The Ivy: Rivals (12 page)

Off in the distance, propped against the back of a leather couch, she saw Gregory. He was staring straight at them. He held her gaze for a full two seconds. Then, tossing the stub of his cigarette into an empty glass, he left the room.

“You . . . what?” Clint prompted, leaning back to look at her.

“I—I want to hear more about what it was like to grow up in Virginia,” she said quickly.

“Not so fast,” he said. “I already told you all about dance class. It’s your turn to tell me something about California.”

She sighed.

“What?” he asked, twirling her slowly.

“Nothing,” she said. “I just miss it.”

“What do you miss the most?”

What
didn’t
she miss? Back in California everything had always been so easy. Instead of crazy on-again off-again Vanessa she had Jessica, her unwavering best friend since first grade. Parties involved somebody’s house, preferably with a pool, and maybe a stolen six-pack—but no themes. The temperature rarely dipped below a cool seventy-two degrees, meaning she could rock shorts seven days a week without giving a second thought to what she was wearing. And she’d barely had time for her boyfriend, let alone boy problems, with soccer practice thirty hours a week—an extracurricular where her talent was so obvious she’d never had anything to prove. Likewise, getting all As was almost an afterthought, with her parents—god, how she
missed
them—always in the background to cheer her on, there to love her no matter what.

“I miss . . . surfing,” she finally said.

“Surfing?” he asked.

“Yep,” she replied. “Sometimes in the spring Jess and I would roll out of bed at the crack of dawn, head over to the beach, and just ride the waves until the sun came up. It was the only athletic activity we could ever compromise on since she’s much more of a Yogalates-because-the-gym-is-right-next-to-Fro-Yo kind of a girl. And even though we’d shower before school, my skin would still smell salty all day. It was the best.”

“Sounds amazing,” Clint agreed. “I’d love to learn how to surf.”

“Maybe if you come to visit one day, I can teach you!” she said. “Plus, Jess has been dying to meet you.”

“So you’ve been talking about me a lot, huh?” he teased.

“Well—yes.” She blushed. “But that’s only because—I mean not
only
but partly because—Jess and I tell each other
everything
.”

“Well, I can’t wait to meet her,” he said. “The next time we get a vacation, it’s a date.”

“Speaking of vacations . . .” She frowned slightly. “Well, about spring break.”

“Yes?” he prompted. “What about it?”

“It sounds incredible, but won’t a trip like that be kind of, well, expensive?”

Clint smiled. “Don’t you worry about that,” he said, twirling her again.

What was that supposed to mean? Surely he wasn’t thinking . . . “Clint I
am
worried, because I’m not sure . . .” Briefly she closed her eyes. “I’m not sure if I can afford it.”

“It’s already taken care of.”

“But—”

“Think of it as an early birthday present.”

“But—”

“Excuse me,” someone said, tapping Clint on the shoulder. It was Bryan, who had been two years ahead of Callie back at West Hollywood High and was also a member of the Fly. “Sorry to interrupt,” he continued, “but Clint, they need you upstairs.”

Clint broke away from Callie but did not let go of her hands. “I hate to leave you like this. . . .”

“Go!” she urged, waving him away. “I’ll be fine.”

“You sure?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Be right back, then,” he said, kissing her cheek.

She watched him disappear up a flight of stairs that led to another members only level of the club. Looking around, she spotted Vanessa and Tyler in a darkened corner, making up from whatever pseudo fight had happened most recently. Other than that, she recognized no one; even Lexi and Gregory were nowhere to be found and everyone else was coupled up, older, and totally unapproachable.

Sighing, Callie slipped through a door at the back of the great dance hall into a smaller, quieter room where couples were mingling. The air was hazy with smoke. Her breath caught in her chest and she coughed; Lexi and Anne stood at the end of a long line for the bathroom. Time for Plan B.

Doubling back, she scanned the room once more. Still no Clint. So, glancing over her shoulder, she pushed through another door: this one heavy and made of dark wood that she had only ever seen members passing through.

