Susie Braddock’s name leapt out at me. I’d forgotten I had one of her songs.
In a new browser window I typed her name into Google. The search engine helpfully supplied the first ten of a gazillion entries. I clicked on the official fan page of the Grammy-winning artist, free-associated through Susie Braddock’s bio, then on to the Roll Over Beethoven Foundation, and other notable SAXis. Finally I felt calm enough to do some work on my newspaper assignment and started closing windows.
The bottom page was a pop-up window; a lousy ad, though, because I couldn’t tell what it was selling. It consisted of an animated GIF that took up the entire window, some kind of diagram, like a black and white test pattern made up of circles and linking lines. They pulsed slightly as I stared, so subtly that I couldn’t tell if the motion came from the symbols or an optical illusion.
I went to click on the window, to make it active. But as soon as I touched the trackpad, the whole image disappeared, and a new box appeared to tell me that MS Extorter had unexpectedly quit.
Crap. The only thing I hate more than pop-up ads are ones that crash my browser. One Java applet too many, I guess, telling me how I could get bigger boobs, which I might be interested in, or see nude girls on ice, which I definitely was not.
6
My article appeared below the fold on the front page of Tuesday’s Ranger Report. The Greeks were aghast, the rushees were titillated, and the Rho Gammas were on the warpath.
This was so much better than buried with the obituaries (no pun intended) in the “real” paper.
“Who do you think it is?”
My ears perked up while I stood at the Starbucks kiosk in the student union, watching like a vulture as the barista steamed the milk for my latte. Somehow I’d made it through my eight o’clock class on only one cup of coffee, but now I needed a high-octane infusion ASAP.
A second girl answered the first. “I think it’s that skinny girl from Sutter Hall. You know, the one with the Lisa Loeb glasses. She looks like that snobby intellectual type.”
“She can’t look like the type. That would defeat the purpose of being incognito.”
“Is that what you’re wearing?”
Since I’d been shamelessly eavesdropping, it took a moment to realize the question was directed at me. Turning, I saw Hillary with her hands on her hips, the RG on her chest standing out like a blazon. It’s a bird, it’s a plane, it’s … Rho Gamma Girl.
I pointed to my new name tag. “Look. No graffiti.”
Her blond ponytail whipped back and forth as she shook her head. “You look like you just rolled out of bed.”
As a matter of fact, I had just rolled out of bed and into a clean pair of jeans, a T-shirt, and a worn Bedivere U. hoodie, then on to my eight o’clock calculus lecture. There had to be something unhealthy about math that early in the morning.
“Sorry. I guess I should have dressed up for class. Like that.” I pointed to a pair of Kappa Phis walking by wearing the exact same thing I was, except their hoodies said K? and they had standard Greek-issue ponytails instead of unruly dark brown bobs.
Hillary huffed in annoyance, then waved the subject aside, back to serious Panhellenic business. “Forget it. I’m asking everyone”—she addressed the girls at the table, too, unfurling the newspaper that had been rolled up in her hand—“if you have any idea who this is.”
No question who she meant, but in the interest of clarity she pointed to the anonymous silhouette beside the byline—not Secret Squirrel, to my great disappointment, but the Phantom Rushee.
“We were just discussing that,” said one of the gossiping girls. They all had name tags pinned to their T-shirts. The speaker was Lindsey. “Brianna thinks she knows someone.”
Brianna didn’t look happy to be put on the spot. “I said I knew someone who looked like the type.”
“And I still say she won’t be a type,” argued a third girl.
“There’s no way she can completely hide it,” volleyed Brianna. “Surely it will show.”
“What will show?” I asked, figuring it would be suspicious to remain silent.
“That she’s not one of us, of course.”
Maybe that was the purpose of the ubiquitous ponytail—to show there were no sixes on the back of any necks.
Hillary saved me from saying this aloud and wasting good material for my next article. “Since you girls know each other best, Panhellenic is asking for your help. Just keep your ears open, and if you have any ideas who this Phantom Rushee might be, you’ll tell one of the Rho Gammas.”
