Sorority Sisters (2 page)

“Bye,” I say. I don't want to leave alone. LA is no place to be alone.

Holly smiles and waves, already walking up the stairs to put her dress away.

I hurry down the brick steps, find my bike, unlock it, relieved to see that others are unlocking their bikes, struggling in the dark to see the dials, going by feel alone. We ride down The Row together, not talking, not knowing one another, but somehow bound together by Presents, by virginal white gowns and a scrambled-egg bouquet, by having just pledged a sorority together, individually, yet linked now. We share the most fragile of bonds, the bond of humiliation beneath the shadow of our names on a placard, the bond of rushing a house and finding a place in it.

It's not much of a bond, but it's something.

I stay with the pack, our bikes whizzing through the night, for as long as I can. I split off and pump furiously down the middle of darkened streets, holding to the center where the streetlights overlap. I get to my apartment building, lugging my bike up the long stairs to the gate. Greg is waiting for me, and he wraps one arm around my waist and with the other he holds my bike while I press myself full against him, arms around his neck.

Home.

I open the gate and we walk to my apartment, ground floor of a two-story stucco building, facing the kidney-shaped pool, a bed of lush philodendrons forming a green barrier between my front door and the pool. It's all very old-school California, like something out of a Joan Crawford movie; I love it. It's dark inside as I unlock the door, which is a relief. I'm rooming with a girl I barely know; Ingrid was looking for a roommate, I was, we had a mutual friend, and here we are.

“Were you waiting long?” I ask, turning on the overhead light.

“Maybe ten minutes,” Greg says, grabbing me from behind, his arm around my waist, kissing the back of my neck. The back of my neck is very easy to get to; I have very short hair. When nearly every other girl my age is wearing her hair as long as it will grow, tumbled hot-roller curls, loose and glossy, my dark brown hair is nearly crew-cut short. Why? My mother thinks short hair suits me. You know what? She's probably right.

“What took so long?” Greg says.

“I don't know. I had to change,” I answer. He waited for me. I feel both glad and guilty.

“Where's Ingrid?” Greg asks.

“Dunno,” I say, slipping out of his grasp to pull the cheap drapes closed, then facing him again.

Greg is nice-looking in a very boy-next-door sort of way. He's dark-haired, blue-eyed, and six feet tall. We've been dating since November 22 of our freshman year, and he is my third college boyfriend; college really is the mother lode of cute, available guys. Greg is not in a fraternity and has no plan to rush one. I think it's because his family can't afford it, not that he'll admit that. Greg's father is a high school gym teacher and his mother is a secretary for a realty office in Washington. He's at ULA on scholarship. He's the only one I know who is, not that he ever talks about it and not that it matters. He mentioned it once, when I first met him, but since then, not a word.

“How was it?” he asks, shoving his hands deeply into the pockets of his beige cords. “Lots of frat guys, I guess, looking you over,” he says.

I don't say anything. I just stare at him, hoping it will pass. He gets like this sometimes. He really hates the whole sorority-fraternity thing. It took me by surprise at first; when I wrote and told him my mom had signed me up for Rush, his first letter back to me was vitriolic and intense. And long. Seven-pages-of-block-letters long. I wrote back explaining again how my mom was
making
me do it, which is true enough, but what was there to be so angry about? Why hate something you don't know anything about? To be honest, that kind of bothered me, but I got over it.

“How can you stand stuff like that?” he says.

It strikes me again that Greg has never been to The Row, or to Presents, and so, even if he has sort of hit the nail on the head, he did it by accident, striking blind. It might be an
accurate
assessment, but it's not really a
fair
one.

“It was okay. You could have come,” I say, walking toward him. He wraps me into his hug, a blanket of safety surrounding me, shutting out his anger.

“With all those frat guys? No way,” he says just before he kisses me.

I'm going to marry this man. We'll be happy and have two kids and live a Technicolor life in the suburbs. He'll be a great husband. He'll work hard and have a good job and he'll be a devoted father to our kids.

He pulls back from our kiss and I press my face against his neck. “Do you think I'm pretty?” I ask as his hands slip under my shirt and move up to cup my breasts through the whisper-thin fabric of my bra. He unhooks my bra with ease born of practice.

“Yeah,” he says, thumbing my nipples.

I can't help wondering where Ingrid is and when she's coming back. Greg lifts my shirt over my head and sticks a couple of his fingertips into the waistband of my pants. He's looking at me expectantly. I make myself stop thinking about Ingrid.

“I love you,” I say, wrapping one leg around him.

