by Lauren Kunze
“Coffee?” asked Gregory as his groupies arrived within earshot. “Is that what they’re calling it these days? You don’t have to be shy, neighbor. Why not just come out and tell me what you really want?”
His friends broke into appreciative laughter.
“Argh!” Callie rolled her eyes and turned her back on the sounds of whistles and high fives. Why, why, did he take a sadistic pleasure in torturing her? She could understand how Vanessa had developed a huge crush on him before school had even started because he was so mind-numbingly . . . uhm . . . yeah, mind-numbing, but he was completely insufferable the moment he opened his mouth.
As she arrived at Wigglesworth, she felt a rush of gratitude for Clint. Great guy, great looking, not an asshole. Stepping through the door to C 24, she decided to rouse Vanessa first, since it usually required the efforts of two people to wake Mimi from her Ambien-induced coma.
Vanessa was wearing a dainty silk negligee and her furry princess eye mask, but she was snoring louder than a trucker with a sinus infection. Stifling a giggle, Callie perched on the edge of the bed and whispered: “Princesssss . . .”
Vanessa snorted loudly, swatting the air with her hands.
“Vanessa,” Callie prodded, her voice breaking with laughter. “Vanessa, wake up, I have some news you might be interested in. . . .”
Vanessa moaned and lifted the mask halfway up her forehead. “What?” she muttered, rubbing her eyes. “Gossip?”
“No.” Callie smiled. “Even better. Let’s wake Mimi and then I’ll tell you.”
“Cal-lie,” said Vanessa irritably, swinging her legs over the side of her bed nevertheless. “Why are you doing this to me? You know I require at least nine hours of sleep in order to look my best. . . .”
“Yeah, well, I figured you’d appreciate a twelve-hour warning given the amount of time it takes you to get ready,” Callie retorted, pulling Vanessa up off the bed before she could respond.
Together they entered Mimi’s room—or as it was known before ten A.M.: the War Zone. This was because in the morning Mimi always looked like she’d survived a war—or an insane night of partying—even if she’d stayed in all evening working on a problem set. Her hair was always plastered wildly across her face, the sheets tangled in a tight little ball or discarded with the comforter on the floor, and more often than not Mimi would be wearing only a T-shirt or only a mysterious pair of boxers left by Joe Question Mark—as if she’d gotten bored halfway through changing into her pajamas.
They crept in cautiously: nervous—and with just cause—that Mimi might have a visitor. (Joe . . . ?)
Thankfully, today Mimi was alone and fully covered. Callie began patting her shoulder, but Vanessa, bitter about being woken so early, dove for the window shade and yanked. Bright morning sunshine flooded into the room, and Mimi sat up with a start, crying: “Monkey-fuck-winks and a tub of toothpaste!”
Callie and Vanessa sprang back in horror.
“Have either of you seen Margaret Thatcher?” Mimi muttered, burrowing under her tangled sheets. “She was supposed to meet me here. . . .”
Vanessa’s mouth fell open and Callie started to snicker.
Mimi popped her head out from under the sheets, blinked three times, and then innocently asked, “What?”
But before they could answer, she shut her eyes and dove back under the covers.
“Let’s try a different strategy,” Callie murmured, motioning Vanessa to follow her into the common room. They brewed a strong pot of coffee and poured three cups. Vanessa seized their Costco-sized bottle of Advil, and thus sufficiently armed, they walked back into Mimi’s room.
Callie waved the coffee under Mimi’s nose like smelling salts until Mimi finally opened her eyes and accepted the steaming mug. She frowned at the Advil in Vanessa’s outstretched hand.
“Couldn’t get anything stronger, could you? Demerol? Celebrex? Vicodin? Percocet? Morphine? Anything that might mimic my endogenous enkephalins?”
Vanessa looked at Callie questioningly.
“Pharmacology 165: Drugs and the Brain,” Callie whispered. Then: “Meems, look, we’re sorry to wake you, but you asked me to get you up early so that you could work on your paper and I—”
“Callie supposedly has something to tell us,” Vanessa interrupted.
“Yes I do,” Callie answered, and then proceeded to explain her morning phone call with Clint.
Vanessa was ecstatic. Mimi seemed ambivalent as usual, but she grinned and said, “Eh . . . what the hell. I shall turn my paper in late. It is supposed to be a ‘Nietzschean reading of The Bacchae,’ for my Contemporary Theater class, so a little Dionysian revelry could technically be considered research.”
