The Ivy

by Lauren Kunze

  A bouncer was working the back door. Callie froze.

  “Names?” he asked, clipboard in hand, face expressionless.

  “Mimi, Callie, and I’m Vanessa.”

  “You ladies have ID?”

  Crap! thought Callie. Who knew you had to be twenty-one to get into a college party?

  She watched as Mimi and Vanessa flashed their Harvard College ID cards. Miraculously, the bouncer looked at the IDs, looked at her roommates, looked at the list, and then made a little check with his pen before stepping aside to welcome them in.

  So that’s what they meant by “Invitation Only.” Nobody cared how old you were; all that mattered was whether or not your name was on The List! Smiling, Callie handed him her ID card.

  “Have a nice night, Ms. Andrews,” he said.

  “Thanks!” she cried, hurrying to join her friends.

  “Callie, you’re such a dork—” Vanessa started to say, but her voice was promptly drowned out by the blast of music and noise that greeted them at the top of the stairs.

  This was no high school party.

  There were three elaborate bars attended by elderly bartenders in identical “island” attire: one whose sole job seemed to consist of working the margarita machine and ensuring that the constant supply of slushy “girlie” drinks never ran dry. Cocktail waitresses wearing grass skirts and coconut bras were wandering around offering the guests trays of pineapple, papaya, and piña coladas.

  A live band strummed ukuleles lazily, singly softly in a foreign tongue that made Callie think of white sand, clear blue water, palm trees, and hot sun. Perhaps she was imagining because she’d learned online that Calypso was an island nymph in Greek mythology, but the air seemed to smell like ambrosia.

  Couples were twirling across the dance floor: shirtless guys in nothing but swimming trunks danced with girls in short, colorful dresses while other couples lounged in beach chairs arranged along the wall. The dance floor had been decorated with fake flowers, inflatable animals, and palm trees. Blow-up monkeys and flamingos whooshed past, propelled by the dancers as the band struck up a faster number and people really began to move. . . . Welcome to Calypso. . . .

  Vanessa materialized out of nowhere with three drinks in hand. “Sex on the Beach!” she said loudly over the music, thrusting a cup at Callie.

  “What?” asked Callie, staring down at what looked like a piña colada.

  “SEX-ON-THE-BEACH!” Vanessa cried again, pointing. And Callie suddenly understood: in the corner of the room, atop a mound of imported sand, a half-naked couple looked—and may well have been—in the middle of the act.

  Next to them on the “beach” a giant kiddy pool was filled with not water but a disturbingly bright blue-colored liquid and hundreds of neon straws.

  “Mini-soda!” Mimi screamed to a confused boy who’d just approached her. “No?” said Mimi, frowning. “Brent? Brad? Chadwick?”

  “Tyson,” he said, forgiving her on the spot and steering her onto the dance floor.

  “She loses her English when she drinks—can’t understand a word she’s saying!” Vanessa yelled at Callie.

  Callie wasn’t listening. Instead she was staring at a tall, shirtless boy with sexy-shaggy brown hair who had just brushed up against her arm on his way to the dance floor. Pausing, he looked back: he was strangely familiar, yet unrecognizable in the dark.

  Her eyes widened as she sipped her drink. She wanted to follow him out onto the dance floor, but such a bold move would first require a little liquid courage. . . .

  Four piña coladas later she was in the midst of violating the one rule she’d made at the beginning of the party: Do not drink from the neon straws in the kiddy pool. Now she could not for the life of her remember why. Was it because little kids usually peed in kiddy pools? There weren’t any kids at this party! Plus, she was so thirsty and the water was so blue. . . .

  The band had been replaced by a DJ, the lights had been dimmed, and the guests were now dancing wildly in a frenzied crowd. Vanessa, usually the encourager, had suddenly turned enforcer.

  “Come on, Cal,” she urged, “that’s probably not the best idea. . . .”

  “Shmanessa!” cried Callie, her eyes blurry and unfocused. “Vanurssa . . . I luvvrrve you. . . . He-he. You have such pretty faces!”

  “That’s great, Callie. I love you, too, but maybe we should go sit down for a second?”

