by Lauren Kunze
Then again, if she spent the entire event locked in the bathroom, they—Lexi, Anne, Gregory—would win.
Resolved, she emerged from the bathroom. She walked down the stairs and reentered the main room with her head held high—only to realize: she was alone. Again. What was she supposed to do, walk up to a group of people and interrupt their conversation? And why did every opener she could think of sound like a cheesy pickup line: Is this seat taken? Can I get you a drink? That dress is stunning. . . .
She felt a presumptuous tap on her shoulder.
Didn’t I just tell him to leave me ALONE? She turned, furious, to really give Gregory a piece of her mind and—
Found Clint. He was grinning from ear to ear, extending a glass of champagne in her direction.
“I didn’t realize you would be here tonight,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “What a pleasant surprise!”
Pleasant indeed. He looked incredible in his coat and tie. He smiled. Instantly she relaxed. “You’re just all about the surprises, aren’t you?” she said.
“I’m not surprised by how beautiful you look tonight.”
“Really? I thought you said you liked me messy and dirty?”
“I don’t remember using the word dirty.” He laughed as she started to turn pink. “But there’s a time and place for everything.”
Callie smiled and sipped her champagne.
“Seriously, though, I’m really glad you could make it. Want to come with me and say hi to some people?”
Clint stayed near Callie for the rest of the night. Placing his hand on the small of her back, he would guide her around the room, introducing her to other members of the Pudding and making sure that her champagne glass was never empty.
Maybe it was the champagne or maybe it was Clint, but Callie felt like a protective shield had been cast around her: any worries or fears were now on Mute. Even Lexi with her jealous stares and angry whispers didn’t seem quite so scary anymore.
By the end of the night she was no longer a nameless face. Instead, she had become The Girl Who Clint Weber Couldn’t Take His Hands Off Of. It wasn’t quite as good as just being Callie Andrews, but it was a start.
“Ready to go?” asked Clint. She nodded slowly as if in a dream. “C’mon, then . . . I’ll walk you home.” He held up her coat and helped her into the sleeves. She closed her eyes, allowing him to wrap the jacket around her.
“So you’ll let me know about lunch on Tuesday?” Brittney cried, rushing over as they were halfway out the door.
“Sure.” Callie smiled. “I’ll let you know.”
Clint put his arm around her waist as they walked down the steps, and she rested her head on his shoulder. The champagne bubbles had risen from her stomach into her brain, and she couldn’t stop giggling as he guided her across the Yard.
When they arrived in front of Wigglesworth’s bright green door, Clint turned to face her. He brushed his hand against her cheek, but this time she was determined not to get her hopes up. . . .
Feeling faint, she began rifling through her purse in search of her key card.
She could feel his eyes boring into her, his breath smelling sweetly of champagne. She was searching deeper and deeper within her purse when suddenly, without warning, the thought of Gregory floated into her head. He had been such an asshole earlier. He was really nothing compared to Clint. . . . Clint is so per—
Her fingers closed around the edge of something thin and hard.
“Found it!” she cried, brandishing the card victoriously.
“Yes, you did.” He smiled, cupping her chin in his hands. And then he found her lips.
Chapter Ten
Strange interlude
Harvard Dating 101: What Every Novice Needs to Know
top ten faux pas committed by college freshmen
1. When someone asks you if you have “plans for the evening,” never just say no: it doesn’t make you sound “straightforward,” it makes you sound like a loser. Instead, try something along the lines of: “That depends . . . what did you have in mind?”
2. One drink before a date to calm the nerves and loosen the tongue is acceptable; three is sloppy and five means the only date you should be scheduling is one with your sponsor at Alcoholics Anonymous.
3. When embarking on a first date, always make good use of signals and the buddy system: arrange for a friend to call you midmeal and inform you of a potentially dire “family emergency” in the event that the cute guy from your chemistry class doesn’t look quite so cute without his lab goggles on or that pretty girl you met in Lamont turns out to be a man-hating Women, Gender & Sexuality major. . . .
