by Lauren Kunze
Callie flushed and turned toward the window. Reaching down, she fiddled with it for a moment until finally it opened. The breeze that floated in had a calming effect.
“Callie?”
Turning, she found herself face-to-face with Bryan Jacobs, who had been two years ahead of her in high school and had briefly dated Jessica during their sophomore year.
“Bryan!” she cried, leaping up and giving him a hug.
“I thought that was you!” he said, taking the seat across from her as she sat down. “I’d recognize that hair anywhere. How have you been?”
“I’ve been good,” she said. “Still trying to get the hang of things, but otherwise . . .”
Callie trailed off as Vanessa returned to the table, balancing two enormous lattes, one on top of the other, in one hand and a blueberry muffin in the other.
“Could you move?” she asked Bryan. “You’re in my s— Oh.” She stopped, registering his appearance for the first time.
“I’m so sorry,” he said, standing immediately—which revealed his substantial height—and holding out the chair. “Please, have a seat.”
“Oh—no—that’s okay, you can have it,” Vanessa gushed, oblivious to the lattes, which were teetering dangerously.
“Nonsense,” said Bryan with a smile. “I’ll go grab another one.”
In a moment he was back, pulling a chair up to the table. “Bryan,” Callie began, “this is my roommate—”
“Vanessa,” Vanessa interjected, holding out her hand.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Vanessa,” he replied, returning her appreciative stare. “Wow, I can’t believe they paired the two of you together: you must live in the cutest room on campus!”
Vanessa glowed, absentmindedly twirling a finger through her hair.
“So, Cal, how’s Evan doing?” he asked, turning to Callie. “I haven’t talked to him in a while.”
“We broke up.”
“Really? That’s too bad. What happened?”
“I’d much rather hear more about you,” Vanessa said quickly, winking at Callie and sliding one of the lattes toward her across the table. Callie smiled gratefully. “What year are you, and what do you like to do for fun? I’m guessing water polo—or swimming,” Vanessa continued, her eyes resting on his broad shoulders and arms.
Bryan chuckled. “Good guess,” he said. “I played water polo and soccer in high school. That’s how I know this one,” he added, nodding at Callie.
Callie sipped her drink, trying not to think about Evan as Bryan and Vanessa fell into an animated conversation. Soon she found her eyes wandering back toward the table two to her right. Alexis had disappeared, but Anne was still there. She was looking—no, make that glaring—at Callie. In shock, Callie glanced over both shoulders just to be sure. In the meantime Anne stood and began walking toward them.
“Hey, Bryan,” she said warmly when she arrived. “We still on for lunch?”
“Sure thing,” he said, tearing his eyes away from Vanessa, whose fingers had paused mid-twirl. “Just catching up with an old friend from high school. Have you met Callie?” he asked.
“High school,” said Anne, smiling suddenly. “Of course—that makes sense. And yes, I do know Callie. Nice to see you again!”
Callie looked at Anne in surprise and noticed the way she was glaring—not at Callie but, rather, at Vanessa.
“Ready?” asked Anne, turning to Bryan before Vanessa had a chance to speak.
“Yes,” Bryan said, standing. “Well, it was great to see you, Callie, and lovely to meet you, Vanessa. You ladies should come to the party we’re having at the Fly Club this Friday. The theme is ‘calypso.’ It’s gonna be awesome.”
Anne frowned.
Callie was about to ask what “calypso” meant or what “club” he was talking about, but Vanessa cut her off:
“Fantastic! We’ll be there.”
“Can’t wait!” said Anne, giving Bryan a look. Turning, she walked away, Bryan following closely at her heels.
“What’s ‘calypso’?” Callie asked when they were out of earshot.
“Only the best thing that ever happened to us,” Vanessa said dramatically. “We’ve hit the mother lode!”
“What?” asked Callie. “Why can’t you just tell me what it is? Why don’t you ever explain—”
“Shhh!” hissed Vanessa, looking cautiously around the room as if they were CIA operatives rather than teenage girls. Callie decided that if Special Agent Von Vorhees mentioned High-Priority-Top-Secret-Operation-Find-Fish one more time, she was going to punch her in the nose (job).