“Dionysian revelry? Endogenous enkephalins?” Vanessa repeated incredulously.
“You are forgetting that I am a genius, no?” said Mimi, sipping her coffee.
“A genius who is . . . failing French class?” asked Callie in disbelief, lifting a handwritten note from Mlle Badeau off of Mimi’s desk.
“French!” Vanessa cried. “Why would you even be taking it?”
Mimi shrugged. “I thought it would be an easy A . . . but as it turns out, I keep forgetting to go. Did you know language classes meet every day?”
“C’est stupide,” said Callie.
“Je sais, je sais . . .” Mimi answered.
“You two are weird,” Vanessa said. “You’d better not embarrass me in front of the Bee girls—after we get into the Pudding, they’ll be the ones punching us next year!”
“Yeah,” said Callie, agreeing that it might be wise to befriend some older girls—very wise, indeed.
Chapter Eleven
Mad Hatter’S Ball
Mon dieu, I look like a prostituée,” Mimi said, studying herself in Vanessa’s full-length mirror.
“Well, if that means what I think it does,” said Vanessa, “then I’m going to have to say that I agree.” She strode over to Mimi and plucked the white nurse’s hat off her head. “I’m pretty sure this hat has more fabric than your dress!”
“Hey!” said Mimi, tugging at the bottom of her white, skin-tight garment: one of those “gray area” purchases where you can’t tell if it’s meant to be a top or a dress.
(Word to the wise: if you can’t tell, always, always, assume it’s a top.)
“You are the one who chose this stupide hat for me!” Mimi said. “Are not all nurses slutty in the month of October? What is it you call . . . Hallow’s Eve?”
“Yes, but Halloween is still a week away,” Vanessa explained.
“Eh . . . Je m’en fiche.” Pouting, Mimi wrapped a knee-length, crocheted jacket around her body and dropped onto the couch to watch Vanessa make the final adjustments to her Cleopatra-inspired headdress.
“Come out already!” Mimi yelled toward Callie’s room. “We want to see your hat!”
“Coming!” was Callie’s muffled reply. Soon her feet, in Vanessa’s heels, could be heard clicking down the hall as she made her way into the common room.
“Voila!” she cried.
Mimi whistled and Vanessa let out an appreciative “whoop!”
Instead of a hat Callie had purchased a short, shiny, pink-haired wig with bangs. To match she wore big hoop earrings and the gorgeous, pink-sequin vintage dress that Vanessa had finally agreed to let her borrow.
“Dammit, see! This is why I didn’t want to lend it to you!” Vanessa said, pretending to be angry. “Because it looks better on you than it does on me and now . . . I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to kill you.”
“We are pink with fear,” said Mimi.
“No, Mimi, it’s green with fear,” Vanessa said. “I mean, envy. Whatever. I hate you both.”
Callie’s phone beeped several times from within her purse. “That must be Clint!” she cried, digging to retrieve it.
“Oh, shit!” Vanessa screamed, running to the mirror and readjusting her headdress for the 897th time. “We’re running late again!”
&nbs
p; Mimi, bundled in her coat and ready to go, smiled serenely from the couch and gave Callie an exaggerated two thumbs-up. Ever since Callie and Vanessa had taught her about various American gestures like thumbs-up and high five, she had been using them at every opportunity to her great personal amusement.
Callie flipped open her phone and was surprised by a message from Matt.
HEY CAL’BACK AT THE CRIMSON.
JUST WANTED TO LET YOU KNOW
I MOVED ALL OF YOUR COMP
ASSIGNMENTS OFF THE FLOOR.
I WOULD HAVE WAITED FOR YOU
TO COME BACK LATER TONIGHT
AFTER YOUR DATE, BUT I HEARD
LEXI WAS STOPPING BY SO I JUST
DID IT FOR YOU. THEY’RE ON THE
SECOND DESK NEAR THE WINDOW.
HAVE FUN.
Shit! she thought, guilt rushing over her. She’d completely forgotten to clean up the mess.
She opened her phone and started drafting a frantic apology but was interrupted by Vanessa, who grabbed her arm and dragged her from the room. All she was able to manage as they made their way down the stairs was a hasty:
OMG SO SORRY! COMPLETELY
FORGOT’YOU’RE A LIFESAVER.
