Greek: Best Frenemies (11 page)

“Guys, I don't even know how we're going to change that one,” Rusty protested as they pointed to the lamp that was high on the wall near the stairs, in just a position so that getting a ladder in and unfolded against the wall would be nearly impossible.

“Do it! Do it!” they chanted.

Rusty gave in and aimed the remote control's antenna at the bulb, which became bright and then shorted out with a buzzing noise. Other improvements to the house included turning on the microwave from a distance, but they soon learned they couldn't control the setting and the pizza was both severely overcooked and partially irradiated by the time they got it out. When Rusty walked past the radio, it picked up the local Mexican station, where a hyperactive disc jockey was playing nothing but Latin pop. When he moved away, it would slowly die down and eventually turn off again.

They had made, unintentionally, the greatest remote control in the world. Rusty wasn't even sure what alterations caused the anomaly and whether he implemented them or Dale did. Dale gave up after an hour, as he had to report to class and then to his job at ZBZ, but he wished him the best of luck with his new magical device.

The one thing it didn't do was control the rock'em sock'em life-size robots, which were strangely unresponsive to the new ultrauniversal (possibly dimensional) remote. They stood lifeless. Rusty was convinced that he could eventually make them work, but by the more conventional way of levers and
pulleys that the smaller version used. The problem was the size of them made them hard to balance, and further calculations would be needed—calculations that might take longer than the designated weekend Rusty had to pull this off, and he had yet to break the news to Cappie, who was oddly still at work on his paper, as the door to his room was shut. Either that or something else was going on in that room, but either way, Rusty knew better than to open the door. Cappie had to emerge for food sometime.

Rusty eventually was guided by his fraternity brothers to the television, which, due to a tardy cable bill, received only five stations until they paid their arrearage. At first the remote did nothing and he set it aside to grab a drink, but when he returned, the television was on and the station was Korean or Chinese. To be perfectly honest, he couldn't tell the difference. “What did you guys do?”

“Dude, it just
turned
on,” Beaver said. “This thing is haunted. By an awesome ghost who likes sword fights.” There was some feudal drama on, with actors standing in cheap sets hacking at each other with swords but not causing any real bloodshed, just another long argument. “Do you speak Japanese?”

“I think it's Chinese.” There were subtitles, too, but also in another Asian language. “Has anything else come on?”

“We've been afraid to touch it,” Heath admitted, staring warily at the remote.

Rusty wasn't the type to be scared by technology, even mysterious technology, and he fiddled with the device. The TV went out again, then back on, this time to what they eventually identified (after some guessing and one internet search for verification) as a curling tournament. After that they found a Saudi Arabian rap station, the international version of CNN
where all the reporters were British and did actual reporting, a looped tape of city council meetings from Lebanon, Arkansas, and a Bollywood epic that involved a lot of turbans and a lot of singing to the camera. This was immediately classified as alternately “awesome” or “mind-altering” but did make for compelling watching.

Then, at last, the
real
channels started popping up. Cheers erupted when a
Bring It On
cheerleader movie marathon commenced.

Cappie emerged from his room an hour later, library books under his arm, to find the whole house watching television. “What is this?”

“Bring it On Again,”
Heath said. “The straight-to-DVD sequel to
Bring It On
. It's a marathon.”

“Brought to us by Rusty's magic remote,” Beaver said and gestured to Rusty, who was nervously staring at it, hoping it wouldn't change the channel again, or at least not until a commercial.

“The remote's accessing all kinds of stations,” Rusty said.

“What remote?”

“The one that's supposed to work on the robots but doesn't. It works on everything else, though.”

“Is that why my hallway isn't lit?”

“Um, yes?” He tried his most innocent expression. “They made me do it.”

“Not to worry, Spitter. I think it adds atmosphere. And how is two movies a marathon?”

“
Five.
The original, and the four DVD sequels. Apparently they weren't well-publicized.” Rusty was temporarily entranced by the cheerleaders before looking up at Cappie again. “How's the paper?”

“Sucking and robotless.” But he wasn't being too harsh on Rusty. He was busy being just as transfixed as everyone else. He looked down at his books. “These are due. Or need renewing. Or I can pay the fine.”

“They fine you?”

“You don't know? Or have you never had a book in late?”

“Will you be surprised if I said the latter?”

