But his high school girlfriend? When he went to an all-boys’ school in New England?
“I thought you went to Exeter?” I ask Pete politely, just a simple way to keep the conversation going, nothing beyond that. Certainly nothing that could ever break my heart or crush my romantic illusions. They weren’t illusions. I’ve never indulged in illusions.
“Oh, Pete told you about that?” Beth answers for him. She looks a little suspicious. Pete looks like he wants to crawl into a hole. I know what I look like. “He only went there for his last three years. We both went to Henry James High School before that. We started dating our freshman year. The Sadie Hawkins dance.” She smiles and presses herself against Pete’s length.
She asked him out first. It’s a crumb and I gobble it up like a starving mouse.
“Wow,” Diane says, her voice anchoring me to the moment, keeping me present in the conversation. I need it, and I appreciate it. The cold waves of nausea are still rolling over me, my skin prickly and clammy at once, but my hands don’t shake. My civilized walls are fully in place; it’s only my heart that silently trembles. “You guys have been dating for . . . how long?”
“Over six years,” Beth says, smiling up into Pete’s unsmiling face.
Bastard. The word slips past my barriers, making a lie of my careful civilization. I’m not civilized in this moment; I’m a barbarian queen knifing an interloper. But Beth isn’t the interloper; I am. Pete made me one, against my will and consent.
Bastard, bastard, bastard.
“Wow,” Diane says softly, looking at me, her dark eyes soft with sympathy.
“You go to ULA?” I ask, dropping my cigarette into my beer where it floats darkly. How long before it sinks? How long before my cigarette disintegrates? My cigarette floats proudly, intact. Matt takes the cup from my hand and gets rid of it all.
“No, I go to Pepperdine,” Beth says. “I don’t even have a car. When Pete can get a car he picks me up and brings me to parties like this. I love it. Don’t you?”
I look into her pretty blue eyes, heavy with clumped mascara, and smile. “I do,” I say, shifting my gaze to Pete. “I just love it.”
A touch on my arm breaks the spell and I stop counting the beats of my heart. I turn away from Pete, glad for any excuse to do so.
“There’s a problem,” Karen says in my ear, her breath brushing my hair. “Cindy Gabrielle. Joan Collier thinks she went upstairs with a guy. She’s drunk.”
I look at her; then I look at Diane. Diane catches my look and, saying something that makes Dave York laugh, presses against me, her body flush against mine.
“What’s up?” Diane asks softly.
“Cindy Gabrielle is upstairs with a guy,” I say, my mouth near her ear.
“If the pledge trainer finds out . . .” Karen says, her voice trailing off. It doesn’t need any further explanation. “Joan’s her cousin. She’s worried.”
“And this is not a one-man job,” Diane says. “‘Once more into the breach,’ or whatever the hell that quote is. Shakespeare?”
“It sounds like him,” Karen says.
“Where’s Joan?” I ask. We’re making our way across the crowded room, trying to look casual. It’s not that hard. I assume people will think we’re looking for a bathroom. As to that, it’s not a bad excuse to use when we find Cindy.
“Waiting at the bottom of the stairs,” Karen says, and on the heels of that, I see her. Joan, also in my pledge class, looks grim and a little scared.
“Come on,” I say, walking past Joan and leading the way up the stairs; I’m glad for this sudden mission, the barbarian queen with her knife drawn. It’s noisy up there, the party having spread. We’re not going to be alone, which isn’t such a great thing when you’re looking for a lost pledge.
“Hey, girls. Lost? Need a guide?” a guy says from the top of the stairs. He’s barefoot and wearing faded jeans. I keep my head down and refuse to look any higher than that.
“‘A three-hour tour,’” Diane singsongs.
Karen chuckles and repeats it, Diane picking up the harmony. “‘A three-hour tour.’”
“Okay, so who would you be? Mary Ann or Ginger?” Diane asks, brushing past the barefoot guy, turning to him and saying, “You don’t get a vote, so pipe down.”
Barefoot Guy gets left behind.
“Gilligan,” Karen says. “I have a thing for ugly hats.”
“Ginger,” I say. “It’d be my one chance to wear sequins and get away with it.”
