XGeneration 1: You Don't Know Me (12 page)

“Hear! Hear!” someone shouted.

The sergeant at arms paused in his return to the table to glare at the shouter, which evoked more laughter.

“All right, guys,” the tall speaker said. “For those who don’t know, I’m Grant Sidwell, president of Gamma.” He went on to introduce the other Gamma officers, who half rose from their seats at the table in turn. Scott made a point of repeating their names inside his head, but with his heart still pumping at a breathless rate and the dry bite of terror in his mouth, the names abandoned him seconds later.

Grant went into some administrative items, clearly meant for current members, and Scott couldn’t concentrate on those either. His eyes were going from officer to officer, struck by how
adult
they looked. One of them even had a mustache, not one of Wayne’s threadbare numbers, but the real Tom Selleck deal. And they were all stylish and sturdy in a way that Scott could only dream of. It wasn’t necessarily what they wore but how they wore it, the way necks filled out shirt collars, the way an open button showed just enough chest—and chest hair in a couple of cases (something Scott had no personal experience with)—the way folded shirt cuffs embraced toned forearms and metallic watches held tanned wrists.

All day, Scott’s shirt had been shifting and chaffing in odd places, requiring constant readjustment. He’d even considered finding some Scotch tape to keep the wings of his collar from curling up. But with these guys, there was no effort on their parts, none at all. It was like their clothes
knew
they belonged inside them. And with that thought, Scott understood how ridiculous his presence was. He didn’t belong here. He would never belong here.

“A show of hands if you’re planning to pledge this year,” Grant called.

Heads turned in the front as the pledges’ hands went up around Scott. He was late in realizing that he was still holding his glasses to his face. He fumbled them into his lap, went to reach for them, and then shot his arm up instead.

Grant began counting the hands off with the tip of his pen.

Scott’s gaze found the large intercom box on the wall above Grant’s head. Without his glasses, it looked like a manila blur, but it was something to focus on, something to keep his mind from the craning stares of the Gamma members, from his own doubting thoughts.

His head began to spin.

It was a familiar sensation, the filaments of his consciousness winding around one another, harder, sharper…

But here?

His world twined tighter, dimming to the brink of darkness, before bursting open. In the next instant, Scott was scattershot over the intercom system, box to box, then down a stepwise convergence of branches, to the main trunk, where the system was rooted and powered, probably somewhere inside the school’s main office.

Scott braced himself against the stinging current and tried to reverse course, but it was like swimming upstream in a frothing river, the energy less linear, more turbulent. Perhaps it was the age of the system, the dry cracks in the rubber insulation. He stopped straining and imagined the intercom in the meeting room as he’d last seen it: a manila blur. He focused on it, just like he would do with his modem at home, felt his consciousness gathering there…

The report sounded like a cross between a fart and a shotgun blast.

Scott blinked from his seat in the rear of the classroom. At the head of the room, Grant had fallen into a crouch, his pen still held out, his other arm thrown up over his head. Everyone else was staring at the intercom box above him. Glasses to his eyes, Scott’s gaze went there, too. The box emitted a final, petering raspberry from its blown speaker, then fell silent.

Heat washed over Scott’s face.

The laughter was sudden and riotous. Britt, the sergeant at arms, stood from the table. But rather than restore order, he waved a hand near his backside in exaggerated motions. “I swear, it wasn’t me this time!”

Grant straightened and swept his fingers through his hair. He peeked back toward the intercom with a disapproving scowl, then cleared his throat into his fist. “All right, everyone, return to order.” Then to the back of the classroom: “You can put your hand down.”

Scott made a convulsive sound when he realized Grant meant him. He hugged his arm to his side.

“The Gamma pledge term is thirteen weeks.” The laughter quieted to guffaws. “I’m not going to sugarcoat it. They are thirteen
demanding
weeks. But do everything you’re asked as a pledge, and you’re in. You’re a brother. It’s that straightforward. And once you’re a Gamma brother, you’re a Gamma brother for life.”

“And if Britt can do it, anyone can,” someone called to the back.

