by Lauren Kunze
“And it is your Twitter name,” Mimi continued, “and your screen name, and—”
“Okay, okay, I get it!” Callie cried. “It’s just that . . . random numbers and letters are hard to remember sometimes.”
“C8H5KO4,” Dana rattled off instantly. “What? That’s easy. It’s the molecular formula for potassium hydrogen phthalate.” Her eyes grew wide. “Oh no,” she muttered, racing into her bedroom. They could hear her fingers clacking frantically at her keyboard.
“Yeah,” Vanessa snorted, “because we’re really going to remember that.”
There was a knock at the door.
“I’ll get it!” Vanessa shrieked, bounding over to the mirror to tug at her curls. “Hello-o . . . Oh. You. Hi. What do you want?”
“Are you going to let me in?” came Matt’s voice.
“Are those for Callie?” Vanessa shot back.
“Uh, actually, there’s one for each of you,” Matt explained, walking into the room. His cheeks were nearly the same shade at the four long-stemmed red roses in his hand. In the other he held a giant teddy bear, white with a bright red bow around its neck.
Vanessa’s eyes lit up, and she snatched a rose, inhaling its scent like it was the first she had ever received. Maybe it is, Callie suddenly thought, eyeing the paper hearts stuck to the walls. Vanessa frowned suddenly. “Why all of us?” she demanded, suspicious.
“Well, I uh, just thought . . . it’d be nice if . . .” Matt stared at the floor. “My mom made me.”
“Your mom?” Vanessa repeated. “And who is that for?” she added, pointing at the bear.
“No one! I mean, someone, but no one here, okay—not that it’s any of your business!”
“Thank you, Matthew. That was extremely thoughtful,” Dana said.
“Yes, thank you,” said Callie, accepting a rose. “These are beautiful.”
“Merci,” Mimi echoed, looking up from whatever she was typing.
“So,” said Matt, sitting on the couch, “what’s everyone up to? Art project?” he added, noticing all the paper hearts strewn across the coffee table and floor.
“Just doing some decorating for my favorite holiday,” Vanessa said, unabashed. “Which doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, when you think about it, because it’s not like I’ve ever had a great Valentine’s Day. In fact, I’ve probably had a lot of bad Valentine’s Days. Disastrous, even. But I’m an optimist! Hey”—she broke out of her monologue, surveying Matt—“You’re tall-ish. Do you think you could reach above the door?”
“Uh, probably—”
“Great!” she said, thrusting a handful of paper hearts and a spare roll of tape into his hands.
Callie emerged from the bathroom with her Nalgene full of warm water and started arranging the roses on the coffee table. “We have about an hour to kill before this ‘Stoplight’ party tonight, so—”
“What’s a ‘Stoplight’ party?” Matt interrupted.
“Oh,” said Callie. “It’s a Pudding thing. Instead of the traditional cocktail party they’re—I mean we’re—doing something a little different for the first event this spring.” Two weeks ago she had asked Matt if he wanted her to “punch” him and he had laughed and said, “Only if I ever do something really, really wrong.” Dana had similarly declined, despite Mimi’s urging that her presence would make the whole thing a “bit less boring,” which, coming from Mimi, practically constituted begging. Clearing her throat, Callie lifted Vanessa’s invitation off the table, where Vanessa had left it prominently displayed, and read:
THE MEMBERS OF THE HASTY PUDDING SOCIAL CLUB, EST. 1770
Cordially invite you to join us for our first Punch Event of the spring
“STOP! In the name of LOVE!”
Like traffic lights, your attire will send *signals* to the opposite sex
Green means GO:
“I’m totally available (so bring it on)”
Yellow means SLOW DOWN:
“I might be taken—but maybe not (depends who’s asking)”
Red means STOP:
“My significant other owns a gun (and is not afraid to use it)”
Monday, February 14th
8:15 P.M.
2 Garden Street
Stoplight Cocktail Attire
“Sounds . . . like a good way to force a lot of conversations that people might not be ready to have?” said Matt, taping another heart over the door.
“What do you mean?” asked Vanessa. “And watch it! Higher. Those look crooked.”
