by Lauren Kunze
“No fair. Can’t you see how big and tall and strong we are—”
OK’s cries of outrage were silenced when Vanessa slammed the door. Giggling and copying Callie, she flung herself backward onto the bed. Staring up at the ceiling, they sighed.
“Hey,” Callie said a minute later, rolling onto her side and propping her chin up on one elbow. “If you don’t mind my asking . . . why exactly did you decide to break up with Tyler?”
“Solidarity, babe,” Vanessa said shortly, leaping up and flinging open her suitcase.
“No,” Callie remarked, watching her toss several colorful bikinis onto the bed. “Really?”
Vanessa laughed. “Not exactly . . . although the reason we started fighting on the way to the airport was because he refused to answer when I asked if he knew anything about the . . . ah . . . you-know-what situation involving you-know-who and, uh, yeah . . .” She wrinkled her nose, flinching at the expression on Callie’s face. “Sorry,” Vanessa muttered. “Here, hold this for a sec,” she added, tossing a gold lamé bathing-suit-like contraption onto Callie’s lap.
“What . . . is this?” Callie inquired, holding it up. “A . . . bathing suit?”
“Of course,” Vanessa snapped, “You just can’t get it wet is all.”
“Oh,” said Callie, setting it aside and walking over to her own suitcase to retrieve her single black bikini. (Yes, she owned more than one, but her mother had laughed almost to the point of tears when she had tried to pack all seven for college—insisting that Callie stick her hand inside the freezer before pulling up the Cambridge weather forecast.)
Vanessa slipped into one of her many suits and sighed. “If you really wanna know,” she said, “the reason I broke up with Tyler is because I ran out of feather dusters.” Pausing, she frowned. “Meaning—”
“Actually, I think I already know,” said Callie, pulling on a pair of shorts over her bikini. “Hot pink, about yay long, and a very clever excuse not to spend the night because the room was too filthy, am I right?”
“Yep,” said Vanessa. “That about sums it up!”
Callie came over and sat next to her on the bed. “He wasn’t the one?”
Vanessa shrugged.
“He couldn’t stop hinting at how big the king-size beds are over in Villa Seashell?”
“Exactly!” said Vanessa, clapping a hand on Callie’s knee. “Besides, spring break isn’t the time for a boyfriend! It’s a time for romance, and adventure, and random encounters with the non-English-speaking cabana boys. . . . Though, a word to the wise: if you are going to end it with someone at the airport, do it on the arriving, rather than the departing side, i.e., before you embark on a multi-hour plane ride.”
“I will keep that in mind,” Callie said, slapping her disguise— ahem, hat and sunglasses—back on. “Now let’s get our newly single butts to the pool!”
“That’s the spirit,” Vanessa chirped, pleased that Callie appeared to have internalized her lecture on changing their mind sets from Depressed and Dumped to Single and Fabulous. “Oh, Mimi!” she cried as she and Callie strolled out into the living room.
“To the pool?” Mimi asked, lifting an enormous stack of trashy magazines.
“To the pool!” Vanessa cried. And then, arm in arm, they slipped through the sliding glass doors, making their way to some lounge chairs near the ocean and (what a coincidence!) far, far away from Villa Seashell, in search of scandals (Mimi), sexy cabana boys (Vanessa), and solitude (Callie).
After several hours of sunning followed by a light, late dinner at one of the resort’s three restaurants (so late in fact that the restaurant had been nearly empty—imagine that!), the girls, along with Matt and OK, were making their way to the one bar within walking distance of the resort: “Vick’s Beach Bar & Nightclub.” Apparently Vick’s compensated for being the only nightlife option available by rotating through various themes: Sports Night, Karaoke, Trivia, Dance Club, Discotheque, and so forth.
Tonight happened to be—much to Callie’s chagrin as they trudged through the sand and then up the rickety wooden staircase to where the bar stood on a stone outcropping jutting over the beach and suspended high above the water—Tiki night. The Caribbean theme evoked memories of Calypso: the first big party she had attended at Harvard, which also happened to be the first night she had met Clint.
