The Ivy: Secrets (9 page)

“There was a difference between what is good for us and what is best for us,” Callie finished, almost in a whisper. Immediately she wanted to smack herself, having almost said
who
is good for us versus
who
is best for us. Right now, studying was imperative, Kant-style.

“Good versus best?” Matt echoed, scrolling through his notes. “Bentham, Locke, Kant, Aristotle . . . hmm . . . I think I was sick that day. Can I see someone’s notes?”

“Sure,” said OK, sliding his yellow legal pad in Matt’s direction.

“Er, somebody else?” Matt said, clearing his throat and looking at Vanessa, who was marking up her textbook with a pink highlighter.

“If you must,” said Vanessa, sliding her MacBook across the table.

“Where—”

“In the folder labeled ‘Justice Notes.’”

“Ah, got it,” said Matt, clicking the mouse. He was quiet for a moment. “You take your notes on Excel spreadsheets?” he muttered.

“Hmm?”

“Nothing.” He stared at the document open before him. “Uh, Vanessa?”

“What!” she cried, throwing the pink highlighter dramatically on the table.

“Why do you have a list of peoples’ names, high schools, and home towns?”

Callie’s eyes grew wide.

“And what,” Matt continued, “is ‘Project Fish Farm’? Did I miss an important hypothetical—”

“
Eeeiwehgkadhgghghgggggggg
.” Vanessa let forth a strangled, desperate yelp, throwing herself—torso, arms, and chest—over her laptop.

Callie couldn’t help it; she started to giggle.

Vanessa, still prostrate across the table, shielding her stalker-esque list of potential crushes, swiveled her head around to glare.

But when she caught Callie’s eye, something cracked; she too started to giggle.

Matt stared. “What’s so—”

“It’s nothing!” Callie gasped.

“A—uh—hypothetical that you—huh—must have missed!” Vanessa managed to choke out between giggles.

Mimi decided to intervene. “
D’accord
, we came, we did the mandatory discussing bit, and now all that is left is to write our final papers. Due . . . ah, yes, next week.”

That sobered everybody up right quick.

Scanning the list of potential topics, Matt asked, “So, what’s everybody thinking?”

“I’m going to do the equal rights essay,” said Callie, deciding. “It’s the last question: the one about same-sex marriage.”

“For or against?” OK asked.

“For, obviously; are you nuts?” asked Callie.

“Uh-uh, no way. I am out of here!” Dana cried, standing suddenly. Whether or not she spoke in response to Callie was unclear. “This is simply not the proper environment for studying! I’m going to Cabot!” she said, grabbing her bags. “See you all in two weeks!”

“What about me?” Adam asked.

“I’m sorry,” she said, shaking her head. “But it’s just not working out. It’s not you. It’s me. I need my space right now.”

Ignoring her, Adam started packing up his things.

“Fine,” Dana snapped, starting to walk. “But no more sharing the same study carrel! You are to stay twenty feet away from me at all times, understood?”

Adam shrugged and waved good-bye to everyone and then hurried to follow her down the stairs.

“Whew!”
Callie blew air through her lips. She sympathized with Dana: it was nearly impossible to work in this environment. Her eyes darted involuntarily toward Gregory. He was frowning, iPod headphones in his ears, and intent upon his work. Turning quickly, Callie glanced out over the main reading room. Students stole suspicious glances at one another; legs twitched and jiggled. The very air seemed abuzz with a barely contained panic.

And there were still ten days left until the first exam.

Callie’s eyes traveled from a boy who lay slumped over a table—passed out and using a thick textbook for a pillow—to a girl who was stretching dramatically, arms saluting the sun like she was in the middle of Bikram yoga.

Callie shook herself and wiggled her fingers over her keyboard. So far all she had managed were her name, the date, and the words
Justice: Final Paper
written underneath. She hit Enter, centered the cursor, and set the font to bold, waiting for a title, and a main argument, to come.

Something flickered in the corner of her visual field. The Bikram yoga girl had abandoned her chair in favor of the table: she now sat on the edge, book on her lap, feet swinging over the side. The other three students sharing the workspace stared, but the girl took no notice, flipping the pages of the giant blue hardback and making notes in the margins.

