The Ivy (15 page)

The line to get in to The Estate was a parade of Chloe, Diane Von Furstenberg, D&G, Zac Posen, and more, each spectacular dress adorned with a fancy, funny, or creative hat—crazy hats big and small with fur, leather, lights, sparkles, feathers, and more.

Callie glanced self-consciously at her dress but decided that she had nothing to worry about. Clint had said she looked gorgeous, and his was the only opinion that mattered.

Maybe there’s a spot for me in this world after all, she thought as Clint slipped an ID into the palm of her hand. The name on the card read Marianne Smith, and hair color was the only thing she had in common with the girl in the photograph.

“This looks nothing like me!” she whispered.

“Don’t worry,
Marianne
,” he said, smiling down at her. “They’re not
really
carding: some Bee girl will just look at the IDs and check our names off of the guest list. That big bouncer’s more for show than anything else.” Callie craned her neck to try to get a glimpse of the bouncer, but her vision was blocked by the couples ahead of them.

Clint squeezed her hand. “Seriously, don’t stress out about it. I took care of everything.”

Mimi, Fahad, Tatiana, and Alexander slid by the bouncer and into the club: a sea of disco lights and crazy hats. James and Vanessa, who were directly in front of Callie, also entered the club with ease.

“Marianne Smith,” she said, reaching to hand the bouncer her ID.

“I’ll take that,” said a voice to her left.

Turning, Callie found herself face-to-face with the girl in charge of the guest list.

Alexis Thorndike.

Damn
.

Swallowing an enormous lump in her throat, Callie did her best to smile. “Uhm, hi, Lexi . . .”

“Oh, you two already know each other?” asked Clint. “Well, that certainly makes everything easier!”

Lexi’s smile looked faker than a plastic surgery disaster. She tucked a curl of brown hair that had broken loose from her all-too-real-looking tiara back behind her ear and said sweetly:

“Of course, how could I not know her after she’s been slaving away so diligently for my
FM
COMP? Welcome to our party.”

Lexi leaned in and gave Clint a lingering kiss on the cheek.

“Perhaps you two already know
my
date?” Lexi asked coolly, gesturing toward the crowd. Callie turned and saw a tall, dark-haired guy weaving through the masses to take up his place by Lexi’s side.

Gregory.

“Sure we do,” said Clint, smiling at Gregory. “Greg’s my favorite freshman on the squash team. You should’ve seen him play in our match last week against Dartmouth! You couldn’t have picked a better guy.”

A flash of fury flickered across Lexi’s face as Clint punched Gregory on the arm. Turning to Callie, she cooed:

“Gee . . . I just love your costume. . . . It’s so creative. But tell me: are you a stripper or a crack whore?”

Callie felt as if she’d been slapped in the face. Clenching her fists, she tried to focus on feeling
angry
as an alternative to what she really wanted to do, which was cry. Gregory chuckled as he sipped his drink, but Clint was starting to look uncomfortable.

“Easy there, Lex,” he said, handing her both of their IDs.

Lexi smiled angelically. “I was only teasing. Hmm,” she said, gazing at Callie’s ID and squinting. Then in a voice that could certainly carry to where the bouncer stood she asked, “Marianne Smith? But I’m so confused. I thought your name was Callie.”

And just like that Callie’s urge to cry disappeared. She was now officially angry.

Snatching back their IDs, Clint shot Lexi a withering glare. “You never change, do you?”

Before Lexi could reply, Clint grabbed Callie’s arm and marched past the bouncer into the party, tossing an apologetic “Catch you later, man” over his shoulder at Gregory.

Fists clenching and teeth clamped so hard it hurt, Callie barely registered that they had made it safely into the party. The music swelled around her, and she found her fear of Lexi ebbing away. There would be no more staying classy or pretending to be aloof: if Lexi wanted to play games, then Callie was ready to hop into the ring. Since Lexi was determined to hate her no matter what she did or how hard she tried, she might as well give up and give her something to work with.

All’s fair in love and war . . . and
this
—this was war.

“Let’s dance!” she yelled at Clint, pulling him into the fray.

