The Ivy: Rivals

by Lauren Kunze

  “The funny thing is,” Callie continued disjointedly as if she hadn’t heard him, “that if you had been more creative in your choice of gifts, I never would have known that you lied to me. That she was in your room that night. That she was there long enough, and with reason enough, to take off her necklace—and who knows what else—and leave it on your bedside table where I later thought that maybe it was mine . . . until I realized mine had been in my room the entire time.” All this she said matter-of-factly and devoid of emotion, as if she were merely relaying the steps to solving a particularly uninteresting equation in economics section.

  “You’re right,” Clint murmured. “And I’m sorry. She did come over to my room that night—to talk. . . .”

  “Not about Vanessa,” Callie remarked flatly.

  “Not about Vanessa,” he echoed. “About what happened . . .” He sighed again, dragging his feet through the water. “About what happened at Gatsby.”

  Callie nodded slowly, gazing vacantly over the edge of the pool.

  “The thing you should know first of all is that during our—my—sophomore year, Gatsby was a real high point in the relationship with Lexi. We both have really fond memories of that night, and it was one of the first times that— Well, never mind, the point is that when you suddenly left, the memories sort of overtook me and we—she and I—well, we got sort of swept up in the moment. Now, I could sit here and tell you that I’d had too much to drink and that I felt responsible for keeping her company because Bolton had mysteriously vanished, too. . . .” He shook himself, as if to expel the sudden bitterness that had crept into his tone. “And none of that would be a lie, but the real truth is that when we were alone, I remembered how it used to be back when things were really good, before all the games and manipulation and constant fighting . . . back when I used to believe that we belonged together and that we would be together for . . . well, I guess, forever. And so . . . we kissed.”

  Callie continued staring straight ahead, forcing her face to stay slack.

  “I felt terrible the next day, and confused, but I knew the first thing I needed to do was talk to her and tell her that we—that I had made a huge mistake. And that if I was confused about my feelings that I needed to, at the very least, sort through them and figure out where we—I mean you and I—stood before anything else happened.”

  Callie nodded again.

  “When she came over, I told her that I still wanted to be with you, and that furthermore I wanted someone like you where things didn’t always feel so complicated and like I was constantly searching for a hidden agenda because the other person might not have my best interests at heart. I expected her to argue and to tell me that I didn’t know what I wanted, and that I was only kidding myself—like she’d done before, when we were in Vermont—but instead . . . she agreed with me. She said she finally understood and that in our time apart she had really thought about everything that had happened and knew what she’d done wrong. She claimed that she had changed now and that she wanted only what was best for me. . . .

  “And then, I don’t know: it’s like one minute we were on the verge of fighting and then the next minute . . .”

  Stopping for a second, he sighed.

  “In the morning I felt horrible. Honestly, worse than I’ve ever felt. She could tell and we immediately agreed that it was a mistake and that we should go back to being friends and pretend that nothing had ever happened.”

  Callie closed her eyes, thinking of the flash of silver on the bedside table and trying not to picture what had happened the night before. Lexi had probably left the necklace behind on purpose and had probably also planned the entire interaction ahead of time down to the minute, executing it flawlessly. Callie almost felt sorry for Clint, who clearly still failed to see, even after two years, how manipulative Lexi really was.

  “The next day we decided to keep our study date and proceed as we otherwise would have when everything was normal. But I kept it from you because I felt so guilty. And then in the library when she told me about you and Gregory, I snapped—I was sure she’d made it up and that everything she’d said about changing was also bullshit . . . so I left, certain she’d been trying to sabotage our relationship the entire time.”

  A derisive snort escaped Callie’s lips.

  “It was true about Gregory, though, wasn’t it?” he said quietly.

  Callie leaned back, propped up on her arms. “So you’re back together.”

  “I don’t know what we are. I do know that staying apart was harder than I thought it would be. But I’m still not sure if I believe people can really change. . . . Although maybe they can, if Bolton is any indication.” He chuckled ruefully. “All it took was the right girl—though granted she’s a total sweetheart and basically looks like a supermodel—and now he’s essentially whipped. A full one-eighty . . .”