Callie shrugged and typed
The Case for Same-Sex Marriage
at the top of her page. Too vague, she decided. She needed a Kantian Case or an Aristotelian Argument—something,
anything
, that sounded like she was halfway capable of applying the philosophy she had learned in class to real-life ethical and practical dilemmas.

“Does anybody have a
Justice Reader
?” she asked, looking up across the table.

Nobody answered.

Instead, Matt, Gregory, and even OK were all staring, completely hypnotized, at the reading room below. Vanessa and Mimi had also swiveled around in their chairs. Vanessa had a shocked expression on her face. “What the . . .”

Following Matt’s gaze, Callie found herself staring once again at the Bikram yoga girl, who had stood on the table and was twirling around, dancing to music that only she could hear. As she moved, slowly, seductively, her hands pulled at the base of her shirt, lifting it ever so slightly, centimeter by centimeter, to reveal the milky white skin beneath. Nearly everyone in the library was staring now; the whispering and poking and urging others to look began to subside as the fabric of her shirt continued working its way upward.

It was utterly silent by the time she lifted the garment over her head and threw it across the room. A scream erupted, fortified by hundreds of other voices. It was deafening. Primal.

Other students stood up and started ripping off their clothes. Shirts and sweaters rained down in torrents from the second-floor balcony, and people stepped out of their pants. Others cringed and shrank into their chairs, trying to hide behind laptops or the walls of their study carrels. Still yelling, the Bikram yoga girl jumped off the table and ran down the aisle, throwing her stretchy pants behind her and then disappearing from view. A stampede of students followed her; clothing littered the table, armchairs, and floor.

Turning, Callie found herself staring at the retreating backs of OK, Matt, Mimi, and Gregory. They raced for the stairs, laptops and textbooks abandoned on the table. Vanessa was the only one left. Callie looked at her. Her eyes were wide. “Do you think . . . ” Vanessa started, slightly speechless. “Is it—?”

“Primal Scream?” Callie finished. “I think so.”

“Should we?” Vanessa asked. “I mean, just to . . . ”

“Just to check it out?” Callie offered. “Uh, yeah, why not?”

“Well, then, let’s go!” said Vanessa, making an
after-you
gesture toward the staircase. Callie started down it, glancing uncertainly over her shoulder. But Vanessa was right behind her. Together they burst into the foyer; ran past Bob, who was ranting hysterically—no doubt about any one of the ten thousand security breaches that had just occurred—and out into the freezing December air.

They could hear screams in the distance. Jogging, they quickly reached the Yard. There were already at least a thousand people lining the outermost cement walkway, which was approximately twice the size of a traditional racing track. Hundreds more, or so it seemed, were arriving by the minute. The spectators outnumbered the runners by an overwhelming ratio, but still Callie could make out the shapes of hundreds of students bare down to their socks and shoes, crowded around the starting line. Not everyone was naked: some wore bathrobes, towels, or trench coats, while others sported scarves, sunglasses, hats, and various accessories to mask their identity. A small contingent had covered their entire bodies with paint: giant Crimson
H
s or Boston Red Sox logos or simply abstract designs. Many had wrapped flags—of America, Kirkland, Canada, Eliot, The Former Soviet Union, Dunster—around their shoulders super-hero-cape style. A few students had simply opted for a paper bag over the head with two holes cut out for eyes; the only way to go, in Callie’s opinion, if one planned to run at all.

Harvard flag count: 32.

At-risk frostbite cases: 174.

Students with BA levels of >0.08: 89

“Would you ever . . . ?” Vanessa whispered, touching her arm.

“No way!” said Callie.

“Me neither,” Vanessa agreed, sounding thoroughly relieved. “Ohmygosh, look at
that
guy,” she cried, pointing at a boy wearing only a tube sock—and not on either of his feet.

Several members of the Harvard band had now arrived. Horns blared and drums pounded as a student carrying a megaphone raised it and cried:

“On your marks . . .

Get set . . .

GO!”

And they were off; a massive whirl of nudity, color, and cathartic screaming. Callie and Vanessa cheered from the sidelines, jumping up and down. Suddenly Mimi zoomed past in boots and her black trench coat, carrying a bundle of boy’s clothing tucked under her arm and cackling madly. She spotted Callie and Vanessa and waved. Then she veered off course and continued running back toward Wigg.

