Sorority Sisters (6 page)

“And me without any rum,” I say.

“Screwdrivers, coming up,” Diane says, coming from the tiny kitchen into the tiny living room, grabbing my empty glass. “I'll start, you sadist,” Diane says to Ellen. “Okay, so I'm not a virgin, but I only went all the way with one guy in high school.”

“Come on. Really?” Ellen says.

“Okay, okay. Three in college, but it's not like I need to walk around with a red light over my head. I was in love in high school; it's always love in high school and it's always forever.”

“No kidding,” Ellen says.

“It wasn't forever, big surprise, and it wasn't even for long. And that's why they call it high school.”

Ellen and I both laugh. Karen dreams on, her feet twitching against the arm of the couch.

“What happened?” I ask.

“He broke up with me over the damn phone,” Diane says. “Can you believe that?”

“Yes,” Ellen says.

“Shut up,” Diane says, coming back from the kitchen bearing three tall screwdrivers. Ellen and I take our drinks with more enthusiasm than we took the rum and Cokes, or at least I'm more enthusiastic this time. “I got drunk at a party on the fourth floor of George's Tower—”

“You know, that's almost a pun,” Ellen says.

“—and woke up at eight in some strange guy's bed, with the guy still in it, and his roommate grinning at me across a floor covered in dirty clothes and damp towels.”

“Are you sure about that red light?” Ellen says.

“Yeah. It wasn't one of my better moments,” Diane says. “You can see why I wanted to save Cindy from a similar fate. It's not a fate worse than death, but—”

“It's damn close,” Ellen says.

“Speaking from experience?” Diane says. “Does anyone want some chips? I think I have cheese and salsa. We could have nachos.”

“No, I'm good,” Ellen says. I shake my head and sip my screwdriver. It's good. I must like vodka better than rum, and I think that now I like rum just fine. “And I mean that. I'm still a virgin.”

“Congratulations,” Diane says. “And I mean that.”

“I am, too,” I say.

“Congratulations!” Ellen says. “At least Pete didn't get that from you. He doesn't deserve it.”

“Thanks,” I say. But didn't he? I don't know what to think. I'm glad I'm still a virgin, but I'm sad that Pete is no longer
my
Pete. Except that he was never
my
Pete, and I've got to stop forgetting that.

“Hey, look, I'm not saying it was easy for me to keep my pants zipped, but I can see how you, with your face, would have been fighting them off for years. A girl gets tired,” Ellen says to Diane.

“With my face,” Diane repeats softly. “Let me tell you a little something about my face. I know I'm pretty now, but I didn't use to be. I used to be a very funny-looking kid with big ears and bad skin and too much hair.”

“What do you mean too much hair? Like growing out of your ears?” Ellen says.

“No, like big ears sticking out from your little head and eyes too big for your face and lots of black hair covering your head, which has a tendency to embrace eczema,” Diane says. “Picture it . . . picture it . . . That's right. I was a monkey baby.”

“Oh, God, you were not!” Ellen says.

“I were, too,” Diane says.

“How'd your mom take it?” Ellen says.

“She hid the camera,” Diane says. “And when she brought it out, like for Halloween and Christmas, I was always mysteriously photographed behind a mask, or a white Santa beard. The tradition was to have our Christmas photo taken wearing Santa outfits. But you know what? Even as a kid, I knew the beard was for me.”

“You clearly grew out of it,” I say.

“Thank God,” Diane says. “But not until I was a senior in high school, and if there's one thing I learned, and please God, let me have learned one thing up to this point, it's that the bad times drag and the good times are fleeting. So let the good times roll.”

“Amen,” Ellen says, draining off her screwdriver. “Karen's going to have to make up for this. We don't know if she's a virgin or not. Or if she was an ugly baby or not. Or if she threw beer in Pete's face or not. Or would like to. Or plans to. That kid's got a lot of making up to do.”

Karen shifts in her sleep and, without thinking about it, I lay my hand on her head, soothing her and, somehow, soothing myself.

