The Ivy: Rivals

by Lauren Kunze

  Five minutes later they were still walking, though she had lost track of time due to the disorienting effects of the blindfold that, after only a few more minutes of goading, he had somehow convinced her to wear.

  “Are we there yet?” she asked, her feet still hurting from earlier as their boots crunched through the snow.

  “Almost,” he said.

  Eventually they came to a stop. The nighttime breeze brushed past her cheek and she shivered. “Can I take the blindfold off now?”

  “Just give me one more minute. . . .” he said, guiding her over to something—a bench, maybe—and sitting her down. Then his hands left her shoulders and she could hear him walking away. Maybe the plan was to ditch her not once, but twice in the same evening?

  Irritably her fingers worked at the knot in the silk scarf that he had tied around her head.

  “All right, you can look now!” he called at the same moment that the blindfold slid off.

  She was staring at a tiny ice-skating rink, no more than thirty by thirty feet, around which Clint was hanging the last of four paper lanterns. Jogging back over to where she was sitting, he connected one cable to another. Suddenly, everything lit up, the lanterns hanging from a string of twinkly lights.

  “You—you built me an ice-skating rink?” she asked, staring in disbelief.

  “No.” He laughed. “This was already here. The law school rebuilds it every winter on top of what is otherwise an outdoor volleyball court. But I did set up the lanterns.”

  Callie looked around. “So this is the law school?”

  “Yep,” he said. “And hopefully where I’ll be in a year and a half from now if I’m lucky. . . . You’ll be a junior by then.”

  She was silent.

  “Why the long face?” he asked, chuckling. “You didn’t think you could get rid of me that easily, did you?”

  “Well, this is very pretty,” she said after a beat. “But I wanted to go ice-skating, not just sit and stare at the place where people do it.”

  Clint laughed again. “Is that why you think I brought you here—just so we could look at it?”

  “But . . . we don’t even have any skates.”

  “Look underneath you,” he said.

  Standing, she looked. She had not, as she’d imagined, been sitting on a bench after all. Rather, it was a big plastic bin with a lid labeled SKATES.

  “Oh.”

  “Let’s see if we can’t find something in your size,” he said, lifting the lid. Soon he located a pair and then bent in front of her, securing the laces. “How do those feel?” he asked.

  “Pretty good,” she said, wiggling her toes.

  “Well, come on, then,” he said holding out his hand after he had put on a pair of his own.

  Callie hesitated. “What if I can’t do it?”

  “It’s easy,” he said. “You can do it. And if for some reason you can’t, there’s nobody here to see you but me.”

  “What if I fall?”

  “What if? You are definitely going to fall! But it won’t hurt if you don’t go too fast, and I’ll be right there to laugh at you.”

  “Hey!”

  “And to pick you up after, too.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise,” he said, taking her hands and pulling her toward the rink. “I’ve got you,” he added as they stepped out onto the ice. He was skating backward, still holding her hands.

  “This isn’t so b—ahhh!” she finished with a cry: after a few successful forward motions she had slipped, catapulting into Clint’s arms.

  But she didn’t fall.

  Holding her, Clint laughed. “You really don’t believe in doing things halfway, do you? Baby steps now, Andrews.”

  Still clutching her hands tightly, he began to glide slowly backward. “Move your feet like this,” he instructed. Copying him, she started to slide forward.

  And just a short while later . . . she was skating!

  “I’m doing it! I’m doing it!” she shrieked, picking up the pace.

  “You’re doing great!” he agreed. “Ready for me to let go—”

  “Yes!” she cried, releasing his hands. And then she was really flying: skating around the rink like she’d been doing it for years, her scarf soaring out behind her, faster and faster until—

  Her left foot slid out from under her, sending her toward the ice. “Ahhhhhhhh!” she cried as she went down.

  “Callie! Callie, are you all right?” Clint called, racing over. She wasn’t moving: flat on her back across the ice. “Are you hurt—”

  “Did you see how fast I went?” she screamed, sitting up suddenly.

