Rush

by Lisa Patton

  “Yeah. I hear it’s getting much harder to get the House you want. With so many girls rushing and all. My mom heard there are, like, over two thousand rushees this year. And that even legacies will be cut. Are you a legacy?”

  I knew legacy meant kinship to someone in a particular sorority. That’s one of the things I learned when I thoroughly researched all the Ole Miss sorority websites last year. I shake my head, purse my lips together. “Unfortunately not.”

  “Oh, no big deal.” She swipes her hand through the air. “I’m sure you’ll be fine. Is there a certain sorority you want to be in?”

  “Not really,” I say. “Alpha Delt would be nice. Or Chi O, Pi Phi, Kappa, maybe.” The last three were a few of the Houses I had been able to secure recs for. But at this point I know every sorority by heart and something about all of them. “Any of them really. I’m open, too.”

  About that time another girl pokes her head inside my room. Ellie waves her in. She’s super pretty. Another blond with hair hanging down her back. Her makeup is thick—lots of base, eyeliner, and eye shadow—and she’s wearing what I now assume to be the official Ole Miss uniform: black workout shorts, a big T-shirt, and Nike tennis shoes. Ellie’s wearing the same thing, but she’s not wearing makeup.

  Ellie hops up, hooks her arm through the girl’s arm. “Annie Laurie Whitmore, meet Cali … what’s your last name?”

  “Watkins. Nice to meet you, Annie Laurie.”

  “You, too,” she says with a stark white, toothy grin. For some reason I can’t tell if her expression is real or not. Probably because she’s got wandering eyeballs, studying every inch of my room like she’s the Inspector General. When she touches my comforter I can’t help but notice the beautiful ring on her right hand and the one on her left, similar, yet with different color gemstones. The same style jewelry is around her neck. And on her wrists.

  “I love your jewelry,” I say. “It all matches.”

  Annie Laurie glances at Ellie, smiles that smile again. “Thanks. It’s Yurman.”

  “I can’t say I know what … Yurman is, but it sure is pretty.”

  “Yurman is the designer,” Annie Laurie explains. “David Yurman.” I catch her looking at my bare fingers before she touches her earlobes. I shrink.

  “You have matching earrings, too?” I say. “That’s so cool.”

  “Thanks,” she says again, and continues looking around. “Did y’all move in today?”

  I nod. “After waiting three hours. How about that line? Wasn’t that crazy?”

  Annie Laurie’s eyes dart over to Ellie then back at me. “I don’t know. We didn’t move in today.” Then she pulls out her phone to answer a text.

  About that time, Jasmine and Carl return. After introductions, I add, “Annie Laurie and Ellie live next door.”

  “Wait,” Carl says. “Is that y’all’s room at the end of the hall? The big one on the corner?”

  Annie Laurie looks up from her phone. “Yes.”

  “Y’all’s daddies must be rolling in it,” he says, with a chuckle.

  Jasmine narrows her eyes, shoots him daggers. “Y’all don’t mind my man. He says things he shouldn’t sometimes.”

  Carl shrugs. “It’s true. Their room looks like it belongs in the White House, not Martin Hall.” When he chuckles at his own quip I have to suppress a laugh of my own.

  Jasmine digs her hands into her hips. “Now I gotta see it. Y’all gonna invite us over?”

  “Of course, y’all can come now if you want,” Ellie says.

  When we walk inside their room, I’m … well, I’m happy my grandmother didn’t see it. All of the pride I had in our room vanishes in a nanosecond, as fast as a rabbit in a magician’s trick. Their room looks like it belongs on the cover of a magazine. Carl is right. It should be in the White House.

  As I look around, taking it all in, a familiar shroud of shame creeps in, making me queasy and a little mournful. Staring me in the face is this beautiful, brand-new, gray-and-white floral couch with throw pillows that actually match their gray-and-pink bedding. Their beds have matching upholstered headboards with extra-long dust ruffles and crisp white duvets. There are fine draperies on both—both—of their windows and not two but three closets, and their desks have been turned into vanities with linen draping to hide whatever they want to store underneath. My God, there’s even artwork on the walls. And a wall-to-wall patterned carpet with an animal skin throw rug on top.

