Sorority Sisters (3 page)

Diane

–
Fall 1975
–

Look, the reason I know so many guys is because I'm in ROTC. Sure, I knew plenty of guys before I signed on for ROTC, but that's beside the point. Then again, maybe it's the actual point. The thing is, I like guys and they like me, and that works out great. Or it should, but actually, no, it's not so great, at least not all the time.

It all started out with me having a great freshman year. In fact, it was so great that I almost flunked out. Needless to say, my dad was not pleased. Saying that my dad, a navy pilot, was not pleased is really saying something. Trust me on that.

“Diane, what in the hell were you thinking?”

That was what he said when I got home from school last summer. Naturally, Dad wasn't expecting an answer since these rhetorical questions are part of the drill. My duty as his only child is to stand there and take it, without flinching and without whining. Any lame excuse is whining, and my dad is the one who determines what a lame excuse is. Pretty much, they're all lame, and I base this on a lifetime of experience.

So here's what happened: my dad told me that he was done. He told me that if I wanted to return to ULA, then I'd have to find a way to make it happen because he sure as hell wasn't going to throw any more money down the Diane well.

I cried. I can admit it. I didn't sob, but I cried.

But Dad is not the kind of father who crumbles when faced with a few tears. Mom, having been married to him for twenty-two years, is not a crumbler either. If she'd been a crumbler, he would have chewed her up and spit her out a long time ago, like on their first date back in Meridian, the old home place. Mom and Dad met when Dad was stationed in Mississippi just before the Korean War. Mom is a true southern belle who grew up in a small-scale version of Tara, minus the slaves, the cotton, and the War Between the States, known to the rest of the world as the Civil War. It could be argued, but not by me, that Mom doesn't understand the meaning of the term
civil war
. There's no point in arguing it because while Mom didn't have slaves, she did, and does, have plenty of southern bourbon. Never argue semantics with a woman clutching a highball glass. Nobody pushes a southern belle around, not even Dad. Scarlett O'Hara taught the world that, and Dad learned the lesson up close and personal from Mom. There are no scars to prove it. Southern belles have more finesse than to leave visible scars. The movies never get that part right.

But back to me . . . No money for school and no grades to get a scholarship. Dad was very helpful about the whole thing, suggesting ROTC the way he did. He also made it clear that they didn't take just anybody, and maybe, with a good word from him thrown in, I might make the cut.

Gee, thanks, Dad.

So here I am, ROTC all the way. Go, navy. Hoo-ah.

It is a great way to meet guys—I'll say that for it—not that I have a problem meeting guys.

Hoo-ah.

Joining a sorority is supposed to be the antidote for ROTC. That's Mom's theory, not that she put it in those exact words. No, her words were more like, “Diane, certain sorts of people join the military and certain sorts join sororities. It's good to be able to mix well with all sorts.” She took a healthy swallow of a bourbon and water somewhere in her declaration, though I can't remember exactly where. But she took it, believe me.

My mom was in a sorority in college and my mom, after a few drinks, likes to talk about those days. She makes it sound great. Lots of parties, fancy dresses, dates with corsages. We're talking the early 1950s here, in Mississippi, so I'm not sure how well it's going to translate to LA in the mid-1970s, but she's confident that I'll make “lovely friends” and that I'll “acquire a certain polish.”

I guess I'm not all that polished right now. Plastered, sure, but not polished.

That's what I'm talking about. Mom is death on comments like that. I get the feeling sometimes that she doesn't think Dad being in the navy has been good for me, that he might be, by accident, polishing me in all the wrong ways. But, Mom being Mom, she never actually says that. She says other stuff, like how being in a sorority will be good for me and “stand me in good stead.”

How're they paying for this, ULA being so expensive and Dad being your average, above-average navy pilot? I mean, he has a lot of ribbons and shit, but still, ULA sorority costs are way beyond his salary. Mom's parents are paying for it—that's how. Mom, and her mother before her . . . They really believe in the whole sorority drill. Hell, they made it sound great, one party after another, guys with corsages, a pajama party every night. What's not to love?

So here I am at a required sorority-fraternity exchange, surrounded by guys. Who says war is hell?

“Hey, do you need all these guys or can you pass a few around as hors d'oeuvres?” Missy asks me.

“I can spare a few. How many do you want?” I say.

“Two or three dozen ought to do it,” Missy says.

“Take an even fifty. They're free.”

Missy laughs and eyes me approvingly. I know what that look means. She was wondering if I was stuck-up, and now she's figuring out I'm not. I've been run through this same girly gauntlet since my senior year of high school, when I finally, thank God, “blossomed.” That's Mom's word for it, not mine.