What began as a whisper, a tuck of the hair, and a light series of kisses on the cheek, neck, and ears soon devolved into a full-on, dance floor make-out. PDA wasn’t normally Callie’s style, but as she watched Lexi turn
pink
with envy, a grim satisfaction settled over her.

Mission accomplished.

“Trashy little freshman” makes out with hot upperclassman in front of ex’s friends and cohorts . . .

Round one: Callie 1–Lexi 0

After nearly half an hour on the dance floor, Callie felt tired and sweaty, and, in the words of Grandma Andrews, her wig was “starting to slip.”

“Want to take a break?” she shouted over the music. Clint nodded and led her to a booth where Tatiana, Alexander, Mimi, and Fahad were seated, enjoying a round of colorful drinks. She spotted OK at a nearby table with a girl she recognized as a sophomore: cute but obviously not captivating enough since OK kept stealing sidelong glances at Mimi and muttering—no doubt issuing a deadly
fatwa
against Fahad.

Mimi seemed too tipsy to notice the heartache and drama unfolding around her and chattered happily with Tatiana about the old glory days while Alexander and Clint started speaking in Man (“football-football-football”).

“So, Fahad . . .” Callie started.

“So . . .” he replied.

“So.”

“So . . . ?”

“Uhm . . . have you seen Vanessa?”

And then, miraculously, there she was, plopping down next to Callie, a little breathless and uncharacteristically unaware that her Cleopatra headdress was lopsided.

“Where’s Prince Charming?” Callie asked, scanning the room for Vanessa’s “reputable index fund.”

“What—you mean James?” said Vanessa, sounding less than enthusiastic. “He’s at the bar getting another drink, though, honestly, I don’t see how he can possibly drink anymore. He’s already so far gone, I doubt he even remembers his own name. . . .”

“All the more reason for
you
to make sure he gets home safely and that nobody takes advantage of him,” Callie joked, nudging Vanessa in the ribs.

Vanessa didn’t laugh. She tugged at her hair, looking frazzled. “Me! Take advantage of him? Ha! More like the other way around. That bastard tried to grope me and shove his tongue down my throat!”

“Ew,” said Callie distractedly as she caught sight of Lexi dancing with a group of girls. Gregory was nowhere in sight.

Abandoned by her date at her own party . . .

Round two: Callie 2–Lexi 0

Clint and Alexander, who had gone to the bar, returned with two huge scorpion bowls and proposed a race: boys versus girls. Following Mimi’s lead, Callie deduced that they were all meant to drink simultaneously using multiple straws. She, Mimi, Tatiana, and Vanessa crowded around their bowl, sipping frantically while Clint, Alexander, and Fahad made the contents of their own disappear.

“Oh, shit, he’s back,” Vanessa muttered as James stumbled toward them.

“There you are!” James slurred, cramming into the booth so close to Vanessa that he was practically on top of her, his arm snaking around her hips. “Thought you could run away from me, didn’t you?”

Vanessa gave him a tight-lipped smile and tried to scoot closer to Callie. Misinterpreting, Callie moved closer to Clint to make more room. Clint smiled and wrapped his arm around her.

Vanessa stood.

“Hey, where are you going?” James cried, immediately standing with her.

“Bathroom,” she answered curtly, trying to shake him off.

“Hey now . . . don’t be like that. Let’s dance.”

Callie threw her head back in laughter as Mimi and Tatiana began acting out a scene from one of their European misadventures in which Fahad had been cast in the role of a disgruntled camel. He was rising to the occasion beautifully. Vanessa looked at James, then back at the group, and then over his shoulder, searching for an escape route before James could launch into another monologue about how many houses he owned (the only thing he could talk about) or feel her up again (his idea of “dancing”).

“If you’ll excuse me,” Vanessa began, backing away from him, “I have to go to the lady’s r—”

“Shhhhhh,” he whispered, wrapping his arms around her and steering her toward the dance floor.

“James,
no
,” she hissed, trying to push him away.

“Oh . . .
yes . . .”
he moaned, his hands sliding down, lower and lower.