  The chest between their beds is mirrored, like the one I saw on the cover of a magazine just last week. They have makeup mirrors with lights and a flat-screen TV. I am blown away, utterly flabbergasted, and I feel like falling apart because until five minutes ago I thought we had a perfect room. But I can’t fall apart. So, I hold it together and ask, “Did y’all do all this today?”

  “No,” Ellie says, sitting down on the sofa. “We moved in yesterday.” She pats the space next to her, motioning for me to take a seat. I do.

  Annie Laurie climbs up on her bed, via a white leather step stool, and pushes back a multitude of pillows to relax into her monogrammed shams.

  Jasmine and Carl sit down on slipcovered desk chairs.

  I have a feeling my face must be giving me away, because I can feel my eyes theatrically bulging out of their sockets. “I didn’t know we could move in before today,” I finally say.

  Annie Laurie crosses her legs. “Our parents paid extra.”

  Jasmine, who I’ve learned in the short time we’ve known each other always has something to say, says nothing. But Carl, under his breath, mutters, “Mmm-hmm.”

  Ellie points to their Keurig coffeemaker next to the couch. “You won’t believe what’s under there.”

  “Under the coffeemaker?” I ask.

  Her eyes light up. “A hidden safe.”

  “Ellie.” Annie Laurie gives her a scornful look.

  “Oops, was I not supposed to tell?”

  “No.” She darts a sideways glance at Carl and Jasmine.

  “Sorry,” Ellie says, then turns back to us. “Y’all don’t say anything.”

  “Not to worry,” Carl says with his hands up. “Your secret’s safe with us.”

  About that time we hear a knock and a lady pokes her head inside their door. Ellie jumps up. “Mom!”

  “May I come in?”

  “Sure. What are you doing here?” I notice Carl stands up when she walks in.

  By the sweet look on Ellie’s mom’s face when Ellie hugs her, I’m struck by how much she adores her daughter.

  “How did you get in?” Ellie asks. “Everyone has to show their ID.”

  Her mom cups a hand next to her mouth, and whispers, “I slipped in behind another mom and her daughter.”

  “Is everything okay?” Ellie asks. Her eyes are troubled.

  “Yes, everything’s fine, honey. I probably should have called, but I didn’t think you’d mind, and I have a surprise.” She pauses. “Lilith has talked me into taking a Rush Advisor position with Alpha Delt. Isn’t that cool?”

  Ellie wrinkles her nose. “I guess. What does that mean?”

  Annie Laurie shoots straight up. “It means she’ll get to know who gets bids and who doesn’t, like, way before we do. My mom was one last year.”

  Ellie rears back. “Really, Mom?”

  Mrs. Woodcock nods.

  “Cool.” Ellie turns to us. “This is Cali and Jasmine, by the way. Our next-door neighbors.”

  Before I can say hello, Carl rears his head back, holds his palms up. “What am I? Chopped liver?”

  Ellie laughs. “Sorry, Carl. And this is Carl, Jasmine’s boyfriend. This is my mom, everybody. Wilda Woodcock.”

  Instead of shaking our hands, she hugs every one of us. I can tell by Mrs. Woodcock’s smile that she is warm and kind, and I love the way she’s dressed: white jeans and a long flowing top made of silk. She looks a lot like Ellie.

  “How nice that y’all are already getting to know one another,” Mrs. Woodcock says. “My roommate and
I became instant friends with our Martin next-door neighbors.”

  “You lived here?” Jasmine asks.

  “I sure did. Boy, did Lisa and I have a blast. I’d tell you some of the stories, but I wouldn’t want to embarrass my daughter.” She laughs and Ellie rolls her eyes. “Did you girls move in today?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say.

  Jasmine stands up. “Wanna see our room?”

  Mrs. Woodcock claps her hands together. “I’d love to.”

  “Then come on over.” With a sweeping motion of her hand Jasmine moves to the door. As we all walk back toward our room, she apologizes. “I haven’t unpacked everything yet, but Cali’s side is perfect.”

  Carl says, “Jasmine here is in no hurry to do anything.”

  Mrs. Woodcock lags behind, pats Jasmine’s arm. “There’s plenty of time to unpack, Jasmine, don’t you worry one bit.” Seconds later, once inside our room, she glances around with a sweet smile. “Why girls, this is lovely.”

