The Ivy

by Lauren Kunze

  “I know, right?” said Vanessa. “Now, come on,” she added, linking their arms. “Let’s go get active!”

  Callie spent the next twenty minutes enjoying Vanessa’s keen “social commentary.”

  At a table for the Harvard Business Club: “Those are the banker boys, and we call those their Crackberries!” Vanessa said, pointing out the young men in suits and their pet BlackBerries.

  At the Harvard International Club, where girls dressed in colorful hijab danced to exotic Middle Eastern music: “Don’t sign up—you might as well be signing your name to the No Fly List.”

  “Vanessa, isn’t that a little—”

  “No, seriously, they fax the sign-up sheet straight to the CIA!”

  Across the way at Women in Business, after Vanessa had grabbed a cupcake from a metallic tin on the table: “See how they’re positioned directly across from the Harvard Business Club? Yeah, this club’s not real. It’s a front for a covert dating service,” she decided, watching the girls in pink lipstick and heels recline in their lawn chairs.

  Callie laughed. “Seriously,” she agreed, noting that three of them wore bikini tops. “Do you think they know the difference between the NASDAQ and a strawberry daquiri?”

  “Oooh—good one,” said Vanessa.

  They passed booths for Intramural/Club Teams (“High school athletes from small towns who weren’t good enough to get recruited, even by the Ivy League,” Vanessa explained), the Harvard Lampoon (“Imagine fifty Woody Allens together in a room!”), and the Advocate, a literary magazine, where emaciated men were loitering around in tiny shirts and jeans tighter than Vanessa’s J Brands. (“Give it up, Callie,” Vanessa instructed, misinterpreting her roommate’s interest in the magazine as interest in its members. “They’re much more likely to be into their own deep, existential pain—or each other.”)

  Off in the distance Callie spotted Gregory standing near a table advertising the Harvard squash team, smoking a cigarette like it was the only antidote to an otherwise excruciating boredom.

  Who does that? Callie wondered irritably. Serious athletes don’t smoke!

  She looked around, searching, perhaps, for the coach who was letting him get away with it. Instead she found someone else: “Foxy McFoxerson,” standing right next to Gregory and smiling while he encouraged others to sign up.

  They made quite a pair, and Callie took an involuntary step toward them. Vanessa grabbed her arm and started whispering fervently in her ear.

  Apparently Callie wasn’t the only one interested in racket sports.

  “Gregory Brentworth Bolton is the sexiest man alive,” Vanessa gushed. “Did you see him carrying his boxes the other day? Shirtless? Wow. I love him. I know I say that about everyone, but in this case I mean it. I seriously, seriously love him.” Vanessa blew a long sigh through pursed lips.

  “He’s definitely cute,” Callie admitted, “but he seems like such an asshole.”

  “Yeah . . . a sexy asshole.” Apparently in Vanessa’s mind this was an additional attribute. “Our dads used to work together at Goldman Sachs, but Gregory and I never actually had a chance to meet. And now he’s living next door—it’s destiny, don’t you think?”

  “Uh—sure.” Callie nodded, wondering why she was suddenly feeling so irritated.

  “It gets even better,” Vanessa continued, beaming with delight. “I Googled all of our neighbors, and it looks like Oke-Chihuahua, or however you say it, is some sort of Nigerian royalty. I couldn’t find anything on the other two, but maybe they’ll surprise us!”

  Speaking of “the other two,” Callie noticed Matt standing to their left at a table decorated with a huge, impressive banner: THE HARVARD CRIMSON.

  “Ick, school paper,” Vanessa muttered, but Callie was barely listening. At the table immediately adjacent, a sign—glossy black with white lettering—caught her eye: FIFTEEN MINUTES MAGAZINE. A large group of freshmen clustered in front of the table, overseen by a girl with alabaster skin and thick, chestnut curls. She smiled, glowing like the sun: the center of the universe as they orbited around her.

  Vanessa was quick to supply some further information: “That’s Alexis Thorndike,” she whispered in a deferential tone tinged with what sounded strangely like fear. “She’s a junior, grew up in Greenwich, Connecticut, and is a board member of every club or organization that you could possibly imagine. She is also five feet seven inches tall, hates seafood, and refuses to sleep on anything less than five hundred thread count sheets.”

