by Lauren Kunze
“No.” Vanessa smiled. “Though you could tell he totally wanted to make a move but, like, couldn’t because of the situation. He was a perfect gentleman.”
“Ha!” scoffed Callie before she could stop herself. “Since when has Gregory ever acted like a gentleman?”
“Oh, Callie, he’s really not as bad as you think! He was completely wonderful last night. I feel like I finally got to see a side of him that not very many people know. I think we really connected!”
“Really?” asked Callie. “So . . . no good-night kiss? No nothing?”
“Nope,” said Vanessa, sounding inexplicably cheerful. “Normally I’d take that as a bad sign, but he kept dropping hints left and right.”
“Oh . . . Like what?
“Just, you know, saying how he might finally be ready for something more serious and how it might be nice to have a girlfriend . . . Oh, and when we were talking about OK and Mimi, he said that Mimi told him she finds OK attractive and loves his personality but doesn’t want to hook up casually with him—because they’re such good friends—until she knows if they have real relationship potential. Anyway, the entire time he’s saying this, he keeps giving me these looks . . . you know, really long, meaningful ones.”
Callie knew it’d be wiser to end the conversation there, but she just couldn’t keep herself from asking: “Wait, so how did that topic of conversation even come up?”
“Oh, you know,” said Vanessa, “we were just gossiping about all the roommates: saying how funny it’d be if OK and Mimi got together since Adam and Dana are dating. . . . And then I guess he was wondering if you and Clint were officially a couple and I said yes—”
“What?” said Callie sharply, “What do you mean you said yes? Clint and I aren’t officially together; we’ve barely even started dating!”
“Oh— Really? I guess I just assumed you were official already. I mean, why wouldn’t you be? He’s so into you and he’s perfect!”
Staring at the beautiful flowers, Callie almost laughed aloud at the thought that just one week ago, she had objected to their being referred to as a couple. The only reason she’d been able to survive the past seven days was Clint: he had brought her coffee at the Crimson nearly every night, massaged her neck and shoulders, and seen her through more than one work-induced near nervous breakdown.
At this point there was only one thing holding her back. And no, despite what you may be thinking, his name wasn’t Gregory. (Though did he really like Vanessa? I mean, really? Why did he care if things with Clint were official, anyway?)
This particular issue dated all the way back to the original asshole—no, not Adam—Evan. After what he’d done, when it came to relationships, she really didn’t know if she’d be able to trust guys again, ever.
So she should probably stop thinking about Clint that way . . . constantly . . . and stop having fantasies about him throwing her COMP pieces on the floor and lifting her onto a desk at the Crimson. . . . Or making another midnight trip to the top of the Astronomy Tower and climbing the ladder to the observation deck . . . Or about him pressing her up against the wall in the coatroom at the Pudding . . . Or . . . Or . . . Or . . .
NO! Sex, as she ought to be doing a better job of reminding herself, could lead to catastrophic unforeseen complications way worse than the usual array of STDs, pregnancy, and oxytocin overdose.
Clint. Evan. Gregory. Clint. Clegorvan—ARGHHH!!! She buried her nose in Madame Bovary, vowing to finish at least this chapter before she returned to the daunting stack of COMP assignments piled high on her desk. Turning the page, she read:
Before she married, she thought she was in love; but the happiness that should have resulted from that love, somehow had not come. It seemed to her that she must have made a mistake, have misunderstood in some way or another. And Emma tried hard to discover what, precisely, it was in life that was denoted by the words “joy, passion, intoxication,” which had always looked so fine to her in books—
Callie was once again interrupted when Dana marched into the room. Her face looked like a five-year-old’s face-paint project gone wrong. It appeared she may have been trying to use makeup for the first time. “Dana, what . . . ?” Callie ventured. Dana turned beet red.
“Well, I aced my Physics 15 midterm, but when it comes to this type of thing, I’m like a wild African warthog stuck in the bottom of a muddy watering hole. . . .”
It took Callie a few seconds to process that before she turned to her roommate in amazement. “Dana—was that a joke?”
