The Ivy

by Lauren Kunze

  Clint squeezed her hand. “Seriously, don’t stress out about it. I took care of everything.”

  Mimi, Fahad, Tatiana, and Alexander slid by the bouncer and into the club: a sea of disco lights and crazy hats. James and Vanessa, who were directly in front of Callie, also entered the club with ease.

  “Marianne Smith,” she said, reaching to hand the bouncer her ID.

  “I’ll take that,” said a voice to her left.

  Turning, Callie found herself face-to-face with the girl in charge of the guest list.

  Alexis Thorndike.

  Damn.

  Swallowing an enormous lump in her throat, Callie did her best to smile. “Uhm, hi, Lexi . . .”

  “Oh, you two already know each other?” asked Clint. “Well, that certainly makes everything easier!”

  Lexi’s smile looked faker than a plastic surgery disaster. She tucked a curl of brown hair that had broken loose from her all-too-real-looking tiara back behind her ear and said sweetly:

  “Of course, how could I not know her after she’s been slaving away so diligently for my FM COMP? Welcome to our party.”

  Lexi leaned in and gave Clint a lingering kiss on the cheek.

  “Perhaps you two already know my date?” Lexi asked coolly, gesturing toward the crowd. Callie turned and saw a tall, dark-haired guy weaving through the masses to take up his place by Lexi’s side.

  Gregory.

  “Sure we do,” said Clint, smiling at Gregory. “Greg’s my favorite freshman on the squash team. You should’ve seen him play in our match last week against Dartmouth! You couldn’t have picked a better guy.”

  A flash of fury flickered across Lexi’s face as Clint punched Gregory on the arm. Turning to Callie, she cooed:

  “Gee . . . I just love your costume. . . . It’s so creative. But tell me: are you a stripper or a crack whore?”

  Callie felt as if she’d been slapped in the face. Clenching her fists, she tried to focus on feeling angry as an alternative to what she really wanted to do, which was cry. Gregory chuckled as he sipped his drink, but Clint was starting to look uncomfortable.

  “Easy there, Lex,” he said, handing her both of their IDs.

  Lexi smiled angelically. “I was only teasing. Hmm,” she said, gazing at Callie’s ID and squinting. Then in a voice that could certainly carry to where the bouncer stood she asked, “Marianne Smith? But I’m so confused. I thought your name was Callie.”

  And just like that Callie’s urge to cry disappeared. She was now officially angry.

  Snatching back their IDs, Clint shot Lexi a withering glare. “You never change, do you?”

  Before Lexi could reply, Clint grabbed Callie’s arm and marched past the bouncer into the party, tossing an apologetic “Catch you later, man” over his shoulder at Gregory.

  Fists clenching and teeth clamped so hard it hurt, Callie barely registered that they had made it safely into the party. The music swelled around her, and she found her fear of Lexi ebbing away. There would be no more staying classy or pretending to be aloof: if Lexi wanted to play games, then Callie was ready to hop into the ring. Since Lexi was determined to hate her no matter what she did or how hard she tried, she might as well give up and give her something to work with.

  All’s fair in love and war . . . and this—this was war.

  “Let’s dance!” she yelled at Clint, pulling him into the fray.

  What began as a whisper, a tuck of the hair, and a light series of kisses on the cheek, neck, and ears soon devolved into a full-on, dance floor make-out. PDA wasn’t normally Callie’s style, but as she watched Lexi turn pink with envy, a grim satisfaction settled over her.

  Mission accomplished.

  “Trashy little freshman” makes out with hot upperclassman in front of ex’s friends and cohorts . . .

  Round one: Callie 1–Lexi 0

  After nearly half an hour on the dance floor, Callie felt tired and sweaty, and, in the words of Grandma Andrews, her wig was “starting to slip.”

  “Want to take a break?” she shouted over the music. Clint nodded and led her to a booth where Tatiana, Alexander, Mimi, and Fahad were seated, enjoying a round of colorful drinks. She spotted OK at a nearby table with a girl she recognized as a sophomore: cute but obviously not captivating enough since OK kept stealing sidelong glances at Mimi and muttering—no doubt issuing a deadly fatwa against Fahad.

