“I don’t understand.” I felt the way I had when Dr. Smyth explained fractal theory, as though there was some basic, fundamental thing here that my mental fingertips could brush, but not quite grasp.
“You don’t need to understand it right now. That’s what pledge class is for. To get you ready for initiation, when everything will be clear.”
Holly returned and handed me a bottle, still dripping icy water from the cooler. I pressed it to the back of my neck, hoping the chill would shock my brain into motion. It also gave me an excuse to duck my head and let Holly and Jenna talk while I tried to align my scattered thoughts.
All this week, I’d taken secret pride in being what the sorority girls termed “Not One of Us.” Now I had found out that actually, I was one of them. Or they were a lot of me. Or … something.
I sat with my head resting in one hand, shielding my face. A cold prickle of worry spread through me, and I didn’t think it was just the icy water bottle, or the cracking of my illusion that I was special or unique.
The bid envelope lay in my lap. Opening it was a formality now, but I did it anyway:
SIGMA ALPHA XI
INVITES
MAGDALENA LORRAINE QUINN
TO JOIN OUR SACRED SISTERHOOD.
In the words of Han Solo, right before the Millennium Falcon got sucked into the Death Star: I had a bad feeling about this.
11
I stood in the foyer of the Sigma Alpha Xi house with seven other girls. Other houses had thirty or forty new members—pledges, in the Greek vernacular. We had eight. No wonder SAXis had a reputation for being in a class of their own.
By their nature, the members of a house run together. They chose for type, and Sigma Alpha Xi did, too, if Jenna was to be believed—and I had no reason not to. Their criteria was definitely not physical similarity. At one end was lanky Holly, with her hair the color of autumn mums. At the other was me: short, too curvy on the bottom and not curvy enough on the top, with disobedient short dark hair. The other girls fell in the middle and had yet to differentiate themselves.
We, the pledge class, waited as a collective. Nervous, giggling, or silent, according to nature. The gigglers were Ashley, Kaylee, and Nikki. On the quiet, sober side were Holly, Alyssa, and Erica. A girl named Brittany had appointed herself pledge wrangler, and kept admonishing the gigglers to shut up and be serious.
The chapter room doors swung partially open and one of the Sigmas greeted us, wearing some kind of stole or wrap over her street clothes. We all shut up.
“Sigma Alpha Xi invites Ashley Adams to join our circle.”
Ashley, a blond girl with a California tan, looked suddenly intimidated, and I wondered if she didn’t have some Spidey Sense after all. She wiped her palms on her jeans, took the older girl’s offered hand, and followed her into the room as another active member appeared in the doorway.
“Sigma Alpha Xi invites Kaylee Carson to join our circle.” A dark-haired girl with a ballerina’s build went in eagerly.
They continued alphabetically, until only Holly and I were left. Then Jenna appeared, a crimson stole hanging, Roman senator—fashion, over her elbows. “Sigma Alpha Xi invites Magdalena Quinn to join our circle.”
My full name was on my school records, though I’d made it clear I preferred Maggie. We were too careless with names in modern culture, and I wasn’t just talking about identity theft. Names have power, and calling things by their proper names can evoke it, or diminish it. Why else don’t we call private body parts by their anatomical terms?
I followed Jenna into the chapter room, which had been transformed once again. The lights were dim; the air was cool, almost clammy on my bare arms. The rug had been rolled back, and inlaid on the hardwood floor was a spiral, like a nautilus shell or a galaxy.
Nothing in the universe is truly random.
Jenna led me inward along the loop, and I joined the ring of pledges in the center. Holly completed our group, and the doors closed.
At the north end of the room stood Victoria Abbott. Was it normal for an alumnae adviser to always be around? Something about her presence struck a wrong note with me.
In front of her was a cloth-covered table with several items on it: an oil lamp—think Aladdin and the genie—and an enormous book. Gutenberg Bible enormous, and possibly that old. A spiral of fragrant smoke rose from a small silver bowl—incense, exotic and spicy, making my head feel stuffy and strange.