She tried to break free. “Stop it!” she cried shrilly. “Get the hell off of m—”

“Is there a problem here?” a voice asked, its owner stepping out of the crowd.

“Hey, man, no, there’s no problem at all. We’re just having a lil fun, aren’t we sweetheart . . . ?” James slurred, tightening his grip on Vanessa, who turned and cried:

“Gregory!”

“I think you need to back up, pal,” said Gregory, placing a hand on James’s shoulder.

“What the fuck’s your problem, man?” James yelled, finally stepping back from Vanessa and spinning around to face Gregory. “If I wanna have a lil fun with
my
date, I don’t see how that’s any of your goddamn business—”

The music stopped. Callie and Mimi, who had finally realized what was happening, came rushing over with Clint and Fahad at their heels.

“Guys like you are my problem,” said Gregory, his voice deadly calm. “Now listen carefully: you have ten seconds to leave the party, go outside, grab a cab, and go home. You will never so much as touch, speak, or even
look
at this girl again. Do I make myself clear?”

“Clear as fucking crystal,” James muttered, shuffling backward toward the door. But then he paused, and eyeing Gregory, he lunged.

He was so drunk that he missed by about three feet: sucker punching the air. Gregory watched James stumble. He smiled wryly. And then he punched him in the face.

James spun backward and collapsed on the floor.

Somebody screamed and the bouncer came running over. He stared at James for a moment, an oddly satisfied expression on his face. Then, pulling him to his feet, he dragged him out of the club.

“Vanessa, what happened?” Callie demanded.

“I am so sorry—” Mimi started.

“We had no idea he was such a creep—”

“Or that you needed help—”

“Do you need anything?”

Vanessa shook her head through her tears, unable to speak.

“C’mon,” said Gregory, sliding an arm around Vanessa’s shoulders, “I’ll take you home.”

“Good idea,” Clint agreed. “Vanessa, I’m so sorry. I had no
idea
that guy was such an asshole.”

Vanessa nodded glumly, her head on Gregory’s shoulder.

Callie stared dumbfounded as Gregory guided Vanessa out of the party. Clint was saying something, but she couldn’t concentrate on his words. Gregory—to the rescue? Gregory—and Vanessa? Was this for real?

Apparently, Callie wasn’t the only one who had noticed. Lexi was also watching Gregory and Vanessa retreat into the night, anger and disbelief etched across her face.

Publically deserted by her date in favor of another “trampy vixen froshling . . .”

Final round: Callie 3–Lexi 0

The winning point felt far less satisfying than Callie had anticipated.

Chapter Twelve
Elections

I
’ll get it!” Vanessa cried, leaping to her feet and running to answer a knock at the door.

Callie, who was curled up on the couch reading
Madame Bovary
, stayed where she was, wondering why OK or Matt had bothered to knock when they usually just came barging in.

“Flowers! For me?” Vanessa cried, grabbing the large glass vase from a delivery man and returning to the common room, staggering under the weight of an enormous bouquet.

“Oooh, pretty,” said Callie. “Who are they from?”

“I don’t know!” said Vanessa, leaning in to smell a lily. “Somebody must have remembered that it’s my birthday!”

Callie laughed. Nobody could have forgotten that today, Friday, October 29, was Vanessa’s birthday: she had been reminding them for weeks. To celebrate, Vanessa, Callie, and Mimi were going to dinner at UpStairs on the Square.

“Oh, wait, look! There’s a card!” Vanessa cried, noticing a small white note that had been tucked inside the leaves.

“‘Beautiful flowers for a beautiful girl.’ Isn’t that sweet? ‘Congratulations . . .’” Reading on in silence, her face suddenly fell. “Oh, whoops,” she said. “I think these are actually for you, Callie.”

“For me?” asked Callie. “Let me see it. . . .”

“Wow,” said Vanessa. “And at the end of October! Shipping them in must have cost a fortune! I think he really, really likes you.”

“They’re so . . .” Callie was stunned.

“‘Congratulations on finishing your first round of COMP!’” Vanessa read, picking up the card again. “Wait a second: I thought you weren’t done until tomorrow?”