Diane

–
F
all 1976
–

“Why do we have to move in on the hottest day of the year? This is the hottest day, right? It's not going to get hotter. It
can't
get hotter,” Karen says, her arms full of sheets, a comforter, and her pillow. The pillow looks ready to tumble.

“So it's one hundred and five,” Ellen says. “It's a dry heat. Everybody knows that dry heat isn't really hot.”

“Tell that to a baked chicken,” Laurie says.

“Now that you mention it, I
am
starving,” Ellen says. “Do you want to go to the Pepper Mill after we get our stuff unloaded and into the house?”

“I'd kill for a patty melt,” Karen says as we all walk up the steps into Beta Pi, the sun baking down onto our heads. I feel like I'm about to explode or melt or something equally Wicked Witch of the West–ish. I just want to move in, find my rack, get my clothes hung up, and huddle in the center of an air-conditioned house.

“I'm going to get the French dip,” Ellen says. “Screw the calories. I've earned them.”

“Diane? What are you in the mood for?” Karen says.

“Hired labor,” I say. “Cheap.”

“Remember, it's a dry heat,” Ellen says on a cackle of laughter.

Now that we're in the house, it should be cooler, and it is, but the house is still hot because the damn door is open because every single girl who's living in the Beta Pi house this year is moving in. Why we all have to move in during the same two-hour window is beyond me; if they had any sense at all, they'd schedule us in shifts, but then the house front door would be open for days, not hours, and that probably would make it all worse.

Everything is worse. Just a hot, sticky mess.

We get our room assignments; I'm in the back four-way with Ellen, Missy, and Pi, a room that overlooks the roof deck, hot as hell right now, and Karen and Laurie are in a four-way with Holly and Candy. I'm dutifully lugging my clothes up from the car when I bump into Karen in a narrow part of the second-floor hall and drop half the outfits I'm carrying, and the whole mess falls onto the floor. And that's when I burst into tears.

“Diane, what is it?” Karen says to me. “What's the matter?”

Damned if I know. I can't stop crying long enough to figure it out. Before I'm required to figure it out, Karen has me in her arms and is leading me out onto the blistering roof deck, and that makes me cry harder, but she just sits me down on a chaise longue, her arms still around me, and she kind of rocks me, and all the while I'm sobbing like an idiot.

“It's okay,” she says. “It's going to be okay. I'll move you in myself. I'll do all the work, and you know how I hate work, and someday you'll have to pay me back, big-time, with double-digit interest, but don't worry about that now. Don't worry about anything. It's okay. I promise. It will be okay.”

“Damn loan shark,” I say on a wet hiccup.

“It's a living,” she says, holding me tighter, rocking me gently back and forth, her head pressed against mine. “Come on. You're okay, right? It's going to be okay.”

“I'm not okay,” I say, wiping my nose on the hem of my shirt. “I fucked up, Karen. I totally fucked up.”

“What happened?”

“I washed out of the flight program,” I say. “I wanted to be a pilot, like Dad, and I flunked math, and I can't navigate, and then I got sick in the A-4, or I almost got sick, but you can't be a pilot if you can't fly a dogfight without getting sick; never mind the fact that I can't navigate worth shit. I did the Dilbert Dunker okay, aced that, and did the swim test and deep-water survival, but I got sick in the A-4. I'm not going to be a navy pilot.”

I'm not going to be able to follow in Dad's footsteps, not that Dad ever made a point of telling me he wanted me to shadow his career trajectory, but I had certain expectations that I would, and he must have had the same expectations, and now they're toast.

I flunked out.

“But you're still in the navy. There are other things you can do, right?” she asks.

“But I'm not going to be a pilot,” I repeat. I've been repeating it to myself ever since flying over Arizona and trying not to blow chow all over the cockpit.

“I'm sorry,” she says, running her hand over my hair, smoothing it down my back, pressing me into her side, holding me close.

Mom and Dad didn't do this. I made the story funny for Mom and Dad. I told them, “Math plus navigation multiplied by motion sickness equals not being ideal pilot material.” Then I laughed. Dad didn't laugh and neither did Mom, but they didn't tell me I was overreacting either. In fact, Dad said, “It's probably for the best.” They let me tell them my version, watched me pack up my car, and waved me down the street as I drove to ULA.

