Read Online The Ivy: Secrets by Lauren Kunze, Rina Onur - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Lauren Kunze, Rina Onur
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you can see that, uh, Austen’s treatment of reputation is more nuanced than Wharton’s comparatively one-note conflation of status and material wealth. And, for me at least, it seems more modern since today there are still snobs, and sometimes all you have is your good name, and to lose it would be devastating, though it probably wouldn’t, uh, kill you.” Time to stop talking. Callie trailed off, looking down at her desk.
“Thank you, Ms. Andrews,” said Mary Anne after a beat. People shifted back in their chairs. Grace Lee had bent her head over the essay, and Callie could imagine her eyes flitting across the page, scrutinizing every word. “Several astute points,” Mary Anne continued, “and a good note, I think, on which to end our discussion.”
Callie looked at the clock. Sometime during her bumbling analysis that was probably equal parts bullshit and brilliance—she was too light-headed to tell or care at this point—the second hand had mercifully clicked its way to two o’clock. Freedom.
Freedom to go to work, anyway, where she could count the minutes standing between her and food. Quickly she started shoving her papers into her bag, picturing a giant burrito from Felipe’s with everything on it: guacamole, sour cream, salsa. . . .
“Don’t forget,” Mary Anne was saying as people began to stand up and stretch. “Bryce’s review session covering close-readings of key quotations is tomorrow at three in Emerson.”
Callie stood and ducked into the hall. What about a big slice of pepperoni pizza from Noch’s? She hurried down the steps. Or even a huge bowl of cereal from Annenberg. When she reached the bottom she sensed somebody behind her, following closely at her heels.
It was Grace Lee. Callie blinked: for a moment there Grace’s head had looked like a sandwich. Grace fell into stride next to her and gave her a hard look. “Freshman, right?” she asked as they stepped out into the freezing December air. Before Callie could answer, she continued: “You write well, if a bit naively.”
“Um, thanks,” said Callie, deciding that this was high praise coming from someone so scary smart. “My name’s Callie—”
“Andrews, right. I know,” Grace said, waving the packet that contained her paper. “I wonder: have you ever considered COMPing the Crimson ? This semester’s COMPers have been a little light on talent so we’re looking for new blood in the spring.”
“Wow, um, thank you,” Callie stammered, her stomach growling again. They had stopped under the trees outside of Sever Hall. Discreetly she glanced over Grace’s head—which barely reached Callie’s shoulder—to the brick staircase leading up to the courtyard in front of Lamont. “I’m actually still in the running for FM , but I have no idea if I’m going to make . . .”
Grace’s face changed abruptly. “I see,” Grace said. Then she nodded curtly and walked off as suddenly as she had appeared. Callie stood still for a moment, then shrugged and headed toward Lamont.
Her feet dragged as she trudged up the stone steps to the library. She was coming to dread her time at work almost as much as she dreaded running into Vanessa on her way to the bathroom, or worse, into Gregory on her way down the hall. Trapped behind a desk, there was no escape from whoever might decide to frequent Lamont; she was stuck.
She slung her bag over the counter and slipped in front of the reference desk, sinking onto the tall, uncomfortable stool that faced the computer. She stared blankly at the screen for a few minutes, hoping it hid her from whoever might be lurking in the reading room or Lamont Café. She checked her e-mail. Then Facebook, then Twitter, and then The New York Times . No major world catastrophes, friend requests, op-eds, or interesting tweets in the past hour or so. She fidgeted. She bit her nails until she realized there was nothing left to chew.
When students arrived at the counter with their books, she stamped the
“Thank you, Ms. Andrews,” said Mary Anne after a beat. People shifted back in their chairs. Grace Lee had bent her head over the essay, and Callie could imagine her eyes flitting across the page, scrutinizing every word. “Several astute points,” Mary Anne continued, “and a good note, I think, on which to end our discussion.”
Callie looked at the clock. Sometime during her bumbling analysis that was probably equal parts bullshit and brilliance—she was too light-headed to tell or care at this point—the second hand had mercifully clicked its way to two o’clock. Freedom.
Freedom to go to work, anyway, where she could count the minutes standing between her and food. Quickly she started shoving her papers into her bag, picturing a giant burrito from Felipe’s with everything on it: guacamole, sour cream, salsa. . . .
“Don’t forget,” Mary Anne was saying as people began to stand up and stretch. “Bryce’s review session covering close-readings of key quotations is tomorrow at three in Emerson.”
Callie stood and ducked into the hall. What about a big slice of pepperoni pizza from Noch’s? She hurried down the steps. Or even a huge bowl of cereal from Annenberg. When she reached the bottom she sensed somebody behind her, following closely at her heels.
It was Grace Lee. Callie blinked: for a moment there Grace’s head had looked like a sandwich. Grace fell into stride next to her and gave her a hard look. “Freshman, right?” she asked as they stepped out into the freezing December air. Before Callie could answer, she continued: “You write well, if a bit naively.”
“Um, thanks,” said Callie, deciding that this was high praise coming from someone so scary smart. “My name’s Callie—”
“Andrews, right. I know,” Grace said, waving the packet that contained her paper. “I wonder: have you ever considered COMPing the Crimson ? This semester’s COMPers have been a little light on talent so we’re looking for new blood in the spring.”
“Wow, um, thank you,” Callie stammered, her stomach growling again. They had stopped under the trees outside of Sever Hall. Discreetly she glanced over Grace’s head—which barely reached Callie’s shoulder—to the brick staircase leading up to the courtyard in front of Lamont. “I’m actually still in the running for FM , but I have no idea if I’m going to make . . .”
Grace’s face changed abruptly. “I see,” Grace said. Then she nodded curtly and walked off as suddenly as she had appeared. Callie stood still for a moment, then shrugged and headed toward Lamont.
Her feet dragged as she trudged up the stone steps to the library. She was coming to dread her time at work almost as much as she dreaded running into Vanessa on her way to the bathroom, or worse, into Gregory on her way down the hall. Trapped behind a desk, there was no escape from whoever might decide to frequent Lamont; she was stuck.
She slung her bag over the counter and slipped in front of the reference desk, sinking onto the tall, uncomfortable stool that faced the computer. She stared blankly at the screen for a few minutes, hoping it hid her from whoever might be lurking in the reading room or Lamont Café. She checked her e-mail. Then Facebook, then Twitter, and then The New York Times . No major world catastrophes, friend requests, op-eds, or interesting tweets in the past hour or so. She fidgeted. She bit her nails until she realized there was nothing left to chew.
When students arrived at the counter with their books, she stamped the
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