The guys in question, all three of them, can't hear what we're saying since Three Dog Night is blaring on the stereo and Missy has her mouth next to my ear. That, and I've got my beer cup up against my mouth.

“You don't want even one for yourself?” she asks.

“They're all yours.”

Guys are great; I love them. They're adorable, fun to play with, and they hardly ever break, but I'm not interested in having some guy carry me through life, or even through a fraternity exchange. The navy is my chance at a no-holds-barred career, with no limit to how high I can go. “Diane, there's no limit to what you can do,” Dad said. I believe him. I'm not going to let some guy screw that up, even the one guy who tempts me to screw that up. Midshipman Temptation is not a Rho Delt, so I can relax and let the good times roll.

“I think I'll take him. He looks good,” Missy says, using her chin to point out the middle guy in the trio standing across from us. He's a fellow ROTC, so this is going to be easy.

“Rawlins! This is Missy. She'd like to dance,” I say, grabbing Dean Rawlins by the arm and pulling him toward me. “You've been volunteered.”

Rawlins smiles, nods at Missy, and escorts her to the dance floor—in this case, the middle of the Rho Delt living room, the couches having been pushed to the walls.

I stare at the two remaining guys. One is another ROTC and the other one isn't. I'm avoiding ROTC guys as a rule—Dad's rule—so I smile at the guy with hair that reaches his collar. “Cat got your tongue?” I say.

“You the cat? Then not my tongue,” he says, a glint in his eyes. Oh, one of those. He does have that look, not that I mind. You've got to watch that type every minute, but you've got to watch them all every few minutes anyway. It's part of their charm.

“Come on, sweetie. Dazzle me with your moves.”

He leads me onto the dance floor, but we all know those aren't the kinds of moves I need to worry about.

Do I look worried?

Hell, no.

L
aurie

–
Fall 1975
–

I joined a sorority so that I could make friends—I told the truth about that—but the truth I didn't tell is that I also joined a sorority, any sorority, so that I could casually bump into Pete Steinhagen during a Rho Delt exchange. The problem is that after six years of girls' boarding school, I have no skill whatsoever in casually bumping into a guy, and I certainly couldn't manage any sparkling interaction with guys on my own, but with my new sorority sisters around me, I can manage to create the illusion of ease and sophistication. I'm fairly confident of that after so many exchanges. Of course, none of the previous exchanges meant a thing to me; they were my dress rehearsal for the Rho Delt exchange.

“Why are you guys still standing around?” Ellen says, having pushed through the crowd to stand next to Karen and me. “You don't even have beers!”

“I thought we covered that on the walk over,” I say.

“Yeah, yeah. I blanked that out. It was too awful. Hey, let's go over there. He's cute,” Ellen says.

“The guy or the keg?” Karen says.

“Any guy standing next to a keg has a leg up on the competition,” Ellen says. “Who's with me?”

“I'm in,” Karen says. “Laurie?”

Karen and I have been stuck to each other, our backs against the wall, since we walked into the room. I've been looking for Pete from my corner; I haven't seen him. He, if he's here, hasn't seen me. “Sure. Why not?” I say. I need to move around, get into the crowd, and give Pete a chance to find me.

“Are you the beer man?” Ellen says to the guy. “Do you need a barmaid to help you deliver the frothy goods to the eager customers?”

He smiles. “You can be my tavern wench if you'll split your tips with me.”

Ellen grins. “Tavern wenches don't get the kind of tips you can split.”

“At least he thinks you'll bring in the bucks,” I say.

“Is this Pimp Dialogue 101?” Karen says. “I need a syllabus.”

“God, can you imagine the reading list?” Ellen says.

He shakes his head and says, “Never get into verbal warfare with one woman, let alone three. I'm toast.”

“Sisters?” Karen says, starting to laugh.

“Four,” he says. “And I'm the baby.”

“Oh, you had it bad,” Ellen says. “Okay, I forgive you the tavern-wench thing.”

“So are we back to splitting your tips?” he says.

“Hey, I'm not even going to split my beer with you,” Ellen says. “How's that sound to you?”

“Normal,” he says, shaking his head and crossing his arms over his chest. “The baby, remember?”

“You didn't get the best of everything, all of them babying you to death?” Karen asks.

“There's a picture of me with a dozen pink and lavender barrettes clamped on my little baby head, if you want to call that the best of everything,”

“Lavender?” Karen says, looking at us. “I believe him. No normal guy knows the word
lavender
.”

“Great. Thanks,” he says.

“Look, I hate to keep insulting you without knowing your name,” Karen says.

“You like your insults to have the personal touch?” he asks.

“Yeah. Pretty much,” Karen says.

“I like that,” he says. “Shows you have standards.”