  “We’re proud of it,” Jasmine says. “Aren’t we, Cali?”

  I nod. But only slightly. I was proud. Five minutes ago.

  Mrs. Woodcock taps me on the shoulder. “All of you girls like the same colors.”

  “Pink and gray,” I say with a halfhearted shrug. Compared to theirs, our pink and gray looks like Pepto-Bismol and elephant skin.

  We haven’t been in our room five minutes when another lady pokes her head inside. She must notice us, though she doesn’t say hello. Just looks right at Ellie and Annie Laurie. “Dinnertime. Let’s go, girls.”

  A mystified expression transforms Mrs. Woodcock’s face and I watch her turn around slowly toward the lady. “Lilith, meet Cali, Jasmine, and Carl.”

  When I see the lady’s eyes roving around our room I have a strong feeling about whom she’s related to. “Where are my manners? Hi, I’m Mrs. Whitmore, Annie Laurie’s mom.” As she limply shakes our hands, I can’t help comparing her to Mrs. Woodcock. And I can’t help noticing the pin on her breast, or that she keeps looking at Jasmine and Carl.

  “I wish we could stay and chat, but we have reservations at City Grocery in fifteen minutes.” She turns to Ellie. “Do you like my surprise? You weren’t expecting to see your mother so soon, were you?”

  “No, ma’am,” Ellie responds with a coy grin.

  “I guess she told you she’s the new Alpha Delt Rush Advisor?” She slips an arm through Mrs. Woodcock’s. “She’s going to be fabulous.” Then she looks at the girls. “Y’all ready?”

  Annie Laurie and Ellie tell us goodbye and walk out behind Mrs. Whitmore. Mrs. Woodcock follows, but before leaving she turns back around. “I’m sorry I didn’t get to meet your parents, girls. Maybe next time?”

  Jasmine and I both nod and I force a smile. I’m not sure what Jasmine’s thinking, but I’m dripping with gratitude that Mrs. Woodcock didn’t ask any more questions. Neither one of us have fathers, at least not fathers we know. Relief over not having to explain this, or anything about my mother, floods through me like a roaring tidal wave.

  FOURTEEN

  MISS PEARL

  Three weeks after move-in, I come into work before the crack of dawn, and find a Cisco eighteen-wheeler parked right behind the kitchen. What’s he doing here already? I wonder, and make my way to the door. It’s that pretty boy Fred Smithson, our favorite driver, but I’m in no mood to socialize. I didn’t take time to put my face on before I left, and the first drop of coffee has yet to splash my tongue.

  “What on earth are you doing here this early, Mr. Smithson?” I slide past his dolly with my head down, take my key out, and unlock the door.

  “I’d be at this till ten o’clock tonight if I didn’t get an early start. Between the University and the sorority and frat houses, I’m busy all day every day. Y’all happen to be my first stop.”

  I don’t look right at him. The last thing I want is for him to see me looking like this. “Have you been waiting long?”

  “Just pulled up five minutes before you did.”

  My weave is twisted up inside this cap. Can’t cook unless it is. I catch him eyeing me. He’s never seen me looking this plain. I didn’t anticipate him being here when I agreed to come in extra early today. Usually Mama Carla meets him at the door, but before I left yesterday I told her to sleep in. Truth is I could do her job in my sleep.

  I reach for my card to clock in, and see Aunt Fee’s below it, already punched. Normally she doesn’t come in until ten. “What are you doing here already?” I holler. I turn to see her standing in front of the stove stirring a big pot of red sauce. I can smell it from the door.

  “Cooking up a surprise.”

  “Not a surprise. I can smell it from here.”

  “You know spaghetti and meatballs is one of the girls’ favorites. Had to get here early to get this sauce on.”

  “It’s smelling good already.”

  “Sure is, Miss Ophelia,” Fred says, tipping his dolly forward to drop his first load.

  “Thank you, baby,” she hollers. “Why don’t you stop by after work and get you a plate?”

  “Wish I could. But I’ve got plans tonight. Thank you, though.” Mr. Smithson heads back to his truck for another load.

  “Five A.M. came mighty early for me,” I say. “I wanted to throw that alarm clock across the room. What time did you get here?” I grab a white apron off the hook, tie it behind me.

