Sorority Girls With Guns

by Cat Caruthers

  “I don't believe it,” Morgan says. “What an incredible idea!”

  “Of course he'd think of that, he's such a bleeding heart,” I say, although the truth is it was my idea. (Richard's bleeding heart led him to agree in a hurry though.) I came up with it for a couple reasons: For one thing, it's different enough to distract the reporters form Richard's parents (or my past, for that matter). For another thing, I always did wonder why you never saw homeless people at benefits for homeless people. The people Harry's interviewing look happy, and some of them are digging into dinner like they haven't eaten in weeks.

  “Yeah, you're right.” Matt shakes his head. “He sure is smart, you know?” he asks, in a low voice meant only for me and Morgan. “The way he handled those reporters – he never came right out and said he was rich, but he didn't deny it, either. He just let them keep thinking what they already thought in a way that apparently shut them up.”

  “It was a good idea,” I agree. It worked because it made sense; rich kids like Richard frequently complain that people are more interested in their parents than them (I know from reading all those highly intellectual magazines like The Enquirer). It also discouraged the press from pursuing the story for a few reasons: Kids of rich people/celebs are only really interesting when they get caught doing something bad, like snorting cocaine off a hooker's ass or driving drunk or getting trashed and puking on their Prada shoes. Throwing a charity benefit isn't scandalous, and connecting Richard to his parents isn't going to rocket any of these local reporters onto a national news program. There's no point in pissing off a rich kid – and possibly his parents - just so you can break the story that he donated money to charity.

  We finally reach the table where Richard is shaking hands and asking the homeless people how they're enjoying dinner. Delilah is explaining how Richard purchased all the unused tickets himself and used them for the homeless' table.

  “He wanted the homeless to enjoy not only the results of the gala, but the gala itself,” she says, rattling off one of my talking points. “He also felt it was important that the other guests get to meet the people they're generosity helps. Look, here's a donor now.”

  The couple who walk up are middle-aged, a little younger and far richer than my parents. Like, you'd never see them driving an Oldsmobile. I bet their gardener wouldn't be caught dead in one. The man, decked out in a tux that looks a lot like Richard's, looks vaguely familiar but I can't place him.

  “Councilman Ornsby, it's a pleasure to see you here,” Harry says, jerking his mike away from an older gentleman at the table who bears a striking resemblance to Santa Claus with his long beard. He points it instead at the no-Oldsmobile man and his wife, a woman who stands so straight she looks like she has a rod shoved up her ass to improve her posture.

  “I always try to support charitable causes, and I'm thrilled that this young man has given me the opportunity to meet some of the people from the Downtown Shelter,” Ornsby says, with his running-for-reelection smile plastered across his face. He shakes hands with Richard, then moves on to everyone at the table.

  The buxom blonde has her mike pointed toward the ass-kissing, but she's looking at Delilah. “That's it!” she exclaims suddenly, during a temporary lull in the nauseating melee of thanks. She jams the mike in Delilah's face. “Carrie Farmer, Channel Two News. I've been thinking that I recognized you all night, and I just realized why.”

  “I'm sure we haven't met,” Delilah says. “I guess I just have one of those faces.”

  “No, we haven't met,” Carrie says, holding up her cell phone and waving it at Delilah. “But I did recognize you – from this mug shot. That is you after you were arrested for prostitution last year, right?”

  The entire room has gone from a cacophony of elbow-rubbing and name-dropping to complete silence in seconds. Matt's starting to sweat. Richard's expression of neutrality looks like it's glued over his real face. Morgan knocks back a gulp of champagne. Even Charlie and Tiffany stop what they're doing and tiptoe toward the table like they're afraid of setting off a bomb or something.

  Too late for that.

  Delilah folds her arms over her ample chest and tosses her long hair. “I'm in public relations. Those charges were dropped, and my past has nothing to do with this evening.”

