by Lauren Kunze
As the phone slipped through Lexi’s fingers and crashed onto the hardwood floor, it split in two with a sound that ricocheted around the room. The screen turned a Do-Not-Resuscitate shade of black.
“Oh, my bad!” said Lexi. “I’m very, very sorry about that.” And the Oscar goes to—
“From now on, though,” she continued as she faced back toward the front of the room, “let’s all try to do a better job of paying attention while I’m speaking.”
For a moment Callie and Vanessa sat silent, watching Lexi walk away.
“Callie,” Vanessa whispered in a tone you’d use at a wake. “Why didn’t you tell me that the person you hooked up with at Calypso was Clint Weber?”
“What!” Callie spat back.
“Clint Weber! Sketchy McKisserson? Foxy McFoxerson? They-are-all-the-same PERSON!”
Realization dawned like lightning: that light brown hair ruffling in the breeze at the Activities Fair, the same brown hair that had obscured a pair of light green eyes as he leaned in to kiss her on the couch, the same green eyes that had stared at her with such a strange look in the coffee shop, the look that had been, finally, recognizable in the photo on Vanessa’s phone . . .
Suddenly Callie’s own phone vibrated from somewhere deep in the bottom of her book bag.
Oh god, not now . . . she prayed, digging frantically. Fortunately, it had only vibrated once, meaning: 1 new text message.
She didn’t recognize the number.
She flipped open her phone. Vanessa leaned in to look over her shoulder.
I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU DIDN’T
RECOGNIZE ME FROM THE OTHER
NIGHT’I DIDN’T REALIZE MY
HAIRCUT WAS THAT DRASTIC.
I ENJOYED BEING ASSAULTED BY
YOU TODAY. LET’S DO IT AGAIN
SOMETIME!
’CLINT
“Callie,” Vanessa whispered mournfully. “You’re done for.”
Chapter Eight
Punch
After a week and a half of covert text messaging Callie had finally agreed to meet up with Clint for a “secret” rendezvous: secret in her mind because she had no intention of telling her roommates and secret on his end because he’d refused to reveal where they were going. She’d received instructions via text an hour earlier to meet him in front of the John Harvard statue at 11:45 P.M. . . . which was precisely thirty minutes from now.
So, while Mimi, Dana, and Vanessa were lounging around taking advantage of their Sunday as a day of rest, she was stuck in her bedroom hurrying to finish a sample story for FM, a bit of “investigative journalism” Lexi had ordained involving freshman necklines and hemlines: “Are they statistically lower and shorter than those of the female upperclassmen?” And: “Do we take this as an indicator of greater promiscuous sexual activity or merely as a result of low self-esteem?”
Seriously? Was this even a real assignment? Callie wasn’t fluent in her COMP director’s particular dialect of prep school sarcasm, so it was impossible to tell. Blowing a frustrated gust of air through her lips, she turned back to her computer screen, wondering how many rewrites it would take until she finally managed to impress Lexi enough so that she would stop thinking of Callie as the girl who doodled her ex-boyfriend’s name on her notebook and iPhone-stalked him during important meetings. . . .
Sometimes freshmen make clueless mistakes when it comes to their love lives clothing choices, she typed. But please don’t hate me them. After all, sometimes a cute boy skirt is too tempting to resist. . . .
Out in the common room Vanessa was practically drooling as she watched Dana sink her teeth into an enormous slice of pizza. Vanessa didn’t need a scale to tell her to avoid eating pizza (diet strategy of the week: fasting for Ramadan—“No, I’m actually very spiritual”), but due to her demanding schedule, Dana was stress-eating enough to feed a family of four. Forget the fabled Freshman Fifteen: she was riding a nonstop ticket to the Freshman Twenty-five.
Mimi yawned and poked Vanessa in the side.
“Vanessa!” she cried, waving her hand in front of her roommate’s face in order to break the pizza-induced trance. “Vanessa, tell me a humorous story. I am so-oh bored. . . .”
Vanessa hesitated, but then her eyes lit up.
