The Ivy: Rivals

by Lauren Kunze

  “Actually, I forgot: I have a hair appointment,” Vanessa said, heading for the front door.

  Sighing and rubbing the back of her head, Callie watched her go.

  “I’m so sorry I’m late— What . . . what are you doing here?”

  Gregory stood in front of the reference desk, holding a bagged lunch in one hand. There was another bag near him on the counter. “Nothing,” he said. “I was just leaving.”

  “Is that—is this for me?” Callie asked, going behind the desk and picking up the bag.

  “Uh . . . yes. If you want it,” he said.

  “Thank you?”

  He shrugged. “Clint and I are in the same econ section at noon, and he mentioned that he couldn’t do it and how grumpy you get when you’re hungry, so I off—I mean he asked me to bring it to you instead . . . since I was already planning to come here to do the reading for class tomorrow anyway. It’s no big deal.”

  “Great minds,” said Callie, lifting up her copy of Kazuo Ishiguro’s Never Let Me Go.

  “How are you liking it so far?” Gregory asked, gripping the back of the spare chair next to her desk.

  “I’m loving it,” she said. “And I would totally be able to finish on time for tomorrow . . . if we didn’t also have to get through these,” she concluded, pointing to her copies of Writing and Difference and Of Grammatology by Jacques Derrida, aka her New Least Favorite Unintelligible Postmodern Deconstructionist.

  “You know the headline for his obituary in the New York Times read, ‘Jacques Derrida, Abstruse Philosopher, Dies at Seventy-Four,’” Gregory said with a smile.

  “They know what they’re talking about over at that Times,” she said wryly. “Wish I knew what he was talking about when he said . . . well, everything. I mean, just listen to this,” she said, opening Writing and Difference as he sat down.

  “That philosophy died yesterday, since Hegel or Marx, Nietzsche, or Heidegger—and philosophy should still wander toward the meaning of its death—or that it has always lived knowing itself to be dying . . . that philosophy died one day, within history, or that it has always fed on its own agony, on the violent way it opens history by opposing itself to nonphilosophy, which is its past and its concern, its death and wellspring; that beyond the death, or dying nature, of philosophy, perhaps even because of it, thought still has a future, or even, as is said today, is still entirely to come because of what philosophy has held in store; or, more strangely still, that the future itself has a future—all these are unanswerable questions.”

  She looked up. “Seriously, what does that mean?”

  “I don’t know,” said Gregory, laughing a little and unwrapping his sandwich.

  “It’s all one sentence!” she exclaimed, pulling an orange out of her lunch bag. “Just one sentence out of fifty billion others like it! How on earth are we ever supposed to understand this thing?” she cried, letting the book clunk onto the table. Both hands free now, she began to peel her orange.

  “I don’t know,” he repeated, shaking his head.

  “I thought that you knew everything,” she said, watching him take a bite of his sandwich.

  “I do,” he said. “With a few very rare exceptions.”

  “Ha!” she cried before popping a section of the orange into her mouth. Narrowing her eyes, she considered him while she chewed. “Clint said that I get grumpy when I’m hungry?”

  “More or less,” said Gregory. “What he really told me is that you need to be fed every four hours on the dot or else you turn into a gremlin.”

  Callie gasped. “He did not,” she cried, throwing part of her orange peel at him.

  “Maybe not,” he said, catching it, “but I could tell that’s what he was thinking.”

  “You take that back,” she said, brandishing the rest of her orange peel, “or I’ll—”

  “Um, excuse me?” A girl hovered a few feet away, holding a book.

  “Don’t mind him,” Callie said to her, glaring at Gregory and setting down the orange so she could scan and stamp the book.

  When the girl had gone, he asked, “So, how do you like working here?”

  “Why?” she said. “Are you thinking about applying for a job?”

  “Maybe,” he said with a look on his face like that would be just hilarious.

  Oh yes, Gregory, so hilarious that some people actually have to work to pay for things! “Why are you here?” she demanded suddenly, angry that she had allowed him yet another opportunity to mock her.

