by Lauren Kunze
GIRL TALK’SOUNDS GREAT! WHAT
DAY WORKS BEST FOR YOU?
Somebody had left a computer on in the corner of the office, and Lexi’s face twisted with rage once more.
After all, how would it look to her fellow co-chairs of the Harvard Green Initiative if her magazine were wasting half of their funding on electricity bills?
As she moved the mouse to turn it off, the screen lit up and displayed:
Callie Andrews
11.18.2010
Justice
Autonomy in Immanuel Kant’s
Grounding of the Metaphysics of Morals
Lexi frowned and blew a frustrated gust of air through her lips. As she shut the document, her phone vibrated with a new message from Vanessa: SOUNDS GREAT! HOW’S TUESDAY?
Slowly Lexi raised her eyes back to the computer screen. She blinked twice. It was just too good to be true.
Callie made her way up the stairs toward Clint’s suite in Adams House. Even though she should be able to relax now that all her work for the week was done, standing up to Lexi had somehow been more terrifying than empowering. . . .
She walked into the common room and found Clint waiting just inside the door. He took her bag from her and helped her out of her coat, then guided her toward his room with his hands over her eyes.
“Don’t peek,” he warned, opening the door and nudging her inside.
Immediately her ears filled with the sounds of soft, smooth jazz music. Clint walked her a few more steps and then uncovered her eyes.
On the floor was a white sheet surrounded by a border of soft pillows and covered everywhere with rose petals, which Clint had also scattered across the white down comforter on his bed. A bottle of champagne, a plate of dark chocolate–covered strawberries, and a picnic basket rested on the makeshift tablecloth, illuminated by the dim glow of tiny tea lights that he had arranged on the coffee table over by his couch.
“The other night,” Clint said, “you mentioned that one of the things you missed most about California was being able to eat outside. Well, since we didn’t have time to go somewhere warm for a picnic, I thought I’d bring the picnic inside for us!”
Callie was speechless: there was only one thing to do. She kissed him, flinging her arms around his neck and running her hands through his hair.
He kissed her: gently at first, then with greater urgency. Wrapping his arms around her, he pulled her as close to him as possible, caressing the small of her back.
Her hands slid down over his chest and then behind his waist, reaching beneath his polo shirt and over the warm, smooth skin of his back. Her fingers traced the upper rim of his boxers.
Grinning, he dipped her down suddenly and slid his free arm under her knees, lifting her and carrying her toward the rose-petal-covered bed. He lay her down and climbed on top of her, lifting her shirt and kissing her belly button before moving upward to kiss her collarbone, her neck, her cheeks, and then her lips.
She guided his shirt up over his head and pulled it off, throwing it across the room and taking a moment to admire, as she’d been doing every day that week, his body: toned from so many years of squash. Smiling up at him, she ran her fingers through his hair again. She loved that light brown hair, so shabby and sexy when it fell across his eyes. . . .
Before she knew it, they had removed his pants as well and he was working to unclasp her bra, her shirt having already joined her jeans in a pile on the floor. Her fingers lingered on his lower abs. She hesitated, but as her bra slid to the floor and he started kissing her chest, she began to pull his boxers down.
His hands rested on her hip bones, fingers tracing little lines beneath her belly button. He looked up at her, a silent question in his eyes. She nodded, arching her back as he slid her underwear down over her legs.
Suddenly they were chest to chest, their two bodies nearly one. He kissed her on the mouth and then tilted his face so that it was a few inches away from her. “Are you sure you’re ready for this?” he whispered.
“Yes . . . ,” she replied, pulling him back to her. She ran her hands over his chest, across his shoulders and down the lengths of his arms, her body aching for him.
“Sex is a big deal; I just want to be absolutely certain that you’re ready. . . .”
“It’s not my first time, you know,” she said, trying to smile as thoughts of her first time—thoughts of Evan—wandered into her head.