“Oooh, okay, I know! So, yesterday I’m sitting in Lamont Café with a bunch of my old girl friends from school. Well, we’re bored, so we decide to play this game called ‘Fuck-Chuck-Marry’—you know the game, right?”
Mimi shrugged, and Dana, cringing visibly at the word fuck, tried to bury her nose in her laptop.
“Oh, that’s right: foreigner, hello! Well, anyway, it’s pretty simple. I’d name three guys . . . say, OK, Gregory, and Matt, and then you would have to say which one you want to fuck—”
Dana cringed again.
“—which one you want to chuck—off a cliff, that is—and which one you want to marry.”
“All right,” said Mimi, nodding. “So, let me see . . . I choose Matt for my husband because he is so nice—”
“Ew, no,” Vanessa cut in, shaking her head. “That was just an example so you could understand the necessary background for the story. So”—she began raising her voice as Mimi scowled—“we’re sitting there in Lamont Café playing Fuck-Chuck-Marry and somebody proposes three highly influential politicians who shall remain nameless—”
“Who?” Mimi demanded.
“That’s classified information, Mimi, though I’m sure you could guess if you put your mind to it. . . .”
Mimi shrugged again. Dana shifted uncomfortably in her chair.
“So anyway,” Vanessa continued, “this girl throws those names out, and everybody at the table goes silent—except for me, who starts debating very loudly which one I’d like to fuck, who I’d like to chuck, and who, by process of elimination, I’d have to marry. . . . As this is happening, I can’t figure out why everyone is staring at me looking nervous and one girl is motioning at me to stop talking, but I keep going, and I’m right in the middle of contemplating the merits of fucking one of them—”
“I thought you said you were a virgin?” Mimi interrupted.
“Oh, for christsake Mimi, it’s a game! Now would you please let me finish?”
“Let me guess,” Dana piped up suddenly, looking extremely irritated. “One of their daughters was sitting right behind you?”
“How did you—” Vanessa began, looking dumbfounded, as if she’d forgotten that Dana knew how to speak.
“Every ‘highly influential politician’ has a daughter at Harvard. That’s old news. Frankly, I think it’s rude and indecent to be talking about you-know-what in a library.”
“What’s rude—talking about fucking in the library?” Vanessa asked. “What about all the people who are actually fucking in the library? It’s probably happening right now in Widener as we speak. I hear ‘Medieval Weaponry’ is a real prime location to—”
“I can’t hear you!” Dana screamed, throwing her hands over her ears. “I-can’t-hear-you-I’m-not-listening-I-don’t-hear-you-LALALALALALALA—”
“Hey, guys!” Callie called, stepping out of her room and making her way toward the front door.
“Where are you going?” Mimi asked, sounding accusatory—or maybe that was just Callie’s imagination.
“Library,” she said, reaching for the doorknob.
“On a Sunday?” Mimi raised one eyebrow. “We never go to the library on Sundays. . . .”
“You look pretty dressed up—even for Lamont,” Vanessa said, eyeing her suspiciously.
Callie shrugged.
“Hold on, I’ll come with you,” said Dana, taking her hands off her ears and standing.
“No—uh—sorry—I have a . . . study group.”
Dana frowned, as in, If there were really a study group, I would have known about it.
“Study group for what?” Vanessa wheedled.
“For economics, okay? I promised I’d meet Matt! And hey, since when do I have to tell you
guys everything?” she added as the three of them stared.
Then Vanessa started to nod in a very understanding, very annoying way. “She’s meeting Matt. To study . . .” she explained to the other two as if everything suddenly made sense.
“Oooh,” said Mimi. “So that is why you are all dressed up.”
“Dressing up—for the library?” Dana erupted out of nowhere. “Study dates—in the library? Doing you-know-what—IN THE LIBRARY? . . . What is WRONG with you people?” she cried, gripping her head in her hands. “I’m going to study. Actually study. IN MY ROOM,” she added, slamming her door. Vanessa and Mimi started laughing uncontrollably.
“Yes . . . and I’m going to study in the library,” Callie said, stepping out the door.
