Rushing to Die (4 page)

 

Chapter Six

S
UTTON
C
OLLE
GE RUSH
was at the beginning of the spring semester, right at the end of winter break—­timing that had been a source of despair and dismay for many sorority alumnae for years. The common name for this practice is “deferred rush” and is generally only something that Greek systems do when they don't take themselves seriously and want freshmen to focus on things like “getting used to college” and “grades.” Which, I mean, come on.

As an undergraduate at Sutton, I had heard stories of the glory days: when rush took place in the heat of early September, rushees would spend all summer planning their outfits, carefully cultivating their tans, and pass out from lack of hydration while standing in line outside the houses on Greek Row. But sometime during the 1970s, some do-­gooder feminist decided that this system turned women into “commodities.” The Sutton College Panhellenic moved rush to winter, so that sorority women would get to know the freshmen on campus and around town, and when rush came around, they would be choosing sisters based on their personalities and not their sartorial choices.

Well, that happened sometimes.

Of course, it sounds like a great idea. I am a proponent of making friends and choosing sisters based on substance, not style. But deferred rush brings its own set of unique challenges—­winter in North Carolina, for one. It can be extremely difficult to find cute Lilly Pulitzer shift dresses that also have thinsulate in them. And no one wants to wear tights with their peep-­toe Tory Burch wedges. It ruins the whole look.

Deferred rush also makes the fall semester much more stressful for the rushees. Instead of enjoying their first semester of college joyfully embraced by their new sisterhood, bonding over fun hazing and illegal keg parties, they're watching every step they take in their shiny new Hunter boots, worried they will accidentally ruin their chances at pledging a new house in January.

That's why I invested so much of my personal energy into rush. It wasn't just about making my chapter stronger. It was about giving all these young, hopeful women their futures so bright in their Ray-­Ban shades, the time of their lives. Rush is a pivotal moment for every sorority-­woman-­to-­be: the last week of their sad, sister-­free lives, their chance to fully consider their options and learn just where they fit into the societal structure of Sutton College Greek life. Were they Delta Beta material? Or did they want to follow in their unfortunate older sister's footsteps to Lambda—­or even worse, Tri Mu?

These were life-­changing times for the rushees. And it was just as important on the inside of the sorority house. This week was the chapter's chance to show its best, most stylish, most rhythmic, most cheerful sides. This week we had the opportunity to select the women we would be pledging ourselves to for a lifetime. If that didn't deserve two weeks of sleepless self-­destruction, what did?

All of the rush events would take place on the grand, elegant first floor of the house, with a huge, curved staircase into the front hall. Each day, a different banner would be hung from the stairwell, welcoming the rushees with an eye-­catching yet classy slogan and hand-­painted artwork. They would be ushered into the house to the sound of foot stomping, clapping, and screaming—­instantly making each woman feel at home. Then they would be “picked up” by a sister wearing an outfit that coordinated with the group, with chapter-­approved hair, makeup, and nails, and led away to quietly discuss prescribed conversation topics. This was a finely tuned, highly specific process that really showed how unique we were opposed to chapters.

So here we were, a mere twenty-­two hours before the first set of potential new sisters walked through our front door, and the Delta Beta house was in organized yet frantic chaos. There was a crew of sisters in the dining room painting signs and banners, a cadre of girls singing around the baby grand piano, another squad practicing dance moves on the chapter-­room stage. I had to give it to Ginnifer, she was a real help. My four-­inch-­thick rush binder in my arms felt a little lighter at the sights around me, and I started to see the light at the end of tunnel. Maybe we were going to pull this off, after all. Sometimes, college students just needed some verbal abuse in order to produce their best efforts.

I was helping the decorations committee with a three-­foot pile of tissue paper that needed to be crafted into massive, glitter-­encrusted chrysanthemums, my hands full with about sixty sheets of black-­and-­gold tissue, when Asha, the social director, called my name. “There's someone to see you.”

When I heard who it was, the sheets were quickly thrown to the floor.

“You didn't let her in, did you?” I asked Asha under my breath. Asha, like the wise and experienced senior she was, shook her head fervently.