“I know,” he said, kissing her forehead. “I mean, I didn’t know, but I assumed since you mentioned having a long-term boyfriend back in high school.”
Stop talking about it! He felt heavy as he continued kissing her cheeks. Images of Evan began flashing through her mind.
“I just wanted to make sure that you were ready with me . . . for us. . . .”
“Uh-huh,” she mumbled, trying to move. He was suffocating her.
“Because I don’t want to rush you if you’re not feeling ready,” he pressed on, reaching out to move the hair that had fallen across her eyes. “Our first time should be special—”
“I think I know a way we could make today extra special,” Evan said, waving the keys to the soccer team’s locker room with a mischievous smile.
“But it’s Senior Week!” she protested. “We were supposed to turn the keys in already . . . and everyone’s on campus—we could get caught!”
“—and I want you to feel totally comfortable and safe—”
“Don’t worry, it’s totally safe,” Evan insisted, taking her hands in his and kissing her on each cheek. “We’ll lock the door, and no one will be able to hear us because I brought my laptop”—THE LAPTOP THAT MUST HAVE HAD A BUILT-IN VIDEO CAMERA—“and I can play loud music, just like this—”
“Callie?”
“Callie, come on: one last Captains’ Practice, for old time’s sake. It’ll be our little secret.” And back then she’d assumed that by “secret” he’d meant, “hooking up in the soccer team’s locker room during Senior Week”—completely unaware that he had also been *secretly* filming them on his laptop the entire time—
“Callie! What’s wrong? Why won’t you talk to me?”
And then Evan had shown that tape—a video file saved on his computer—to all the seniors on the team right before graduation to prove that what he’d been bragging about all semester was true—she could finally understand why for the rest of the summer they had all smiled at her with that funny look in their eyes.
“Goddammit Callie, why won’t you say anything?”
And he had never said anything until after he shared the tape with his big brother at UCLA—since “Make a Sex Tape” was worth a “gajillion points” in his fraternity’s initiation scavenger hunt. Did they think she’d made the tape voluntarily—that she was a dirty, freaky, exhibitionist, nympho, slut? Weren’t there laws against this type of thing? Against filming people doing private things without their consent, without their knowledge?
“Callie,” Clint started, trying again, his voice steady now but clearly alarmed. “Please. Tell me what’s wrong.”
“Can’t do it!” She gasped suddenly as she noticed that Clint was gripping her shoulders looking bewildered and distressed.
Who had a copy of that file now—besides every single member in his frat—and where was it going from there? YouTube? MySpace? Facebook?
“Can’t do it—” she managed to choke out again through strangled breaths. Clint finally realized she needed some air and moved aside.
And what if Clint ever saw it? Or if anyone at Harvard ever saw it? And what about life after college, for that matter? Would a newspaper ever hire her? And her parents—oh god, her parents: if they ever knew, she would—
Clint returned from his bathroom with a glass of water, but she just shook her head and mumbled, “I have to leave,” reaching for her clothes.
“No—don’t go. Stay, please, and tell me what’s going on,” he pleaded as she yanked her shirt on—backward and inside out—and started jamming her legs i
nto her jeans. “Was it something I did? Did I go too fast? Please, just come sit back on the bed and relax. . . . You’re safe with me—”
“Safe?” she cried, wheeling around and accidentally kicking the plate of chocolate-covered strawberries across the room. “There’s nothing safe about having sex—”
“Really, Callie, it’s all right. I understand that you’re nervous—” he tried again, standing up and pulling on his boxers.
“No, Clint, no you do not understand!” she cried, refusing to meet his eyes. “You couldn’t possibly understand!” She darted around the room, gathering her things.
“All right, Callie, you know what? You’re right: I don’t understand.” He pulled on his jeans. “I don’t get you—at all. One minute you seem totally excited and then all of a sudden you’re seriously freaking out! What’s the deal? Why can’t you just talk to me about—”
“I don’t want to talk to you about it, okay!”
He hesitated for a moment, watching her search for her shoes and then:
“Fine . . .”
