Find me, Pete.
“Would you like to dance?”
When I don’t hear Ellen or Karen reply, I refocus my attention and see that Matt is staring at me, his expression of kind cheerfulness fading slightly at my silence. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t hear you. I’d love to.”
* * *
Two fast songs later, Pete arrives. I think I noticed him the moment he walked into the room, however much that might sound like pure romance. He is wearing worn jeans and a frayed jean jacket over a faded red Lacoste shirt, the long dark waves of his hair tangling in the double collars. He is definitely dressed more casually than his fraternity brothers, and he is also the only guy in the room with hair that touches the top of his shoulders, a holdover from going to prep school in New Hampshire, I assume. My heart stops in mid-leap because, what I should have expected and what I didn’t expect at all, was that Pete would have a girl on his arm. To be more precise, he has his long arm around the waist of a bleached blonde who is wearing a maroon cotton T-shirt that is too tight and a denim wrap skirt that is too faded. She is not a Beta Pi.
It doesn’t matter. It really doesn’t matter. It can’t matter. I’m here and I’m doing my best to make it obvious that I’m having a great time. Pete will see me and he will see that, and everything will be fine. We’re meeting again at an exchange, which is just as I planned. I look active and popular and busy, which is just as I planned. Pete will be drawn to that and to me, because that’s the way the world works.
But I have to admit, now that the moment is actually upon me, I’m not at all confident that Pete remembers me well enough to want me.
The dance ends. No one has cut in on Matt, and Matt is giving every indication that he is going to drift away. Not now. I can’t be alone now, Matt.
I take a step nearer to Matt, reach out, and touch his arm lightly, say, “That was great. Don’t you love Chicago?”
“Yeah,” Matt says loudly, nodding. “I saw them play last summer. Amazing.”
The next song has started, a band I don’t recognize; it’s a slow song. I glance over at Pete. He and the blonde aren’t dancing, not yet anyway.
I look at Matt, trying to think of something to say, something that will keep him at my side, something to spark his interest so that he will look interested in me, but I can’t think of a thing; all my thoughts are of Pete.
“I saw the Supremes one summer when I was little,” I eventually say. “My sister took me. All I remember are the sequins.”
Matt smiles.
“No way,” a girl says behind me. I turn in what I hope isn’t obvious relief. It’s Diane Ryan, looking as stunning as usual. It’s possible Matt will stay around for Diane, if not for me. It’s just that I can’t be seen looking alone and lost when Pete finds me. When Pete first saw me on Mackinac Island I was alone, sitting on a rock and looking out at the water, looking poetically tragic, I’m sure. I can only look poetically tragic once; it was a moment, not a lifestyle. “I saw the Supremes in ’sixty-eight. White sequins, right?”
“With big white earrings,” I say.
“I don’t suppose you remember the music?” Matt says, looking slightly interested.
“Oh, the usual stuff,” Diane says with a wave of her hand. “I knew all their songs by heart, but the outfits! I thought I was going to die of rapture.”
“Because of their clothes,” Matt says, crossing his arms over his chest and assuming that mildly amused arrogant male stance that boys have mastered by the age of fifteen, and that’s based on my limited experience with boys.
“Diane, this is Matt,” I say. “Matt, Diane Ryan.”
“Matt,” Diane says with a smile, “I can see you don’t understand the first thing about women’s clothes.”
“I think I know the first thing,” he says.
“Nope,” Diane says, grinning at Matt, shaking her head. “If you did, you’d know that sequins are the holy grail, the yellow-brick road, the whole enchilada. Nothing trumps sequins, not even a song about lost love.”
At the phrase lost love, I can’t help but look at Pete. He’s moved, and the blonde has moved with him. They aren’t any closer to where I’m standing, and Pete now has his back to me. He has to see me. I’ve done too much and worked too hard for this moment. And he’s not a lost love; he’s a found love. I don’t know why I thought that, even for a second, though the blonde probably had something to do with it.
“So does that mean you wear sequins?” Matt asks Diane. If I’m not careful, I’m going to get cut out of the conversation completely, which I wouldn’t actually mind if not for Pete and the impression I’m trying to create.
