Pretty, Nasty, Lovely

by Rosalind Noonan

  “Do they think it was suicide?” she asked.

  “Sounds that way. But listen to this. Lydia lied about Greece. She lived with her mother and stepfather in Salem.”

  “What? Not even a cool part of Oregon like Bend or Portland?”

  “And her stepdad owns a dry cleaners. She didn’t lie about riding in a limo, because he drives one.”

  “No way!” Isabel pretended to fall off the sofa. “I’m so disappointed. Not because she wasn’t rich, but because she felt like she had to make up a lie to impress us.”

  “Lydia could be incredibly boring—even with the stories of her billionaire grandfather in Greece. I thought she was like a . . . slice of white bread. No surprises, no texture or spice. But now that she’s dead, I realize I had her all wrong.”

  “Was she a jalapeño pepper?” she asked, brows lifted.

  “More like an onion, with one layer after another,” I said.

  “And she makes you cry,” Isabel added.

  Isabel had a way of capturing the truth. “I can’t deal with this right now. How am I supposed to take an exam when my head is about to . . .” My cell phone began to chime. “Explode.” I saw that it was Mrs. J. I sneered at the phone, then put her on speaker.

  “Emma, are you still in the house? I need your help.”

  “I’m in my room.”

  “Lydia’s mother is here to collect her things, and I told her she could meet some of the sisters who were close to her daughter.”

  Isabel gave me a monster shriek face.

  I pressed my free hand to my jaw. “I’m studying right now. But she should meet Tori and Courtney. Violet, too.”

  “Violet is in class, and the other two are not answering my calls or texts.” Mrs. J’s voice was tight as a rubber band about to snap. “I would expect better of Theta Pi girls. I expect support and generosity. This is putting me in a difficult situation.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, rubbing the back of my neck where the muscles were bunching up. “It’s just that I have an exam tonight and—”

  “This is a horrific, once-in-a-lifetime occurrence for Mrs. Drakos.” She spoke in a lowered voice laced with furor. “I need you down here to represent your sorority.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Isabel said quietly.

  “All right,” I told Mrs. J as I slammed my textbook shut and let it drop to the floor. I was pissed, but what could I do? “We’ll be right down.”

  “No. Meet us up in Lydia’s suite. You can help Mrs. Drakos pack.”

  * * *

  Mrs. Drakos was a thinner version of Lydia, with the same black hair but styled in an A-line bob and a similar thick cable-knit sweater that hid any hint of her shape. Her face was gray, and mascara was smudged under her eyes. When I saw the tears glimmering in her dark eyes, the muscles in my chest tightened with guilt. I’d been obsessing over my exam and arguing with Isabel on the staircase about which of us would have to “touch” Lydia’s clothes—a sudden task that gave us both the creeps—while this woman was trying to clear up the belongings of her dead child. The sorrow that vibrated the air around her broke my heart. I wanted to cry, not so much for Lydia but for her mother.

  As Mrs. J introduced us, Mrs. Drakos’s sad eyes searched our faces. “I’m sure Lydia mentioned you. I heard of Courtney, her roommate. Where is she, in class?”

  I nodded, suspecting that Courtney was killing time at the student union or some café to dodge this task.

  “Lydia loved her friends here at school,” Mrs. Drakos said. “She always talked of her sisters.”

  “Aw.” Isabel’s eyes were also shiny with tears. “And we loved Lydia.”

  “We’re so sorry for your loss.” I knew that was the thing to say. I’d heard it plenty of times after Mom and Delilah died.

  “Thank you. And it’s good of you to come down and help.”

  “That’s what sisters are for,” Isabel said earnestly.

  Mrs. Drakos patted her shoulder. “Such good girls. We were glad when Lydia pledged a sorority. She had no sisters, and she was always mad at her stepfather and me for not giving her a brother or sister. An only child.”

  That shed some light, though it didn’t completely explain her self-absorbed personality.

  “But here at Theta House, Lydia had more than forty sisters,” Isabel said. “That’s hard to beat.”

  “And she had Nick.” Maybe it was foolish to get so personal, but I wanted Mrs. Drakos to see that we really knew her daughter. “Wasn’t that her friend at home? A former boyfriend?”