4. Never assume that the other person is going to pay. Hello, ladies, this is the twenty-first century here! While personally I’m a bit old-fashioned and allow a man to treat, it is my firm belief that women should always offer—and be prepared—to at least split the bill. If anything, cash and credit cards are always handy in case you need to cab it home once you hear about that pressing “family emergency.”
5. Ladies (and Metro-men): Always allocate your wardrobe with care: wearing the same outfit twice in a row was a lot easier back in the day before Facebook became everybody’s personal paparazzi.
6. Learn to gauge the intensity of your crushes’ feelings based on the type of date he/she has proposed:
a. Study date: probably wants to be “just friends” or they need help with their homework and only asked because you look like a huge nerd
b. Coffee date: testing the waters; alternatively, this person has commitment issues and can’t stand to spare more than 15 minutes of their time
c. Lunch date: obviously you’re not quite good enough for dinner
d. Dinner date: gettin’ pretty serious . . .
e. Dinner and a movie: clichéd but classic—but be cautious that the “movie” doesn’t turn into “Hey, why not just watch that movie at my place” because
f. “Wanna come over and watch a movie?”=BOOTY CALL, no exceptions
7. In an era of text messaging, Twitter, GChat, MySpace, and Facebook, the wait-three-days-to-call rule is so twentieth century; finding someone you really like at Harvard is rare and calls for immediate action.
8. Never accept a date from a boy/girl that a friend of yours has a serious crush on. Do your best to remember that it’s bros before hos and chicks before dicks.
9. It’s important to at least give dating at Harvard a try (*ahem* attn: boys who spend most of their nights at BU or BC). There is nothing sweeter in this life than being able to give your children the gift of “double legacy.”
10. Don’t ever get drunk and hook up with your best friend—it’s really not what Plato had in mind.
Happy Hunting,
Alexis Thorndike, Advice Columnist
Fifteen Minutes Magazine
Harvard University’s Authority on Campus Life since 1873
Even though it was barely nine o’clock on a Friday morning, the sun was already shining brightly through the dusty windows, casting a glow on the two individuals who were sleeping soundly, side by side. Callie was curled up at an awkward angle, but Matt was stretched out flat on his back. He was smiling.
Bbbbrrrrringgggg! BRrrriinnng! Brrrrrinnng!
Callie groaned and rolled over. Her back was aching and her entire body felt sore. She opened one eyelid. There was Matt’s face: inches away from her own. Her eyes flew open in horror. What the hell happened last night?
“Make it stop. . . .” Matt muttered, groping for her phone.
Looking up: Callie spotted one green desk lamp;
Down: a ratty oriental rug;
Left: stacks of papers scattered across the floor;
Right: empty cans of Red Bull overflowing the trash;
Up again: old newspapers framed and mounted across the walls . . .
The Crimson. Relief swept over her as it all came flooding back: how she and Matt had vowed to pull an all-nighter in order to finish their work for COMP. At some point they
must have fallen asleep. . . .
Thank goodness I didn’t hook up with him, she thought, well aware that delirium due to sleep deprivation could often lead to bad decisions of which, in the words of Alexis, Plato would not approve. Recently Callie had managed to get back into Matt’s good graces, and she didn’t need to go messing it all up—though he did look cute in a dorky sort of way with his hair all rumpled and his glasses askew. . . .
His smile seemed forced as he tossed the phone into her lap.
“Score!” she joked as it landed between her thighs.
He smiled ruefully and shook his head, then lay back down, spread-eagled.
“Hello?” Callie said, answering her phone.
“Callie?” Clint’s voice crackled over the line.
“Clint! Hi! What’s going on?” she asked, straightening up immediately.
“Sorry, did I wake you? I can call back late—”
“No!” Callie cried, jumping from the floor and smoothing her hair as if he could somehow see her through the telephone. “I’m awake, I’m awake, I swear! What’s up?”
