by Lauren Kunze
“We have people working round the clock to discover if Mr. Bolton’s personal financial crisis is in any way connected to the current predicament facing the rest of the firm,” says Chapham of the SEC. “The most important thing right now is to ensure that the state of one man’s personal affairs does not cause a widespread panic among investors at his hedge fund or other hedge funds located in the state of New York.”
“We can’t believe this is happening after all the other hedge-fund-related fraud this year,” said another SEC official, who wished to remain anonymous. “The lesson is if the trading algorithm seems too good to be true, it is too good to be true.”
Only time will tell if Mr. Bolton and his family will be the singular casualties of his bankruptcy filings.
“This can’t be happening,” Callie murmured, barely understanding what she had read. “I mean, it has to be a joke or something—”
“Some joke,” OK muttered.
“He did mention problems with his dad,” she continued vaguely, “but I thought . . . had no idea . . . So, he really didn’t say anything to you, Alessandra?” she asked, raising her voice. “About this or—um—anything else before he left?”
Alessandra shook her head.
“I have to call him,” Callie said, standing. “Make sure that he’s okay. . . .”
“You don’t think that we already thought of that?” Alessandra said acidly, glaring at her.
OK nodded grimly. “I’ve already dialed his cell about a billion times.”
Crap, thought Callie. Worry was quickly evolving into panic. Forcing a deep breath, she pulled out her phone. “It can’t hurt just to try,” she murmured. Maybe, for her, he would answer.
Fingers shaking, she dialed his number. Her romantic concerns felt petty and irrelevant now—all she cared about was whether he was all right and that he knew she would be there for him through whatever happened next, in whatever capacity—friend, girlfriend—that he needed.
The line rang and rang.
Nobody picked up. Then the automated recording started instructing her to leave a voice mail, but suddenly, halfway through, she heard the familiar beep of Call Waiting.
Oh, thank god.
“Gregory? Gregory,” she exclaimed. “We were all so worr—”
“Callie. It’s Grace.” The newspaper editor’s voice crackled over the line.
“Grace? What—”
“Where are you?” Grace demanded.
“In Wigglesworth . . .” Callie said slowly. From Grace’s tone something sounded severely wrong. Well, something was severely wrong, but even if Grace knew about Gregory, why would she contact Callie? She didn’t even know Gregory or that he and Callie were semi-involved—
“Wigglesworth!” Grace exclaimed. “You were supposed to be here ten minutes ago!”
Oh, crap. Between unpacking from spring break and everything else that had happened in the past few hours, Callie must have completely forgotten some important Crimson business.
“Grace, I’m so sorry,” she started, motioning apologetically to OK and Alessandra that she had to leave. “I’ll come back as soon as I can,” she whispered to them, covering the mouthpiece of her phone. Alessandra looked like never would also be perfectly acceptable, but OK gave her a grateful wave before she walked out the door. “Just give me two minutes,” she continued speaking to Grace, “and I’ll meet you over there at the Crimson.”
“The Crimson?” Grace screeched. “No, just come straight to University Hall. I’m already here—like I said, the meeting was supposed to start ten minutes ago!”
“What meeting?” Callie asked, stopping in her tracks. “What about University Hall?”
There was a pause on the other end of the line. “You didn’t see the e-mail, did you?” Grace said quietly.
“No,” said Callie, opening the door to C 24. “I was at an emergency meeting for the Pudding all morning because of the latest Insider article. . . .” Quickly Callie walked into her bedroom and clicked on her laptop.
“Yeah, well, your Pudding friends weren’t the only ones who decided that the latest installment from the Insider caused a bit of an emergency,” Grace snapped. “The administrative board also noticed, and they summoned both of us to appear before them in a meeting at noon. Which was now . . . twelve minutes ago.”
Her eyes wide, Callie skimmed the e-mail at the top of her in-box that was indeed from the administrative board, summoning her to a mandatory meeting in University Hall at noon.
“But . . . why me?” Callie cried, wondering if everything that had happened in the last half hour was all just part of some crazy nightmare. In a daze she pinched her arm. No luck: she still stood in front of her computer, her bed neatly made.