  “I already told you,” he said. “Clint asked me to drop off your lunch.”

  “Yes, ‘drop off,’ exactly,” she said. “But why are you still here? I mean here here, not in the library here.”

  Gregory frowned, starting to stand. “I’ll go.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” she said quietly.

  He stared at her for a moment. “I guess I thought maybe we could . . . give the whole friends thing a try,” he said finally.

  She searched his face for the telltale signs that he was making another joke at her expense. But he seemed actually to mean it. “If you’re serious . . .” she started, “then I think that I would like that.”

  “I am serious,” he said, sitting back down. “As serious as Tommy is about Ruth,” he added, waving his copy of Never Let Me Go.

  “Tommy is in love with Kathy,” Callie cried, “not Ruth!”

  Gregory looked equally scandalized. “I hadn’t gotten to that part yet!”

  “Whoops,” she said, clapping a hand over her mouth.

  He laughed and then sighed. “I guess that was obvious from the beginning. How many more chapters do I have to go through before he realizes that Ruth is all wrong for him?”

  “I’m not saying,” she insisted. “Wouldn’t want to ruin it!”

  They were silent for a moment or two, chewing their food. “So,” said Gregory eventually, “things with Clint seem to be going well.”

  “They are,” she said. “Why do you ask?”

  “Isn’t that what friends do—talk about each other’s, ah, relationships?”

  “Sure.” Callie cracked a smile. “So, how is your ‘relationship’ going, then?”

  “Fine,” he said. “Actually,” he added, considering her, “I could use a female perspective on something.”

  “Okay,” she said. “Shoot.”

  “Alessandra and I seem to be having some . . . well, trust issues.”

  “What is it that makes you feel like you can’t trust her?” Callie asked.

  “It’s more the other way around,” he admitted.

  “Ah. I see,” said Callie, lowering her sandwich. “Well, can you think of anything that you might have done that contributed to her feeling this way?” Other than, you know, the fact that you’re you, she added silently. No need to destabilize the new friendship now when they were only five minutes in.

  “No,” he said “I don’t think so.” He paused. “Well . . .”

  “Yes?” Callie prompted.

  “The other day I caught her going through my phone.”

  “What?” said Callie. “That’s totally not cool!”

  “I know,” he agreed, “but the thing is, she found something. Well, it was nothing really, just some old texts.”

  “To another girl?” Callie asked, grateful for the hundredth time that she had chosen Clint.

  “Kind of. Not exactly. See I forgot to delete some old drafts from a long time ago—stuff I never even actually sent.”

  “How long ago?” asked Callie. “Before or after you got together?”

  “Before,” he said. “In November.”

  “Well, she can’t be mad about things that happened before you even met her; that’s crazy!” said Callie. “I mean, not crazy,” she corrected quickly, “just kind of irrational.”

  “That’s what I said,” he agreed.

  “Unless . . .” Callie started. “What did these messages say exactly?” Her forehead wrinkled: she tried to picture a sexting s
ituation gone awry. Then she shook her head, trying not to picture it. “And who were you planning to send them to?” she added, wondering if that “who” were plural and if Alessandra had uncovered details of the threesome or something even more sordid. Ew. “And why didn’t you end up sending them?”

  “That’s not important,” he muttered, waving his hand and accidentally knocking over his empty water bottle. “Just tell me,” he said, righting it, “as a girl, what you would want me to do to fix it. Please.”

  “I guess I would start by saying that it’s not okay to go through your phone or otherwise violate your privacy but that it’s perfectly normal for everyone to feel a little jealous sometimes, and that you would be happy to let her look at your phone or whatever else, if and only if she asks your permission first, because you have nothing to hide . . . if that’s the truth.”

  “It’s true now,” he said with a mischievous smile, “because I erased everything.”