I look at Diane. She looks at me. The look she gives me is inclusive; she doesn’t seem to want Matt all to herself. That’s not at all the impression I had of Diane Ryan, but her look is ripe with an unspoken message sent from one girl to another, and the message is: Matt is clearly an idiot, and isn’t that typical? Matt, who may or may not know the first thing about women’s clothes, misses the look completely.
“Do you wear the holy grail?” Diane asks.
“Do you wear the whole enchilada?” I say.
“No, I don’t wear sequins,” Diane says. “I adore sequins. I lust after sequins. I dream about sequins. But I don’t wear sequins. Clear?”
“Got it,” Matt says. “But how do you explain Cher?”
“Matt has four older sisters,” I say to Diane.
I sneak a look at Pete. He hasn’t moved. Walking over to him is out of the question. It’s far too bold a move, even though I do know him and we do have some history. But it’s not a strong, firm history, no matter how important it was to me. It was only a few days, slightly less than a week, and it was only half a dozen kisses spread out over three or four events that weren’t really quite dates. Not quite dates, but almost and close enough. We were alone and we talked and touched and laughed and kissed. It was intimate; whatever else it wasn’t, it was intimate.
“Oh, my God. You poor guy,” Diane says. “Cher’s just the tip of your iceberg, right?”
“He’s got a lavender barrette story that will make you weep,” I say.
“What’s a lavender barrette?” a male voice says behind me. I turn, and my breath hitches in my throat for a second or two. It’s not Pete, but it is a really good-looking guy. He’s got blackish hair and dark brown eyes and has a Rock Hudson–crossed-with–Cary Grant sort of look going for him.
It takes only a few seconds to soak up his physical beauty; with my next exhaled breath, I’ve registered that he is, yes, gorgeous, but is not, unfortunately, Pete Steinhagen. I’m not the kind of person to be won over by a pretty face, and I’m certainly not the kind of person who would like anyone who tried to win me by a simple display of a pretty face. My gauntlet has been thrown down, Mr. Cary Rock.
My breathing has returned to normal. I look quickly at Diane. She doesn’t give any sign that Mr. Cary Rock has done anything at all to her composure. I have to admit, I’m impressed.
“No sisters, I assume,” Diane says, smiling at him.
“Not a one,” Cary Rock answers, stepping closer, joining us more fully. I glance at Matt, and he doesn’t seem overjoyed about it, but now it’s two girls and two guys. Come on, Pete, find me now. “What did I miss?”
“All-purpose hazing,” Matt says on a bark of laughter.
“I was hoping hazing was a myth,” I say.
“Don’t all myths have a basis in fact?” Cary Rock asks.
“The Loch Ness monster?” I ask.
“Really big fish. Really pissed off that people keep hunting it,” Cary Rock says.
“Greek gods,” Diane says over the rim of her beer.
“Messed-up family,” he says. “We all know one.”
“Or live in one,” Diane says brightly. “How about
the tall, dark stranger? That would be you, by the way.”
“Dave York,” he says, clinking his plastic cup against hers. The beer sloshes over her fingers. “And what’s the myth about the tall, dark stranger?”
“That he’s to be avoided, sweetie,” Diane says with a half smile. “Any basis in fact? I’m going to warn you; I’ll know if you’re lying.”
“Because you’ve known so many tall, dark strangers?” Dave asks, leaning toward Diane.
Diane grins. “Because I’m such a great liar myself.”
It is then that Pete and the blonde join us. I’m not a great liar, but I can fake it as well as any girl. With a shifting of my weight and a smooth half step, I’m standing with my shoulder pressed against Matt’s arm. In this exact instant, we’re a couple, at least as far as Pete’s concerned, or that’s the hope.
“Pete!” I say brightly, my smile wide and surprised. “I can’t believe it! It’s so great to see you again!” I don’t look at the blonde at his side, though is that a mistake? Do I look like I care too much that there is a woman on his arm, figuratively speaking, if I don’t even glance at her? Yes, I think so.