“No! She's in the atrium.”

The atrium was our fancy word for the huge tent we had set up directly off our front porch. Years ago, our chapter advisor had the brilliant idea to provide the rushees with warmth and shelter from the January weather while waiting at our house.

That was my senior year, and we kept the plan hush-­hush. The first day of rush, it was sleeting and thirty-­eight degrees; when our tent went up, complete with space heaters and cozy blankets provided in the Delta Beta signature colors of black and gold, let's just say we were the most popular house on the block—­with the rushees. The other houses ranted and raved about unfair advantage as they scrambled to rent tents. Unfortunately for them, we had a very generous alumna who had put deposits on every large party tent in a fifty-­mile radius; and there were no Panhellenic rules specifically proscribing chapters from providing rushees heat and shelter.

The next year, Panhellenic rules changed to require tents at all houses.

This was the name of the game. Every time you thought you had an advantage, someone tried to knock it out of your hand or create an even playing field. So we played smarter, quicker. Some played dirtier.

Like the woman standing in the atrium waiting for me. Sheila DeGrasse.

In the years since I'd last seen her, she hadn't changed much. She was like a Barbie doll, if Barbie had a six-­foot-­tall wicked stepsister with double Ds and killer Manolo Blahniks. And even though I knew she was evil incarnate, I still felt self-­conscious in my fleece and yoga pants next to her sharp black pantsuit, with a pale pink and orange silk scarf knotted precisely at her neck.

“Hello. Miss . . . ?” It was petty, but pretending I didn't know who she was gave me that little dash of confidence.

She pursed her demon-­red lips in amusement. “Sheila DeGrasse,” she said, dripping smugness. She extended her hand. “I asked for the chapter advisor. I had no idea I'd find
you
.”

I ignored her hand. Looked like we weren't going to pretend to be civil, after all. “Yes. I'm the chapter advisor. How can I help you?”

“I thought I'd heard you were the mentor for Delta Beta headquarters, traveling the country. And now you're babysitting a bunch of schoolgirls who can't seem to keep their collective nose out of trouble. Is this a . . . demotion?”

I had to laugh. There was no such thing as a demotion in my world. Margot Blythe didn't get demoted, she was only asked to showcase alternative talents. “Assisting Delta Betas in any capacity is better than selling myself to the highest bidder—­with the lowest standards.”

Sheila smacked a hand against her chest, but that Joker-­like grin widened across her too-­tan-­for-­January complexion. “Oh, Margot, you were always so cute. With your standards and your loyalty and your . . . original nose.”

I resisted the impulse to check my crooked Blythe nose. “Did you come here for something, or did you just miss being in the presence of greatness?” I spread my arms to gesture at the tent, wishing we'd hung our cute banner with our Greek letters and our sorority flower, the yellow rose.

Sheila crinkled her nose at me, her smile as perky and hard as her boobs. “I'm going around the block introducing myself. I thought everyone should be able to put a face with the legend.”

This time I couldn't help but roll my eyes. Sweet Leticia, help me. Before I could come back with a sassy comeback about what, exactly, kinds of legends I'd heard about her, she continued. “I kept you for last, you know. I wasn't sure about how to deal with the crime-­scene tape and all.”

A chill raced through my North Face jacket, as if it wasn't the finest recycled plastic money could buy. Sheila smelled blood in the water.

I spread my arms again. “As you can see, we're open for business.”

“What about the—­”

“It's a police matter. Confidential. I'm sure you understand.”

For the first time, Sheila DeGrasse flinched. Her smile was glossy and as red as ever. Confidence oozed like slick La Mer hand cream. But there was a flicker of something in her eyes, a momentary glitch in the Matrix, that chilled me to the bone.

She recovered so quickly, nodding knowledgeably, that I couldn't be sure what I'd seen. “The police. Of course. Well, I guess you're used to that, with the murderous rampages your sisters like to go on from time to time.”

