The Ivy

by Lauren Kunze

  “Westwood, California? It’s part of LA.”

  “LA as in Hollywood?” OK began. “And you ended up all the way out here at Harvard, eh? Just like—”

  “Seriously?” Callie interrupted, dropping her spoon with a clatter. “You really want to go there? Yes, we’ve all seen the movie, and yes, we all know that blondes are supposed to be dumb, and yes, it is a shocking phenomenon that I have blond hair and I got into Harvard. . . . Go ahead, say it. I know you’re dying to, so just get it out there. . . .”

  OK glanced helplessly from Gregory to Matt. “Just like that girl Elizabeth? Who lives on the floor above us? She’s from LA, too.” He stopped abruptly, looking a little scared.

  “Oh,” said Callie softly. “Oh, uhm . . .” The urge to cry had returned in full force.

  Matt began to laugh. “I’m guessing people make a lot of Legally Blonde jokes around you, huh?”

  Callie nodded, relieved as the others joined in his laughter, save for Mimi, OK, and Dana, who hadn’t the faintest clue what was so funny.

  “So, going to the dance tonight?” Gregory asked, changing the subject and looking, for some reason, at Callie.

  “I don’t think—”

  “Yes, she is,” Mimi said firmly.

  Vanessa chose this moment to lean in and stage-whisper, “She’s a little upset. Her boyfriend—or should we say ex-boyfriend—Evan, just dumped her. In an e-mail.”

  Matt’s eyes lit up like a kid’s on Christmas morning: “That sucks. . . .”

  “Yeah, sorry—rotten luck,” added OK.

  Mimi shrugged. “I have something that might make you feel better,” she murmured, slipping a flask from her purse. And then before anyone could stop her: “One for you, one for you,” she said, spiking Callie and Vanessa’s drinks, “one for you, whoops—two for me, and one for—”

  Dana’s eyes expanded to the size of saucers. She slammed her hand over her cup.

  “Relax, it’s just water,” said Mimi.

  Callie sipped her drink. More like water . . . and vodka.

  Vanessa made a face. “I mean, it could be worse,” she said. “At least it’s not as bad as a Post-it note. Remember that episode of Sex and the City? Now that was brutal. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t,’ stuck right on Carrie’s computer screen!”

  Callie frowned. News flash, Vanessa: Carrie isn’t real. Fictional characters don’t feel pain.

  “Well, whoever that Evan guy is, he’s an idiot,” said Gregory suddenly.

  What? Was Satan’s minion actually saying something nice for a—

  “Who comes to college with a girlfriend in the first place? Total buzzkill,” he finished, drinking straight from Mimi’s flask.

  “Thanks for that, Gregory, thanks a lot.” Callie retorted. “Or wait—I’m sorry, was it Geoffrey?”

  Gregory grinned.

  “So . . . I take it you don’t have a girlfriend?” Vanessa asked.

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he answered, his eyes never leaving Callie’s face.

  “I don’t either!” Matt blurted suddenly. Everyone stared. “Have a girlfriend, I mean . . . I don’t have a girlfriend either. Not that I wouldn’t dream of it. . . . I would. I mean, I do. . . . I mean . . .”

  Dana, for the first time all evening, was nodding her head approvingly. “While I don’t think that it’s any of our business,” she began, eyeing the rest of the table, “I think that’s very sensible of you, Gregory. If I were you, Callie, I would view this . . . situation . . . as a positive development. College is not the appropriate time for a boyfriend, especially not a long-distance one. Why, just think of all the extra time you’ll have to focus on your studies!”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” said Adam (and Dana’s smile suddenly seemed a little frozen). “People our age tend to become far too preoccupied with relationships when they should really be concentrating on school and extracurriculars and figuring out who they want to be when they grow up instead of chasing the opposite—”

  “Hell-o, five o’clock.” Gregory whistled suddenly, nudging OK, who followed his gaze to where a cute blond girl in a short skirt was bending over to pick up her napkin.

  “Nice enough,” OK agreed. “But nothing compared to present company,” he added, smiling at Mimi. Mimi yawned.

  “Looks like she’s coming over here,” Matt said as the girl approached their table.