“No. Sorry.” Cappie took a seat on the couch. “Hmm, what about a ten-cent entry fee for a showing from a premium pay channel?”

 

Casey was pleased with herself as she headed to Kappa Tau, knowing she left ZBZ in good hands, even if the house wasn't hers to leave. Technically Ashleigh was in charge, but Casey always felt responsible for the house. Maybe that was because lately, they seemed to always have a crisis on their hands, like keeping the sorority from falling apart, or from going to jail for burning down a house, however accidental it was. But the house wasn't in crisis right now. The girls weren't nearly as keyed up, and she judged that to be a good thing. After moaning a bit about losing their edge with the sweetheart competition if they stopped baking, they were placated when Casey eventually found a distracting and strangely empowering
Bring It On
marathon on cable, and with enough bowls of popcorn and chips being passed around, they managed to at least mentally shelve, if not forget, that the house was locked in an important conflict with the other sororities where respect and the house standing were on the line and everything rested on the “sweetness” of it. As Casey had had enough of cheerleading for one day, she excused herself to check first on
Rebecca to discover she had escaped to study in the library of all places, or that was her cover story, and then on to the KT house to see what Cappie was up to. She hoped he was studying. She knew he was capable of it, when he wanted to be, but motivation was difficult to come by in Cappieland. He could swing either way, she knew, but he seemed to be on a steady track, the best motivation being perhaps her anger over him not graduating if he failed to do so.

The fraternity house was quiet from afar, which was odd for a Thursday night. The lights—some of them—were on in the house but most of them were out on the front lawn, including the glow-in-the-dark electrically powered gnome they were so proud of. Cappie certainly went on about it after they received it from eBay, insisting it had a name and a history and a certificate that was official in some capacity, whatever capacity gnomes could be official in, that was. Casey had her doubts, but as someone who came from a sorority where they passed around a cat named Pussy Willow for speaking at special meetings, she decided not to comment.

She knocked on the door to the KT house. No one answered, but the door wasn't locked so she hesitantly opened it. The noises were familiar and not male. They emanated entirely from the television, which was playing the same marathon as the one consuming the girls in her house, though she was positive the viewers had an entirely different interpretation of the merits of the film.

And there was Cappie, the great student, with books on his lap but his eyes on the screen, not drooling as hard as some of the guys but something close to it. She had to tap him on the shoulder before he even noticed her. “Oh! Hey, Case!” He raced to his feet, dropping his books as he went and then
scrambling to pick them up. “Do you know if the library is still open?”

“It closed an hour ago. What are you doing?” This was met with a chorus of shushing from the KTs.

He ushered her away from the television and into the hallway. “Your brother is a genius.”

“And Mensa will back him up. They sent him some really boring magazines when he was fourteen. Why is this news?”

“He found some way to program the TV so we get pay channels. There's a marathon of—”

“I know, I'm familiar with it,” she said. “And also, people who don't spend their entire budget on beer and Ping-Pong equipment that won't actually be used for Ping-Pong can afford pay channels, too. Only we
pay
for them. What are you doing?”

“Come on, Case. These upstanding cheerleaders wait for no man to see them win the Cheer Camp Nationals.”

“I mean, about your paper. The one your graduation suddenly hinges on?”

“Woah, just throwing the G-word right out there, aren't you? Just because I used it once—”

“And you're going to hear it a lot this semester, so get used to it! You're supposed to be studying or writing or whatever this professor—”

“Hey, he has a name. A name that's unusual and old-timey, but it is a name.”

“That's not important! And neither is a marathon of sophomoric DVD movies! I get one thing right, and then another disaster comes along. Rebecca and the house aren't going to tear each other's throats out, and I get five seconds alone—”

“And you want to spend it with me? I assume not at the library, though it does seem like you were checking out the hours. You know, we never did use the library to—”

She cut him off. “I just
know
the hours, Cappie, because I
use
the library. For normal, library purposes!” She was ready to scream at him but not in front of the others. It was so easy to get worked up considering how wound up she was over the past week. Maybe it wasn't fair to Cappie, but she was disappointed in him. “I just expected more from you.”

“Casey…”

“With the paper and you made Rusty do that whole robot thing—”

“He offered, for the record, to do the robot project.”

“If you asked him to jump, he would ask how high, and you know it. Irresponsible…” The rest of her sentence became what would have been a stream of curses if she hadn't stopped herself.

