The Ivy

by Lauren Kunze

  As Mimi squealed loudly in reaction to something someone said, Callie wished she were in the mood to celebrate, wished that Vanessa had gotten into the Pudding, or that she’d had the guts to tell her roommate the truth, and wished that she weren’t, undeniably, a terrible friend.

  She lay back on her bed and stared at the ceiling. She was debating whether to change into her PJs or just go to sleep in her clothes when her phone vibrated once.

  She flipped it open to find a text message from Clint.

  I MISS YOU ALREADY!

  HOW’D IT GO WITH VANESSA?

  Sighing, she dialed his number. No matter how low she felt, she knew she could count on Clint.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Three may keep a secret

  IF TWO OF THEM ARE DEAD”

  The Harvard Crimson

  BREAKING NEWS OPINION FM ARTS SPORTS

  OPINION

  My Facebook Stalker

  The online consequences of a relationship gone awry

  Submitted ANONYMOUSLY, Edited by GRACE LEE

  It’s taken me nearly a year to write this story, and I’m not kidding when I say that sometimes I’m still afraid.

  “Dan” and “Alex” (aliases I borrowed from the film Fatal Attraction) had been dating long-distance for nearly all of college. He was a senior at Harvard; she went to the University of Wisconsin. Alex was completely in love; Dan, on the other hand, was slightly bored.

  That’s where I, a naive sophomore at the time, came into the picture: Dan, whom I met during a talk at the Kennedy School of Government, developed unsolicited romantic feelings for me. It was a harmless crush, really—that is until Alex was able to track our flirtation by logging into his Facebook account and reading his private correspondence.

  After surviving several months of hate e-mail, angry phone calls, and bitter instant messages from a distraught Alex—who had obtained my contact information via Dan’s Facebook profile—they finally graduated, and I thought I was in the clear. Despite everything that had happened, they were planning not only to stay together, but to live together in Chicago, where he was headed for graduate school after college.

  I thought it would end there. As it turns out, I was wrong.

  At the beginning of my junior year I got a friendship request from a random girl named “Judy Masterson.” I didn’t actually know her, but I made the mistake of accepting her friend request because we had several friends in common, and hey, I didn’t want to be rude, right? Big mistake.

  Things were normal at first, and sometimes Judy’s online activities would show up on my News Feed (aka Stalker’s Paradise). I found it a little odd when she would send me casual “getting to know you” messages, but when I looked closer at her profile, I concluded that she was just a lonely girl living in New York City. She had about 300 Facebook friends and even a couple of photo albums, and even though each photo had a detailed explanation of why you couldn’t actually see her in the picture, never for a second did it occur to me that the profile wasn’t real.

  Wrong again: after several months of online “friendship” with Judy Masterson, things started to get a little weird. First there were some strange messages, then a couple of passive-aggressive posts about “Harvard sluts that steal people’s boyfriends,” which seemed clearly, though inexplicably, targeted at me.

  Finally I figured it out: Alex, who must have felt restless at home while Dan was away all day getting his master’s in psychology (oh, the irony), spent countless hours creating a fake Facebook profile all for the purpose of stalking me.

  After a nasty online confrontation she was forced to deactivate her stalker’s profile, but from time to time I still get random “friendship” requests from people I know nothing about other than the fact that we have a couple of friends in common.

  A word to the wise: never accept a request from somebody that you do not know IN PERSON and never post private information (phone numbers, e-mails, addresses, photos, etc.) in a public forum on the internet. You should know better—especially if you are a psych major—not to give your passwords to a potentially unstable girlfriend.

  In short, you never know who can gain access to a profile or who is out there watching. . . . It might be as harmless as a future employer, but for all we know in this anonymous cyber-world, it could be another psychotic, possibly dangerous Facebook stalker.

  On the following Friday Callie was making her way back toward Wigglesworth after class when she ran into Gregory and Clint headed in the opposite direction. They were both wearing athletic gear, squash rackets in tow.

