by Lauren Kunze
2. Cheating on a significant other (and getting caught). Duh! This one’s kind of a no-brainer, though in today’s world it can be hard to know where you stand when it comes to being exclusive, when terms like “dating” or “hooking up” or even “boyfriend” and “girlfriend” are all sliding signifiers. Just remember that if you do decide to cheat, being discovered in the moment isn’t the only way to get caught. Once the act is done, it’s only a matter of time: the truth will always get out, be it through the grapevine or your infiltrated inbox.
3. Saying “I love you” either too soon or at the wrong moment. Sometimes it just slips out. But especially on dates 1–3, lock your lips and hold in that L-bomb unless you want to come off as needy, codependent, or just plain nuts. Note that the wrong moment, like when you’re in coitus or the middle of a fight, can prove equally detrimental.
4. Not saying “I love you” back. This is the corollary to High-Risk Behavior Number 3 and is equally important to handle properly. Of course, don’t say it if you don’t mean it, but find a more artful way to do so than with a scream, a “Thank you,” or, my personal favorite, “I love me, too.”
5. Too much/too little space. Do I really have to explain this one? Okay, fine. If you can’t stay more than two inches away from each other most of the time in public: you have a problem. If you must stay two inches away from each other at all times in private: you also have a problem. Seek professional help.
6. Ex-Obsession or Ex-Stalking. Both afflictions prove fatal to even the strongest relationships. Do not open the Ex file unless absolutely necessary. But, if you have to, do so directly: do not be tempted to take a roundabout way just because you and the ex are at the same school, possibly in some of the same classes. Stalking: bad. Not stalking: good. Simple.
7. Jealousy, the green-eyed monster. This is related to High-Risk Behavior Number 6 when said behavior spins out of control to the extent that you become jealous of your boyfriend/girlfriend’s friends, extracurriculars, classes, or anything that takes away from “us” time. If you find yourself feeling jealous of inanimate objects (problem sets, footballs, handkerchiefs), seek help immediately. And try to remember Shakespeare’s Othello: there’s a reason why everybody in that play ends up dead by Act V.
8. Deciding to go abroad. End it now before you waste a semester on Skype only to break up when he/she returns. If you think he/she is The One, as Beyoncé said: “If you liked it then you shoulda put a ring on it.” Well, listen to the diva! Lock it up, down, sideways; put a ring on it, whatever. Just do it before that Italian Stallion from Florence sweeps her onto his moped and she’s gone forever . . . Baci and abbracci.
9. Upperclassman dating a freshman and vice versa. Some say Confucius’s rule is “half your age plus seven,” but even ancient Chinese philosophers sometimes make mistakes. You never should’ve gone here in the first place: it’s High-Risk Territory already. The relationship is doomed! So stick to my rule of consecutive grades (n + 1), though nothing beats (n + 0).
10. Taking Math 55. This also turns out to be a deal-breaker. You won’t be able to go out. You won’t be able to shower. You won’t be able to get excited by anything other than numbers. You will, in essence, be dating Math 55. It will be your one true love; there will be no room for anybody else.
If you can’t stay together for the kids, then at least stay together for Spring Break,
Alexis Thorndike, Advice Columnist
Fifteen Minutes Magazine
Harvard University’s Authority on Campus Life since 1873
“I must admit that, given the title’s connotations, I had been hoping for a more religious perspective on Atonement,” Dana said to Callie as they wandered out of the Harvard bookstore. “But, nevertheless, thank you for bringing me to hear the author speak.”
Callie smiled. “He was so awesome, wasn’t he?” It was Saturday afternoon and they had just attended Ian McEwan’s reading and subsequent book talk, tickets courtesy of Gregory, who was probably on the road back from Princeton with Clint and the rest of the squash team at this very moment.
“Also please thank Clint for the tickets,” Dana said, unaware of the tickets’ true origins. “That was an extremely thoughtful gift given how much you like the author: especially because he was unable to attend.”
“Right,” Callie said. “I’ll tell him tonight just as soon as he gets home.”