“We mustn’t be overheard. . . .”
Callie clenched her fists—
“But I promise an explanation is forthcoming. . . . For now all you need to know is that it involves mixing, mingling, and maybe more with the hottest, classiest boys on campus.”
“So it’s a party, then—”
“Oooh, I see Brittney over by the computers!” Vanessa shrieked, standing. “I absolutely must say hello. BRB!”
TYT: take your time, Callie thought irritably as Vanessa rushed over to some girl she must know from prep school. Sipping her latte, Callie gazed out the window searching for . . . uhm . . . No One in Particular. . . .
Instead she noticed Alexis standing at the foot of the steps. She appeared to be in the middle of a heated conversation with the tall boy whose back was facing Callie. Though Callie couldn’t see his face, she could tell—even from a distance—that Alexis was livid.
“Over?” Callie heard her cry. She tried to shrink away from the window. “How many times have you said that in the past few weeks?”
“This time is different,” Callie heard him say. She was dying to see his face, but she kept her eyes trained toward the table. “This time I mean it.”
“Don’t you walk away from me,” Alexis said, her voice dangerously calm as the boy started to turn. “Nobody walks away from me.”
Risking a peek, Callie saw Alexis standing there silent, swaying slightly.
The boy, whoever he was, had gone.
Chapter Six
“Are you on the List?”
Peons:
You’ve moved in, you’ve survived orientation, and you’ve even picked your classes. By now you’re probably wondering, What do people do around here for fun?
While 80 percent of the student body admits to never leaving their rooms except for meals, class, and trips to the library, the remaining 20 percent actually knows how to have a truly amazing time.
who are they?
Mostly sons and daughters of New York Socialites and Investment Bankers, of LA Barbie Moms and Pro Football Players, of OPEC Oil Kings and European Royalty—in addition to a handful of individuals with “obscure parentage” who are cool in their own right.
where can you find them?
Every Thursday, Friday, and Saturday night by invitation ONLY at our beloved “secret societies”: the Harvard Final Clubs.
Back in 1791 the first Final Club was founded. Members gathered around a roast pig dinner and established their motto, “Dum vivimus vivamus” (“While we live, let’s live”). Now there are eight All-Male Final Clubs, each established over a century ago and headquartered in beautiful brick mansions located conveniently throughout Harvard Square. (Combined net property value: ~$17,000,000.)
Every year each club extends membership to an elite set of roughly twenty men from the sophomore class, upholding the beloved mantras of exclusivity, secrecy, affluence, and elitism that set the tone back in 1791.
Freshman boys: Sorry, but you’ll have to wait your turn within the hierarchy. By the time you’re a sophomore, you might have a chance at membership; by the time you’re a senior, you might have a chance with a freshman girl!
Freshman girls: Congratulations. Your novelty and naivete will be sufficient to secure you an invitation to the best parties on campus. Be careful, though, when an invitation to a party becomes an invitation to “check out the upstairs.�
�� Sadly, there really is no such thing as a free lunch (with an upperclassman boy).
Sometimes here at Harvard it can feel like everybody who’s anybody is in a Final Club; and even out in the real world the alumni rosters are so full of surnames like Roosevelt and Kennedy, that it’s easy to start suspecting that every male graduate who is rich or powerful or famous must have been a member (even if he later tries to deny it for political reasons).
So, what about the majority of students for whom membership will never be anything other than an unattainable dream? How is it the other half—excuse me, other 80 percent—lives?
“Exclusive,” “elitist,” “classist,” “sexist,” “hetero-normative,” “racist,” and “just plain dumb” are all words that have been used in an onslaught of critiques against these private institutions—and not just by individuals whose quest for membership proved futile.
Critics are especially keen to point out that the only two all-female Final Clubs—the Bee, est. 1991, and the Isis, est. 2000—do not enjoy the luxury of owning their own houses but are instead forced to rent space from their male counterparts.