  Reporters start screaming questions at her. Delilah's tough – she'd have to be, putting up with all the crap she has to deal with in her line of work. But she's not used to cameras in her face and reporters asking about her “former” career as a hooker. “I will not comment on anything unrelated to this event!” she yells at the crowd, to no avail.

  Harry turns to Richard. “Did you know she was a hooker when you hired her?”

  “Of course not!” Richard snaps. “And I'm inclined to agree that her past has nothing to do with our work on this event.”

  “He's telling the truth,” Matt jumps in. “I ordered the escorts for our party at the Pink Kitty last week, which is totally legal – I Googled it. Richard had no idea that I'd hired an escort service until the cops busted the party and tried to frame us for prostitution, which we didn't do!”

  I really, really want to kick him in the head right now, but there's nothing up there to hurt.

  The reporters abandon Delilah and start furiously searching their phones for police reports from last week. Great, now they really do have something to say about a rich kid named Richard Walters. What the fuck am I supposed to do now?

  “Excuse me!” I yell at the top of my lungs. No one responds, so I tap Santa on the shoulder and ask, “Pardon me, may I borrow your chair for just a moment?” He nods and stands up. I thank him and jump up on the chair, then leap onto the table. “Excuse me!” I yell again, and this time the barrage of questions stops...temporarily.

  I glance at my cell phone and note the time: 12:02. The bet is officially over. “I'd like to explain a few things about this situation,” I say. “When my friends and I went on vacation this year, we agreed to work on this project to help the environment and everyone who finds themselves financially anemic in the current economic climate...which would be a lot of people these days. After we'd been recycling and reselling for a little while, we thought we'd made a video illustrating that you could make enough money to live like a rich person. Richard here hates that sort of thing-” I smile indulgently at Richard. “-so he agreed to let our party animal friends, Matt and Charlie, plan the bash.

  “Well, Matt decided to order some escorts so none of our guests would get lonely. He didn't mention this to me, Richard, or anyone else. He was conscientious enough to make sure it was legal in this state, and it is,” I add pointedly.

  “So we get to the club where Matt and Charlie booked us a private room for our party, and the bouncer doesn't like us. I don't know why. Anyway, he called the cops and reported us for having prostitutes at our party, which was absolutely not true. And that's why you're all finding that there are no arrest reports at the Pink Kitty for last week – because nothing happened. The cops showed up, asked a few questions and Matt explained the situation – to the cops and Richard, who was really embarrassed by the whole thing. But he felt that it would be wrong to fire Delilah as his PR rep for the charity gala just because of what he found out about her second job.

  “After all, his goal with this party and in helping us with the project in general, was to help people who are struggling to make ends meet. Delilah here is working hard at two jobs to put herself through school and support her young son.” I'm glad I actually did take the time to find out about Delilah's background; the more info you have on people, the easier it is to make up a convincing lie on the spot, and I believe in being prepared. “And Delilah's second job is perfectly legal. Richard felt that it would be wrong to hold it against her, when her work on this project was excellent. Delilah, thank you for working so hard to make this event a reality.”

  Delilah nods with a shocked look on her face. I think she expected me to throw her under the bus.

  “Wh
at she's saying is true,” Matt adds, as I hop off the table as carefully as I can, trying not to rupture the nice stapling job Morgan did on my backside. “I planned the party, and I decided to hire the escorts. I'm sorry if what I did caused anyone else any embarrassment, but it was perfectly legal.”

  The reporters start firing questions again. “Is this the first time you've been caught with an escort?” Harry asks.

  “Mr. Walters, does your family know about your unorthodox methods of helping the poor?” Carrie demands.

  “Isn't it true you bribed the cops to keep this off the books?” yells a guy in the back.

  Richard is flashing the dimples around and dabbing at his face with his sleeve, but the hits just keep coming.

  I'm trying to think of another way to get this disaster under control when I'm shocked by something going right for a change: Someone else is up on the table yelling.

  I turn around and see Santa standing up on the table, rapping his cane on the white damask tablecloth. It knocks over a glass of red wine. He doesn't notice.

