by Micol Ostow
Welcome to my mortification.
More news later.
—xx
On Thursday morning I popped out of bed earlier than the early bird. Earlier than the worm, even. I was determined to get to my classes on time, and to make a good impression on those professors who weren’t already soured against me. I dressed in another “first impressions count” skirt, though I was careful to select one that was slightly more streamlined.
I made my way to the dining hall, grabbing a Chronicle on my way inside. I briefly contemplated some scrambled eggs, but the woman behind the counter set me straight with a swift shake of her head no. Right, then. I scooped some granola into a bowl, grabbed a plastic container of yogurt and a cup of coffee, and settled into a table off in a far corner, next to a window.
I pulled open the paper to have a look. My review had run in Wednesday’s issue, and nothing new had been assigned to me just yet, but I wanted to keep up, both with whatever was going on around campus as well as with whatever was going on at the Chronicle.
Blah, blah, SGA meeting, blah, blah, op-ed on the new shuttle system (I fleetingly wondered who in their right mind would have any objection to this service), blah blah, cat stuck in tree, Greeks announce all rush season, new album released… bl—
Gabe’s music column. I had learned from Anna one evening that an editor could petition for a column by submitting three sample pieces and letting the editorial board vote. That was how Kyra had gotten her advice column—three or four semesters ago—and that was how Gabe had gotten his column, “Heavy Rotation.” Columns ran once a week. Gabe’s topic for this week was a “back to school”—type theme that drew parallels between the “fresh start-yness” of the fall and the fresh sounds of the indie scenes. I wanted to take notes. All I knew about music I’d learned from listening to local pop stations, and later, from indie-influenced friends at summer camp, but I was woefully undereducated, and suddenly these things mattered to me.
“Suddenly” since I’d met Gabe, of course.
I skimmed down to the end of his column, promising myself I’d check out the bands he mentioned online later. Then I flipped to the back of the paper. I pulled out a pencil, preparing for the ego-boostingly-easy crossword, when my peripheral vision honed in on something else:
GODDESS: HOT TIMES AT THE LIBRARY, 10 p.m. -ROTATOR
“Goddess?” “Rotator?”
Their column names. Ick.
Gabe and Kyra’s relationship had penetrated the personals section of the paper.
They weren’t the only ones advertising their affections, though. I took a sip of coffee and scanned the rest of the personals. Now that I was slightly more conscious, the little inside jokes practically leaped off of the page at me:
CHIEF: WINGS TONITE. BE IN THE BASEMENT AFTER BEDTIME.
John, we’ll order wings after we put the paper to bed.
PRINCESS, IT’S YOUR DAY.
Princess is Megan. It’s her birthday—heard her talking about it the other day.
Mind you, there were plenty of personals from innocent, non-Chronicle-affiliated students, wishing each other well this semester, saying hello after summers apart. Personals cost three dollars, and it was fun to see ones name embedded within the text. Like silly yearbook messages gone public. One of life’s simpler pleasures.
Or so I imagined.
I don’t know if I would have reacted in quite the same way if, for instance, John’s personal ad had been the first I’d seen. But it hadn’t been, so there was no telling. The fact was that this cutesy little game was something that Gabe and Kyra played together. Along with the rest of the Chronicle. Not me. Not only was I on the outside of Gabe and Kyra, but despite a couple of well-written (or so Gabe said, anyway) articles, I was outside of the newspaper staff, too.
I felt a lump forming in the back of my throat, a sign of a sudden wave of homesickness. Where had this come from? I’d been at school barely a week. Of course I wasn’t in on long-standing traditions or jokes. That would have been way too much to expect, right?
But rationale had no place in my momentary emotional spaz. Memories of Drew flooded back to me: leaving a card in my locker on the first day of school every year, bringing me my favorite chocolate at lunchtime. We had plenty of our own inside jokes and things.
Unfortunately, Drew just wasn’t here.
I shoved the paper aside and let my gaze wander out the window. A trio of girls stomped across the quad, arms interlinked. I could only see them from behind, but I was sure, somehow, that they were laughing. And, of course, it wasn’t at me (seeing as how they were thoroughly unaware of my existence) … but it sure wasn’t with me either.
Pity party, table for one.
