The Ivy: Scandal (26 page)

The ball hit Clint’s hands with an audible smack as he caught it.

He grinned at Callie as he ambled forward, almost lazily, and then drop-kicked the ball clear across to the other side of the field.

Callie cursed under her breath. Their defense may have had a few holes—or were maybe just off to a slow start—but Clint appeared to be an irritatingly competent goalie.

Callie hustled to the halfway line, waiting for the Walruses to take back possession.

A few minutes later their defenders had cleared it, with Elizabeth chipping the ball to OK in a manner that might just inspire him to stop referring to her as an “obligatory” member of the team. He trapped the ball with his chest and then took it back onto the Honey Badgers’ half. Callie crisscrossed behind him in an overlap as the other forward followed up from the side.

“Man on!” Callie yelled as Tyler started gaining on OK.

Looking up, OK kicked the ball to Callie. Attacking once again from the left, she waited until OK was in position and then passed it back. He fired it toward the goal.

The ball ricocheted off the goalpost (which, as far as Callie was concerned, was the most frustrating sound in the world). Callie raced for it, but Clint beat her there, scooping up the ball and then throwing it to one of his defenders.

After twenty more minutes of solid, even play back and forth, Callie was coated with a fine layer of sweat. This, she thought, running for the ball, is better than anything. Better than getting
an A on a test, better than any of her favorite foods, and way better than hooking up with a certain goalkeeper—

“Dammit,” Callie muttered under her breath. Clint had just blocked her first shot on goal. Granted she had kicked it as hard as she could directly at his head, making the ball much easier to catch than if she’d aimed anywhere else, but still.

Only a few minutes left before the halftime whistle would sound. The score remained zero-zero.

Callie fell back as the ball soared onto their side of the field. Performing some fancy footwork, Bryan outmaneuvered Elizabeth. Callie stared in horror, watching the ball soar into the upper left-hand corner of the—

“GOAL!” Tyler screamed, enveloping Bryan in a hug along with some of their other teammates.

OK looked just as awful as she felt, screaming at their team to get back in position. It paid off—in a matter of seconds, Callie and Bobby were back inside the Honey Badgers’ penalty box. Dribbling toward the center, Callie found herself facing two oncoming defenders. At the last second she back passed to OK, who stood just outside the box.

“YES!” she screamed a moment later, running over to OK and jumping into his arms.

Clint stooped to retrieve the ball from inside the goal net.

The halftime whistle cut through the air.

“Wow,” said Vanessa breathlessly after running over to the sidelines from the bleachers. “You guys are good.”

“Really good,” Dana agreed, handing Callie a bottle of water.

“Thanks,” said Callie, drinking some and squirting a little over her forehead.

“You are
ohh-kaay
,” Mimi informed OK, laughing. “But Callie is better.”

“Ha!” said Callie, redoing her ponytail. “I guess all of that running I’ve been doing hasn’t hurt.”

“I’ll say,” remarked Vanessa. “You know, I was nervous at first because a lot of those boys out there…” She watched one of said boys pour water all over his head and then shake out his hair like a shaggy dog. “Um…oh yeah! A lot of those boys are—bigger than you—but you just seemed so much
faster
. You really were like one of the guys!”

OK’s head shot forward. “See!” he said to Callie. “
See?
”

Mimi pouted, looking at Callie. “I only wish,” she started, speaking softly, “that you had hit you-are-knowing-who in the face!”

“You mean scored,” said OK. “You wish she had scored.”

“
Non
,” said Mimi. “I mean what I have said. I want to see a face-SMACK!”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Callie, laughing.

“Um,” Dana piped up. “I wouldn’t do anything…
untoward
if I were you. Some sports reporters from the
Harvard Crimson
are sitting directly behind us, and they brought cameras.”

“For IM soccer?” asked Callie. “Really? Are our varsity teams that bad this year?”

Dana shrugged.

“I told you, Blondie,” said OK. “I told you that this was an important match!”

“Yeah,” echoed Vanessa, “don’t you want to beat Cli—the Honey Badgers?”

“Oh, hell yeah,” said Callie, taking one final sip of water.

The players started to take the field.

“Let’s go, Walruses!” Mimi and Dana cheered.

“And see if you can’t knock Tyler down for me,” Vanessa whispered in Callie’s ear.

Callie giggled. “Thanks for being here, you guys!” she called over her shoulder, running back to the center circle.

Twenty-five minutes into the second half, the score was still tied, one to one, and Callie started to hit a wall. Her knee felt fine, but her quads ached as she dribbled the ball time and time again up the side, only to find herself blocked and forced to center it to Bobby or one of the attacking midfielders, who could not seem to get past Clint.

Groaning in frustration, Callie watched the other team’s offense regain possession. From way outside the box Bryan took a speculative shot that soared about ten feet wide of the goal. The Wigglesworth goalie drop-kicked the ball, and it flew through the air toward Callie, who jumped—but Bryan, far taller, beat her there, trapping the ball with his head.

“Oh, no you don’t,” Callie mumbled, looping around him to face off from the front. Bryan tried to fake left, but Callie saw it coming, throwing all her weight toward the ball as it went right.

Suddenly she was flat on her back, pain shooting through her shin. Bryan must have accidentally kicked her instead of the ball. She tried to stand, but the pain was too intense. The whistle shrieked as she rolled onto her side.

“Callie!” Bryan’s face hovered above her, full of concern. “Callie, are you okay? I’m so sorry! I was trying for the ball and…”

Callie saw the ref hold up a yellow card over Bryan’s shoulder. “I know—I’ll be fine,” she told him through gritted teeth.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “Just give me another minute here.”