Diane smiles, and then we all look at one another, giving each other silent consent, and push open the first door on the right of a long hallway. It’s empty.
Without too much hesitation, we’re on to the next door.
“I don’t know why I’m so nervous,” Karen murmurs from behind me.
“I’m afraid of what I’ll see,” Joan says.
“Never seen it before, huh?” Diane says.
“Cindy just turned eighteen a month ago,” Joan says.
“She’s legal,” I say on a sigh.
“And drunk,” Karen says.
“A perfect combination for some guys,” Diane says. “On three?” Her hand is on the doorknob.
I nod.
“One,” Diane says slowly, and then she swings open the door. Joan gasps in surprise. The room is dark except for one of those hideous lava lamps, all oozing oil and liquid bad taste. Cindy’s on the bed, her shirt off, her bra on, her pants unzipped. The guy has his shirt off and his pants unzipped. How delightful—they’re a matched pair. He looks over at us and frowns. Cindy looks over at us and says, her voice sloppy with liquor, “Oh, hi, you guys. This is Glenn.”
“Ben,” Glenn says.
“Oops,” Cindy says on a watery giggle. “Ben.”
“Nice to meet you, Len,” Diane says, coming into the room.
“It’s Ben,” he says, looking annoyed. The barbarian queen licks her metaphorical lips and strokes her metaphorical blade.
“Yeah. Whatever,” Diane says. “Come on, sweetie. Time to go home.”
We all cross the room together, practically pushing Glenn/Ben/Len out of our way; he slides off the bed and falls ass-first on the floor. Cindy giggles and then says, “Are you okay?”
“He’s fine,” I say. “Where’s your shirt?”
Cindy sits up, her hair falling forward over her face. “I don’t know. Glenn? Where’s my shirt?”
Glenn reaches under the bed and pulls it out; it’s in a wad of pale fabric. He tosses it on the bed and stays on the floor, resting his weight on his elbows, an amazing example of heroic splendor.
Joan and Karen wrestle Cindy’s shirt over her head while Diane and I look around the floor for her shoes. It’s positively vile down on this floor.
“Got ’em,” Diane says, lifting a pair of platform clogs in her hands. Cindy hovers just over the five-foot mark; I think she wears platforms to run track.
“Come on, Cindy,” Joan says. “We need to get you out of here.”
“She was having a good time,” Glenn says, an extremely unattractive smirk on his unremarkable face. Added to that, he has the beginnings of a beer belly.
“That’s so reassuring,” I say. “Thanks so much.”
“Yeah, thanks for the update,” Diane says. “See you around, Ken.”
“It’s Ben,” he says as we walk out of his bedroom.
“‘A rose by any other name,’” Karen says as Joan half carries Cindy down the hall to the staircase.
“Now, that’s definitely Shakespeare,” Diane says. “Tell me I got it right.”
“You definitely got it right,” I say.
I think we all got it right, with the possible exception of Cindy.
“God, what happened? What did I miss?” Ellen says, pushing
across the foyer toward us. Her blond hair is sweat-curled around her face, her cheeks flushed.
“Rescue mission. We had a man down,” Diane says.
“Man down,” Cindy repeats, starting to laugh.
“We need to get her home,” Ellen says. “Where does Cindy live?”
“She’s way over on the other side of campus,” Joan says.
“Scratch that,” Diane says. “I’m in an apartment right behind Beta Pi, the Stardust. Let’s go there.”
During this conference, we’ve left the Rho Delt house, having been verbally accosted by only half a dozen Rho Delts, none of them either Matt or Pete. I suppose that’s for the best. Half of the houses on The Row are having exchanges tonight so our route down the block is made in front of witnesses who have no interest in us. It’s a strangely comforting combination of factors.
The Stardust apartment building is across the alley and down a bit from the Beta Pi house, with not even a gate to keep out the neighborhood ruffians. Diane leads us in through a narrow passageway, though I’m not sure anymore why I’m with these girls. I’ve accomplished my goal of meeting Pete at the Rho Delt exchange, and I’ve accomplished nothing at all. I don’t need to stay here. I don’t need to be with these girls. I suppose it must be lethargy and a form of perpetual motion that keeps me with them, step by step, side by side. I simply don’t have the energy to break away and find my way back to my own bed.