“Sure you are.” Vanessa gasped for breath.
“Have fun!” Mimi called.
It was cold waiting outside in front of the John Harvard statue, but nonetheless Callie was glad she had opted for tights and a skirt instead of jeans. She shivered as the wind blew past, mussing up her hair, which she had arranged with more care and attention than usual. Her hands flew to her head to smooth it out.
A set of soft-gloved hands suddenly covered her eyes.
“Guess who?”
“Clint!” she shrieked, leaping around. “Erm—uh—hey,” she stammered in a much lower, more casual and—hopefully— cooler tone.
“Hi.” He smiled, stepping forward to give her a hug.
His sweater was the softest, warmest, fuzziest thing in the world. It smelled like cinnamon and autumn leaves. She didn’t want to let go.
Clint chuckled. “Are you cold or something?”
“Wha— Oh—yes, freezing!” she said, realizing that she had in fact held on a bit too long.
“Here,” said Clint, unwinding a maroon cashmere scarf from around his neck and draping it across her shoulders. “Allow me.”
She stood still, averting her eyes so as not to stare while he knotted the scarf at her neck.
“How’s that?” he asked.
“Much better.”
“You sure? We could stop for coffee or a hot chocolate on our way. . . .”
“Coffee?” she echoed vaguely, glancing at his sweater. “We’d better not risk it.”
Clint laughed. “Good point. Shall we, then?” he asked, offering his arm.
She accepted it and they began to walk. “So, where are you taking me?” she asked.
“If I told you that, it would ruin the surprise!”
Instead of heading toward Harvard Square they were moving deeper and deeper into campus. They finally stopped in front of the Science Center. Clint stepped forward to get the door—and she was surprised to see that it wasn’t locked, even though it was almost midnight.
“Oh, I get it! You need help with your homework,” she teased. “It’s all right—no need to be embarrassed, asking a freshman. . . .”
“Hush, you,” he admonished, taking her hand.
Wandering through the building, they made their way toward the elevator bank in the back. A night watchman guarded the entrance.
“Evening, Clint,” he said with a tip of his hat.
“Hiya, Miles, how ya doing?” Clint asked.
“Can’t complain,” Miles answered. “Good night for lookin’ at the stars, eh?” he added, winking at Callie.
Reaching into his wallet, Clint retrieved a small card with his picture in the corner, and the words Astronomy Club: MEMBER written across the top.
Astronomy Club?
Miles glanced at the card, nodded, and waved them through.
“So!” Callie said once they were inside the elevator. “You must be what they refer to as a closet nerd?”
“Hey, don’t knock it till you try it.”
The elevator stopped on the very top floor.
“Penthouse, mademoiselle,” he said, keeping one arm pressed against the elevator doors and ushering her into the hall.
There was a door at the end of the hallway. It unlocked with a click as Clint ran his card across the scanner, the door popping open to reveal a tiny, circular staircase winding up.
At the top Callie found herself inside a dome-shaped room. The walls were completely black except for a few colorful posters of planets and pictures of the galaxy. In the center a huge cylindrical case—big enough to fit at least three people inside—extended from the floor all the way to the ceiling.
“What is this place?” Callie asked, examining what looked like a supercomputer resting on one of the desks along the wall.
“A well-kept secret,” Clint replied. “Open only to graduate astrophysics students and members of the Astronomy Club.”
“How many members are there in the Astronomy Club?”
“Well, our numbers have fluctuated over the years, and we had to start denying applications due to the club’s popularity,” Clint said, laughing. “But . . . as of right now, you’re looking at it.”
“You’re the only one? That’s the lamest thing I’ve ever heard!” she cried, meaning exactly the opposite.
“Yep.” He grinned. “Now check this out. . . .” He pushed a button on one of the desks and the black walls suddenly started to slide open, revealing the midnight sky.
He pushed another button and the cylindrical case in the middle of the room began rotating slowly. A ladder descended from the ceiling, leading up to a platform placed directly underneath an enormous telescope.
“After you,” he said.