“I mean what if you’re a dude and you like a girl and you’ve been on a few dates and you think it’s getting pretty serious so you wear red, only then she shows up wearing—”
“Ohmigawd!” Vanessa shrieked. “Oh my god oh my god oh my god. What if—what if—” Her sentence cut off abruptly as she dived headfirst into her closet.
A few minutes later she resurfaced. She wore a pale gold top tucked into a red leather miniskirt and a large necklace, its green stones glimmering. “Is it too much?” she asked.
“C’est parfait,” said Mimi. “You look exactly like an upside-down traffic light, with hair! What?” she added. “That is what you are going for, no?”
Vanessa groaned, sighed, and then looked at Callie. “What are you wearing? Everyone?”
“Purple,” said Mimi, back to being absorbed by Callie’s computer.
“Red, of course,” said Callie. Of course. Right?
Frowning, she pulled out her phone and texted Clint.
WHAT ARE YOU WEARING TONIGHT?
His response came almost instantaneously:
A TIE.
She shook her head.
WHAT COLOR??
RED! :)
Callie glanced at Vanessa, who was now limping around her bedroom on two heels of vastly different heights: one red, one a yellow-green reptile print.
DO YOU KNOW WHAT COLOR
TYLER’S WEARING?
YELLOW? HE’S ON THE FENCE.
Vanessa moaned and kicked off both shoes, then disappeared back into her closet.
WELL, PUSH HIM OVER: TO RED!
VANESSA = SPAZZING.
WILL DO ;)
“I think you should go with the red one that you already laid out,” Callie called.
“Of course you would suggest the option most likely to humiliate me,” Vanessa muttered, flinging dress after dress onto her bed.
Callie shrugged.
All of a sudden Matt yelled and leaped back—just in time to miss the door that had been flung open.
“I came just as soon as I heard!” OK cried, bursting into the room. In his arms he cradled several large heart-shaped candy boxes, each wrapped in ribbons that were also affixed to multiple red balloons.
“Heard what?” asked Dana.
“What you were up to,” he said, rounding on Matt. “Very tricky, mate, but I refuse to be outdone by the likes of you!”
“What?” Matt’s face was a complete blank.
OK jabbed an accusatory finger at the roses. “I’m their favorite neighbor. Ladies?”
“Um, thank you?” said Callie, taking a box of candy. The balloons bobbed in the air.
“Of course you are,” Vanessa agreed, coming back into the common room. “Who else would remember to TiVo The Bachelor while I was away on vacay?”
“He watches that by himself, too,” Matt whispered to Callie.
“What color are you wearing tonight, OK?” Vanessa asked, ignoring Matt.
“Green,” he said very slowly and deliberately, trying—and failing—not to look at Mimi. “Yes, I will be wearing green tonight. . . . Unless someone has a problem—with me wearing green? Anyone? No one?”
Mimi still appeared completely engaged by the computer.
“Well, then, here you go, Dana,” he said, handing the last of the three boxes to her.
“What about me?” Mimi said, suddenly snapping to attention.
“You said this holiday was a ‘stupid fabrication invented by the Hall
mark company and that in France St. Valentine is the name of a monster that eats little children’s feet!”
“When did I say that?” Mimi asked.
“When I—” OK lowered his voice. “When I asked if you wanted to—”
“He eats their little fingers, too.” Mimi nodded vigorously. “And the feet. Now leave me alone; I am needing to finish this.”
Everyone suddenly stared at her. “Are you . . .” Callie started. “I mean, you’re not . . . working—are you?”
“Oui.”
“Homework?” asked Dana in disbelief.
Mimi shook her head. “Pas pour school.”
“What are you doing, then?” OK demanded.
“I am building a website that allows friends to connect with one another using a system of social networks.”
“No, seriously: what are you doing?” Callie asked. “On my computer?”
Mimi exhaled. “I am doing the Lampoon COMP.”
“What?” Vanessa shrieked from her bedroom. “Why?”
Mimi surveyed them as if she were debating whether they were worthy of her trust. Finally she shrugged. “Il est le seul club à Harvard que je ne suis pas autorisé à entrer.”