“I'm just not good enough,” I say, talking over Karen. “I've never been good enough. I'm not pretty enough. I'm not smart enough. I'm not tough enough. And I can't do math.”

“Will you shut up?” she says. “I'm trying to be nice, giving you my best mom imitation, but you're really pushing it. Not pretty enough? Are you delusional? Don't answer that. You're delusional. You're gorgeous and you know it, and I know it, and every guy on The Row knows it.”

But the guy I want isn't on The Row. The guy I want is Midshipman Temptation, known to the world at large as Doug Anderson. Doug was with me at Miramar. Doug passed everything. Doug is going to be a navy pilot. And I'm not.

“Are you tough enough?” Karen says. “You made it through Rush and Initiation and countless exchanges, so I know you're tough. But what's a Dilbert Dunker?”

“It's a fake helo crash, in water, and then you have to find your way out, underwater.”

“That settles it; you're tough, but what an insane way to spend summer vacation. All that leaves is math, and I can completely understand your problem with math since I have the same problem. Math is ridiculous. I don't get it either. They lost me at long division when I waved math good-bye with a hysterical little laugh. I'm sure there must be some way we can contribute to society without having to divide fractions.”

I laugh, but it has a hollow sound, breathy, like I'm a hundred years old.

Karen moves off the chair and sits at my feet, looking up at me, smiling. She looks very small and cute and cheerful, ready to lead me out of any hysteria I succumb to, unwilling to judge, willing only to care. “Okay, so you didn't make it. Okay, so what? You'll be good at something else. Have you tried underwater basket weaving? People say good things about it. You've already passed the Dilbert Dunker prerequisite.”

“Idiot,” I say, grinning in spite of myself.

“What are you guys doing out there?” Ellen says from the doorway that leads back into the house. “I thought we were going to eat!”

“We're coming!” I yell back; then I smile down at Karen and we both get to our feet. “I just have to hang up my clothes and make my bed.”

“Throw your clothes on your bed. This isn't the navy. Today, you're not a midshipman; you're a sorority girl, and sorority girls can be slobs,” Ellen says. “Let's eat!”

Without any further breakdowns on my part, Karen, Ellen, Laurie, and I ditch the pandemonium of the Beta Pi house and walk down the block to the Pepper Mill, just up Figueroa from the 401 Club, the best and most frequented ULA nonofficial hangout.

“So what did you do on your summer vacation?” Ellen asks the table. “Me? I spent the summer in Malibu working on my tan and avoiding Ed. It was great.”

“Did you meet anyone?” Karen asks.

“I can't be bothered to talk to anyone while I'm working on my tan. You should know that by now,” Ellen says. “Next? Diane, how was your summer with the US Navy?”

“I quit the flight program,” I say. We're sitting in a booth, the waitress having taken our order, and Karen is sitting next to me; she inches over slightly so that our thighs are touching. “Actually, I quit, and I also wasn't accepted into the flight program, to be perfectly honest.”

“What?” Ellen says. “What happened?”

“I'm so sorry, Diane,” Laurie says, her cool blue eyes filled with sympathy. “I know you really wanted that.”

“I did, but when you get a D in Navigation and then almost hurl during a mock dogfight, that's the end of that,” I say. Doug Anderson sat next to me in Navigation, but Doug is not the reason I got the D.

“What are you going to do now?” Laurie asks.

“Besides avoid Navigation? I'll think of something,” I say.

“There's always men. You could find a nice guy to distract you,” Karen says.

“Right. Just what I need,” I say.

“Hey,” Ellen says. “You've got that look. Who is it? You like somebody. Spill.”

“You do! You do have that look,” Karen says. “Tell us everything. We want every single detail.”

“Feel free to leave out a few details,” Laurie says, grabbing for her cigarettes.

“There's nothing to tell,” I say.

“Ignore Laurie. Tell us,” Ellen says. “And make it good.”

“But no pressure or anything,” Karen says with a chuckle.

“You might as well. They'll hound you to the gates of hell until you do,” Laurie says.