“Now, remember,” said Vanessa as they stood outside the building’s front doors, flanked by palm trees and two flaming tiki torches, “single and fabulous. Repeat it with me now: single . . . and fabulous.”
“Single and fabulous,” Callie muttered, wondering if Vanessa had considered a career as a motivational speaker.
Mimi rolled her eyes. “More like sober and frustrated,” she amended, grabbing Matt and OK and pushing through the doors. Callie glanced behind her down the staircase from whence they’d come, but before she could open her mouth to explain how she was really very jet-lagged and not in a party mood, Vanessa grabbed her and cried: “Oh, no you don’t!” before yanking her into the bar.
Callie recognized the faces of many of her fellow classmates clustered among the locals and other vacationers on the crowded dance floor lined with sand. Outside, more people stood on a large wraparound deck overlooking the water, the huge yellow moon looming low above the waves.
“See?” Vanessa cried over the sound of reggaeton, a popular form of Latin dance music. “Not so bad, right?”
Callie shrugged, her eyes flicking over the couples dancing closely or laughing in larger groups, tropical drinks in hand. OK and Matt had already latched on to a gaggle of young girls who looked like locals and who seemed to be greatly impressed by their considerable heights. One extremely fresh-faced girl appeared to have taken a particular liking to Matt, hanging on his every word.
“Let’s go grab some drinks and then hit the dance flo— Oh.” Vanessa stopped suddenly, wheeling Callie in the opposite direction. “Changed my mind!” she cried hurriedly.
“Wha—”
“Piña coladas have so many calories,” Vanessa interrupted her. “Why don’t we just go outside instead?” Now her roommate was practically pushing Callie toward the back balcony.
“Vanessa,” she started, “what is going—”
Oh. One of the couples who had looked particularly intimate over in a dark corner on the other side of the room, and who some, in fact, might describe as glued together—particularly at the lips and hips—suddenly grew recognizable as Callie’s eyes adjusted to the dim light.
Alexis Thorndike. Soon to be rechristened Thorndike-Weber, from the way Clint was kissing her, pressed up against the wall like there was no tomorrow. Actually, make that: no five minutes from now.
Callie barely felt Vanessa’s hand on her shoulder while her roommate murmured something about stepping outside. It was one thing to know—to realize as she left the Pudding the night of Leather & Lace—that Clint had lied to her: that Lexi had been in his room, and had left her necklace behind. But it was quite another to have the hitherto unconfirmed suspicions shoved suddenly in front of her face—in front of nearly everyone she knew from school, no less.
Callie . . . Callie . . . Vanessa’s cries seemed to echo from some faraway place. Absentmindedly Callie swatted away the hand beckoning her to move and continued to stare: as if the longer she stared, the more what was unfolding in front of her might start to make sense.
Yet, no matter how hard she squinted or tilted her head, nothing made sense anymore. Clint insisting he was over Lexi. Lexi behaving with such reckless abandon in public. Was it the tropical climate? Or had their reunion always been bound to happen, written in the cards dealt their freshman year: predestined, unavoidable, fated? Maybe Lexi had known all along and merely acted to expedite the inevitable: forcing Callie to stay away from Clint and then break up with him, promising that their relationship was no more than a “fling,” that Clint was completely wrong for her, and that Lexi was sparing her the pain of finding that out the “hard way.”
Was he ever really mine? Callie wondered. Did she even know him at all—this person pressed up against her mortal enemy?
All of sudden she could no longer breathe. Doubled over at the waist, she let Vanessa lead her outside. Then, rushing to the railing, Callie leaned over the wood, hyperventilating. A breeze billowed off the ocean and dark waves tossed against the sand, but Callie failed to notice, her vision now completely blurred.
“Is she okay?” a male voice called, coming closer, followed by footsteps and the smell of tobacco.
“Gregory, I really think we should mind our own business—”
That had to be Alessandra, trailing at his heels, but Callie didn’t bother to look: leaning over the railing and dry heaving despite being stone-cold sober.
“What’s wrong?” the voice—Gregory’s—repeated. Quiet, insistent.
