Sorority Sisters

by Claudia Welch

  “Watch it,” I say, leaning back.

  “I’m watching it,” he says, grinning at me, his eyes going to my bust.

  “Cool your jets,” I say. Diane came home from her summer cruise saying that, and I’ve been saying it ever since. It seems to fit this situation perfectly.

  “You got a mouth on you,” he says, his finger tracing along my lips. I feel tingles down my spine and across my thighs. I squirm on his lap, but I don’t get off. That’s right. I’m plastered and I’m melting.

  “And I know how to use it,” I say. What the hell did I just say?

  “Yeah, you do,” he says, and then he kisses me, right on the edge of my mouth. My breasts feel full and heavy, my nipples tingling and hot. I lift my breasts toward him, aching for him to touch me.

  He grins and leans back, eyeing me from eyes half-shut. With one finger he traces the edge of my scoop-neck T. Back and forth. Back and forth.

  “I went to Lake Forest to visit my aunt Irene every July for nine years.”

  I want to make some sarcastic remark, something snide and angry and hostile. All I can do is watch his mouth. All I can do is feel his finger on my skin, wishing he’d dip his fingers in and touch my nipple, wishing he’d pull me to his chest and kiss me.

  This is war. Don’t think I don’t know that. I’m not going to do anything. I’m not going to make any kind of move at all. He wants me to. I can tell by his eyes, by everything he’s doing with that damned finger, that he wants me to.

  “There’s a sailing school on the lake. Lake Michigan. I learned how to sail there. Just a Sunfish at first, but after a couple of lessons, bigger boats. I’ll never forget my first solo. It was great.”

  “A sailor, huh? I’d never have guessed,” I say. My voice sounds breathy, like a Marilyn Monroe impersonator.

  “I know. You don’t know me very well.”

  That damn finger keeps teasing against my skin, slower and slower, like he’s thinking about grabbing me. I want him to.

  I’m in such trouble.

  “When are you going to say, ‘Shiver me timbers’? That’s what I’m waiting for. You know you want to,” I say.

  He smiles—no, he smirks—at me, his finger tracing up my throat. “Just one timber. You can feel it, can’t you?”

  “I don’t speak sailor,” I say, leaning toward his mouth.

  This is how girls become sluts. From this. From feeling this. From being toyed with like this.

  “Surfer girl,” he says. “Little surfer girl.”

  “You like the Beach Boys? Know all the words to ‘Little Deuce Coupe’?”

  “‘Catch a wave and you’re sitting on top of the world,’” he says, quoting “California Girls.” “‘Midwest farmer’s daughter . . . She makes you feel all right.’”

  “God, what are you—a Beach Boys groupie?” I say. But I know all these songs, too. I’ve sung every one. I love the Beach Boys.

  “‘I wish they all could be California girls,’” he sings, his mouth hovering just above mine.

  “You know all about farmers’ daughters, don’t you?” I say. I know he does. He’s that kind. He’s the kind who gets around and only goes with girls who get around.

  Just before he kisses me, just as his mouth is touching mine, he pulls back, grins, and says, “I’ve gotta go. I’ll walk you home.”

  He lifts me off his lap; my legs will barely hold me up and I lean against the side of the table as he gets out of the booth. With a knowing smile, he starts walking away from me.

  “Are you coming? Let’s go,” he says.

  I walk toward him, dizzy with lust, unsteady, pissed off, and hating him for doing this to me on purpose and for some sick joke. But I follow him, and when he drapes his arm over my shoulder, I lean into him.

  Deep shit, shit up to my chin.

  Laurie

  – Summer 1977 –

  Pete is marrying Barbie in two days. I know this because, somehow, through stealth and debasing desperation, I managed to sneak the information out of Lavender Barrette, who is going to be one of Pete’s groomsmen. I even found out that he has to wear a pale peach cummerbund; she really is Malibu Barbie.