“Just get over here,” Grace said. “We’ll be waiting.”
Then the line went dead.
“Ms. Andrews, thank you for joining us today,” Dean of Harvard College, Phillip A. Benedict, boomed from the head of a rectangular table in a conference room in University Hall. Callie had never met him in person, but she recognized him from his photograph in the brochure for Freshman Parents Weekend. A man and a woman sat on either side of him, wearing suits and looking stone-faced and severe, while Grace was at the other end of the table closest to the door. Obeying Dean Benedict’s gesture that she should sit, Callie took the chair next to her managing editor.
“I was just explaining to Ms. Lee,” the dean continued, “what a grave situation we have on our hands here with this most recent column from the person who calls herself the, ah, ‘Ivy Insider,’” he said, waving a printout of the article. “The author of this article has, to my mind, clearly crossed an ethical line—would you agree, Ms. Lee?”
Grace shifted in her chair. “Free speech protection ought to allow any member of this campus to express an opinion—or fact—about social clubs or any other aspect of Harvard life. . . .” Grace shifted again. “But in cases similar to this one where an article has reported harsh remarks aimed at an individual student, the Crimson has generally adhered to a precedent of redacting names for the sake of protecting student privacy.”
Dean Benedict nodded thoughtfully. “And yet you, as managing editor, who had to approve this article before it was published to your new online section of the school paper, the FlyBy Blog, did not see fit to redact the names of specific students in these circumstances. Why?”
Grace swallowed. “I admit I made a very serious error in judgment by allowing the article to be published unedited.”
The woman sitting next to Dean Benedict cleared her throat. “I’ll say. We’re lucky no one has filed harassment charges—yet. This is a gross and egregious violation of student privacy. What’s worse is that it seems clear to me that you could have easily removed those names without interfering with the nature and spirit of the article.”
Grace nodded, staring down at the table. “I agree. The inclusion of the names was unacceptable, and I mistakenly allowed a personal bias to interfere with the professional duty with which I have been entrusted. . . . And yet, I would like to note that it is still my firm belief that the student body and the administration have a right to know what goes on inside these private institutions and to form a judgment about what I think we can all agree are questionable practices, from gender discrimination to elitism to hazing to—”
The man on the other side of the dean was shaking his head. “These institutions that you are referring to are all private organizations unaffiliated with the university, in contrast to our charter organizations like the Crimson, which we have a duty to regulate and, in cases such as these when a potentially harmful incident has occurred, discipline as we see fit.”
Callie hadn’t dared to move during the entire exchange, wondering what on earth was going on but, above all, why she was here. From what she gathered, Grace was in a lot of trouble for approving the Insider article because of the nasty comments about specific individuals in the Pudding. If that was the case, Callie couldn’t help but agr
ee with the administrators: there was absolutely no need for the Insider to publish such malicious remarks for the entire school to see even though the members of the Pudding had written them in the first place. The article could have achieved the exact same effect without sending Penelope into tears or Vanessa running around the common room demanding to know who had called her a “leech.”
However, while Grace may be partially responsible, wasn’t the Insider the true culprit?
And again, if the Insider is to blame, then why am I here?
“Um, I’m sorry to . . . uh, change the subject,” Callie piped up suddenly. “But I’m not exactly sure . . . um . . . well, why am I here—exactly?”
She was met with three blank faces from across the table, but Grace turned to her as if Callie had just thrown her under the bus.
Callie stared back at Grace. “You didn’t . . . Did you tell them—that I had something to do with this?”
“Callie . . .” Grace started.
“But I have nothing to do with this!” she repeated, addressing the board.
“Callie,” Grace said again. “I’m sorry, but they already know. . . .”
“How—how could you say that?” Callie demanded, rounding on her. “I already told you when you asked me months ago that it wasn’t me! I’m not the Insider!”
“Ms. Andrews,” Dean Benedict interceded smoothly, “in situations like these it is within our rights as a disciplinary committee to requisition all log-in records from any university-owned computer. Your log-in name is a match for the date and time of every article posted by the Insider.”
