Hell Week (2 page)

"See." She smiled over her paper cup. "Your intuition did tell you something useful. So where will you go?"

I fished in my satchel for the e-mail I'd printed that morning. Mom had been appalled. Apparently, when she went through Rush--my own mother; I'm so ashamed--their invitations to the next round of parties were delivered to their dorm rooms. On silver platters, for all I knew.

During the past Friday's orientation--excruciating in length and level of enthusiasm--I learned about "recs" and "bids" and "legacies." All the talk of leadership and sister- hood was, considering we'd all shelled out registration fees, sort of like trying to sell us a car after we'd already made a down payment.

Rush--Recruitment, I should say--worked by double elimination. In the first round, which took two days, you went to all ten houses for the short torture sessions I'd de- scribed in my article. Then six tonight, four tomorrow, and two the last night. At each round, the sorority could choose to invite you back--or not, in which case you were "cut"-- while simultaneously you had to narrow your choices. Theo- retically, I could have had to choose six out of ten houses to visit for tonight's second round. Needless to say, I faced no such quandary.

"Maggie Quinn?"

The speaker had a rounded, evening-news sort of voice. I turned, looked up, and up again. A tall, thin blonde stood beside our table, the light from the window behind her. I answered warily, "Yes?" Her hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail, which bobbed as she looked me up and down. "Where is your name tag?"

"Uh . . ." I recognized her now, and the other young woman with her, carrying a tray of drinks. Both were Re- cruitment guides, or Rho Gammas, as the Panhellenic Council--the organizational body of sororities on campus-- called them. Which said something about the pretentious- ness involved, if "Panhellenic Council" wasn't your first clue.

There were fifteen Rho Gammas, representing all the different houses, and though it was supposed to be a secret, some of them were easily identifiable. The blonde was Hillary, and I had her pegged for a Delta Zeta--aggressive perfectionists. Their party had been orchestrated to the millisecond with robotic efficiency. The girl with the drinks was Jenna, who wasn't so easily pigeonholed.

"Potential New Members are supposed to wear their name tags at all times," said Hillary, with a gravitas that im- plied I'd left the space station without my helmet. I'd also noticed that the tendency to speak in capital letters seemed to be a Greek trait.

"Sorry. I'm having coffee with my grandmother, and she already knows my name."

Her instructions were brisk and sober. "The selection process goes on twenty-four-seven, Maggie. The houses will be watching to see how the Potential New Members comport themselves on campus, in class, in the cafeteria, and even off campus."

"Like Big Sister?"

"Exactly!" she chirruped, pleased I'd seen her point. I thought I heard Jenna snort back a laugh, but I couldn't be sure. I know I heard Gran chuckle. "Is that your schedule for the next round?" Hillary asked.

"Yes, ma'am."

She took it from my hand, her eyes flicking over the e-mail. "Only four invites, I see. At least you don't have to make any choices tonight."

"Yes. Considerate of so many houses to cut me."

She scanned the list. "Epsilon Zeta. Yes, that figures. Theta Nu. Zeta Theta Pi and . . ." Her brows made an elo- quent arch of surprise. "And Sigma Alpha Xi. How . . . inter- esting."

She said "interesting" like she meant "unfathomable."

"Maybe they're filling a dork quota."

"Of course not," Hillary demurred, in a tone that said, That explains it. "You must have impressed them with your wit and charm." Behind me Gran chortled again as Rho Gamma Blonda handed me back the schedule. "Put on your name badge as soon as possible. And you know the dress for tonight?"

"Black tie?"

"A simple sundress will be fine." She turned toward the door, beckoning the other young woman after her. "Come on, Jenna, before the mochas get cold."

The other Rho Gamma didn't follow right away. She was more subtle all around. Her brown hair had expert high- lights, like strands of gold woven through chocolate-colored satin, and if she had on any makeup, I could see no sign of it on her flawless skin. With a secret little smile, she sized me up. "That's funny. I didn't see any Ford Pintos parked out- side."

I cleared my throat. "Well . . ." "Also odd--I had Professor Quinn for history last year."

Gran looked from her to me and back again. "Maggie, just what were you telling them?"

"Um."

