The Best of Enemies

by Jen Lancaster

  “Kelly! We see Aunt Eleanor because we love her!” Mum cried.

  Kelly completely ignored our mother. “I’m not wrong. Also, and this is key, everyone’s perfectly groomed . . . or at least the girls who hope to have a social life over the next four years are.”

  “Freaking out now, thanks,” I said, suddenly anxious. “I assumed I was just going to talk about fun stuff with a bunch of cool girls.”

  Mum stopped folding a sweater to place her hand on my shoulder. “Sweetie, rush is more like a job interview.”

  “Then I’m hosed!” I exclaimed. I’d never actually interviewed before—my only jobs thus far had been helping in my dad’s office and working as a counselor at the tennis camp I attended for eight consecutive summers. Somewhere around my sixth year, everyone just assumed I’d eventually join the staff once I was old enough and it never occurred to me to say no, despite the fact that I’m not a fan of kids. At all. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if I ended up one of those child-free career women who’s far too busy and important to even consider marriage until she’s really, really old. (At least thirty.) I’d take an engagement ring earlier, though. Big fan of jewelry.

  Mum smoothed my hair over my shoulders in an attempt to calm me. “Kitty-cat, these parties are where you demonstrate how you’d fit within the group. You’re not having conversations to make friends so much as you are trying to make a positive impression. No one wants to live with someone they don’t like. Be chipper and bright—pretend you’re talking to Regis and Kathie Lee.”

  “P.S.,” Kelly added, “rush is not therapy; no one wants to hear your probs.”

  “Be chatty, not catty?” I asked.

  Mum smiled. “That’s a nice way to look at it. Because everyone’ll have a different point of view, avoid bringing up anything controversial, such as politics or religion. Talk less about Nelson Mandela and more about . . . Michael Jackson.”

  “Who’s Nelson Mandela?”

  “That’s the spirit!” Mum said, chucking me on the shoulder.

  (I actually wasn’t kidding, but I guessed not knowing important stuff was why I headed to college in the first place.)

  I replied, “You’re saying I should be myself, only a better version of it? Won’t that be hard to keep up after a while?”

  “Get through rush. Pledging is entirely different. Everything’s more casual and you’ll gravitate toward girls who share your interests. But during recruitment, members have their guards up. Rush is hard on them, too. It’s not actually fun for them to cut rushees,” Mum explained.

  “Disagree. It’s plenty fun,” Kelly countered, with a wicked chuckle. “Someone wrongs you? Boom. Cut. Done, bitch.” Noticing that we were both frowning at her, she added, “What?”

  Mum blinked hard and then cleared her throat. “The members are as anxious to find new sisters as you are to pledge. If every day were rush, no one would join. Sorority rush is a necessary evil—imagine a dozen of the worst parties you’ll ever attend, followed by four years of tradition and fun and female bonding. You’ll form the friendships that’ll last the rest of your life, so it’ll be worth it. All of my best girlfriends were once my Tri Tau sisters. We wouldn’t all be friends now if we didn’t endure the nonsense in the beginning.”

  On learning that some of the sisters could be as cutthroat as Kelly, I was suddenly scared. Did I even want to be a part of something that sounded so exclusionary and conformist?

  Mum unpacked my trunk as we talked, pulling out the kind of dresses and heels I didn’t know I needed for rush parties. She even made me bring the navy suit I wore to my great-grandpa’s funeral for Bid Night. She removed the tissue paper she’d packed between each layer of clothes in my trunk, placing it all neatly in the little garbage can by my desk. When we’d assembled my stuff at home, Mum had said the right outfit was a must. I finally understood why.

  “Plus, you don’t have to be, like, beautiful to pledge,” Kelly said, flipping her trademark long blond French braid over her shoulder. Sometimes when she flings her braid, it smacks people in the face, which brings her great joy. (Is best to stay on Kelly’s good side. Trust me here.) “But you have to try. Make an effort with your appearance. If the sisters see you can’t even bother to iron or put on lipstick, then that tells them something about the kind of lazy active you’d be. If you don’t get a bid, you may as well transfer to University of Illinois, because you’ll have zero social life here. Fact.”