“Whatever she’s up to—it can’t be good,” Callie murmured. Vanessa laughed and nodded.

“OHMYGOD!
Eeeeeeeeekk. LOOK!
” Vanessa screamed, gripping Callie by the arm. Gregory had just whizzed by in a naked blur, sprinting for all his squash training was worth, followed by OK, who was screaming his head off, and Matt who was missing his glasses and kept bumping into people and apologizing, hopping around, trying to cover himself, and blushing furiously.

Unwittingly Callie had grabbed Vanessa’s hand, and the two continued shrieking as they recognized various members of the freshman, sophomore, junior, and senior classes. They saw the girls’ hockey team in nothing but their socks, a naked old man who definitely didn’t go to Harvard, the wrong half of half their dormitory, and overall, just a whole lot more than anyone would ever want to see . . . ever.

They were still giggling long after the run was over and many students had already left the Yard. Walking side by side, they were halfway down the path between Boylston and Widener when they heard a rustling in the bushes on their right.

“Pssst,”
a voice hissed. “Callie, Vanessa—over here!”

Exchanging a look, they approached the bushes and peered down into the secluded space behind them. OK, still completely naked, was crouched under the leaves. “That. Mimi!” he exclaimed through chattering teeth, looking completely livid. “Should have known she was up to something!”

Callie and Vanessa tried not to laugh—but it was useless. “Here,” said Callie, tossing her scarf to OK. Vanessa, doubled over with laughter, shrugged out of the wool peacoat she wore over her sweatshirt. OK wrapped the scarf around his waist like a skirt and put on the jacket, the sleeves of which barely reached his elbows.

“It’s a good look for you,” Vanessa managed.

Callie hooted with laughter. “You just . . . can’t . . . seem to pass up
any
opportunity to run around naked . . . can you?”

OK ignored them. Emerging from the bushes, he frowned. “I hope you said good-bye to your roommate and told her that you love her,” he said. “Because she has only an hour left to live.”

“Oh, come on,” said Callie, slinging an arm around his waist.

“All in good fun,” Vanessa chimed in, looping her arm around him from the other side and holding on to Callie’s at the elbow. “But let’s get you inside before you get frostbite on the you-know-where.”

Pink-cheeked and breathless, they climbed the stairs.

“Thank you kindly, ladies,” said OK, bowing to them when they reached his door. “I shall have these laundered and returned to you at my earliest convenience. Now I must retire to my quarters and begin plotting my revenge.”

“Sounds good,” said Vanessa. “See you later!”

“See ya!” Callie echoed, watching him walk into his room. “Well,” she said, turning back to Vanessa. “That was amaz—”

She stopped talking midsentence. Vanessa had picked up two large fancy white envelopes that had been sticking out from under their door. Each was shiny, embossed, and tied with a dark green bow. Vanessa flipped them over, and Callie saw a red wax seal stamped with a familiar crest: The Hasty Pudding Social Club. She also noticed the two names written in ornate calligraphy underneath: Marine Clément and Callie Andrews.

Wordlessly Vanessa handed her the envelopes and opened the door to the common room. She refrained from slamming it, but she didn’t hold it open either. Slowly the door swung shut behind her.

Callie stood in the hallway holding the envelopes in her hands and wishing for all the world that she could trade them for what she’d lost.

W
hite lace tablecloths covered the long rectangular tables; silver candlesticks flanked flower arrangements in crystal vases, and the silverware had been polished until it shone. Name cards perched on porcelain plates, and next to every cloth napkin at each place setting someone had positioned a thin stack of index cards clipped together by a black ballpoint pen. Candlelight bounced off the wood-paneled walls; bowties were tightened, napkins adjusted, and white gloves donned as the final preparations were made to welcome the members of The Hasting Pudding Social Club to the first annual dinner of the year: Limericks.

“Thank you,” said Callie to the man who had just taken her coat. He dipped his head and then disappeared into the coatroom, which looked as if, for once, it was being used for the purpose originally intended rather than for covert activities like smoking indoors, kissing your significant other’s roommate while their boy- or girlfriend laughs blissfully ignorant in the next room, or in the words of Mimi, for “powdering your nose.”