His tone made her pause, one shoe on and the other on the floor. She kept her eyes on her feet, knowing that if she looked at him she would surely start to cry.
“You don’t want to talk to me? That’s fine. That’s your decision. But I can’t have a girlfriend who doesn’t feel like she can tell me things. It’s just not fair—to either of us. So maybe you should take some time to think and figure out what you want.”
He pulled on his shirt. “I’ll be here waiting when you’re ready to talk, but this,” he added, gesturing toward the space between them as Callie continued to stare at the floor. “This type of behavior, without explanation, is completely crazy and totally unacceptable.”
She nodded slowly and pulled the straps of her duffel bag over her shoulder. She glanced at him briefly and muttered, “See you when I see you,” then made her way out the door.
She was half expecting him to follow her—to call out to her or at least offer to walk her home—when she heard the door to his room shut with a slam.
Outside it had started to snow.
Chapter Seventeen
Beer, Sex, and Football
THE GAME
Dear Froshies:
Well, the secret’s out: Harvard has a football team! For those of you boys who didn’t already know: shame on you—get out of the library and get a life! For those of you ladies who did: great job—now stop screwing that football player and get back to the library!
But in all seriousness, they say that beer, sex, and football are the three things that no college student (i.e. heterosexual dude) can live without. That’s why the Harvard-Yale football game (read: “tailgate”) is most students’ favorite event of the year—a magical time when they can usually manage to satisfy all three of these primal collegiate desires consecutively, if not simultaneously. . . .
for your football: Take the Mass Pike heading west, then I-84 and I-91 to New Haven, where the murder rate in the city is higher than the average Yalie’s SAT. Game starts at noon on Saturday. Tailgating starts at Toad’s on Friday evening and continues when you wake up on Saturday morning (if you even sleep at all). As soon as you open your eyes and recover from the unexpected shock of a) where you are sleeping and b) who is sleeping next to you, you’d be well advised to keep drinking—a mimosa or a Bloody Mary is the *best* way to cure a hangover. . . .
for your beer: The Harvard undergraduate tailgates—including trailers, BBQs, and DJs courtesy of the Final Clubs and Upperclassman Houses—will be located adjacent to the field, next to the alumni tailgates (sneak in for some quality food and booze) and of course the enemy territory. No need to BYOB: the house tailgates and the Final Clubs will have as much Natty Light, Budweiser, PBR, and Coors as your little hearts can possibly desire. Shotgun at will, but remember the importance of knowing your own limits: the “drunk tanks” at Yale-New Haven Hospital tend to fill up pretty quickly with stupid, overzealous freshmen.
for your sex: Well, against my better advice, you can decide to hedge your legacy bets and attempt to procreate with a Yalie instead of a fellow Harvard peer. Just be warned that, in contrast to Harvard, requirements for admittance to Yale do not require being good in bed. . . . But fling away if you must, little froshies! Just remember that those two minutes of ecstasy may come back to haunt you when Yale comes up to Harvard for the game: 2011. . . .
As always, when engaging in these hedonistic pleasures, aspiring future leaders of the world ought to keep in mind the following three words: decorum, decorum, decorum.
As you shotgun that beer: always have an eye on the individual behind the camera as it snaps your picture, always know where—and on whose Facebook profile—that picture is going to go. In your drunken stupor you may not even notice as an acquaintance’s digital
camera snaps a photo of you making out with your roommate or takes a short video of you doing a keg stand and accidentally flashing the world. Just remember: once it’s on the internet, there’s no telling where it might go.
I know you all paid close attention during the college’s various lectures about online privacy, but I’ll repeat my warning once more: it’s the times like these when we think we’re the safest to really let loose and get wild that require our greatest vigilance. Get ready for the scandals and get ready for the fun. . . .
Hang on to your hats—it’s HARVARD-YALE!