She was alone on a landing at the top of a staircase leading down. The walls were lined with old photographs (like 1898 old) of former club members. She hesitated, but only for a moment—there was bound to be a bathroom on the first floor, and if someone caught her, she could always play the I-had-to-pee card; after all, what’s the worst that could happen?

Treading lightly, she bounded down the stairs and found herself in a large foyer. To her left she saw a dining room with double doors that probably led to a kitchen; on the right, a living room that looked promising. At the far end of the living room a wooden archway opened out into another room: a vast library. Hardcover volumes lined the shelves; lamps with red shades protruding from the walls cast a maroon glow on the wide brown leather couches, also lit dimly by the dull remaining embers in the brick fireplace.

Callie reached out to run her fingers along the spine of a green volume on her right. She was halfway through sliding it off the shelf when she heard a voice, faint at first, but then louder and louder, accompanied by the sound of muffled footsteps coming down the stairs. In another second the speaker would arrive in the living room, effectively trapping her. Shoving the book back into place, she ducked through another arched opening just beyond the shelf.

She stood in a small enclave: the space occupied almost exclusively by a huge mahogany desk with chairs on either side, piled high with winter coats. The walls were lined with more books, including the wall Callie flattened herself against now while she held her breath. Opposite her she noticed a plaque that read,
OFFICE OF THE PRESIDENT
. Closing her eyes, she prayed that the president, whoever he was, had elected to remain upstairs.

“You can’t keep doing this,” a male voice said, too muffled to identify. There was a crinkling sound as whoever had spoken sat down on a couch.

Callie listened, straining to hear the answer, but the other person in the room must have spoken very softly or stayed silent.

The first speaker’s voice came again in hushed, barely audible fragments: “. . . I am involved now. . . . You can’t just keep covering your tracks and expect to get away with it. . . . A lot of people could get hurt.”

Callie held her breath, edging along the wall closer to the opening. She could still hear only snatches of the conversation: “. . . come clean now . . . the fallout will be worse the longer . . .”

Balancing with her left palm on the desk, she leaned forward, inching her right ear as close as possible to the source of the sound—

“IT WASN’T YOURS TO TAKE!” the voice suddenly boomed. Startled, Callie lost her balance and gripped the desk for support. Unfortunately, her fingers closed around a coat. She dragged it with her as she went down, knocking a lamp off the desk in the process. When she hit the floor, several other coats promptly fell on top of her.

For a moment she let herself lie there partially buried, hoping in vain that the coats would conceal her or that the people in the other room hadn’t heard the commotion.

“Typical,” a voice said, lazy and low. Its owner stood leaning against the archway. “So typical.”

“Gregory?”

“Nice underwear,” he replied.

Her knees snapped together, and she pushed herself off the floor. Peering around him, she looked out into the library: “Who else is . . . oh,” she finished, watching him pocket his cell. “You were on the phone. Who were you talking t—?”

“Shhhh—” he hissed suddenly, grabbing her arm and cocking his head to the right.

“What? Wh—” Her eyes grew wide as he pushed her up against the books lining the wall, his hand over her mouth, the other raised, a finger to his lips. But in another second she understood, the sounds now audible from the living room.

“We are most certainly
not
crashing this party!” an indignant voice cried. That BBC British accent could belong to only one man on campus and one man alone, but if there was any doubt it was dispelled a moment later.

“Unhand me, you
imbécile pompeux
!” cried the unmistakable voice of Mimi.

“I imagine you thought that by coming in masks, we wouldn’t catch you,” a third, male speaker said derisively. “Very clever . . .”

“Ah,
merci
.”

“Hey! The masks were
my
idea—”

“Enough!” The male speaker silenced OK.

Gregory, whose hands had fallen to the shelf on either side of Callie, pressed a finger to her lips. His eyes gleamed with the same suppressed laughter he had stopped not a moment too soon.

“Now can you see yourselves to the door,” the member continued, “or am I going to have to
literally
kick you out?”

“Spare her!” OK cried theatrically. “And take me instead!”

