The Ivy: Scandal (13 page)

“If we could find a way to prove that she’s behind the Insider articles,” said Callie, “then maybe you could get your old job back.”

Grace frowned. “You know, my position at the paper isn’t the only job I lost because of this. Dean Benedict called the
New York Times
last week and they’ve since rescinded their offer for a summer internship.”

“Oh my god,” Callie said breathlessly. “I’m so sorry. I feel so…”
Responsible
wasn’t the right word, since she wasn’t. Still, she felt terrible.

“Don’t apologize,” said Grace. “At least not if you’re innocent.”

“Grace,” said Callie, meeting her eyes, “I swear to you that I didn’t do it—I am
not
the Ivy Insider. But I will do everything I can to help clear our names.”

“By finding something on Lexi?”

Callie nodded.

“Okay, I’m in,” said Grace. “We’ll do everything we can at the
Crimson
to discover the identity of the Insider and see that Lexi doesn’t last long as managing editor—right, Robinson?”

Matt shuffled his feet, appearing uncomfortable; perhaps because he didn’t think they should be focusing all of their investigative efforts on Lexi, though maybe because he had just learned that his crush liked girls. “Sure,” he said resignedly.

“Good,” said Grace as students started to flood the yard. The clock above Memorial Church struck three. “I should get back to the protest,” she continued, nodding toward the Science Center. “Robinson, I’ll see you tomorrow. And I’ll call you,” she said to Callie, “if I find anything worth reporting.”

“Great,” said Callie. “I’ll do the same. Shall we?” she added, turning to Matt.

Glumly he nodded, and they began to walk back to Wigglesworth.

“At least now you know,” Callie said after a beat, placing a hand on his forearm.

“I guess,” said Matt. “But unfortunately knowing didn’t just magically make my feelings disappear.”

“Fair enough,” said Callie, scanning her key against the lock for entryway C.

“But you’re right,” he conceded as they walked up the stairs. “It is good to know that it’s not personal—not really. I mean, it’s not
me
she doesn’t like; it’s just my…man parts.”

“Man parts?” Callie repeated with a giggle, turning the doorknob to C 24.

“Fine,” said Matt loudly as she pushed open the door. “My penis!”

“What?” snapped Dana, looking up sharply from where she sat reading on the couch.

“
Je crois qu’il a dit ‘mon pénis
,” Mimi deadpanned from the overstuffed armchair.

“Callie!” Vanessa cried, bursting out of her bedroom. “There’s somebody here to see you!” She grinned.

“Huh?” said Callie.

“
Oui, oui
,” called Mimi, also smiling. “Someone is waiting in your bedroom.”

Callie’s heart practically stopped. She stared at the door. Could it be? Was he back?

“Who?” Matt asked, from where he stood in the doorway.

“
C’est une surprise
,” Mimi insisted, wagging her finger.

“Go ahead and look,” Dana urged.

Slowly Callie crossed the common room, her heart now threatening to leap out of her rib cage. Hardly daring to breathe, she reached for the door. It creaked open.

The person sprawled across her bed sat up, wearing a mischievous grin. “Hey there, good looking. Did ya miss me?”

SIX

East Meets West

>> Gossip >> HOT TOPICS >> Spotted!
A space for readers to report any strange or suspicious sightings
>> Gregory Bolton

MANHATTAN, NY—

I live in a high-rise where 2nd Avenue meets E 85th Street, and a young man matching Bolton’s exact description (but hiding out under a hat and sunglasses) has been going into the Gracie Station post office at the same time every Friday. Wonder who he could be writing to—and if the SEC knows about his secret PO box.

—Concerned Upper East Sider

Spotted! Yes, I love this section! I go to NYU and last week I saw (swear to god) Gregory Bolton in a super shady store downtown buying a “burner” (disposable) cell phone. (Don’t ask why I was there!) I guess he’s got as good a reason as any to place untraceable calls from blocked phone numbers—then again, so do most drug dealers.

—NYU Student “Snoop”er

I’ve seen Gregory entering and exiting the Bolton’s old Park Avenue penthouse (supposedly on sale later this month) several times recently. (I nanny for a family that lives in the neighborhood.) What I have not seen is the string of accompanying entourages on his arm. Yeah, yeah, I know that he supposedly has a “serious girlfriend,” but I haven’t
seen
any
women going in or out of the premises. (Incidentally, I’m starting to believe the rumors that stepmother, Trisha, has fled to the Caymans with all the purses and shoes she could carry.) What’s the matter Gregory? Too blue to keep up your womanizing ways? Or did that hot little Harvard number dump you when she realized exactly how broke you really are now?

—The Park Avenue Help

Bolton sat next to me on a bench in Central Park just three days ago and proceeded to read an article on his iPad…about himself. It was like catching someone checking himself out in the mirror, only better. Was almost tempted to go home and Google the so-called “Harvard Society Pages” just to read the full article on what looked like a charity auction…for him. Who knew Ivy Leaguers had such a sense of humor?