  “Hey!” Clint cried, hugging Callie. Gregory glanced rudely at his watch.

  “Hi!” Callie answered, disengaging quickly because she was, after all, anti-PDA. Or so she told herself. “I didn’t realize you guys had practice right now.”

  “We don’t,” said Clint. “But every Friday we stop by the local public high school to hit the ball around with some of the kids.”

  “Just for fun?” she asked, looking from one to the other.

  “Well, it is fun,” said Clint, “but also their program can’t afford a coach, so we divide up their practices among the guys on our team.”

  “Wow,” said Callie. “That’s so great.”

  “It’s really no big deal,” said Gregory, avoiding her eyes. “Hey, we should probably get going.”

  “Quit being so modest,” Clint said, punching Gregory on the arm. “The whole mentor program was his idea in the first place,” he added, turning to Callie. “He organized the entire thing!”

  “Did he . . . ?” Callie asked, staring hard at Gregory.

  “Just padding my resume,” he muttered, shuffling his feet.

  “You should see him with the kids,” Clint continued. “They love him.”

  “Speaking of which,” said Gregory, “we really do have to get going. We can’t be late.”

  “The man is dedicated,” said Clint, slapping him on the back. “Anyway, I will call you later,” he said, pointing at Callie. “Maybe tonight we could all meet up for a drink?”

  “Can’t—I’m busy,” Gregory said at the exact same moment that Callie shook her head and muttered, “I have to work.”

  Clint gave them a funny look. “Well, you guys are no fun. Guess I’ll see you tomorrow?”

  “Sure,” said Callie, and then she watched them walk away side by side.

  Back in Wigglesworth as she stood facing the door to C 24, Callie noticed a large manila envelope sitting in the metal drop box.

  It had her name on it.

  Her heart started to beat three times faster as she tore it open. Reaching inside, she pulled out a thick stack of papers, recognizing her COMP pieces—or rather what remained of them after the editor’s unforgiving pen.

  There was also a note.

  “Vanessa!” Callie cried as she threw open the front door. “Vanessa, I made it! Vanessa—”

  And that’s when she remembered: Vanessa wasn’t speaking to her. A full week had passed, but apart from a “Hurry-up-in-the-bathroom!” and a surprised grunt after a near collision in the hall, Vanessa had been completely silent.

  And it’s all my fault, Callie reminded herself. Lately she’d become a rotten, horrible person—worse than Lexi, worse than that dude who stabbed Caesar, and almost as bad as Evan.

  All week long she had been trying to think of ways to make it up to them: Vanessa and, not to be forgotten, Matt.

  Of the two Matt had been slightly easier. After a few awkward silences in the hallway she’d knocked on his door wielding hot chocolate, a giant cookie, and her best sad, puppy-dog eyes. It had been impossible for him to resist.

  Vanessa, on the other hand, still hated her guts. Callie had tried everything: cookies, apology notes, little presents, and funny cartoons about Dana and Adam, and she had even asked Mimi to talk to her (which turned out to be a mistake, since Vanessa was none too pleased with her either).

  As Callie entered her bedroom, she realized her phone
was vibrating in her pocket.

  ONE INCOMING CALL FROM . . . Worse than Brutus. Oh, goody.

  “Hi, Evan,” she said, sitting down at her desk.

  “Callie? Hey! How are you? Are you coming home for Thanksgiving br—”

  “Save the small talk, Davies,” she snapped. “It’s been almost a month already. Did you take care of it?”

  “Well . . .”

  “Yes or no, Evan.”

  “Yes . . . ,” he started, “and no.”

  “What do you mean ‘yes and no’? What the fuck, Evan?” she yelled, standing up and starting to pace around her room.