“Yes,” said Dana. “An attempt, anyhow.”
Callie laughed. “It’s really not that difficult. Here, come into the bathroom and I’ll show you.”
“Thank you very much,” Dana said.
“No problem!” Callie replied. Anything to get away from Emma Bovary and her boy problems . . .
It was 8:55 and they were running late. Mimi had been napping and slept through her alarm, while Callie had spent every possible moment editing her pieces for COMP.
“Hurry up, Mimi. Let’s go!” Callie cried, steering her roommate toward the door. It had barely shut when they turned and found themselves face-to-face with Matt. He looked disheveled and unshaven, and Callie wondered guiltily if he couldn’t find anyone to hang out with on a Friday night.
“So, are we still on for proofreading later?” he asked Callie, eyeing her dress.
“Yes, yes, of course!” she assured him. The look on his face made her feel like she should have some sort of an excuse for what she was wearing. “It’s, uhm, Vanessa’s birthday tonight, and just the three of us girls are going to dinner. After that, I’ll be there, I swear.” She didn’t know why she felt the need to emphasize that it was just girls, or omit the part about getting cocktails later. . . .
“Okay, great,” he answered, starting to smile. “I’m really looking forward to reading your final drafts.”
“Yeah, me too,” she said, lying through her teeth. She would die of embarrassment if he actually saw some of the latest things that she had written, like “Top Ten Low-Cal Fro-Yo Toppings” or “How to Wear Your Hair with Glasses.” Not that those topics were her fault but still . . . “I’ll only be out for an hour or so and then I’ll meet you there.”
He frowned slightly, a dubious expression on his face.
“Matt, I promise. Just one hour and I’ll be there.”
They were only three blocks away from the restaurant when Mimi’s phone started vibrating in her pocketbook.
Callie frowned. Probably Vanessa calling to yell at us for being late.
A strange expression crossed Mimi’s face. She stopped walking. Before Callie could ask what was going on, she too felt her phone vibrate in her pocket.
“Hello?”
“Get to the John Harvard statue.” The voice was calm and deadly serious. “You have three minutes—or else.” Click.
“You got the call?” Mimi asked Callie. She nodded slowly.
“We have to go,” said Mimi, making her way back toward the Yard.
“What about Vanessa?” Callie asked, looking hopelessly in the direction of the restaurant.
“I am certain she will meet us there . . . but regardless, we must go maintenant.”
Callie didn’t know what was going on, but Mimi had said Vanessa would meet them there, so Callie followed her down the street, marveling at how fast her roommate could move in high heels.
When they arrived at the John Harvard statue, Callie noticed that they seemed to be among the last to join some twenty-odd freshmen from New York City and abroad. Gregory and OK were standing nearby; they gave the girls a knowing smile, which Callie barely registered. Her eyes scanned the crowd, searching for Vanessa.
Slowly it dawned on her. She recognized the Upper East Side JAQs, WASPs, NYC Prepsters, Malibu Barbies, Star Athletes, and OPEC Kings. About sixty socialites of the campus elite were there: the members of the Hasty Pudding.
But where was Vanessa? Was she still waiting at the restau
rant? Surely she would have known what it meant when she got the call, if she had gotten the call at all. . . . No, that was impossible—there must have been some mistake.
The freshmen rippled with excitement as Tyler Green stepped forward with a giant megaphone and boomed: “WELCOME!”
Everyone near Callie broke into thunderous cheers, hugging each other and shaking hands as if this were a cheesy disaster movie and they had just collectively saved the planet from imminent destruction. Callie pulled out her phone, wondering if she should call Vanessa and what she ought to say. There was a text from Vanessa asking where they were, confirming Callie’s worst fears: Vanessa hadn’t gotten the call.
Callie felt a physical, visceral ill settling in the pit of her stomach as her phone suddenly lit up with an incoming call from VANESSA V. Callie knew she shouldn’t ditch Vanessa—and on her birthday, of all days—but she also had no idea what she could possibly say to her. Surely there would be some explanation, but for now the only thing to do was buy some time.
VANESSA, I AM SO, SO SORRY.