  A look of relief swept across Clint’s face. “You’re sure you’re not hurt. . . .”

  “My butt hurts,” she said after a moment. “And it’s cold,” she added, standing and brushing the ice off of her backside.

  “Want me to give it a kiss?” Clint asked.

  “Ew—no!” she cried, skating away.

  “Come on, just one little kiss,” he pleaded when he caught up.

  She tried to fight him off for only a moment before she decided that giving in might be even more fun. It was 2 A.M. and there were twinkly lights: how long could you really stay mad inside of your own personal ice rink while the rest of the world lay fast asleep?

  Forty-five minutes later, after they’d had their fill of skating, they were sitting back on the bin. Clint had produced a thermos full of hot apple cider, which they were now passing between them. Wrapping an arm around her, he pulled her close. “So . . . am I forgiven?” he asked.

  “That depends,” she said, sipping the cider. It was sweet and warm and cinnamon-y.

  “On . . .”

  “On why that girl keeps showing up wherever you happen to be.”

  “Which girl?” Clint asked.

  “You know which girl,” she said, pushing the thermos toward him.

  “Oh,” he said. “Didn’t we already have this conversation a couple of days ago?” he asked, sounding patient nevertheless.

  “Yes, but . . .” Callie stopped to think. “But that was before it seemed like she was everywhere! All the time! Even when she’s not there, she’s still there,” she cried, the words tumbling out faster and faster. “Because your mom is talking about her or her uncle is the governor or— I don’t know, it’s like she has four twin sisters, or that superpower where you can be in two places at once: telekinesis or teleportation or—”

  “Stop,” he said, laughing a little.

  “I’m being serious!” She folded her arms across her chest.

  “I know,” he said. “But you seriously have nothing to worry about. Lex—Alexis, is just a friend.”

  “Oh, great, so she’s Lex now,” Callie muttered.

  “Just a friend,” he insisted.

  “I just . . .” Callie frowned. “I just don’t get it. Why do you want to be friends with someone who is so . . . well . . . evil?”

  Clint sighed. “I know you two have your history; but she and I have a history as well. We dated for over two years. She has a good side and bad side like everyone else: you just happen to have had exposure to the worst side. But that doesn’t mean that’s all there is to her.”

  Callie was silent.

  “Would it help if I said that part of it had to do with parental pressure about the summer internship?”

  “Ugh, no,” exclaimed Callie. “That would be worse.”

  “Look,” he started, “I wouldn’t fault you if you wanted to be friends with your ex, and he’s clearly not the greatest—”

  “That’s totally different,” she cut in. “Because Evan is evil and I don’t talk to him.”

  Clint sighed. “Well, do you see me getting jealous of any of the other guys chasing after you? Like what about the one from across the hall—”

  Callie inhaled sharply.

  “What’s his name? Matt? The one who’s always following you around with the puppy eyes? Or what about when someone at the Pudding o
r some random party hits on you when I’m not around? Or hey, even with Bolton I sometimes get the sense that I’m interrupting something, even though I know that nothing would ever happen there.”

  Callie stared at the ground, kicking up some snow.

  “The point is that you have a right to be friends with whoever you want,” Clint finished. “And while I’m certainly not immune to jealousy, ultimately it doesn’t really bother me because I trust you. I trust that if you don’t want to be with me or if you’d rather be with someone else—that you would tell me.”

  She stayed silent, watching the snow arc out from her shoe.

  Clint sighed. “To be completely honest . . . there is something that I’ve been keeping from you—”

  Callie froze.

  “Only because I thought it would upset you,” he insisted, “but I think telling you now might put these Lexi fears to rest.”

  She waited.

  “When you broke up with me in that e-mail—”

  “That Lexi forced me to send,” Callie interrupted.

  “That you sent of your own free will due to pressure from Alexis,” he corrected her. “Anyway, after that, over winter break she tried to get me to take her back. We went skiing with a big group in Vermont, and even though I wasn’t with you and thought that you never wanted to speak to me again, I still didn’t go for it. Okay?”