Jenna intervened with a friendly grin. "Nothing too bad." She offered her hand. "I'm Jenna Nichols. You must be Maggie's tea leaf�reading grandmother." Her amused glance slanted my way. "Or was that a lie, too?"

"An embellishment, really." I avoided Gran's glare; she disapproved of lying. "I thought you Rho Gammas weren't supposed to talk to the sororities about the rushees."

"We're not. But rumors get around." She grinned and lifted her cardboard tray of drinks. "I've got to go. You're all right with your schedule? No conflicts with classes?"

"No, I'm good." The parties would all be in the evening, and I had no night sections. "Thank you for asking."

"That's what I'm here for." She smiled at Gran. "Nice to meet you, Mrs. Quinn. See you later, Maggie." Then she made her retreat to the September sunshine.

I heaved my satchel over my shoulder, stuffed the printed e-mail into the front pocket, and, grabbing my half- full cup, I turned back to Gran. "I gotta run. I'm meeting the school newspaper adviser to ask about joining the staff."

Her annoyance evaporated quickly. There are advan- tages to being the only granddaughter. "Take care of your- self, Maggie. Tell your mother I hope she's feeling better."

"I will, Gran." I leaned forward and kissed her soft cheek. "See you later. Thanks for the coffee."

I turned to go, but Gran's lilting voice stuttered my step. "Oh, and tell Justin I say hello." Slowly, I pivoted to face her, and I could feel my cheeks beginning to heat. "Justin?"

"Yes. He's back from Ireland, isn't he?"

My brain slogged through a morass of mixed emotions that had churned throughout the summer--hope and affec- tion tamped down by a growing weight of worry, and thick- ened into a soup of romantic uncertainty. "I suppose he must be, since classes started last Thursday."

"Well, don't worry, dear. You'll see him soon. And then you'll get everything straightened out."

Vision, hunch, or wishful thinking? I wove through the tables and shouldered open the door. Matchmaking grandmothers were one thing; matchmaking psychic grand- mothers were a whole other level of irksome, even when you loved one as much as I did mine.

F F F

Part two of Maggie Quinn, You're Not Special featured Dr. Hardcastle, possibly the most boring journalism professor ever. I'm not saying that Media and Communication is the most fascinating thing to begin with, but it takes a new level of tedious to make me struggle to stay awake in a journalism class.

He was also the adviser for the Ranger Report, Bedivere University's newspaper. I had made an appointment with him during his posted office hours and brought along my sample articles and photographs. A wasted effort since as soon as I told him why I was there, he said, without looking up from his computer: "I don't take freshmen on the Report staff."

I stood stupidly in front of his desk, the portfolio hanging from my hand. I didn't know how he could see anything; the room was dim and cluttered and smelled as though he had his lunch there a little too often. Or maybe that stale smell was the professor himself. He had a Grizzly Adams thing going for him.

"Never?" I asked.

"As close to never as makes no difference."

Never give up, never surrender. "Here are some samples of my work." I opened the binder to an eye-catching photo- graph of the Avalon High star forward making a spectacular jump shot. "And in addition to working on the AHS paper for three years, I was an intern at the Sentinel this summer."

Dr. Hardcastle glanced at the picture and flipped dis- missively through a few pages. "Not bad."

"I can write captions, do layout, proofread, whatever you need."

But Professor Hard-ass had gone back to Web surfing. "Come back after you have six hours of prerequisites."

"I'm already enrolled in six hours of journalism--"

"Then come back after you finish them."

He wasn't going to budge. I didn't need to read minds to see that.

"Okay," I said, because there was no point in pissing him off. "Thanks for your time."

I slumped out of his tiny office and leaned against the wall, weighed down, for a moment, by self-pity. It was right next to the journalism lab, where they put together the paper. I could hear the familiar click of multiple keyboards, smell the printer toner and film developer.

Dismissed again. Would the suck never end? Someone touched my shoulder, and I spun around with a stifled squeak.

"Sorry." The speaker was a young man with intelligent eyes and a Byronic shock of thick, dark blond hair falling across his forehead. He had a friendly smile, and as my brain transitioned from grouchy, grizzled professor to cute young guy, he took the binder out of my limp hand.

"I overheard your conversation with Hardcastle. By which I mean I shamelessly eavesdropped. Let's see what you've got."