  That sealed it—I was rushing whether or not I wanted to.

  I figured I’d be more comfortable at the parties if I had someone courageous with me, so I sought out the bravest person I know. With Jackie rushing, too, I’ve regained my initial enthusiasm.

  I feel Jackie would benefit from hanging out with more girls and I’m fired up for rush to go well for her. My ulterior motive is she meet other people so she can lose that Sars person like a bad habit. Sometimes I suspect that Sars wants to make a suit out of Jackie’s skin, all Silence of the Lambs.

  What a flipping geek Sars is! Her book smarts are inversely proportional to her social IQ. No exaggeration. Earlier this fall, I brought both of them to a party at Sean’s frat. Never again. Sars spent the whole night giggling and leering at the Beta brothers instead of actually talking to them, like she was at a fourth grade cotillion or something. Awkward. (Mind you, that’s after Sars let me fix her unibrow!) She comes from a totally nice, normal family, so I don’t know what her damage is.

  The frat brothers thought Jackie was a ton of fun that night, but after she crushed them so soundly in table hockey, they all assumed she was, ahem, Playing for the Pink Team. From then on, I had her start calling herself Jackie because it’s way less butch.

  Also, the arm wrestling? No.

  I’m lucky to have learned the ropes from Kelly, even though sometimes she terrifies me. I’d be royally screwed if the only female role model I had was Sars. Granted, I’m still a virgin (by choice, thank you very much) but even I know that talking about differential equations in a frat house is a total boner killer.

  I know all about Jackie’s brothers (believe me, I’ve asked) but I wonder what the story is with her mom? That’s the one area where she’s ultraprivate, so I have no idea how she may have died. She’s said a few things about how when she was little, her mom was a great cook and the house was always really immaculate, but that’s about it. She must miss that so much—I know I would. I figure she’ll eventually open up and when she does, I’ll be there for her. Because that’s what best friends do.

  Without having any chicks in her life, save for Nerdzilla, Jackie never learned the basics, like how to put on perfume (spritz away from the body and walk into the mist) or that it’s just as important to shave your toes, too, lest you look like a hobbit in flip-flops. In fact, Jackie was cutting her own hair when we met. No lie. She’d literally gather her locks in a ponytail and hack off the bottom. I was horrified when I saw this. I said, “Why not perform your own lobotomy while you’re at it?”

  When we were home over October break last week, I brought Jackie to my salon in North Shore and my stylist Stefan gave her a proper trim. Even though she seemed anxious for the first time since we’ve met, she allowed us free rein.

  When Stefan turned her around in her swivel chair to reveal her fab, piece-y bob, she said, “It’s uneven!”

  Stefan rolled his eyes. “No, girl—this is choppy. Your old cut was chopped. Did you cut it yourself?”

  “I did,” she admitted.

  He ran his fingers through her long layers. “Miss Kitty, you slap those scissors outta her paws if she ever tries that again. Don’t make me come down to that fancy college.”

  Jackie agreed to maintain the look, although today’s the first day she’s actually blown it dry, and that’s only because I forced a vent brush and a hair dryer into her hands, coaching her through the entire process. (She said it was harder tha
n the first time she landed a plane on instruments.) I had to promise her we’d go hiking in Hawthorn Woods later as a compromise.

  Worth it.

  “Are you ready to rock rush?” I ask, giving her a final once-over.

  “Sure!” she replies, executing the slow twirl I taught her. Fabulous! But then I notice something.

  “Hold up, are you not wearing the panty hose I laid out?” I ask. I glance at the futon and see the package exactly where I left it.

  “Because it’s warm out, I won’t need ’em,” she says.

  I snort. “Um, yeah you do. I don’t care if it’s a nice day, you will wear hose. Nonnegotiable. At Ol’ Miss, girls rush in hundred-degree temps and ninety percent humidity. Yet you won’t see a single one of them without their nylons.” I toss her the egg-shaped container.

