The Ivy: Rivals

by Lauren Kunze

  A simple Google search revealed nothing. Frowning, she navigated to the page for the Crimson’s internal website. “Huh . . . that’s strange,” she muttered.

  “What?” Matt asked.

  “Oh, nothing. It just says that it logged me out of our internal server because I was logged in at another location.”

  Matt shrugged. “Unfortunately that’s not unusual; the system gets pretty buggy sometimes. Or your session could have timed out while you were busy reading your e-mail—I mean working really hard!” he amended as she socked him on the arm.

  “Ooh, look at this!” she said a moment later. “It’s a list of everyone who’s ever COMPed the Crimson. . . . See, there’s ‘Lee, Grace, in fall 2008,’” she pointed out while Matt leaned in, “And . . . whoa . . . looks like Lexi COMPed the Crimson that semester, too! I wonder if she got cut,” Callie finished excitedly.

  Bored, Matt turned back to his own computer. “Frankly I’m not sure why you care.”

  Callie silenced him with a wave, pulling up the list of everyone who had COMPed FM. Frowning as she passed her own name, she continued scrolling down until she found it: Thorndike, Alexis, spring 2009.

  “Interesting . . .” Callie muttered.

  “Oh, I’m sure it is, Nancy Drew,” Matt said with a smirk, now busy editing an article.

  “Hush!” she admonished him. Then she ran Grace’s name through the Harvard College search engine. There were three Grace Lees but only one who was class of 2012 and currently lived in Dunster (the upperclassman house where Grace resided), after apparently living in Thayer when she was a freshman.

  There was only one Alexis Vivienne Thorndike in the system (thank god). Class: 2012; Current Residence: Kirkland House; Freshman Dormitory: Weld (Thayer).

  Thayer in italics and parentheses? The same Thayer where Grace had lived? Now that was intriguing. Quickly Callie pulled up a site that let you search the exact room and residence of every former Harvard freshman (designed to cater to incoming students who liked to brag that Bill Gates or Tommy Lee Jones had once propped his feet up on their desk in their bedroom, ergo they too would one day invent Windows and win Oscars). Her fingers flew across the keyboard.

  Lee, Grace: Thayer 314 (2008-2009)

  Thorndike, Alexis: Weld 33 (2008-2009); Thayer 314 (2008)

  “Oh my goodness,” she said breathlessly. “Matt!”

  “What?”

  “Lexi and Grace were roommates during their freshman year!”

  “So?” he said, returning to the article he was working on.

  “So! Um . . . so . . .” Huh. So what? “Well, Lexi must have transferred out, for one thing, and maybe the reason they hate each other has to do with something that happened back when—”

  “Callie?” a voice called from behind them. Turning, she saw Clint strolling into the offices with two lattes in hand. Quickly she shut the browser before standing and throwing her arms around him.

  Matt glanced up and gave Clint the usual cursory grunt.

  “There’s my hottest freshman,” Clint said, smiling and handing her a latte.

  “Gee, thanks,” said Callie, sitting back in her chair. “Glad somebody thinks so.”

  “It’s my word against the school’s,” Clint said, bending to kiss her cheek.

  “Actually, it’s your word against the editors’,” Callie retorted. “One of whom is your ex-girlfriend. Speaking of which—”

  “Oh no,” said Clint, shooting Matt a look. “Here we go again.”

  Callie pursed her lips. “I’m just wondering if you know anything about a possible feud between Lexi and Grace.”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “I’m just curious. From a journalistic perspective.”

  Sighing, Clint perched on the edge of her desk. “They were roommates for a while, and then something happened—maybe something about stolen shoes?—but Lex and I had only just started dating when she transferred rooms so more than that, I couldn’t say.”

  “Did you know that Lexi COMPed the Crimson her first semester freshman year?” Callie asked.

  “Yes,” said Clint.

  “Do you know why she joined FM the following semester instead? I mean did she get cut or—”

  “I don’t really remember,” he said shortly.

  “Well, then is there anything else you can tell me? Anything that might seem odd or relevant?”

  “As much as I love constantly talking about her with you,” Clint said without attempting to hide his sarcasm, “it’s already ten past four, and I’ve got to get to squash practice.”

