Room Sigma
Twyla had an accent when she first pledged, so we called her Twang. Eventually her accent whittled down to nothing and now it’s easy to forget that she’s from Oklahoma, with the exception of the state flag she has hanging in her room—blue, with a thing that looks like a dream catcher in the center. She used to play Gretchen Wilson songs on her guitar until her neighbor Ruby complained. Now, the guitar sits in the corner by her desk. She never plays it anymore, but once a week she lovingly buffs the dust off of it with a piece of flannel.
Twyla never goes home between semesters, choosing instead to stay in the empty house, getting paid under the table by our housemother to set glue traps and steam clean the carpets. She works two jobs to pay her out-of-state tuition. One is at the DB Mart down the road. The other is a night shift as a campus security guard. She looks like a punch line in her uniform—drowning in khaki, the weight of her industrial flashlight practically dragging her belt to her knees.
No matter the weather, she always wears long sleeves.
—I’ll never get used to Massachusetts winters, she says.
But even in May she’s covered from wrist to calf.
Room Tau
At the start of the school year, Ruby painted this room Tiffany blue and plastered posters of Audrey Hepburn on every wall. In case visitors don’t get the theme. But why Audrey Hepburn in the first place?
—Because Audrey Hepburn was fucking classy, she says.
So was Margaret Thatcher, we could argue.
Ruby is the fattest girl in the house. She worships at the altar of Weight Watchers and measures her food in points. A piece of whole grain bread is two points. A pint of cappuccino ice cream is forty-nine. Tonight, she faces the wall in bed and stares at the poster of Audrey, eyes roving over the territory of her knobby shoulders, her long fingers, her doe eyes staring back at her in the dark.
Room Upsilon
Jennifer was a psych major. Then she was an econ major. Then she tried linguistics. Now she’s in animal science.
—I’m just good at everything, she says.
Except committing.
Father: she never met him.
Mother: only sixteen years older than she. Wears leopard print. Is the secretary to a divorce attorney. Reminds her daughter that she could have been a showgirl, damn it, if she didn’t have the C-section scar.
Room Phi
Lisa spent three hours today at the barre, thirty minutes restuffing her toe shoes, forty minutes scrutinizing herself in front of her full-length mirror, and an hour at the gym. But now it’s late, she needs a full night of rest for the econ test that she hasn’t prepared for, and the only way to halt her compulsive self-analysis is with a bubbler. Five hits exhaled before she settles. The tendons in her legs slacken, time slows, she repacks the bowl, three more hits and she forgets that sleep was her objective. She trundles downstairs and makes a cup of tea that scalds her mouth, tongue to roof. The brothers can be heard through the flimsy glass of the kitchen window, and she wavers there for an eternal minute, listening. Something profound is in their whooping, but she’s too foggy to fathom it. She often feels this way high, like she has a scratch ticket but no coin to scrape down to the answer.
Emergency Exit Only. Alarm Will Sound.
This is the Chapter Room; the sign is a ruse for visiting parents and curious frat brothers.
Only initiated sisters are permitted in the Chapter Room, and even they can’t enter without the password and the handshake and appropriate attire. This means: panty hose. No open-toed shoes after October 7. Shoulders covered. Mascara mandatory. The dress code in the sisterhood manual is longer than the two-paragraph page on how to report hazing.
Notice the executive board table, the chairs arranged in a horseshoe, the wood-paneled walls, the composites of sisters from years past—1960s bobs, 1970s waves, 1980s perms, then bangs of the 1990s. Candles everywhere. Persian rugs. Fake flowers.
This is where we all met after Margot was found last spring.
The girls who knew her least wept pretty tears, dabbing under their eyes so their makeup wouldn’t run. Nobody loves an ugly crier.
And Deirdre sat in the back row, expressionless, her fingers numb, staring hard at a hole in her tights.
Elina lifted the gavel and let it fall on the table and we all quieted, waiting for some heartfelt delivery of insight from our president.
—I spoke with the provost, and for now the university will not shut the house down because of Margot’s poor decision, she said.
—Thank God! Janelle said. Heads around the room bobbed in the current of relief. Tracy yanked out four eyebrow hairs in one grab, then discreetly dropped them on the carpet underneath her chair.
—This is an opportunity for unity, Elina intoned. She had written this part of her speech on an index card and glanced at the table before her between pauses.
—Although one of us is now enrolled in the Omega chapter, let us take solace in our sisterhood. Let us seek comfort in our family. Let us mourn with dignity and grace.
—Does this mean Spring Fling is canceled? Alissa asked.
—No, Elina said, momentarily thrown from the formal voice she’d conjured for the occasion. We can’t get our deposit back. And anyway—she resumed the voice again—Margot would have wanted us to continue with our sisterhood in her absence.
Sighs of relief gusted through the room. Deirdre’s fingers tingled.
—Let us close with a prayer, Elina said. Our eyes shimmered wet in the candlelight, seeking comfort from her in a bona fide tragedy, and Elina’s face lit with a flash of pride before she sombered.
When the prayer ended we filed out of the room in pairs, but even in the hush Deirdre caught frayed edges of whispers.