Alexis Thorndike, Advice Columnist
Fifteen Minutes Magazine
Harvard University’s Authority on Campus Life since 1873
SWALLOW! SWALLOW! SWALLOW!” the crowd chanted before erupting into a roar.
“Come on, girls—one more time!” Bryan yelled above the cheers, holding two cheap plastic bottles of gin in each hand at the top of the ice luge: a large block of ice tilted at a forty-five degree angle with two miniature “riverbeds” carved into it so that two young coeds could place their mouths on the lower end and receive a long stream of freezing-cold hard alcohol.
Mimi shook her head from side to side as Bryan screamed encouragements, motioning to Callie that she couldn’t handle any more booze. “Shoulda flowed your a’vice and spit insteada swallowed,” Mimi mumbled drunkenly, stumbling off to the side.
Thus abandoned by her partner in crime, Callie was about to back away from the luge when Mimi’s vacant space was suddenly filled.
“Okay, let’s go!” Gregory cried, smiling at Callie.
For a split second Callie hesitated, wondering if this was a very bad idea. Deciding that yes, it was a terrible idea indeed, in the true spirit of college she bent over and did it anyway.
As she stood up a moment later, gin punch trickling down her chin, she searched for Mimi—relaxing when Callie spotted her wobbling toward the DJ near a table for the Fly.
It was Game Day and the tailgate was raging. The morning sun shone brightly over the massive fields adjacent to the Yale Bowl, which were currently overflowing with endless rows of trailers and cars decorated with banners and balloons, beneath which students and alumni clustered, barbecuing and drinking beers. It was freezing cold in spite of the sun, but most were too intoxicated to notice, stumbling from table to table and sampling the food and drink while the trampled grass grew muddy beneath their feet.
Callie and Mimi had already gotten lost three times on their way to find the Harvard undergraduates’ section, surviving catcalls and mock death threats from Yalies who spotted their crimson sweatshirts. Finally they had happened upon a crowd of familiar faces. Banners for some of the upperclassman houses fluttered in the breeze next to tables full of booze and bagels that had been set up in front of trailers painted with logos: the Fly, the Delphic, the Isis, and the Bee. The Final Clubs had pooled their money and rented a DJ. Music blasted from the nearby speakers, and a dance party was quickly materializing—the wildest ever to occur before noon in the history of the Ivy League.
“I had fun last night,” said Gregory, speaking over Callie’s shoulder.
. . . if a = b and b = c, then a = c so . . .
. . . he must not be able to see her either.
Turning to Gregory, she met his eyes, remembering the events of the previous evening all too clearly: how by the end of the night, she had ended up in his arms . . .
. . . where Clint had practically pushed her. She had been trying to dance with Clint, trying to apologize, when he had stormed out of the bar and left her there, alone, saying: “Callie, I thought I told you I need a break.”
All night long the words had played to the DJ’s soundtrack, over and over again in her head.
“I need a break” as she started dancing with Gregory and—
“I need a break” as their sweat began to mingle and—
“I need a break” as he pulled her closer and closer—
What did it mean: “I need a break?”
She felt Gregory’s hand on her shoulder and realized that he was still looking at her . . . and Clint still wasn’t speaking to her . . . and Gregory’s eyes were still just as blue, just as beautiful . . . and Clint still wasn’t speaking to her . . . and maybe being on a break meant that it was all right to give in to gravity and lean forward and—
“Bad, bad neighbor!” Mimi cried, rushing over and stepping in front of Callie. Glaring at Gregory, she made a fist. “Laisse-la ou je vais te faire mal!”
Before Gregory could respond, Mimi grabbed Callie’s hand and dragged her off into the midst of the dance party, now packed with hundreds of students. Gregory quickly disappeared from view. Mimi began to move to the music, but Callie froze—for there was Vanessa not ten feet away, dancing up a storm with some prep school girls. She had driven down in their car and was also sharing a room with them at the Omni New Haven. Good for her. Have fun guessing whose jeans cost the most or plotting how to ruin my life.