“The only club . . . oh, that you’re not authorized to enter? I guess that . . . makes a weird kind of sense,” Matt said. “Well, when you make it, we’ll be rivals, so you’d better watch out!” He stood. “I should probably get going. OK?”
“Yeah,” OK agreed. “Yeah, got to go put on my green shirt—”
Callie quickly shook her head at him.
“Oh,” he said, staring back at her. “This was in your drop-box.” He pulled a small white envelope out of his pocket.
Turning it over in her hands, she saw her name on the front.
“Thanks . . . and thanks for everything, guys!” she called.
“Yes, thank you!”
“Merci!”
“What’s in the envelope?” Dana asked when they were gone. Her cheeks were slightly flushed as she bit into one of the rich chocolate truffles from her heart-shaped box and then leaned in to inhale the flowers.
“Tickets . . .” Callie said slowly, pulling them out. “Two tickets to hear—oh, wow—Ian McEwan! It looks like he’s doing a reading at the Harvard bookstore next month.”
“Gandalf?” asked Mimi. “The actor?”
“No, the author,” Callie answered, rereading the tickets in disbelief.
“Are they from Clint?” Dana ventured.
“Yes, they must be,” said Callie, her smile spreading from ear to ear. She had never mentioned that McEwan was one of her favorite authors; Clint must have noticed her reading a copy of Atonement at the end of J-term.
There was a knock on the door. Vanessa froze mid-millionth-outfit change. “No,” she whispered. “They’re not supposed to be here for another fifteen minutes!”
“Come in!” Mimi yelled wickedly.
“Hello,” said Adam, walking into the room. “Hi. Happy Valentine’s Day.”
“I’ll kill you!” Vanessa screamed from her bedroom—probably at Mimi, but it was difficult to say for sure.
“Hi,” said Dana, beaming shyly.
“I got you something,” he said, pulling a small wrapped present from behind his back. His hand froze in midair. “And so did somebody else, apparently.” His eyes were flicking from the Nalgene full of flowers, which was situated right in front of Dana, to the open box of chocolates on her lap.
“Oh, this? It’s nothing,” Dana said, her voice slightly higher than usual.
“It doesn’t look like nothing,” Adam replied, drawing himself up to his full five feet, seven inches.
“Really,” said Dana, blushing as she stood. “These were just friendly gifts. From your roommates.”
This news did not have the desired calming effect. “My roommates?” Adam repeated, his voice cracking. “Which one? Gregory? Oh, he’s in for a talking to when we get home—”
“Hush, you’re being ridiculous,” said Dana, shooting an apologetic look at Mimi and Callie. “But if you insist on continuing this conversation, we can do so on the way to dinner. . . .”
“Fine!” Adam snapped.
“We’d better go get dressed,” Callie said pointedly to Mimi.
“Oui, allons-y!”
Ten minutes later they emerged from their bedrooms: Callie in a little red dress she had ordered online from Forever 21 and Mimi wearing purple as promised.
“Diiing Dong,” a muffled voice that sounded like Tyler’s called from the hall.
“Ohmygod, they’re here,” Vanessa shrieked, poking her head out of her room. She was still wearing only her bra and underwear, clutching two dresses—one red and one a pale yellow—tightly in her fists. “Mimi! Mimi, can you let them in while I hide in here and then text me what Tyler’s—”
“Red, for crying out loud!” Callie erupted. “He’s wearing red. Clint told me. Now hurry up and get dressed and don’t come out until you have clothes on!”
“I will get it,” Mimi said, intercepting Callie on her way to the door.
“You’re leaving?” Callie asked.
Mimi slipped on her coat. “Would not want to be a ‘wheel,’ as you would say. . . .”
“We come bearing gifts,” Tyler said, strolling into the room. He wore maroon under a black blazer, while Clint sported a paler red dress shirt and a dark blue tie, looking amazing as usual.
“I see that,” Callie acknowledged. He was carrying a large bouquet of flowers, a box of chocolates, and a card. It seemed he had really taken Lexi’s gift advice to heart, only like Vanessa, he had experienced difficulty deciding which level of commitment to signify and so had just decided to buy everything.
Clint swept Callie up in his arms. “Hi, beautiful,” he said.
“Hi, you,” she said, kissing him.