“Casey,” Cappie repeated, softer, but she would not be worn down by his boundless charm. Not this time.

“I've had a hard week, Cap. Really hard. Keeping the house in line and Rebecca from killing the house and then me, not necessarily in that order, and everyone was mad at me yesterday for not talking to Rebecca but how could they expect me to talk to Rebecca? She's always hated me, and don't tell me that hate's a strong word because I know it is and that's why I'm using it. And I finally get that all under control and come here, and you pull another one of your slacker stunts.”

“It's not a stunt. It's a break.”

“How can I expect you to stay motivated for anything if you can't stay motivated for a simple paper that your grade hinges on? And I can't write it off as you having a poor attention
span, because your attention span is great if you want it to be, but I think you just don't want it to be sometimes. And I can't deal with this, Cap. Not right now. Not after this week, which isn't even over yet. Just…not now.”

She turned on her heels—running shoes, to be more accurate—and left the house, leaving Cappie with his books and a forlorn expression that she managed to catch on her way out. Yes, she was being hard on him, but he needed it. That was what she told herself all the way back to ZBZ. Cappie would not disappoint her again, not if she had anything to do with it.

The problem was, he seemed determined to do so.

The next morning, Casey found Ashleigh a (somewhat)
willing listener to her latest problem with Cappie and his inability to finish anything.

“No offense, but this is not, like, a huge surprise,” Ashleigh said as they walked to the university parking lot to collect Casey's car. The campus was quiet, but it was fairly early in the morning—an odd time for them to be awake, but their mission was important. “Cappie is known for being a slacker. It's his defining trait.”

“It's not his only trait.”

“But it is defining.”

“I thought we agreed that you'd always indulge my need to see Cappie as upwardly mobile?”

Ashleigh shrugged. “You open the can of worms, I bring the whoop-ass. Wait, am I mixing metaphors?”

“I don't know.” Casey was still angry from last night, but it was buffered by the blurriness brought on by the early morning and the sense of duty she currently had as she hit the lock
button on her car keys. In the distance, they heard the car honk in response. “Okay, great, it was totally in this direction.”

“What did people do before car keys that made noises?”

“Remembered where they parked. Like people who had to remember people's numbers more than once before cell phones programmed them in. You know, my mom called from a pay phone in Florida once and I didn't recognize her voice. We had like a two-minute conversation before I realized who she was.”

“She didn't introduce herself?”

“She's my mom. She had expectations of competency.” They finally reached the car and climbed in. “The reception was really bad.”

“Sure. I believe you. Cappie?” Ashleigh redirected the conversation.

“He's… I know I'm going to stop being angry with him whenever he does something redeeming. Which he's really good at.”

“Yeah, but he thinks cleaning his room is a romantic gesture.”

“For him, it is. And don't comment on how sad that is.”

“He is leaving himself wide open.”

“I know,” Casey admitted with a grumble.

They drove back to ZBZ, where Rebecca was dressed and armed with coffee but far less enthusiastic than they were. She did climb into the car without protest, but that was mainly because of the long discussion over dinner the night before. “I'm doing this to escape the others, just so you know. Because I can buy my own dress.”

“We don't doubt it,” Casey said. “But you've never bought a dress for a sweetheart competition.”

“And this is a different skill set than selecting dresses for election-fundraiser parties and prom how? Because I was in heels while you were still wearing footy pajamas.”

“Hey, I took two years of tap and ballet,” Casey said. “The second year they switched us to heels.”

“I heard those wooden shoes ruin your feet,” Ashleigh said. “The ballet ones, I mean. Not that heels won't ruin your feet.”

“It was at the local Y, not a Russian theater company. They were kiddie slippers. But the heels were serious business,” Casey replied. “And no, Rebecca, I am not for one second suggesting that you are not capable of picking out a suitable dress. I am suggesting that we are sisters and this is what sisters do. Go shopping.”

“At eight in the morning?”

“You want to get there before the other sweethearts do,” Casey said. “And they agreed to open early thanks to someone's aggressive buying policy last year.”

There was only one serious dress shop in the town next to CRU, and to that Rebecca said, “I would never be seen in that Podunk town shop.”

“No, I mean me. When I was with Evan, I always had a fancy dinner or event that I had to dress for,” Casey said, then realized how awkward that was. Casey dated Evan when he still had his trust fund and unlimited cash, and Rebecca started officially going out with him after he gave it up to spite his parents. He could barely pay for dinner at a café. “Sorry.”