  She shook her head dubiously. “The only Nick in Lydia’s life was Nick Jonas, but that was just a crush, of course.”

  Isabel held her arms wide. “He’s great. I saw him in concert once.”

  “I’m sure Lydia told us about a boyfriend named Nick,” I said. “Maybe it was someone she liked at school.”

  “Maybe a little crush, but she didn’t date in high school. It was hard for her, being overweight.”

  What? Middle-class and overweight and her boyfriend was accessible only through Twitter?

  “Boys made fun of her,” Mrs. Drakos added. “Kids can be cruel, but it’s hard to see it happen to your child.”

  “I’m sure it is.” I couldn’t keep the disappointment from my voice as it became clear that the Lydia we’d known was a lie. There was no Nick—no boyfriend at all in her short life. A life in which she’d been bullied for being overweight. That was too bad, but my sympathies were diminished by annoyance. I hated being lied to. When I’d been in the emergency room after the accident, no one would answer my questions about my mother and sister, and a few people told me that everything would be fine. The first nurse who stood there and told me my mom and sister had died—that woman was a hero.

  “Look at that! Her sweaters.” With moist eyes, Mrs. Drakos patted a stack of folded sweaters in the closet as if they were pets. “So much stuff! I don’t know what to do with it. All this, it won’t even fit in my car. Maybe you girls will find some things you want to keep?”

  My eyes met Isabel’s as an awkward panic set in. We had both decided that there was a definite eeriness about going through a dead girl’s possessions. No way were we keeping anything.

  “Our rooms are pretty full, too,” I said apologetically.

  “But we should take the Theta Pi stuff.” Isabel pointed to two file boxes that pledges had decorated with the Greek symbols for Theta Pi. “Lydia was recording secretary and historian. She has some photos and notebooks with the minutes from our meetings.”

  “Take them, of course.” Mrs. Drakos waved at the closet.

  I reached up for the boxes, but they were heavier than I’d expected. Isabel took one side, and we eased them to the ground and took a peek. One was filled with a mound of photos; the other had files that seemed better organized. “I guess we’ll store them in the ritual closet for now,” I said. It would be too weird to have them in our suite. Isabel and I placed them by the door.

  Mrs. J jumped in. “Anything you don’t want to take home we can arrange to donate to Goodwill.” She surveyed the room—a tidy open closet, its shelves full of fat sweaters and folded jeans, boots, and shoes. As dorm living went, the room wasn’t bad, except for the top of the dresser, where bottles, packs, and tubes of makeup were scattered, some open and leaking so that the dresser surface looked like the palette of a crazed artist. “If we work together, it won’t take us long.” Mrs. J pointed to the top shelf of the closet. “There’s her suitcase. Emma, would you get that down, please? Mrs. Drakos, did you bring anything to pack her possessions in?”

  “No.” Mrs. Drakos wrung her hands. “I wasn’t thinking about this. I came mostly to make arrangements for the body. . . .”

  Hearing her say that word sent a shudder through me as I pictured the shell of Lydia, drained of all life, but haunting at times with traces of identity like tattoos, scars, or nail polish. This was the consequence of working with cadavers in my anatomy class—the visuals of dead bodies
in my mind.

  “The arrangements are complicated,” Mrs. Drakos went on. “Her body must be driven down to Salem, and there is a special company to do it. Not just anyone is allowed. But they’re telling me I must wait for the autopsy.”

  “It must be so difficult,” Mrs. J said, capping an open tube on the dresser. “Let me grab some plastic bags from downstairs. Girls, help Mrs. Drakos make three piles. Things to donate, things to take, and things to throw away. I’ll be right back.”

  “So, Mrs. Drakos, where should we start?” Isabel unzipped the suitcase and set it like an open clam on the floor.

  “I wonder if . . .” Mrs. Drakos hesitated, sifting through the closet. “I could sell things. Maybe on consignment or a yard sale. She had so much, so many nice things. So why?”

  It was the same question we’d been asking. Lydia had possessed a room full of clothes, jewelry, and makeup, like any other girl I knew, but the question was, Why wasn’t it enough to keep her in the game? Of course, material goods don’t make a person happy. But why wasn’t Lydia’s full, fortunate life enough to keep her alive?