Gripping her hand, Bryan continued to kneel next to her, waiting for her to recover. Clamping her teeth together, Callie placed her free hand on his arm and used it to pull herself to her feet.

Her teammates cheered, and Bryan wrapped her in a giant hug, apologizing profusely.

“Yeah, yeah,” said Callie, breaking away. “We’ll see if you still feel like hugging me when you lose.”

“Seems like her mouth is still working fine,” Tyler called as Callie limped aside to let somebody else handle the free kick. Clint, who had come nearly twenty yards out of the penalty box, ran back toward goal.

Wincing, Callie started a slow jog up the field. Her shin still hurt, but she felt fairly certain the injury wouldn’t result in anything more major than a nasty bruise. Just a few more minutes, she prompted herself, trailing behind the midfielders as they passed the ball up the field. So move it!

She forced herself onward, her shin screaming in protest all the while. Bobby seemed on the verge of shooting, but at the last second one of the other team’s defenders kicked the ball out behind the goal line.

The flag went up: corner kick.

OK volunteered, sprinting over to take it. With less than a minute to go, the final whistle could sound at any second.

Callie positioned herself in front of the goal along with the rest of the offense. Clint fidgeted near the front post, his eyes glued to OK. A tall, male defender planted himself directly in front of Callie. She watched OK wind his foot back, curling the ball in a perfect arc toward goal.

The defender in front of Callie lunged, and the ball collided with his shoulder. Callie saw it bounce up into the air and she jumped, thwacking her forehead against the slick black-and-white leather with all her might.

The ball was in the goal before her feet hit the ground.

Tweet, tweet, tweet!

“Blondie!” OK bellowed, lifting her onto his shoulders. “You did it!”

Callie beamed. For the first time in months her head felt completely clear, no room for anything save elation.

Vanessa, Mimi, and Dana streamed out onto the field with the rest of the spectators.

“Are you okay?” Dana screamed, motioning at OK to lower Callie immediately.

“A little ice and I’ll be fine,” said Callie, testing her leg out on the grass.

“I said to knock down
Tyler
, not fall down and hurt yourself, you crazy klutz,” Vanessa lectured, throwing her arms around Callie.

“Seriously, I’m fine,” said Callie. “Really,” she added to Bryan, who had come over to double-check. “
Fine
.”

“Good game, Andrews,” Tyler called. “I can’t believe we have to go back to the house and tell them we were beaten by a freshman g—”

“She’s not a girl!” OK insisted angrily. “Don’t call her that!”

“Nice kicking,” Mimi said to OK.

“Thank you,” he said civilly. “Nice…attendance.”

“No shame in getting our asses kicked by a former high school superstar, Tyler.” Clint had come over from the goal, extending his hand toward Callie.

Clasping Clint’s hand, she shook it.

“You won,” he said.

Callie smiled, letting go. “I know.”

ELEVEN

Garden Party

D
ear Freshies,

Well, it’s finally here: my favorite time of year. Time to dust off those wedges, pull out the pastels from the back of your closet, pick up a new pair of designer shades, and kick back while you wait for the invitations to start slipping in under your suite’s front door. That’s right, folks: it’s Garden Party season!

What is a garden party, you ask? Oh, children, children, children. A garden party is a late-afternoon, springtime soiree featuring casual, colorful dresses; cocktails; dancing; and live music, and a little light snacking and conversation, too. Still uncertain what is entailed at this some-would-say-antiquated-but-I-say-delightful event put on by your favorite social clubs? Then please refer to Emily Post’s
Etiquette
, Chapter XIII, “Teas and Other Afternoon Parties,” (a book in this advice columnist’s opinion that will
never
go out of style), or my own set of slightly more modernized rules for one of the few types of gatherings on campus that hearken back to the olden days when decorum still mattered.

ALEXIS THORNDIKE’S GUIDE TO GARDEN PARTY ETIQUETTE

Proper Attire:
Linens, light colors, bright colors, or even appropriate patterns. There’s no such thing as dim lighting outside in spring, so ladies, please: don’t be caught dead in that bottom-booty-baring outfit
you’d wear to a 10 P.M. party at the Spee. Instead, dress as if you were meeting your future mother-in-law for afternoon tea shortly after she’s asked you to start referring to her by her first name, Coco. Ladies, also note that shoes may be removed in the event that you are invited to play Ping-Pong or cornhole or even a pickup game of croquet. Large sunglasses and even larger hats: encouraged. Sandals: mandatory—grass and mud will prove fatal to your favorite stilettos.

Proper Conversational Topics:
The weather—it’s so gorgeous. Classes—they’re almost over. Your dress—it’s so fabulous. Your summer plans?—sound incredible. A stroll?—I’d love to.

Remember to KIL (that’s “Keep It Light”) lest you
kill
the conversation.

Proper Food and Drink:
Fortunately, if your hosts are worth their weight in handwritten paper invitations, you needn’t fret: all of the food offerings will be bite-sized, from tiny triangle cucumber sandwiches to mini macarons and tea cakes. Punch will be served in bowls and glasses (I personally find that real glassware always encourages better behavior), and please do not allow anyone to see you sipping anything stronger than white wine, champagne, or beer. Day drinking under the hot afternoon sun is nothing short of dangerous, and often—when not performed by seasoned experts—leads to egregious violations of the above, and below.

Proper Dance Moves:
No grinding. No crumping. No moonwalking. No breaking, locking, or popping, and absolutely
no
preludes to the so-called “horizontal mambo.”

Proper Plus Ones:
Actually, it’s perfectly acceptable to fly solo at these low-key events. The goals are mixing and mingling, after all, and you might do well to bring a girlfriend since oftentimes a date will only drag you down.

—Alexis Thorndike, Advice Columnist @
FM
Magazine