“Ugh, don’t remind me!” said Callie, blowing a frustrated gust of air through her lips.

“Thank
god
I quit after the first meeting. I cannot believe how hard you’ve been working!”

“I know, I know,” said Callie, frowning. The past few weeks had been absolute hell: staying up until three every morning at the
Crimson
, editing until her fingers felt raw and her eyeballs were popping out of their sockets. “At least this round will be over by tomorrow. Maybe I’ll get cut and then I’ll have time to spend on my actual assignments,” she finished, waving
Madame Bovary
in the air.

“Don’t say that!” Vanessa said. “You’re not getting cut. The pieces I read were amazing, and really funny, too— Wait, they’re supposed to be funny, right?

“Sometimes . . .” Callie laughed.

“Well, whatever. They’re great, you’re great, and I am very, very proud of you!”

“
Aw
, thanks.”

“So, listen, back to me: the reservation tonight is for nine o’clock sharp. I have to run some errands and go to Newbury to pick up my dress, so I’ll just meet you there, all right?”

“Got it,” said Callie. “And what’s on the agenda for after dinner?”

“I was thinking drinks at Daedalus,” Vanessa replied. “Where, if all goes according to plan, we will
accidentally
run into Gregory: my knight in shining Armani with his trusty steed, the Carrera.”

Callie laughed and shook her head. “All right, nine o’clock sharp, UpStairs on the Square, drinks afterward: we’ll be there. Though I probably can’t stay at Daedalus for very long because Matt and I are planning to proofread each other’s pieces later tonight.”

“Good. Well, you have to come for at least
one
drink,” Vanessa began, slinging her purse over her shoulder and heading for the door. “It just wouldn’t be the same without my best friend!”

Best friend . . . Wait, what? When just two months ago Vanessa had been embarrassed to be seen with her in the dining hall?

But the more Callie thought about it, the more it made sense. Vanessa’s main group of girlfriends from school treated her like New Money, and her guy friends . . . Well, seeing as she thought touchdowns were called baskets and beer was synonymous with bloating, she didn’t actually have many male friends to speak of.

Plus, what happened in the dining hall had been eclipsed long ago by Vanessa’s nobler actions: helping Callie through her breakup, saving her from herself at Calypso, lending her outfits without blinking, and trying to get her punched for the Pudding.

In fact, Callie was certain that if their situations at Mad Hatter’s had been reversed, Vanessa would have been there to help her. Even now, a full week later, Callie still felt guilty when she thought about it.

“I can’t believe James turned out to be such an asshole,” Callie had said the morning after Mad Hatter’s, feeling terrible for not noticing when Vanessa was in trouble. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Yep,” Vanessa answered firmly, though her expression had darkened when Callie mentioned his name. “It was basically all worth it just to be rescued by Gregory. . . .”

“Yeah,” said Callie, staring at her lap. “He was pretty amazing.” She lifted her head but couldn’t quite bring herself to meet Vanessa’s eyes. As casually as possible, she added: “Did anything happen between you two last night?”

“No.” Vanessa smiled. “Though you could tell he totally wanted to make a move but, like, couldn’t because of the situation. He was a perfect gentleman.”

“Ha!” scoffed Callie before she could stop herself. “Since when has Gregory ever acted like a gentleman?”

“Oh, Callie, he’s really not as bad as you think! He was completely wonderful last night. I feel like I finally got to see a side of him that not very many people know. I think we really connected!”

“Really?” asked Callie. “So . . . no good-night kiss? No nothing?”

“Nope,” said Vanessa, sounding inexplicably cheerful. “Normally I’d take that as a bad sign, but he kept dropping hints left and right.”

“Oh . . . Like what?

“Just, you know, saying how he might finally be ready for something more serious and how it might be nice to have a girlfriend . . . Oh,
and
when we were talking about OK and Mimi, he said that Mimi told him she finds OK attractive and loves his personality but doesn’t want to hook up casually with him—because they’re such good friends—until she knows if they have real relationship potential. Anyway, the entire time he’s saying this, he keeps giving me these looks . . . you know, really long, meaningful ones.”