“Guess what?”
Charlie soared into our dorm room, executing a quick pirouette and hugging me before collapsing onto her bed.
I looked up from my books. “Share.”
I’d been sitting sprawled on my bed, surrounded by reading materials, schedules, calendars, and curricula from my various classes, trying to map out a plan for myself vis-à-vis reading. There seemed to be quite a bit of it expected at school. I was slightly worried.
“I’m going to rush!” she practically sang. Her eyes sparkled, and her mouth flew into a wide grin. “Isn’t that fabulous?”
“That’s awesome, Charlie,” I said. “But I don’t get it. I mean, you knew you were rushing, right? This isn’t, like, news or anything?”
She laughed. “Well, I wanted to, sure, and I pretty much figured I would, but nothing was definite—until now!” She flopped backward so that she was lying down and facing the ceiling.
I recalled the article I’d seen in the paper that morning. “Oh, yeah. They had sign-ups or whatever?”
“Registration,” Charlie corrected me dreamily.
“So you’re going to go Tri-Delt, like your mother—right?” I asked.
Charlie sat up suddenly. “Oh, Claudia, I keep telling myself to keep an open mind, that I might be more interested in another sorority than the Tri-Delts, but I just know, deep down, that that’s not true. I do want to be Tri-Delt, just like my mother.” Her eyes were wide with sincerity.
“I’m sure you will be,” I said, meaning it. In addition to having bazillion generations of legacy, Charlie was basically a dream sister. I mean, the girl was born for this type of stuff. In a good way.
She gnawed at a fingernail nervously, then stopped once she realized what she was doing. “I don’t know, Claud. It ties my stomach into knots just thinking about it.” She suddenly sat up. “Come with me?”
“Uh, no,” I said shortly.
“Why not?” she pleaded. “It would really make me less nervous. And it would be so much fun! Something we could do together as roomies.”
I glared at her. “We go to the dining hall together. ‘As roomies.’ Isn’t that punishment enough?”
“Seriously, Claudia—I need you. The sisters, the parties, the judging …”
“And you think I’ll be able to help you deal with that?” I asked incredulously.
“Definitely, Claudia. Y’all have a very calming effect on me. Remember that time we were in the bookstore and I couldn’t find the book I needed, and then you knew where it was.”
“Charlie, that wasn’t me being ‘calming,’ that was me clueing in to the alphabetized shelving systems,” I insisted.
Charlie shook her head, undaunted. “I don’t care, the point is, I was all worked up, and you were so practical about it, just checking the shelves. That’s why I need you.”
“To read shelves,” I repeated dubiously.
“To be my wingman!” she enthused. “Wing woman!” She took an excited breath. “Whatever! It’ll be fun!”
“Oh, I don’t know, Charlie,” I hedged. “Sometimes we have different ideas about fun.”
“Well, that’s true,” she conceded. But she wasn’t a quitter, that Charlie Norton. “What if,” she said, leaning her forearms against her knees and adopt
ing a solemn expression, “we make a deal?”
“What kind of deal?” I asked, skeptical.
“Well, you’ll register, and well go to some events. And if you hate it, you can drop out. No questions asked.”
I scowled at her. “One party. That’s it.”
She flung her arms around me and squeezed for dear life. I coughed.
But who was I to have such a negative attitude about all of this? I mean, eight hours ago I’d been lamenting my lack of “niche,” my sense of not belonging? And here was someone literally begging me to join in—to join her, and to eventually, hopefully, become a part of something larger. I didn’t really have a good reason to turn her down, short of a very hazy and probably biased idea of what it meant to be Greek.
I was, of course, having doubts. Charlie, meanwhile, was having her very own MTV party to go. She was doing her Beyonce impression down the narrow space between our beds. I had to laugh. Charlie was fun. Hence, rushing with Charlie would probably be fun.
Probably.
I stood and joined her in a grand finale. Then I straightened up and smoothed my skirt out.
“Where are you going?” Charlie asked as I scooped my wallet and keys into my bag.