“Ladies—welcome,” came the cool voice of Anne Goldberg. She stood under the archway that led to the main front room and held a black top hat in each hand. The hat in her right hand had been labeled
NEOS
; the one in her left read
VETS
. “Please select one name each,” she said, extending the hat full of the veterans’ names, “and then proceed to the cocktail party.” She tilted her head toward the crowd that had already begun congregating.

Everyone looked particularly dressy in the dim glow of the crystal chandelier that was suspended from the ceiling. The soft tinkling sound of champagne flutes clinking together in greetings and in cheers, along with classical music emanating from speakers unseen filled the air. Callie tugged anxiously at the tight, black, strapless dress she had borrowed from Mimi. Even with all the meals she’d been missing lately, she still had difficulty believing that the dress actually fit—unable to shake the feeling that she was a little girl playing dress-up and that all the other guys and girls in suits and cocktail attire were fellow four-year-olds hosting an extravagant tea party so convincing that halfway through they had all forgotten it was only make-believe. Any minute now, however, Mommy would rush in to yell about ruining her lipstick, putting runs in her stockings, or stealing her pearls, and the whole façade would come crashing down.

Or maybe this really was their reality, and Callie was the only one pretending.

She plunged her hand into the hat, trying to avoid Anne’s eyes. “Callie,” said Anne, “there’s a little matter that we need to discuss. Can you drop by sometime next week?”

Callie nodded. (WASPitude Rule Number Six: Never imply that somebody owes you money or directly refer to money in public.) Damn you, dues. This could well be her last Pudding party ever. Her fingers closed around a thin slip of paper. Drawing it out and unfolding it, she read:
Tyler Green
.

Great, she thought, glancing over at the bar where she had spotted Tyler earlier and confirming her biggest fear: that his roommate and best friend, Clint Weber, was right there standing next to him. Just great.

“Who’d you get?” she whispered to Mimi after Anne had shooed them away.

“Brittney Saunders,” Mimi muttered with a shrug. “That girl is so dumb she makes the cast members of
Jersey Shore
look like rock scientists.”

“Rocket scientists?” Callie asked.

“Non,”
said Mimi. “Geologists.”

Callie giggled. “Maybe you can use that?”

“What I could use,” Mimi retorted, “is a drink.”

“Amen,” said Callie, watching Clint, who was still over by the bar, erupt into laughter and punch Tyler on the arm. “You go; I’ll wait here.”

“What do you want?” asked Mimi.

“Uh . . . I’ll have a dirty martini. No ice, no salt, four olives, and make it a double!”

Mimi raised an eyebrow. “Make it a double?”

Callie blushed. “I thought it sounded good, like in the movies? Shaken not stirred? No?”

“No,” Mimi said. Shaking her head, she walked off toward the bar.

“BLONDIE!” a voice suddenly boomed, and Callie jumped as two enormous dark hands landed on her shoulders.

“OK—you scared me!” Callie cried, wheeling around to face him.

“Sorry,” he said, patting her on the head. “But I need your help.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I drew”—he paused, making a big show of digging the small slip of paper from his pocket and holding it up for her to see:

Alexis Thorndike—
“you-know-who, and I need some dirt!” he finished.

“Dirt?” asked Callie, biting her lip. “What makes you think I have any dirt on L—you-know-who?”

“Well, she’s your COMP director, isn’t she? And don’t you go out with her ex-boyfriend, what’s-his-name, who’s always in the sweater vest—”

“
Used
to go out with her ex-b— Clint’s his name, and keep it down!” Callie hissed, stealing a glance across the room at the man in question, who was telling what looked to be a hilarious story to a group of sophomores.

“Come on C-money, help a brother out,” OK pleaded. “Did I mention you look dashing tonight, neighbor?”

“I really don’t know anything!” Callie cried. “And I kind of doubt anyone else does either.” Because if they did, they’d probably be dead.

OK’s lower lip jutted out.

“Maybe ask one of her roommates?” Callie suggested. “Anne Goldberg, Madison McLaughlin—somebody from the Bee?”

“Good idea!” said OK, clapping her on the shoulders once more. “Which one’s Anne again?”

