by Lauren Kunze
“Well,” Matt began, “the Crimson and the Lampoon have been bitter rivals since forever ago, when the Crimson staff stole the Lampoon’s mascot from their castle and presented it as a gift to the government of the Soviet Union. The Lampoon retaliated by stealing the president of the Crimson’s chair and giving it as a ceremonial gift to the prime minister of Iceland. Apparently nowadays the Crimson keeps the president’s chair chained to the wall. I can’t wait to see if it’s true!”
“Wait a second: did you say that the Lampoon has a castle?”
“Yeah, haven’t you noticed that big purple and yellow building right across the street from Lowell House? It’s pretty hard to miss—I mean, it’s a castle, and when the weather is nice, the members are always sitting outside playing music and throwing things at unsuspecting pedestrians. My brother says that inside there are tons of secret passageways and relics from the famous pranks they’ve pulled over the years.”
“So, can anyone who wants to just go inside?” Callie asked, ready to tear off in the direction of the castle immediately.
“Unfortunately, no,” Matt answered, shaking his head. “Nobody is allowed inside except for members, and you can’t even get into their parties as the guest of a member until your senior year. Same thing goes with the Crimson. You have to go through several intense rounds of writing practice newspaper articles—or humor pieces, in the case of the Lampoon—and then they judge you on how journalistic you are, or how funny you are, or the strength of your artwork or ability to solicit ads for the business board. . . . You get the idea.”
“Right,” said Callie, nodding. “And once we finish COMP, we’re in?”
“Well,” said Matt, “sometimes it’s not that easy; otherwise everyone would do it. Joining is considered a rite of passage, and some organizations make people COMP for a year and a half before letting them in, just to mess with them or test their commitment.”
“A year and a half?”
“Yeah, it’s pretty brutal,” said Matt, opening the door to his room and holding it for Callie. She stepped inside.
“Wow,” she sighed, making herself comfortable on the leather couch. “I really hope we both make it before our sophomore year.”
A dreamy expression passed across Matt’s face as he savored the way she had said “our” before “sophomore year.”
“Especially since by sophomore year,” she was saying, rousing Matt from his trance, “we might be busy punching Final Clubs. Which one do you think you’ll join?”
“I don’t think I’ll be joining any of them,” he answered, his expression turning serious. “I’m just not okay—”
“What?” someone yelled from one of the bedrooms.
“Oh! Not talking to you buddy, sorry!” Matt yelled back.
“Bloody hell, not again. . . .”
Matt chuckled. “No matter how hard we try, that just keeps happening. Anyway, as I was saying, I’m just not comfortable with the fact that the male clubs don’t allow women to join and that they only let girls inside the building based on the shortness of their skirts.”
“Hey! That’s not entirely true,” Callie cried. “There are a few all-female clubs, and plenty of women get invited to the parties because they are friends with members, regardless of skirt length.”
“That may be,” said Matt, making a visible effort to keep the jealousy out of his voice, “but I still wouldn’t want a woman I cared about to go to some of those parties, and Callie”—this was the moment of truth—“I care about you.”
Suddenly the door flew open and Gregory strolled into the room.
“Am I interrupting something?” he asked, throwing his backpack onto the couch so that it almost hit Callie, landing next to her with a loud thunk.
“Not at all!” she cried, leaping to her feet. “I was just on my way out, actually. Have to do some reading for the Nineteenth-Century Novel before the meeting.”
“Jane Austen?” said Gregory. “She’s my favorite. Everybody likes Pride and Prejudice, but I’ve always felt that Persuasion is vastly underrated.”
“Oh, please,” Callie muttered, rolling her eyes—as if he even knew how to read. “So, I’ll pick you up at two forty-five?” she asked Matt.
“Oh . . . you’re taking him out on a date? Isn’t that sweet,” said Gregory.
“It’s a meeting, not a date,” she said through gritted teeth. She pulled the door shut behind her.
Matt let his face fall into his hands. “You know what, Gregory?”
“What?”
“Sometimes you really suck.”