Ladies, you have a choice: you can struggle for liberation in the tragically phallocentric universe that is Harvard society or you can give in to the system and embrace a series of parties that you’ll never forget, starring music, dancing, drinking, drugs, glamour, costumes, and sex. . . . You can stay home in protest or do whatever suits you behind closed doors (as long as you do your best to keep track of your underwear). Frosh Femmes looking for a fairy-tale ending ought to remember that it was a glass slipper Cinderella left behind and not a Victoria’s Secret thong.
Alexis Thorndike, Advice Columnist
Fifteen Minutes Magazine
Harvard University’s Authority on Campus Life since 1873
Ifinally figured out your secret!” Vanessa cried, turning away from her makeup mirror and fixing her eyes on Callie.
Callie, who had been allowing Mimi to curl her hair, stood up so quickly that the curling iron burned her scalp. Mimi cursed loudly and leaped back. Callie’s heart began to thump in her chest. She swallowed. “You did?”
“Yes, I did. I can’t believe you’ve been holding out on us: we’re your roommates, after all,” Vanessa said.
Mimi looked at Vanessa expectantly.
“What . . . how . . .” said Callie, her cheeks turning pale. Had Vanessa overheard her on the phone with Evan? Was it possible that somehow, someone at Harvard had found out?
“Not so fast. I want to hear you say it,” said Vanessa, brandishing a tube of lipstick like a dagger.
“I, uh, don’t know, what, uhm . . .” Callie stammered, feeling like her heart was about to fall out of her chest and into her ankles.
“You . . .” began Vanessa menacingly, advancing toward Callie, “are in LOVE . . . with a certain boy . . . from across the hall!”
“What?” cried Callie. Mimi sighed through pursed lips and turned back to the mirror, clamping an eyelash curler over her eye.
“It explains so much,” said Vanessa, outlining her lips in red. “I’m just amazed that it took me this long to figure it out!” She chuckled, blotting the lipstick with a tissue.
Callie couldn’t help but smile. Her secret was still safe—at least it was for now.
“Well, I wouldn’t go so far as to call it a crush,” she started to explain. “Especially because he’s such a—”
“Nerd?” finished Vanessa. “I know.”
“Right . . .” said Callie absentmindedly. Such a huge jerk. Nerd? Wait, what?
“I mean, I would totally be embarrassed to admit it, too,” Vanessa continued. “If I were hopelessly in love with a big, tall, geeky—”
“Matt?” interjected Mimi, eyeing Callie’s reflection in the mirror as she dabbed bronzer on each cheek. “You are having a love connection with . . . Matt?”
“Matt? Wait, what? No, I—”
“Admit it! Admit it—I command you!” Vanessa screamed. Running over to Callie, she began to tickle her incessantly.
“Stop!” cried Callie, laughing uncontrollably. Her eyes began to fill with tears.
“Confess!” Mimi cried, rushing over to join the assault. “Confess or we will torture you jusqu’á la mort!”
“Callie and Matt-y sitting in a tree,” Vanessa sang, “K-I-S-S-I-N-G! First comes love—”
“Stop!” yelled Callie, falling on the floor with laughter.
Vanessa continued louder and louder: “THEN comes marriage, THEN comes the BABY IN THE BABY CARRIAGE!”
Mimi and Vanessa collapsed on top of Callie, laughing hysterically.
“What’s so funny?” Dana asked, emerging from her room. She had let her long brown hair hang loose and wore a black dress—conservative, by most standards, but daring for Dana, as it showed a far more liberal amount of ankle than usual.
“Dana!” cried Callie as the other two stood wordlessly and turned back to their mirrors. “You look nice! What are you up to tonight?” Silently she prayed that Dana already had plans. Bryan’s invitation to Calypso, their first Final Club party, didn’t seem like it could be extended infinitely—not to mention that Vanessa would kill her—but if Dana weren’t busy, Callie knew that she just wouldn’t have the heart to exclude her.
“I have a date!” said Dana, and then, as if frightened by her own bold use of the word, she amended: “Well, not a date, just a . . . trip to BerryLine. Mainly to review some common structural isomers and check the answers to our first problem set. . . .”
“And get some frozen yogurt?” Callie added gently.