“I have to pick something up in Cambridge,” I explained. “At the Coop.” The Coop was the Virgin Megastore of college bookstores, located smack in the center of Harvard Square. Anything you couldn’t find at the Woodman bookstore, I was told, was sure to be available there. I was banking on locating some software for my computer science class. We were supposed to bring it to our next tutorial, and the thought of showing up empty-handed gave me goose bumps. The bad kind. Our professor, Hartridge, didn’t seem easygoing at all. “Do you need anything?” I asked.
“Nuh-uh,” she said, winding down from her sudden burst of activity. “Well, maybe some sour peaches from that candy store. Are you taking the shuttle?”
“Yup.”
“It leaves from the campus center,” she pointed out smoothly.
“Yes, Charlie.” I sighed. “I’ll sign up for rush on my way.”
9/8, 11:01 p.m.
from: [email protected]
to: [email protected], [email protected]
re: I’ll admit it…
I had a moment (or two) of hesitation as I signed my name—and my upcoming Friday night—to the rush sheet. I put the pencil down, then picked it up again, suffused with an urge to cross out my name. But I reminded myself that I was doing this strictly as a favor (got that, Charlie?), and that I could stop the instant it became un-fun. Of course, that assumed there would be a time when it was not un-fun. Or, rather, that it was fun. My doubts were actually starting to become sort of confusing.
I was mulling over this rather complicated thought process as I walked down the stairs of the campus center to the first floor, where, if my sources were correct, the safety shuttle would arrive momentarily.
“Ow!”
“Oh, god,” I said, stepping back. While descending the last step, I had somehow managed to stomp directly onto an innocent passerby. “I’m so sorry—I’m such a spaz. I was just—well, I guess my mind was wandering.”
“Hey, no harm done. Though I may send you a bill for the concussion.”
I laughed. “I’m Claudia. Clarkson. And I’m really sorry,” I said again.
“I’m Dave,” my victim said. “And it’s fine.”
I reached out to shake his hand, and finally got a look at him. Dave was tallish, and thin without being heroin-chic gaunt, with floppy, light brown hair. He was smiling and had a friendly, open look about him, further underscored by the fact that he was choosing not to press charges over our little hit-and-run.
“So, what were you so incredibly wrapped up in, Claudia Clarkson, that you nearly killed me?”
I flushed. “I’m a little bit embarrassed. My roommate has me rushing with her. You’re not Greek, are you?” I asked suspiciously.
He shook his head. “Nope, not me. But some people think it’s fun. Right, Gabe?”
Come again, friendly Dave? Gabe?
Sure enough, loping toward us was Gabe, whistling to himself and bouncing a little bit as he walked. It was pretty cute, I had to admit even if I was taken aback.
Apparently so was Gabe. “Wh—,” he began, then stopped when he saw me.
“Gabe, this is Claudia Clarkson,” Dave said, introducing us. “She’s my friend who just caused me bodily harm.”
“It was an accident” I insisted, giggling, “but actually,—”
“We know each other from the paper,” Gabe finished. He looked a little bit nonplussed.
“Yup, he’s my muse,” I said. Maybe having Gabe’s cute friend around had somehow detracted from the Gabe-related speech impediment that usually set in right about now?
“Some of Gabe’s best friends are Greek,” Dave said affably. “I pass no judgments. But, hey—you work at the paper, so you must know Kyra!”
“The Answer Goddess.” I tried to suppress the sarcastic edge that swelled inside of me.
I mean, correct me if I’m wrong, but I think I was just starting to find the flirt zone, was I not? And here they were, to plague me again: the media supercouple of the Woodman campus. They were like Woodman’s own Jennifer and Brad. Or, I mean, Jennifer and Ben. The other Jennifer and Ben. Or whatever. Why can’t these Hollywood couples just make it work, anyway?
“So, where are you off to?” Gabe asked.
“I have to run some errands in Cambridge,” I explained.
“Oh, you need to check out that CD shop right next door to the Coop!” Dave said, suddenly animated again.
“No way, man,” Gabe said, intensely. “That place is beat. Totally overpriced.” He looked at me. “There’s one in Porter that’s better. The next time you’re down at the paper I’ll give you the address.”
Dave shoved his friend lightly. “Whatever, Claudia, do yourself a favor. I mean, if you’re going to be at Harvard anyway, you might as well check out the place by the Coop. Even though Angsty Musician Man doesn’t condone it at the moment.”
