Hell Week (7 page)

Kirby gestured to the woman with her. "You remember Victoria Abbott, one of our chapter advisers." "Good evening, Mrs. Abbott." She wore another classy suit tonight, a hunter green that looked amazing with her complexion.

"Please, call me Victoria." She smiled, and it did reach her eyes, just barely crinkling the corners. Her husband was quite young for a U.S. congressman--early forties--so his wife was probably about the same. She must moisturize like crazy, because she looked nowhere near that.

"Impressive, isn't it?"

"Excuse me?" I didn't think she meant her skincare routine or her designer suit.

She gestured to the room. "One of our alums is in gradu- ate school for set design. She helped with the backdrops."

"Very nice," I said inadequately.

"And I believe you met Devon yesterday." A wave of a slim hand indicated the painter with the beret. "She's a fine art major."

"Cool." I was just full of brilliance tonight, but my brain was processing her knowledge of my social activities.

"I understand that you are an artist, too." I looked at her, my expression blank, and she gazed back expectantly. Fi- nally she prompted, "You're a photographer?"

"Oh! Yeah." That was the problem with lying; you had to actually remember what you told people. "I was on the year- book staff in high school."

Mrs. Abbott nodded. "I saw that on your Rush application. Are you thinking about continuing in photojournalism?"

Ah. Now I understood. She was feeling me out to see if I was the Phantom Rushee. At the other houses there had been a lot of questions about hobbies, but no one else had made the leap from yearbook photog to newspapers. "I haven't decided yet," I told her, lying with the truth. My guard was up, but it was hard not to look as though I'd raised my defenses. "I'd like to take some pictures for the Report, see if I like it, but they don't let freshmen on the newspaper staff. My major is English right now."

"Oh? Are you a writer?"

The woman was like a terrier on a rat. My hole was get- ting deeper and she was digging in behind me. "I love litera- ture. I've thought about being a professor, like my father."

"Ah, yes. Dr. Quinn. He was a TA when my husband was in college here."

I jumped on the opportunity to turn the subject away from me. "Did you meet at Bedivere?"

"Yes. We're both active alumni. Your sorority will be a vital part of your lives during college, and for the Sigmas, it remains so well after graduation. We're a special group."

Her hand touched my sleeve, and I felt a tingle, not on my arm, but in my brain. I stiffened, and I thought about my psychic exercises for dummies, about putting up a shield between us. Whether it worked or not, I wasn't sure, but there was no repeat of last night's voyeur-vision.

"Sigmas form a close bond, Maggie," Victoria continued seamlessly, as if she'd noticed nothing odd in my reaction. "You'll see what I mean, if you decide to join us."

Fortunately, she excused herself to introduce the skit, saving me from the most obvious response to that.

F F F

" `Resistance is futile.' " A fraternity guy, slumped in his desk in the back of the classroom, read aloud from the latest Phantom Rushee report while we waited for Dr. Hardcastle to arrive. " `All will be assimilated. Come into the light, where all have shiny, shiny hair and many, many boy- friends.' " His buddies, all wearing some part of the Greek alphabet, laughed heartily. I wondered if they'd be so amused if the Phantom had been a guy rushing a fraternity.

He continued his recitation: " `Unfortunately for the Sigma Alpha Xis, my mother always told me that if it looks too good to be true, it probably is.' "

The guy one seat down snatched the paper away. "She ragged on the SAXis? Man. This girl has balls."

Frat Man grabbed his newspaper back. "She's got to rag on them all, dipwad. It's like, equal time in the media or something."

"That's political campaigns, asshole."

Our class, by the way? Media and Communication. This is your brain on testosterone.

"I wonder if she's hot."

"She's probably some militant feminist lesbian."

"Lesbians are hot, dude."

Behold, the future broadcast executives of America.

F F F

My days had begun to bleed together. The last night of Rush was Preference Night, when the sororities invited only the girls they were prepared to give a bid. There were only two parties, so we--the rushees, I mean--had to narrow the choices, too.