“Me, too,” he says, unzipping his cords.

Hey, I've been dating him almost a year and we're in love. We're going to get married. I'm not easy. I'm really not.

 * * *

G
oing to exchanges is getting a little old. I mean, I have studying to do and Greg to keep happy, and he is
not
happy about all this fraternity stuff. I didn't get home from the Eta Epsilon Tau exchange until after eleven, which might not have been a problem except that I'd told him I only had to stay for an hour. Since it started at eight, he was pretty mad that I stayed longer than I had to. It was definitely a case of what he didn't know wouldn't hurt him. The trouble was that I'd told him too much, he
knew
, and he was therefore hurt.

My mom really has a gift.

“I have a test tomorrow. This is going to be a short night for me. How about you? Are you going to stay long?” Ellen says.

I look down at Ellen. She's sitting on the arm of the couch on the long wall of the Beta Pi living room, looking up at me. I'm standing because I'm wearing a dress that wrinkles under a hard glance. Ellen's eyes are an amazing shade of blue, almost an aquamarine. She's pretty, but she doesn't really act like it. Not like Diane Ryan. Diane knows she's a fox and she acts like it. Ellen just seems to ignore it. It's all very weird. If I were gorgeous, I would definitely know it and act like it.

“Probably not,” I say. “I'm getting tired. I think I need a night off from all this playing. I'm out of shape.”

She laughs and recrosses her legs. Ellen's wearing black pants, very snugly fitted through the hips, with a pale blue blouse tucked in. A narrow black leather belt at her waist and a thin gold chain at her throat complete the outfit.

“Do you know any Rho Delts?” she asks.

I shake my head. “I don't know anyone on The Row.”

“Same here. Have you met anyone you liked?”

I met an EE Tau I sort of liked at an exchange, but I haven't seen him since, and I did kind of look. “I have a boyfriend.”

“Is he in a fraternity?”

“No.”

“Planning to rush one?”

“No.”

Ellen nods, her brows raised a bit. “How's he feel about all this?”

“He's okay with it,” I say. He is, basically. Mostly because we don't talk about it. Greg just sort of refuses to talk about it, and really, it's probably for the best. What could I say to make him feel better? Ignorance is bliss, right? “Do you have a boyfriend?” I ask.

Ellen chuckles. “No. Not that I wouldn't mind one.”

“You haven't seen anything that rings your chimes at any of these exchanges?”

“Well,” she says, rearranging her gold necklace so that the clasp is at the back of her neck, “the free beer's not bad.”

“God, I thought you'd be there by now and I'd have to walk in alone,” Laurie says, hurrying through the doorway at my back to stand next to me.

“That would have been bad,” I say.

“Yeah, if you miss attendance,” Ellen says, “the whole evening goes down as a no-show.”

“I haven't missed an exchange yet,” Laurie says, “and I'm not missing this one.”

“Going for a perfect attendance record?” I ask.

“Why not? I could stand a little perfection in something,” Laurie answers, running a hand through her hair, fluffing it out. “Does my hair look okay? I tried a new shampoo.”

“You look great,” I say.

And she does. She looks fantastic. Her hair is shiny and straight and full, a long fall of golden highlights flickering through the light brown color. Her makeup is very natural, just mascara, blush, and pink lip gloss. She's wearing a pink blouse and skintight jeans, a woven leather belt at her waist, and small gold hoop earrings.

“Do you really think so?” Laurie asks, looking at me, her glance sliding briefly to Ellen before returning to me. “My jeans are so tight I can't sit down without passing out.”

“Don't sit down,” Ellen says, her eyes twinkling. “It's worth it. You look tiny.”

She really does. Her hips and waist look the width of a straw, her shirt flowing smoothly over her ribs and bust without a bulge.

“How'd you get them on?” I ask.

“I laid on my back and pulled the zipper up with a pair of pliers. My roommate hoisted me off the bed.”

“God, I am so doing that,” Ellen says, her eyes alight. “What are you going to do when you have to use the bathroom?”

“I'm not. I'm not going to be able to drink anything.”

Ellen leans back against the couch cushion with a groan and closes her eyes. “There goes that plan.”

“You really look great,” I say. “If you need a bathroom buddy, I'm there for you.”

“Thanks,” she says. “You look great, too.”

“Sure I do. In my dress.” I'm the only one in the room wearing a dress. I want to kill myself.

“It's a nice dress!” Laurie says.

“Yeah. Nice.”

Ellen starts laughing. “Shut up. You look great, Karen.”