Gregory grinned. “Thanks.”
Callie had been reading for barely five minutes when Mimi walked into the common room looking jittery and frazzled.
“Cigarettes,” she muttered, “need some cigarettes . . . No, no, you already had two packs today. . . . Coffee? Oui . . . need some coffee . . .”
“Mimi?”
“Callie, darling, I was just looking for you—I need some coffee—cannot concentrate at all—want to come with? My treat?”
“Uhm . . .” Getting coffee was probably the last thing that Callie felt like doing, but something in Mimi’s expression made her pause.
“All right,” she agreed, putting down her book.
A cold blast of wind assaulted them as they stepped onto the street, and Callie pulled the collar of her thin fleece closer around her neck, cursing the New England weather and cursing Mimi—then cursing herself for not changing out of her skimpy gym clothes. And she’d just been getting to the good part of the book, too: in, wouldn’t you know it, Pride and Prejudice. She’d already read it about a thousand times, but it was still classic, still a masterpiece. But Persuasion? It’s totally sophomoric. Underrated, my ass . . .
To make matters worse, the line at Peet’s Coffee was dauntingly long. What she wouldn’t give to be back in the fictional realm of the drawing room at Netherfield Park instead of here in the real world with Mimi. Sighing, Callie tried to think of an excuse to leave. . . .
“Yeah, I was really confused when I got an invitation to their first punch event,” a boy in front of her was saying, adjusting the red scarf around his neck. Even as a Fashion Ignoramus, Callie could still see that with his violently orange hair and copious freckles, this was a very poor choice of accessory.
“I mean, I don’t know anybody in the PC, I’m not a legacy, I don’t wear tuxedos to class, I don’t sing in an a cappella group, and I’m not ridiculously rich. But I decided that I ought to check it out anyway—”
“Oh no—don’t tell me that you actually went!” his friend exclaimed, a bucktoothed boy who was unfortunately short and stubby looking.
“I did,” said freckle-face, looking down at his hands. “And the members were just as confused as you are about why I was invited. . . .”
“Was it . . . ?” his friend asked in a hushed voice.
“Lampoon?” said freckles. “Yeah. They sent about twenty fake invitations to various sophomores, and then the members had to deal with explaining to us why we weren’t supposed to be there. They were pretty nice about it, for the most part, but I did overhear someone comment about ‘who shows up to this sort of event wearing a band uniform.’”
“What? You wore your band uniform? What were you thinking?”
“I don’t know, I don’t know. I had to go straight from practice and . . .”
Their voices faded away as they picked up their drinks and headed toward the door.
Numbly, Callie allowed Mimi to order for her. As of yet, nobody had stolen her homework or refused to compare answers on a problem set, so she had all but forgotten how ruthless her fellow classmates were rumored to be.
It was tragic how much acting and looking the part played a role. But if that’s what it takes to succeed, she thought, reaching for her coffee, then that’s what I’ll have to do. . . . She could hear Vanessa’s voice agreeing enthusiastically in her head, reminding her that people can’t see talent or passion when they fi
rst meet you—they can see only how you present yourself. “I’m not asking you to change your personality, Cal. I’m just asking you to change your clothes!”
And change them she would, Callie decided, glancing down at her sweaty gym gear. There was still time before the meeting.
Quickly she turned to find Mimi—but before she even knew what was happening, she had spilled the contents of her Nonfat, sugar-free, Venti Vanilla Latte all over the sweater of a boy who had been standing behind her.
Holy crap, not now! She closed her eyes. Opening them, he was still standing there, his telltale camel-colored cashmere practically screaming Burberry. There was no way she could afford to replace it.
Mimi to the rescue! Conjuring some napkins out of nowhere, she patted the boy’s sweater, saying “Oh, mon dieu, Clint, je suis désolé. I am such a terrific klutz that I bumped into Callie and kaput—the fault belongs to me.”
All the irritation Callie had felt for Mimi in the past twenty minutes vanished instantaneously. Glancing at her roommate thankfully, she added: “I’m so sorry, too! I didn’t even see you standing there! Maybe you could give me your sweater and I could have it dry-cleaned for you?”