“Yes,” said Dana, returning Callie’s smile. “Yes. Anyway, I have to go. Adam’s probably waiting—”
“Adam?” asked Vanessa, wheeling around. “You mean that tiny shrimp who lives across the hall?”
“Vanessa,” Callie warned. “He seems really nice, Dana. You guys will have a great time!”
“Thanks,” Dana said awkwardly. Then she slipped out into the hall.
“OHMYGOD!” Vanessa laughed as the door was still only halfway closed. “If the elephant and the field mouse decide to get married, they might have a shot at making normal-sized babies!”
Who’s calling who an elephant? Callie was just about to say as much out loud when she caught herself, watching Vanessa walk up to the full-length mirror and begin neurotically pinching her sides. (This week, Vanessa was only eating white foods of all the things: “If it’s colorful, it has dye in it, which means it’s not organic.”)
“Shit! It’s already nine forty! Let’s get dressed!” Callie said, grabbing Vanessa and steering her toward her room.
In honor of the theme “calypso,” the girls had all purchased different colors of the same low-cut, sleeveless nylon dress. Mimi, decked out in silver, was her usual supermodel self. Vanessa, who had opted for bronze to bring out her highlights, was appearing a little bustier than usual but looked fantastic nevertheless. Together they had decided that Callie would wear the gold. After weaving fake flowers around their necks and in their hair, the look was complete.
“Whew-eee,” Vanessa whistled. “Your friend Bryan was right: we are the cutest room on campus! What a charming, intelligent young man. I like him.”
Callie laughed. “To Bryan,” she toasted, accepting the bottle of tequila that Vanessa had just handed her. She took a swig and then passed it to Mimi.
“Callie, are you sure you don’t want to borrow a pair of heels?” Vanessa asked.
“Yes!” Callie said, smiling at the flip-flops on her feet. “Whoa, Mimi—slow down!” she added, realizing that Mimi had been hitting the bottle for a full five seconds with no sign of stopping.
“Yeah,” said Vanessa. “Unless you like spending your summers with Lohan and Spears.”
“What?” said Callie.
“Nothing! Nothing . . .” said Vanessa.
“It is all right.” Mimi laughed. “I believe Vanessa is referring to my summer at the facility in Switzerland. And no, I did n
ot see Lindsay there, but we were not encouraged to socialize with our neighbors.”
She didn’t look like she was kidding. Callie’s mouth fell open. “Wait . . . So you were like . . . an alcoholic or something?”
“More like I was bored at boring school,” Mimi said. She took the bottle from Callie and threw back another shot. Mischievously she grinned. “Alcohol was never really my primary problem . . .”
The girls were chattering nonstop as they bustled out of the room and down the stairs, across the Yard and toward the Fly Club for Gentlemen, as those “gentlemen” liked to call themselves. Mimi knew the way and had in fact been asked to the party independently of Bryan’s invitation because she’d hooked up with a member last Wednesday: a football player from a place called something like Mini-soda whose name she couldn’t remember—that is, if she had ever even asked for it in the first place. (Don’t hold it against her: if you’d locked lips with one prefect, one football player, one graduate student, one Justice teaching fellow (whoopsie), and one visiting professor (double whoopsie), you might not remember all of them either!)
Perhaps this was what her professor from Drugs and the Brain had meant when he referred to swapping “one addiction for another.”
A group of older girls walked by and muttered the word freshmen in the same tone of voice Mimi sometimes uttered Americans or Oprah.
“Why didn’t we think to wear jackets?” Callie moaned.
First Law of Thermo-identify-namics: you can always tell a freshman girl by (the absence of) her clothing.
“Oh, screw ’em,” exclaimed Vanessa. “They’re just jealous cause they’re a couple years closer to the three Bs: that’s Botox, Boob jobs, and Being-left—for a freshman!”
A few minutes later they arrived in front of a beautiful brick mansion that looked more like a private home than a secret society. Elegant white columns flanked the club’s front door, nostalgic and imperious. The building itself seemed to belong to a time of tailcoats and white gloves—except for the booming hip-hop music that was presently blaring from the upstairs windows.