EMERGENCY AT THE CRIMSON,
HAD TO RUN. HAPPY BIRTHDAY,
LOVE YOU & I PROMISE TO MAKE
IT UP TO YOU SOON.
She let her phone slide back into her pocket. The shouts around her faded: the novices of the group suddenly aware that the veterans weren’t smiling.
Tyler Green raised his megaphone once more and cried: “Amanda Cooper!”
A tiny freshman girl stepped forward, trembling slightly. Silently Tyler handed her a slip of paper, and then two upperclassman members poured a “welcome” shot down her throat.
“Brandon Huntsman!”
Brandon stepped forward. And so on: each new member-elect called forth until soon enough, it was her turn.
“Callie Andrews!”
She accepted the slip of paper, which bore the heading A Letter to New Members from President Tyler Green. She opened her mouth to the alcohol and let the warmth wash over her, hoping to erase her guilt. Clint took a step forward from the crowd, beaming at her and lifting his fingers in a covert wave.
After all twenty-five names were announced, the upperclassmen suddenly broke into wild applause. Screaming words of welcome, they raised their bottles in a toast to the newest members of the Hasty Pudding Social Club.
Callie threw herself into Clint’s arms. He grabbed her around the waist and dipped her like a tango dancer before pulling her close and planting a long, lingering kiss upon her eager lips.
She kissed him fully and passionately. Nobody could take this moment away from her: not Gregory, not Evan, and not . . .
Wait a minute, Callie thought abruptly, pulling back from Clint. Where’s . . . ?
Then she spotted her, talking with a group of newly elected members.
Alexis Thorndike.
She looked perfectly happy and carefree as she threw her head back and laughed at something that OK had just said.
Relieved, Callie turned to Clint. “Ready for some mandatory mingling?” he asked.
“Absolutely.”
Ninety minutes of introductions, speeches, and welcome shots later, Tyler was nearing the end of his “anti”-hazing proclamation, wink, wink, nudge, nudge. When he finished, Callie turned to Clint and whispered: “So, are you going to haze me now or haze me later—in private?” In the Crimson, in the science center, in the coatroom, on a desk, under the telescope—
“You!” he cried accusingly, tickling her sides. “Perhaps I will have to haze you into learning some respect for your elders!” She screamed as he chased her, brandishing a ten-dollar handle of rum.
Catching her, he threw his arms around her waist and said: “Seriously, though. How did I ever get so lucky?” he asked, nuzzling up against her neck. “The coolest, most beautiful girl on the Harvard campus and for some reason she picked me.”
Callie leaned into him. He was lucky she had “picked” him? Clearly it was the other way around. There wasn’t a girl on campus who wouldn’t kill to be Clint Weber’s girlfriend—probably a few boys as well. The word for him, and for the moment, that kept surfacing over and over again was perfect. Everything was absolutely per—
“And I’m so sorry about Vanessa,” Clint added, suddenly somber. “I really did everything I could, but she was blackballed by someone on the board. Something about some girl’s boyfriend and the first week of school. I went to bat for her, but there was nothing else I could do. . . .”
Everything went mute. Vanessa. They had abandoned her at UpStairs on the Square, alone, with no explanations, on her birthday. She and Mimi had both assumed that Vanessa was going to meet them there, but still that was no excuse. Biting her lip, Callie said: “Clint, I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go. I need to find Vanessa—I never should have come without her.”
“That’s all right,” he said. “Dinner tomorrow to celebrate the completion of your first COMP portfolio?”
“Sure,” she said, forcing a smile as she realized that Vanessa wasn’t the only person she was going to disappoint tonight.
Mimi was completely engrossed in conversation with a group of seniors, so Callie gave Clint a farewell kiss on the cheek and then left the party.
Why me? she wondered as she walked. It was Vanessa who fit the profile of the Pudding, not Callie. Vanessa who had wanted it more. Vanessa who deserved it more . . .
Lost in her thoughts, Callie arrived at Wigglesworth.
Gregory was sitting on the stone steps that led up to their entryway, smoking and staring off into space. He tossed his cigarette aside when he saw her. “Hey.”