  I can’t sit in my parents’ San Francisco home, staring out the wide window at the bay, listening to the downstairs maid dust and the two cooks murmur over the sounds of the countertop kitchen TV, a concession my mother allowed only because the muted noise of the television was more pleasant to her than actual human voices talking in actual living, breathing conversation. I can’t sit still in that house, watching nothing, hearing nothing, waiting for the day when it’s time to pack for Michigan, knowing Pete won’t be there and that every rock and tree and sandy path will remind me that Pete is not there and that he won’t ever be there again.

  I had to leave. I had to go somewhere, and so I invited myself to Karen’s for three days. On the fourth day, I’ll leave for Michigan. On the fifth day, I’ll walk the streets of Mackinac and pretend that I’m having a wonderful time, just in case my family is watching, which I don’t expect they will be.

  Karen sounded a little surprised for half a minute when I called her and asked if I could come for a short visit, but she rallied quickly and was warmly excited once she’d asked her parents about having a houseguest and they’d said, according to her, an enthusiastic yes.

  Karen is picking me up at the airport, Bradley International, an airport I’m very familiar with since my days at Miss Porter’s. I’m making my way to the baggage area when she arrives, trotting, out of breath, and laughing.

  I feel my heart lift instantly.

  “I got lost! I know, I’ve been here a million times and should know my way, but my mom always drives and you know, if I’m not driving, I’m not really, you know, paying that much attention.” She gives me a hug, her tanned and bare arms wrapping around my neck, giggling softly into my hair. I feel like I’ve come home. “Breathe a word of this to anyone and I’ll leave you on the side of the road for the skunks.”

  “You drive a hard bargain,” I say, pulling back to look at her. “I accept. As long as you can promise you know the way home.”

  “I promise. Just don’t time me. We may make a few unscheduled detours, but I will get you there!” She laughs, her whole face smiling at me, her entire body vibrating with joy and pleasure.

  Home. This is what coming home must feel like.

  Connecticut in the summer is an explosion of lush green that tumbles over everything, from the weeds thriving next to the asphalt roads to the trees splashing against the bright blue sky. Frame houses painted white, brown, or barn red sit calmly and politely in the midst of emerald green lawns. It is nature buttoned down and managed in that taciturn, decorous way that is distinctly New England. I didn’t love Miss Porter’s. I didn’t even love living here, not consciously, but I liked it. I appreciated it, and I still do.

  Karen drives a blue Malibu, the front seat pulled as far forward as it will go, and she still leans forward to reach the wheel. Karen looks smaller than I remember her.

  “Have you lost weight?” I ask, looking at her thighs flattened against the vinyl seat. She is wearing very short white shorts, white sandals, and a red T-shirt, tucked in. Plastic red earrings, tiny balls, adorn her ears. She’s tanned and slim, her cheeks and nose lightly sunburned. She looks like summer.

  “I knew I liked you,” Karen says, laughing. “Now, don’t say another word. I think I need to turn around here. Somewhere.”

  “I see skunks in my future,” I say on a sigh. “I could have taken a cab.”

  “Like they have cabs in Connecticut.”

  We turn left at what must be a major crossroad, judging by the multitude of wooden signs stuck at odd angles next to the road. It’s still a two-lane road with wide gravel borders. No sidewalks, no signal lights, no proper metal roa
d signs.

  “Yeah, this looks right,” Karen says, fifty yards past her turn. “This is the right way home.”

  The right way home. I’m feeling nostalgic for something that isn’t even mine.

  “So, what do you want to do?” Karen asks me. “Change, first thing, right?”

  I’m wearing white pants and a pale pink short-sleeved blouse. The blouse is sticking to the back of my seat. Karen has the air-conditioning on full blast; I adjust the vents to aim directly at my face. The humidity of a Connecticut summer is something I’ve only heard stories about. I need to get into a pair of shorts immediately.

  “How’s my mascara holding up?” I ask.

  “Running quite nicely, if you want to know.”

  I rub my fingertips under my eyes and sigh. “I really want to look like a raccoon when I meet your parents.”

  “My mom will think it’s some weird San Francisco fashion statement. I’d run with that.”

  “If I knew where we were, I’d demand to be let out of this car right now. It’s only because I’m lost, confused, and dripping that I’m staying right where I am and letting you insult me.”