The rushees nodded, and I did, too, projecting innocence and cooperation as hard as I could. Maybe a little too hard, since Hillary’s glance lingered on me, a little too long and a little too narrow-eyed. Possibly she suspected me, possibly just disliked me, but clearly I’d better tone down the smart-ass a bit if I wanted to avoid the scrutiny of the Panhellenic Council, which was starting to scare me just by reputation.
“Where are you going tonight?” she asked me, meaning, of course, which houses had invited me back.
“The same as last night.” Meaning all of them had, since I’d been on my best behavior. The only one that surprised me was the Sigma Alpha Xis, since the girl there—Devon—had said outright that they were fairly exclusive. But maybe she’d put in a good word for me.
“Don’t be late this time,” Hillary chided. “Recruitment is serious business, and the houses need to know if you are committed.”
I nodded obediently, and she left to continue her witch hunt. No falsehood there. I certainly agreed that we should all be committed.
My favorite class was History of Civilization (Part I). An honors class, it was engaging, participatory, and challenging. Also, my dad taught it, and it was the first time I’d seen him in days, even though we lived in the same house.
“Hey, Magpie.” He greeted me as I came down the steps to the front of the lecture hall.
“Hi, Dad.”
A copy of the Ranger Report lay on the podium, and he tapped the anonymous picture. “I don’t suppose you know who this prankster is, do you?”
“Not a clue,” I said, perusing the page.
“Too bad.” There was a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “I think she’s rather droll.”
“I think she’s rather frivolous. There are serious issues in the Greek system, and she’s cracking jokes.”
“Can’t please everyone, I guess.” Zipping his computer case, he gathered his binder of lecture notes. “Are we going to see you for dinner tonight?”
“Can’t. Third-round parties.” I smiled too brightly. “It’s Skit Night! Oh boy!”
Dad’s mouth set in an unhappy line. I’d overheard a couple of girls saying he was good-looking in a Robert Redford kind of way. I bet they wouldn’t say that if they’d ever gotten the Frown of Paternal Disapproval. The one I was getting now.
“Every year I see these girls burning themselves to a cinder before the semester is half done, trying to keep up with their classwork and this sorority business. That’s not going to be you, is it?”
“Come on, Dad. You know me.”
“Exactly.” He glanced over my shoulder, directing a question to someone near the door. “Did you need me?”
“No, sir.” Justin’s voice. “I wanted to talk to Maggie a sec.”
“Sure thing,” said Dad, deserting me with a cheery wave.
I thought about just following my father out, and my expression must have shown it. Justin raised his hands as if to show he was unarmed. “I only wanted to make sure you’re okay.”
“I think so.” I’d justified and compartmentalized the weirdness. My distrust and confusion, however, was unresolved.
He closed the distance so that he could lower his voice. Out in the hall a river of students went by, no strangeness in their lives. “You want to tell me what happened?”
My lips pursed as I considered it. Really, how does one say: I had some kind of psychic power spike and saw what looked an awf
ul lot like some girl making a pass at you.
“Who’s Deirdre?” I said it like that, a non sequitur bomb.
His brow knit in confusion. “How did you know her name?”
“I’m Psychic Girl, remember?” The most I was going to admit until I knew he was still on my side. “Also, the caller ID.”
“Oh.” He smiled sheepishly, laughing at himself. “She was one of the other interns on the oral history project. We—all of us—worked pretty closely and got to be friends.”
“Uh-huh.”
He held up a hand. His eyes, warm and brown and without guile, met mine. “Honestly, Maggie.”
Here’s the thing about people like Justin, people that Lisa—in D&D parlance—called “lawful good.” They can’t lie worth a damn, and when they try, it shows, even to normal folks, not just weirdos like me.
The truth of his statement resonated. The deepest part of me knew that if he had something going on with another girl, his honor would require him to tell me about it. And I guess if I hadn’t been so insecure, the shallow part of me would have realized it, too.