That revived the laughter and had the other officers restraining the sergeant at arms as he pretended to want to climb over the table to get at his heckler. Scott smiled at his antics, and for the first time since walking through the door, he felt the knot in his stomach begin to loosen.

Do everything you’re asked as a pledge, and you’re in. You’re a brother.

A roll sheet found its way to his desk. Scott signed it and passed it along.

When the laughter subsided, Grant had another question for the pledges: “How many of you have been eating lunch off campus?”

All of the pledges’ hands went up, and once more, Scott’s hand joined theirs. Not true, of course, not entirely. But who would know? He became worried when snickers began to pop off like bottle caps.

“Well, as of next week, that stops,” Grant announced. Scott could feel the questioning looks of the other pledges as they lowered their arms. “In the cafeteria, there’s a special table for Gamma pledges, and that’s where you’ll be eating. You will partake of the good food that our lunchroom ladies prepare each day but that no one has the good manners to appreciate. As representatives of Gamma,
you
will appreciate that food, and you will appreciate them. You will do so by eating every bite. I don’t care if it looks and tastes like regurgitated cow cud. At the end of the lunch hour, a brother will stop by to inspect your trays. And don’t try to get cute and dump your food beforehand, or it’ll be two trays the next time.”

“Someone’s always watching!” a voice warned.

“But here’s the most important part,” Grant went on. “When you return your tray, you’re to stick your head through the service window and thank the ladies for your meal, and you will do so with sincerity. Understood?”

“Yes,” the pledges answered in unison.

Scott swallowed. Just when he thought he’d escaped the cafeteria and its depravities—the food not the least of them—he was being ordered right back into that world.

“In addition to daily lunch in the cafeteria, you are all required to dress in what we call ‘Standards.’ Dress slacks, dress shoes, dress shirt, and a tie. Your Sunday best. Blazers optional.”

Grant signaled to one of the officers, who began passing something toward the back of the room. With his glasses back in his lap again, it was all a blur to Scott.

“These are your Gamma letters,” Grant said when they began arriving. “They will complete your attire. You are to tie a string through the hole in one end so the letter can be worn around your neck. You will wear these every day, and you must wear them so that they are
visible
—not inside your shirts. That way, your brothers can identify you around campus.”

More snickers.

Scott took his giant laminated L and turned it one way and then another before setting it flat on his desk. If he decided to go through with this—the cafeteria, Standards, a giant Greek letter around his neck—there would be no going back into the shadows. Not at Thirteenth Street High.

“Any questions?” Grant asked.

Do you really want to do this?
the same voice whispered in Scott’s ear.
It’s an even bigger risk than you first thought.

“It all starts the day after Labor Day,” Grant said after no one spoke up. “And the next meeting is a week from today, when you’ll be assigned your big brother. Be sure to bring back your permission slips. We’ll need those. The other requirements for your term are spelled out in these pledge packets. Make sure you grab one on your way out. Good luck.”

The sergeant at arms rose from the table and stalked to the front of the room. “DISMISSED!” he bellowed, throwing his arms out. “NOW, GET THE HELL OUTTA HERE! ALL OF YOU!”

This time, Scott laughed with the others.

11

After school

The garage door was solid. It didn’t rattle when the soccer ball
thunked
against it, which made the rebounds come off hard and fast. And because of the paneled design of the door, the ball almost always bounced back at erratic angles, first careening to the right, then to the left, then almost straight up in a spinning pop.

Perfect for a goalie in training.

Janis sprinted beneath the latest pop-up, elbows tucked to her sides, the webbing of the goalie gloves spread wide.

Watch the ball into your possession. Always watch the ball into your possession.

Her squinting eyes tracked it into her arms, and she cinched the ball to her chest, crouching protectively. Her father had taught her that after a game when she had fumbled away a shot that led to the other team toeing in the winner. In the years since, it had become automatic for her, a mantra that repeated itself every time she went to corral a shot:
Watch the ball into your possession.

