Free The Ivy: Rivals by Lauren Kunze Page A

over and perching on the corner of Callie’s desk.
    Okay, not what I was expecting. “Um . . . Whoever’s writing them seems to strongly dislike social clubs?”
    Grace folded her arms, scrutinizing Callie. “So—you don’t know who’s writing it?”
    “Don’t you know?” Callie countered.
    “I have my ideas. . . .” Grace was still staring at her in a manner reminiscent of the Terminator or some other robot with X-ray vision. “But I can’t say for certain. The person responsible has been posting everything anonymously, subject to my administrative approval— whoever that person might be.”
    Was Grace trying to confide in Callie: to confess that she was behind the blog? Callie had known Grace long enough to witness several of her anti-Final Clubs, anti-elitist, anti-hetero-normative, “phallocentricity” of Harvard society rants. But the newspaper itself published frequent op-eds in this vein, so it wouldn’t make any sense for Grace to disguise her already highly publicized opinions under a veil of anonymity. Would it?
    “Any guesses?” Grace prodded.
    “Maybe . . .” said Callie, starting to nod very slowly. “But whoever it is must have some kind of inside source, because they seem to know a lot of specific details about certain organizations . . . things that only a member would know.”
    “Right,” Grace agreed, nodding now too. “Maybe a member with a reason to hate these institutions but who can still blend in like she—or he—belongs.”
    “You don’t think . . .” Callie stared at Grace, wondering if she could possibly be implying that Callie was the Insider, given the blog’s fleeting reference to the sex tape article. “I mean . . . I’m not . . .”
    Grace cleared her throat. “While as a journalist first and foremost I cannot claim to condone the anonymity factor—”
    Right, thought Callie.
    “—and will continue vetting the content thoroughly to ensure that it does not violate our ethical standards, I certainly sympathize with the motive and general sentiment,” Grace finished.
    Callie stayed silent. Grace’s tone still seemed to signify an implicit double meaning, almost like she had caught Callie red-handed at something but was urging her to continue while she, Grace, looked the other way. “You do know that I’m in the Pudding, and that I COMPed FM and that I still read the magazine, right?” Callie finally said.
    “Yes,” said Grace. “Just like you know that as managing editor of the Crimson and head of all its affiliates, I cannot personally disband any of our publications—even the ones that glorify images of certain deplorable institutions that the Insider is working hard to dispel.”
    “Grace,” said Callie. “I’m not the Insider.”
    “Of course you’re not,” Grace said, standing. “And I only created FlyBy to offer multiple perspectives on the social side of campus in order to dilute the highly questionable advice and opinions that flow from the corrupt hands of a tiny self-congratulating subset.”
    “So you’re not trying to, like . . .” Callie glanced over her shoulder to where the teddy bear still hung, crucified, on the bulletin board. “. . . destroy the magazine or anything, are you?”
    Grace stared at her for a full count of three and then erupted into laughter. “Jesus, Andrews, would you look at your face?” she asked. “Remember, I’m not the one with a drawer full of other peoples’ secrets locked away in my desk.” She laughed again. “Although it is true that there’s no telling what will happen to FM once FlyBy takes off.” She paused, appearing to consider it. “One thing I can say for certain is that from a personal standpoint, I would have no problem seeing a shakedown in the leadership upstairs.”
    Callie cracked a smile. “That would be something. . . .” she conceded. She pictured Lexi dethroned (from her ergonomic office chair) and forced into exile (i.e., to go live in the quad), allowed to drink only