"The journalistic clap, apparently." I cracked wise to calm my nerves as he leafed through the pages. "No one wants to touch me this morning."

He raised one brow. "You tell me that after I'm already holding your portfolio?" Then he smiled and gave it back. "I'm Cole Bauer, editor of the Report. Anytime you want to submit something to me, go ahead."

"Really?" My roller-coaster day took an upswing.

"Sure."

Belatedly I remembered my manners, and held out my hand. "I'm Maggie Quinn."

"I know." He nodded at my name tag, which I'd dutifully put on when I returned to campus. "How's Rush going?"

I touched the plastic-covered card self-consciously. "Actually, if you'd really like to know . . ." On impulse, I slipped my hand into my satchel and pulled out the folded article.

Both his brows went up at that. "You don't waste time, do you?"

My cheeks heated. "Not when I have a feeling about something. I think I may have written that for you without realizing it. Er, for the Report, I mean."

He nodded. "I know what you mean." Unfolding the pages, he gave them a cursory glance. "I'll read it and let you know."

"Thanks." I felt a quick shot of relief. I'd offered it; he hadn't laughed. Now I just had to let things shake out. I took a step backward, making my exit. "I'll be in touch."

Waving the pages, he moved to do the same. "Or I will. See you."

He turned and disappeared into the newspaper lab, and I headed for my next class in that fog of abrupt reversal, when things take a quick turn and you're not sure you're re- sponsible for it. I don't know if it's the instinct talking, or fate or whatever. But I never know where that left turn is going to take me.

F F F

Case in point. For eighteen years I'd planned to go away to school, much to my parents' frustration. Bedivere Uni- versity is a small old liberal arts school with stiff admis- sion criteria and an excellent reputation, which attracted students and teachers from all over and kept Avalon from being more small-town backward than it could be. In fact, the whole place--college and town--felt connected with the rest of the world but slightly out of step with it, making the name seem more than coincidence. It's a great school, I could walk from home if I wanted, and my professor dad got a tuition discount.

That said, the reason I am not, in fact, attending the Uni- versity of Anywhere-but-Here, despite having been admitted and financially aided, lay with my parents, who could not behave like respectable, decently middle-aged people.

I knew my mother was pregnant before she did. In the pharmacy one day, with one of those half-aware impulses I get, I had picked up a plus-or-minus test and put it in the cart. Mom was surprised, to say the least. "Something you want to tell me, Maggie?"

"It's not for me," I said.

"Do tell." Her calm was admirable, under the circum- stances.

"Really. Unless the Angel of Annunciation dropped by to leave a message while I was out, it's for you." As soon as the words left my lips, the feeling went from hunch to certainty. Not even the fall of Mom's face, the paling of her cheeks, could dim it.

She firmed her mouth and put the test back on the shelf. "Don't be ridiculous. That's just not possible."

I returned the pink and blue box to the cart. "Humor me."

My only-child status had not been my parents' choice. Memories of those stressful years of roller-coaster disap- pointment are fuzzy, and I don't know when, exactly, they gave up hope. But now I was about to have a sibling, even if Mom didn't believe me until she'd started the daily puke.

As for my staying at home, I don't remember making a conscious decision; one morning I woke up knowing that Avalon and Bedivere was the right choice. Gran says that sometimes people like us are led where they need to be, if we just listen to our inner voices.

I tend to think inner voices are only good for getting a person locked in a padded room or burned at the stake. And I'll tell you right now, I am no saint, because I'm not sure I would have listened to my mental Jiminy Cricket if Justin weren't returning in the fall.

Justin, who still hadn't called me, even though I knew he'd been back in town for a week. 3

I arrived at the Epsilon Zeta house breathless and wind- blown, my cheeks hot with exertion. I'd had to rush--no pun intended--home to change after class. I'd brushed my hair and powdered my nose, too, though the effort was wasted by the time I drove the Jeep to Greek Row, found a parking spot, and hightailed it to where my group had assembled, cool and composed despite the warm September afternoon.

"Sorry I'm late!" I gave an exaggerated roll of my eyes. "But you would not believe my professor, wanting us all to stay until the end of his lecture. Can you imagine?"