Callie couldn’t help it: she snorted. Her hands flew to her mouth, but fortunately no one—save Gregory—seemed to have heard, the voices dwindling as the member, or so she imagined, dragged Mimi and OK by the scruffs of their necks toward the front door. Gregory, who had instinctively grabbed her wrists, slowly let go as they heard the front door slam, followed by the sound of singular footsteps thudding back upstairs.

“We probably shouldn’t be down here,” Callie whispered after she finally managed to subdue her elated giggles.

“You’re probably right,” he agreed, strolling out of the president’s office and throwing himself onto a leather couch with irritating bravado. “But ‘I’ve been drunk for about a week now, and I thought it might sober me up to sit in a library.’”

“Gatsby?” she asked, perching on the edge of the couch in spite of herself.

“The one and only.”

“It’s a favorite of mine, too,” she offered.

“I wouldn’t exactly call it a
favorite
,” he replied.

“Oh, so you just routinely memorize quotes from things that you don’t like?”

“You don’t have to
like
something to find it interesting or . . . irritatingly persistent.”

“‘Irritatingly persistent’?” she squawked. “Is that what you’d call one of the greatest American novels of all time!”

Gregory smirked. “Gatsby was a fool. Bending over backward for a chick who wasn’t even worth it.”

“You don’t think it’s romantic?” Callie asked, staring him down.

“No, I don’t.” He shrugged. “Not only does he pick the wrong girl, but he tries to change his whole personality just to fit into her world. What he doesn’t realize is that he’ll never belong with her, or in East Egg, no matter how many fancy shirts he may buy or parties he may throw.”

Callie was quiet, watching the last remaining ember in the fireplace slowly die. “‘It is invariably saddening to look through new eyes at things upon which you have expended your own powers of adjustment,’” she murmured finally, speaking almost to herself.

“Who’s quoting now?” Gregory asked.

“Who were you on the phone with earlier?” she retorted, her head snapping back to him.

Instead of answering, he stood. “I’m overdue for a smoke,” he said, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and walking into the living room.

“You know you can smoke inside tonight,” Callie called, following him.

“I know,” he said, turning when he reached the club’s front door, where their roommates had been cast out only minutes earlier. “But it’s no fun when you have permission.”

Callie stood for almost a minute after he had gone. Eventually she shook her head and rounded toward the stairs. She was halfway to the top when she nearly collided with a guy on his way down.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, blocking any further passage.

“I was just looking for a bathr—”

“You’re not supposed to be down here,” he interrupted. “Girls are never allowed in this part of the club until after they graduate or if they are escorted by their husband. You should be upstairs, with your date.”

“Okay,” said Callie, holding up her hands. “That’s where I was headed anyway, so if you could just exc—”

“
If
you even have a date,” he finished, narrowing his eyes. “You weren’t invited to this party tonight, were you?”

“Yes, I was,” she stammered, wondering if he was the same boy who had expelled Mimi and OK.

“By who, then, if you don’t mind my asking?” he challenged.

“Clint Weber,” she said.

“Clint Weber.” The guy snorted. “Nice try, but everyone knows he’s got a long-term girlfriend even if she wasn’t upstairs looking
pretty
cozy on the couch with him right now.”

Callie swayed on the steps; all the feeling had drained out of her legs.

“That’s impossible,” she finally mustered, “I mean—there must be some kind of a misunderstanding—”

“The only thing I don’t understand is how you managed to get in here in the first place. Did you use a fake name at the door?”

“Clint Weber is
my
boyfriend, and I
was
invited to this party!” she cried. “My name is Callie Andrews—you can check the list if you don’t believe me!”

“There is no list,” he said triumphantly. “The other initiates and I delivered the paper invitations by hand.”

“This is ridiculous,” said Callie. “Just let me by and Clint will explain the whole thing—”

“Callie Andrews,” the guy said slowly, nodding now and surveying her up and down. “I knew I recognized that name somewhere. You’re that slutty freshman wannabe porn star who made a sex tape with her high school boyfriend.” He laughed. It was an ugly sound.