  “Okay,” she said. “Thanks for the coffee. So, I’ll see you tonight? I should be done here around seven thirty—”

  “Actually, I’m sorry but I can’t tonight,” said Clint. “Pudding stuff.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Okay. Hey! Is it because of that police thing?”

  “Uh—no,” he said, “it’s something else. . . . Board only, though, so you don’t have to worry about it,” he finished, kissing the top of her head. “I will see you tomorrow for our weekly Wednesday lunch date.”

  “Wednesday lunch date it is,” she agreed, waving as he left the offices.

  A moment later her phone buzzed.

  1 NEW TEXT MESSAGE

  FROM CLINT WEBER

  Smiling, she read:

  BTW, I FORGOT TO MENTION: WE

  HAD A MEETING LAST NIGHT ABOUT

  THE SOPHOMORE WHO KICKED YOU

  OUT OF GATSBY AND NOW HE’S

  BEEN KICKED OUT OF THE CLUB—

  FOR GOOD. I APOLOGIZE AGAIN

  THAT THE NIGHT TURNED INTO SUCH

  A MESS. REALLY, I COULDN’T BE

  MORE SORRY. . . .

  NO WORRIES, she drafted back. Then, after thinking for a few seconds, she added:

  P.S. THERE’S SOMETHING I FORGOT

  TO ASK YOU, TOO: TOTALLY RANDOM,

  BUT YOU HAVEN’T BY ANY CHANCE

  BEEN LEAVING ENVELOPES FULL OF

  CASH ON ANNE’S DESK AT THE

  PUDDING WITH MY NAME ON THEM?

  Her phone buzzed.

  WEIRD . . . I WONDER WHO IT

  COULD BE—DEFINITELY NOT ME,

  THOUGH!

  Callie barely had time to consider his response, since she had been certain that Clint was the only logical explanation left, when her phone buzzed again:

  ALSO . . . I MISS YOU ALREADY!

  CAN’T WAIT FOR WEDNESDAY :)

  Staring down at her phone, she beamed.

  An odd gagging noise came from the vicinity of Matt’s computer.

  “What?” she demanded, still unable to stop smiling.

  “Nothing,” Matt muttered. “There’s just something about that guy. . . . He’s too shiny.”

  “Shiny?” Callie repeated with a giggle.

  “Yeah,” said Matt, sticking to his guns. “Shiny like . . . perfect. Too perfect. Or something.”

  “Oh, Matt,” Callie said, shaking her head and putting her phone away. “There’s no such thing as too perfect.”

  Chapter Nine

  Busted!

  March 8 Behind the Ivy-Covered Walls: Part III

  4:02PM By THE IVY INSIDER

  An op-ed appeared in the Harvard Crimson late this afternoon (“Narcissism and Objectification Run Rampant at Freshmen Fifteen Photo Shoot”) decrying one of the magazine’s oldest traditional articles, “The Freshmen Fifteen” (also published earlier this morning).

  However, it appears the drama over the latest issue of the magazine was not confined to the offices of its editors.

  Late last night the Harvard University police busted up a party at the Hasty Pudding social club supposedly intended to honor the so-called “fifteen hottest.” Two sophomores whose names have yet to be released were issued MIP citations (Minor in Possession) when discovered with open containers of alcohol on the club’s front steps. It is unknown at this point whether further legal action will be taken or if the university will see fit to discipli
ne the individuals.

  And yet it seems that their actions are merely a small sampling of what really goes on behind closed doors: the underage drinking, the drugs, and who knows what else. Even an e-mail from the club’s secretary sent to members this afternoon notes that the night was “fairly low-key compared to our other events.” So why did the police show at all?

  What was previously believed to be a noise complaint from a neighboring building has now been confirmed as a whistle-blower from the inside. Perhaps it was an inside job. Maybe even the Insider. Stay tuned. . . . After all, actions speak louder than words.

  “I’ll put two pounds—sorry, dollars—on one fifteen. Over or under?” OK whispered to Adam, who sat next to him in the plush green chairs of the Science Center’s D auditorium.

  “Under,” Adam whispered back, checking his watch and then looking at Mimi, who, after arriving late, had just settled into a seat several rows in front of them.

  “What are they doing?” Callie asked Dana, who was frowning and shaking her head while their professor for Science B-29: The Evolution of Human Nature fiddled with the overhead projector.

