The Ivy: Secrets by Lauren Kunze, Rina Onur Read Free Book Online Page A

poisonous. Symptoms if plucked: paralysis, loss of voice, heart palpitations, respiratory troubles, and probably also death. But possibly also totally worth it. Maybe.
    She had obsessively pictured this moment and its endless permutations over the break, lying awake in her bed in California after Thanksgiving and pretending to be incapacitated by a tryptophan-induced food coma so she could avoid the parties where she might run into Evan, or worse, the shadow of her former happy pre-Harvard self. In bed, in the dark, she wondered,What would she say when she saw Gregory? What would she do? What would he do? What would he say? It was a simple set of (1, 2, 3, 4), but it had countless variations: (3, 2, 1, 4,), (2, 4, 1, 3), (3, 4, 2, 1) or even (2, 1, 4) if one of them said nothing or did nothing. On and on and on, until even the mathematics—normally so dependable—seemed useless.
    Now the moment was here, so of course she did nothing and said nothing: silent save for her internal monologue, which was yammering a mile a minute— How was your break? Why haven’t you called? Incidentally, I’m kind of obsessed with you, but not in a creepy way . Still, she forced herself to stay quiet. Hadn’t she already made the first move by asking OK to tell Gregory that she missed him and wanted to talk? The ball was in his court now.
    But Gregory just stood there, looking, if anything, like he was at a loss for words. Where was the usual arsenal of sarcastic quips and phrases? Searching his face for a hint of that signature smirk, the twisted corners of his mouth that made him seem constantly amused at her expense, she came up blank. He looked serious, which was . . . encouraging? But then why wasn’t he saying anything! Was this another game? Was he daring her to break the silence?
    If so, she would not take the bait. Instead, she held her breath and counted down from five. Four . . . he was still silent. Three . . . the grim line of his lips was starting to resemble a frown. Two . . . if he wasn’t going to say anything, then why wasn’t he moving? One . . . she must not speak.
    “Don’t you have anything to say for yourself?” she blurted, horrified as the words flew out of her mouth.
    Gregory shook his head and shrugged.
    “Well,” she said, completely thrown, “about Harvard-Yale . . . I don’t know if you got my message—”
    “I got it,” he said.
    “So, uh . . .” she began, her eyebrows arching, begging him to fill in the rest. Did she really have to spell it out for him? Was he torturing her on purpose?
    She took a deep breath. “So, do you—”
    A muffled giggle sounded from somewhere inside C 23.
    Callie cocked her head, listening, the end of her sentence swallowed into the abyss.
    Another giggle—definitely a giggle—cut through the silence, this time from right behind the door.
    Gregory shuffled slightly, as if to block the sound. “I should really—”
    “Gregory, is that you out there?” the giggler trilled, followed by more giggling.
    “Hurry up!” called another female voice—wait, another one? “We don’t like to be kept waiting.”
    Gregory stared at Callie, remorseless and, if anything, defiant.
    Callie stepped back, her hand fumbling blindly for the doorknob to C 24.
    But she wasn’t fast enough. As her trembling fingers closed around the handle, the door to C 23 swung open. Two girls, arm in arm, stood framed under the doorway. They were the epitome of a term popularized by none other than Alexis Thorndike: froshtitutes .
    “Well,” said the taller blonde on the left, “some cigarette break.”
    The shorter one giggled. “Are you coming back inside?”
    “I changed my mind,” Gregory said abruptly. “Let’s get out of here.”
    “Ooh, where are you taking us?” the shorter one asked.
    “It’s a surprise,” he said, throwing an arm around each girl’s shoulders.
    “Is she coming, too?” the tall one asked, narrowing her eyes and talking as if Callie wasn’t even