In reality, Callie had no idea what she was going to say when she saw Clint. She had been dreading his return since he’d departed on Thursday afternoon following his midterm with no more than a phone call to say good-bye, which she had screened before throwing her phone into her sock drawer and heading to the gym. Nine grueling treadmill miles later, she still didn’t know what to do about his Lexi-related lies.
Was this the first time that he’d been dishonest or simply the first time he got caught? What else was he hiding? And what was Lexi’s part in all of this? Did she still want him back, or was she plotting something much more—
“WATCH OUT!” Dana screamed, throwing an arm in front of Callie just before she accidentally walked into oncoming traffic.
“Holy crap,” Callie said breathlessly, turning white and gripping Dana’s arm to stabilize herself. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Dana said stiffly. “Is everything all right?” she added when the light had turned and they started across the street.
“I’m just . . . preoccupied, I guess,” Callie muttered.
“Well, snap out of it!” Dana commanded as they walked through Dexter Gate. “Before you get yourself killed and wind up inspiring Mr. McEwan’s next novel.”
As the author had said himself during the talk, his nickname was “Ian Macabre” for a reason. The narrative in his novels always stemmed from some central disaster, like, for example, a car accident. No argument here that getting smashed to bits on Massachusetts Ave. would be a bad way to go, Callie thought, though the truth was that in a way, when she had seen Clint and Lexi in the library, a part of her felt like it had already been smashed.
A couple of hours later Callie could procrastinate no longer. She had cleaned the entire common room—including that shady-looking spill in the back of their refrigerator that had been there since October—and done several loads of laundry, including one for Mimi and one for Matt, both of whom had given her a funny look when she volunteered. The time had come to confront Clint. He ought to be arriving home at Adams House any minute now.
And so, after dawdling through the streets, Callie found herself outside the door to his suite, mustering the courage to knock. Taking a deep breath, she tapped on the door.
No one answered, but she was pretty sure she could hear movement on the other side.
She knocked louder.
Still no answer, but now she was certain she heard footsteps and what sounded like singing, sort of.
“Hellooo . . .” she called, pushing the door open a crack.
Inside, she spotted Tyler—wearing nothing but boxers—dancing around the common room barefoot with a hot pink feather duster in his hands and headphones in his ears. As he danced and dusted the mantel with his back to her, he sang softly: “I’m too sexy for my oxford . . . too sexy for my polo . . . So sexy, it hurts. And I’m too sexy for The Fly . . . too sexy for The Fly, The Phoenix, and The Spee.”
“Uh—Tyler?” Callie called.
Still, he did not hear, leaning forward to use the feather duster as a microphone: “And I’m too sexy for The Pudding . . . too sexy for The Pudding the way I’m disco dancing. I’m the President, you know what I mean. And I do my little turn on the catwalk, yeah, on the catwalk . . .”
“Tyler?”
“I’m too sexy for Harvard—”
“TYLER!”
“Callie!” he cried, wheeling around and yanking off the headphones. Quickly he moved the feather duster in front of his crotch. “How long have you been standing there?”
“I . . . um, thirty seconds? What are you doing?”
<
br /> “Cleaning,” he said, grabbing his T-shirt off the couch and pulling it over his head.
There were only two reasons anyone ever cleaned in college:
1) When you were avoiding confronting your boyfriend about lying about spending time with his ex; and
2) When you were suffering from severe sexual frustration.
In Tyler’s case Callie assumed it was the latter.
“Vanessa gave me this,” he explained, waving the duster. “She told me that she wasn’t going to spend the night anymore unless the room is cleaner.”
Apparently, though there were only two reasons to clean, there were infinitely creative ways to avoid having sex—an art Vanessa seemed to have mastered.
“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about Vanessa, actually,” said Callie, recalling their non-conversation through the bathroom door. “She seemed pretty upset the other day. Did you two have a fight or something?”
“That’s funny,” said Tyler, setting down the duster, “because I was going to ask you the same question!”