—are they going to do with all of her clothes?
—parents coming for her things?
—she did it on purpose?
The door swung shut, and Deirdre remained. She hooked a thumb through the hole in her tights and pulled. The composite photographs of alumnae peered down at her from the walls, and she stared back at each one, absorbing every single countenance and name, waiting for one to blot out the face she saw whenever she closed her eyes.
Room Chi
Corinne was third runner-up for Miss Northeast last year and this is her year, her year, her year, damn it! She suspects she suffered in the talent portion, when she played “Hey Jude” on the flute and at the end she lost her breath on the E-sharp. Or maybe it was the moment in swimsuit when she popped out of her bikini top onstage. Or maybe it was the interview portion, when she stuttered on the word amendment while discussing her feelings on gun control. The memory of flaw—the mere sight of the red bikini in the back corner of her closet, for instance—is enough to make her cringe.
She is the new president of the sisterhood now, her term fresh from January, but she doesn’t have time to be apt at it and simultaneously win the title this year. Written on an index card and taped over her desk is the word Prioritize. She delegates her presidential obligations to the rest of the executive board, and they tolerate it—because, let’s be honest, how great would the sisterhood look if our president won Miss Northeast?
Corinne has a magnified mirror encircled by lightbulbs that sits on her desk, and most evenings she can be found there, bathed in the blinding wattage, pupils contracted to pinpoints, studying the pores on her face. What if the thing that kept her from winning last year had nothing to do with bathing suit wedgies or missed notes? What if, in fact, she had lost because of the tiny hook at the end of her nose? Or the lack of symmetry between her left and right eye? A fissure of a wrinkle is developing on her forehead, and she can see it with perfect clarity even when she isn’t in front of the mirror. There is a limited window of opportunity for her to be beautiful.
Room Psi
Janie has a boyfriend with an apartment and an online poker addiction. She spends most of her time at his place, watching him hover the mouse over the pixelated gre
en felt, clicking with fanatical zeal. We used to set up personnel meetings about her many absences. Then, during a chapter meeting, we noticed that she has an annoying habit of tapping pens against her teeth. It’s like she’s testing to see if they’re hollow.
—Can you stop? Ruby asked.
—Sure, she said, but five minutes later she did it again.
Now we just charge her fifteen bucks every time she fails to show up at a meeting and her boyfriend pays the penalties with his winnings.
Room Omega
Our pledge mistress, Eva, is walking down the hall with a pack of Parliaments in hand when a pledge who we call Brownie waves her into this room.
—I’m sorry to bother you, Pledge Mistress, Brownie says. Eva reduces her eyes to slits and waits, body humming for nicotine.
—There’s a rumor I think you should know about, Brownie says. She is so nervous she leaves a sweaty palm print on her desk when she stands up and shuts the door.
—Spit it out then, Eva says.
—Is it true that a girl named Margot died here last spring because she couldn’t take the pressure of being a pledge?
—Who told you that? Eva asks.
—It’s a rumor, just a rumor, Brownie stammers. Some pledges were talking.
—It’s a lie, Eva says. Margot was a sister when she died, not a pledge.
—But did she die from the pressure?
—It wasn’t a suicide, if that’s what you mean, Eva says. She overdosed. It happens.
Both girls are silent. The radiator clangs into action. Footsteps tread up and down the hall.
—I’m not sure I want to go through with initiation, Brownie says.
—Everyone feels that way sometimes. Sleep on it. It’s only two weeks away.
—I’ve been thinking about this for a while, though.
Eva, impatient and jittery now, shakes a cigarette out of the pack.
—Is your smoke detector on? she asks. Brownie shakes her head no. Eva lights up.
—I like you, Brownie. I’d hate to see you go. But if you want to throw away your whole pledge period, if you want to reject an entire house of women who are willing to accept you as their sister, I can’t stop you.
—It’s not like that, Brownie says. I think you all are great. I just—
—I don’t need your excuses. If you think you deserve no love from us, that’s not my fucking problem.
Eva finishes the cigarette in silence, taking in the surroundings. She knows so little about this pledge, this Brownie girl, but the room divulges details. Pictures of what must be her parents are on the bedside table, there’s a U2 poster over the bed, and her comforter is floral and ragged. She wishes she didn’t see these things. It’s much easier to haze her pledges when she doesn’t know the miscellanea that make them into full-blown people. She gets up to leave.
—Thank you for speaking with me, Brownie says.
Eva lingers at the door.
—What’s your real name? she asks.
—It’s Alexa.
—Sleep on it, Alexa. Tell me what you choose in the morning.
• • •
Outside, Eva immediately regrets that she didn’t bring a scarf. She stands under the overhang of the roof and puffs slowly on two more cigarettes, one after the other, and listens to the Sigma Xi brothers finish their ritual and congratulate and shout and spit and slap each other. Somebody retches. Then they are gone, a door slams, only sleet can be heard, and Eva tries to recall in the stillness what it was like to live with the conviction that she was doing the right thing.
