, for the first time all week, looking back at her.
“Hell, so do I,” said Tyler, leaping to his feet. “I already vowed to beat up everyone who didn’t vote for her but now—what the heck—if you don’t want her, then I’ll resign my presidency.”
“Tyler,” Lexi said sharply, “you can’t just coerce them by threatening—”
“Oh, stop talking,” Tyler interrupted, “and let’s get on with the vote. Callie, you can sit down now,” he added. “Anne?”
“Yes,” she said, tearing her eyes away from her now empty water glass. “A show of hands, please.”
Hour Fourteen (T Minus 39 Hours until Parental Departure): In which the votes are in and the members of the Pudding summon their new initiates to the John Harvard statue.
Callie and Mimi huddled together at the base of the John Harvard statue, struggling to stay warm. The rest of the members were assembled nearby, preparing to place the calls commanding new members-elect to “Get to the John Harvard statue, now.” In a matter of minutes they would arrive.
“Hey,” said Callie, taking a few steps forward, “is that a . . .”
“. . . it is!” she called triumphantly to Mimi a few seconds later.
Somebody had left a soccer ball on the grass in the middle of Harvard Yard.
“Weeeeeeeee!” Callie yelled, dribbling full speed while Mimi called after her through chattering teeth and swatted at OK, who had immediately rushed over to offer his services as a personal space heater.
The sounds faded save for the rush of wind through Ca
llie’s hair and the soft crunch of the grass beneath her toes. After a long day of sitting and texting and trying not to break teacups, running felt absolutely amazing. At the edge of the Yard, about two hundred feet away from the group now, she doubled back, muttering commentary all the while:
“And Rooney fakes left and then takes it up the side; my god, look how fast—he breaks through the Liverpool fullbacks and then—wait for it—he shoots—he SCOR—Ahhhhhh!”
In the darkness, unaware of how fast she’d been moving, she had accidentally kicked the ball as hard as she could straight into the head of an oncoming figure—
THWACK!
The ball smacked against the boy’s palms as he caught it—
“And the shot is BLOCKED in a phenomenal save from Liverpool keeper Pepe Reina,” Callie heard Gregory cry, her horrified expression melting into a smile as she raced toward him. “But wait,” he continued, “Rooney is on the move again, rushing Reina, hoping that he’ll make a mistake—but Reina is too quick and—”
“And oh, a MASSIVE punt from the Liverpool keeper!” Callie shouted, still in announcer mode, as Gregory kicked the ball. They watched it soar, arc, and then drop, all the way over the fence on the other side of the yard.
“You follow the Premier League football clubs?” Callie asked breathlessly, two bright spots on her cheeks. “I always assumed that was OK who TiVoed all the English games!”
Gregory shook his head. “Never assume that anything of quality was TiVoed by His Highness.”
“Seriously!” Callie laughed. “Well, we should totally watch a game together some—”
“I should have known,” a voice said suddenly from behind them. The color draining from her face, Callie turned: Clint stood only a few feet away. “I was going to compliment you on the way you stood up for Vanessa,” he said, “but I wouldn’t want to interrupt.”
“No,” said Callie, “wait—”
“No, no,” Clint reassured them, backing away. “It’s fine. I’ll leave you two alone.”
Dammit!
“Gregory,” she said, turning to him, “I’m sorry, but—”
“Go,” he said with a nod.
“Sorry,” she called again, racing after Clint, who had hurried to rejoin the crowd near the John Harvard statue. The punches had started to arrive, but Callie barely noticed what was happening around her as Tyler began to read from the list of names, calling each new member forward one by one. Her cheeks were still flushed, and her eyes kept darting back to Clint, hoping to catch his gaze: to convey with a look that there was nothing going on with Gregory beyond a random, wild moment of pure—friendly—connection, because they were friends now; that’s it.
But, as far as Clint seemed to be concerned, she no longer existed.
Nevertheless, she continued hopping anxiously from one foot to the other, her thoughts racing, when suddenly Tyler raised his megaphone and yelled the final name:
“VANESSA VON VORHEES!” he boomed.
Everyone stayed completely silent while Tyler stepped forward to administer the honors personally.
Then, as if in slow motion, everyone started to scream: erupting into a chaotic mass of hugging, shouting, jumping, dancing, and drinking. Squealing and shaking, Vanessa hugged everyone in sight: first Tyler and then Clint, followed by OK, Mimi, and—
“Oh, what the hell?” Vanessa said, smiling at Callie and then embracing her.
“You made it!” Callie cried, holding Vanessa tight. Beaming, they broke away and Vanessa grabbed the bottle out of Tyler’s hands, taking a swig and crying “To ME!” before passing it to Callie.
“To you!” Callie agreed, taking a sip and then handing it to Mimi.
Maybe I don’t have a boyfriend anymore, she thought as she and Vanessa hugged again, but maybe I have something even better: maybe, just maybe, she had her best friend back.
Chapter Twelve
Parents Weekend, Part II:
The Final 24 Hours
PHILLIP A. BENEDICT, DEAN OF HARVARD COLLEGE,
CORDIALLY INVITES THE CLASS OF 2014
* AND THEIR PARENTS *
TO JOIN HIM FOR DINNER IN ANNENBERG HALL
ON SATURDAY, THE 19TH OF MARCH, AT 6 P.M.