A strange expression passed through his gray-green eyes before he said slowly, “Well, that would be a bit awkward, wouldn’t it? If I just pulled my sweater off right here and then walked home half naked?”
And that’s when Callie, who was trying to figure out if she was supposed to laugh, really looked at him.
Her stomach dropped. He was the same upperclassman who’d escorted her and Vanessa to the Activities Fair, the same boy whom she had the vague sensation of seeing again somewhere else. . . .
But today it was as if she were finally seeing him for the first time. He was at least a head taller than her, with an athletic build and a huge smile that stretched across his face, causing those adorable crinkles to form around the corners of his eyes. His short, light brown hair was windswept at the moment, and she caught herself actively resisting the urge to reach up and run her fingers through it.
Looks aside, it takes a pretty damn cool guy to stay calm when a stranger has just spilled a boiling venti-sized vat of vanilla-something all over his expensive sweater.
In fact, she thought, drifting further and further into dreamland, I wouldn’t mind if you took that sweater off right now and—
Once again: Mimi to the rescue! “Callie, this is Clint. Clint, you remember—”
“I’m Callie,” she blurted. “It’s a pleasure to meet you—I mean, officially.”
Clint smiled: the same odd, indecipherable expression in his eyes. He stared hard at Callie for a full three seconds in a way that made her tug nervously at her running shorts, wondering if perhaps he didn’t remember her from the day of the Activities Fair.
“Okay,” he said after a pause. “Nice to meet you, too—officially. And don’t worry about the sweater,” he added with a glimmer in his eyes. “It was a gift from my ex-girlfriend, so I was planning to burn it anyway.”
e, x: there were no two letters in all of English or mathematics that were more beautiful.
Back inside her room, Callie threw open her dresser drawers and pulled out a pair of Seven jeans that Vanessa had given her because they were “getting too small.”
“Actually, they never really fit me in the first place,” Vanessa had confided as she forced Callie to accept them. “I was trying to subscribe to the whole buy-a-really-expensive pair-of-jeans-that- are-one-size-too-small-as-an-incentive-to-lose-weight strategy, but it obviously didn’t work out. . . . Take them, seriously, or they’ll go to waste.”
Her clock read 2:53. Shit, she thought, rifling through her shirts. Quickly she chose a white Ralph Lauren sweater that was also on loan from Vanessa, who enjoyed playing “Fairy Godmother” to Callie: her own personal Cinderella doll.
In a final moment of inspiration Callie reached for the nonprescription reading glasses that Jessica had given her right before their college interviews so that she would look “well, less blond.” Glancing in the mirror, Callie decided that she seemed very fashionably journalistic indeed. Perfect. If only Clint could see her now . . .
Skipping down the stairs as fast as possible, she crossed the Yard and made her way toward the Crimson headquarters. A sign on the front door pointed her to the FM information session.
She was a few minutes late, but fortunately the meeting had yet to begin. She smiled as Vanessa waved at her from the back of the room, where she’d been saving a seat.
As Callie settled into her chair, a girl standing at the front of the room began to speak—a girl whom Callie quickly recognized.
Alexis Thorndike.
“Hello, everyone, and welcome to the first official COMP meeting for Fifteen Minutes magazine. As most of you already know, I’m Alexis Vivienne Thorndike, and I will be your COMP director over the following months. Most people call me ‘Lexi,’ but to you guys, I am God.”
A few people started to laugh.
But they shut up very quickly.
“In the future,” she added, addressing no one in particular, “please try to be on time.”
Callie felt herself go pink. I was only two minutes late, she thought, feeling bad about it nevertheless.
Vanessa leaned over, her expression grave: “Remember what I said about not getting on her bad side, Cal,” she hissed. “Make no mistake: she will destroy you.”
Callie swallowed.
“Don’t stress about it too much, though,” Vanessa offered consolingly. “Word on the street is she’s been a complete bitch ever since Clint Weber dumped her a few weeks ago, so I wouldn’t necessarily take her hostility personally.”