  “Gambling,” said Dana, her lips a tight, thin line. “He knows I don’t approve.”

  “It’s not gambling,” Adam said, leaning over to address Callie. “Just a little friendly betting game we like to play to keep class more interesting.”

  “Class is already interesting,” Dana hissed, writing the phrase The theory of in front of the word Evolution at the top of her page and then underlining theory twice.

  Callie—who up until recently had been sitting with strangers, having tended to wait for Mimi until she realized doing so was making her late—was intrigued.

  “How does it work?” she whispered. Dana harrumphed and bent over her notebook. The professor switched on his microphone and began to speak.

  “Well, when we get here I pick a time, say, 1:04, when I think it’s likely that Mimi will arrive,” Adam began.

  “And then I say ‘over’ or ‘under’ depending on whether I think she’ll show up earlier or later,” OK explained.

  “When she gets here,” Adam continued, “we play double or nothing for the moment when she inevitably falls asleep.”

  “I get to pick that time, 1:15 in today’s case,” said OK.

  “And then I choose ‘over’ or ‘under,’” Adam finished.

  “How is that not gambling?” Dana whispered, tired of pretending she wasn’t listening.

  “It’s not gambling if he never actually pays me,” Adam assured her. “You owe me twenty-two dollars, by the way,” he murmured to OK under his breath.

  “This is Lucy,” Professor Hanson—or as he was fondly known around campus, Professor Handsome—said. The projector displayed a photograph of what looked like a fossilized Neanderthal. “And this,” he continued with a click of his keyboard, “is Lucy’s great- great-grandmother.”

  The screen lit up with the image of an ape scratching its head. Several students giggled.

  Callie watched Dana sigh heavily and draw a line down the center of her notes. At the top of the left-hand column she wrote Learned in Class, then labeled the other column Reality.

  “Humans are descended from monkeys,” she scribbled on the left-hand side of the page. Then, across from it on the other side, she wrote: “False: God created the heavens and the universe in six days, and on the seventh day he rested—Genesis.”

  “I don’t mean to be rude,” Callie whispered, “but why are you taking this class?”

  “Because it is best to know thine enemy,” Dana said. “Why else would I ever watch MSNBC programming?”

  “Pay up,” said Adam suddenly, extending his hand to OK.

  It was 1:13 and Mimi was fast asleep.

  “Brilliant,” said Callie. OK groaned softly. “And does she fall asleep every time?” she asked.

  “Every time.” Adam nodded. “Except the three times when she never showed. You still owe me for those, too,” he added.

  “What? No fair! I thought we were calling those a draw!”

  Bzzz-bzzz-bzzz, Callie’s phone vibrated in her bag. “Sorry,” she whispered as Dana sighed again.

  1 NEW TEXT MESSAGE

  FROM CLINT WEBER

  SO IT’S WEDNESDAY . . .

  Smiling, she texted back: YEP!

  Her phone buzzed again.

  BUT UNFORTUNATELY I CAN’T BRING

  YOUR LUNCH TO LAMONT TODAY

  BECAUSE I HAVE A STUDY GROUP

  FOR MY GOVERNMENT MIDTERM

  TOMORROW MEETING IN WIDENER

  AT 1. SO SORRY. ARE YOU GOING

  TO STARVE?!

  It had become a Wednesday tradition for Clint to swing by FlyBy (the to-go food service from which the new more-than-daily-news website derived its name) and bring Callie a bagged lunch at Lamont, where she had to be for her one o’clock shift directly after class.

  NO WORRIES! I CAN RUN BY

  FLYBY; IT’LL ONLY MAKE ME TEN

  MINUTES LATE.

  Callie smiled and put her phone back in her book bag, trying to concentrate on Professor Handsome’s—ahem—Hanson’s words rather than his face. It was a bit difficult with Dana sighing, Adam arguing, OK weaseling his way out of debt, and the sight of Mimi slumped over in her seat where Callie would have bet ten to one that she was snoring.

  Plus, a minute later, her phone buzzed again.

  DID YOU REMEMBER TO PICK UP

  YOUR BOOKS FOR FICTION &

  THEORY SO YOU COULD FINISH THE

  READING BY TOMORROW IN TIME FOR

  CLASS?? (THIS IS ME REMINDING

  YOU, AS PROMISED!)