A BMW X5 pulled up in front of Dexter Gate, and Callie felt for a moment like she was back in Los Angeles, land of the overpriced SUV. Following close behind, a dark blue convertible approached the curb, top up, driven by . . .
“Hello, neighbor.” Vanessa whistled through her teeth.
“What the hell?” Callie blurted out as Gregory parked behind Clint’s BMW. “Who invited him?”
“Probably an upperclassman Bee girl looking for a hot, sexy, gorgeous . . . date,” Vanessa said, her eyes glazing over as if the entire Porsche 911 Carrera (Callie could now make out the front logo) were made of diamonds.
“Compensation car,” Jessica’s voice whispered in her head. “The man must have a tiny, tiny penis.”
“SHOTGUN!” Vanessa screamed, diving into the front seat of the Porsche, high-speed-chase style. Gregory smiled his most winning smile and then turned to look at Callie.
But Callie had eyes only for Clint: Clint, who had just rushed around from the driver’s seat of his car to open the back door in a touching throwback to gentlemanly chivalry. Clint, who then turned to Callie, removed the top hat that matched his tuxedo, and bowed.
Gregory’s mouth appeared to be fighting a war with gravity—and losing. He turned on the radio and started blasting music, leaning toward Vanessa and averting his eyes as Callie and Clint embraced.
Clint kissed Callie lightly, once upon each cheek, before stepping back to introduce Mimi to her date, who had just emerged from the front seat of Clint’s car: Fahad Alami, a Saudi Arabian raised in Washington, DC, whose white suit made his dark skin and wide-set brown eyes pop. A dark purple turban sat ironically upon his head.
Mimi gave Fahad a quick once-over, and Callie recognized her tiny frown as a covert seal of approval. Fahad, on the contrary, was gazing openly at Mimi like she was an angel descended from heaven and could only stammer, “I—I noticed you at the Pudding, and it’s very, very nice to finally make your acquaintance.”
Suddenly a beautiful, exotic-looking girl with long dark hair, red lipstick, and a huge smile popped her head out of the backseat of Clint’s car and cried in a Spanish-sounding accent:
“Mimi, darling, is that you?”
“Tatiana!” Mimi exclaimed. “I cannot believe this! When was the last time I saw you? St. Bart’s?”
“I believe it was Ibiza, but I forgive you for not remembering as I have a difficult time recalling the events of that evening myself. . . .” Tatiana trailed off, noticing Callie.
“Clint, who is this gorgeous girl?” she asked, turning to him expectantly. “Wherever did you find her?”
Callie beamed and introduced herself.
“You are gorgeous,” Clint whispered in her ear as Mimi climbed into the backseat and Tatiana introduced her to her boyfriend, Alexander. Everybody in the car with the exception of Mimi was a junior, and every seat in the car was . . .
Taken.
“Callie,” Clint whispered, “would you mind riding over with my buddy Greg? I’d obviously prefer to take you myself, but there doesn’t seem to be any room left and Greg mentioned that you guys are friends, so . . .”
Friends? In what universe did Gregory consider her a friend? Were they friends when he’d made fun of her in Annenberg? When he’d nearly molested her on the staircase at the Pudding? When he pretended to invite her to coffee—excuse me, sex—in front of his groupies?
She would have liked, more than anything, to yell, YES, I MIND! at the top of her lungs, but Clint was standing there looking so hopelessly apologetic that all she could do was gape and nod. She allowed him to escort her to Gregory’s compensation car and hold open the door. Trying to smile instead of sulk, Callie slid into the deep leather of the bucket seats and pulled her seat belt across her lap.
As Clint motioned at Vanessa to roll down her window, Gregory began adjusting the rearview mirror. It shifted and suddenly Callie could see two blue eyes—staring straight at her. She yanked the sequined dress down her legs as far as it could go, shifting uncomfortably in her seat.
Clint leaned into Vanessa’s front window and said to Gregory, “You know how to get there, right? And would you mind waiting for James while I run by the gas station so he can follow you in his car?”
“James—Hoffmeyer?” said Gregory, sounding pissed.
“Yeah, you know Hoffmeyer?” Clint replied. “I only met him earlier this week at Pudding Punch but the guy’s a riot!”
“Yeah, I knew him back at school. . . . ,” Gregory replied slowly.