“She’s the one who always looks like she has a bad smell under her nose. There,” she said, raising her arm to point, “Under the archway holding the h—” Her arm fell to her side. Gregory had just sauntered into the foyer, accompanied by none other than you-know-who herself. Callie watched him wave aside the coatroom attendant and slide Lexi’s Andrew Marc trench gently down her pale, delicate shoulders. Her chestnut curls tumbled loose, low down her back, and swayed within an inch of his face. Gregory’s eyes flickered toward Callie.

Why the hell is he waving at—oh. She lowered her eyes as OK waved back. Everyone else—or so it seemed—had stopped mid-conversation to stare at the most attractive pair in the room. Or perhaps more accurately, the most attractive
couple
in the room.

“Why don’t you ask Gregory if
he
knows anything about Lex—you-know-who?” Callie asked, trying to keep her voice as even as possible. “After all, they seem awfully cozy lately. Almost like they’re . . . dating?”

“Eh?” As usual OK was a hundred and ten percent hopeless when it came to taking a hint.

“Those two,” Callie said, spelling it out as she watched Lexi try to peer over Gregory’s shoulder while he selected a name. “They aren’t
dating
, are they?”

“Dating?” OK repeated absentmindedly. “What? No! Gregory doesn’t
date
. I think they know each other from back home—she may be friends with his cousin at Princeton?”

“Really?” asked Callie, openly staring now at Gregory, who was whispering something in Alexis’s ear. “Because it
looks
like—”

“MIMI!” OK boomed, leaping forward to embrace Mimi—who had just returned from the bar—and squeezing her so tightly that she almost spilled their drinks. “Where have you been all my life?” he added, finally letting her push him away after a few failed attempts.

“Hiding, mostly,” Mimi said, trying not to smile and handing Callie her martini.

“Thanks,” said Callie, trying not to let any of the clear liquid slosh over the rim. Tentatively she raised the glass to her lips. In the meantime OK had appropriated Mimi’s drink and taken a sip. “This tastes like plain tonic water,” he remarked, handing it back to her, confused.

“So?” Mimi said, daring him to say more.

“Here—
ugh
—take mine,” said Callie. Like so many other “grown-up” things she’d been yearning to try in college, the martini was another disappointment: sounds cool in theory, tastes terrible in practice. Just one salty, burning sip and the room had gone immediately—and alarmingly—blurry around the edges.

OK took a long drink and then stared at them over the rim of the glass. “‘The name is Bond. James Bond,’” he said. “The mission,” he continued, speaking into an imaginary Bluetooth device in the cuff of his sleeve, “is to acquire intel on target you-know-who; Perpetual Sweater Vest and Bad Smell Under the Nose are possible suspects for interrogation.” He turned to Mimi, cupping her chin in his hand. “I will return for you later.” Then both girls watched as he darted through the crowd and over to the wall, along which he began to creep covert-ops style.

Mimi shook her head. Callie laughed. “Should we be finding ‘dirt’ for our limericks, too?” she asked, looking around the room.

“I wish we could skip the dinner and get to the party,” Mimi said with a sigh.

“
I
wish we could skip the party and get back to the studying,” Callie commented morosely.

“Arrête, tu es ridicule,”
said Mimi. “You promised we could have a break after we finished our Justice papers. And as we say back home: sometimes the only work that needs doing is on your sanity. Otherwise you will end up like Dana—completely hoot-hoot.”

“Where
is
Dana, anyway?” asked Callie. “Last time I saw her was two days ago—she said she was going to camp out in Cabot Science Library.”

“Ah,” said Mimi. “So that explains the missing sleeping bag and toothbrush.”

“Oh dear,” said Callie, furrowing her brow. She had heard that science majors sometimes camped out in Cabot Library, which was open a dangerous twenty-four hours a day during the week leading up to finals, but she hadn’t seriously thought that people actually slept there—until now, that is. Poor Dana.

“If she’s not in the room when we get back,” Callie began, “we should go check on her in the morning. What about Vanessa?”

“What
about
Vanessa?”

“Did you invite her tonight?”

“I did.” Mimi shrugged. “But she said she already had an invite and did not need me to ‘do her any favors.’”