  Callie was barely listening.

  Instead her thoughts kept returning to the necklace. How she might never have known who Clint really was if she hadn’t noticed Lexi wearing the same one. How he had clearly never known who she, Callie, really was, or else he might have chosen a different gift; rather than something fancy and expensive—i.e., perfect for Lexi—he might have picked something more thoughtful and personal, like tickets to hear one of her favorite authors do a reading. . . .

  Quickly she shoved the thought from her mind. Clint was still saying something, but after yawning pointedly, she interrupted.

  “So: were you really just going to let me walk away from this thinking it was mostly my fault for going crazy on you?” she asked. “Although I wasn’t really crazy, was I?” she added before he could answer. “I was right to be suspicious. There was something going on.”

  “You were right,” he agreed. “Though maybe also a little crazy.” He turned to her with the faintest hint of a smile, but seeing that she was not amused, he continued: “Once I knew that it was over between us anyway, I figured there was no point to hurting you any more than necessary. I suppose I just figured that what you didn’t know couldn’t hurt you.”

  Oh yes. She’d heard that one before. That’s exactly what Evan had said about secretly filming them while having sex. No need to draw the comparison out loud. Instead she said, “So you figured that it would hurt less to see you publicly making out in front of all of my friends?”

  “I said I was sorry,” Clint repeated. He did look sorry. But he also seemed to be tiring of saying it, on the brink of snapping that she wasn’t exactly innocent either—or maybe that was just the black eye reminding her who had given it to him and why. Although why exactly still remained unclear . . . Gregory had obviously thought she and Clint were still together and that he was defending her honor. Maybe that’s just what he did: randomly punching people like James Hoffmeyer for groping Vanessa and now Clint for cheating—or so he thought—in public.

  “Why did you lie?” she asked finally. “When I read your e-mails, I mean. Why not just explain everything then?”

  “At that point I wasn’t sure. I thought perhaps there was a chance that we could still work things out. And I figured that if I told you the truth, it would destroy that chance. It was selfish but . . .” He shrugged.

  “I understand,” she said shortly. And she did. After all, she too had kept secrets for similar reasons.

  “Thanks,” he said as she stood. “And thanks for listening.”

  Wordlessly, they began to walk back to her villa. When they were almost there, Clint added, “Maybe now we can . . . well, you know, one day . . .”

  Callie rounded on him. “I understand why you lied,” she repeated, “and maybe even why you did what you did. But that doesn’t mean I forgive you or that I’m interested in being friends.”

  Grimly Clint nodded. “I’ll do my best to stay out of your way then for the rest . . . of the trip.”

  “Likewise,” she said civilly, her hand poised above the handle on the sliding door. “Oh, and Clint?” she called as he turned to walk away.
<
br />   “Yes?”

  “I just wanted to say that . . . I wish you—both of you—the best.”

  Before he could respond, she stepped inside, pulling the glass and then the curtain shut behind her. With a tiny smile on her face she crept back to her bed, careful not to wake Vanessa, who had returned at some point in her absence. Wishing Clint and Lexi well had been rather mature, Callie decided. Especially because she had meant every word: for if they successfully reunited, she could imagine no greater punishment for Clint than having Lexi as a girlfriend.

  And thus utterly exhausted, Callie crawled back into bed, where she sank, almost immediately, into a mercifully dreamless sleep.

  From: Callie Andrews

  To: Jessica Marie Stanley

  Subject: Spring Nightmare: DAY TWO

  Dear my beloved and bestest long-lost friend,

  So I know I promised to call the second we landed on the island, but nobody has cell service anywhere. (Trust me, if it was possible, Vanessa would have figured it out by now—this morning I caught her with her iPhone literally trying to climb a palm tree!). Anyway, the resort is so isolated except for over a hundred Harvard people and a few random vacationers that it’s feeling a bit like Lost, only instead of crashing on a deserted island I actually chose to be here. (What was I thinking!? I should have taken Dana up on her offer to go build a church in South America with Habitat for Humanity. Local guerilla warfare probably would have been safer than this.)