“Okay.” My gaze wandered over the empty lecture hall and I wished we were having this conversation someplace that felt less like being onstage. “I’m sorry I freaked out the other night. I wasn’t really jealous.” He didn’t speak, but gave me an even look that forced me to admit, “Well, not just jealous. It’s complicated.”
“Then tell me,” he said, reasonably.
My eyes went to the ceiling, as if maybe my feelings would be outlined there, and I could manage to articulate them. “I just wish I knew what to think. About us. I mean, I don’t know if I’m … If we’re … I mean, obviously not yet, but could we be …? Do not laugh at me.”
“I’m not laughing.” And he wasn’t. He reached out and caught my hand, met my eye. “I really like you, Maggie.”
Oh God, here it comes.
“But—”
I groaned, loudly, and tried to pull my hand away.
“Would you just listen?” He held fast to my fingers while I looked anywhere but at him. “I’m working so hard right now. My whole focus is getting this degree, and I’ve got this teaching assistant job, and the thesis, which may turn into a dissertation. I’m not going to have a life outside of school for a while.”
Great. My first boyfriend was breaking up with me before he’d ever really been my boyfriend. With an audience of 150 empty seats to witness my “it’s not you, it’s me” humiliation.
“I know your studies are important to you,” I said.
“Not just to me.” He dropped his voice. “Occult folklore needs serious study and documentation by someone who understands and …”
“Believes in it, I know.” I made his argument for him. “Preaching to the choir here, Justin. Been there, vanquished that. Trust me, I am very sympathetic to the time you spend doing research.”
Pulling my trick, he lifted his gaze to the ceiling, looking for answers. I wondered if he even realized he was still holding my hand. “But you’re also a freshman,” he said, “and you should be doing all those freshman things.”
“You are not going to turn this into a conversation about you knowing better than me what I want.”
He sighed—resigned, determined—looking me in the eye as he dashed my hopes. “No. I’m telling you what I want, which is to concentrate on work without feeling like I’m taking you for granted. I want to be your friend right now.”
If only he was lying, had suddenly discovered a talent for it. But he wasn’t. His feelings might not be as simple as friendship, but he wasn’t lying about his wishes.
“Okay,” I said.
“Okay?” Finally, he let my fingers slip from his, and my skin felt colder. I felt colder. “What does that mean?”
“It means I like you. A lot.” Gathering my books from the lecturer’s table, I clutched them tightly to hide the shaking of my hands. “And I need you when things go wonky in my life. I would rather be your friend than lose you completely, so if those are my options, then fine, okay, we can be just friends.”
I didn’t force a smile, didn’t even say good-bye. I left without meeting his eye again, but I felt his gaze follow me out of the hall. The whole thing would have been a lot easier if he’d been a jerk, or if the romantic cliché was his way of letting me down easy. But it wasn’t, and I was going to have to wrap my heart around the reality of right guy, bad timing.
7
“If I ruled the world,” I told Holly and Tricia as we walked between houses that evening, “I would ban all skits.”
“I like the skits,” Tricia said. Of course she would.
“You like everything.” I looked up at the stars as we walked. “The skits, the stupid songs, the watery lemonade …”
The night was warm and still. Was it my imagination, or were even the heavens full of Greek letters? Lately I saw them everywhere—campus and store windows, and still in my dreams.
Holly walked backward, facing us, hands tucked in the pockets of her corduroy blazer. “You know, Maggie, someone might think you weren’t having a wonderful time.”
“Did you enjoy watching ‘Mary Potter and the Half-Greek Princess’ as performed by the Adam Sandler School of Dramatic Arts?”
“Well, no,” she admitted. “But all of Rush is kind of hokey, you know.”
“I know now.” I kept more laughter in my voice than cynicism. We’d formed a kind of foxhole camaraderie, especially Holly and I, but I still had to remember my camouflage.