Callie nodded, removing her glasses—which were starting to hurt her eyes—so that she could get a better look at her COMP director.
Alexis was not too tall and not too skinny, but perfectly proportioned and immaculately dressed. A thin headband with a tiny side bow rested delicately across silky brown hair that fell in beautiful ringlets all the way down to the middle of her back. Everything about her glowed: feminine, spotless, and white, from her dainty Milly blouse to her soft, fair skin and a smile where full lips parted to reveal small even teeth. Standing at the front of the room, she looked radiant, almost angelic: as if she could do no wrong, as if she could accomplish anything.
Clint Weber, Callie etched in the corner of her notebook, biting her lip as she wondered . . . could this be the same Clint she’d bumped into—literally—earlier?
“Clint Weber—could you Facebook him?” she asked Vanessa. After spending several weeks together, her roommate’s creepy stalker habits were starting to rub off.
“Sure,” Vanessa murmured, reaching into her Fendi tote and pulling out her beloved iPhone.
Callie continued to watch Alexis—Lexi—with fascination. What was it about her that made it impossible to avert your eyes?
Maybe it’s the way she looks so confident up there in front of the room . . .
“Every week you’ll be asked to submit five pieces to the editors for review,” Lexi explained in a sweet, clear voice, flashing a smile at the eager freshmen and nodding to the dedicated sophomores who hadn’t made the cut last spring but had come back, determined, for round two.
Or the way she dresses, like, perfectly . . .
“The editors will return your pieces with their written feedback and a list of your assignments for the following week,” she continued. “Then, on the last Saturday in October, you will submit a portfolio with ten samples of what you consider to be your best work.” As she spoke, Lexi began to walk, strolling up and down the aisles.
Or it could be the way her long, thick curls bounce when she moves. . . . Callie thought, admiring Lexi’s grace as she stepped lightly—like a dancer—in her Chanel flats. They were a pearly shade of ivory, with two interlocking golden Cs above the toe.
“After we’ve had a chance to review your first portfolios, only half of you will be asked to continue.
You’ll have a few weeks to prepare a collection of new pieces for your second portfolio, which you will submit before we leave for Thanksgiving break. Only a fraction of you will remain in the running for the third and final round. Then we, the editors, will make our last cuts and you—if you survive this long—will find out if you made it after winter break.”
Callie suddenly noticed somebody standing in the frame of the doorway, watching her.
It was Matt.
Shit! She had completely forgotten to pick him up before the meeting. “I’M SORRY!” she mouthed. Matt frowned and then vanished down the hall.
“Dammit I need a newer version of this phone!” Vanessa muttered. “The internet is so freaking slow. . . . Download, dammit!”
Vanessa’s eyes were glued to her phone so intently that she didn’t notice Lexi, who was now—Callie registered with dismay—less than fifteen feet away.
Callie nudged Vanessa, who remained fixated on her phone as Lexi, still speaking fluidly, moved closer and closer, until she was so close that Callie could see the whites of her big brown eyes.
In a final act of desperation Callie elbowed Vanessa hard—so hard, in fact, that her phone flew out of her hands and landed facedown on the floor with a heart-stopping clatter.
Lexi stooped to retrieve it. “Here you go,” she said, smiling sweetly as she extended the phone toward Callie.
Bitchy? thought Callie, relief sweeping over her. What was V talking about? She seems perfectly nice to me—
“What the . . .” Lexi muttered, the smile melting off her face. Her hand had frozen in midair, clutching Vanessa’s phone. All three of them could now see the image that had just finished downloading onto the screen.
His hair had been much shorter in person than it appeared in his profile picture, but still there could be no mistake: Clint the Coffee Victim and Clint Weber were one and the same.
Vanessa gasped.
As if the siren song had ceased, they caught a glimpse of the beautiful, blue-blooded Lexi transforming into something terrible and strange. It didn’t last longer than a heartbeat, but Callie was certain that Lexi had given her a look of death.