  “I knew there had to be a good reason,” she says, making another turn, this time without hesitation. We must be close to home.

  The road, two lanes and winding, passes old homes from previous eras, some of them made of stone, some of wood, all of them looking distinguished and reserved. After another turn or two, the road becomes something less than a two-lane, a lane and a half, countrified even more than before, but the houses are newer as we climb up a hill.

  “It’s so pretty here. I’d forgotten,” I say.

  “It is, isn’t it? If only it weren’t for the mosquitoes. You’ll be covered in bumps and scabs in twenty-four hours, and that’s a promise.”

  “First skunks and now mosquitoes. Are you sure you want me here?”

  Karen brakes and looks over at me as we pull into her driveway. “Definitely. I’m so glad you’re here, and here we are.”

  The house is colonial and painted a mid-tone gold with dark gold shutters. The driveway is gravel and the trees hovering over it all are tall and old. There’s a walkway to the front door composed of flagstones set in pea gravel. The garage connects to the house, and there’s a long open porch from the garage to the front door. On the porch is an iron ring half-full of firewood. It looks like something out of a Currier and Ives postcard, a picture-perfect colonial home set in an original-thirteen-colonies state. It looks like the most ideal example of an American home that Norman Rockwell ever dreamed of, and it’s Karen’s home.

  For just an instant, I’m awash with waves of envy and longing.

  “Okay?” Karen asks me. “It’s not as nice as your house, but we do have a guest room, and you’ll have your own bath.”

  “It’s beautiful,” I say, looking into her eyes. She looks nervous. Why, I have no idea. “Thank you so much for having me.”

  “Beautiful, huh?” Karen looks at the house through the glare coming through the windshield. “It looks pretty yellow to me.”

  “You know, some people actually like the color yellow,” I say.

  “Yeah, you’re about to meet the president of that fan club.”

  The car crunches on the gravel, announcing our arrival to Karen’s mom, who has stepped out on the porch to wave at us. I wave back, smiling. Karen’s mom, Mrs. Mitchell, is taller than Karen and has brown hair in loose waves just past her chin, and a trim figure. From here, she doesn’t look old enough to have a college-aged daughter. Karen will probably age just like her. Slowly.

  “Your mom is lovely,” I say.

  “Really? Thanks,” Karen says. “She’s very excited about your visit. You’re her first Beta Pi sighting. No pressure or anything.”

  “Oh, great,” I say on a moan as Karen puts the car in park and turns off the engine. “I hope I don’t blow it.”

  “Yeah. Me, too,” she says, looking at me with a glint in her eyes. Karen’s eyes look almost green in this light. I’m struck by how pretty she looks in this instant with her tanned skin and silvery green eyes, her dark hair in wisps around her forehead and neck. She looks like a woodland sprite or an elf or something equally fairy tale–ish. Then she laughs at me and the image breaks; she’s just Karen again. Sweet, funny, cute Karen. The girl who’ll share her home with me simply because I asked her to. “Come on. Let’s get going or my mom will think you don’t want to come in or something.”

  “Perish the thought,” I say, opening the car door and getting out. My feet have to struggle to find purchase on the uneven gravel, sinking in loudly; I reach behind me as casually as I can to pull my sweat-damp shirt off my back.

  “Hi, Mom!” Karen calls out as she shuts her car door. “This is Laurie. Laurie, this is my mom.”

  “Hello, Laurie. Welcome!” Mrs. Mitchell calls to us, her smile wide. “Did you have a nice flight?”

  “Yes. Thank you. It’s so nice of you to have me,” I say.

  “We’re happy to have you. Can you girls manage the luggage?” Mrs. Mitchell says.

  The house is on a small hill, and the driveway is set below it; the walkway is stepped and steep and it’s not going to be fun dragging my suitcase across gravel and up stone steps, which even from this angle don’t look precisely even. Rustic Connecticut; they take a certain pride in that, I think. Nothing too fancy or too polished. It’s almost the exact opposite of San Francisco, but that’s a big part of its charm, especially in June. In January, it’s far less charming.