“I think it will all be a lot easier when we all live in the house and I can take a survey before I put on my underwear,” I say.

“You do underwear surveys?” Ellen asks. “What kind? All kinds? Even the slutty kind?”

I look down at her, straight-faced. “Define
slutty
.”

Ellen roars with an abrupt bark of laughter. “Come on! Give me a survey! I want to do a slutty survey!” Half the room looks at her. At me. At her again. The pledge trainer frowns in our direction.

“Geez, give the poor kid a survey before she passes out,” Laurie says, grinning.

“First question, second attempt: Define
slutty
,” I say. “Visual aids are allowed, though I advise you to unzip with discretion. If such a thing is possible.”

Ellen bursts out laughing. You've got to love a girl who laughs from her belly like that.

“Here they come,” says a voice from the front of the room. The cigarettes get put out; we stand up, file into the foyer, laughing and talking. Then out we go, flowing down the steps of the Beta Pi house, across the struggling lawn and down the sidewalk, into the night and the joys of another fraternity exchange, this time with the Rho Delts. Since the Rho Delta Pi house is way down the block, we have a lot of time to talk before we get there.

“So, you're not looking,” I say to Ellen.

“I'm not looking, but I'm not blind,” she says.

Actually, I could say the same about myself. But I won't.

“Laurie's not looking either,” I say.

“I'm not?” Laurie asks. “Please tell me I'm not blind.”

“Hey, four exchanges,” I say. “I've watched you. You're polite, you mingle, and you get out. You don't act like a girl who's looking.”

“As long as I don't act like a girl who's blind,” Laurie says, tapping her pack of cigarettes against her thigh as she walks. Laurie never goes anywhere without her cigarettes, the lighter pushed down in between the wrapping and the cellophane. Laurie's fingernails are always painted, and her hands are delicately shaped with long slender fingers. She looks good smoking, and you can't say that about very many people. Me? I've never smoked. Oh, I tried it for a while when I was twelve, but I never liked it. “But just for the record, I'm looking. I just don't see anyone who's worth looking at and I can't be held responsible for that.”

“Blame them, definitely,” Ellen says. “They can't cut it. EE Taus, Upsilon Chis, Phi Sigs. What's the scoop on the Rho Delts? Are they hunks or dogs?”

“I'll let you know in fifteen minutes,” Laurie says. “Let's just say that, since hope springs eternal, I have hope.”

“An optimist,” I say. “I'd never have guessed. What about you, Ellen? Any hope for the Rho Delts?”

“I'll tell you after fifteen minutes and a beer or two,” Ellen says brightly. “Hope gets real springy after a few beers.”

Me? I'm not looking, but . . . you know.

Ellen

–
Fall 1975
–

“The free beer is the best part of fraternity exchanges,” I say. We're not even halfway to the Rho Delta Pi house and the guys who are escorting us are staying at the front of the pack; Laurie and Karen and I are bringing up the rear.

Karen looks askance at me. Laurie looks down at her feet.

“Come on,” I say. “Free. Beer. That's got to be unanimous.”

“I can't stand the taste of it,” Karen says.

“I've seen you drinking beer at every exchange,” I say.

“I was faking it, just trying to be polite,” Karen says.

“Laurie? Do you fake it, too?” I ask.

“I'm not polite enough to fake it,” Laurie says. “No manners at all, I'm afraid.”

“God, why did you join a sorority if not for the free beer?” I ask.

“My mom made me,” Karen says. “I'm glad she did, though.”

“I wanted to make friends,” Laurie says. “I barely made friends with my dorm roommate last year; she's in the marching band. They practice all the time.”

“Yeah? What'd she play?” I ask.

“Clarinet. She practiced in our room when she wasn't marching with the band. She didn't like an audience when she practiced either, so I spent a lot of time in Darvey Library. It was one of the reasons I wanted to join a sorority.”

“No sorority girls in the Spartan marching band, huh?” I say.

“Something like that,” Laurie says, smiling at me. Laurie's got such a quiet look, so composed, even when she's smiling. I should probably take a lesson, but I don't think being composed is ever going to be in my repertoire. “Why did you join a sorority?”

Why'd I join a sorority? One reason was that it annoyed my dad, Ed. Being in a sorority is expensive and Ed's footing the bill. He can afford it. Besides, it's good for the old guy to spend money on something other than his weekend deep-sea fishing trips and redoing his orthodontic office every five years. But I'm not going to share that tidbit while walking down The Row on the way to a nice alcoholic buzz. “Besides the free beer? That's easy. My freshman roommate, who did not play the clarinet, practically had her boyfriend living with us last year. Yes, I know it was against dorm rules. No, I didn't say anything.”