“Sorry for what? Most people I meet in college aren't going to be able to buy me stuff. And I don't need men to buy me what I need,” Rebecca shot back, but not too harshly. She was
a hell of a feminist when she wanted to be. “And by the way, I'm not wearing red.”

“Somehow, I knew you'd say that,” Ashleigh said triumphantly.

“Not every sweetheart wears red. Or pink. But some do. The pink people lose. I don't know why they do it,” Casey said. “Maybe the poor lighting in the store.”

Aside from the occasional snipe at them, Rebecca was remarkably compliant—for her—during the shopping trip. Then again, she did like to look good. Of the available dresses, red and pink were out, and blue was ruled out for being too “opposite.” Rebecca emerged from the dressing room wearing a silver gown when Natalie and two Gamma Psis arrived, closer to the actual store opening.

“Oh, hi!” Natalie said, her voice layered with sarcasm in her excited greeting. “Getting your shopping done before the rush? Afraid the place might burn down before you can loot it?”

“As if there's anything to loot,” Rebecca said. “And the Dress Barn clearly has their priorities straight, like paying electric bills and maintenance for their sprinkler systems.”

“Enough! Please.” Casey stepped in immediately. “Can we at least try to be civil to each other during the competition?”

“I suppose we can,” Natalie said, implying either both sororities or just her own, it wasn't clear which. “As the Tri-Pis already have us beat for how low you can go.”

“Everyone's always down on the Tri-Pis,” Ashleigh said. “I'm starting to feel bad for them.”

“Oh, you didn't hear? This time, they've earned it. Though I assumed ZBZs have so much experience with scandal they would just sense it in the air,” Natalie laughed. “Pick up a copy
of the daily paper. It doesn't name names, but five minutes on CRU's Facebook network will do that for you.” She grabbed a dress and entered the dressing room, flanked by her sisters, and her body language indicated she was going to refuse to answer any more questions.

“We have to get back to campus,” Casey said and looked at Rebecca. “I just decided that I really like silver.”

Rebecca crossed her arms. “Good, because it's the only good dress in the shop. Not that Natalie could poach it—it would be three feet too long on that leprechaun.”

“I heard that!” Natalie shouted from behind the curtain.

 

Back at campus, they made a quick stop at the nearest newsstand for a free copy of the daily paper, where their question was answered in an anonymous editorial. Someone had been privy to the Omega Chi sweetheart competition “decision process,” which was filled with descriptions of petty bickering and the ridiculing of candidates for being “skanks” and “bitches” (the latter applying to Rebecca). To that accusation, which wasn't spoken except for Casey reading it out loud, Rebecca merely said, “Anonymous sources are always untrustworthy.”

“It does kind of sound like the Omega Chis,” Ashleigh said, not that Rebecca would so much as admit the truth. It would be hard to fabricate such an account. Casey dropped them off at the house and parked, walking back to find the ZBZs swarming around different copies of the paper. It was vague. It was unsubstantiated. It was also the type of story that wouldn't run unless it was true.

“Well, it doesn't involve us, for once,” Casey said. “It just
makes the Omega Chis look like misogynist jerks, which is a fraternity-guy stereotype anyway. Now it's just reinforced.”

“Mystery solved!” Abby announced as she carried her laptop into the living room. She was way too perky about this. “It was Melanie Potter of Tri-Pi. She was dumped by her Omega Chi boyfriend last night and put on probation twenty minutes ago.”

“…And you got this info, how?”

“The Gamma Psi Twitter feed, which linked to the CRU Facebook updates page, which linked to the Beta Theta Tau—”

“Links, yes. We get it.” Casey was not nearly as excited as Abby. “While this isn't directly bad for us, it's not good, either. Making the Greek system look bad is always…bad.”

“But the point is,” Rebecca said without hesitation “are they disqualified?”

“It does seem kind of disqualifying, writing an exposé on the contest you're in and then publishing it
before
the contest is over,” Ashleigh pointed out.

“But she could have acted alone,” Casey said.

“She was put on probation,” Abby reminded them, still proud of her web-related accomplishment.

“That could be to cover up their investigation.”

“And it all depends on what the Omega Chis think. And it could possibly make other candidates stronger. A Tri-Pi was always a long shot anyway.”