  Why so miserable in “paradise,” you ask?

  Well, I have now not only been dumped but also humiliated—and in a very public manner. (Wait: are you noticing a trend here?!?) Last night Mimi and Vanessa dragged me to the one bar on the island (yes, you read that right, there is only one), where I saw Clint making out with The Bitch from Hell (i.e., Alexis Thorndike). Long story short: my previous suspicions involving the necklace/cheating incident have been confirmed, and Gregory, who I guess thought Clint and I were still together, punched Clint in the face because of what can only be described as a damsel-in-distress complex and is not, I repeat not specific to me, as you’ll recall the night he also saved Vanessa by punching some dude in the face—though maybe it’s just the punching, and not the saving part, that he likes. But I digress . . .

  WAIT! Before you write back saying “OMG, HE LOVES YOU!!!” or threatening to make T-shirts that say TEAM GREGORY (which, please, you’ve got to stop doing, because there are no “teams”—this is my life!), first let me tell you what happened next.

  In the morning after I talked to Clint (who shall henceforth be referred to as That Lying, Cheating Bastard—doesn’t that sound nice and dramatic and very nineteenth-century?) and he apologized/confessed(/whatever, moving on), I wanted to avoid the pool, and the beach, and pretty much every other human being on the island, so I grabbed a book and climbed into the hammock between our villa and the one next door. I must have been there for less than twenty minutes when Gregory came—holding the same book (I mean, duh, we’re in the same class, not really a coincidence)—and almost leaped into the hammock on top of me before he realized I was there. I will try to write what happened next like a scene so you get a sense.

  GREGORY: Oh, hey, sorry. Didn’t realize someone was in there.

  CALLIE: No worries. Oh, wow, your lip . . . Are you okay?

  GREGORY (gruffly, swatting away the hand that yours truly hadn’t even realized she’d been reaching out as if to touch his face): I’m fine.

  CALLIE: Fine, okay. Um . . . Thanks?

  GREGORY: For what?

  CALLIE: For last night.

  GREGORY (looking uncharacteristically embarrassed): I didn’t realize that you two had broken up. . . . Otherwise I wouldn’t have . . . (Runs hands through luscious, luscious dark brown hair, which, if I may digress again for a moment, is basically— Oh, wait. Okay, sorry. So he runs hands through hair, looking all tormented) I really shouldn’t have . . .

  CALLIE (quietly, trying—and probably failing miserably—to strike an attractive angle while lying awkwardly in the hammock): Well, I’m glad you did. I mean, not that I wanted you to get hurt—either of you . . . well, maybe Clint a little. He did cheat on me. Not last night but before . . .

  GREGORY: I wish I could say that surprises me, but from everything I know about their relationship . . . It seemed like one of those “can’t live with you, can’t live without you” type of things. She’s addicted to torturing him, and he’s addicted to the pain. They both feed on the drama and the crazy, even though they sometimes pretend otherwise. . . . (Shrugs. Looks embarrassed again: perhaps for speaking at such great length about relationships; perhaps just for speaking at such great length about anything.)

  CALLIE: Maybe you’re right. Anyway (picking up book, very smooth, very cool), I’m glad that it’s over. He wasn’t right for me. He seemed right, but in the end it was all wrong. Isn’t that funny? How wrong you can be about what you think is right for you and how wrong can sometimes be—(About to pull off very suave commentary full of subconscious—okay, maybe slightly conscious—meaning when loses balance in hammock. Hammock twists. Occupant does not fall—but book is not so lucky.)

  GREGORY (picking up book): I should go. (Does not move. Very contrary—very typical.)

  CALLIE: Oh?

  GREGORY: Alessandra . . . wouldn’t like it if she knew I was talking to you. Alone. Like this.

  CALLIE: Well, it’s not up to her to control who your friends are, is it?! (cries indignantly, yet secretly aware is “pulling a Clint,” i.e., using foolproof logic to justify complete sketchiness.) Long pause while GREGORY thinks and CALLIE wishes she could read minds.

  GREGORY (slowly shakes head): I meant what I said in the library, about wanting to be your friend . . . But I guess maybe I always knew that it was never . . . that we could never really be just . . .