Hour Thirty-six (T Minus 18 Hours until Parental Departure): In which, after a day of attending various lectures and seminars, the students and visiting family members gather for dinner in Annenberg Hall.
Callie had awoken the following morning feeling sleepy, but also cautiously optimistic. As if the weather could read her mood, the sun was shining down on campus for what felt like the first time in months, melting small patches of snow. She and her father had attended several of the special seminars put on for Parents Weekend, including one hosted by her Econ professor, and then spent the rest of the afternoon wandering around Harvard Square. Her dad seemed to be having a great time and had even promised to wear the Harvard sweatshirt she’d purchased for him at the COOP “at least once” back home in California.
Now they were on their way to the Undergraduate Dean’s dinner in Annenberg. The dining hall staff had arranged the scuffed brown tables banquet-style: complete with white tablecloths, flowers, and candles. Outfitted in white shirts and black slacks, they stood ready to bring each course to the table (contrary to the usual buffet mode of service). Seating, subject to RSVP, had been assigned according to dormitory and entryway, so the residents of Wigglesworth, entryway C, floor two, plus parents would be sitting together—whether they liked it or not.
“Whew-whee,” Callie’s dad whistled, locating the place card that read Callie Andrews + One Guest. “This school sure is fancy.”
“It’s not always like this,” Callie protested as Matt sat down across the table to their left, followed by his parents.
“Yeah,” Matt agreed. “They’re just trying to impress you: normally they feed us dog food.”
“Matty!” said his mom, looking scandalized. “You don’t mean it!”
“Of course not, Mom.” He chuckled, catching Callie’s eye. “Sometimes there’s cat food, too.” Mrs. Robinson—of sock-label-sewing, care-package-sending fame (contents ranging from strawberry bubble bath to condoms)—actually reminded Callie a lot of her own mom, so she both liked her immediately but understood completely when certain utterances resulted in Matt’s total mortification.
Glancing down, she read the place card to her right: Vanessa Von Vorhees + One Guest.
Callie, who hadn’t had a chance to really talk to Vanessa since last night’s festivities, wondered if she were about to meet the man or the missus. Given that Vanessa had often referenced her dad’s tendency to work late back when she and Callie were friends, it seemed far more likely that if only one parent were coming, it would be the much-maligned “Housewife who made the cast of the Real Desperate look like ‘amateurs.’”
Oh no. Callie had been so busy worrying about who would be sitting next to her that she had neglected to read the name card upside-down and opposite her: Gregory pulled out the chair directly across from her and sat down with an empty seat on either side of him, presumably for his parents.
“Hello,” said her father, standing. “I don’t believe we’ve met. . . .”
“Gregory Bolton, Professor Andrews, sir,” said Gregory, reaching to grip his hand.
“Oh, please, call me Thomas,” Callie’s dad said, sitting. “Are you a friend of Matthew’s?”
“Yes,” said Gregory. “We live together, along with that guy,” he said, pointing down the table to where Adam was sitting with his parents across from Dana and her parents, “and that tall, ugly one up there,” he concluded, gesturing at OK.
OK’s head snapped up and he made a fist, pounding it against his palm. Then he turned back to Mimi’s mother and continued speaking in abysmal French: “En-Chant-Tay, Mad-eh-moselle. Je vou-drai, er, introduce-ay? Ah vous de mon parents, ici la . . .”
It was a sign of sheer stress that Mimi wasn’t laughing hysterically while he blathered on.
“And you must be Mr. Andrews,” Vanessa’s mom said, shaking hands with Callie’s father after she’d finally released his daughter. “I’m Linda Von Vorhees.”
“It’s Dr. Andrews, Mom,” Vanessa muttered, sinking into her seat.
“It’s Thomas,” Callie’s dad insisted.
“And you must call me Linda,” she said. “A doctor, did you say?” she added, leaning over Callie as they sat. Vanessa stared straight ahead.
“Er, professional math geek, actually,” Thomas Andrews replied, seeming to look more the part when he realized that he had the full attention of an attractive woman. (It didn’t happen very often, not because he wasn’t handsome in that absentminded, Russell-Crowe-in-A-Beautiful-Mind-minus-the-schizophrenia sort of way, but because it was such a rare occasion that he actually left the classroom.) Attractive, though not beautiful (like Mimi’s mother, who was currently gabbing to OK’s parents about Renee’s upcoming nuptials), was the right word for Linda Von Vorhees. She had Vanessa’s reddish blond hair (or at least the same highlights and stylist), a similar penchant for colorful designer clothing, and though smaller than Vanessa, she seemed less “anorexic” than her daughter had once described.
“He teaches mathematics at UCLA,” Callie supplied in response to Mrs. Von Vorhees’s confused expression.
“A college professor: how intriguing!” she cooed. “I didn’t finish college myself—ran off with Vee’s father when I was twenty-one and never looked back, what a mistake that was—but I’ve always wished . . .” She smiled.
“Well, it’s never too late to learn,” Thomas said cavalierly. Callie cringed, wondering if this were flirting, how she might go about confirming it as such, and if affirmative, if there was any way that it could be stopped.