“What guy doesn't appreciate the personal touch?” I say.

He actually blushes, which is kind of cute. We're giving him a fairly hard time and he's taking it well. With four older sisters, he's clearly had a lot of practice.

“I'm Laurie,” I say. “I have three older sisters.”

“Matt Carlson,” he says. “Fellow sufferer.”

“Karen. Pampered only child,” Karen says.

“Ellen, oldest of two girls, official crime boss and barrette administrator,” Ellen says.

“So, not a brother among you?” Matt says, handing us plastic cups full of cheap beer. “Where'd you get all your experience at torture?”

“It was my high school community service,” Ellen says. “You find your quarry in the field, do the deed, get the grade. I got an A.”

“She does it now as a volunteer effort,” I say. “Ellen is very civic-minded.”

“I am. I learned it at home,” Ellen says, her voice taking on a slight edge. Ellen laughs and toasts Matt. “To the winner of the lavender barrette. Long may he reign.”

“A nice take on what others might call crimes against hair,” Matt says, toasting us all in return.

Matt seems like a nice guy; he's funny, easy to talk to, and not unpleasant-looking. Actually, he
is
cute. His brown hair is thick and his eyes are brilliant blue, which is not as spectacular-looking as it could be because his cheeks are lightly pockmarked and his build is relentlessly average. However, Matt's smile is truly a thing of beauty and completely disarming.

Pete's entire manner is disarming, and I have been thoroughly and permanently disarmed, though I wonder if I was ever armed to begin with. I haven't been paying that much attention to the conversation with Matt because I'm looking around the room as discreetly as possible for Pete. Unfortunately, I don't see him. I don't think he's here, not yet. He's too tall to miss, even in a crowd, and it has gotten crowded, the room filling with smoke and music, the sounds of forced male cheer hanging over the living room like heavy smog. And I do think it's forced. It has that quality to it; that pushed-out, overly loud, overtly raucous sound that boys make when they're trying to impress girls.

Pete doesn't do that. Pete is quiet when the whole world abounds in meaningless noise. Pete has to be here tonight. I joined Beta Pi so that I could be here, at Rho Delta Pi, so that I could casually find him and so that he could, so very effortlessly, find me.

Find me, Pete.

“Would you like to dance?”

When I don't hear Ellen or Karen reply, I refocus my attention and see that Matt is staring at me, his expression of kind cheerfulness fading slightly at my silence. “I'm sorry,” I say. “I didn't hear you. I'd love to.”

 * * *

T
wo fast songs later, Pete arrives. I think I noticed him the moment he walked into the room, however much that might sound like pure romance. He is wearing worn jeans and a frayed jean jacket over a faded red Lacoste shirt, the long dark waves of his hair tangling in the double collars. He is definitely dressed more casually than his fraternity brothers, and he is also the only guy in the room with hair that touches the top of his shoulders, a holdover from going to prep school in New Hampshire, I assume. My heart stops in mid-leap because, what I should have expected and what I didn't expect at all, was that Pete would have a girl on his arm. To be more precise, he has his long arm around the waist of a bleached blonde who is wearing a maroon cotton T-shirt that is too tight and a denim wrap skirt that is too faded. She is not a Beta Pi.

It doesn't matter. It really doesn't matter. It can't matter. I'm here and I'm doing my best to make it obvious that I'm having a great time. Pete will see me and he will see that, and everything will be fine. We're meeting again at an exchange, which is just as I planned. I look active and popular and busy, which is just as I planned. Pete will be drawn to that and to me, because that's the way the world works.

But I have to admit, now that the moment is actually upon me, I'm not at all confident that Pete remembers me well enough to want me.

The dance ends. No one has cut in on Matt, and Matt is giving every indication that he is going to drift away.
Not now. I can't be alone now, Matt.

I take a step nearer to Matt, reach out, and touch his arm lightly, say, “That was great. Don't you love Chicago?”

“Yeah,” Matt says loudly, nodding. “I saw them play last summer. Amazing.”

The next song has started, a band I don't recognize; it's a slow song. I glance over at Pete. He and the blonde aren't dancing, not yet anyway.

I look at Matt, trying to think of something to say, something that will keep him at my side, something to spark his interest so that he will look interested in me, but I can't think of a thing; all my thoughts are of Pete.

“I saw the Supremes one summer when I was little,” I eventually say. “My sister took me. All I remember are the sequins.”

Matt smiles.

“No way,” a girl says behind me. I turn in what I hope isn't obvious relief. It's Diane Ryan, looking as stunning as usual. It's possible Matt will stay around for Diane, if not for me. It's just that I can't be seen looking alone and lost when Pete finds me. When Pete first saw me on Mackinac Island I was alone, sitting on a rock and looking out at the water, looking poetically tragic, I'm sure. I can only look poetically tragic once; it was a moment, not a lifestyle. “I saw the Supremes in 'sixty-eight. White sequins, right?”