Diane’s apartment is in the middle of the complex on the ground floor, which is a relief, as Cindy sounds like she’s starting to feel sick and her legs are starting to drag. Joan and Ellen are wrapped around her like seaweed, urging her forward. Diane sweeps in, turns on the overhead light, walks quickly through to the bedroom, turns on that light, and does the same in the bathroom. Cindy is starting to gag.
“I’ve got her,” Joan says, and the two of them disappear into the bathroom and close the door.
“Well, that was fun,” Diane says. “Let’s keep the party going. I’ve got rum and Coke, orange juice and vodka, and the makings for White Russians—that’s if you don’t mind milk instead of cream.” Diane is moving around her tiny kitchen, opening cupboards, checking the fridge, an efficient whirl of motion. “Make that skim milk. And only half an ice tray of cubes.”
“I’m game,” Ellen says.
“Anything’s better than fraternity beer,” Karen says. “I wonder how Cindy’s doing. Good thing Joan knew where she was.”
“And the pledge trainer didn’t,” Ellen says. “Have a seat, Laurie. Stay awhile.”
They’ve made themselves at home, Diane, of course, busy in the kitchen, pulling out bottles and glasses. Ellen and Karen have sunk onto Diane’s nubby brown sofa, the cushions permanently dipped in the middle, the arms flattened and stained. I don’t really want to stay, but I have nowhere else to go.
“Come on,” Karen says, patting the cushion beside her, scooting over farther to give me room. “Stay.”
“Okay,” I say.
“You have to stay,” Diane says. “You have no excuse. I have liquor in a variety of colors and odors. Name your poison.”
“Rum and Coke?” I say.
“You don’t sound sure,” Diane says.
“I’m sure,” Ellen says. “We’ll start with rum and Coke. Do you have enough rum?”
“Do you have enough Coke?” Karen says.
“Silly rabbit. That’s not the right question,” Ellen says, getting up to help Diane in the kitchen.
“No stupid questions allowed until we’re all buzzed,” Diane says. “Whatever I run out of, I’ll get more of. We will not run out of booze. That’s a promise.”
I sit beside Karen on the couch, shifting my weight against lumpy and compressed cushions. I’m uncomfortable, in every sense of the word. I don’t know what I’m doing here, but then, I don’t know what I’m doing at all anymore.
When we’re each holding a glass of rum and Coke, Ellen sits down on the floor, cross-legged, and says, “So, who’s going to start?”
“Start what? No brawls in my apartment. I need to get my security deposit back,” Diane says.
We all chuckle at that, me included, and that catches me by surprise.
“I’ll start,” Ellen says. “First a swallow, and then a truth.” Ellen takes a swallow of her drink. “I’m not sure the beer in my stomach is going to like this.”
“Is this a truth-or-dare kind of game?” Karen says.
“All truths, no dares,” Ellen says. “First truth is on me. I’m from the Valley. Northridge. ULA was the only school I applied to. Thank God I got accepted. Karen? Your turn. Same truth, your version.”
“I’m from Connecticut, the Farmington River Valley, which isn’t the same, but at least it’s a valley. Are we getting points for consistency? I’m all about scoring points. I grew up in Avon, a small town outside of Hartford. And I applied to two schools. ULA was my top choice,” Karen says. “Oops, I forgot to take a swig.” She dutifully takes a small swallow of her rum and Coke, and then she grimaces.
Diane laughs. “Next time you get vodka. Laurie, would you like to go next? I am the hostess, and therefore it’s my sworn duty to go last and take the smallest portion of everything served. Except for booze, of course.”
“No, you go ahead,” I say, rubbing my finger around the rim of the glass. I’ve never had rum before; I’m positive I’m not going to care for it.
“Okay. I’m a navy brat, so I’m from everywhere, Camarillo right now. That’s north of LA for you out-of-towners. I applied to three schools. Top pick: ULA, naturally.”