2
Thirst
-LUCY, SHANNON-
September 2006
They called at seven o’clock on the last day of rush after I’d already convinced myself that no house wanted me. It took two tries for me to answer the phone, my fingers fat and disobedient.
—Congratulations, someone trilled over the line.
The moment she introduced herself I forgot her name, too jumpy to hold details.
—Are you sure? I said.
—Of course we’re sure, the voice said. You fit our house perfectly. Where are you?
—Hawthorne Dorm.
—We’ll pick you up in five minutes, the voice said.
I stood rooted in the lobby.
For the first time, a chosen girl.
When the car came, I signed my bid card in urgent cursive on the hood. I swung myself into a sliver of backseat, everyone’s perfume mingled sweet and thick, I shook clammy hands, girls cooed welcomes, the car sped through campus, and the girl driving hit the brakes too hard in the parking lot, we jumbled into the yard, the front door of my new house opened, and then I was a pledge.
Balloons hung limp in the foyer and a cake sat on the dining room table, untouched and choked with frosting. Delicious and deadly. My mouth flooded with want for it before I swallowed, ashamed. Sisters flitted from one corner of the room to the other with the objective of studying the new pledges. Were we a pretty batch? Did we look social? Did we look slutty?
It wasn’t until then that I saw Shannon. She was talking to another pledge across the room, and whenever she tilted her head the light would refract off her earrings. She felt me watching her. And then, stomach-shriveling eye contact. I saw the outrage in her before she remembered herself and set her mouth in a smile. When she turned away, I could see the knobby ladder of her spine through her shirt.
I had heard from my mother that we had chosen the same college. I had even known that she was rushing. But neither of us had imagined that we would have the misfortune to be chosen by the same house.
Our pledge mistress sat us in a circle of chairs. She was long-haired, with a smoky voice and tiny eyes that were older than the rest of her, and I didn’t know it yet but she had hands made for gripping the end of a paddle. Tonight wasn’t the night for that. Tonight was the night to dip us in honey until we were too stuck to leave later, when the hazing began.
—Why don’t you ladies introduce yourselves? the mistress said. She sat, ankles crossed demurely under her chair, and I imitated her before I realized I had done so.
We were all too nervous to be creative. We stuck to the bullet points:
Name? From? Major?
Name? From? Major?
And when my turn came I said,
—Lucy Rice. Scituate, Mass. Undeclared.
I held my breath around the circle, and it left me when Shannon’s turn came.
—Shannon Larsen. Scituate, Mass. Nursing.
—Two Scituate girls! the mistress said. Do you know each other?
And Shannon looked at me blankly and said, No, I’ve never heard of her before.
• • •
Even as children, I knew that I loved Shannon enough to fail myself. I loved her liar’s chin, tilted downward with the sharpness of a spade when she spoke. I loved her tiny, fluid fingers that stole gum and Tic Tacs so easily when cashiers rummaged under the counter. And I feared that seed deep within that I could see in her pupils if I disappointed her, if I showed her my own unease.
I see it so perfectly in our photographs now: we were little girls, with potbellies under bathing suits and eyes we hadn’t grown into yet, but my apprehension was there, wavering in my face, undulating with the heat waves behind us on the beach.
She scared me.
She ate raw cookie dough.
She let Corey Welsch touch between her legs the summer before fifth grade.
She stole tampons out of her mother’s bathroom cabinet, and together we poured water on them until they bloomed into swollen white petals under the backyard hose, then threw them on the windshield of her next-door neighbor’s car.
She picked up the dead seagull on the beach, its wingspan sagging, and held it at arm’s length, her mouth shut against the horseflies, while she plucked the best feathers and stuck them in her hair.
—I’m a Wampanoag princess.
—You’re going to get a disease, I said.
And sh
e took a feather out of her hair and licked the quill, her eyes on me the whole time, her ten-year-old knees jutting at me, her tongue dragging over the point till I turned away.
—Come and get me, bird flu.
She put the feather in my hair, and I shook it out in the walk back up the beach to my mother’s towel, but even when I lay in bed that night, I could feel it. The prickle or the curse, I wasn’t sure.
When we were eleven, my mother heard her say fuck.
I wasn’t permitted to see her again until I turned twelve. I saw her anyway. We lived half a mile apart from one another, a three-and-a-half-minute scurry if panic propelled me. Late on clear summer nights I would run to her house, the hedges lining our town quivering in the breeze, my eyes averted from the cemetery and its glowing headstones in the moonlight. When I reached the light of her driveway I would stop, hands on my knees, wheezing out my run, so that when I saw her she wouldn’t know that I had been hurrying, that I had been afraid.
From June to September she could be found sleeping on the back porch. How many times did I try to scare her? Dragging the screen with my nails, chucking driveway pebbles, making the classic ghost baritone?
—Quit being a bitch, she’d whisper.
She was just as mouthy then as she would be at eighteen. Still, if I dropped my voice to the right octave, my ghost moan could make her laugh.
I could only stay an hour, maybe two. In the dark, curled together on her futon, we would whisper:
—What’s a placenta?
And,
—It’s because she’s so pretty. She gets everything.
And,
—Did you see his thing when you snuck in the locker room?
Sorority Page 2