“Why not?” Laurie says.

“I chickened out,” I say. “But any girl who's sharing a twin bed seven feet away from mine is beyond shame anyway.”

“We're here,” Karen says. “Time to look cute and friendly.”

“Easy for you to say. You're built cute and friendly.”

“And you're built for plague and pestilence?” Karen says, laughing.

“I wish,” I say. “More like whole or skim.”

My bust is massive, disgustingly bovine. I don't have breasts; I have udders.

“Oh, come on,” Karen says. “You're so pretty.”

“For a fat cow,” I say. This, I don't mind sharing. This, everyone can see for themselves.

Laurie smiles and shakes her head at me. “Where did you ever get the idea that you're fat?”

From Ed. But I'm not going to share that either.

“You think we don't have mirrors in Northridge?” I say. Northridge is where I grew up; it's in the Valley. Our house is in a neighborhood built in an old orange grove and our yard is full of orange trees; my mom makes fresh-squeezed orange juice for Ed every morning. She doesn't even like orange juice since it gives her heartburn. I think Ed is what gives her heartburn. “Come on, let's go be charming for the Rho Delts, and if we can't be charming, we'll just have to settle for being drunk.”

“I'm going for charming since I can't stand the beer either,” Laurie says.

“Way to kill off your options, McCormick,” I say as we walk into the fraternity house.

The Rho Delta Pi house is like all fraternity houses; it's large, sparsely furnished, and slightly dilapidated. There is no lawn. There is only dirt as hard-packed as concrete. That's one of the rules of The Row: all the sorority houses have manicured lawns and all the fraternity houses look like bomb sites.

The Rho Delts do their best to make us welcome, which mostly involves getting plastic cups full of beer into our hands as quickly as possible, which is totally fine with me. I get separated from Laurie and Karen and find myself standing next to Missy Todd.

“How's it going?” I ask, my mouth next to her ear so I can be heard above Black Sabbath. “Do you think you'll stay after the hour?”

We only have to stay at the exchange for an hour, our commitment to making Beta Pi look good accomplished after only sixty minutes. You'd be surprised how long an hour can be when you're bored to death.

Missy looks around the room critically—
openly
critically. That's the thing I've noticed about Missy. She doesn't give a damn what you think about her because she's so busy figuring out what she thinks about you. It should be as annoying as hell, but I love it. Like tonight, her brown hair is in a loose ponytail and the only makeup she's wearing is mascara. She's wearing a really casual tan skirt and an Indian gauze shirt with some tiny mirrors embroidered on it in red thread. On her feet are navy blue Dr. Scholl's. Dr. Scholl's. To a
dance
.

She looks like she threw on whatever clothes she had on the end of her bed this morning and didn't even think about changing for this exchange. It's like every bone in her body is shouting,
Screw
you
.

God, I love that.

“I can't tell yet,” she says. “Are you?”

“Let me swig down another beer; then I'll tell you.”

Missy laughs.

“Another beer?” some guy says from behind me. “I've got you covered.”

He's back in less than a minute, a beer in each hand, a smile on his face. Guys always get real cheerful when girls keep drinking. I've noticed that a lot.

“I'm Mike Dunn,” he says, handing us the beers.

“And you're empty-handed,” I say.

“The price of chivalry,” he says, his gaze on me, practically ignoring Missy. Missy doesn't seem to mind.

“I'm Ellen. This is Missy.”

He nods and smiles. He's got blue eyes and black hair and the sort of handsome bad-boy look that has always gotten on my nerves. I'm not interested in being a conquest for some bad boy.

“Would you like to dance, Ellen?” he says.

“What about my beer? I just got it,” I say.

“You could drink it,” he says, taking a full beer from a passing Rho Delt.

“With you crying, ‘Chug, chug, chug'?” I ask.

“Would I do that to you?” he says, looking at me with a very naughty glint in his light blue eyes.

“You know you would,” I say, shaking my head at him. “But I will if you will.”

His eyes widen; so does his grin. “You're on.”

Without any more stupid banter, we chug our beers. He wins, but just by a swallow. I let him win. What's the harm? Guys love to think they can drink girls under the table, and I'm the kind of girl who loves to watch them try.

I turn to Missy as Mike starts to lead me to the center of the room. “Go grab one of Diane Ryan's extra guys. She can't need them all.”

“I don't know,” Missy says, looking across the room to where Diane is standing. “She might.”