  “How do you know all this?” Callie asked, whispering, too, in spite of herself.

  “Facebook. Now, listen carefully: if she likes you, the doors to Harvard’s social scene will open with welcoming arms, but if you get on her bad side . . .” Vanessa’s eyes widened as if the thought were too unbearable to be spoken aloud. Callie wanted to laugh, but as she gazed at Alexis, she couldn’t help but feel strange stirrings of apprehension and awe.

  “Let’s sign up,” she urged, rushing to join the line.

  “What? But I hate writing—I suck at it!” Vanessa protested, trailing behind her nevertheless.

  “That may be”—Callie shrugged—“but you never know until you try.” (Translation: I’m too afraid to sign up alone.)

  “You know what?” said Vanessa, starting to nod. “This could be an excellent opportunity to meet some new people.” (Translation: I accept you as my interim friend on the way to bigger and better things.)

  The girls exchanged a saccharine smile as they stood waiting to add their names to the list.

  Ten minutes later Callie and Vanessa were following a mob of people headed toward Annenberg, their freshmen dining hall. After standing in line forever and enduring a series of awkward introductions, finally they stepped inside.

  The dining hall was huge: it could easily seat over a thousand people. High ceilings and stained glass windows gave the impression that they were entering a great British-style hall. Callie recognized no one.

  Vanessa excused herself and headed over to the counter where they kept the vegetarian options—her self-proclaimed “diet strategy” of the week. (“But I do care about the animals, too. When I was twelve my pet bunny and I were really very close.”)

  Suddenly alone, Callie grabbed a tray and filled it with lumpy, colorless food. Not for the first time in the past several days, she missed her mother. Especially her cooking.

  Returning to the seating area, she scanned the room, searching for Vanessa. She was surprised to see that, just like in high school, all the football guys were sitting together flinging food at one another with their forks and completely unaware that they were being imitated by the theater people seated nearby.

  To her right she spied Matt with some students she assumed had also signed up for The Harvard Crimson. A few tables farther off, Mimi, looking miserable, sat surrounded by other internationals. Straight ahead, Callie spotted Gregory with some of the other kids who came from New York City. Several girls sat nearby, leaning over and interrupting one another to attract his attention. They must be who Vanessa had referred to as the “Jewish American Queens,” or JAQs (because Jewish American Princesses go to Princeton, Vanessa had explained). Callie stared for a moment, taking in their patterned wool skirts, matching blazers, and pearls.

  Are they for real with those outfits? she wondered incredulously. After all, it was one thing to enjoy Gossip Girl (ironically, of course) but quite another to emulate it in the dining hall.

  Callie was making her way toward an empty table when she noticed Vanessa on the fringe of this group of her prep school peers. They seemed to be ignoring her. In fact, it looked as if Vanessa was about to fall off the end of the table.

  Suddenly she glanced in Callie’s direction. Callie smiled and began walking forward, raising her hand in a wave. Vanessa looked straight at her and then, to Callie’s surprise, rotated in her seat: her back facing Callie as if she hadn’t seen her. Except that Callie was certain she had.

  What a bitch!

/>   Quickly Callie glanced at Matt’s group again, but there was nowhere to sit. Making her way across the room, she chose a table near the wall, as far away from the traitor as possible.

  In a moment she was joined by Dana, whom she hadn’t even noticed lurking behind her. Grateful for the company, Callie tried to smile. Unfortunately the gesture was lost on Dana, whose head was bowed in prayer.

  Dana might be strange, Callie thought as Dana began to eat in silence, but she was not obtuse. Callie knew they shouldn’t have ditched her before the Activities Fair.

  Callie sighed. How would she ever manage to fit in at Harvard when she couldn’t even figure out where to sit in the dining hall?

  “So . . . sign up for any cool activities?” Callie ventured.

  “Bible Study.”

  “Oh . . . neat . . . Anything else?”

  “The Harvard Republican Club.”

  Oh, well. Callie bolted down the rest of her lunch, anxious to return to her room so she could be alone and friendless in private, just a phone call away from Jessica or even her mom, since Evan still didn’t seem to be picking up. Standing, she made her way toward the line of people bussing their trays. Dana pulled a book from her bag and started to read.