“Well, again, I’m sorry for calling so early, but I wanted to ask you as soon as possible: do you have any plans for tonight?”
“No, I don’t have any plans at all!” Callie cried eagerly—perhaps a little too eagerly, because she quickly corrected herself: “Er . . . I mean, nothing special.”
She began to pace around the tiny office, grinning at Matt, who was still lying disconsolately on the floor.
“Great!” Clint replied. “Then would you like to go to a date event tonight?”
Callie covered the phone’s mouthpiece with her hand and did a victory dance. Matt groaned and got to his feet.
“Date event!” Callie squealed.
Matt winced and headed for the door. Callie turned, motioning distractedly that he should stay, but he shook his head and mouthing, “I’ll see you later,” escaped into the hall.
In the meantime Clint was explaining: “Yes, the Bee is having a date event tonight at a club in Boston as part of their third round of Punch.”
“The Bee? Doesn’t that mean it’s going to be a bunch of sophomore girls? I thought freshmen weren’t even allowed to go!”
Clint laughed. “Wow, you’ve only been here for six weeks, but you already know all the rules! Well, according to my rules, you are allowed to go, but only if you agree to go as somebody’s date.”
There was an awkward pause, and his words started to tumble out a little faster: “It’s usually a pretty good time. It’s a theme party, called the Mad Hatter’s Ball, meaning everyone is expected to show up wearing a crazy hat, though there’s this one guy who comes every year wearing a chicken suit. . . .” Clint’s laugh sounded nervous. Adorably nervous: like he was worried that she might turn him down. (As if anyone in their right mind ever would!)
Speaking faster still, he added: “If you’d feel more comfortable, you can invite Mimi and Vanessa. A couple of my friends still don’t have dates and I’m sure they’d be thrilled to take either of your roommates—”
“But I would be your date, right?” Callie asked.
“Yes!” he exclaimed, sounding relieved. “Yes, fantastic.”
“Cool,” she said smoothly as a wave of confidence swept over her. “And I will bring Mimi and Vanessa—I’m sure they’d love that.” (And by “love that” she meant “worship me forever.”)
“Great! We’ll pick you up tonight in front of Wigglesworth at ten. You just need formal attire and some sort of a hat, the crazier the better.”
Callie suddenly thought of something. “Wait—you said it’s at a club in Boston? Does that mean we need to have IDs? Because you know . . .” She felt herself starting to blush.
“Relax,” he said. “I know you’re not twenty-one yet. It’ll be taken care of.”
“Awesome.” Callie yawned, too sleepy to ask for more details. “So, all I need is a dress, a hat, and my roommates, and I’ll see you at ten?”
“Right,” said Clint. “See you at ten.”
Callie was elated. But then, as she gazed at her papers scattered across the floor, the paper cups half filled with stale coffee, and the empty pizza boxes from Pinocchio’s overflowing the trash can, her spirits started to sink.
In the corner stood a stack of boxes filled with old FM issues from the past ten years that she was supposed to finish archiving before the weekend was up. On the desk she caught sight of a draft of her piece about “Scoping a Campus Character.” Lexi’s unforgiving red pen had covered it in so many cutting comments that it looked like a wounded soldier bleeding crimson ink.
She sighed. As long as she was in the FM offices, forced to write draft after draft of pieces that were never going to appear in the magazine, she felt trapped in Lexi’s territory. But it wasn’t just limited to the building. Everything worthwhile at Harvard had been annexed under Queen Alexis’s domain: the Crimson, the Pudding, Clint. . . . No matter where she went, she always felt as if she was crossing some invisible boundary.
She needed to get some air. She left the office and headed down the stairs. She should have been thinking about what dress Vanessa might let her borrow and what funky hat she would wear, but instead she couldn’t stop obsessing about Lexi.