  Mimi seemed too tipsy to notice the heartache and drama unfolding around her and chattered happily with Tatiana about the old glory days while Alexander and Clint started speaking in Man (“football-football-football”).

  “So, Fahad . . .” Callie started.

  “So . . .” he replied.

  “So.”

  “So . . . ?”

  “Uhm . . . have you seen Vanessa?”

  And then, miraculously, there she was, plopping down next to Callie, a little breathless and uncharacteristically unaware that her Cleopatra headdress was lopsided.

  “Where’s Prince Charming?” Callie asked, scanning the room for Vanessa’s “reputable index fund.”

  “What—you mean James?” said Vanessa, sounding less than enthusiastic. “He’s at the bar getting another drink, though, honestly, I don’t see how he can possibly drink anymore. He’s already so far gone, I doubt he even remembers his own name. . . .”

  “All the more reason for you to make sure he gets home safely and that nobody takes advantage of him,” Callie joked, nudging Vanessa in the ribs.

  Vanessa didn’t laugh. She tugged at her hair, looking frazzled. “Me! Take advantage of him? Ha! More like the other way around. That bastard tried to grope me and shove his tongue down my throat!”

  “Ew,” said Callie distractedly as she caught sight of Lexi dancing with a group of girls. Gregory was nowhere in sight.

  Abandoned by her date at her own party . . .

  Round two: Callie 2–Lexi 0

  Clint and Alexander, who had gone to the bar, returned with two huge scorpion bowls and proposed a race: boys versus girls. Following Mimi’s lead, Callie deduced that they were all meant to drink simultaneously using multiple straws. She, Mimi, Tatiana, and Vanessa crowded around their bowl, sipping frantically while Clint, Alexander, and Fahad made the contents of their own disappear.

  “Oh, shit, he’s back,” Vanessa muttered as James stumbled toward them.

  “There you are!” James slurred, cramming into the booth so close to Vanessa that he was practically on top of her, his arm snaking around her hips. “Thought you could run away from me, didn’t you?”

  Vanessa gave him a tight-lipped smile and tried to scoot closer to Callie. Misinterpreting, Callie moved closer to Clint to make more room. Clint smiled and wrapped his arm around her.

  Vanessa stood.

  “Hey, where are you going?” James cried, immediately standing with her.

  “Bathroom,” she answered curtly, trying to shake him off.

  “Hey now . . . don’t be like that. Let’s dance.”

  Callie threw her head back in laughter as Mimi and Tatiana began acting out a scene from one of their European misadventures in which Fahad had been cast in the role of a disgruntled camel. He was rising to the occasion beautifully. Vanessa looked at James, then back at the group, and then over his shoulder, searching for an escape route before James could launch into another monologue about how many houses he owned (the only thing he could talk about) or feel her up again (his idea of “dancing”).

  “If you’ll excuse me,” Vanessa began, backing away from him, “I have to go to the lady’s r—”

  “Shhhhhh,” he whispered, wrapping his arms around her and steering her toward the dance floor.

  “James, no,” she hissed, trying to push him away.

  “Oh . . . yes . . .” he moaned, his hands sliding down, lower and lower.

  She tried to break free. “Stop it!” she cried shrilly. “Get the hell off of m—”

  “Is there a problem here?” a voice asked, its owner steppin
g out of the crowd.

  “Hey, man, no, there’s no problem at all. We’re just having a lil fun, aren’t we sweetheart . . . ?” James slurred, tightening his grip on Vanessa, who turned and cried:

  “Gregory!”

  “I think you need to back up, pal,” said Gregory, placing a hand on James’s shoulder.

  “What the fuck’s your problem, man?” James yelled, finally stepping back from Vanessa and spinning around to face Gregory. “If I wanna have a lil fun with my date, I don’t see how that’s any of your goddamn business—”

  The music stopped. Callie and Mimi, who had finally realized what was happening, came rushing over with Clint and Fahad at their heels.

  “Guys like you are my problem,” said Gregory, his voice deadly calm. “Now listen carefully: you have ten seconds to leave the party, go outside, grab a cab, and go home. You will never so much as touch, speak, or even look at this girl again. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Clear as fucking crystal,” James muttered, shuffling backward toward the door. But then he paused, and eyeing Gregory, he lunged.