  Next time I’ll remember to bring a book, Callie thought as the line inched forward. That way I won’t look like such a ginormous loser—

  Something hit her from behind. She started to fall, tripping over the tiny freshman boy who had catapulted out of nowhere. Her tray soared into the air and landed with a thunderous clatter, dishes breaking and food flying everywhere. Her hands flew to her skirt as she hit the ground, praying that she wasn’t about to flash the entire freshman class.

  Oh no oh no oh NO, she breathed miserably, closing her eyes. Opening them, she found a thousand other pairs staring back at her.

  Damn.

  The room had gone completely silent. Then slowly somebody began to clap.

  In a whisper that echoed all the way from the stained glass windows to the ceiling and back to the floor, Gregory, still clapping, leaned into the center of his table and said:

  “Now that is embarrassing.”

  His entire table burst out laughing, and the applause swelled throughout the room. Some people started to whistle and catcall. Four hundred hands were whipping four hundred smart phones from purses and pockets, ready to etch the event in virtual stone, live-blogging from here to eternity. . . .

  Status Update via Facebook: SOME BLOND GIRL JUST WIPED OUT IN ANNENBERG!

  Update via Twitter: WITNESSING MOST EMBARRASSING MOMENT OF THE DECADE . . . HILARIOUS

  Update via Twitter via Facebook: GLAD THAT WASN’T ME

  SMS to Twitter: EPIC FALL IN THE FROSH D-HALL’FOOD EVERYWHERE

  BlackBerry to Twitter via Facebook: BET SOMEBODY’S GLAD SHE WORE UNDERWEAR TODAY . . .

  “Who is she anyway?” the girl next to Gregory asked as the noise died down.

  “Just some girl from California. I think she lives with Mimi,” another replied.

  “California, hmm . . . I should have guessed. Honey, if you insist on wearing flip-flops, at least spring for a decent pedicure.”

  There was another excruciating surge of laughter. “Poor Mimi, no wonder she’s already depressed. . . .” Vanessa’s laughter was the loudest of them all.

  Uber-bitch!

  Callie barely noticed the hands that were grabbing her and helping her to her feet.

  “Come on,” Matt said, putting an arm around her shoulders and leading her toward the door. She tried to thank him, but instead she could only nod, resisting the urge to sprint the rest of the way home.

  Chapter Three

  Worse than a phone call;

  NOT AS BAD AS A POST-IT . . .

  BETTER THAN A TEXT MESSAGE?

  From: Callie Andrews

  To: Jessica Marie Stanley

  Subject: FWD: We need to talk

  Un . . . fucking . . . believable . . .

  ————— Forwarded message —————

  From: Evan Davies

  To: Callie Andrews

  Subject: We need to talk

  Hey babe,

  How’s Harvard going so far? UCLA kicks major ass. Anyway, sorry I keep missing your calls. I guess you’ve probably figured out by now that I’ve been very busy. . . . We have soccer practice 4 hours a day, it’s insane. And prelaw is turning out to be a lot harder than I thought, but I think I’ll survive because one of the brothers told me that they keep all the old midterms in a file cabinet at the house. Pretty sick, right?

  Anyway, what I’m really trying to say is it’s not you, it’s me. You’re great.

  Take care of yourself,

  Evan

  From: Callie Andrews

  To: Evan Davies

  Subject: Re: We need to talk

  What? I’m confused. . . . Are you breaking up with me??

  From: Evan Davies

  To: Callie Andrews

  Subject: Re: We need to talk

  Oh crap, Cal. I’m no good at this. . . . I’m sorry. I don’t know what else to say. I hope you don’t hate me.

  Evan

  * * *

  From: Jessica Marie Stanley

  To: Callie Andrews

  Subject: Re: FWD: We need to talk

  * * *

  Whhaaaaaat . . . the FUCK?!!? Is he HIGH? Is this the same Evan “Together-Forever” Davies of the infamous Five Year Plan??? Clearly he has been body-snatched by alien invaders. In class right now; can’t escape without stepping over 800 toes but will get out pronto—wait for my call.

  xxx Jess

  Sent via BlackBerry by AT&T

  Callie?” a voice called from the hall, followed by a knock on the door. “Callie—you have to get out of bed. We have to go to—”

  There was a pause, followed by muffled whispering.