“So you have no idea what’s wrong, then?”
“Not a clue,” he confirmed. “I’d been hoping you could tell me or that you two were having one of your fights again.”
Callie sighed. “And you’re sure that you didn’t . . . do anything?”
“Trust me,” he said, “I haven’t done anything. At all. That’s why we’re about to have the cleanest common room in the greater Boston area,” he concluded, tackling the top of the TV with the duster. “Clint’s not home yet, but he should be any minute if you want to wait.”
“Great,” she said, feeling flooded, once again, with dread. “I’ll just be in his room, then.”
“Cool,” said Tyler, grabbing his iPod and lifting the headphones. “Just make sure you shut the door so I can practice ma’ moves in private!”
Callie had been sitting at Clint’s desk for less than a minute when, bored, she turned on his computer. Pulling up a browser, she punched in the web address for Gmail. Five seconds later the page had auto-redirected: straight into Clint’s account.
Leaping out of the chair, she ran to the other side of the room and stared at the wall. The computer still buzzed faintly from atop the desk, beckoning her. Taking a deep breath, she muttered: “Just sit down, and log out.” Easy as the click of a button. Just as easy as the click of another button—which would open any message in the account.
Exhaling, she walked back to the desk. Sitting, she averted her eyes from the screen, maneuvering the cursor into the upper corner in the general region of THE RIGHT THING TO DO, aka the log-out button.
That’s right, she heard Dana’s voice say suddenly in the back of her head. Just log out and wait for him to come home like you planned.
Es-tu stupide? a disembodied Mimi chimed in. He has given you an open invitation by lying!
Two wrongs don’t make a right, Dana warned.
Do it now—before he returns! cried Mimi.
Shut up! she almost said out loud, steeling herself to click the button.
You’re such a hypocrite. Vanessa’s voice laughed inside her mind. Or did you already forget everything you said to Gregory in the library?
Callie shook her head again—violently this time. All these voices could mean only one thing: she was definitely going crazy. Exhaling, she grabbed the lid of the laptop to slam it shut—
Still, the imaginary Vanessa suddenly whispered, if it were me, I’d want to know the truth.
Callie scrunched her eyelids closed. Then, slowly, she opened just one eye. I’ll only look at the subject headings and the senders, she vowed. After all, “in plain sight” was fair game according to none other than the Constitution of the United States of America.
Better be fast, though: somehow, she didn’t think Clint would take too kindly to the argument that she hadn’t violated any of his Fourth Amendment rights. . . .
There were an alarmingly high number of e-mails from Alexis Vivienne Thorndike, like, one, two, three, four, five, six, in just the past few weeks, but most of the subject headings seemed fairly benign. Well, all except for two of them:
INBOX [Archive] [Report Spam] [Delete]
3/12 [email protected] . . . What I told you in the Library I was only speaking as a . . .
3/11 [email protected] . . . Midterm Grades Available in 2 Weeks So stop asking!! . . .
3/9 [email protected] . . . Gov Midterm Still on for studying today at 1pm?
3/9 facebook@facebo Facebook Hello, Marcus Taylor tagged a photo of you on . . .
3/9 [email protected] . . . Have you seen my racquet? Think I left it at the Murr Ce . . .
3/8 [email protected] . . . Re: Lunch Tomorrow? Yes! See you then!
3/8 coach.bennet@har . . . Practice Canceled Hey all, you can take the evening off to . . .
3/8 [email protected] . . . Hilarious youtube video Check it out, people!
3/8 [email protected] . . . RE: We need to talk I'll swing by your room tonight arou . . .
3/7 [email protected] . . . Dinner tonight Going to be a little late-stuck at the Crim . . .
3/5 [email protected] . . . S-Break Got your check for you + Callie, so you're good t . . .
3/2 [email protected] . . . Gatsby So excited! Also, you won't believe what I found i . . .
3/1 [email protected] . . . Uncle Joe's e-mail As per your request, here it is! He's us . . .