  “Hi!” said Gregory. “I’m Gregory Bolton. How can I be of service to you?”

  “Gregory . . . ?” she asked, furrowing her brow.

  “Yes?” he said, smiling in a way that even Callie had to admit was totally swoon-worthy.

  “Why didn’t you call me back last night,” she said, lowering her voice. It was an accusation, not a question.

  “Oh! Oh, right,” he said, attempting—and failing—to mask his confusion. “Sorry . . . uh . . .”

  “Elizabeth,” she hissed.

  “Elizabeth!” OK cried. “Elizabeth who lives upstairs! Elizabeth is also from LA,” he said smugly, turning to Callie, exonerated.

  Callie tried to smile sympathetically at Elizabeth, who stood there seething. After all, if she didn’t already know better, it could have been her standing there in Elizabeth’s shoes, even though, supposedly, she wasn’t Gregory’s type. . . . Hey—wait a minute! With her light blond hair and athletic build Elizabeth could have been mistaken for her sister. Really not your type?! she thought, glaring at Gregory.

  “Well, I’m glad to see that somebody remembers my name,” Elizabeth said, giving Gregory a hard look. “God! I should have known better. . . .”

  “According to Alexis Thorndike, dormcest is never a good idea,” Vanessa offered.

  The girl glared at the entire table and then stalked off, muttering.

  “Whoopsie daisy,” said Mimi. It was unclear whether this was in response to Gregory’s run-in, or the fact that she had just accidentally tipped the remaining contents of the flask into her orange juice.

  “I think it’s time for us to go get ready for the dance,” said Vanessa.

  Mimi drained her glass in one gulp. “Lez-go!” she said, standing dizzily. Promptly she fell back in her seat.

  Dana, to everyone’s shock, giggled.

  Mimi looked at Callie, held up her flask, pointed at Dana, and put a finger to her lips.

  It was shaping up to be a very long night. . . .

  Lady Gaga blared out of the speakers at the First Chance Dance, telling the students that if they “just danced it’s gonna be okay, spin that record, babe, and it’s gonna be okay . . .”

  “She’s singing about ME!” OK screamed, gyrating in some crazy blend of break dancing and ballroom.

  “Huh?” Mimi yelled back.

  “I love this song!” Vanessa shouted at Gregory.

  “Yeah, me too,” he agreed, looking at Callie.

  One tequila, two tequila, three tequila, four . . .

  Somebody was asking Callie to dance. It was Gregory. No, it was Matt . . . Matt-Gregory was telling her she looked pretty. . . .

  “Thank you!” Callie screamed at Vanessa as she handed her another drink.

  “Where are we?” somebody yelled.

  “Lowell House.”

  “No, this is the quad!”

  “What? This isn’t the First Chance Dance?” Dana cried, sounding panicked.

  “No, this is the Last Chance Dance!”

  “What?”

  “Last chance to party before classes start!”

  One tequila, two tequila, three tequila, four . . . five tequila, six tequila, seven tequila, more . . .

  Matt-Gregory was dancing with someone else now, but Gregory-Matt was still dancing with Callie. . . .

  OK looked upset that Mimi wasn’t more impressed by his ballroom skills. “Did I mention that I’m a prince? I’M A PRINCE!” he yelled.

  “‘Purple Rain’!” Mimi shouted as she started dancing with someone else. . . .

  “Look at Matt making the moves on Callie!” cried Vanes
sa.

  “Wanna dance?” a random boy that nobody knew asked Dana.

  “No! I want to go home!”

  “But where are we?”

  Five tequila, six tequila, seven tequila, more . . . eight tequila, nine tequila, ten tequila . . .

  FLOOR.

  Callie awoke the next morning with a raging hangover. Parched and sore, she rolled out of bed and stumbled into the common room, hoping to find water, extra strength Tylenol and—

  Dana perched on the edge of the couch, sitting next to . . .

  “Matt?” asked Callie, rubbing her eyes and wishing the room would cut it out with the spinning and sit still for a minute. “What are you—”

  “Matt,” Dana said loudly, “spent last night on our couch because Gregory needed their double for . . . certain . . . unspeakable improprieties.”

  Matt grinned. “Officially sexiled.”

