by Lauren Kunze
“I’ll call he—them back later,” he muttered, pushing the button to Ignore. “Sorry,” he added, sticking the phone back in his pocket.
“No worries,” Callie answered. Tentatively she moved her hand so it was resting above his knee—
Abruptly Clint stood.
“Hey, we’d better get going! It must be way past your bedtime, freshman.” He was smiling, but he was already halfway down the ladder.
What the fuck? WTF?!?@#?$#?@???
The walk home was relatively silent save for the sound of the leaves crunching under her feet. Crushed—kind of like her expectations for the evening. When they reached the door to her entryway, he turned to face her. He leaned in. Her pulse quickened, but with a hug and a promise to call, he was gone.
FTW?!?@#?$#?@???
She was not in a good mood by the time she reached the top of the stairs. In fact, so preoccupied was she by thoughts of her date—well, really, the end of her date (if you could call it a “date”) because the rest of it had been perfect—hadn’t it, hadn’t it?—that she almost didn’t notice the two white envelopes sticking halfway out from under the door.
Stooping, she snatched them up. In ornate calligraphy they were addressed to:
Vanessa Von Vorhees
Wigglesworth C 24
and:
Marine Aurélie Clément
Wigglesworth C 24
“Mimi! Vanessa!” she yelled as she walked into the common room. “You’ve got mail!”
“Oooh, I wonder if this is what I think it is,” Vanessa said, her eyes lighting up. Even Mimi looked excited as she tore hers open, which was unusual given her equilibrium state of spiritual ennui.
“Oh my god!” cried Vanessa, reading her letter and then hugging Mimi ecstatically. “We’re going to punch together! Oh, I knew it! I so knew it!”
“Who are you going to punch?” Callie asked as her roommates began to scream and jump up and down.
As casually as possible, she sidled back over to the front door, scanning the ground. Glancing over her shoulder, she opened the door and double-checked the hallway. It was empty.
Wandering back into the room, she sank onto the couch. She felt invisible, a blip on the social radar that was fading away fast. Soon she would be just as obsolete as VCRs, bell-bottoms, and landlines. . . .
Mimi was the first to notice.
“Oh!” she said, giving Vanessa a meaningful look. “These are just some punch invitations for the Pudding . . . no big deal. . . .”
“No big deal?” cried Vanessa. “Of course it’s a big deal! This is the Hasty Pudding Social Club we’re talking about here: getting in is the first step to punching the Isis or the Bee, and from now on we’ll be invited to all the Final Club parties!”
“The Pudding?” asked Callie, vaguely remembering something.
“It’s the only social club on campus that’s coed and admits freshmen,” Mimi explained, trying to look sympathetic. “It is really not that cool.”
“Not that cool?” Vanessa was oblivious. “Are you forgetting about the clubhouse? And all the upperclassmen boys who are also members? What about all the lunches and dinners and parties?”
“Yes, there are those, too,” Mimi said, giving Vanessa another significant look as Callie sank deeper and deeper into the couch. “But members can bring guests whenever they want so . . .”
At the word guests a lightbulb suddenly switched on in Vanessa’s head.
“Oh, Callie,” she said in a voice that, instead of cheering Callie up, made her feel ten times worse.
“Dana did not receive one either?” Mimi offered.
Make that twenty times worse. No, more like a hundred. Billion. Squared.
“Where is Dana, anyway?” Callie asked, noticing that the door to her room was open.
“She said she was going to Adam’s to study, and by god, I think she meant it literally,” Vanessa said, smiling at her own little joke.
Oh, right, of course. Even Dana had a boyfriend to keep her company; whereas Callie had no one: no boyfriend, no invitations, no friends. . . .
“Callie,” Vanessa said, sitting down next to her on the couch. “Callie, just say the word and I—we,” she added, glancing at Mimi, who nodded her assent, “won’t go.” Vanessa swallowed hard, watching Callie as if she’d just bet her entire life savings on Red and was watching the roulette wheel spin slowly toward Black.
“No, of course you guys have to go. It’s no big deal. . . . You guys can, like, invite me as a guest sometimes or something. . . .”
“Certainly—if we get in, that is,” Mimi said. “You never know, do you? I have probably accidentally kissed so many other people’s lovers by now that there is no telling what could happen.”
“Oh, Mimi!” Vanessa snapped, reverting back to her old self. “Of course we’re going to get in! I mean, you’re you, and I went to high school with half of the members. . . .”
“Don’t worry, Cal,” she said. “Once we’re in, we’ll do everything we can for you during the spring punch season.”
“Oui,” agreed Mimi. “If we get in, we should have no trouble punching you next semester. As long as you do not do anything to piss off a member and get yourself blackballed, it should be fine—”
She stopped talking abruptly at the look on Vanessa’s face.
“Oh god . . .” said Vanessa, “I completely forgot that Lexi’s in the Pudding and . . .” She stared hopelessly at Callie.
“ . . . and I made out with her ex once,” Callie finished. Once and only once.
“Well, you did not know he was her ex when you did it!” Mimi said. She started to giggle. “I cannot believe that you did not remember him that day you spilled your drink all over his sweater! I thought you were acting, and I was just trying to play along—”
Ugghhh . . . Clint was the last thing she wanted to talk about.