Victoria spoke, in a soft but carrying voice. “We move through life in a series of patterns: family, friends, school classes and clubs.”
One Sigma handed each pledge an unlit white candle as the alumna continued. “Today you will form the first of the new patterns in your life in Sigma Alpha Xi: your pledge class, a circle of sisterhood.
“Later you’ll make new patterns as you get a big sister, find roommates, take offices. All of these will mean new roles, new positions in the design.”
The actives moved into place along the spiral as Victoria lit a candle from the lamp. She handed it to Kirby, who stood beside her, a sober acolyte. “Like lightning, we branch out into the world, but no matter how far we get from the beginning, here is where the flame is begun.”
The chapter president passed on the flame. Each girl in turn touched tapers with those next to her, and flickering lights spread inward along the spiral, toward the pledges in the center. Someone beside me sniffled, and I fought the urge to squirm at the seriousness of it all.
Then the flames reached us, and we passed them among our candles. The circle closed like a circuit, and I felt a rush of electricity along my skin. It flowed—a tangible energy potential—outward along the spiral, humming like a magnetic field in the room.
Whoa.
Eight of the girls handed off their candles and moved toward the center, making eddies and currents in the energy field, like turbulence in water. Jenna stopped in front of me with a small smile of encouragement.
“Our pledge emblem is the North Star,” said Victoria. “The guide of adventurers and explorers.”
Jenna held up a small, lacquered gold pin, like a tiny brooch. “This is mine,” she whispered, opening the clasp. “And my big sister’s, and her big sister’s. So I hope you keep better track of it than you did your name tag.”
She held the point to the flame of my candle, only for a few seconds. Around the circle, others did the same. Jenna reached for my hand and, stupid me, I thought she was going to place the pin in my palm. Instead she pricked my finger, and I hissed in pain and some alarm. A tingle raced up my arm, settled at the base of my skull, then dissipated.
A small drop of blood glimmered garnet on the sharp tip. After Jenna carefully fastened it on my shirt, I reached up and touched the warm gold. Images, quick and fast: Jenna, on the Panhellenic Council; a woman in her early twenties, rising star of real estate in Houston; an assistant DA in Chicago, on the board of governors of the school. All of them had worn this pin.
No fuzziness followed the vision this time. As quickly as the images came, I was able to mentally catch them, instead of feeling assaulted by each. The song the Sigmas had been singing—I hadn’t heard them start—ended, hanging resonant in the room, like a chant in a cathedral.
Into the charged air, Victoria spoke. “The compass marks the path to our destination.”
From directly opposite her, Kirby said, “The flame is knowledge and power shared.”
A quarter of the way around the circle from the president, Jenna spoke. “Indigo for depth of feeling and depth of passion.”
And across from her, Devon, the girl from the second night of Rush. “Crimson for blood, for inspiration, and creation of things special and rare.”
And one ring to rule them all.
It occurred to me that I might be in way over my head.
12
The SAXis’ powder room, like everything else in the house, was decorated in dark red and blue. Excuse me—crimson and indigo. That hadn’t seemed ominous during Rush, but no
w I was seeing patterns everywhere.
I had Justin’s number dialed almost before I locked the door, and turned on the water to hide the sound of my voice. No answer. I hung up without leaving a message and paced in the tiny space, irrationally angry with him. Forget my petty, girly worries over the status of our relationship. How could he be in class when I needed him?
A pledge had to go through a learning period before being initiated as an active member of the chapter. I had never intended to go through with initiation. Even if they were only quasi-faux-sacred sorority vows, I wasn’t comfortable taking them under false pretenses. Since the pledge period was sort of probationary anyway, I’d been able to justify a little finger crossing.
But I hadn’t expected this. Ritual with a capital R. Jenna’s little sensitivity bomb was nothing compared to this.
A knock on the door made me jump. “Just a minute!” I called, then splashed my flushed face and wiped the smudged mascara with my fingers before I opened the door.