  He was so drunk that he missed by about three feet: sucker punching the air. Gregory watched James stumble. He smiled wryly. And then he punched him in the face.

  James spun backward and collapsed on the floor.

  Somebody screamed and the bouncer came running over. He stared at James for a moment, an oddly satisfied expression on his face. Then, pulling him to his feet, he dragged him out of the club.

  “Vanessa, what happened?” Callie demanded.

  “I am so sorry—” Mimi started.

  “We had no idea he was such a creep—”

  “Or that you needed help—”

  “Do you need anything?”

  Vanessa shook her head through her tears, unable to speak.

  “C’mon,” said Gregory, sliding an arm around Vanessa’s shoulders, “I’ll take you home.”

  “Good idea,” Clint agreed. “Vanessa, I’m so sorry. I had no idea that guy was such an asshole.”

  Vanessa nodded glumly, her head on Gregory’s shoulder.

  Callie stared dumbfounded as Gregory guided Vanessa out of the party. Clint was saying something, but she couldn’t concentrate on his words. Gregory—to the rescue? Gregory—and Vanessa? Was this for real?

  Apparently, Callie wasn’t the only one who had noticed. Lexi was also watching Gregory and Vanessa retreat into the night, anger and disbelief etched across her face.

  Publically deserted by her date in favor of another “trampy vixen froshling . . .”

  Final round: Callie 3–Lexi 0

  The winning point felt far less satisfying than Callie had anticipated.

  Chapter Twelve

  Elections

  Matt Robinson

  10/22/2010

  Crimson Op-Ed COMP Piece # 22

  Submitted to: Grace Lee, Editor

  Sexism at Harvard: A Psychological Inquiry

  The question: why would an intelligent woman willingly degrade not only herself but the entire history of the Women’s Movement by entering the doors of an all-male Final Club?

  The answer is, simply, that I don’t know.

  All we have to consider are the facts.

  Harvard, Princeton, and Yale, or “the Big Three” as they’ve been commonly known since the 1880s, continue to dominate in the rankings as the best, most elite undergraduate institutions in the country. Of the three, Harvard University, established in 1636, is the oldest; the nation looks to us to set the precedent for the rest of the academic community.

  In 1969 Princeton and Yale both became coeducational. However, the two schools’ infamous social clubs (the Eating Clubs at Princeton, the Skulls and Bones at Yale) did not begin admitting female members until 1991.

  At Princeton the Eating Clubs went coed as the result of a lawsuit.

  At Yale, when the board of trustees for the Skulls and Bones found out that the male undergraduate members had started “tapping” females, they changed the locks to the “Tomb.”

  As if that weren’t bad enough.

  Harvard, by contrast, did not go fully coeducational until the year 1999, when Radcliffe (the all-women’s college) and Harvard were finally integrated. In other words, women who attended the university graduated with a degree from Radcliffe, not Harvard, up until the final year of the twentieth century.

  Today Harvard is the last among the Big Three to remain socially segregated according to the sexes.

  Forget for a minute that the all-male Final Clubs promote classism, elitism, and exclusivity; forget that they are the most likely places on campus where a sexual assault will occur; and forget that the fledgling all-female Final Clubs haven’t a hope of acquiring property in the Harvard Square area without unimaginable financial backing.

  Rather than ask why women don’t have their own social spaces on campus, I ask you: why isn’t anybody fighting to make this happen? Why instead do the majority of females on campus subject themselves to this blatantly male-dominated environment, disappearing behind closed doors without a care for their safety or their rights every weekend night?

  Ladies? You tell me.

  I’ll get it!” Vanessa cried, leaping to her feet and running to answer a knock at the door.

  Callie, who was curled up on the couch reading Madame Bovary, stayed where she was, wondering why OK or Matt had bothered to knock when they usually just came barging in.

  “Flowers! For me?” Vanessa cried, grabbing the large glass vase from a delivery man and returning to the common room, staggering under the weight of an enormous bouquet.

  “Oooh, pretty,” said Callie. “Who are they from?”