2/28 Emilee_Weber@va . . . Internship Darling, Did you follow up with Governor Ha . . .
2/27 [email protected] . . . Re: Mom says 'hi' Ha ha how is Emilee anyway? Say hi b . . .
What I told you in the Library was highly troubling, as was RE: We need to talk. She had to read them both. Immediately.
No! the voice of Dana cried as Callie’s hand hovered over the keyboard. Don’t do it.
Do it but do not get caught, Mimi amended.
Clint’s e-mails are none of your business, Vanessa reasoned. But if he’s been lying to you about something—that is your business.
“Quite right, Imaginary Vanessa,” Callie muttered, scrolling back down to RE: We need to talk. Click, click.
From: Alexis Vivienne Thorndike
To: Clint Weber
Subject: RE: We need to talk
I’ll come over tonight around 8pm.
xx,
Lex
From: Clint Weber
To: Alexis Vivienne Thorndike
Subject: We need to talk
Can we meet up when you have a minute?
Let me know,
Clint
That’s it? That’s all you’re going to give me, computer? What did they “need” to talk about? And had Lexi come over here, to his bedroom, on Tuesday night? Desperation welled within her. Returning to his inbox, she scrolled up to What I told you in the Library. Taking a deep breath, she clicked.
From: Alexis Vivienne Thorndike
To: Clint Weber
Subject: What I told you in the Library
I was only speaking as a friend, and I was telling you the truth as far as I know. I would never invent anything to intentionally interfere with your relationship. Well, the old me might have, but the new me is different. I just want you to be happy.
xx,
Lex
For an e-mail titled What I told you in the Library, it certainly didn’t give much away about what had actually been said. Was Lexi making up lies about her? Of course she was trying to “intentionally interfere” with the relationship: that had been her plan since day one when she told Callie to stay away from Clint—or else. Given Lexi’s insistence that she was telling the truth, and that she would “never invent anything” (Ha! What wouldn’t she invent was more like it), it sounded like Clint might have accused her of lying and come to Callie’s defense. Did he buy all this “new me” bullshit? What was really going on between the exes?
Callie dragged her hands across her face, feeling more confused than ever.
Closing her eyes, she tried to picture the way
Clint and Lexi had been looking at each other in the library. Something had passed between them that had been worth lying about; there had to be something here, in this room, to prove what it was one way or another.
Before Callie realized what was happening, she had yanked open the doors to his closet. Jackets, suits, ties, slacks, dress shirts, T-shirts, jeans, and a couple of hangers on one side with several items of women’s clothing (all Callie’s that she had left there at one sleepover or another)—that’s it. On the floor there were several pairs of shoes and one—jackpot!—shoe box with the cardboard lid closed tight. Bending over, she opened the box and lifted the folds of tissue paper aside, only to find . . .
More shoes.
“Dammit!” she cursed. Cocking her ear to the common room, she could still hear the faint sounds of Tyler’s—er—interesting attempts to sing. No sign of Clint’s return—yet. Wheeling around, she honed in on his dresser. Sock drawer: that’s where everyone hid secrets or, in her case, where she sometimes hid her phone. Pulling it open, she found herself staring down into a sea of socks.
Who knew he was so into argyle? she mused somewhat hysterically as she tossed several pairs over her shoulder and onto the floor. Aha! she thought suddenly, unearthing the glossy corner of what appeared to be a photograph of . . . Oh. It was a picture of Callie, and Clint, that someone had snapped at the Delphic Toga party. Her arms were looped around his neck and he was gazing down at her, half smiling, half serious while they stood, unable to keep their hands off each other, at the base of the staircase.
Gingerly she set the photo on top of the dresser.
What am I missing? she wondered, casting around the room. “There has to be something,” she murmured, returning to his desk. “There just has to be.”
Once again she stared at the subject headings of his e-mails. Her fingers hovered above the keyboard. Then, deciding, she opened Gov Midterm.
From: Alexis Vivienne Thorndike
To: Clint Weber
Subject: Gov Midterm
Still on for studying today at 1pm?