  “Great, good to know,” said Callie. “Hope he has better luck remembering her name this time,” she muttered as Dana handed her a cup of coffee.

  “Thanks,” she added, noticing a cardboard tray with three more cups in it and realizing that Dana must have gotten up early to get them all coffee.

  Suddenly Vanessa’s door opened, and a guy strolled out of her room, grinning. His expression had senior written all over it.

  “Hi,” he said, looking at Callie in a way that made her wish she were wearing a bra under her tank top, and sweats instead of shorts. “I’m Je—”

  “Jeremy was just leaving,” Vanessa said icily, emerging from her bedroom in a satin robe.

  “Uh, actually, it’s Jeffrey.”

  “Whatever. Bye now!”

  “I’d better get going, too,” said Matt. The room’s estrogen count had just reached critical levels. “Thanks for the coffee, Dana.”

  Callie perched on the windowsill and Vanessa settled onto the couch. As Dana approached her with a cup of coffee, she exclaimed, “Seniors! I cannot believe how sleazy they are. . . . Just because you want to make out and cuddle doesn’t mean that you also want to have sex!”

  Dana’s hand froze in midair.

  “All they want is sex, sex, sex!” Vanessa continued wickedly, right in Dana’s ear.

  “Say sex again, Vanessa, I don’t think we heard you the first eight times,” said Callie, gripping her head in her hands.

  “What?” asked Vanessa. “It’s not like I did it or anything. I was just saying that se—”

  “No more!” Callie yelled, wincing at the volume of her own voice. “Uhhh . . . my head, my head . . .”

  “Hey!” said Vanessa, changing the subject. “I wonder if Mimi’s up yet. Last night I saw her dancing with—”

  The door to Mimi’s room opened with an audible creak, and she slipped out wearing a wrinkly man’s shirt, her hair wild with secrets from the night before. She took a few wobbly steps and then tripped over Vanessa’s high heels, which were lying abandoned in the middle of the floor.

  “Whoopsie daisy!” Mimi cried, giggling insanely.

  The door opened a little wider, and Charlie the Prefect tiptoed out from behind her.

  “WHOOPSIE DAISY, indeed!” Vanessa squealed. Nodding, she gave Mimi an exaggerated thumbs-up.

  Mimi imitated the gesture with a confused look on her face. Then, pointing at Charlie, she offered, “It’s okay to have some fun . . . just not too much fun.”

  The girls save Dana, who was looking mortified, burst into hysterics. Callie was laughing so hard that she fell off the windowsill, and Vanessa dropped her coffee.

  Naturally, this only made them laugh harder.

  Charlie, his face beet red, raced out of the room, mumbling “Er . . . see you girls next week; take care.”

  “Wow,” said Callie, starting to calm down. “Somehow I do not think that was part of his job description.”

  “So tell us,” Vanessa demanded, “does he give good advice?”

  “Excellent,” said Mimi. Dana, who had been heading toward the spill with paper towels in hand, stood transfixed—trying, perhaps, to work out if “advice” meant what she thought it did.

  A phone started ringing from somewhere in Callie’s bedroom. “I’ll be right back,” she said.

  “Not so fast, missy!” Vanessa cried. “What was Matt doing here this morning? A little rebound action, perhaps?

  “No . . . no rebound action for me.”

  “Uh-huh, sure,” Vanessa said.

  But Callie wasn’t listening. Making her way toward her room, she wondered if Evan, having finally come to his senses, was calling to ask her back. Two days ago the answer probably would have been yes, but now she was looking forward to saying no. Or maybe she would write him an e-mail.

  Sinking onto her bed, she flipped open her phone, smiling at the name on the caller ID.

  “Yes, Evan?” she asked in her best Make-it-quick-’cause-I-really-don’t-have-time-for-you voice.

  She was quiet for a moment.

  “Well, it must be really important if it necessitated an actual phone call. What happened? Is your computer broken, or did you realize that—”

  Abruptly she stopped talking. A minute passed, then two, and then her hands started to tremble. Blankly she stared at the wall, the color draining from her face.

  “How . . . how is that possible?” she whispered. “Why—why the hell—WHY would you DO THAT?”

  A pause. “What do you mean ‘what I didn’t know couldn’t hurt me?’