  “Callie, look, calm down,” he said. “I couldn’t exactly ‘take care of it’ because more than one person has a copy—”

  “What? But you said—”

  “Please,” he interrupted, “just let me explain. Like I told you back in September, I gave a copy of the file to my big brother because it was worth a lot of points in the scavenger hunt. But I realized immediately what a huge mistake I had made, and that’s when I called you—”

  “Yes, I know. I was there. And then you swore to explain the situation to him and get it back—erase it—whatever. Which you did . . . you did, right?”

  Evan was silent. “Well . . . I did . . . try. But he said it wouldn’t count unless we showed—”

  “‘SHOWED!?’”

  “Just to the brothers who were in charge of initiation—to prove that I actually did it!”

  Callie felt sick. She sank back down in the chair at her desk.

  “My big brother promised me that it was only saved on his computer and that he would delete it permanently after initiation was over. But, just to be safe, I broke into his room two nights ago and I erased his entire hard drive. Including,” he added darkly, “his senior thesis.”

  “So then it’s fine?” Callie asked, gripping the sides of her chair. “It’s erased—destroyed—and all of this is over?”

  “Well, not quite. I thought that’d be the end of it and was about to call and tell you so last night when . . .”

  “When what?”

  “When an e-mail went out over the fraternity list. And the file—it was attached. Everyone in the frat . . . has a copy now.”

  “How—how—is that . . . possible?” Callie’s head was spinning so fast she could barely see.

  “I—I don’t know, Callie. I’m sorry,” Evan said, his voice breaking. “I did everything I could. Please believe me. This morning I quit the frat.”

  There was nothing left for her to say, except: “Evan, I never want to speak to you again.”

  “Callie—”

  “And I need to see that e-mail. Send it, and then don’t contact me ever again.”

  “All right,” he said after a pause, swallowing hard. “I’ll forward it to you right now, and I’ll call you later to see if there’s anything else I can—”

  “Don’t ever call me again.” She hung up the phone.

  Callie flipped open her computer screen. Her foot started tap-tap-tapping as she logged into her in-box, waiting for Evan’s e-mail to arrive. Angrily, she clicked Refresh, and sure enough, a new e-mail appeared.

  But it wasn’t from Evan. Instead, it was from the “Hasty Pudding Club; est. 1770”:

  * * *

  From: Anne Goldberg

  To: Callie Andrews

  Subject: Welcome to the Pudding!

  * * *

  Greetings, neophytes!

  Your presence is requested for a mandatory meeting at the clubhouse (2 Garden St.) this coming Tuesday, 2 P.M. sharp. The meeting should not take more than half an hour: we just need a signature from you acknowledging that you have received and read the club’s rules and, of course, your installment of this semester’s dues, payable no later than Dec. 31st. Details can be found in the letter you received last Friday evening. We are happy to accept payment via credit card or personal check. At the end of the meeting, you will all receive your set of keys to the clubhouse. Please e-mail with further questions or concerns.

  Best,

  Anne Goldberg, Secretary

  Callie had to read the e-mail twice before she understood what was meant by the word dues. With a sinking feeling she picked up the letter that Tyler Green had handed her a week ago during the Pudding welcome party.

  Sure enough, near the bottom of the page, there was a paragraph about “Club Dues.”

  Quickly she calculated in her head. Lunch fees . . . guest fees . . . one-time participation fee . . . maintenance fees . . . ONE THOUSAND DOLLARS?

  How the hell was she going to pull that off when her entire budget for both semesters was two thousand dollars minus at least seven hundred for books?

  What could she possibly say to her parents?

  “Mom, Dad: could you please double my budget?”

  “Why? Oh, just for social reasons . . .”

  It was impossible. They would never understand. Especially when they had just spent so much money on a plane ticket to fly her home for Thanksgiving break.

  Tears of frustration and hopelessness started to leak out of the corners of her eyes as she navigated back to her in-box. And there it was.

  * * *

  From: Evan Davies

  To: Callie Andrews

  Subject: (no subject)

  Attachments (1): C:UsersEvan DaviesDesktopPrivateCaptains’_Practice.avi

  * * *

  I’m sorry.