“It’s that jerk-faced a-hole,” Vanessa muttered in reply. “He’s inside . . . with Lexi,” she added, patting Callie on the back.
“With Lexi what?” Gregory demanded.
“Gregory!” Alessandra’s voice was higher now and louder. “This isn’t any of our—”
“Procreating.” Vanessa snorted ruefully. “Or practically, anyway. Oh—jeez—I’m sorry, I’m an idiot,” she murmured, realizing she’d sent Callie collapsing into a fresh gale of sobs. “Look, I’m not really sure your being here is help—”
“Where?” Gregory’s voice had gone low and dangerous. “Inside? Now? In front of her?”
“Gregory, what are you—”
“Wait!” Vanessa interrupted Alessandra, whose hands Gregory had just thrown off his retreating back. “They’re not together anymore; they br— Shit. Shit!” she yelled. Clearly he hadn’t heard a word, already inside and halfway across the dance floor.
Pulling herself together, Callie turned just in time to see Alessandra running after him, cursing under her breath. “What—”
Vanessa spread one hand over her eyes and groaned. “I think we may be in for Mad Hatter’s: Spring Break edition.”
“What!” Callie cried, wiping her cheeks.
“Come on,” Vanessa said warily, grabbing Callie’s hand and pulling her back inside.
Total chaos appeared to have broken loose:
The music had stopped.
A large circle had formed around the dance floor.
Gregory stood in one corner, struggling against the restraining grips of Matt, OK, and another freshman guy. Blood gushed from his lip, but he appeared not to notice, fighting for his freedom so he could presumably take another crack at Clint.
Tyler stood in front of Clint in the opposite corner, one palm planted firmly against his chest, the other gripping his shoulder. He was whispering fiercely at Clint, who had one hand clapped over his left eye and kept shaking his head and pointing at Gregory.
Both boys were shouting, but it was difficult to decipher the words over the sounds of Alessandra’s and Alexis’s screams, rising above a chorus of other taunts and cries:
“Hit him again!”
“Should we call the cops?”
“Somebody get the hose!”
“GET HIM OUT OF HERE!” a man who looked like the manager—or was perhaps Vick himself—ordered Matt and OK. Quickly they hustled Gregory to the door.
“Wait!” Callie and Vanessa heard Alessandra scream as she rushed past them to intercept Gregory. They could no longer hear her by the time she caught up with him just outside the door, but they could see her continuing to gesticulate wildly, tilting her head toward Clint—and then Callie, her full lips moving rapidly all the while.
Guiltily Callie turned away.
Clint had sat in a chair at one of the small tables, his hand still clutching his face while Tyler hovered over him. Slowly, from across the room, his unobstructed eye locked on Callie. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking—if he blamed her for what had just happened, or felt remorseful, or guilty, or none of the above. Personally, she felt torn between the urge to ask if he was okay, or to march over and inform him that he had gotten what he deserved, to turn on her heel and leave, or demand an explanation about what exactly was going on—and had been going on—between him and Lexi . . .
Speak of the devil, there she was: materializing by his side with a cloth full of ice, which she pressed against his eye, kneeling next to him. The expression on her face registered more calm than concerned, like a person who knew herself to be in complete control of a situation.
Clint broke away from Callie’s gaze and smiled down at Lexi, his hand wrapped around her pale wrist as she continued nursing his eye.
A white hot surge of rage rippled through Callie, following shortly by a sweeping sadness. Confused, she stood rooted to the spot, unresponsive to whatever Vanessa had been saying.
Suddenly Tyler stood in front of them. “Callie,” he started. “I’m so sorry, but I don’t think now is the best time—”
“To what?” Vanessa interjected. “We’re just standing here! It’s a free country, you know.”
“I was simply going to suggest that we all give this some space to blow over,” Tyler protested, shifting uncomfortably. “And that maybe—”
“Who’s ‘we’?” Vanessa demanded. “We,” she said, gesturing between she and Callie, “didn’t do anything wrong. They, on the other hand,” she continued, pointing at Lexi and Clint, “are a different story.”