“Hoffmeyer as in Hoffmeyer Realty?” Vanessa asked, looking at Clint like he was Santa Claus.
“That’s right, my dear.” Clint beamed down at her. “Only the best for you.”
Vanessa turned around in her seat and mouthed to Callie: “O-M-G: I love him!”
“So we’ll meet you there, Greg?”
“Sure thing.”
Callie’s phone beeped: 1 NEW TEXT MESSAGE.
It was from Vanessa.
CLINT RULES! JAMES HOFFMEYER!
I’VE BEEN TRYING TO FIGURE OUT
HOW TO MEET HIM FOR WEEKS!
THIS IS A GREAT DAY FOR SPECIAL
OP PFF.
Shaking her head, with a sidelong glance at Gregory, Callie texted back: WHAT ABOUT YOU-KNOW-WHO??
Vanessa’s fingers flew, texting her reply. Callie stole another peak at Gregory, but he was simply staring out the window, looking bored—angry, even, no doubt about having to wait.
DIDN’T YOU LEARN ANYTHING
IN EC 10? IT’S CRUCIAL TO
DIVERSIFY YOUR INVESTMENTS!
YOU-KNOW-WHO’S STOCK IS
HIGH-RISK, HIGH-REWARD.
HOFFMEYER = REPUTABLE INDEX
FUND. RELAX!! YOU ALREADY
FOUND YOUR FISH’NOW IT’S
MY TURN!
Callie laughed and shook her head. Suddenly somebody honked loudly, obnoxiously. Callie turned around to look just as Vanessa squealed: “It’s him! That’s James!”
James honked again. Is that really necessary? Callie wondered, empathizing with Gregory’s furious expression reflected in the rearview mirror.
“Let’s go!” cried Vanessa, facing forward in her seat again and checking her hair and makeup in the side mirror. “The sooner we arrive, the sooner I get to meet my date!”
“I wouldn’t be so eager to date that guy if I were you,” Gregory said as he revved up the engine.
“What? Why not?” Vanessa sounded alarmed. But then an enormous smile broke out across her face. “Gregory,” she said coyly, “you’re not . . . jealous, are you?”
Gregory shrugged and pulled out onto the street. But then he shot a furtive glance into the rearview mirror and added darkly: “Maybe I am.”
What? thought Callie, folding her arms across her chest. G
regory jealous over Vanessa? But that’s imposs—
Ignore him! Think about something useful, like economics. Apparently Vanessa was doing a better job of internalizing the material than she was. . . . Maybe that was why Gregory liked Va— No, ridiculous! Impossible. Think about something— Oh, just give up. She stayed silent during the rest of the ride to Boston, staring out the window while Vanessa and Gregory chatted—no, flirted—the whole way there.
When Gregory finally pulled up in front of The Estate club, Callie darted out of his car. She ran over to Tatiana, Alexander, and Clint, who were taking furtive sips from Mimi’s flask.
Clint gave Callie an enormous hug. His breath smelling slightly of Johnnie Walker Blue, he leaned toward her and said, “Sorry about the car ride. From now on I’m not letting you out of my sight!” Wrapping his arm around her waist, he offered her the flask.
Callie felt a wave of warmth coursing through her body that had nothing to do with the whiskey. It was enough to erase the awkward trip over, but still, she smiled when she noticed that Vanessa had attached herself to James’s arm while Gregory was nowhere to be found.
The line to get in to The Estate was a parade of Chloe, Diane Von Furstenberg, D&G, Zac Posen, and more, each spectacular dress adorned with a fancy, funny, or creative hat—crazy hats big and small with fur, leather, lights, sparkles, feathers, and more.
Callie glanced self-consciously at her dress but decided that she had nothing to worry about. Clint had said she looked gorgeous, and his was the only opinion that mattered.
Maybe there’s a spot for me in this world after all, she thought as Clint slipped an ID into the palm of her hand. The name on the card read Marianne Smith, and hair color was the only thing she had in common with the girl in the photograph.
“This looks nothing like me!” she whispered.
“Don’t worry, Marianne,” he said, smiling down at her. “They’re not really carding: some Bee girl will just look at the IDs and check our names off of the guest list. That big bouncer’s more for show than anything else.” Callie craned her neck to try to get a glimpse of the bouncer, but her vision was blocked by the couples ahead of them.