  Crap! She could picture the exact location of her books now, sitting on the edge of her bed. Shaking her head, she texted back:

  THANK YOU! I TOTALLY FORGOT,

  AS YOU GUESSED. WILL HAVE TO

  SWING BY WIGG BEFORE WORK.

  BUT DON’T WORRY ABOUT LUNCH,

  I’LL FIGURE SOMETHING OUT!

  “Can you please put that away?” Dana hissed when Callie’s phone buzzed for the third time.

  “Sorry,” Callie whispered back. Turning the ringer on silent, she stole a covert glance at the screen.

  YOU’RE THE BEST. MAYBE WE

  CAN GRAB DINNER LATER IF I GET

  ENOUGH STUDYING DONE IN TIME.

  IF NOT WE’LL DO SOMETHING BIG

  SATURDAY NIGHT AFTER WE GET

  BACK FROM OUR AWAY GAME.

  “Hand it over,” said Dana, holding out her hand.

  Cringing, Callie passed her the phone. “Sorry!”

  “Stop apologizing and start taking notes!” Dana whispered back.

  “Okay,” said Callie, settling into her chair and jotting dutifully in her notebook for the rest of the hour.

  “Someone’s in here!” Vanessa called from behind the bathroom door.

  “Oh, sorry,” said Callie, backing away. “Will you be done soon? Because I kind of have to pee!”

  “Go away!” Vanessa yelled.

  Oh-kay . . . thought Callie, walking into her room and grabbing her books. Coming back into the common room, she opened the door to the mini-fridge: one four-pack of Red Bull, one banana peel (minus the banana), and a couple of packets of sweet and sour sauce from The Kong. Callie wrinkled her nose. Straightening, she noticed a half-eaten pack of Double Stuf Oreos sitting on the couch. Bingo—

  Suddenly a weird retching noise came from the bathroom.

  Callie paused, looking at the Oreos and then looking back at the bathroom.

  “Everything okay in there?” she called, taking a few steps toward the door.

  She was met with the whoosh of the toilet flushing.

  “It’s fine!” Vanessa called, but now Callie could hear something that sounded an awful lot like crying.

  Checking the time on her cell phone, she stood for a moment, debating. Then she dialed the front desk at Lamont and told them that she was going to be a little bit late.

  “Ca
n I get you anything?” Callie asked. “Water? Red Bull?”

  “There’s a sink in the bathroom,” she heard Vanessa mutter.

  “Right,” said Callie. “Well, if you want to talk, I’ll just stay out here for another minute or so. . . .” She sank onto the floor and rested her back against the bathroom door.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” Vanessa said in halting tones from where she was also slumped on the floor, her head separated from Callie’s by a mere inch and a half of wood.

  “Did something happen with Tyler?” Callie ventured.

  A sob escaped Vanessa’s lips. “I don’t want”—sob—“to talk”—sob—“to you!”

  “Did he do something?” Callie called. “Pressure you in some way? Because if he did, I’ll kill him, or at least have Clint punch him in the—”

  “Just—shut up—about—Tyler!”

  “Fine,” said Callie, hugging her knees to her chest. “I’ll talk about something else then. So, OK and Adam have invented this betting game that they play in our Human Nature class, and today . . .”

  Vanessa never responded or gave any other sign that she was listening, but midway through the story the crying noises stopped. And, though Callie couldn’t be sure, at one point when she had been describing what she could remember of Dana’s notes, she thought she heard a giggle.

  “You know,” Callie said, when she had run out of stories from class, “the day I found out that I tore my ACL—and that my soccer career was basically over—I hid in the bathroom for like six hours. The bathtub, actually, to be specific. But eventually you realize that you have to come out, because it’s uncomfortable, or you get hungry . . . maybe for some Double Stuf Oreo—ah—OW!”

  Callie’s head clunked against the tiled floor. Blinking, she stared up at Vanessa, who loomed over her, her hand still on the doorknob from when she had suddenly yanked it open.

  “I have to go—to the library,” Vanessa said, stepping over Callie and grabbing her bag off the couch. She had washed her face and managed to eradicate all signs of the recent meltdown except for a slight puffy redness around her eyes.

  “Great,” said Callie, sitting up, “I’m on my way now too so I’ll walk you!”