  “I’ve got it,” Karen says to her mom. To me she whispers, “If you make me carry this thing all by myself, I’ll put skunk cabbage between your sheets.”

  “What is it with you and skunks?” I say, chuckling, grabbing my suitcase out of her hands, and saying loudly for Mrs. Mitchell’s benefit, “No, I’ve got it!”

  “We’ll split it. You carry it to the stairs; I’ll carry it up the stairs and on the walk; and once we get inside, you take over,” Karen says.

  “You think they plan military assaults with this much precision?” I say, laughing. I’m so happy. I’m so delighted to be here. I feel like I could float into the treetops and sit looking down on the world, a tiny white cloud of pure joy.

  “You’re asking the wrong girl,” Karen says, grunting as she lifts my suitcase up the first high stone step. I probably did pack too much, but I wanted to be prepared for anything. The only thing I left behind was my black formal. “But I do know how to manage these steps. Carefully.”

  “How do you do it in winter?”

  “I don’t. I go through the garage. Don’t ask why I’m not taking the garage now. There’s no way my mom would let me bring you in through the garage. Tawdry, to say the least.”

  “To say the least,” I echo, beaming with suppressed pleasure. They want to make a good impression on me; they’ve thought of everything to make a good impression, to please me and make me feel welcome and wanted. And I do. It’s exhilarating.

  We enter the house through the front door, the proper door, and Mrs. Mitchell is standing in the foyer, waiting for us with a big smile on her face. At this distance, she looks more her age; there are lines from her nose to the corners of her mouth, lines around her eyes, a sharp line just above her nose, a scowl line. Still, she’s a good-looking woman and must have been stunning in her day. She’s very slender, still trim through the waist, though her belly pouches out a little. She looks so different from my mom, so lively and present, not distant at all. She’s wearing navy, pink, and burgundy plaid Bermuda shorts and a pink Lacoste shirt, her feet in navy espadrilles. I thought she’d be wearing yellow. I look askance at Karen for an instant, the thought in my eyes, and Karen looks back, repressed laughter shimmering all over her face.

  “Come in! Come in!” Mrs. Mitchell says. “Karen, why don’
t you put Laurie’s suitcase in her room while I get you both something to drink. Would you like lemonade? Soda? We have Pepsi.”

  “A lemonade sounds perfect,” I say. “Thank you so much.” I keep thanking her because I can’t stop feeling thankful. It’s that simple.

  Karen starts to drag my suitcase out of the foyer and through the living room, throwing me a hard glance over her shoulder.

  “Oh, let me take that,” I say, on cue. Karen smiles and releases her hold on the suitcase.

  Mrs. Mitchell seems to catch our hidden conversation and says, “Karen, don’t let Laurie carry her own suitcase. Laurie, you just relax. You’ve had a long day. What time did your flight leave?”

  Karen grabs hold of the suitcase again and carries it through the living room, her mom and I following while I try to take in the look of the house and carry on polite conversation with Mrs. Mitchell. The foyer and the stairs to the second floor divide the house in two; the living room is to the left and the dining room to the right. All the floors are dark polished wood. The overall décor of the house is restrained colonial; there aren’t any spinning wheels or cobbler’s benches artfully arranged in useless abandon around the rooms, but there is a general sense of American colonial style in its most timeless forms: mahogany candlestick tables, camelback sofas, wing-back chairs upholstered in flame-stitch fabric, barley-twist legs on the dining chairs, braided rugs. The biggest break from New England colonial expectation is the color; Karen’s mom has done it all in shades of yellow and gold and russet. It looks surprisingly modern, in an old-fashioned way. It’s homey and charming and comforting—all the things a home should be.

  I follow my suitcase, and Karen, not sure where else to go, telling Mrs. Mitchell my flight time, how long I’ve been traveling, how my parents feel about my trip to Connecticut. It’s difficult not to give one-word answers, but these questions don’t require more than a one-word answer. My flight time was five hours. My traveling time was six and a half hours. My parents felt “fine” about my trip to Connecticut. I asked if I could go. My mother said, “Fine.” If I’d told her I was going, she would also have said, “Fine.”