by Lauren Kunze
Your friend(!),
Lex
Your friend underlined, exclamation mark? Shaking her head, Callie clicked on Gatsby.
From: Alexis Vivienne Thorndike
To: Clint Weber
Subject: Gatsby
Attachments (1): C:UsersThorndikePhotosSophomore_YearGatsby.jpg
So excited! Also, you won’t believe what I found in an old folder on my desktop just now.
;) xx Lex
Her pulse thundering, Callie clicked on the attachment. It was a candid photograph of Clint and Lexi taken at the Fly’s Gatsby party, presumably during their sophomore year. Even though it probably wasn’t more than twelve months old, they both looked younger—happier and more carefree. Lexi wore white: a billowy muslin dress with strands and strands of pearls, and her usually pale cheeks were pink and rosy. Clint stood behind her in a tuxedo, his arms wrapped around her and holding both her hands. His eyes were diverted away from the camera down toward Lexi’s collarbone, his smiling lips only inches away from her bare shoulder. Something in his expression seemed to indicate that he had just inhaled, breathing her in.
“Callie?”
Oh god.
She shut the photo; his open e-mail account filled the screen.
“What—what are you doing?”
Slowly Callie turned, noting as she did the closet door, still thrown open, the shoe box lid askew, and the socks on the floor near his dresser where the picture lay exposed and the top drawer jutted out.
Clint stood in the doorway, disbelief etched across his face.
“What are you doing?” he repeated, shutting the door behind him.
“I-uh-your, um,” she stammered, starting to shake. “I know you were in the library with Lexi, okay!” she finally managed to exclaim.
“You know I was in the library with Lexi doing what exactly?” he said, speaking in the same calm tones one might use to coax a wild animal back into its cage.
“Studying!” she cried. “I mean, not just studying. It was more than that, and you were alone, and there was no study group, and you were eating, and you LIED to me; you’re a liar!”
Clint sat down on the edge of his bed and took a deep breath. “And so you decided to hack into my e-mail and see what you could find, is that it?”
“I didn’t hack into it,” she muttered. “I turned on your computer to check my e-mail and yours opened by accident.”
“Well,” he said. “Did you find anything good?”
How the hell could he so calm when she had caught him red-handed? Red-handed at what though, exactly? Her mind had gone fuzzy with confusion, doubt, and rage. She couldn’t think straight. Gripping the sides of her temples, she breathed in and out, trying to concentrate. Okay, start at the beginning. . . .
“You lied to me last week, on Wednesday before you left for Princeton. You said you had to study, and that there were multiple guys, as in men plural, in the group, but the only person I could see there with you in Widener was Alexis Thorndike!”
“Were you . . . spying on me?”
“I work in the library!” she erupted. “Part of that involves returning books to their proper place, which is what I was doing in Widener when I happened to see you.”
“Just like you happened to see my e-mail?”
“You also told me that you were too busy to get dinner,” she continued, ignoring him, “but then you turned around and had dinner with her.”
“Callie,” he said quietly. “I was too busy to get dinner; that’s why we ate in the library—so we could keep working without wasting any extra time by taking a break.”
“But . . .” she sputtered. “But . . . but you still lied about the whole study group. There was never any study group.” Or was there? She was no longer sure. She had been positive coming into this conversation that she had caught him at something and he would confess; now, with the e-mail still open behind her, argyle all over the floor, the photo on the dresser, and the way he was looking at her, she was starting to feel like it was the other way around.
Clint sighed. “There is a study group, actually. It’s me, Bryan, a guy named Tom, Alexis, and another girl from class. When I said ‘guys,’ I meant it the way you usually mean when you say it, as a gender-neutral term.”
Callie shook her head. “Your text said that you guys were in the library.” She pulled out her phone. “Here it is right here: ‘It’s just me and a couple of guys from class over here at Widener . . .’ Well, I was there, too, Clint, and I know what I saw: Lexi was the only person with you at that table.”
She waited for him to explain that away, too, but he was quiet. Finally he said, “You’re right. I lied.”
I knew it! I . . . knew it. Just like that, the triumph faded and the reality of what might be happening sank in.
“I lied because I thought it would spare you from worrying over nothing more than two friends studying together in the library.”
Callie opened her mouth to protest but then stopped, finding it difficult to object to his claim that she would have worried. No matter what he might have said he was doing with Lexi—studying, saying hi, shopping, skydiving, sitting twenty feet away in the same classroom—knowing that he was with her did make Callie anxious to an almost obsessive degree. And he knew it, too, because she had never figured out how to hold her feelings inside when she was upset about something . . . even if the reasons for being upset were unfounded or wrong.
“And, to be honest,” Clint continued, “I was tired of having the same conversation over and over and over again. It’s tough enough as it is to move on from a past relationship without your current girlfriend bringing it up all the time.”
Oh my god, thought Callie, her mind going suddenly crystal clear. I am wrong. So he lied. So what? Obviously he only did it because she was crazy—if the state of his room right now was any indication—and he had been trying to keep her from going crazier. If she had called Alessandra “irrational” just for going through Gregory’s phone, what did that make her? Certifiable. She was, certifiably, insane.