When Callie reached the top, she was level with the telescope: advantageously situated in front of an observation deck with seating designed for two. Their own personal love seat.
Clint joined her and started fiddling with the telescope. Pulling it closer, he aimed it toward the gap in the ceiling, focusing the lens.
“Go ahead, have a look,” he said.
She could see lots of stars and a big reddish mass that looked like it might be a planet. “It’s beautiful,” she said, turning and offering the telescope to Clint.
He pulled it toward him and pressed his eye to the glass.
“What’s that big red, blobish thing?” she asked.
“Blobish thing?” He laughed, leaning back. “Mars. Though personally I think ‘big red blobish thing’ is far more descriptive. Perhaps we should write in, ask them to change it?”
“Sure,” she agreed. “I never cared much for ‘Mars,’ anyhow.”
“Oh yeah? What’s your favorite planet?”
“Uh . . . Earth? Obviously?” She laughed. “You?”
“Pluto. Without a doubt.”
“But Pluto’s not even a planet!”
“Stop!” Clint said, pretending to look scandalized. “I don’t think I can date a girl who doesn’t appreciate the awesomeness of Pluto. We were robbed.”
“So—this is a date.”
“Maybe. Now I’m not sure,” said Clint, wrapping his arm around her shoulders.
“Well, what about the stars?” she asked, glancing back through the telescope. “Can you tell me anything about the stars?”
“Uhm . . . okay. Now let’s see. . . . That one up there is Orion’s . . . Shoe. And see a little to the left: that’s Cassandra. And that funny blobish thing on her right is a purse: Cassandra’s Purse. It’s one of the most famous constellations in the, uh, aurora borealis.”
Callie stared at him, incredulous.
“And what about that one?” she demanded.
“Which one? Oh, that one’s easy—that’s the Little Brown Dog.”
“The Little Brown Dog? Why is the dog brown?”
“Because during the big bang, the, uh, gaseous chemicals that were released in that constellation family had a distinct brownish color—”
“You’re making this up, aren’t you?”
“Of course,” he said, laughing as she whacked him on the arm. “To tell you the truth, my specialty is the planets, not the constellations. . . . Mostly I just like coming up here and looking out the telescope,” he continued. “It
’s the only place on campus where I feel alone . . . away from it all.”
Turning, he looked at her. “You probably haven’t been around long enough to realize, but people tend to get too wrapped up in the whole Harvard thing. I really do love it here, but sometimes a guy just needs a break.”
Oh, if only he knew how much his words were resonating, even though it hadn’t even been two months . . .
She thought about all of the outfits that Vanessa had forced her to borrow, all of the times she’d felt embarrassed in front of people like Gregory without knowing why, the way all of the kids who grew up in New York or went to private school seemed to speak their own secret language . . . and she thought she knew exactly what Clint was talking about.
“So, if this is your special place where you come to be alone, why’d you bring me?” she asked.
“Because,” he answered, turning to look at her, “you are not a Harvard girl. Or at least not a typical one from some East Coast prep school who’s too privileged to notice that she’s studying at the greatest institution in the world and thinks the only thing that matters is her social life. What’s the point of having advantages if you’re not going to take advantage of them?
“Anyway, there’s no way a girl who runs around coffee shops in her gym clothes—spilling on innocent victims, might I add—and wears flip-flops to a party is going to take two and a half hours to get ready.”
“So, what you’re saying is you brought me here because I’m a messy, sloppy klutz?”
“Exactly. And I mean that in a good way. Don’t ever change.”
Callie smiled. It was quite possibly the nicest compliment anyone had ever given her.
Now was the point in the date where he was probably going to try to kiss her. Any moment now it was going to happen, and she was ready for it; she was waiting. In fact, she was dying for it to happen . . . and it would . . . any minute now. . . .
Hell, it wasn’t like it was their first time—what was he waiting for?
Ah, there we go. . . . the lean-in . . . the hair tuck . . . the cheek brush . . . the long look . . . any moment now it was going to—
Beep, beep, beep. Clint’s phone vibrated angrily in his pocket. Flipping it open, he frowned.