  “Tell me what you want to keep and I’ll pack them in the suitcase.” Isabel kneeled beside the suitcase. “Her sweaters?”

  As if she’d just discovered a secret, Mrs. Drakos took a folded burgundy cardigan from the closet and held it in front of her. “Oh, my girl!” She pressed the sweater to her face and sobbed into it.

  Isabel tipped her head up and shot me a desperate look.

  “Mrs. Drakos . . .” I put one arm around Lydia’s mother and she folded me into a hug. “I’m so sorry,” I said quietly. I rubbed her shoulder as she wept in my arms.

  We were standing that way when Mrs. J returned to the room.

  “Okay, I’ve got trash bags.” Her voice trailed off when she saw that Mrs. Drakos was having a meltdown. “Oh, dear. It’s so hard, I know,” she said, rubbing the woman’s back. “If it’s too hard to make a choice, we’ll pack up everything for you, and we’ll hold on to anything that won’t fit in your car.”

  “No.” Mrs. Drakos held the sweater out reverently, then placed it on Lydia’s bed. As if tending to an infant, she delicately arranged the garment, straightening the buttons and smoothing down the sleeves.

  “Such a pretty sweater,” Mrs. J said. “The girls will pack it up for you.”

  “No. Give it away. Give it all away.”

  “But there must be something you want to keep. Something to remember Lydia by?”

  Her cheeks were wet as she surveyed the room and shook her head. “She’s gone. These things will only bring me sadness. Please, give them away. Give them away and close the door.”

  CHAPTER 15

  “So wait,” Mia said, holding her fork aloft with a cherry tomato skewered on the end. “Who took the photo?”

  “I don’t know for sure. I couldn’t see who it was.” The salad was overdressed, and I blinked as vinegar stung my throat. Eating was a chore with the constant ache in my stomach. “I crashed on the sofa in the parlor last night. At one point I woke up and saw one of the sisters carrying it upstairs.”

  “So who took the picture?” Angela asked, clapping her hands to get quiet at the dining table. “Come on, people. Fess up. That blank spot on the wall ain’t working for me.” There were more than twenty of us at the big, long table in the dining room, but Angela had a voice that carried and demanded attention. Conversations at the far end of the table died down as people caught up.

  “I’m talking about the Theta Pi group photo from the wall,” Angela explained to the girls at the other end.

  “I swear, my heart’s gonna be broken if we can’t find that picture. It was our pledge class, three years ago,” Violet said, turning to Tori, who high-fived her. “The nine seniors are in that photo.”

  “Eight of us, now that Lydia’s gone,” said Courtney.

  “Really? So the Theta Pi photo from our freshman year was stolen?” Haley, a senior nursing major who lived with her boyfriend off campus, rarely made any sorority events. She definitely had one foot out the door. “That’s weird.”

  “Not stolen,” Jemma said. “Someone just took it upstairs.”

  “For what reason?” asked Violet.

  “Maybe they’re going to scan the photo and post it on Facebook,” Chloe said.

  Tori held up her hands. “Why?”

  “As a tribute to Lydia. It was her pledge class.” Chloe glanced up and down the table with a defensive look. “I didn’t do it. I’m just saying. Maybe.”

  “Not a bad idea, Chloe,” I said. “We should check the study rooms. Maybe someone left it on one of the printers.”

  “If one of the sisters took it down, I’m sure it will turn up,” Tori said.

  “Or else we’ll find it in a room search,” said Megan. “The frame makes it kind of hard for anyone to hide.”

  “Come on, y’all, a room search?” Violet pressed a hand to her chest. “Are we living in a correctional facility?”

  Courtney smiled. “Theta Pi Pink is the new black.”

  A few girls laughed, but Tori rolled her eyes. “Just chill on the picture, girls.”

  Sipping my milk, I shared her lack of interest in the missing photo. What struck me was the sight of the girl in a dark hoodie—echoing the pedestrian Rory had seen leaving the bridge. Could it be the same person? Had one of our sisters been with Lydia the night she died? If that was true, why wasn’t the witness coming forward?