“That’s . . . but that’s . . . impossible. . . .”
“I’m afraid this case may go beyond a simple violation of student privacy,” Dean Benedict continued. “While we might not have charges of libel or defamation on our hands, legal action could be brought for violating what is known as the tort of ‘False Light,’ which is intended to protect a person’s mental or emotional well-being after another person enacts a public disclosure of private facts or information that is not of public concern and would prove damaging or offensive to a reasonable individual. Though, with all that said, defamation charges are still not outside the realm of possibility . . . and, as my colleague mentioned, while as of right now no student has lodged a formal complaint, many of the comments published may constitute harassment under our codes of conduct in the Harvard University Student Handbook. . . .
“Ms. Andrews? Ms. Andrews, are you listening? Do you have anything to say regarding these allegations? Ms. Andrews!”
Callie blinked. “I . . . I don’t have anything to say . . . because I didn’t do it. I am not the author of those articles, despite what any log-in records may have led you to believe.”
Dean Benedict sighed and peered at her over the rims of his glasses. “Ms. Andrews, I have to say that based on the present facts, you may be hard-pressed to prove your innocence. However, given that there is no precedent for interpreting and applying the rules and standards of conduct of the college in this circumstance, we are turning the matter of your discipline over to the Student-Faculty Judicial Board, which will hear your case sometime in the coming months. You will have the opportunity to defend yourself at that time and otherwise present your case. As of right now, however, you are on academic probation and suspended from COMP indefinitely.”
Callie gaped at him. How was this happening?
“And Ms. Lee,” he continued, “you will be removed as managing editor and will remain on the paper in an exclusively advisory capacity pending a further ruling from the board.”
Callie turned to Grace, who was staring vacantly straight ahead.
“Your replacement for the interim should be here any minute. . . .” said the dean. “Ah, there she is right now.”
“Sorry I’m late,” a voice said suddenly from over their shoulders.
Slowly Callie turned to look. By the time she rotated fully in her chair she was white as a sheet despite her recent tan.
“Dean Benedict, so nice to see you again,” Alexis Thorndike said sweetly, taking a seat. “So, what’d I miss?”
Acknowledgments
Many thanks again to all the usual suspects: the staff at Greenwillow Books, the Stimola Literary Studio, friends and family, and, above all, my mom, Susan Adler, who has supported me in countless ways, from listening to three-hour monologues about subplots to reminding me to eat. Third installments can be tricky, but your edits and encouragement made it possible. Lastly, a huge thanks to you, reader, for coming this far with Callie—your enthusiasm for the series means the world to me.
About the Author
LAUREN KUNZE and RINA ONUR were roommates and best friends for all four years at Harvard. They graduated in 2008. They started collaborating on this book when they were juniors. They refuse to say how much of it is true.
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Credits
Jacket illustration © Jonathan Hill/iStock
Lauren Kunze photo © 2010 by Scott Fitzgerrell
Rina Onur photo © 2010 by Gözde Otman
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used to advance the fictional narrative. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
The Ivy: Rivals
Copyright © 2012 by Lauren Kunze
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Kunze, Lauren.
Rivals / Lauren Kunze with Rina Onur.
p. cm. — (The Ivy ; v. 3)
“Greenwillow Books.”
Summary: Callie Andrews has looked forward to this semester but Lexi is still after her, boyfriend Clint wants her back but Gregory has decided to fight for her, Vanessa still has not forgiven her, and working on the Harvard Crimson is taking a toll, causing Callie to yearn for spring break.
ISBN 978-0-06-196049-9 (trade bdg.)
[1. Universities and colleges—Fiction. 2. Roommates—Fiction. 3. Interpersonal relations—Fiction. 4. Dating (Social customs)—Fiction. 5. Journalism—Fiction.] I. Onur, Rina. II. Title.
PZ7.K94966Riv 2012 [Fic]—dc23 2011029169
12 13 14 15 16 LP/RRDH 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
First Edition
Epub Edition © FEBRUARY 2012 ISBN: 9780062099327
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