  “Been here almost an hour.”

  “Say what?”

  “Got a doctor’s appointment right after lunch. I needed to get a head start on dinner.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “Just a checkup. That’s all.”

  Aunt Fee hasn’t been to the doctor’s for a checkup in as long as I can remember. None of us here have. Alpha Delt offers no health insurance benefits for anybody except Mama Carla. “You sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m sure.”

  When Mr. Smithson is ready to leave, I make sure to check each item with the order form—four towering stacks of dry goods. Mr. Marvelle will be busy unpacking all morning.

  Fred passes me his pen. As I’m signing my name I notice his eyes on my arm. “What does your tattoo say?”

  I hold up the inside of my right forearm, show him the small cursive letters a few inches from my wrist. Absolvatus sum. “It’s Latin. Means I have been forgiven.”

  “Amen, sister.”

  We wish each other a good morning and I shut the door behind him. I sure wish I’d taken time to put my face on.

  First thing I do when I get into work every morning is head out to the dining room to brew coffee. Our girls are mighty choosy when it comes to their joe. Last fall, they told Mama Carla they wanted a coffee tasting, so she ordered in four kinds of beans. They settled on a special brew from clear out in Portland, Oregon. Now I’m the one grinding those beans every morning.

  Once I get that started, make sure there’s plenty of sugar, Splenda, stevia, half and half, skim milk, and almond milk, I set out my breakfast bar. Bagels, three kinds of cream cheese, butter, an assortment of muffins, and fruit in case someone wants a grab-and-go. Then I head back to the kitchen and straight to the walk-in. Pull out a flat of eggs, milk, butter, and cheddar cheese—all the ingredients for my grits—then set it on the counter. Some of the girls like grits for breakfast. I like to make sure there’s a plenty of oatmeal, too.

  On top of that, we take special orders for eggs. Some order scrambled; some order fried. Others may want an egg-white omelet, especially if they’re trying to reduce. There’s a lot of pageant girls in Mississippi. Two or three of them right here in Alpha Delta Beta.

  Auntie puts down the long wooden spoon she’s been using, turns to me. “I’ve been thinkin’ ’bout you, dahlin’.”

  “Is that right? What about?”

  She’s opening and closing her mouth, like she’s struggling to find the right words. “I don’t want you to think I’m steppin’ up in your business, but … pretty as you are, you need a man.”<
br />
  I almost burst in two from laughing. I need a man. What else is new? I measure out my ingredients, pour them all in the pot. Then I turn on the eye. “Is this about our money talk the other night?”

  “No, it is not. I just think you need a man.” When I don’t comment, she goes on with her own business, but a minute later says, “I haven’t heard you talk about no one special since Les. What happened to him, anyway?”

  I turn to see her staring at me. “Lester is married now. Don’t you remember me telling you that?”

  “Not really.” She leans in toward me. “What about Gerald Sorrels? Last I hear, he single again.”

  I think about ignoring that comment, too, but that’s not my way. “There’s a reason for that.”

  She presses her lips together and stares me down. “Listen here. You’re forty-four years old and you ain’t gettin’ no younger.”

  I’m not looking at her on purpose. I’m working on my oatmeal, stirring the ingredients around in the pot. Then I say, “Nobody knows that better than me.”

  She softens. Out of the corner of my eye I see her push up her glasses. “I know that, baby. I just hate to see my beautiful niece going to waste.”

  I look at her then. Press my hands into my hips. “I’m not going to waste.”

  She hangs her head. Her feelings get hurt over the least little thing. She can dish it, but she sure don’t like to receive it. “Forgive me, sugah. I didn’t mean it that way.”

  Seeing how ashamed she looks takes away all the irritation I’m feeling. “Don’t worry about it. I’m all right.”

  Aunt Fee adjusts her apron, looks back up. “I’m only tryin’ to tell you it’s a shame a girl as pretty as you’s not married.”

  “I tried that once. It didn’t work.” My ex-husband is the last person I want to be thinking about right now. And she knows it.

  “That don’t make a bit of difference. Plenty of women try it again. Queenie’s daughter been married four times.” She dips the long spoon back in her pot and slurps up a taste.

  “That would be the difference between Queenie’s daughter and me. No thank you.”