“Are you calling me a hellhound?” Ellen says. “Because if you are, I can live with that.”

“Come on,” Karen says. “We're all ears.”

“And no mouths, if I tell you,” I say, feeling just a little bit better about the flight program flail just by thinking about Doug Anderson.

“Got it,” Ellen says. “Not a word to anyone.”

“Well, there is this guy that I kind of like,” I say. “He's in ROTC, the flight program, and he's completely amazing.”

“What's he look like?” Karen asks.

“He's blond and blue-eyed and a total hunk,” I say. “Not that I'm biased or anything.”

“So what's the holdup?” Ellen says. “Go get him.”

The waitress brings our food over; Karen gets the patty melt, oozing with grease and cheese, Ellen gets the French dip with fries, Laurie gets a hamburger, and I get a Cobb salad.

“Way to make me feel like a heifer,” Ellen says. “I shouldn't eat this, but what the hell. I was good all summer. I lost six pounds!”

“You look fantastic,” Karen says.

Ellen's hair is gleaming gold, her eyes shockingly blue, and her skin is deeply tanned, her freckles almost hidden by browned skin.

“We could stop to discuss your weight, but I'd rather hear about Diane's guy,” Laurie says.

“He's not my guy. He will never be my guy,” I say.

“Why not?” Karen says.

“Because he's in ROTC and Dad gave me firm instructions not to shit where I eat—and that's a quote,” I say.

Laurie puts down her burger. “Thanks for the info. They do say timing is everything.”

“But he's in the flight program, right? And you're not,” Karen says. “That makes it all right. I'd say he's fair game. What's his name, by the way?”

“Doug Anderson, and he is not fair game. He's in the navy. I'm in the navy.”

“If you say
shit
or
eat
again in the same sentence, I'm going to throw this at you,” Laurie says, pointing to her hamburger.

“Does he like you?” Ellen asks, dipping her sandwich into the cup of beef juice.

“I don't know. I think so. Maybe.”

“I say go for it,” Ellen says. “What have you got to lose?”

“How much of a hunk is he?” Karen asks.

“I've never seen anything like it in my life,” I say. “And he's nice, too.”

“Go for it,” Karen says.

I look at Laurie and say, “Save your breath. This is not up for a vote. I can't go out with him. Besides, he hasn't asked me.”

“He will,” Karen says. “And when he does, say yes.”

“Go ahead, Laurie, you can vote,” Ellen says. “This is still a democracy.”

“I'd hate to get in trouble with the navy,” Laurie says, “but I say follow your heart.”

“Speaking of following your heart,” I say, eager to change the subject because I cannot and will not go out with Doug Dreamboat Anderson, “you went to Michigan this summer, didn't you?”

“We go every summer,” Laurie says, signaling for the waitress to take her plate; she's eaten less than half of her burger.

“So, was he there?” I ask.

He
is Pete Steinhagen. Laurie never talked about him after that one night last year, but I couldn't help but notice that at the spring Rho Delt exchange, where Barbie did not make an appearance, Laurie danced a few times with Pete and they talked on the front steps of the Rho Delt house when everyone else was inside dancing. I saw them walking down University Avenue once last spring and, not to get too technical about it, but there definitely seems to be something in the air between them.

“Who? Pete?” Ellen asks, grabbing a fry off Laurie's plate before the waitress snags it. “Isn't he still with Malibu Barbie?”

Karen looks out the window at the parking lot, the sunlight blazing off the windshields of the cars like search beams. Karen drops her gaze to her lap, refolding her napkin. Karen doesn't ask about Pete. Karen probably knows something I don't know, and I should, therefore, probably shut up about Pete.

“So, what did you do all summer, Mitchell?” I ask.

“No, no, no,” Ellen says. “I want to hear about Laurie's summer first. Come on. What's going on with Pete? Do you still like him, even though he's a lying piece of shit?”

“He was there,” Laurie says under her breath, jabbing her straw through the crushed ice. “They never go to the same place twice, according to what his mom told my mom. It was all Pete's idea,” she says, lifting her gaze to me briefly, her eyes wistful. “He insisted they go back to Mackinac.”