I could handle Sheila's making snide remarks about me and my nose, but talking trash about my sisters brought out the inner Hope Solo in me. I made an obvious show of checking my Michael Kors watch. “Oh, look at that. My allotted time for sellouts talking smack is all up. I hope you understand.”

Sheila crossed her arms as the smile melted off her face. “I thought we could be friends, Margot. I was here to offer support. We can be on the same side. We're kind of alike, you and I.”

The nerve. I drew myself up, threw my shoulders back, and looked her up and down like I smelled something nasty. “No, we're not. I'm silicone-­free and proud of it.”

With that zinger, I twirled around on my sneakers like they were four-­inch Manolos and marched straight back into my Delta Beta home.

The words of Sheila DeGrasse haunted me through the next hour. We were nothing alike. Sheila DeGrasse was a legend, yes, but only because she played dirty and sold herself out to whatever chapter paid her ridiculous rates during rush season. I didn't even know what sorority she was a member of, if she'd ever pledged at all. I couldn't imagine that any organization worthy of Panhellenic status would extend a bid to someone who mocked everything our sisterhoods stood for. Except maybe the Tri Mus she was helping—­further proof that Sheila and I were as different as Blair and Serena.

 

Chapter Seven

S
INCE
I
HAD
some free time, I hunkered down in my small apartment, near the front door of the house, to try to get some financial reports for headquarters finished. Getting out of the Rush Dungeon had a positive effect on my productivity, and I was almost done with the triplicate Form 1872 when there was a knock at my door.

Usually, a knock at my door meant there was some kind of drama or emergency that required the diplomatic and leadership skills of a chapter advisor—­but instead, I had received a delivery. I took one look at the large, beautifully presented gift basket and knew immediately who it was from. My best friend in the whole wide world, Casey Kenner.

“CASEY!” I squealed when he picked up. “You shouldn't have!”

“Girl, of course I should have. You totally deserve it.”

Casey was not only my best friend, but also my best friend at Delta Beta headquarters. Yes, he's a man. But he's Delta Beta to his core, thanks to the proper instruction he received at a young age from his mama, his sisters, and his mama's mama. (His daddy's mama was a Tri Mu, but thankfully, she wasn't around much when he was a boy and couldn't lead him astray.) He serves the sisterhood as director of public relations—­he got the interview because of his unisex name but got the job because he's the Delta Beta total package: classy, cheerful, and color-­coordinated.

I started untying the gigantic yellow-­and-­black bow holding the cellophane wrapper. “It's not even my birthday,” I said, unable to keep the smile off my face.

“It's just a little rush care package. You've done so much for that chapter, I thought you should have something for you.”

I waved at my face a little. He was going to make me cry, and he wasn't even here. “Where are you, anyway?”

Casey's sigh was loud and clear. “I'm at the University of Texas chapter.”

Wow. For Casey to leave headquarters in Atlanta and visit a chapter meant a huge crisis was in the making —­like when he'd visited here three months ago because the chapter advisor was murdered. “What did they do?” I asked in a scandalized voice.

Now Casey lowered his voice. “A stupid idea for a date dash.”

A date dash was a fun, impromptu social event where the ladies were given short notice to run out, grab a date, then meet up for a party at a club or for a fun activity, like bowling. In my mind, it was the pinnacle of the social calendar.

“How could anyone mess up a date dash?” I wondered aloud. It was inconceivable.

“They had a theme. They called it a Mexican roundup. They dressed up as immigration officers.”

They didn't . . . Ugh. I felt sick to my stomach. “You sure it was Debs?” I asked, grasping at straws. Maybe someone had put them up to it.

From the hesitation in his voice, I could tell Casey didn't want to believe it either. “We're going to spin it as a social-­awareness experiment.”

“Oh. Well . . .” My voice trailed off as I tried to be encouraging. “At least you've got a plan!”

“Yeah.” Casey was glum, then brightened. “But I have one chapter I don't have to worry about. I don't know if I've told you, but headquarters is so psyched about your being in charge there at Sutton. You've done such an amazing job, hardly anyone remembers the scandal.”