  The only possible answer left me feeling sick inside.

  Guilt.

  Well, I could add that to the stack of stressors.

  “Hey, Em, where you going?” Angela asked as I left the table.

  “Work. I’ve got the afternoon shift.” And I needed to fit in some massive memorization. I prayed for a quiet afternoon.

  * * *

  That night things went from bad to worse when Dean Cho turned up at Theta House as I was on my way out the door. Recognizing her from student orientation, I tried not to make eye contact, but I felt her studying me as she waited in her short boots, leather jacket, and long black pencil skirt.

  There was something sneaky about a university dean who looked like a kid. With a trim body, smooth skin, and eyes accented by stylish glasses, she could have been just another Merriwether student. The tip-off for me was her awesome haircut, an asymmetrical A-line, which you didn’t see much on campus because most girls grew their hair long. As I stood by the door, wrapping a scarf around my neck, I heard Mrs. J tell her, “Oh, there’s Emma now.”

  Great.

  “Emma Danelski?” She introduced herself and extended a hand as I shot her a cautious look. “We need to talk.” One on one, she seemed friendly and accessible, but I knew she had the heart of an unrelenting monster.

  “I’m on my way to a class.” I tried not to snap, but after dealing with Lydia’s mother and losing any chance of studying, my disposition had soured. “An exam. I have to go.”

  “Then come see me in the morning.” Like a magician grabbing a coin from thin air, she produced a card. “What time is good?”

  “I have to work.”

  “Then the afternoon?”

  “I have classes.”

  “You know, I can get you excused from a class, or get you some extra time on assignments.” She placed a hand on my shoulder, looking around to be sure no one else was listening. “I’m intervening for Lydia’s other friends, too, but please keep it confidential. I don’t want to make it a blanket offer to everyone. People take advantage.”

  “I just want to keep up with the assignments,” I said. “Things tend to pile up when you get extra time.”

  “How about Friday night?”

  “Friday night I have a sorority function.” Lydia’s memorial ritual. Couple that with the Lydia Drakos Memorial Pancake Event planned for Saturday, and it was going to be one hell of a weekend.

  “So busy,” Dean Cho commented.

  “Yeah. That’s what Merriwether’s all about.” If
I resembled a sound bite from a recruiting video, I was trying to drive home the point that I had a life and I wanted people to let me live it.

  “It’s very important that I meet with you.”

  “Look, I wasn’t that close to Lydia.” And I was beginning to resent her for pulling me into the mess of her abruptly ended life. “She was depressed. Is that what you want to hear?”

  “I know you cared about your friend,” Dean Cho said, “but you’re not really qualified to make that diagnosis.”

  “Then I give up. I thought you wanted to know about Lydia, but maybe I’m not really qualified to tell you about her.”

  Dean Cho pursed her lips together, a tiny gesture of annoyance. “Fair enough. Your anger is justified. But I’m here about the future. I think we all owe Lydia a chance to have her voice heard after death.”

  I loosened the knot at my neck. “That sounds creepy.”

  She eyed me with a deadpan expression. “Listen, I’m reaching out to you to try and build something positive from this. I’m assembling a student task force to address suicide prevention, and I’m looking for students with leadership skills to be a part of it. It sounds like you’re busy, but the panel will certainly be a résumé builder.”

  Building a résumé for what? Nursing jobs were plentiful if I could just get through this program, but that wasn’t going to happen standing here chatting. Everything seemed too hopeless right now. “I have to go. I have to buy Scantron paper before the exam and . . . I’m going to be late.”

  Dean Cho nodded imperiously. “Fine. Call me, or shoot me an e-mail.”

  As I turned toward the door, I caught a glimpse of Mrs. J’s sourpuss of disapproval. Apparently, I couldn’t do enough to right the wrong of Lydia’s death. No, they thought I was too absorbed with my own life, all those brightly colored circus balls I needed to keep juggling.

  I checked the time on my cell phone. Dean Cho had made me late. I broke into a run, careful not to roll an ankle on the uneven paving stones. I made it to the bookstore in seven minutes, but there was a line at the only open register.