I had to laugh. “Well see if I have time, guys.”
But the scene was starting to feel a little bit stale, and I couldn’t put my finger on why. Maybe it was their respective—freakish—determination that I shop where they shop. It was weirdly competitive, almost.
I needed some fresh air. And, anyway, the shuttle was on its way. Which was what I told them. I thanked them, and then I made my way to the shuttle.
Things I learned about boys in general today:
• They are very serious about where they shop for CDs.
• They can be very open-minded about the Greek system under the right influences (i.e., cute girls).
• They can be gracious in the face of bodily harm.
•It *is* possible to have a normal conversation with one!
Things I learned about Gabe, in particular today:
• He is VERY serious about where he shops for CDs.
• He will go to frat parties only when accompanied by Kyra.
• He is oddly territorial of his friends. Which is a shame, because under different circumstances, I sure wouldn’t mind running into Dave again. But whether or not Gabe’s taken, I don’t want things to be weird between us. And there are definitely at least two thousand male undergrads I still have yet to meet. So why sweat the small stuff?
—XX
9/8, 11:59 p.m.
from: [email protected]
to: [email protected]
re: Dear, sweet—
—naive Claudia: Is it possible that Gabe was merely jealous? After all, it does sort of sound like you were vibing on his friend. A lot of guys—even guys with girfriends—get bent out of shape about stuff like that.
Or so I hear.
“What do you think?” Charlie asked, twirling so as to give me a more accurate full-body view of her gorgeosity (which, I will admit, is impressive). In preparation
for our rush “cocktails,” Charlie wore a slip dress in a sleek gunmetal gray shade, and strappy shoes that looked dangerously uncomfortable. She had set her hair in hot rollers so that blond waves now tumbled over her otherwise bare shoulders, and her makeup managed to pick up on the subtle shimmer of the dress without making her look like a runaway Christmas tree ornament. I was impressed. She had clearly picked up some skills in the Georgia Peach beauty pageants of the past.
As an act of supreme kindness, she had even extended her expertise to me in a consultory role. I wore a lacy black skirt that just skimmed my knees, and a soft pink cashmere tank top that Charlie assured me complemented my light brown hair and brown eyes. Me, I was just going for as much comfort as I could, right down to the simple ballet flats I wore on my feet. “Very Hepburn,” Charlie had appraised, making a thumbs-up gesture. “Audrey, I mean.”
“Thanks,” I replied, taking a moment to touch up my eye makeup.
“Claudia, I really wanted to tell you again how much it means to me that you’re doing this,” Charlie said.
I felt a tinge of guilt. “Charlie, I told you, I’m just giving it a try. I promised I would go to this event tonight and keep an open mind—I certainly don’t think there’s anything wrong with rushing, or pledging, or whatever. But, I really do want to get more involved at the paper, and if I don’t want to stick with the rushing, you have to be cool about that.”
“Of course!” she insisted, giving me an enthusiastic but mindful-of-our-swanky-clothing squeeze. “I promise you I will. No worries, no hard feelings.”
She sounded sincere, I had to admit. But I was worried, nonetheless. It was the look in her eyes.
Two hours and twenty minutes later, which was two hours into “cocktails,” and the look in Charlie’s eyes had intensified to one of utter awe. I had to admit that the Tri-Delts were classy. Or, at least, their sorority house was. Again, it was a Colonial style house built of red brick, but it was nearly twice the size of the Sigma-Nu house and vastly cleaner, which just goes to show about the fairer sex. Cocktails and mingling were being held in the sitting room, which, as near as I could tell, was a fancy word for a living room, just off of the enormous dining area. Charlie sat on a chaise in the far cor-ner, sipping a Cosmopolitan and telling an elaborate anecdote that somehow involved quite a bit of enthusiastic, tinkling laughter and the tossing of her hair back over her shoulder. This party was the flagship event of the rush period, intended to kick off the week as a “getting to know you” among all of the sisters of the various houses and all of the potential rushees. But, somehow, Charlie had practically become the primary attraction of the evening. I felt an odd and perhaps misplaced sense of pride. I also felt a sense of relief. If I decided that I didn’t want to do this, the girl would clearly be okay without me.