“Or an underdog.”

“Let's see what Omega Chi says,” Casey said. “If we haven't already, subscribe to their Twitter feed.”

 

“The Omega Chis have a Twitter feed?” Cappie asked. “And more importantly, you're on it?”

Rusty didn't look up from his computer. “I'm not on it. It's just everything with the #crusweetheart tag. It's a very busy feed.”

“Feed.” Beaver laughed, then stopped at their confused looks. “Oh, wait, there's nothing funny about that.”

“That doesn't mean we can't enjoy every minute of the Omega Chis' public flagellation. Which, if literal, would be gross. And no, I'm not telling you what that word means.” Cappie turned back to Rusty and his laptop. “As long as they don't drag anyone down with them, this is awesome.”

“How would they do that?”

“If I get a call from the dean's office. They tend to lump us together, and I don't want to attend another mandatory sexual harassment seminar. Three is enough.” He checked his phone, but there were no messages. “If we make it until five with no messages, we're good. And then we're set to throw one killer revenge party.”

“Kicking them while they're down?”

“That would be crude. But I have wanted to throw a party where hot women show up to be honored for being hot for a long time, and I have a feeling that if KT finally throws its anti-sweetheart party, attendance is going to be amazing. We might even get some people in gowns.” Cappie picked up his phone. “I have some calls to make.”

 

“Yes, thank you, sir.” Evan hung up and sighed. He turned around to face Calvin, the only other person in the president's office. “As far as the Dean's office is concerned, we're off the
hook. It's all hearsay and, technically, calling someone a skank in the privacy of your own home doesn't violate university policy. Not that this news is gonna thrill everyone.”

Calvin nodded. He didn't envy Evan's position right now. “And what about Tri-Pi?”

“Their president claims Melanie Potter is on probation and they're making her vacate the house until the competition is over. Nationals will rule on it, so it's out of our hands. I don't really see how it disqualifies their sweetheart candidate, but the guys might feel differently. Or they just won't vote for her.”

“She was a long shot anyway.”

Evan ran his hands through his hair. He closed his eyes and thought for a moment. About what, Calvin could only guess. “I have to call a meeting so everyone can yell at me.”

“It's not your fault. It's the pledge's fault.”

“And I can't bounce him for stupid crap like this. Even if I wanted to, which I don't. It's a stupid competition and now it's been dragged through the mud by a Tri-Pi dumb enough to think it would help their chances instead of hurt them. So no one goes home happy—except maybe me, on Sunday, when this is over.”

“Unless Rebecca doesn't win.”

Evan shrugged. “I don't know if Rebecca wants to win. But I've done all I can for her. It'll come down to the ceremony, which it always does, which is why sweating over this stuff is ridiculous. Or was until we had a newspaper column trashing us.”

Calvin wished he could help him. They were in this together, even if Evan was going to shoulder most of the blame. Evan called the meeting because it was the right thing to do,
but mostly because he was willing to take on challenges to his authority. It was part of being president, after all.

And the guys did lay into him at the meeting, even after he gave them the specifics of how they were off the hook and, no, they did not have to take another sexual harassment seminar. The Tri-Pis, for all their posturing against their sister, still looked bad.

“They should be disqualified.” Trip was the first one to say it but not the first one to think it.

“Technically, it was not the Tri-Pis. It was one rogue sister who's been put on probation,” Evan said. “They didn't do anything against the rules, and they immediately fessed up as to who it was. We knew before anyone else did.”

“How is it different from everyone just not voting for the Tri-Pis?” a pledge asked.

“Because we can't implicitly state we're voting that way. And we're voting for Stephanie of Tri-Pi, not the sorority itself or one of its members whose actions Stephanie is not responsible for.”

“As far as we know!”

The meeting erupted into shouting. It took twenty minutes to calm everyone down, and as Evan had predicted, he took most of the heat. He bore it well, insisting that the Tri-Pis should not be disqualified on principle and that the competition was damaged enough without further scandal.

“I officially hate this competition,” Grant announced when the meeting was over and he and Calvin were back in their room. “And everything to do with it. No offense to Evan.”

“Yeah, he took a beating. But it's a tradition—a tradition that does not go wacko every year. Just this year.”

“Hopefully. Because otherwise, I'm boycotting next year.”

Calvin couldn't say he disagreed with the idea.