Now Vanessa was laughing, too. Still giggling, Mimi looked at her expectantly. Callie tried to force a smile. It wouldn’t come. Instead, all she could think about was the price of a plane ticket back to California: one-way, please. If only she could turn back the clock, go back to high school where girls went out of their way to be friends with her and guys were always pulling crazy stunts to attract her attention, even when she was with Evan . . . Evan . . . If she actually owned a time machine, she would arrange to make an additional stop on her way to the Globe Theatre to watch Shakespeare performed in the Elizabethan era, and instead of saying yes when Evan first asked her out, she would punch him in the face.
Maybe wanting a new boyfriend was a dumb idea after all. Maybe all men were assholes, prone to evil behaviors and evil things.
Speaking of evil, at that instant the front door flew open and Gregory, followed by OK, strolled in wearing matching grins, identical white envelopes in hand.
Gregory noticed Callie and a look of sympathy—sarcastic, no doubt—stole across his face. “Surely you must have been invited, Callie?” he asked, adopting a tone of mock kindness and pretending to be disappointed.
“Have to get back to my research,” she muttered, standing up and heading toward her bedroom. Well, at least he’d called her Callie. Without really meaning to she slammed the door behind her.
Sinking into her desk chair, she stared blankly at her computer screen: Hemlines and Necklines: It’s a Personal Choice.
This was all Lexi’s fault. . . . Lexi knew that Callie was after her boyfriend (well, congratulations—no real worries there), and she had made it her mission to socially annihilate her.
Slamming her computer shut, Callie stood up and walked over to her bed. Plopping down, she grabbed The House of Mirth, her new favorite book from English class, and began flipping angrily through the pages.
It is less mortifying to believe one’s self unpopular than insignificant, and vanity prefers to assume that indifference is a latent form of unfriendliness.
Yeah . . . it was much more likely that everybody just forgot about her. Regardless, Le
xi was still a b—utthead. A butthead with great hair, perfect skin, clothes straight out of Vogue, and the only boy Callie found interesting at Harvard locked down on speed dial #1. Well, maybe not the only boy, but he didn’t count. . . .
Just then she thought she heard a light tapping on her door.
“What do y— Oh!” she cried, leaping off her bed. The House of Mirth tumbled to the floor.
“Hey,” said Gregory, bending to pick it up. Then he closed the door behind him.
Her breath caught in her chest. She took a step backward, bumping into her desk.
“What’s up?” she asked, taking the book and trying to breathe normally. For the first time she noticed exactly how tiny her bedroom was—the bed, currently unmade, the most prominent thing in the room.
“I just came in to see . . .” He paused, watching her shove Edith Wharton back onto the shelf. “You arrange your books by genre and . . . publication date?”
“No, actually by genre and the title’s rank on my list of favorites. I mean, it’s not like a written list—well, okay, there is a copy on my computer. . . .”
Why—WHY—had she confessed this aloud? And to him? And why was she still talking?
“That’s so—” he began.
“Dorky? I know.”
“I was going to say cute. . . .”
Cute? Sarcasm, maybe?
“And dorky, yes.”
Sarcasm, definitely.
“So you like Feynman?” he asked, pulling a book from the popular science section.
She opened her mouth intending to lecture him about touching other people’s things, but instead she said, “Yeah. Surely You’re Joking is one of my favorites. Mine and my dad’s. We must have read it out loud together like a billion times.”
Gregory smiled in a funny sort of way as he thumbed through the pages. “That must have been nice.”
“What, you and your parents never read together?”
Gregory shrugged. “The only thing my dad ever reads are the stock reports in the Wall Street Journal, and my step-mom . . . Well, let’s just say I’m not even sure she knows how. That’s probably why she flunked kindergarten.”
Callie laughed. “Ah, Step-mom . . . Thank goodness we haven’t gotten there yet. Though, with my dad, he’s more likely to pledge eternal love to Euclid or Pythagoras than remarry a twenty-five-year-old. . . .” Was this it? Were they finally having a real conversation? “How old were you when—”
“I should get going,” he said abruptly, returning the book to its position on the shelf.
“Why did you even come here in the first place?” she asked, not really expecting an answer, not really bothering to keep the edge out of her voice.
“Oh,” he said. For the first time since she’d known him, he looked caught off-guard. “I just came in to ask if you were . . . uh, if I could have a copy of your Justice notes? I missed class on Thursday, and I’d ask OK, but he’s kind of an idiot, and I know how thorough you are. . . .”
Why was he asking for her notes at the same time that he made fun of her for being a good student! Or wait, no: was that supposed to be a compliment? Or—
“So could you just e-mail them to me? I really have to run.”
“Uh . . . sure,” she said.
“Thanks. It’s gbolton@fas. Well . . . see ya,” he said, slipping through the door.