  She couldn’t bring herself to open the attachment. Instead, she flung her head down on top of her desk and started sobbing, beating the wood with her fists. She wished her parents hadn’t been able to afford to fly her home for Thanksgiving—how could she ever show her face in Los Angeles again?

  She barely noticed the sound of Vanessa’s heels clicking down the hall, or her voice, which seemed annoyed as she announced, “Callie—I’m just coming in to take back that dress I lent you last month—”

  Vanessa paused midsentence as she barged into the room.

  “Callie?” she asked.

  “Oh! Vanessa!” Callie gasped through her sobs, accidentally knocking over her desk chair as she stood.

  “Callie—oh my god—what’s wrong?”

  Callie collapsed onto her bed, her body shaking with sobs. Vanessa hesitated for a moment but then sat down on the bed and placed a hand on Callie’s shoulder.

  “Vanessa,” Callie said as she cried into her pillow. “I am so, so, so sorry about what happened on your birthday—what I did to you. It was unforgivable. I’ve been so completely horrible lately. I don’t even deserve you as a friend—”

  “Oh, hush,” said Vanessa. “I don’t appreciate that you lied to me and I expect you to promise never to do it again in the future, but we can talk about that later. . . . Now, why don’t you tell me what’s wrong?”

  “It’s my ex—Evan, from high school. . . .”

  “What? I thought you’d be totally over him by now since things are going so great with Clint—”

  Vanessa cringed as the mention of Clint sent Callie into a new gale of hysterics.

  “Clint! I forgot all about—oh god—if he—never going to speak to me again!”

  “Callie, what on earth are you talking about?” Vanessa demanded. “Didn’t Clint just invite you to have Thanksgiving at his parents’ house in Virginia?” Suddenly she looked sheepish. “I didn’t mean to—I mean, I overheard you telling Mimi about it the other night. . . .” Vanessa realized her words were only making things worse. Taking a deep breath, she tried once more:

  “Callie, please. You’re starting to scare me. What is going on here?”

  But by now Callie was sobbing too hard to speak. Pathetically she gestured toward her computer.

  Vanessa sat down, clicked OK, and waited for the file to open. Her eyes widened in shock, which soon turned to embarrassment, and then horror. Quickly she closed the window. She had seen enough.

  “Callie,” Vanessa said urgently, turning to face her. “You didn’t— know—ab
out this—at all, did you? Even when it was happening?”

  “No,” Callie murmured into her pillow. “No! Of course I didn’t know it was happening! Do you really think I’d agree to something like that? He did it secretly, for some stupid fucking dare—and it wouldn’t be a problem now if he’d destroyed it afterward, but then he”—she paused, choking up—“he gave it to somebody in his fraternity—”

  Vanessa’s horror-struck eyes opened wider still.

  “And e-mailed . . . e-mailed . . .”

  Callie stopped abruptly, unable to continue.

  Vanessa rushed back to her and embraced her as tight as she possibly could.

  “Oh, Vanessa,” Callie murmured, leaning her head on Vanessa’s shoulder. “I’m ruined. . . .”

  Privately, Vanessa couldn’t help but agree.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Go Ask Alice

  The Meaning of Life Is a Rainbow

  A poem by Matt Robinson

  Lettuce is green

  Girls are mean

  Bananas are yellow

  Boys are mellow

  My shirt is purple

  Greg’s a turtle

  Hair that’s red

  Means crazy in bed

  Rhymes with orange?

  I’m not blue

  I’m a shoe.

  There was nothing Callie could do other than try to lose herself in schoolwork, editing her second COMP portfolio, her social life, and Clint—the latter two being a limited luxury depending on if, or really how quickly, gossip could travel from California to Cambridge. In the olden days of parchment, wax seals, and men on horses, one could count on news to travel slowly, but now it was no longer possible for people to have hos in different area codes or to do something naughty in one state and expect to be absolved simply by moving to another.