Callie knew it’d be wiser to end the conversation there, but she just couldn’t keep herself from asking: “Wait, so how did that topic of conversation even come up?”

“Oh, you know,” said Vanessa, “we were just gossiping about all the roommates: saying how funny it’d be if OK and Mimi got together since Adam and Dana are dating. . . . And then I guess he was wondering if you and Clint were officially a couple and I said yes—”

“What?” said Callie sharply, “What do you mean you said yes? Clint and I aren’t officially together; we’ve barely even started dating!”

“Oh— Really? I guess I just assumed you were official already. I mean, why wouldn’t you be? He’s so into you and he’s perfect!”

Staring at the beautiful flowers, Callie almost laughed aloud at the thought that just one week ago, she had objected to their being referred to as a couple. The only reason she’d been able to survive the past seven days was Clint: he had brought her coffee at the
Crimson
nearly every night, massaged her neck and shoulders, and seen her through more than one work-induced near nervous breakdown.

At this point there was only one thing holding her back. And no, despite what you may be thinking, his name wasn’t Gregory. (Though did he really like Vanessa? I mean, really? Why did he care if things with Clint were official, anyway?)

This particular issue dated all the way back to the original asshole—no, not Adam—Evan. After what he’d done, when it came to relationships, she really didn’t know if she’d be able to trust guys again, ever.

So she should probably stop thinking about Clint that way . . . constantly . . . and stop having fantasies about him throwing her COMP pieces on the floor and lifting her onto a desk at the
Crimson.
. . . Or making another midnight trip to the top of the Astronomy Tower and climbing the ladder to the observation deck . . . Or about him pressing her up against the wall in the coatroom at the Pudding . . . Or . . . Or . . . Or . . .

NO!
Sex, as she ought to be doing a better job of reminding herself, could lead to catastrophic unforeseen complications way worse than the usual array of STDs, pregnancy, and oxytocin overdose.

Clint. Evan. Gregory. Clint. Clegorvan—ARGHHH!!! She buried her nose in
Madame Bovary
, vowing to finish at least this chapter before she returned to the daunting stack of COMP assignments piled high on her desk. Turning the page, she read:

Before she married, she thought she was in love; but the happiness that should have resulted from that love, somehow had not come. It seemed to her that she must have made a mistake, have misunderstood in some way or another. And Emma tried hard to discover what, precisely, it was in life that was denoted by the words “joy, passion, intoxication,” which had always looked so fine to her in books—

Callie was once again interrupted when Dana marched into the room. Her face looked like a five-year-old’s face-paint project gone wrong. It appeared she may have been trying to use makeup for the first time. “Dana, what . . . ?” Callie ventured. Dana turned beet red.

“Well, I aced my Physics 15 midterm, but when it comes to this type of thing, I’m like a wild African warthog stuck in the bottom of a muddy watering hole. . . .”

It took Callie a few seconds to process that before she turned to her roommate in amazement. “Dana—was that a joke?”

“Yes,” said Dana. “An attempt, anyhow.”

Callie laughed. “It’s really not that difficult. Here, come into the bathroom and I’ll show you.”

“Thank you very much,” Dana said.

“No problem!” Callie replied. Anything to get away from Emma Bovary and her boy problems . . .

It was 8:55 and they were running late. Mimi had been napping and slept through her alarm, while Callie had spent every possible moment editing her pieces for COMP.

“Hurry up, Mimi. Let’s go!” Callie cried, steering her roommate toward the door. It had barely shut when they turned and found themselves face-to-face with Matt. He looked disheveled and unshaven, and Callie wondered guiltily if he couldn’t find anyone to hang out with on a Friday night.

“So, are we still on for proofreading later?” he asked Callie, eyeing her dress.

“Yes, yes, of course!” she assured him. The look on his face made her feel like she should have some sort of an excuse for what she was wearing. “It’s, uhm, Vanessa’s birthday tonight, and just the three of us girls are going to dinner. After that, I’ll be there, I swear.” She didn’t know why she felt the need to emphasize that it was just girls, or omit the part about getting cocktails later. . . .