I glance at the blonde, my smile fully in place, including her in my joy at seeing Pete. Really, I’m amazing myself; that one year I did student theater has yielded untold dividends.
I glance back at Pete, waiting for him to say something. Diane, Matt, and Dave have fallen silent, looking at Pete, and the blonde as well, I suppose. She’s pretty, in an obvious sort of way. Actually, she’s pretty in any sort of way.
I shift my weight again and lean my shoulder against Matt’s chest for an instant. The room is crowded; that will be my defense if called upon to offer one. Thankfully, Matt doesn’t seem to mind.
Girls’ school has not adequately prepared me for this type of social warfare, the type involving boys.
“Laurie,” Pete says. He looks surprised, perhaps even shocked, to see me here. He casts a swift glance at the blonde, not his blonde, just the blonde. She’s smiling tentatively at me, her glance casting over all of us. Pete ignores her to stare at me. Just me. I breathe the moment down and hold it next to my heart for just a moment, the duration of a breath. “I can’t believe it.” He sounds like he can’t believe it. He looks like he can’t believe it. Unfortunately, it also looks like he might not want to believe it.
“Small world, isn’t it?” I say. “How is your mom? Did she ever shake that cough?”
The blonde is smiling even more tentatively now and is looking at Pete as her smile fades into a pleasantly inquisitive expression.
“Uh, yeah. She did,” Pete says, shuffling his feet slightly, shifting his weight. At my side I can feel Matt shifting his weight, in boredom I assume. Things are moving too slowly. I have to move things along, but where and how, I don’t know. I only know that Pete is here, that he’s not alone, and that nothing is happening the way I dreamed it would.
“Let me guess,” Dave says. “Next-door neighbors?”
Pete grins in a sudden flash of humor and relief. I can sense his discomfort; I assume we all can. I had hoped for something else, something more enthusiastic and more flattering than this sense of awkward and uneasy discovery.
“Nope,” Pete says.
“Same tennis team?” Diane asks, watching Pete, watching me watch Pete.
“Not even close,” Pete says.
“Cousins?” the blonde asks.
She has a high voice. Not as high as Minnie Mouse, but higher than mine, a very feminine voice, very girlish. I can’t do anything about that. I can’t do very much about anything, it seems. I pull a cigarette from my pack, tapping it against the cellophane a few times. As I put the cigarette in my mouth, Pete gets his lighter out and lights me. He stares at me as I puff my cigarette to life. I stare at the glowing tip of my cigarette, eyes lowered, feeling his attention on me, feeling myself glow softly under it. When he lights his own cigarette, I lift my gaze to stare into his eyes as he continues to stare into mine. It takes only a few seconds, but this is the Pete I came to find. This is the intimacy I joined Beta Pi to find, but like all wonderful moments, it’s over before I can fully inhale the joy of it.
“Not likely,” Dave murmurs, illuminating the brief intimacy of the moment.
Pete leans back, pocketing his lighter, his cigarette dangling from his lips. I take a drag of mine and then lift it away from my mouth, staring at Pete, smiling at him.
“Not cousins,” I say.
“This is like What’s My Line?” Diane says. “I’m going to get a lousy score without some sort of help.”
“Animal, vegetable, or mineral?” Dave says, grinning.
“Male or female?” Diane counters.
“Living or dead?” Matt says.
“The letter E,” Blondie says.
Pete looks at her. “That’s hangman, not What’s My Line?, Beth.”
Beth the Blonde. Beth gives Pete a quizzical look, followed by a sheepish one, followed by a comical one. Each look as it passes fleetingly over her face is adorable. She’s cute in a Barbie Dream Date sort of way. I suspect that most guys prefer the Barbie Dream Date way over any other. I’m afraid my way might be poetically tragic.
“Animal,” I say, smiling at Dave. “Definitely female. Definitely living.” I take a short drag of my cigarette, staring at Pete through the rising smoke trail. “And the letter E works, Beth. You all win. Congratulations.”
“This is a horrible game show,” Diane says. “I don’t even know what I’ve won, and I still don’t know what I know. But as long as I won, I guess I can be content with that.”