“Vanessa,” Callie murmured quietly, “I’m gonna . . .” she gestured toward the door.
“Hang on just a sec, I’ll leave with you,” Vanessa said before turning back to Tyler. “Now, exactly whose side are you on?”
“I’m not on any side here except Clint’s!” Tyler said. “And I’m going to support him with whatever he decides to do!”
“Oh!” Vanessa retorted, her voice rising, “Sure, pick your scumbag friend over your girlfriend, that’s just great—typical! So. Typical!”
Completely forgotten, Callie slipped away unnoticed as Tyler moved within inches of Vanessa’s face. “I don’t know what girlfriend you’re talking about since mine broke up with me on the way to the airport!”
“Well, I suppose you’d rather be off making out with the first person you happen to see just like your roommate over there—”
Callie almost laughed as the crowd closed around the former (?) couple and their voices faded abruptly. Almost.
In a few short minutes she had made it down the stairs, across the beach, up the stone path winding around the pool, and back to Villa Whale. Without bothering to turn on the light or remove her cotton dress, she stepped out of her shoes and crawled between the cool white sheets of the bed in the room she shared with Vanessa. Pulling the covers all the way over her head, she closed her eyes and prayed that somehow, miraculously, by the time she awoke the break would be over and the nightmare finally at an end.
“Bluuughhhhhh . . .” Callie moaned, rolling over in bed. The room was still pitch-black; the clock on the wicker nightstand read 4:04 A.M. Bleary-eyed, she glanced at Vanessa’s bed: empty. Hmm . . . That’s odd. . . .
Suddenly she shot straight up.
A light rapping had just sounded from the other end of the room, near the sliding glass doors that led, like the pair in the living room, outside to the swimming pool.
Rap, rap, rap—the noise came again, louder this time.
Was Vanessa locked out?
Or had Gregory come to explain why he’d gone all Chuck Norris on Clint’s face?
Jumping out from under the covers, she tiptoed over to the doors and threw back the light blue curtains.
Clint stood outside. His hands were jammed in his pockets, his black eye now in full bloom.
“Could we talk?” he mouthed through the glass.
Callie glared at him, her lips pressed together.
He held up five fingers and mouthed, “Five minutes? Please?”
Shaking her head, Callie unlatched the door and pushed it open.
“What do you want?” she whispered.
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“Can we talk?” he repeated.
“It’s four in the morning.” She folded her arms.
“I wanted to explain and, uh . . .” He looked at the ground. “To apologize.”
She stared at him for a moment, deciding.
“All right,” she said finally, stepping outside. This ought to be good.
They walked in silence, stopping at the edge of the pool. The moon had long since departed, but yellow lights shone from under the water, and in little lanterns dotting the paths, walkways, and small footbridges over the narrower sections of the swimming pool. The air felt warm, and Callie plopped onto the ground without invitation, dangling her still bare feet in the water. Clint followed her lead, sitting down beside her and sliding off his loafers.
Under different circumstances it might have been terribly romantic.
As it was, Callie sat silently, skimming her toes on the surface of the water and waiting.
Clint eventually sighed. “I’m sorry . . . about what you saw tonight.”
Callie said nothing.
“I know it’s only technically been about twenty-four hours since we broke up, though the problems really started several weeks ago. But still . . . I know you must be feeling that after everything that’s been said I’ve acted somewhat hypocritically. . . .”
Callie waited until his rambling petered off and he gave up walking the fine, infuriating line between justification and apology. Staring off into the distance at the dark mass that was the ocean, she said, “I may be young, and I may be naive, and maybe you were even right when you said I lack the maturity necessary for a serious relationship. . . . But one thing I’m not is stupid.” She turned to face him. “I know.”
“You know what?” he said, feigning innocent confusion.
“I know that you and Lexi didn’t rekindle things starting tonight. I know it goes back a lot longer. Maybe even to your freshman year—maybe it was never really over.” She knew that now she was rambling. Frowning, she curled her feet, causing a small splash in the water below.
“I really did think it was over,” Clint said, tugging a hand through his hair. “I truly, sincerely believed that it would never . . . that we would never . . .”