She stared at him. He seemed far too calm, too cool, too collected. A tiny voice whispered in the back of her head—not Dana’s, not Mimi’s, not Vanessa’s, but her own: Am I really crazy, or is he just making me think I’m crazy?
“What about . . .” she started. “There was an, uh, e-mail. . . .”
“Yes?” he prompted. “We both know you went through them; you might as well ask me directly if you’re curious about anything.”
Fair enough. “Why did you tell Lexi that you ‘needed to talk’?” she asked.
“I . . .” he faltered. “When did I say that?”
“On Tuesday morning of last week,” she said, glancing at his inbox. “And she wrote back that she would come over at eight. So she was here. In your room. At night. Why?” She unfolded her arms, trying to look less like a lawyer cross-examining a witness. Clint definitely seemed more on edge now, coming over to his computer to read the e-mail thread.
Still, after thinking for a moment, he started to shake his head. “That was a Pudding-related thing. Don’t you remember that I told you I had board stuff going on that night when I stopped by the Crimson in the afternoon? She and I met up at the club to talk about a punch.”
Callie bit her lip, searching for holes in his story and finding none. . . .
“It was about Vanessa, actually,” he added, after a beat. “I suspected Lex was planning to have her cut and I thought that maybe I could convince her to drop that little vendetta if I talked to her in private before we hold elections next week.”
“She was never in your room?”
“She was never in my room.”
Callie sucked in her breath. “You invited her to Gatsby . . .” she started, all the while knowing that an old picture meant nothing and that she was grasping at straws.
“I never said I didn’t.”
“And she . . .” Callie paused, deciding that referencing the way Lexi had underlin
ed “friend” might seem beyond crazy, even after everything she’d already done. Still, she felt curious about one last thing: her eyes flicked over the subject heading What I told you in the Library. Might as well ask—at this point she had nothing left to lose.
“What did Lexi tell you in the library?”
Clint looked at her and sank back onto his bed. “That’s actually something that I’ve been meaning to ask you about,” he said. “I was waiting until I got back, though, so we could talk in person.”
Callie said nothing, staring at him.
“At first, when she told me, I didn’t believe her. I thought that after all this time she’d been lying about wanting to be friends and had devised some new form of sabotage—a new strategy to try to break us up.”
Exhaling, he continued: “She told me that you hooked up with Gregory. She said that according to you, it happened at the very beginning of the year, during freshman week, but that she had reason to believe that something happened months later, when we were supposedly together—although she wouldn’t say who told her or anything more specific than that. Then I said she was a liar and had clearly been manipulating me for months while claiming to be my friend, and I left the library. I guess you were gone by that point,” he added ruefully, “and didn’t see me storm out.”
Callie’s eyes were wide. She gripped the sides of her chair, paralyzed and unable to speak.
“I had a chance to think about it over the weekend,” he said. “Why believe Lexi—who I know to be capable of doing or saying anything in the name of getting what she wants—over you? But then . . . I asked Bolton.”
“What did he say?” Callie whispered.
“He said that I should ask you; that it was between the two of us, and then he refused to say anything more.”
Callie closed her eyes.
“Is it true?” Clint asked quietly. “Did something happen at the beginning of the year?”
Slowly she shook her head. “Nothing happened at the beginning of the year,” she said. “But something did happen in November. At Harvard-Yale.”
“So in other words, the day after we agreed to take some time to think,” he said.
She swallowed. “It was a fuzzy gray area, like you said.”
“Well, what happened? Was it just a kiss?”
She shook her head again.
“More?” he asked.
She nodded.
“And it never occurred to you at any point to tell me this?” For the first time that evening, she detected a significant crack in his calm.
“I—I’m so sorry,” she finally managed, silent tears streaming down her cheeks. “I wanted to tell you—I tried to tell you so many times. But I thought if we just put the past in the past and moved forward, with ‘no more secrets’ like we said, that things would be better that way. . . . I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”
“What about the fact that you did it in the first place?” he demanded. “Are you sorry about that, too?”
“I—” She certainly regretted it, but that had more to do with the way Gregory had behaved afterward than anything else. “I believed we were on a break. I didn’t know what was going to happen next, and you weren’t speaking to me, and I had other, bigger problems like the tape crisis hanging over my—”
Clint was shaking his head. “I can’t believe Lexi was right.”
“She’s still trying to break us up,” Callie wailed. “Can’t you see that?”
“Stop blaming everything on her!” Clint exploded, finally raising his voice. “You’re the one who slept with someone who I thought was my friend, not her, and you’re the one who didn’t tell me. I’m lucky she’s in my life so I could hear the truth from someone!”
A full minute of silence passed.
“I should go,” Callie said.
“I think that’s probably a good idea.”
“Are we . . . ?”
Clint shook his head. “I need some time . . . to think about all of this.”
Callie chewed on her lip. “So that means . . . ?”
“I suppose you want me to say we’re on a ‘break’ so you can run off and be with Bolton,” Clint said with a short, mirthless laugh.