Then I remembered the news that I hadn't told Casey . . . the part about the dead woman in our backyard. Alternately ignoring it and telling myself it didn't matter, I hadn't called headquarters to report it. Even during the last five minutes, caught up in the joy of talking to my best friend and savoring his presents, I hadn't spared a thought for the great black threat that hung over this chapter. Again.

Could I do it? Should I? Should I tell Casey and headquarters and send them all into hysterics again? And what if they lost their trust in me? There would be no more sweet care packages. No more encouraging phone calls and uplifting notes on stationary monogrammed with the Delta Beta crest.

This time, no one would count on Margot Blythe to save the Deb chapter. This time, they'd install a new sister. One who could avoid death and mayhem.

I flipped open the card that was signed, “DEB LOVE” and listened as Casey rattled on about the men in Austin. The combination of hipster beards and tight cowboy jeans was apparently exciting to some. Finally, I blurted out: “So someone might have died in the backyard.”

Casey paused. “Might have?”

“Yeah, they pretty much died.”

“Anyone we know?”

“No,” I said definitively. I told Casey about the situation and the fact that I hadn't recognized the DOA.

Which seemed to relieve his worries until he asked, “You haven't heard from Nick Holden, have you?”

“No, not technically.” I relayed my conversation with Brice about Holden's worming his way into Sutton to prepare for a follow-­up news story.

Casey swore elegantly. “I have a friend in New York who mentioned something about the network's wanting another exposé on sororities. I can't believe they're doing it now.”

I fingered the edge of the basket's cellophane wrapping. Another Nick Holden antisorority special report would undo everything we'd been working for. The Sutton College administration would have a fit, and the ­people who thought sororities were awful would have a truckload of ammo.

“Why did I agree to talk to him?” I moaned to Casey. “I have a trillion and one things to do. I don't have time to aid and abet the enemy.”

“You did the right thing,” Casey assured me. “You can't let his only contact with sorority life be a sit-­down with Sheila DeGrasse. He'd think we were all insane!”

“True.”

“And anyway . . .” Casey's voice turned thoughtfully sly. “Who said you had to help Nick Holden?”

“No one, but I said I would talk to him.”

Casey chuckled. “Yes, but you don't have to give him what he wants. We've had this conversation before.”

Yes, we had. It was Casey's favorite topic to discuss before any date I had, along with how to keep my skin dewy, not oily, under stress.

“Flip the script on him. Use it as an opportunity to promote Delta Beta, and when he asks a tricky question—­”

“Give him a Miss America answer,” I finished.

“You got this,” Casey affirmed. “And get his number, so I can follow up with him.”

As always, Casey was supersmart about all things. After being friends for so many years, why hadn't I remembered that he could solve basically all my problems with some good advice and a beautiful gift basket.

“I really love the basket,” I told him again, wanting to move on from depressing talk about reporters who wanted to libel my chapter.

“I wanted to get you all the things you needed for rush. Do you love it?”

I pulled out a small envelope with the distinctive green mermaid logo on it. “You know I love my Starbucks.” And it wasn't just a coffee-­shop gift card. There were chocolate-­covered coffee beans, several bottles of 5 Hour Energy, and a box of organic No Doz.

“It's herbal,” Casey explained when I commented on the meds. “Nothing to worry about there.”

There was a miniature measuring tape, a box of Band-­Aids, a tin of extrastrong mints (handy after copious amounts of caffeine), an extra phone charger, three cute Delta-­Beta-­themed hair ties, and a mysterious black canister.

“Is this . . .” I paused. It wasn't hair spray. “Is this MACE?”

Casey sighed. “Pepper spray. I'm pretty sure Mace is illegal.”

The canister felt heavier than it should have been in my palm. “Why did you get me pepper spray?”

“Just in case. You never know; remember what happened that year at Tulane?” A creepy old man had hidden in the bushes during the sorority parties and exposed himself, having his own little Mardi Gras celebration. But surely, deviants weren't around here, at Sutton College.

Or were they? I gently pressed a thumb on the trigger of the pepper spray. When the time came, I would be ready, for whatever happened.