  “Hold it right there, all a'ya!” he yells. “I have something to say, and you news folks better listen, 'cause I'm homeless and yer supposed to be 'ere to do a story 'bout me, now ain'tcha?”

  None of the reporters answer, so he keeps going. “I just want to say that I don't care what these young people have done in their personal lives,” Santa continues. He reaches down and pats Richard on the shoulder. “I was young once. But I've been old for a while now, and I've been in and out of homeless shelters for a while now, too. And you know what? For years, I see rich people coming in there and givin' me sympathetic looks and writing a check to the management, but I've never met one a'um who'd break bread with me. And this here feller-” He claps Richard on the back, nearly knocking him over. Santa's a strong old guy. “-he's the first rich donor who ever treated me like a person. And that means more to me than all the checks all those other rich people have written over the years. And that's the story you people ought to focus on, not the fact that he talked to an escort at a party.”

  Santa has a lot more trouble getting off the table than he apparently did getting up on it, so I offer him a hand and help him back into his seat. Then I turn around and help Richard field questions from the reporters. They haven't shut up, but at least they've slowed down a little. I reiterate that Richard did nothing wrong, and drag the conversation back to the charity after every question.

  “I'm only going to say this once,” I yell toward the man in the back of the crowd. “My friends and I have not broken any laws. We will not comment further on any ridiculous suggestions about bribery or other criminal activities because we have already answered those questions. Now, who would like to know more about how environmentally friendly practices can save you money?”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Amazingly, last night was not the disaster it could have been. Despite their best efforts to turn up a scandal, the reporters were forced to go with Richard's unorthodox decision to invite the homeless to the gala, and Santa's speech (Santa turned out to be Bernie Newberry, a Vietnam vet who fell on hard times after serving his country.)

  The first thing I did when I got up this morning was check the national news feeds. The story about the party and Santa made it to only one national news source, and it was buried near the bottom of page one, typical of stories that don't involve a lot of death, destruction and violence (the first thing you learn about journalism in PR class – if it bleeds, it leads). There was no mention of Richard's family or background.

  As I run on the treadmill, I use my phone to watch local news coverage and check the local papers. Carrie suggested that Richard might be heir to the Walters brewery, but admitted no one at the family-owned company could be reached for comment or confirmation. No one else speculated about his background at all. Looks like in spite of Matt's stupidity, we're both going to come out of this okay.

  I get off the treadmill, run back to my room and change into my bathing suit. The roach motel does have a tiny outdoor pool, but it's more of a urinal for little kids. Fortunately, the hot tub isn't a big attraction to the tots, and I have it all to myself right now. I make sure the jets are turned off (splashy bubbles make it hard to keep my phone dry) and sink into the warm water. If I can just keep up this rich act a little longer, I can go back to staying in expensive hotels and living the fabulous life.

  See, I used to think that I'd have all this stuff one day, when I got rich. I'd have my Mercedes and my mansion with a jacuzzi and every piece of designer clothing I wanted (without having to dumpster-dive or buy on Feebay). But the more failed auditions I had, the more my internet videos failed to go viral (I swear, it's like they put out a fucking vaccine for my videos), the more times I got rejected and turned down and told I had no talent, the harder it was to believe that. So I came up with the idea that if I wasn't good enough to have money and all the stuff that comes with it, maybe I could find a way to bypass the limitless supply of cash and just get the stuff. After all, ninety percent of the great things about being rich are the result of how people treat the rich, not the actual money.

  I know what you're thinking: Money isn't everything. Money can't buy love. Money can't make you happy. You think I've never heard any of that shit before? Of course I have.