“That is so unfair,” Callie said, her face melting, once more, into tears. “I chose you. I want you. . . . I love you.”
“Yeah, well, I’ll keep that in mind while I’m making my decision.” Clint stood. “In the meantime, here,” he said, reaching into the closet for her clothes. “You should probably take these, and anything else you might have left.”
Nodding, she tossed the clothing over one arm and reached for two novels that she had left on his bookshelf. With her free hand she wiped the tears from her eyes and then looked around the room to make sure she hadn’t left anything else.
On the nightstand by his bed she spotted a flash of silver—from far away, she could just make out what appeared to be the necklace he had given her on Valentine’s Day. She started for it but then stopped.
What if this is really it? she thought. What if we break up and then I have to bring it back because I can’t stand the sight of it or because it was too expensive in the first place? Better to leave it there on the bedside table, where she could reclaim it later if—hopefully—things worked out. Right now, however, the outlook was grim.
“I’ll call you when I’m ready to talk,” Clint said, looking just as upset as she did minus the tears.
With a nod, and a final glance at the necklace, she left the room.
Chapter Eleven
Parents Weekend, Part I:
The First 24 Hours
Dear Mommy and Daddy’s former little Angels who have, since arriving at college, most likely succumbed to a life of sin:
It’s basically common knowledge that there are really only two reasons to clean in college: 1) when procrastinating to avoid an even less desirable activity, and 2) when dealing with unmitigated sexual frustration. There is, however, a third reason: a special circumstance that only surfaces on the Harvard University campus once a year in the early hours of the morning preceding a particular weekend in March, when a massive purging of various contraband takes place within many of the freshman dormitories.
Freshman Parents Weekend: when the adults who gave you the gift of life—and probably also tuition—descend upon Cambridge to witness in person exactly how much their hard-earned wages are going to waste—ahem—use by all the partying—ahem—studying that their little devil—ahem—angel has been up to in the first six months out of the nest.
The weekend itinerary is as follows:
Friday, early afternoon: The parents arrive in time to attend Friday afternoon classes…
Meaning you have until early afternoon to take down all the “college humor” posters on your wall (i.e., “CLOTHING OPTIONAL BEYOND THIS POINT” or “FINISH YOUR BEER, THERE’S SOBER KIDS IN AFRICA”), hide all evidence of sexual activity, including your boyfriend/girlfriend unless you can make he/she presentable by noon, and otherwise parent-proof the premises.
Friday, late afternoon: Afternoon Tea hosted by the Dean of Harvard College…
Where you will dress up and drink tea with your pinkie out and pronounce Harvard as “Hahvahd” and say, “Oh yes, Mummy, we take tea and crumpets every Friday afternoon while discussing the state of world affairs” —and other vaguely British-sounding things.
Friday, evening: Unscheduled…
An opportunity for your parents to treat you to dinner in Harvard Square, i.e., the only edible meal some of you will enjoy all year, after which you will politely excuse yourself to “get a head start on the reading for class on Monday” and then head straight to the nearest party.
Saturday, morning-afternoon: Lecture Series (go online for locations/other specifics)…
You will pretend to care whether your parents choose “Global Economies in a Changing World” with Professor Blah-bitty-blah in Sanders Theatre or “The Physical Properties of Celestial Objects and Other Matters in
Astrophysics” in Science Center B with Dr. What’s-Her-Name while opening your mouth as little as possible in an effort to conceal your hangover.
Saturday, evening: Freshman Parents Weekend Dinner in Annenberg Dining Hall…
Where you will be forced to sit according to where you reside and your parents will meet not only your “loveable” (crazy?) roommates, but their even more “loveable” (crazier?) parents.
Sunday, morning: Services at Memorial Church…
When most religious students will try not to let on that this is their first time in a church all year.
Sunday, late morning: Farewell Brunch…
If you’ve made it this far without being disowned or disinherited—CONGRATULATIONS!!! You are now ready for your Masters Degree in Deception.
Alexis Thorndike, Advice Columnist
Fifteen Minutes Magazine
Harvard University’s Authority on Campus Life since 1873
From: Theresa Frederickson
To: Callie Andrews
Subject: RE: Freshman Parents Weekend
Hi sweetie!
I’m sorry to hear you’re so “bummed” that I won’t be able to make it out there this weekend, but I picked tails and the coin came up heads, fair and square. I know that your dad is very excited even if he hasn’t said so out loud. Remember how hard it was to get him to come to your soccer games when you were little but then when he finally started showing up, he had had that T-shirt made with your face on it? Thank goodness it got lost when he moved out. I know I embarrass you from time to time, but I honestly don’t think I’ve ever seen you so mortified!
Anyhow, just remember that we’re both proud of you and that I expect updates hourly!
Love,
Mom
From: Linda Von Vorhees
To: Vanessa Von Vorhees
Subject: RE: This Weekend
No, your father will not be coming, for obvious reasons. I’d say he said to tell you he’s sorry, but that would be a lie, and my spiritual guide at the Manhattan Kabbalah Center said I need to stop making excuses for him even if we’re not actually Jewish. See you soon, xxx.