Leaving Hardcastle's class, I'd glimpsed Cole as I passed the journalism lab, but as per our secret agent code, we did not make eye contact or acknowledge each other. I headed to the library to do some work and check my e-mail, and found a message waiting. From: [email protected] To: [email protected] Re: Secret Squirrel Retirement

I know we only made plans through Rush

Week, but are you sure you don't want

to keep going and pledge? Think of the

book you could write. Look at this:

www.newsnet.com/articles/greeksgowild

The link was to a news article about the seedy underbelly of Greek life--drinking, drugs, hazing, promiscuity--and the media blackout on the whole Greek system. How, unless an event got onto the police blotter, no one really knew about day-to-day life on Greek Row. This was what Ethan Douglas at the Avalon Sentinel had been talking about when he said my article lacked anything newsworthy.

The thing was, the longer the Phantom's opinions ap- peared in the Report, the greater the chance that I would be discovered. If I actually pledged a sorority--

My phone started vibrating across the table. I picked it up and leaned forward into the study carrel to whisper, "Hello?"

"It's Holly. Can you come to my room? We need to do an intervention."

"What?"

"The Deltas cut Tricia."

"I'll be right there." I'd jotted down her dorm and room number and closed my laptop before I realized that I was treating this like a real emergency--which was the other danger of continuing my undercover work. Perspective could be a slippery thing. How easy would it be to lose it? F F F

"I don't understand!" Tricia sobbed as she sat between us on Holly's bed in Sutter Hall. Her hands were full of soggy Kleenex, and her eyes puffy and red. "I did everything right. I studied the house and I got my hair done and I bought new clothes and the right kind of purse."

"You did great," said Holly, rubbing her back in a sooth- ing rhythm. I looked at Tricia's handbag, wondering what was so special. She'd dumped it onto the floor, along with her books, by the room's built-in double desk. "They're idiots. You're beautiful and sweet."

"Much too sweet for the Delta Delta Gammas," I told her.

"I should have dyed my hair." Miserably, she fingered one of her glossy brown curls. "That's what the consultant said, if I wanted to go DDG."

I had to speak up, because even undercover, there was only so long I could keep repressing my opinion. "If you ask me, you should be thanking your lucky stars that you aren't stuck for the next four years with a bunch of skinny clones, making yourself sick and miserable to be someone you're not."

"But what am I going to do?" She lifted her tissue-filled hands helplessly. "How will I get to know people? How will I get anywhere in life? When I called my mom, she said now I'll never find a husband!"

"Oh, for God's sake." My sympathy went a lot farther than my patience. Holly swiftly intervened before I could say something really unfortunate.

"Here." She went to her bureau drawer and brought back an airline-sized bottle of vodka, handing it to Tricia. "Drink this. Then you can lie down for a few minutes, and pull your- self together in time for the parties tonight. Those aren't the only Greeks in the sea."

Tricia made a brave face and unscrewed the cap. "You're right," she said, throwing back her shoulders and then throwing back the liquor, downing all three ounces in two deep swallows.

"Wow," I said.

She gave a coughing wheeze, a relaxed smile on her face. "I feel much better now."

Luckily, we were standing there to catch her when she slid off the bed and into careless oblivion.

F F F

Holly and I managed to get Tricia back to her own dorm room; the major obstacle, once we got her upright, was to keep her from calling out "Screw the Delta Delta Gammas" to everyone we passed, especially after that one frat boy called back, "Been there, done that."

We put her to bed, made sure she was still breathing-- snoring, actually--then grabbed a couple of hamburgers from the cafeteria before heading back to Holly's room in Sutter Hall.

I sat cross-legged on the extra bed, the Styrofoam to-go box in my lap. I'd assumed Holly had a roommate, but it turned out she was just schizophrenic. The decorating scheme was half Posh Spice, half David Beckham--designer sheets on the bed, soccer trophies on the shelf, all wrapped in a subtle scent of Prada perfume mixed with eau de athletic shoe.

"I don't get it," I said around a french fry. "My mom was in a sorority, but she never made me feel like I had to join one to be a success."

"Was her mom Greek?"

"No, they were German." Holly rolled her eyes at the fee- ble joke. "But really. Come on. It's such a clich�, the carbon- copy girls and the MRS degree."

"Where do you think clich�s come from?" She flipped her hair over her shoulder and took a bite of burger. For a lanky girl, she could pack away the cals. "You're going to pledge with me, right?"