In the days that followed the Pudding event people who had never noticed her started greeting her in classes or as their paths crossed in Harvard Yard. It seemed her status had gone from “not” to “hot” virtually overnight. Yet nothing about her had changed. She still didn’t own the right clothes or purses or shoes. What she did have was the attention of what many of the older girls considered to be the most prized accessory of them all: Clint Weber. She’d refused to look when Vanessa Googled him but could tell from her roommate’s expression of silent awe that good looks and Southern charm were not his only assets.
Just last night when she was rushing toward the Crimson, a pretty, well-dressed sophomore, clearly an East Coaster, had stopped her in the street to ask where she’d purchased her jeans. Callie had smiled and answered vaguely, “Oh, just some LA boutique off of Rodeo Drive”—a colorful version of the truth, which was, in fact, that she’d owned them longer than she could remember and had no idea where they came from. Frustrated, she wondered why she’d bothered to lie; why she cared what some random girl thought about her stupid jeans.
And then there were the other looks. Maybe she was paranoid or exhibiting signs of latent schizophrenia and it was all just in her head, but the group of upperclassman girls that sat in front of her in Justice had been awfully cold: shooting her vicious glares during class or ignoring her completely.
Just when she was starting to feel like she was finding her place and even having fun, it was all going to be taken away from her because she had unwittingly crossed the most powerful socialite on campus.
Even with Clint on Callie’s side, Lexi would surely find a way to exclude her from the Pudding. Then she’d be left behind while everyone she knew or liked was admitted: Vanessa, Mimi, OK, and Gregory. Gregory . . .
“Gregory!” she blurted in shock as she nearly tripped over him. He was sitting on the front steps of the Crimson, accompanied, as always, by a bored expression and a cigarette. He stood up hastily to face her. His hands and cheeks were pink with cold—like he’d been waiting for a while.
“Hey,” he said, offering her a smile. A real smile.
Callie frowned, wondering what really funny or embarrassing thing she had done to elicit such a genuine expression. She put her hands on her hips and stared at him expectantly. He just stood there looking back without breaking the silence.
“Are you waiting for someone?” Callie finally asked. “I have a key so I could let you in. . . .”
“No thanks. I’m just enjoying the scenery,” he answered, staring straight into her eyes.
“Ohhh-kay,” Callie replied slowly, arching her eyebrows.
He did not elaborate.
She turned and started to walk away. He was more u
npredictable than the location of a spherical pendulum with a nonlinear restoring force, or which cast member on The Hills would become the latest frenemy. It was maddening.
“Hey, Callie!” Gregory called suddenly, sounding—could it be?—embarrassed.
Callie turned and placed her hands on her hips, waiting.
“Are you heading back to the Yard?”
She nodded.
“Want to grab a cup of coffee or something?”
Callie froze, staring at him as he took a final drag of his cigarette before flicking it onto the brick sidewalk and grinding it under his heel. She couldn’t detect any irony in his tone, but that didn’t necessarily mean he wasn’t harboring malicious ulterior motives. Was this a trick—or a truce? An olive branch or another one of his twisted games?
Yes—no—okay—go to hell—sure, why not— She was still wrestling with herself over how to reply when his NYC entourage rounded the corner, rowdy and obnoxious as usual. Out of bed before ten? The universe was truly out of whack.
“Hey, Casanova!” one of them yelled, while another one whistled rakishly. “Whassamatter, buddy? Already run through all the Wellesley blondes?”
“Yeah, man, what’s the deal? I thought you preferred outsourcing to BU?”
The corners of Gregory’s mouth twitched slightly, but his eyes never left her face. “Ignore them,” he said, keeping his voice low. He looked at her, still waiting for an answer.
She stared back. She glanced at his friends and then at Gregory. She was on the verge of accepting when past experience and the preponderance of evidence that proved he was, twelve to zero, an asshole made her change her mind.
“Thanks for the offer, but I actually don’t have time for coffee right now. I have to get back to my room and—”