  “I love you, too, Callie!” said a nearby boy, sliding into the conversation. “Would you like another drink, sweetheart?”

  “Thanks but no thanks,” said Vanessa, stepping in between Callie and Trouble with a capital T. “Why don’t you go crawl back into the Dumpster where you came from?”

  Shrugging, he walked away. With a smile Vanessa turned back to Callie.

  She was gone.

  “Oh, shit,” Vanessa muttered, shaking her head.

  “I thought maybe you’d be a little more excited to see me?” asked a voice on her right.

  “Bryan!” cried Vanessa. “It’s great to see you! It’s just, I lost Callie and I’m worried about her because I think she’s had too much to drink. . . .”

  “I’m sure she’s fine,” Bryan replied, laughing a little. “It’s always the normal-seeming ones who turn out to have a real wild and crazy side—”

  “Well, wild and crazy or not, I still need to find her,” Vanessa said. Smiling apologetically and refusing Bryan’s offer to help her search, she made her way toward the restrooms.

  Inside the bathroom a girl was getting sick—but thankfully, she wasn’t Callie. Next Vanessa checked the coatroom and discovered, to her chagrin, the same couple who’d been together earlier on the “beach.”

  “Sorry!” cried Vanessa as she hurried away. “Now where would I be if I were Callie. . . .” she muttered under her breath, really starting to worry as she made her way back into the room adjacent to the dance floor: a lounge filled with swirling cigar smoke and massive leather couches. There she spotted Mimi in tight embrace with yet another boy. Or maybe this was the same one from Wednesday. It was hard to keep track.

  “Mimi!” said Vanessa gingerly. “Uhm . . . sorry to interrupt, but have you seen Callie anywhere?”

  “Là-bas,” said Mimi, pointing to a darkened corner. And sure enough, there was Callie: sprawled across a couch on the other side of the room.

  But she was not alone. Attached to her lips was a boy: a sketchy, random, probably older, and, all right, fine, yes, incredibly handsome boy.

  “I think we should go save her,” Vanessa said, turning to Mimi. “She’s completely wasted.”

  “All right,” Mimi answered, looking at her companion like he was a rerun of an old TV show that she could catch again any time she pleased.

  “Wait!” he cried, downcast and sullen. “I didn’t even get your name! Maybe you could give me your number so I could call you sometime?”

  “Je suis désolée, mais je ne parle pas l’anglais,” Mimi answered with a cold little shrug. “Au revoir.”

  They made their way across the room until they were hovering over Callie and her newfound friend, whom Vanessa would later dub “Sketchy McKisserson.” In the dim light Vanessa thought she could discern a handsome, eligible, and oddly familiar face under all that long, shaggy brown hair. She hesitated for a moment, worried that she might accidentally be “cock-blocking” her roommate in the Jane Austen sense of the term: that is, inadvertently preventing a socially fortuitous match. Then again, even if this guy weren’t a sleazy bastard, Callie was still way too drunk to be making out with anybody.

  “Sorry, buddy,” said Vanessa, grabbing Callie and dragging her up off the couch. “It’s way past her bedtime.”

  “Wait!” he said, standing. “Let me walk you guys home.”

  Vanessa paused, squinting through the darkness at his face as if she was trying to place where she had seen him before.

  “I am thinking we can take it from here,” Mimi said, stepping in and wrapping an arm around Callie�
�s waist.

  “Bye!” cried Callie, tripping on herself as her roommates supported her between them. “You’re a kood gisser. . . . Ahg! I mean, a good kisser. . . . I like you!”

  “Thanks,” said Mimi, to whom Callie’s comment had accidentally been addressed. “Let us get you home, ma chérie,” she added, patting her on the head.

  As her roommates were escorting her toward the door, Callie snatched up an inflatable monkey and tucked it safely under her arm.

  “Soo-vuh-near!” she cried, showing it to Vanessa.

  “Yeah, you picked a good one, you little klepto,” Vanessa said. “Now let’s get that little monkey home—he must be pretty tired. I bet he’s going to feel sort of sick tomorrow after playing in the kiddy pool.”