  Jackie catches the package like she plays third base professionally and then sets it down on her desk. The mood in the room completely changes for some reason. She toys with the hem of her dress and becomes very quiet. Then she hangs her head to the point I can’t look her in the eye, with all her heavy hair around her face.

  “Hey, are you okay?” I ask, bending over to see her face. “Is all this too much? We can take off the mascara.”

  She says nothing in reply.

  Shoot, what’s happening here? I press on. “Or we can put your hair back in a ponytail if you’re uncomfortable. Do . . . do you not want to go through rush? I thought you were on board. I’m so sorry if I badgered you, if this isn’t what you want.”

  Seriously, it’s important not to be peer pressured into something you’re not ready to do, at least according to the Tori Spelling movie we just watched. I note how tense Jackie is and I want to do anything I can to make her feel better, so I try smoothing her hair just like my mom does for me when I’m anxious. That seems to help.

  “It’s silly,” she finally replies. “It’s just . . . Ugh, you’re going to laugh at me, Kit.” She chews on her bottom lip, all pensive and intense. I don’t let out a peep about how she’s eating all her lipstick. We can fix that later.

  “You can tell me anything,” I say. “Whatever it is, I’ll keep it in the vault. No judgment here.” I place one hand on her shoulders and pretend I’m locking my lips with the other one before tossing the key.

  She takes a couple of measured breaths and then exhales loudly. “Um, in fourth grade, after my mother . . .” She trails off.

  Oh, crap, I didn’t mean to make her upset! Not today! But she is, and I can’t blame her. How would I handle it if Mum died? I’d likely be devastated, always and forever, but at least I’d still have Kelly. To exist without any strong female influence to teach me to never mix plaids and stripes? Unimaginable. Jackie’s struggling for words, so I suggest a more delicate term than died.

  “After your mother was gone?”

  She meets my gaze, and seems to appreciate my trying to help.

  “Yeah. Was gone.” Her tone turns acidic for a moment, which I totally get. Loss sucks. But, why specifically is she bitter about losing her mom? Was it a car accident? Terminal disease? Plane crash? Random act of violence? All I know is that it had something to do with milk. I wish she’d tell me so I could help.

  Jackie says, “After my dad was left in charge. He’s a great father, but he wasn’t so skilled at domestic stuff. Yet what choice did we have? So on Halloween, he was the one who had to help me with my costume for the school parade.”

  “Were you still in Saint Louis then?” I ask, still trying to figure out the whole mom mystery. They’d moved when she was a kid, but I’m not sure exactly when. Should I try to look up Saint Louis newspapers on the microfiche in the library? Maybe there’s a story because her mom must have been pretty young. Or is that a massive violation of privacy?

  “Uh-huh, we were. I wanted to be Batman, but Dad suggested I try something more girly because he worried I was being unduly influenced by my brothers. Anyway, I listened to his advice and decided to be Smurfette. We found a white dress and a blond wig and a bunch of blue makeup to cover my skin. I planned to paint my legs with the makeup, too, but Dad figured the blue would get all over his car’s cream-colored seats, so he found some tights at the drugstore. They were sized for toddlers, but I managed to squeeze into them somehow. Willpower, I guess. Long story short, the tights began to suppress my circulation, I passed out, and the school nurse had to cut me out of them . . . in front of my whole fourth grade class.”

  “Oh, honey. I’m so sorry. That’s horrible,” I say, giving her a squeeze. First her mother, and then she had to deal with that kind of humiliation? So not fair.

  “Not my finest moment,” she replies. “After that, my dad promised me he’d never make me try to be all femmy again, so that’s the last time I ever wore panty hose.”

  Who knew so much baggage could be attached to a simple scrap of fabric? After hearing her story, I’m astounded that she let me take ahold of her like this. I can’t believe we’ve built this kind of trust already and I’m not about to blow it by snooping into her past. She’ll share when she’s ready.