She had missed some, sure—due to ill-timed jumps, interference from other players, or perfectly placed benders—but she’d never fumbled away another ball.

She bounced the ball against the pavement as she returned to her starting spot with it. As always, she’d pumped extra air into the ball to make it springier, less predictable. Clamping the taut ball between her knees, she wiped sweat from her brow and tightened her ponytail. The temperature had climbed into the upper nineties again, and her pores gasped inside her long-sleeved polyester jersey. She’d already taken two trips to the garden hose to drink and douse her head. After another few reps, she’d be going back for her third time in less than an hour.

But she loved the training, even the suffering that went with it. It was who she was, it was where she belonged, not in
Alpha
. She grimaced. Even the thought of the word tasted bad.

Janis had shown up early to the first meeting that day with the sole intent of telling Margaret that she wasn’t going to be joining and wouldn’t even be staying for the rest of the meeting.
Sorry, but Alpha just isn’t for me.
Margaret had been in the middle of organizing packets and patting them into neat stacks when Janis arrived at the meeting room.

“Where’s your lunch?” Margaret asked, hardly glancing up. A few members were eating near the front of the classroom, Feather Heather, Tina, and Kelly among them, their desks pushed together.

“I’m sorry, Margaret…” Janis lowered her voice, “but I can’t.”

“Can’t what?”

“Do this. I have to leave.”

Margaret looked up from her counting and, for an instant, it felt to Janis as if her sister’s green eyes were around her head. It wasn’t an unpleasant feeling but strange and disorienting. Similar to what happens before falling asleep, when your thoughts begin to dissolve a little.

“Oh, march your little bottom to the back and stop being silly.”

And surprisingly, Janis found herself doing just that. Her thoughts on Alpha hadn’t changed, no, but asserting herself before Margaret felt like too much trouble, as if the lead of resistance had melted from her will.

Better just to go along with it.

Janis picked out a desk in the very back and watched the classroom fill with the type of girls she swore she’d never become. Most clacked in on high heels, their hair and makeup
way
overdone. The older members squealed and clapped their hands when they spotted her, but Janis knew it was only because she was Margaret’s little sister. Celebrity by relation. She raised one hand in response, her resentment at being there seeping back by degrees.

Aspiring pledges entered too, dolled up and doe-eyed, Margaret directing them to the back. They steered clear of where Janis sat, probably because her own fashion sense that day amounted to athletic shorts and a Jordache T-shirt. She might as well have had leprous tumors. Of course, they didn’t know she was Margaret’s sis—

Janis nearly choked.

Amy, Alicia, and Autumn entered the room in virtual lockstep. In their pleated skirts, pink Argyle vests, and matching socks, they looked like a three-headed creature. A hydra. They filed toward the rear of the room, flashing smiles and waving to the older members, like contestants in some ridiculous pageant. Janis slid down in her seat and swore at herself. Why in the world hadn’t she left when she’d had the chance?

The Amy-Alicia-Autumn hydra stopped at the row of desks in front of hers, a gust of hyperfloral perfume enveloping Janis, and sat three across. They didn’t deign to look back. Big surprise there. The backs of their brunette heads perked up as Margaret called the meeting to order.

The informational meeting was pretty much what Janis had expected:
we do service work, we host social events, we represent the school in the community, blah blah blah.
The single highlight was when the intercom blew and the room erupted into screams. But the hysteria was short lived, and the meeting resumed with the Alpha pledge term. Lunch in the cafeteria? Dressing up every day? Janis slouched further in her chair. Not for her.
Definitely
not for her.

And to have to do it with the Amy-Alicia-Autumn hydra?
For. Get. It.
Janis was sure the feeling was mutual on their end.

But then something weird happened. As the meeting broke up, and the three A’s stood from their desks, Amy, her former best friend, turned and looked at her. “Hey,” she said and smiled. Not a polished, practiced smile, but one that pouched a little at the ends with, what, contrition?

Stunned, Janis returned the greeting with a hoarse “Hey” of her own. It marked the first exchange they’d had in almost three years, their first one since Janis had found the note in her locker.