  “Okay,” Callie murmured, feeling more disturbed than comforted. “But I didn’t need to know that. I mean, whatever you did those times we were broken up is your business, and it’s all in the past now, like we agreed that night at the Harvard Pub when we got back together.”

  “‘Times’?” he asked.

  “Hmm?”

  “‘Times,’ as in plural?”

  “Yes,” she said. “You remember, Harvard-Yale?”

  “We weren’t broken up then,” he said. “We were taking some time to think.”

  “Yeah,” she agreed. “I suppose there’s a difference.”

  “It was a fuzzy gray area,” he conceded. “But I still wasn’t with Lexi—or anyone else—then either.”

  Damn. Every time she thought the Gregory incident at Harvard-Yale was truly best left buried in the past, the universe kept hinting that she should try, once again, to confess. And yet, the more time that went by, the more she had to lose.

  “Clint,” she finally blurted. “I have to tell you something.”

  “I have to tell you something, too.”

  “You first.”

  “No you.”

  “No—

  “I love you.”

  What?

  “I . . .” she started.

  “Wait!” he said. “Don’t say it back now just to say it. You should wait until you’re ready.”

  “Okay,” she said. “Well, in that case . . . I am ready . . . to do this.” Pulling him toward her, she kissed him: exceptionally, exceptionally glad that he had gone first.

  Chapter Seven

  The Not So Great Gatsby

  Clint Weber

  and

  The Gentlemen of the Fly Club Cordially Invite You,

  Callie Andrews,

  to

  THE GREAT GATSBY

  on the evening of Saturday, the fifth of March

  Let us gather together and celebrate

  the colossal vitality of our illusions . . .

  Attire: White Tie or 1920s appropriate

  By Invitation Only

  Tyler Green

  and

  The Gentleman of the Fly Club Cordially Invite You,

  Vanessa Von Vorhees,

  to

  THE GREAT GATSBY

  on the evening of Saturday, the fifth of March

  Let us gather together and celebrate

  the colossal vitality of our illusions . . .

  Attire: White Tie or 1920s appropriate

  By Invitation Only

  “Tyler, could you please ask Callie to change the radio station? She knows I detest this song,” Vanessa said from the backseat of Clint’s BMW.

  “Clint, could you please tell Tyler to tell Vanessa that I love this song and I’m not changing it?” Callie said from the front.

  “What, you’re not speaking to Tyler now?” Clint asked, sounding amused.

  “Oh,” said Callie. “Whoops.”

  “Tyler, could you please tell Callie that she’s completely retarde—”

  “Enough!” Tyler yelled, throwing his hand over Vanessa’s mouth. “This car is not big enough for the four of us and all of your girlie problems. I don’t care who broke whose Britney CD or who told the other one that her butt looked fat—you two are either going to play nice or you’re not allowed to talk for the rest of the ride!”

  “Fine by me,” said Callie. “Though if she can actually stop talking for five minutes, I might die of shock—”

  “Is that a promise?” snapped Vanessa. “Because—”

  Tyler clamped his hand over her mouth again. “Turn up the radio, man,” he said to Clint, while muffled MMmmmMMMmmmmMM sounds continued to come from Vanessa. “And change the station, would you? Sorry, Callie, but nobody likes this—OW!” Vanessa appeared to have bitten him.

  A smooth saxophone filtered from the speakers. “How’s this?” Clint asked.

  “Nice,” said Callie. “Very 1920s jazz age—”

  “I don’t remember giving you permission to speak,” Tyler cut in.

  “Fine,” Callie muttered, twisting the long string of fake pearls entwined around her neck. In the back Vanessa fiddled with her fishnet stockings.

  Tonight they were on their way to, if not the most talked about, then certainly the most exclusive party of the year: The Great Gatsby. Even Mimi had failed to finagle an invitation. With their feather headdresses and flowing silk gowns, Vanessa’s a dark red with fringe and Callie’s a pearly gray with a skirt that twirled when she spun around, both girls looked like they had stepped out of a Prohibition-era speakeasy. Tyler and Clint wore white tails and white gloves with their tuxedos, because—as Callie had learned in the last five minutes—white tie was a level above black on the continually confusing formal attire scale.