  “You’re SORRY?” she roared, leaping off her bed. “When—how—why?” she sputtered. She paused, trying to breathe. “When,” she finally decided. “When did this happen?”

  Silence for a moment, then: “SENIOR WEEK? But who . . .” Eyes widening, she sank back onto her bed. “Who else knows?” she whispered.

  She sat still, listening, her free hand clenching and unclenching the soft covers on her bed.

  “You have to fix this,” she finally muttered.

  “No, that’s not good enough. You have to take care of it right now.”

  Her breaths were coming in short, quick gasps. She tried to breathe deeply, ignoring the sound of more futile apologies that were leaking out of her phone. It was no use. Leaning over, she stuck her head between her knees. “I have to go. . . .” she whispered, clicking End Call. Her phone slipped out of her hands and fell onto the floor. Head still hanging upside down, she stared at the phone out of the corner of her eye.

  Numbly she reached for it. Then she stood. Walking over to her dresser, she opened the top drawer and shoved the phone as far back as possible behind her oldest, holiest socks. Like from there it could no longer hurt her. Ridiculous, since the damage had already been done.

  Returning to her bed, she thought of confiding in someone: Jessica or even her mom. . . . But it was too awful to put into words. Closing her eyes, she tried to think of a three-digit number to factor into primes. But the numbers wouldn’t come. Her mind kept clouding over with horrible images until eventually, no matter how tightly she squeezed her eyelids, the tears began to flow.

  Chapter Four

  Shopping Period

  “IT’S NOT ABOUT THE CLASSES: IT’S ABOUT THE CLOTHES!”

  Dearest Froshlings:

  Welcome to “Shopping Period”: the trial week when you can “shop” for classes before committing to the four that will comprise your first academic semester.

  Shopping Period isn’t just about picking your classes. It’s the prime time to go shopping for members of the opposite sex. The jeans you decide to wear and the genes you decide to propagate are both choices that I’ll leave up to you. What you need to know from me is . . .

  how to pick your classes

  1. expository writing 20: Mandatory. Regardless of skill, you will get a B+.

  2. something useful: Social Analysis 10a and 10b;

  Introduction to Micro and Macro Economics. Sad but true: money makes the world go round. As much as we hate to admit it given our “disillusionment” with materialism, there’s a
reason why Economics is the most popular concentration at Harvard and Celtic Languages and Literatures is not.

  (Average increase in earning potential with a BA in Economics: +$150,000/year

  Average increase in earning potential with a BA in the Humanities: -$10,000/year)

  The math is very, very simple, even if you are an English major.

  3. something big: The biggest classes at Harvard are the mandatory General Education courses. People grumble and moan, demanding to know how “Forbidden Romance in Modern China” is going to help in their career as a quantum physicist. Instead of moping, think of attending these classes as going to market on the day a new shipment has just arrived: so many interesting people of different colors and concentrations to look at and choose from, so many fascinating things to do in class other than listening to the teacher.

  Here’s a list by category of some of the campus faves:

  a. foreign cultures: The Cuban Revolution—because Fidel Castro and Che Guevara make communism look sexy

  b. historical studies: Modern European Intellectual History—so you can learn to use terms like existentialism and deconstructionism properly in a sentence then use them often to make other people feel intellectually inferior

  c. literature & arts: Poems, Poets, Poetry—get in touch with your beatnik side, or the beatnik guy who sits behind you, and learn to woo with lyricism

  d. moral reasoning: Justice—doing “the right thing,” Harvard style

  e. quantitative reasoning: The Magic of Numbers—because math really can be magical (and this class is magically easy)

  f. science: Life Sciences 1a—future Doctor alert, Hello! (Or if the closest you’ve ever come to going premed involves watching Grey’s Anatomy, your safest bet is probably Dinosaurs or Cosmic Connections.)

  g. social analysis: Food and Culture—snacks provided: enough said.

  4. something fun: For many of you the definition of fun is “binary regressions and multivariable calculus.” For the rest of us fun is better defined as “easy, engaging, and enjoyable.” I recommend Positive Psychology, where homework assignments include hugging at least seven people a day, or Human Sexuality, in which you can earn an A by writing a paper about an “unusual sexual experience.”