“Hey,” she replied cautiously. “Crazy night . . .”
“I’ll say.”
“I guess we made it,” she said, hovering awkwardly. He wasn’t exactly blocking the door, so she couldn’t exactly ask him to move.
“So what?” he asked, tapping out another cigarette and placing it between his lips.
Her eyes lingered there momentarily. She shook herself. “So . . . so nothing, I guess.”
“You see Vanessa yet?” he asked. “She seemed pretty upset.”
“She’s— Wait, you saw her?”
“Yeah . . . about ten minutes ago. She was standing right where you are yelling something about a birthday dinner, so I told her about the Pudding, but before I could say anything else, she ran inside.” He shrugged.
Callie’s face fell.
“You okay?” he asked.
“I—well—ah, I’m worried . . . about Vanessa.”
“You should go talk to her,” he said.
She stared at him for a few seconds. He stood up to make room so she could pass. It was tactful as far as dismissals go, but the message was still clear. Reaching for the door, she tried to block out the look of concern on his face—concern, evidently, for Vanessa.
“Hey,” he said suddenly, his fingers brushing her wrist. “Will you—will you let me know later how she is?”
“Sure,” Callie muttered, averting her eyes. Her heart plummeted from her stomach into her knees. Her knees felt weak. As quickly as possible, she climbed the stairs to the second floor.
When she reached the landing, she ran into Matt who, hands full, was on his way down to take out the trash. As soon as he saw her, he turned back toward his room without saying a word.
Oh, crap, she thought. In all the excitement of the Welcome Party, she had completely forgotten to text him and let him know she wasn’t coming. Still, she had to at least try.
“Matt, look, I’m so sorry. . . . You can’t possibly guess what happened tonight—”
Matt whirled around to face her, his expression furious. She had never seen him even angry before.
“What happened tonight, Callie?” he yelled, throwing the trash bags onto the floor. “What? Did your fabulous new friends come up with some fabulous new event that you couldn’t possibly bear to skip?”
She tried to open her mouth, but he cut her off.
“Whatever, I’m done. I’m so tired of w
aiting for the girl I met on the first day of school. You know: the one who was smart and ambitious and cared about things outside of events and parties? Do you even remember her or is your head so full of alcohol and air now that you’ve completely forgotten?”
Stunned, Callie watched as he grabbed the trash bags and stomped down the stairs. It was as if he had read in her heart the very worst things she thought about herself and then said them aloud.
Completely deflated and more than a little upset, she trudged into her common room.
Vanessa was huddled up on the couch shoveling Easy Mac into her mouth. Her dress looked rumpled and she had only bothered to remove one shoe, while dark streaks of mascara formed telltale tracks down the sides of her face.
I am officially the worst person in the world. “Vanessa,” Callie started, but Vanessa just shook her head and forced several more spoonfuls of mac-n-cheese down her throat before standing and heading for her bedroom.
The door closed with a slam.
“Please, Vanessa!” Callie yelled after her, making her way toward the door. “Just give me a chance to explain. . . .”
No response.
“Look, when Mimi and I got the call, we had no idea that you—”
“That I what?” Vanessa cried, flinging open her door. “Got rejected?” She shook her head. “You know, you really don’t get it, do you, Callie? Just this afternoon I called you my best friend, and yet you can’t even bother to tell me the truth when you ditched me on my birthday for the Pudding. Yeah, it sucks that I didn’t get in, but what sucks even more is that you didn’t have the guts to tell me to my face. Instead, I had to hear it from Gregory!”
For the second time that night, Callie couldn’t think of a response. Vanessa snorted and slammed the door once more.
Callie walked into her own room and sank onto the bed. She could hear Gregory and what sounded like Mimi with several other new Pudding members talking and laughing outside, right underneath her window. The sounds of a movie playing drifted over from Dana’s room, where she was most likely cuddling chastely with Adam. The creak of a door and the slam of another told her that Vanessa had probably locked herself in the bathroom yet again, trying to purge the imaginary damage done by the mac-n-cheese.