  “Maybe we should just let her sleep?”

  “I don’t know . . . she’s been in there for two days.”

  Vanessa knocked again, Mimi lingering uncertainly at her heels. “I’m going in there,” Vanessa said decisively.

  Callie groaned and pulled the blankets over her head.

  “Callie?” Vanessa asked. “We were wondering if you want to come to the dining hall? For dinner? And then afterward there’s the First Chance Dance. . . .”

  Callie groaned again. “Leave me alone. I just want to sleep.”

  “All right, well, you heard the girl: she wants to sleep,” said Mimi, backing away.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Vanessa snapped, stepping forward and yanking the covers off of Callie’s bed.

  “Hey!” Callie yelled, sitting up.

  “That’s more like it,” said Vanessa. “Now look alive because dinner’s in ten minutes.”

  Callie’s eyes traveled from Vanessa—hands on her hips, a stern expression on her face—to Mimi, who was hovering uncomfortably near the door.

  “Look, guys, I appreciate your concern, but I really just want to be left a—”

  “Nonsense.” Vanessa cut her off. “We’d ask you what’s wrong, but the walls are so thin that everybody already knows. Basically, I don’t care if this Evan character looks like Jude Law or if his farts are magical. . . . He sounds like an asshole, and nobody is worth two full days of moping.”

  “Yes, and you look absolutely terrible—like shit,” added Mimi, trying to get into the spirit of things.

  Vanessa glared. “Mimi, that’s not exactly . . .”

  Callie began to laugh. And cry. “I just can’t believe I wasted two years of my life. . . . And in an e-mail . . . I mean, really?”

  The silence that followed was unbroken save for the operatic sounds of Dana singing gospel on the way from the bathroom to her bedroom.

  “Back home,” Mimi said thoughtfully, “we have this saying. ‘If the horse throws you off . . . buy a new one.’”

  “Sage advice.” Vanessa laughed. “‘There are other fish in the sea.’”

  “That cannot
be right,” said Mimi, shaking her head. “It is: ‘go fishing in another sea—’”

  “I’ll be okay,” Callie cut in, hiccupping and wiping her eyes. “You guys are right—and anyway, I’m starving. Just give me ten minutes.”

  “Thank god,” said Vanessa.

  Fifteen minutes later they joined Dana at a table in Annenberg. It was nearly eight o’clock, so the dining hall was emptier than usual.

  “Hi. How are you . . . all doing?” Dana asked, glancing at Callie and then averting her eyes.

  “I’m all right,” Callie answered, trying to smile. “I’m just glad it’s only us girls—”

  “Is this seat taken?” Gregory asked Mimi, sitting without waiting for an answer.

  “Evening, ladies,” said Matt, grinning and taking the seat next to Gregory.

  “Whoa . . . who died?” Gregory asked as they were joined by his other two roommates.

  “Nobody died,” said Dana primly.

  “Hi, Gregory; hi, Matt. And you are . . . ?” Vanessa asked, turning to the other two as if she hadn’t already conducted her own private investigation via Google and Facebook.

  “I’m Adam,” said the small pale boy on Matt’s left. “And this is Okecha—uhm—Okuchu—uhm— Hey, man, how do you pronounce it again?”

  “Just call me ‘OK,’” the large Nigerian said in his beautiful British accent. “That’s what everybody calls me at home.”

  “Okay, OK, your word is my command,” sang Vanessa.

  “Nobody’s ever made that pun before, clever—well done, you . . .” he said absentmindedly as his eyes locked on Mimi. Clearing his throat, he nudged Gregory.

  “Pardon me,” said Gregory. “This is Mimi; that’s Vanessa”—Vanessa beamed—“and her name is . . . Casey.”

  “Callie,” Callie snapped.

  “Right. Callie. And you are . . . ?” Gregory looked at Dana.

  “It’s Dana, isn’t it?” Adam asked. Dana nodded. “I thought I recognized you from Bible Study,” he said, smiling.

  Dana didn’t say a word, but she had suddenly turned very pink.

  “So Blondie, where are you from?” OK asked Callie, tearing his eyes away from Mimi.