“I have a little something for you,” he started, holding up a small light blue box tied with thick, white ribbon. But before she could take it, Vanessa emerged from her bedroom wearing—
“Yellow?” Tyler muttered. He shot Clint a look.
“Your dress is lovely, Vanessa,” Clint said, ignoring him.
“Yeah,” Tyler echoed, “Lovely and . . . yellow.”
“Thanks. Are those all for me?” she asked Tyler, pointing to the gifts, her eyes lit up like a kid’s in a candy store. Or just: Vanessa in a candy store.
“Oh, these? These are actually for Callie; Clint just needed an extra set of hands.”
Vanessa was not amused. She reached out to snatch the presents, but suddenly she paused, her eyes honing in on the little blue box in Clint’s hand. They grew wide, but she said nothing, watching Callie accept the gift.
Callie undid the white ribbon slowly, her pulse thundering as it fell away and revealed TIFFANY & CO. printed across the top. She opened the box.
“It’s . . .”
“Here, allow me,” Clint said, lifting from the folds of white tissue paper a beautiful heart-shaped pendant with a clear, sparkling stone at its center strung on a silver chain and moving to fasten it around her neck.
“It’s . . . it’s too much,” Callie managed to stammer, nevertheless holding her hair out of the way. She fingered the pendant. It felt cool, a pleasant weight against her chest.
“Do you like it?” Clint grinned apprehensively.
“Like it? I love it,” she decided, snapping to her senses. “It’s just that—well, with the tickets, too, I mean, isn’t this too much?”
“Tickets?” asked Clint. “What tickets?”
“The tickets,” Callie said, lifting the envelope off the table. “You know, the tickets to hear Ian Mc— Oh. These aren’t from you?”
“Ian McWho?” said Clint, squinting at the tickets. “No, definitely not from me.” He handed them back to her.
“Oh. Somebody left them in my drop-box and there was no note or anything, so I just assumed it was you.”
“Nope.” He shook his head.
“Hmm,�
�� Callie murmured. Well, then who—
“Time to go!” Tyler cried, offering his arm to Vanessa, who had arranged her own gifts on the coffee table.
“Thank you so much,” Callie said to Clint as he helped her into her coat.
“Of course,” he said, wrapping his arms around her from behind and kissing her cheek. “I’m just glad you like it.”
Her fingers flew to her throat and ran along the chain once more. It was beautiful—and no doubt Vanessa would find a way to make it known exactly how expensive once they were back in the room—but for some reason, during the entire walk to the Pudding, Callie was distracted: wondering who, if not Clint, had left her that envelope.
The inside of the Pudding bore an odd resemblance to their living room: the walls were adorned with huge shiny red hearts and dozens of helium balloons grazed the high ceiling in the main room, their strings dangling—magenta, red, pale pink, and white—fluttering just above the heads of the members and the spring punches.
Callie and Clint stood in front of a table in the foyer filled with rows and rows of nametags. Callie skimmed the names but did not see hers anywhere. She stared down at the table, reading each card one by one, row by row, but still could not find her name. Had they forgotten her? Or did somebody steal it? Maybe Lexi—
“Here you are,” said Clint. “Is something wrong?”
“No, nothing,” she said, taking deep breaths while he pinned the card to the strap of her dress. It had been there the whole time—on the members’ side of the table. She had been scanning the punches.
“Drink?” he asked, nodding toward the main room. There was no bartender tonight; instead, hundreds of flutes of something pink and sparkling lined the tables, a single raspberry bobbing in each glass. “Wait here—I’ll be right back,” he said, squeezing her hand.
Despite the different decorations and her new status, as denoted by the color of her nametag, the party felt like a déjà vu version of Callie’s first punch event. Everyone seemed just as hyperaware of what everyone else was wearing: tonight outfit color simply happened to take precedence over the inside labels. And, while young men in green steered clear of girls in red dresses, punches still flocked to red nametags like moths to a flame. Callie wished she could tell them—especially the ones who were sweating or laughing too loudly while making off-color jokes or longingly eyeing the line for the bathroom—that they didn’t have to try so hard: most of the members had already made their decisions during the pre-punch slide show based on factors beyond the punch’s control.