—Dog walker & Harvard H8er

This update coming to you live from the Harvard campus, where I’ve overheard several students claiming to have “spotted” Gregory Bolton at various Cambridge locales over the past few days. Why all the supposed sightings? Probably because pre–punch season has started: when the elite all-male final clubs extend social invitations to a few select freshmen considered “high priority” punches. Gregory Bolton used to be at the top of every club’s list and most likely received invites to some of spring’s most exclusive pre-punch events, including the Phoenix Caribbean Party and the Spee’s infamous “Eurotrash”—but naturally those were sent out before #BoltonBankruptcyGate. Do the invitations still stand? And were those students just hallucinating, or will this rager-filled weekend actually inspire the younger Bolton to stage his return to campus….

—Ivy Insider Admirer

EUROTRASH

(noun)

1.

A human subphylum characterized by its
apparent affluence, worldliness, social
affectation, and addiction to fashion

2.

The best dance party of the year

Brought to you by The Spee Club

Friday @ 76 Mt. Auburn St.

10 p.m. until you can’t dance anymore

Featuring DJs Zhang & Shifty

Costumes Mandatory

R.S.V.P. to add +1s to the list

“J
ESSICA!” Callie screamed, her tiny flicker of disappointment fading fast.

Not Gregory.

But just as good, if not better.

“BESTIE!” Jessica screamed back, hugging her and jumping up and down.

After several more seconds of squealing, Callie finally recovered herself. “How did you…?”

“
I
helped her coordinate, thank you very much,” Vanessa called from the common room.

“That’s right,” said Jessica, smiling broadly. “I Facebooked Vanessa and then she gave me your class schedule and agreed to let me into the building so I could surprise you!”

“Amazing,” said Callie, grinning from ear to ear. “You guys are the best,” she continued, pulling Jessica into the common room and then into a three-way hug with Vanessa. “Just the best!”

“
Et moi et
Dana?” Mimi demanded, indignant.

“You guys are
also
the best,” Callie amended, grabbing Mimi and Dana by their hands and then heaving them up into the hug.

“Okay, okay, enough, enough!” Dana cried a few seconds later from where she was squished into the center of the embrace. “I have a lot more reading to do!”

Breaking away in a huff, Dana returned to the couch and spread her huge textbook across her knees. Mimi flung herself onto the armchair, her knees kicked up over one side, and continued reading the current issue of the humor magazine distributed by the Harvard Lampoon, a social organization to which they suspected she now belonged, though she technically wasn’t supposed to talk about it.

Catching Callie’s eye, Jessica smiled. Jessica didn’t have to say anything in order for Callie to read her mind:
They’re all exactly as you described
.

“Ahem-hem.” Matt cleared his throat, still hovering awkwardly near the door.

“You must be Matt,” said Jessica, walking over to shake his hand. Glancing over her shoulder at the girls she mouthed, “
Cute!
” before turning back to him. “I hear great things.”

“Uh…” Matt stammered, somewhat dumbstruck. Back home in California people had often mistaken Callie and Jessica for sisters, Jessica being the longer-haired, blue-eyed and still—thanks to the miraculous weather at Stanford—tanner of the two. “Nice to wonderful things about meeting you, too,” he blurted. “Uh—I should—get…” he mumbled, backing out into the hall.

Callie smiled. “Will we be seeing you at the party later tonight?”

“Oh yes, will we?” Jessica echoed, her blue eyes wide.

“Er—sure,” said Matt to Callie’s surprise. The Spee, one of Harvard’s eight all-male Final Clubs, was hosting “Eurotrash,” its craziest party of the year, later that evening. Matt, much like Grace and, for that matter, the Ivy Insider, normally had serious
moral qualms about Harvard’s elite(ist) secret societies. But apparently tonight he was willing to make an exception. “I’ll tell OK that I…changed my mind. Nice to, uh, meet—already said that. I’ll be seeing you—all of you—later!” He pulled the door shut behind him.

“Ugh,” Vanessa groaned, rolling her eyes at Jessica. “Welcome to Nerdsville. Population: Matt.”

Jessica laughed. “No way,” she said, shaking her head. “If you want to see a
real
nerd you need to stop by my Tech Start-up Seminar back at Stanford. We’ve got geeks that make Mark Zuckerberg look like Justin Timberlake!”

“You really think he’s cute?” asked Callie.

“Sure,” said Jessica. “But, as you well know, I’m holding out for someone else.”

“Oooh,” said Vanessa. “Who?”

“OK!”

“OK?” Mimi repeated, peering at Jessica over the top of the
Harvard Lampoon
. “As in our neighbor, not an affirmative American exclamation?”

“Correct,” said Jessica. “Unless—I mean—I’m not trying to step on any toes here, so if he’s already spoken for…”