Jenna stood in the hall. “Hey. There’s food in the dining room. We had barbecue catered in.”
“Great,” I said.
She looked at me closely. “You okay? You’re not freaking out because of what I said earlier?”
“No.” What I needed here was not so much deflector shields as a cloaking device, because she didn’t look convinced. “Okay,” I admitted. “I’ve never met anyone else like me. I’m a little freaked.”
Taking my arm, she said, “Don’t think about it too much. It just connects us more closely.”
We had to go through the front hall to get to the dining room. I didn’t expect to see Cole Bauer standing there.
He didn’t expect to see me, either, and his face went slack in surprise. Then he looked past me, and turned the expression into one of pleasure. I glanced over my shoulder and saw Devon, the art major with the flippy hair, whom I’d talked to the second night, coming down the stairs.
She looked from Cole to me to Jenna as she walked over to us. “Hi,” she said, a slight strain in her voice.
“Going out?” asked Jenna.
“Yes.” She looked a little nervous and slightly defiant, which might have had something to do with her next statement. “Victoria knows I’m going, now that the official stuff is done.”
Jenna held up her hands. “I didn’t say anything.”
Devon joined her date—because it was obvious he was—and said, “Hey, Cole. This is one of our new pledges, Maggie Quinn.”
“We’ve met, actually.” I was thinking fast, covering his slip of recognition. “In the journalism lab, when Hardcastle crushed my dreams of being the first freshman staff photographer.”
“Oh yeah.” He nodded. “That’s too bad. Are you taking photography with Goldsmith?”
“Yeah.”
Devon slipped her hand through his arm. “Well, we’ll see you guys. Later, Jenna.”
They left, and I became aware of someone standing on the stairs, looking down at the casual little scene. “Is she still with him?” It was Kirby, coming down the steps. She didn’t look happy.
“She hasn’t seen him all summer,” Jenna said, clearly making an excuse. Then she grabbed my arm again. “Let’s go eat.”
They were talking about me when I reached the dining room. Well, not about Maggie Quinn, überpledge, but the Phantom Rushee, undercover reporter.
One of the actives said, “Is it wrong that I thought she was kind of funny? She did have the chapters all pegged. The EZs and the Theta Moos.” I choked on my Coke at that. “And what were we supposed to be? Some kind of fembots with shiny hair?”
“That would have to be the Kappa Phis,” said another.
Nikki, one of the pledges, asked, “Is it true they make all their members get boob jobs if they’re not a C-cup?”
Another pledge, Brittany, directed a loud question to President Kirby and Jenna, the ex-RG. “So nobody knows who she is? Not Panhellenic, or the Rho Gammas or anyone?”
“Not a clue.” Jenna munched on a chip. “But I think the Delta Delta Gammas have a hit out on her.”
“Couldn’t Devon make Cole tell her?” asked Melissa (I think). I was already regretting the absence of name tags.
“She wouldn’t.” All the actives looked at the speaker, in a beat filled with surprise, and a tension I didn’t understand. The girl lifted her hands in a shrug. “That’s what her big sis told me.”
The curious eyes turned to Kirby, but her attention was on her plate. I knew I was missing something significant, and wondered if it was as simple as disapproval of Devon’s relationship—her choosing a boy over her sisters—or something else.
By the time I pulled into my driveway it was late, and I felt as if someone had stirred my brain with a spoon. The stairs to my room seemed steeper than usual; I practically had to drag myself up by the banister.
The upstairs loft is arranged so that the stairway opens into the sitting/study area, and a pair of French doors close off my bedroom. Hanging on the left side was what, in the dark, looked like a Christmas wreath.
September had flown by fast, but this was ridiculous.
I flipped on the light; the wreath was made of crimson and blue fabric, thickly braided. Stuck on, quite artistically, were several ornaments: a lamp, a star, a compass, and what looked like an octopus. Oh yes, and the letters ΣAΞ.