  “In the long term,” Callie continued, ignoring him, “things could be a bit trickier. Trust is often something that has to be earned, particularly if you—if one—has a track record. . . . Or maybe she already has trust issues for reasons that aren’t your fault, like an evil ex-boyfriend from high school or, um, whatever.” Callie crumpled her napkin. “Either way, having a candid conversation and getting everything—well, ah, mostly everything—out in the open can’t hurt. And if all else fails, you can always shower her with gifts—that’s what Vanessa would probably tell you to do, and who knows, maybe on some girls that type of thing works.” She paused to scan several books that a boy had just dropped on the counter.

  “I don’t suppose you and Clint ever had to deal with anything like this,” Gregory mused after the boy had gone.

  “Well, you know, we have minor issues every now and then just like any other couple. . . .”

  “Yeah,” said Gregory, “he did mention that you get jealous of Lexi sometimes.”

  “Jealous?” Callie repeated incredulously. “He said that? I’m not jealous of her; I just don’t like her! No offense,” she added. “I know you two are friends.”

  “None taken. I can definitely understand why you’d have a problem with her.”

  Callie’s eyebrows knit together. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Just the whole . . . saga of their relationship. From what he’s said to me about it—and what she’s said—it sounds like the whole thing was pretty intense.”

  “You mean the constant breaking-up and getting-back-together parts?”

  “Sure.”

  Eugh. Callie cringed, not wanting to think about it anymore. “Hey!” she said suddenly. “How come you didn’t ask Lexi about your Alessandra problem?”

  “I did ask her a few hours ago on our way to class. She said she’d give me some advice right after I made sure Alessandra planned to join the Pudding.”

  Callie laughed. “That sounds exactly like her. Wait. She’s in your econ class, too?”

  “Yeah,” said Gregory. “Why?”

  “Oh. No reason,” Callie said quickly. She had known that Lexi was in Clint’s government class, but couldn’t remember him mentioning anything about econ, too. “Anyway,” she said, “I would never go through Clint’s phone, but even if I did, I’m positive that I wouldn’t find anything sketchy.”

  “Of course not,” Gregory agreed. “Because he’s perfect.”

  She studied his face, but it seemed devoid of irony. “Yeah, he kind of is,” she said with a smile. “So . . .”

  “Time to get started?” Gregory finished for her, lifting Of Grammatology. Groaning, she nodded.

  He settled back in his chair and propped his feet up on the half-open bottom drawer of her desk. Together they read silently, stopping every once in a while to commiserate over a particularly “abstruse” Derrida quote or laugh after reading certain sections out loud. The time flew, and before Callie knew it, the clock read 5:55.

  “Hey,” said one of her coworkers, wheeling a reshelving cart up behind her desk. “Do you think you could run these over to Widener?” he asked, pointing to a box of books. “They ended up in circulation here by mistake.”

  “Sure,” she said. “I’m off in a few minutes anyway; I can take them on my way home.”

  “Great,” he said, wheeling the now empty cart away. “Thanks.”

  “So I guess you’re headed out, then?” Gregory asked.

  “Yep,” she said, standing to stretch.

  “I’m going to stay and finish this,” he said, pointing to Never Let Me Go.

  “Enjoy,” she said, gathering her things. “See you in class tomorrow?”

  “Sure. That looks heavy,” he added, watching her lift the box of books. “Want me to help you carry it over?”

  “That’s okay, I’ve had worse,” she said, remembering the days not too long ago when she used to deliver Lexi’s premium Norwegian bottled water to her room in Kirkland House, along with her dry cleaning and anything else she happened to want that week.

  “Right,” he said. “Well, at least if you drop it you’ll be spilling books not underwear.”

  Friendship? Maybe. End of Teasing about the Underwear Incident from Move-in Day? Never.

  “You suck!” she called over her shoulder.

  “Don’t trip,” he said, smirking as he returned to his book.

  “These were accidentally returned to Lamont,” Callie said to the student manning Widener Library’s circulation desk, hefting the box of books onto the counter.

  “Thanks,” said the student.