  Remember what I said at the beginning of this story? Money is like oxygen – it might not make you happy all by itself, but lack of it can sure stop you from getting whatever would make you happy. If it was just about the Mercedes' and the Chanel bags and the latest smartphone, maybe it wouldn't matter so much. But being poor isn't just about lacking those things. It's spending your childhood listening to your parents scream at each other about whose fault it is that they're broke. It's being told not to be ashamed of being poor, but that you can't have friends over because your parents don't want anyone to see how run-down the house is. It's being told you can't go visit your best friend who moved away last year for summer vacation because your parents can't afford the plane ticket. It's losing the first guy you ever really fell for because his mom thought you were a gold-digging whore. It's the problem you encounter every time you get involved with someone financially better off than you – you will always look like a gold-digger to everyone else, no matter how you really feel about that person. And deep down inside, you will always feel like a gold-digger, regardless of how you really feel about the person.

  Maybe there are people in the world you can say screw it, I don't care . Maybe I could be one of those people, but even if I could, I would always feel like I wasn't good enough. I know I shouldn't, I know it's shallow and materialistic and it shouldn't matter, but it just fucking does. I can't be with someone rich until I am rich myself.

  And that's why Richard and I will never work, no matter how much mutual attraction we have.

  Maybe this project will be the one that goes viral. It's hard to tell myself that, after so many failures, after trying again so many times I want to kill that little engine that could, but right now, I'm trying to convince myself that this could work. Fifty-thousand hits on ten videos, that's all I need to get my channel promoted on GluedToYou. And we just released all the vids this morning.

  I pull up my GluedToYou account and scroll through the list: The top vid is the one of Dusty getting shit-slapped by Tiffany. It has 7,200 hits. I grit my teeth and try to concentrate on the relaxing, warm water. I shouldn't be jealous of Tiffany. She has the I.Q. of a cell phone voice. She spends hours studying just to scrape by with C's. She has lousy taste in men. And yet, she's also had everything handed to her in abundance that I've fought to get a taste of my whole life. Guys fall all over themselves for her. Money comes easily. Attention comes easily. Beauty comes easily.

  I try to tell myself that her vid is bringing traffic to our channel and will boost views of my videos, and I keep scrolling. Most of last night's vids are clocking in at 1,000 or more hits, including the one where I calmly explained everything to the press. Of course, Bernie
's speech has twice as many hits as mine. Tiffany's Nair episode is also ahead of everything with me in a starring role.

  My best event appears to be dumpster diving, which has a little more than three thousand hits. It'll climb, I tell myself. Other people will want to learn how to help the environment and, more importantly, their bank accounts, by rooting through the trash of rich idiots.

  I set my phone on a clean towel behind my head, close my eyes and try to relax.

  And then my phone starts blowing up.

  First, it's a few dings to tell me someone posted on one of my walls. Then come several more dings, rapid-fire. Then a few chirps. Ding-chirp-chirp-ding-ding-ding-ddd-ing-chirp!

  I sit up, fumble for my towel, dry my hands and grab my phone. Maybe this is it! Maybe my vids are going viral and I'm actually going to get rich and famous this time! Take that, you fuckwads at American Pop Tart. Thought I didn't have any talent, did you?

  The first thing that pops up when I thumb my phone on is an article Morgan posted on my wall, with the comment “Did you see this? Is it true?” I stab at the thumbnail, which looks like my picture and a headline about...

  “Rags to Fake Riches: One Sorority Girl Lives the High Life on Nothing”

  By Angela Burns, South Padre's Gossip Blogger Extraordinaire

  Seen the “B Green 2 Save Green” videos yet? If you're in South Padre Island, chances are you've seen them reposted on local social media profiles. A group of college students is taking a green vacation here, living on a budget that includes money made from dumpster-diving, making scenes in restaurants for free meals and digging under vending machines for coins.

  The GluedToYou account was opened by Shade Stevenson, a soon-to-be senior at Southwest Texas State University and member of the Alpha Delta Tri sorority. With two sorority sisters, two frat boys and a rich friend, she embarked on a campaign to show people how they can save money and the environment at the same time. Outlined in the video series' premiere episode is their plan to submit the project to Green Day, a non-profit holding an internship competition to find fresh ideas about helping the environment. Members of the winning team will be awarded a paid internship to execute a project on their own college campus.