“What made you decide to do it?”
I shrugged, sensing nothing behind the question, but hedging anyway. “Same reason as you.”
The trees that lined the sidewalk shaded her face from the moonlight, and hid her expression. “I’m going because my mother made me.”
“Your mom the Sigma Alpha Xi?” asked Tricia.
“Yep.” She turned forward, closing the subject. I sensed—and it didn’t really take my crazy Jedi mind tricks—a bit of a raw nerve there.
I waited until Tricia turned off toward the Kappa Phi house, then caught up with Holly, stretching my legs to match her longer stride.
“So what’s the deal with the SAXis?” I asked. “I mean, every chapter has a kind of personality. The Kappa Phis take their cute pills every morning, and the Deltas cut me because they think my dad’s a janitor. The Theta Nus are the brain trust and the Zetas are the cool club. The EZs are … well, you know.”
“Right.”
“But I can’t get a handle on the SAXis. The only thing I’ve been able to pin down is they’ve got really great hair.”
Holly folded her arms as if she were cold, despite the balmy evening. Her gaze stayed on the sidewalk, on the places where tree roots had pushed up the pavement into treacherous fault-line ridges.
“The SAXis,” she said finally, “get what they want.”
I wanted to ask her what she meant, but she lengthened her stride, and short of breaking into a run, I couldn’t keep up.
The Sigma Alpha Xis had transformed their chapter room into a Parisian sidewalk café. Little round tables covered with checked tablecloths—each with a tiny vase of delicate flowers—filled the room, and on the wall was a mural of the Eiffel Tower. A street artist painted at an easel, and a mime wandered through the crowd. Accordion music played softly, and I swear I smelled baking bread. The transformation was so complete that it must have been accomplished with a lot of money, if not by magic.
I admit, the idea occurred to me. But really, if you had the ability to do magic, would you squander it to impress a bunch of college freshmen?
“Welcome back, Maggie.” I turned to see the president of Sigma Alpha Xi smiling at me. My brain supplied the name Kirby, which I remembered because it was like Furby, which was amusing only because she looked nothing like a gremlin toy. Except, maybe, that her smile didn’t reach her eyes, which were all business. I’d seen that a lot at these parties.
Kirby gestured to the woman with her.
“You remember Victoria Abbott, one of our chapter advisers.”
“Good evening, Mrs. Abbott.” She wore another classy suit tonight, a hunter green that looked amazing with her complexion.
“Please, call me Victoria.” She smiled, and it did reach her eyes, just barely crinkling the corners. Her husband was quite young for a U.S. congressman—early forties—so his wife was probably about the same. She must moisturize like crazy, because she looked nowhere near that.
“Impressive, isn’t it?”
“Excuse me?” I didn’t think she meant her skincare routine or her designer suit.
She gestured to the room. “One of our alums is in graduate school for set design. She helped with the backdrops.”
“Very nice,” I said inadequately.
“And I believe you met Devon yesterday.” A wave of a slim hand indicated the painter with the beret. “She’s a fine art major.”
“Cool.” I was just full of brilliance tonight, but my brain was processing her knowledge of my social activities.
“I understand that you are an artist, too.” I looked at her, my expression blank, and she gazed back expectantly. Finally she prompted, “You’re a photographer?”
“Oh! Yeah.” That was the problem with lying; you had to actually remember what you told people. “I was on the yearbook staff in high school.”
Mrs. Abbott nodded. “I saw that on your Rush application. Are you thinking about continuing in photojournalism?”
Ah. Now I understood. She was feeling me out to see if I was the Phantom Rushee. At the other houses there had been a lot of questions about hobbies, but no one else had made the leap from yearbook photog to newspapers.
“I haven’t decided yet,” I told her, lying with the truth. My guard was up, but it was hard not to look as though I’d raised my defenses. “I’d like to take some pictures for the Report, see if I like it, but they don’t let freshmen on the newspaper staff. My major is English right now.”
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