  “Have a good night!” Callie called, turning to leave. Spying a water fountain in the corner of the room, she stopped to take a drink. Straightening, she glanced through the huge glass window that looked down into one of the library’s more secluded reading rooms. She took two steps away before doing a double take: Clint sat studying with his head bent over his books at one of the tables below, and directly across from him was—

  Wait— What?

  It couldn’t be—

  But it was.

  Alexis.

  Vivienne.

  Thorndike.

  Pulling out her phone, Callie drafted a text:

  HEY, HOW’S THE STUDYING GOING?

  Peering back down at the table and confirming that Clint and Lexi were its only occupants, she clicked Send. Then she watched Clint pull out his phone a moment later. Another moment and her phone buzzed in response:

  GREAT!

  Great? “Great” did not begin to explain what he was doing here, alone, with her.

  Feeling a bit like a creepy stalker, she looked over her shoulder to make sure no one was watching. Then, she stared back down at the reading room. Lexi had stood suddenly and was making her way to the exit, leaving Clint alone at the table. Callie thought for a few seconds and then texted him again.

  IT’S NOT TOO DISTRACTING WHAT

  WITH ALL THE OTHER PEOPLE IN

  YOUR STUDY GROUP?

  Her foot tapped while she waited for his response, feeling a mixture of guilt (for what could quite possibly be considered entrapment), and a strong sense of foreboding. Her phone twitched in her hand. Briefly she closed her eyes. Then, opening them, she read:

  NOPE! IT’S JUST ME AND A COUPLE

  OF GUYS FROM CLASS OVER HERE AT

  WIDENER, AND WE’RE BEING VERY

  PRODUCTIVE :)

  Callie sucked in her breath. Her nose almost up against the glass, she willed several students of the male persuasion to materialize miraculously at Clint’s table. No matter how hard she prayed, though, there was nothing else down there except Clint, a couple of pencils and pens, and two sets of Government textbooks.

  Her feet felt weighted to the floor, her fingers heavy with dread, as she drafted one last text.

  DO YOU THINK YOU’LL HAVE TIME TO

  GRAB DINNER LATER? MY SHIFT AT

  LAMONT JUST ENDED.

  Picking up his phone, Clint read the message on the screen, but before he
could respond, Lexi returned to the table. She carried two large to-go containers from the Widener Library Café. He set down his phone and said something to her, smiling and shutting his books. Frozen, Callie watched them converse for a full minute and a half until he finally remembered his phone.

  Moments later she had her response.

  SORRY, BUT I THINK WE’RE JUST

  GOING TO TRY TO POWER THROUGH.

  I’LL SEE YOU ON SATURDAY NIGHT

  AS SOON AS WE GET BACK FROM

  PRINCETON, THOUGH, IF I DON’T

  GET A CHANCE TO SAY GOOD-BYE

  AFTER THE TEST. MISS YOU ALREADY

  . . . LOVE YOU!

  “Powering through” looked an awful lot like taking a break to eat, talk, flirt and—seriously?—ding a pencil at Lexi across the desk. “Miss you already” sounded pretty hollow for someone already excusing himself from saying good-bye, and “Love you” might as well have been the last in what amounted to a string of multiple lies.

  “Everything okay over there?” the student behind the circulation desk suddenly called.

  “No,” Callie muttered, leaping back from the window. Turning, she skidded across the marble floor, flying past the security guard as quickly as possible and bursting out into the cold. Darkness had descended since she’d entered the library, and she almost tripped several times as she tore down the vast stone steps.

  “No,” she murmured again to no one in particular as she ran home to Wigglesworth. Everything is not okay.

  Chapter Ten

  How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days Minutes

  Ten Ways to Ruin a Relationship: A List of High-Risk Relationship Behavior.

  1. Checking a significant other’s accounts (and getting caught). That includes bank accounts, cell phone records, e-mail, Facebook, and any other private venue involving a device and a password. Some couples these days share passwords as a way to foster intimacy. Well, good for them, but unless you are one of those or you have explicit permission from your loved one, resist the urge to snoop! Or, if you can’t, at the very least: don’t get caught.