“With big white earrings,” I say.

“I don't suppose you remember the music?” Matt says, looking slightly interested.

“Oh, the usual stuff,” Diane says with a wave of her hand. “I knew all their songs by heart, but the outfits! I thought I was going to die of rapture.”

“Because of their clothes,” Matt says, crossing his arms over his chest and assuming that mildly amused arrogant male stance that boys have mastered by the age of fifteen, and that's based on my limited experience with boys.

“Diane, this is Matt,” I say. “Matt, Diane Ryan.”

“Matt,” Diane says with a smile, “I can see you don't understand the first thing about women's clothes.”

“I think I know the
first
thing,” he says.

“Nope,” Diane says, grinning at Matt, shaking her head. “If you did, you'd know that sequins are the holy grail, the yellow-brick road, the whole enchilada. Nothing trumps sequins, not even a song about lost love.”

At the phrase
lost love
, I can't help but look at Pete. He's moved, and the blonde has moved with him. They aren't any closer to where I'm standing, and Pete now has his back to me. He has to see me. I've done too much and worked too hard for this moment. And he's not a
lost
love; he's a
found
love. I don't know why I thought that, even for a second, though the blonde probably had something to do with it.

“So does that mean you wear sequins?” Matt asks Diane. If I'm not careful, I'm going to get cut out of the conversation completely, which I wouldn't actually mind if not for Pete and the impression I'm trying to create.

I look at Diane. She looks at me. The look she gives me is inclusive; she doesn't seem to want Matt all to herself. That's not at all the impression I had of Diane Ryan, but her look is ripe with an unspoken message sent from one girl to another, and the message is: Matt is clearly an idiot, and isn't that typical? Matt, who may or may not know the first thing about women's clothes, misses the look completely.

“Do you wear the holy grail?” Diane asks.

“Do you wear the whole enchilada?” I say.

“No, I don't wear sequins,” Diane says. “I adore sequins. I lust after sequins. I dream about sequins. But I don't wear sequins. Clear?”

“Got it,” Matt says. “But how do you explain Cher?”

“Matt has four older sisters,” I say to Diane.

I sneak a look at Pete. He hasn't moved. Walking over to him is out of the question. It's far too bold a move, even though I do know him and we do have some history. But it's not a strong, firm history, no matter how important it was to me. It was only a few days, slightly less than a week, and it was only half a dozen kisses spread out over three or four events that weren't really quite dates. Not quite dates, but almost and close enough. We were alone and we talked and touched and laughed and kissed. It was intimate; whatever else it wasn't, it was intimate.

“Oh, my God. You poor guy,” Diane says. “Cher's just the tip of your iceberg, right?”

“He's got a lavender barrette story that will make you weep,” I say.

“What's a lavender barrette?” a male voice says behind me. I turn, and my breath hitches in my throat for a second or two. It's not Pete, but it is a really good-looking guy. He's got blackish hair and dark brown eyes and has a Rock Hudson–crossed-with–Cary Grant sort of look going for him.

It takes only a few seconds to soak up his physical beauty; with my next exhaled breath, I've registered that he is, yes, gorgeous, but is not, unfortunately, Pete Steinhagen. I'm not the kind of person to be won over by a pretty face, and I'm certainly not the kind of person who would like anyone who tried to win me by a simple display of a pretty face. My gauntlet has been thrown down, Mr. Cary Rock.

My breathing has returned to normal. I look quickly at Diane. She doesn't give any sign that Mr. Cary Rock has done anything at all to her composure. I have to admit, I'm impressed.

“No sisters, I assume,” Diane says, smiling at him.

“Not a one,” Cary Rock answers, stepping closer, joining us more fully. I glance at Matt, and he doesn't seem overjoyed about it, but now it's two girls and two guys.
Come on, Pete, find me now.
“What did I miss?”

“All-purpose hazing,” Matt says on a bark of laughter.

“I was hoping hazing was a myth,” I say.

“Don't all myths have a basis in fact?” Cary Rock asks.

“The Loch Ness monster?” I ask.

“Really big fish. Really pissed off that people keep hunting it,” Cary Rock says.

“Greek gods,” Diane says over the rim of her beer.

“Messed-up family,” he says. “We all know one.”

“Or live in one,” Diane says brightly. “How about the tall, dark stranger? That would be you, by the way.”

“Dave York,” he says, clinking his plastic cup against hers. The beer sloshes over her fingers. “And what's the myth about the tall, dark stranger?”