  Between the two of them, they managed to escort an extremely wobbly, incoherent Callie back to Wigglesworth. They followed her into her bedroom to make sure she made it safely, and Mimi watched as Vanessa slid Callie’s flip-flops off her feet, guided her into bed, and pulled the comforter up around her chin like a patient, loving mother.

  “That was quite decent of you, taking care of her tonight,” Mimi whispered.

  “What?” said Vanessa. “Oh, it was nothing—”

  “Nessa?” Callie asked blearily through half-closed eyes. “Nessa . . . I kissed a boy!”

  “Yes you did, you bad girl.” Vanessa laughed. “Now go to sleep!”

  “Very, verrrry bad.” Callie yawned. “If only I could remember his . . .”

  Where am I? Callie woke with a start. She lifted her eyelids, which felt heavy like dumbbells, and recognizing her bedspread, allowed them to shut once more.

  Where are my clothes! she wondered, lids jolting open again. With enormous effort she threw off the bedspread: gold dress—check, no strange bedfellows—check.

  Slowly she began to piece together her fractured memories from the night before. There had been something involving a monkey, a swimming pool, and a pool table. No, that couldn’t be right. . . .

  The hazy image of shaggy brown hair swam into focus: hair that fell irresistibly across a pair of light green eyes, obscuring a face without a name. . . .

  Yes, there had definitely been a boy: a boy who had cornered her, whispering that he’d noticed her from the moment she’d arrived and had been trying to think of how to approach her all night. He’d looked at her in a way that made her feel, for the first time in a long time, like she was the only girl in the world. . . .

  Then again, maybe the entire episode had only been a dream. That bit about the monkey certainly didn’t make sense.

  Suddenly she noticed her clock: 3:00 P.M.

  Ugghh . . . I’m completely worthless! Too lazy to take off her dress, she pulled on some tattered gray sweatpants and lumbered into the common room.

  “Yeeeep!” she cried, throwing her hands over her eyes. The sudden glare of light streaming in from the windows was deadly.

  Mimi, Vanessa, and Dana were all waiting for her on the couch. Mimi held a glass of water and some Advil; Vanessa, a steaming cup of coffee. Both were smiling tolerantly. Dana was frowning, but her I-told-you-so expression of disapproval was softened by the bagel and cream cheese she held in her outstretched hand.

  “You guys are the best.” Callie moaned. She plopped down on the armchair and reached for the Advil.

  “We know!” sang Vanessa cheerfully. Her eyes glinting, she added: “Guess who kissed a boy last night?”

  Dana clapped her hands over her face in horror. “How did you know? Oh, I swear I didn’t mean to do it; it just happened. . . . It was—it was an accident!”

  Callie, Vanessa, and Mimi were silent for a moment; then they burst into hysterical, delirious laughter.

  “Wow, I guess I’m the only one who didn’t get busy last night.” Vanessa laughed.

  “What?” said Callie, completely bemused.

  “Oh, Callie, please,” said Mimi. “Do not be coy with us, darling.”

  “Yeah,” Vanessa chimed in. “I’d believe it if you couldn’t remember his name, but there’s no way you can’t remember his tongue!”

  “Oh dear,” said Callie, frowning as the memories returned. “Was it really that bad?”

  “Bad?” said Vanessa. “Sweetie—no! It’s about time!”

  Vanessa and Mimi exchanged a knowing look, and Callie wondered for a moment if they were messing with her, when she suddenly spotted an inflatable monkey sitting serenely in the corner of the common room. . . .

  Chapter Seven

  Comping

  CAN YOU KEEP UP?

  * * *

  From: Alexis Thorndike

  To: [FM Signup List]

  * * *

  Dear Recipient:

  You are receiving this e-mail because you signed up for more information about FM magazine at the Freshmen Activities Fair. For those of you who thought that signing up was the equivalent of joining our organization: sorry, but guess again! Welcome to a little process here on campus that we like to call “COMP.” Think of it as an audition that involves writing a series of practice pieces, including articles, surveys, op-eds, and anything else that we can dream up for you to do.