  But, desperate to make her feel better now, I grab the panty hose and say, “Then you don’t wear these things. I insist. If any sorority girl looks at you sideways, she’ll have to deal with me. I won’t put on mine, either.” Then I hug Jackie again, wishing I’d have been there all those years ago to make her feel better.

  She rewards me with a small, tight smile. “I’m being ridiculous, aren’t I?” Jackie asks, taking the plain plastic egg back from me. Earlier, I removed the outer packaging because I didn’t want her to see I’d bought queen-size and feel like I was insulting her. She’s trim as can be, but her legs are so long, the bigger size is the only way to keep her crotch from riding around down by her knees.

  “You’re not ridiculous in the least. Here,” I say, moving the big fern out of the way of the hearth. “Let’s have a ritual burning, like the hippies used to do with their bras.”

  She laughs, breaking the suddenly somber mood. “I’m for sure being ridiculous now.” She cracks open the egg and pulls out the offending garment. Then she kicks off the Mary Janes. “You can be my wingman anytime. Cover me, Goose, I’m going in.”

  “Top Gun quote?” I ask. When we hung out with her brothers at home last week, it was all movie dialogue, all the time. I didn’t get it but I didn’t hate it.

  She shoots me a thumbs-up. “Roger that, Ghost Rider.”

  “Then you must be rallying,” I say. Jackie gingerly steps into one leg before yanking them up her thigh. Noting how her blood’s still circulating just fine, she pulls on the other side and then steps back to assess the damages. “How do they feel?”

  She runs her palms up and down the length of her calf. “Um, silky?”

  “Any discomfort?”

  She lowers herself into a series of squats, lunges, and impressive karate kicks. “None.”

  I smile because my work here is done. “As long as you don’t snag them on any sharp objects, you’ll be fine.”

  I can’t put my finger on how or why, but I feel like this exchange has somehow brought us to a new level in our relationship, and that makes me so happy. Despite how we differ, Jackie’s awesome and I want us to be friends forever. And very soon, sorority sisters.

  Jackie’s not terribly comfortable with big displays of emotion, so instead of saying anything mushy, I change the subject. “You want to grab some lunch before we do this whole party thing? They’ll serve food at each party, but we’re not actually supposed to eat it for some reason.”

  Jackie raises an eyebrow. “That’s bizarre, right?”

  “So bizarre,” I confirm.

  We’re just closing our door before heading to the cafeteria when we notice some kind of . . . creature skulking along in the shadows down the hall. As the thing draws closer, I realize that it’s Sars, Her Royal Dorkness, the W
eenie Queenie, lurching all club-footed toward us in a pair of sky-high heels she’s clearly never even tried on before.

  I admit Sars’s A-line dress is cute, but the rest of her look is right out of The Rocky Horror Picture Show. Wish I were kidding. Thick red gloss bleeds far outside of her natural lip line and her lids have been swept with deep navy shadow from the lash line all the way up to her eyebrow. She appears to have been punched in the face a whole lot of times. In lieu of applying the mascara, Sars seems to have simply poked herself in the eyes with the wand multiple times, which looks even worse behind the travesty otherwise known as her Coke-bottle-bottom glasses. Two blazing orange streaks adorn the apples of her cheeks back to her ears, completing her “look.”

  “Whoa,” Jackie says, not realizing she’s speaking aloud. She immediately smacks a hand over her mouth. “Shit, Sars, I’m sorry.”

  “Too much?” Sars asks, pointing to the face Picasso himself must have painted. (Am also taking Art History this semester.) “It’s too much. Sorry, I’m still pretty new to makeup.”

  “It’s a lot of look,” I confirm with as much diplomacy as I can muster as I lock our door. Yet in my head, I’m all, “Holy crap, the Tri Taus are going to laugh you clear to Champaign-Urbana.”

  “Can you fix her up, too?” Jackie asks, eyes searching my face. She’s well aware that I’m not a huge fan of her dweeby, clingy little buddy. “For me?”

  The last thing I want to do is spend more time with this hideous troll, but I feel like helping Sars may be yet another tipping point for Jackie and me. Jackie’s never asked me for anything. For her to reach out is a huge step forward.