"What?"

"SAXi." She swallowed her mouthful and looked at me levelly. "You're not going to make me go in alone, are you?"

There was nothing helpless about Holly--competent, confident, down to earth. But something about the way she said that . . . She munched on her burger as if we were dis- cussing a trip to the mall, but something underneath that thrummed with the tension of checked emotion.

"What makes you think they're going to invite me?" I asked, resisting the pull of my crusader instincts.

"Only Sigmas know Sigma criteria." She turned her careful attention to tucking a tomato slice back into her burger. "But I've got a feeling."

I understood about feelings. My thoughts turned to Tri- cia, who was a little silly but not at all atypical of the girls going through Rush, hanging not just four years of hopes on the outcome of this week, but certain that their foreseeable futures hinged on what letters they pinned on their lapels. Bad enough that the Greeks considered themselves better than the rest of us. Normal, likable people seemed to think so, too. It seemed to me there was a pertinent, immediate need to puncture these pretensions.

"Okay," I said, decisively. "If they give me a bid, I'll pledge."

"I knew it." She grinned and wiped the mustard off her fingers. "We're going to be pledge sisters!"

She stuck out her hand and I clasped it, my guard com- pletely down. Sight and taste and touch exploded like pa- parazzi flashbulbs in my brain: Holly in a private-school blazer and scratchy plaid skirt; on the soccer field, with no one in the stands to watch her; arguing with an elegant auburn-haired woman; then sneaking drinks in her room, amber in the glass, smooth and smoky on her tongue, the one oasis of color and warmth in her cold marble house.

It lasted the space of one caught breath. This time, my stomach stayed down; only my heart leapt, beat against my breastbone as I tried to get my bearings. Back in the dorm room, dizzy and befuddled.

Holly stared at me strangely. My hand still rested in hers. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah." I had to try again, with more confidence. "Yeah. I'm fine."

Only I wasn't. I was slipping a psychic gear, and no book could help this dummy now. 8

Gran took the teapot out of its cozy, poured a cup, and pushed the sugar bowl across the table to me. "Now, drink that and tell me again. Slowly this time."

The tea was almost the color of coffee. I like it strong and sweet when I'm in a panic. The first sip burned the roof of my mouth, but the pain was psychologically grounding.

"I don't know what else to say." The china cup barely rat- tled as I set it in the saucer. "I've never had vision things like that before. Not all flashy and . . . visiony." There were cook- ies, too, but even the rich chocolate smell wasn't enough to tempt my stomach out of its knot. "Maybe I've got a tumor." Gran gave a dismissive snort and stirred her tea, the spoon clinking against china. "You don't have a tumor."

"All I know is that when this started happening to Cordelia on that show Angel, she went into a coma and died."

"Honestly, Maggie. Do you get all your psychic instruc- tion from TV and movies?"

"No. I have a book, too."

She set her cup on the table. We were in the breakfast nook of her kitchen, as bright and cheery a place as I knew. Gran's house was all about tea and cookies and comfort. Though not always comfort in the way I envisioned. She had a limited tolerance for self-pity.

Folding her hands in her lap, she asked in a pointedly prim tone, "You consider a Dummies book the exhaustive source?"

I picked up my cup, but it was still too hot to drink. "It isn't like they have classes at the Y, Gran. You said I have to work it out my own way, and I'm trying."

"That's true." She softened, reached to cover my hand with hers. I tensed, waiting for the psychic shock treatment.

I did feel something. Love, which smelled just like Gran's face cream, the one she'd used when I was a kid; se- curity, which tasted like Earl Grey tea.

My eyes sought hers. "Did you do that on purpose?"

"What do you think I did?" she asked, withdrawing her hand, her expression that of a patient teacher.

"Kept your baggage, I guess, from hitting me in the head."

She rose from her chair. "Come to the study."

I followed her through the living room into the second bedroom, which had been in use as a study for as long as I could remember. When I stayed with Gran as a kid, she would put a soft pallet on the floor, and I would sleep among the books. When I got older, I stuffed my blanket into the crack beneath the door so that the light wouldn't show, and I could read all night.