“Not naming names, huh?” Ellen asks. “I guess it doesn’t matter since we’re all here now. Laurie, you’re up.”
“I’m from San Francisco and I applied to ULA and Stanford,” I say.
“Take a swallow,” Ellen says. “That’s part of it.” And so I do, just a small swallow, and it proves me right; I don’t like the taste of rum at all.
Fifty-five minutes later, Joan and Cindy are asleep on Diane’s bed, Cindy’s face scrubbed clean of makeup and looking all of fourteen years old, and the taste of rum is starting to make its appeal known. It does have a lovely flavor, sweet and strong and slightly tropical.
“Beach, definitely,” Ellen says. “I love the beach. My parents have a place at Malibu, and if I could live there, I would. Ocean, sand, sun, surf, it’s all I need to be happy. That, and a great bikini. Oh, and the body to go in a great bikini.”
“Lakes,” I say, leaning my head back against the crushed couch cushions, my eyes half-closed against the overhead kitchen light. “Lakes with pine trees and forests and cool nights. My family spends a few weeks every summer on Mackinac Island.”
“Where’s that?” Karen asks.
“In Michigan, in the Upper Peninsula,” I say. “I met Pete there last summer.”
“The sailing guy,” Diane says, topping off our drinks with more rum. She empties the bottle into Ellen’s glass. “Time to switch to vodka.”
“Who’s the sailing guy?” Ellen asks.
I shift my weight and check the buttons on my blouse. I didn’t mean to talk about Pete. I shouldn’t talk about Pete. Pete isn’t mine and he can’t be mine. He’s Barbie’s now. He was Barbie’s then.
I have such a sick feeling in my stomach. I don’t think rum agrees with me. I take another swallow to test the theory.
Diane looks at me, waiting for my answer. I suppose I should answer. I need to manage this somehow, control what is said and what is known. Of course, that would be far easier to do if I understood anything.
“Laurie, do you know a sailing guy?” Karen asks. Karen is lying on the sofa, her head on my lap. Ellen is lying on the floor, her head on one of Diane’s bed pillows. Diane is in the kitchen, making orange juice and staring at me with compassion in her dark eyes. I never
would have predicted that Diane could be compassionate. It’s quite clear to me that I can’t read people at all.
“He was on Mackinac with his family; his father’s a doctor, a pathologist. I was sitting on a rock near the lake and he just walked”—into my life, is how I want to finish the sentence, but he didn’t walk into my life; he walked through it—“by and we started talking.”
“That’s how it always starts. With talking,” Ellen says. “Sneaky bastards.”
“Then what happened?” Diane asks.
“Then he took me out on his parent’s johnboat, and the wind kicked up and tossed water in our faces, and Pete played around in that little boat, twisting and turning through the chop, teasing me, soaking me, and—” I pause, the memory choking me, squeezing my heart.
“And he charmed the pants off you, right?” Diane says.
“No. Maybe,” I say. “I’ve never laughed so hard in my life.”
“That’s step number two: laughing,” Ellen says. “Rat bastards.”
“Will you pipe down and let her finish?” Diane says. “Then what?”
I swallow down the rest of my rum and Coke, the sweet taste on my tongue a temporary but very lovely salve. “Then he took me out to dinner at a little place in town and I toyed with a bowl of chili while he wolfed down a cheeseburger, and afterward he kissed me under that pale Michigan moon, the scents of pine and water in every breath I took.”
“Holy shit,” Ellen says. “What happened?”
“For six days, I thought . . . ” I say. I thought he was mine, and that I was his. Tonight, I found out I’m not and he’s not. “I thought . . . ” I try again. I shrug, the words refusing to appear.
“You don’t need to spell it out. We know what you thought,” Diane says. “I take it he didn’t tell you about his girlfriend.”
“He has a girlfriend?” Ellen says.
“He’s a Rho Delt,” I say. “She was at the exchange tonight.”
“What a total shit! God, did you throw his lousy beer in his face?” Ellen says.
“Right. That always works,” Diane says. “Karen’s asleep, by the way. Don’t move, Laurie. Running out of the room is no longer an option for you. Sorry, sweetie.”
Sorority Sisters Page 5