Dave chuckles and says, “Behind door number one, a brand-new refrigerator.”
“What’s behind door number two? I don’t need a refrigerator,” Diane says.
Beth giggles and leans into Pete. His arm wraps around her casually, comfortably. They’ve been together before. She’s not tonight’s pickup. I look at Matt. He’s not actually my pickup; I suppose I was hoping it would look that way.
“Behind door number two is a mystery box,” Dave says. “You take your chances.”
“A guy standing in front of a mystery box, urging me to take my chances,” Diane says, shaking her head at him playfully. “Such a cliché, Dave. I wish I could say I’m shocked.”
Dave laughs, a bark of laughter that lights up his dark eyes. I gaze at Pete. Pete isn’t laughing. He’s looking at me. I smile at Pete. I ignore Matt.
“I met Pete last summer,” I say, breaking into the laughter like a brick through a window. “In Michigan. We had fun, didn’t we?” I say, looking at Pete.
“American Woman” is playing on the stereo now, the hard beat of the music pushing against me like a wave.
Beth isn’t smiling anymore. Neither is Pete. As to that, neither am I. Diane shifts her weight slightly, moving closer to me, and says, “I’ve never been to Michigan. What do you do for fun there?”
“Sail,” Pete says.
“Get hammered,” Dave says.
Shut up, Dave. You’re movie-star handsome, but shut up. This has nothing to do with you.
“You can do that anywhere,” Diane says, waving Dave off with a flick of her fingers. “In fact, I’m sure you do that everywhere. So, you were in Michigan sailing?” Diane asks Pete. “What were you doing in Michigan, Laurie? Sailing or getting hammered?”
Falling in love.
“Some sailing,” I say, still staring at Pete.
I can see Beth is getting more uncomfortable as she becomes more unsure of where this is going, or maybe she’s uncomfortable about where this started. I don’t want to hurt her. I just don’t want her to exist, not for Pete and not for me.
Was I sailing with Pete? That’s the question everyone wants to ask, and I almost wish someone would. I glance into Beth’s eyes. She
looks confused, maybe even afraid. I know the feeling and I don’t wish it on anyone, not even Beth.
Look what you’re doing to us, Pete.
“Where did you meet Pete, Beth?” I ask. “Sailing?”
It sounds like a slap, once the words are out, but I didn’t mean it that way. Where did she meet Pete? When? Yesterday? Last year? Did she meet him after Mackinac or before? That’s all I really want to know. I want it to be after. I want it to be that Pete, having lost me once I left Mackinac, stumbled into a brief, meaningless relationship with Beth. I want him to have wanted me and, upon not finding me, to have found next to nothing with Beth. But I’m here. Find me again.
“No,” Beth says, looking at me, and then at everyone else. “Pete and I went to high school together.”
I feel the floor heave beneath my feet. Melodramatic, maybe, but that’s exactly what I feel. I lift my cigarette to my mouth and take a calming drag; my hand isn’t shaking. That’s good.
I’m okay. I’m doing okay. I’m fine.
Beth came before me. Okay . . . so what? It doesn’t matter. He left her and he found me. We had something last summer, brief but wonderful. We had something and I left, but I’m here now. That’s going to make all the difference. It has to.
“High school sweethearts?” Diane says, looking brightly at Beth, and then looking at me, not so brightly, moving closer to my side, edging against Matt. “That’s so sweet.”
Diane can’t tell, can she? No one can tell that I feel sick, a cold wave of nausea rolling over me. No one can tell. I take another drag and push the message down into my lungs and out through my pores. No one can tell.
That’s the important thing, to never show weakness and never show vulnerability. If no one can tell you’re hurt, then you’re not hurt. A blow only counts if it makes you bleed, and I’ll never bleed.
I take another breath and make sure my face displays a pleasant expression. I do all this like a nurse checking a pulse, a detached examination of my outward signs; this is how I know I look normal, controlled, calm, politely interested. That’s all there is to this moment; that’s all I will allow this moment to be.
Sorority Sisters Page 4