  From the Lampoon to the Advocate, Harvard has many clubs and societies that cater to every imaginable interest of the student body, but let me be the first to say that we are thrilled you have chosen FM! The magazine is a sister organization of The Harvard Crimson, our daily newspaper founded back in 1873. (But in contrast to the Crimson, we actually get to have some fun!)

  Before the fun starts, however, you do have to survive a semester of COMP. Unfortunately, not everyone will make it on to the magazine; but if you do, it is well worth the work! I know it can seem tough: after all, you strived so hard to get to Harvard and now you find yourself facing a seemingly endless application or initiation process, whether it’s for a club, a secret society, an extracurricular activity, or even an upper-division seminar. All I can say is: hang in there. This is Harvard, after all, not high school!

  So please come and join me, Alexis Thorndike, your COMP director on this Friday afternoon, October 1, at 3 P.M. on the second floor of the Crimson headquarters for an additional information session and to kick off the start of this semester’s COMP!

  Looking forward to seeing all of you there,

  Alexis Thorndike

  As September faded into October, the days grew shorter and colder. Chilly winds blew leaves crisply about the Yard, and students arrived for their classes pink-cheeked and red-nosed, bundled in hats and scarves.

  Though unused to the weather, Callie had managed over the past few weeks to acclimate to her new environment, gradually falling into a comfortable routine.

  After breakfasting at eight thirty, she would read during her time before class. Morning lessons lasted anywhere from one to three hours, then off to lunch with Matt, Vanessa, or Mimi, if you could find her. Following lunch were the afternoon classes; then she would head to Lamont and spend four hours completing the work she could have done in two if she’d chosen a less social venue.

  Dinner in Annenberg often stretched across several hours as students rotated around the room speed-dating style. Following dinner the hours between eight and twelve were reserved for reading, which she preferred to do in her bedroom or on the common room couch.

  On any given evening around eleven thirty you could almost always find all four roommates scattered about the common room: Dana color-coding her Life Sciences notes and looking up, furious, every time Vanessa sighed dramatically (which was often) or tried to initiate a conversation about which boy she liked best that week (oftener still—though obviously nobody compared to her “one, true love,” aka Gregory); Mimi, whose eyes always seemed half-closed, was usually sleeping in the armchair instead of working.

  Callie’s focus generally lasted until around midnight, when she would throw down her book—awakening Mimi with a start—and demand to hear interesting stories from the day. Vanessa would then declare that she was hungry (she ma
de a point of never dieting at night because that would be, like, neurotic). If the refrigerator was empty, they would order pizza or sketchy Chinese food from The Kong: restaurant by day, dance club by night.

  Uninvited but always welcome, the three girls (Dana preferred to stay behind and study) would often troop across the hall with their snacks to exploit Matt and Gregory’s comfy leather couch and the miraculous wonders of TiVo. Mimi was finding that she had a strange affinity for violent American video games, and OK, to no great surprise, was still suffering from a not-so-strange affinity for Mimi.

  All in all, life was good, and lately Callie was finishing her reading earlier than usual, sometimes even reading ahead. At the beginning of the year she’d been anxious about balancing school and extracurriculars (or, more like her dad had been anxious, reminding her that the three most important things were “academics, academics, and academics”). But now, with COMP right around the corner, she was settled, confident, and eager to begin.

  Thus, on Friday the first of October, after running into each other at Hemenway Gymnasium, Callie and Matt were heading across the Yard back to Wigglesworth, discussing The Harvard Crimson’s COMP information session that they would be attending at three o’clock. Matt was planning to check out the daily newspaper’s editorial board; whereas Callie still had her heart set on Fifteen Minutes magazine. She had grown addicted to the magazine in recent weeks—especially the advice columns and blogs—and couldn’t wait to meet Alexis officially.

  Now Callie was listening to Matt as he outlined the other major organizations on campus—trying her best not to shiver as the autumn wind brushed past her legs, which were bare save for her running shorts. Matt’s older brother—former member of the Harvard Lampoon—had apparently “popped a blood vessel” when Matt told him he was thinking about COMPing the Crimson.

  “Why?” asked Callie, laughing as they walked down the steps past Widener Library on the way to their dorm.