  “I don’t know!” said Vanessa, leaning in to smell a lily. “Somebody must have remembered that it’s my birthday!”

  Callie laughed. Nobody could have forgotten that today, Friday, October 29, was Vanessa’s birthday: she had been reminding them for weeks. To celebrate, Vanessa, Callie, and Mimi were going to dinner at UpStairs on the Square.

  “Oh, wait, look! There’s a card!” Vanessa cried, noticing a small white note that had been tucked inside the leaves.

  “‘Beautiful flowers for a beautiful girl.’ Isn’t that sweet? ‘Congratulations . . .’” Reading on in silence, her face suddenly fell. “Oh, whoops,” she said. “I think these are actually for you, Callie.”

  “For me?” asked Callie. “Let me see it. . . .”

  “Wow,” said Vanessa. “And at the end of October! Shipping them in must have cost a fortune! I think he really, really likes you.”

  “They’re so . . .” Callie was stunned.

  “‘Congratulations on finishing your first round of COMP!’” Vanessa read, picking up the card again. “Wait a second: I thought you weren’t done until tomorrow?”

  “Ugh, don’t remind me!” said Callie, blowing a frustrated gust of air through her lips.

  “Thank god I quit after the first meeting. I cannot believe how hard you’ve been working!”

  “I know, I know,” said Callie, frowning. The past few weeks had been absolute hell: staying up until three every morning at the Crimson, editing until her fingers felt raw and her eyeballs were popping out of their sockets. “At least this round will be over by tomorrow. Maybe I’ll get cut and then I’ll have time to spend on my actual assignments,” she finished, waving Madame Bovary in the air.

  “Don’t say that!” Vanessa said. “You’re not getting cut. The pieces I read were amazing, and really funny, too— Wait, they’re supposed to be funny, right?

  “Sometimes . . .” Callie laughed.

  “Well, whatever. They’re great, you’re great, and I am very, very proud of you!”

  “Aw, thanks.”

  “So, listen, back to me: the reservation tonight is for nine o’clock sharp. I have to run some errands and go to Newbury to pick up my dress, so I’ll just meet you there, all right?”

  “Got it,” said Callie. “And what’s on the agenda for after dinner?�
��

  “I was thinking drinks at Daedalus,” Vanessa replied. “Where, if all goes according to plan, we will accidentally run into Gregory: my knight in shining Armani with his trusty steed, the Carrera.”

  Callie laughed and shook her head. “All right, nine o’clock sharp, UpStairs on the Square, drinks afterward: we’ll be there. Though I probably can’t stay at Daedalus for very long because Matt and I are planning to proofread each other’s pieces later tonight.”

  “Good. Well, you have to come for at least one drink,” Vanessa began, slinging her purse over her shoulder and heading for the door. “It just wouldn’t be the same without my best friend!”

  Best friend . . . Wait, what? When just two months ago Vanessa had been embarrassed to be seen with her in the dining hall?

  But the more Callie thought about it, the more it made sense. Vanessa’s main group of girlfriends from school treated her like New Money, and her guy friends . . . Well, seeing as she thought touchdowns were called baskets and beer was synonymous with bloating, she didn’t actually have many male friends to speak of.

  Plus, what happened in the dining hall had been eclipsed long ago by Vanessa’s nobler actions: helping Callie through her breakup, saving her from herself at Calypso, lending her outfits without blinking, and trying to get her punched for the Pudding.

  In fact, Callie was certain that if their situations at Mad Hatter’s had been reversed, Vanessa would have been there to help her. Even now, a full week later, Callie still felt guilty when she thought about it.

  “I can’t believe James turned out to be such an asshole,” Callie had said the morning after Mad Hatter’s, feeling terrible for not noticing when Vanessa was in trouble. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “Yep,” Vanessa answered firmly, though her expression had darkened when Callie mentioned his name. “It was basically all worth it just to be rescued by Gregory. . . .”

  “Yeah,” said Callie, staring at her lap. “He was pretty amazing.” She lifted her head but couldn’t quite bring herself to meet Vanessa’s eyes. As casually as possible, she added: “Did anything happen between you two last night?”