  CALLIE sits on hands in hammock to avoid shaking the ends of his sentences out of him. Hands start to incur funny hammock-string-shaped prints. Suspects funny prints are probably unattractive, thus, continues to sit on hands.

  GREGORY (continuing): Anyway, Alessandra has been jealous ever since she found out about Harvard-Yale—

  CALLIE (almost toppling out of hammock again—mortification, total): Wait—she knows, too?!

  GREGORY: Yes. Ever since she went through my phone.

  CALLIE: Your phone?

  GREGORY: Yes. Like I said, she found some text messages that I . . . Oh. It’s not important. She got over it when I promised there was nothing going on and that there was zero chance of anything happening in the future. Except that now, after last night, she thinks . . .

  CALLIE: That you’re all obsessed with me again?

  GREGORY: Again? (Laughs—very loud, very obnoxious. Granted, word choice with “obsessed” may have been a bit bold. Whatevs.)

  CALLIE: You know what I meant!

  GREGORY: Yeah. (Devastating smile. Heroine manages to stay in hammock, just barely.) I really should go.

  CALLIE: So that’s it, then? Not even friends?

  GREGORY: (shaking his head) I was kidding myself to think I ever could be. Your friend.

  Exit: stage pool-side. Director’s note: whoever shall play GREGORY must play him shirtless for authenticity. (Did I mention the part where he is shirtless the entire time?)

  So! I should probably stick to journalism rather than play writing for the future, eh? But anyway, you get the gist. So now, as you can see, I’ve gone from what you kept insisting was a “love triangle” (it wasn’t, because I chose Clint, and Gregory was never even a real option!) to a big love ZERO. I can’t even claim either of them as friends. Oh well. Maybe it’s what I deserve.

  Okay, now you are fully updated, and it is time for me to stop obsessing and hiding in the villa and go back to hiding in the hammock! I will keep you posted on any further developments, though there shouldn’t be any, since I plan to stay on villa-hammock rotation for the remainder of the week.

  Miss you miss you MISS YOU SO MUCH, love
you, and I wish our breaks were at the same time!

  Cal (Not Ripken Jr.)

  From: Callie Andrews

  To: Jessica Marie Stanley

  Subject: Spring Nightmare: DAY FOUR

  Jess!

  Things are definitely looking up! 1) My skin is less translucent than when we arrived (can’t actually see the veins anymore—a miracle!); 2) No one has punched anyone else that I know of; 3) In my efforts to avoid the majority of my classmates I have talked the other occupants of Villa Whale into doing some pretty amazing* cultural things!

  Overall, I am starting to feel much more relaxed: almost like this is an actual vacation and not some form of self-inflicted torture! Or severance package—for getting dumped.

  I can picture the exact look on your face right now as you shake your head and shout “Culture shmulture—let’s get to the good stuff!” And so, before you reply to this e-mail insisting that I “stop holding back” and fill you in on “all the drama,” I’ll see what I can do here. . . .

  There has definitely been a lot of tension between the upper- and underclassmen. It is tough to keep track of who is avoiding who. Clint, as promised, is staying away from me, and I have yet to witness any further disturbing PDA between him and Alexis Thorndike (you were right in your last e-mail, BTW: she does not need any more nicknames, as Thorndike just sounds inherently evil!). But Clint also seems to be avoiding Gregory, or maybe it’s the other way around, and by extension, Alessandra is avoiding all the juniors, too, and the freshmen, or me at least, and Vanessa and Tyler seem to be going out of their way to run into each other so they can yell at each other about avoiding each other and accuse each other of orchestrating the interaction on purpose. It’s all very confusing.

  Last night, for example, the juniors and seniors had a barbecue at Villa Seashell, so we (most of the freshmen and some of the sophomores) went to Vick’s for what turned out to be Karaoke night. I actually sang a song with Vanessa (I guess that answers your question about whether or not we’ve been “hitting the bottle”), but luckily we only embarrassed ourselves in front of a small subset of fellow freshmen and several unfortunate locals who happened to be at the bar that night.