Shaking her head, Callie sat down at her desk. She logged into her e-mail. There was a new message waiting for her:
* * *
From: Evan Davies
To: Callie Andrews
Subject: Update
* * *
Hey Cal,
I tried explaining that it was just some stupid high school dare and that nobody was ever meant to see it other than the graduating seniors on the soccer team. But my big brother just won’t listen to me. He said that we need the points in order to secure a win in the scavenger hunt we’re doing for initiation. I’m trying to make him see reason, but if he doesn’t I promise I’ll take care of it one way or another. Please call if you need anything. I am so sorry about all this. Really, I am.
Evan
Numbly she picked up her cell phone and dialed Jessica’s number. Jessica answered on the third ring.
“Callie! I haven’t heard from you in over a week! Where the hell have you been, girl?” Her voice sounded so warm and sunny that Callie immediately burst into tears.
“Callie—what’s wrong?” Callie had never cried in high school—not even when her parents announced their decision to divorce. But now, ever since she’d started at Harvard, it seemed like she was on the verge of tears almost every time that she called.
“Jess, do you remember when Evan and I got keys to the soccer team locker rooms—right after we both made captain?”
“Yes . . . ?”
“And do you remember when I told you how we used to sometimes have—uhm—Captains’ Practice?”
“Yes, but what does that have to do with—”
“Apparently he told some people, too. Ted, Jerry, a couple of seniors on the team—only they didn’t believe him, and so they told him to prove it. . . .”
It felt good to finally confess.
Chapter Nine
Sealed with a kiss
* * *
From: Theresa Frederickson
To: Callie Andrews
Subject: Where are you??
* * *
Callie sweetie,
Where are you? Are you OK? Is this the right e-mail address? Neither your father nor I have heard from you in over six days now. . . . Is everything all right? Are you sick? Are your classes too hard? Do you have enough warm clothing? Do you want to come home? Nobody will think any less of you if you decided you needed a break from school and wanted to take a year off. Maybe you’re not getting enough sleep. Are you getting enough sleep? I knew I should have been stricter about bedtimes.
Sweetie, you can tell me: is this about Evan? Because if this is about Evan, I have to say that I never liked him, not one bit, and you are much, much better off without him. And take it from me; I’ve had my share of dealing with incompetent men—no disrespect to your father. He seems to think I should “relax” and “leave you alone.” “She’s probably just busy!” he says. Well, respectfully, I disagree. Do you know he actually had the audacity to call me a “spaz”? Me? A spaz? I don’t even know what that means!
Callie Isabelle Frederickson Andrews, you call me the moment you read this e-mail, do you hear?
I love you.
Mom
* * *
From: Thomas Andrews
To: Callie Andrews
Subject: Please call your mom
* * *
Dear Cal-bear,
Please call your mother. When she doesn’t hear from you in over a week, she starts calling me at work, asking if I think we should phone the police or book a flight to Cambridge. Did I mention that by “calling,” I mean calling every hour?
When you can, send us an e-mail and let us know how you’re doing.
Love,
“Yer old man”
* * *
From: Callie Andrews
To: Thomas Andrews
Subject: RE: Please call your mom
* * *
Hi Daddy,
Please tell Mom that I AM ALIVE.
And I’m sorry that I haven’t written in so long. Harvard is fine, classes are fine—I especially like a course I’m taking called the Nineteenth-Century Novel.
Everything’s fine, really; it’s just that things are so different on the East Coast that sometimes I feel like I don’t belong here. A bunch of roommates got invited to a party and I didn’t. . . . I know it’s such a stupid thing to be upset about, but I am. I’ll live, though. More time to focus on my math homework for economics, right?
Love you too,
Cal-bear
P.S. When I taught you the meaning of the word spaz I expected you to keep it private! She really is, though, isn’t she?
Do you still have friends at the med school? Maybe they can write her a prescription for Xanax.
* * *
From: Thomas Andrews
To: Callie Andrews
Subject: Please call your mom
* * *
Glad to hear you’re alive; that’s great news. Will pass it on, along with prescription meds, to your mother. Oh, she’ll love that. I’m sorry I can’t offer you more advice on your social life (though if you have any questions about linear algebra, I’m your guy). Just remember what Feynman said: “What do you care what other people think?” That, and if you decide to become an English major, I’ll disown you.
—Dad
Just one kiss . . .” said Gregory, his tone softening suddenly.
“You can’t be serious. . . .” she trailed off, forgetting herself and falling into his eyes like Alice tumbling down the rabbit hole: deep down into an abyss that was a maddening shade of blue. . . .
“Hey! I never noticed before,” he said, leaning down, “but your eyes are green.” He raised his hand, perhaps to brush the hair from her face, and as if he were a hypnotist, her eyelids began to feel heavy. His hand compelled her forward, up closer and closer until her eyes started to close and—
Wait a minute, wait a minute: REWIND.
Callie awoke from a nap with a start on Wednesday evening overcome by the strange sensation that there was something she should be excited about, only she couldn’t remember what.
Then it dawned on her: tonight was the Pudding Punch event, and she had no reason to feel excited because she had not been invited.
She had, however, listened to both of her roommates talk about it incessantly over the previous few days. Vanessa had been especially bad, running out to get waxed, plucked, trimmed, exfoliated, manicured, moisturized, highlighted, and styled—all in preparation for the momentous event.