On the right side was a whiteboard framed in SAXi colors, also with the letters, with a dry-erase marker hanging from a string. Someone had written a note: “Maggie—Welcome to the Sigmas! This door decoration is to help you study for your pledge exam! You’ll learn what all of these things mean soon. ΣAΞ♥U!”
Underneath was another note, in handwriting I knew. “Congrats, Magpie! Your new friends seem so nice! Love, Mom.” Thankfully, she wrote out love instead of drawing a little heart.
I wondered if I would feel less creeped out if this were hanging on a dorm-room door rather than actually inside my home. It seemed like something I maybe should be worried about under the circumstances, but I was so tired. I parked the thought in a corner of my brain to examine in the morning.
Stripping off my clothes, I fell into bed, relieved that the next day was the weekend, and I didn’t have to speak Greek again until Monday.
I woke late, even for a Saturday. My head felt furry on the inside, and the sunlight that streamed through the sheer curtains hammered against my eyes. All the signs of a psychic hangover.
With a groan, I sat on the edge of my bed and rubbed my hands through my hair. I hadn’t dreamed, so it must have been the residual from yesterday’s drama queen rally. A lot had happened, so much that my brain felt full, unable to process it all. I had pledged a sorority last night, yet there were no accompanying signs of imminent apocalypse.
I padded downstairs in an ancient Bedivere T-shirt, sweatpants, and socks. The living room was deserted, but Dad sat at the kitchen table with his laptop, papers spread around him.
“Good morning, sleepyhead.”
With a grunt of reply, I headed to the coffee, which was tepid in the pot. Desperate, I filled a mug and put it in the microwave.
“How did it go last night?” he asked.
“Okay.” I stood with my hand on the microwave and thought about that. The details were fuzzy, as if I was viewing them through a dirty window. Interesting. High emotion could make an unreliable witness. But I wondered if there was some kind of protection inherent in the pledging ceremony.
Or maybe I just needed caffeine. The microwave beeped and I took out the mug, stirred in sugar and a lot of milk. “I found out my editor is dating one of the sisters. I wonder if he’ll still want me to continue the articles.”
Dad rose to get some orange juice out of the fridge. “I wouldn’t be sorry if he didn’t. You might get home before midnight once in a while.”
“It’ll be better now that Rush is over.”
“Hardly. Now it will be meetings and parties.…”
“God, what a chore. How I suffer
.”
Glass in hand, he looked at me in that knowing way parents have. “So, how long are you going to keep up this Phantom Rushee business?”
“Cole and I agreed on an article a week up until initiation. Then I’m out.”
“Not going to write your name in blood, huh?”
“Uh, no.” Not when it might be literal. I rubbed my punctured finger and thought about symbolism. Blood brothers, candle-lighting, colors and ciphers. “Hey, Dad. Put on your historian hat for a sec. What’s the evolution of fraternities and sororities? Despite all the Greek letters and stuff, they don’t have roots that far back, do they?”
He considered the question, rubbing the Saturday stubble on his jaw. “Well, secret societies do. Think about the Templars, the Masons. But the first fraternity was Phi Beta Kappa in 1776, and it was more of a literary organization. Social fraternities didn’t come along until the nineteenth century.”
“The way they carry on about ritual and tradition, you’d think they’d been around since the dawn of time.”
“They took Greek letters as their names to give that air of tradition and ritual. It’s human nature. Being in on a secret makes a group feel superior to the ignorant masses.”
That made sense; there was certainly no lack of superiority complexes on Greek Row. “But you don’t think it really makes a difference in future success, do you?”
“Networking is a powerful tool.” He shrugged. “All other things being equal, it could be an advantage later on.”
“But does any one chapter strike you as more successful? At least on our campus?”
He shook his head. “I’m afraid I’ve never given much thought to the Greeks on campus, unless a student’s grades slip. Even then, the individual house doesn’t mean much to me.”
“Okay. What do you know about Congressman Abbott?”
“Just what I read in the papers.” He looked at me curiously. “What does he have to do with the Sigma Alpha Xis?”
Brimstone Page 31
