The Ivy by Lauren Kunze, Rina Onur

uncomfortably in her seat, trying not to wrinkle the brand-new, never-been-worn Marc Jacobs sundress that Vanessa had insisted she borrow for their first day of class. Because they had arrived with less than two minutes to spare—Vanessa’s fault, in Callie’s opinion, for forcing her to change; Callie’s fault, in Vanessa’s opinion, for her naive failure to cooperate—they were sitting all the way up in the balcony, right behind—to Callie’s horror; to Vanessa’s delight—a large group of JAQs (Jewish American Queens), PSPs (Prep School Princesses), and WASPs (predatory, flying, stinging insects).
    The PSPs were instantly recognizable in their miniskirts and frilly blouses or variants of The Uniform: that classic, East Coast private school look that consists of designer jeans, polo shirts, and pearls. Every movement sounded like money.
    Vanessa, her blue headband harmonizing with her Ralph Lauren polo and navy Longchamp shoulder bag, was a perfect clone.
    “Hi!” she cried, addressing the girls in a tone that made Callie cringe. “What’s up, guys?”
    Some of them merely turned, the charms on their timeless, silver Tiffany bracelets clinking, and faced forward once more, but a few greeted Vanessa by name and asked how she was doing. Callie couldn’t remember any specific faces from The Dining Hall Debacle of the Decade (or so it was being called on Twitter) and wondered if any of them could recognize her.
    Sure enough, the girl seated directly in front of Vanessa frowned as her gaze traveled from Callie’s plain shoulder bag down to the “ten-dollar, bargain-bin flats” that Vanessa had tried, and failed, to talk her out of wearing.
    “I like your dress,” the girl said suddenly. It didn’t sound like a compliment. Callie was trying to decide whether or not to say thank you when the girl added: “I’m Anne. What’s your name?”
    “Callie. Callie Andrews.”
    “And I’m her roommate, Vanessa Von Vorhees!” Vanessa chimed in, pinching Callie on the thigh in a way that clearly said I told you so about the dress.
    Seriously? thought Callie. She found it hard to believe that people actually cared about this stuff. Why should it matter what she wore to class—or, for that matter, ever?
    “Freshmen, right?” said Anne with an appraiser’s eye.
    “Right,” said Callie.
    “By the way,” Vanessa added as Anne started to turn back around, “I absolutely adore your dress! Who’s it by?”
    As Anne replied, Callie’s eyes began to wander around the room.
    Most of the other first-years were clustered in the front rows closest to the stage. Callie spotted Mimi sitting next to OK among a crowd of people who looked distinctly foreign. OK had edged as close to Mimi as possible. Any closer and he’d be sitting on her lap.
    Glancing to her left, Callie was startled to find Gregory staring back at her. Before she could look away, he gave a deceptively friendly wave and then mouthed: “ I caught you! ”
    He was surrounded by a seersucker-and-loafer-wearing entourage whose attire indicated that if your pastel-colored polo featured an alligator or a man on horseback, you were welcome to join their Gentlemen’s Club. It would have looked much more fitting if they were holding mint juleps instead of MacBooks, betting on horses rather than waiting for class to begin.
    Turning around quickly before Gregory could fathom new ways to embarrass her, she caught sight of a bunch of people in the very back of the balcony wearing gray sweatpants and sweatshirts featuring the Harvard Department of Athletics logo. What would have happened if she hadn’t busted up her knee? Would she be cracking jokes with the athletes instead of hovering on the outskirts of the prep school crowd, faking it miserably in Marc Jacobs?
    Down on the stage a man who did bear a striking resemblance to The Simpsons character Mr. Burns began tapping the microphone and clearing his throat.
    Vanessa pulled her MacBook out of her purse. “Time