  “Why do we have to drive again?” Vanessa asked. “Walking would be faster.”

  “Because,” Tyler said with a sigh, “I didn’t think you would want to help us carry eighteen cases of champagne all the way to the Fly. You might break a nail.”

  “Hey!” Vanessa cried, digging said French-manicured “works of art” into his knee.

  “Ours is a very abusive relationship,” Tyler explained, leaning forward between Clint and Callie. “But I can’t help it—she makes me crazy!” he exclaimed, nuzzling her neck in a deliberately annoying way.

  “Ow—Tyler—stop—my hair—my hair!”

  Callie laughed.

  “You couldn’t have at least warned me that she was going to be here?” Vanessa asked when she had finally managed to push Tyler away. Her feather headdress had not survived the skirmish. That would probably earn Tyler a few more bruises and nail scratches later.

  “Hey, Clint,” said Tyler, cheerful as ever. “Did you know that when women cohabitate, their menstrual cycles often synch? We learned all about it last week in my Women, Gender, and Society seminar. College dorm rooms in particular have been known—”

  Vanessa’s blow caught him on the back of the head.

  “Ow! Woman! That’s going to leave a mark,” he said, rubbing his head and pretending to look angry. “On second thought, no it’s not. You’re about as strong as a baby kitten and twice as cute.”

  “Oh, shut up,” said Vanessa. “Are we there yet?”

  “Tyler,” said Callie, “you deserve a medal.”

  “I do,” he agreed solemnly.

  Vanessa snorted and folded her arms.

  “Jeez Louise, Clinty,” said Tyler, “I hope they’re not this bad over spring break.”

  “What’s happening over spring break?” asked Callie.

  “Puerto Rico
, baby—I booked us a villa. Sleep all day, booze all night, cruise the waves, eat bananas—”

  “No way—” Vanessa began.

  “Absolutely not,” finished Callie.

  “What?” asked Tyler. “You don’t like bananas? Everybody likes bananas! ”

  “We are not staying in the same villa over spring break,” said Vanessa. “I already have to live with her during the year. I shouldn’t have to suffer on my vacation, too.”

  “Hey—easy there,” said Clint. “And you can relax because Tyler’s only teasing: we booked more than one villa so you two can stay as far away or as close together as you want. Plus,” he added, turning the car into the Fly’s lot, “as of right now it looks like almost everyone in the Pudding is going, plus half the Phoenix and the Spee.” Pulling into a parking space, he killed the engine.

  “Finally,” said Vanessa, throwing open her door. “Tyler, come on!” she yelled, racing for the staircase at the edge of the parking lot. A faint green light was glimmering above the door at the top: the only entrance through which nonmembers were permitted to enter. Once inside, another set of stairs led straight to the second floor, where guests of members were allowed on special occasions, in contrast to the first floor of the brick mansion, which was strictly off-limits to all but the members.

  “Hey,” said Tyler as Clint opened the car door for Callie, “do you guys mind if I . . .”

  “Go,” said Callie. “I can help Clint carry the champagne.”

  “Thanks, buddy, I owe ya one,” he said before Clint could protest.

  “Tyler—now!”

  “Coming, princess!” he yelled, running to catch up with Vanessa.

  “I’m glad you’re my girlfriend,” said Clint, smiling at Callie as he opened the trunk.

  Callie laughed. “I’m glad I’m not Vanessa’s boyfriend,” she said, reaching for a case of champagne.

  “Hey, now—what do you think you’re doing?” he asked, putting a hand on her arm.

  “Helping you carry the champagne.”

  “I can’t let you do that,” he said, shaking his head.

  “Seriously?” she asked. “Why not?”

  “Need some help over here?” a voice called. Turning, she saw Gregory walking toward them. His bow tie hung loose and untied around his neck, black to Clint’s white, and on his arm was . . .