So I sigh and accept my fate, covertly squeezing Jackie’s hand as I do because, whether or not I like it, these two are a package deal. “Okay. For you.”
To Sars, I say, “I’m going to need a clean slate. Go scrub. And when you think you’re done, scrub again.” We shuffle back into the room where I make Sars wash her face in our half bath.
Of course I have to tell her not to use the hand soap.
I send her downstairs to put in her contact lenses (why would she not wear them in the first place if she has them?) and when she returns, I sit her in a chair, draping a towel over her dress.
Sars beams up at me with her mousy little grin and buggy eyes and I can’t help but soften. I haven’t been her biggest fan, but I’m not Kelly and I don’t get off on being deliberately cruel to people. Plus, she’s important to Jackie, which means she’s going to have to be important to me. If it’s on me to transform her look and stick close to her at the parties to help if (let’s be honest, when) conversation gets awkward, then so be it. Every sorority needs a true bookworm to help raise the collective GPA, so I’ll make it my job to pitch Sars as Tri Tau’s resident nerd.
For Jackie.
“Do you have any rush advice for me?” she asks, shifting anxiously in her chair. Jackie’s back on the futon, legs neatly crossed, grinning at the both of us. This must be how a little kid feels when his divorcing parents decide to give their marriage one more shot.
I decide to fix that which I find the most immediately grating.
I say, “Sars really isn’t the best name to use during rush. It’s memorable, but not in a good way. Kind of makes me think of a disease or something.”
“Okay,” she agrees. “Should I go by Sarabeth?”
“Eh,” I reply. “That’s kind of a mouthful and expensive to put on a pledge paddle. No one wants to buy that many wooden letters for her li’l sis. They’re like three dollars each! Anyone ever given you a different, shorter, cuter nickname?”
“Nope,” she replies.
Of course no one has. I try not to sigh out loud. This one’s not going to make my job easy, is she? Still, if she has any shot at pledging, I have to boost her confidence in any and all ways, starting at the very beginning.
I say, “Then, let’s find a super-fun abbreviation. Why don’t we call you, oh, I don’t know, maybe . . . Betsy?”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Whitney University, Central Illinois
January 1995
Who knew how dirty girls could fight?
I assumed words would be Kitty’s eventual weapon of choice, so I was unprepared for exactly how devastating her silence could be.
Growing up, my brothers and I settled our arguments with a well-timed uppercut or a roundhouse kick and then it was over. Maybe a game of HORSE if the problem was of a more philosophical nature. Then our beef was settled. Forgotten. Forgiven. I almost wish Kitty had punched me—I’d probably feel better right about now.
If Kitty wasn’t happy with me last semester, why didn’t she say so? I’m like a computer—I can operate only given the proper input. Can’t fix what I don’t know.
My plan from the beginning was to be the ideal roommate, making the effort to be as neat, quiet, and pleasant as possible. Whenever Kitty suggested anything, I always responded with enthusiasm, even when her ideas took me outside of my comfort zone. (Panty hose, anyone?) Like a butler, I tried to anticipate what she needed before she ever had to say so. For example, as soon as I deduced she didn’t care for the guys in my journalism class, I stopped bringing them to our room for group project work. Out of courtesy. Because I cared about my roommate.
Truth is, I believe the boys in my class made her feel dumb, especially because they weren’t charmed by all that big, fluffy hair that she’s always tossing around. To these guys, brains trump beauty all day long, which is why they busted a gut when she said, “Wait, aren’t you supposed to swim parallel to the shoreline when there’s an Apartheid?”
That’s when my friend Simon held up his copy of Time and said, “It’s called the news, Kitty. Perhaps you should read it.”
Granted, Simon was snotty and officious. I apologized on his behalf later, yet I was taken aback by her glaring lack of social conscience. Who could be so blissfully unaware of an entire government built on racial segregation? If college has taught me anything thus far, it’s that I’ve had it very easy growing up in well-off, suburban America, regardless of any past family drama.
(As for Kitty? She was born on third base and assumes she hit a triple.)
I can’t figure out where she and I went wrong. Was she somehow jealous of me? Highly illogical. She’s the one who flitted from sorority house to house during informal fall rush. All the girls loved her and each chapter’s after her to pledge. I suspect I was only asked back to a handful of places for their formal January party because I am—no, was—her friend and they assumed they had to take me if they wanted her. What’s to envy about being an also-ran?
Clearly I must have committed some transgression; otherwise why spread rumors about the person who means the most to me in the world?
The way she couched the whole conversation, all that faux concern? The quivering lip? The watery eyes? What an actress. She must have been taking tips from her unholy sister. I bet Kelly’s fat braid conceals the “666” birthmark on the back of her neck.
Kitty sat me down over lunch at the mall on New Year’s Day, pretending to be oh-so-troubled. She grabbed my hand, all serious, and she said, “I’m not sure how to tell you this, so I’m just going to come right out with it.” Like she was going to say she had two weeks left to live or something. Then she spewed her ridiculous lie and I was blindsided.
So how was I not supposed to respond, “Don’t say Teddy’s gay just because he doesn’t like you.”
Honestly, I’d wanted to spare her the pain of the inevitable breakup. I knew she wasn’t going to hold Teddy’s interest when they first hung out together over Thanksgiving and I tried to warn her. The whole virgin thing might initially have seemed like a challenge to him, but when he realized she was serious about keeping her V-card out of his wallet?
Check, please.
I probably shouldn’t have accused her of not being smart enough to read the situation, which I’m sure entailed Teddy trying to let her down gently. I possibly shouldn’t have solidified my case by bringing up other instances where she’s said dumb things, like when she asked if the Electoral College had a football team. And maybe after I called her an airhead, I shouldn’t have stormed out of the food court, taking the bus home instead of waiting for her to drive me, but I didn’t want to hear anything else she had to say. When you tell lies about my brother to protect your own precious ego, you’re telling lies about me.
Sars (whom I will not call Betsy) says she doesn’t want to be in the middle of this because she’s friends with both of us. She says we should consider her to be Switzerland. Once I cooled off, I realized I’d been hurtful, so I asked Sars to please broker peace. I thought she could bring us together to talk it all out. I figured that as close as we’d become, we could find some common ground, but Sars said Kitty was resolute.
Kitty hasn’t uttered a word to me since that day at the mall. To think I almost told her about my mom!
So it’s been quiet around here. Very quiet. The tension’s so thick you could slice it up and serve it on a platter. That’s why when our phone rings, I practically jump out of my skin, even though I’m in here alone. I believe Kitty’s at the gym with Sars for step aerobics before this evening’s Bid Night rush parties, but can’t be sure. I asked where she was headed but she chose not to respond.
I pick up the receiver. “Hello?”
“Jackie!” says a friendly male voice on the other end of the line. “What’s shakin’, babe?”
“Not much,” I reply automatically. “Wait, who’s this?”
>
“It’s Sean. How was your break?”
Ugh, how do I even answer him?
“Fine. How was yours?”
“Too short, as always. You back early for rush? Are you excited? It’s Bid Night! You’re at the finish line now! Tomorrow, you’ll officially be a sorority girl.”
Wait, why’s Sean on the phone now? I know he kept calling Kitty after she got together with Teddy over Thanksgiving. I assumed he was trying to woo her back, so I always went to Sars’s room so they could speak in private. I’ve never had a boyfriend, so the whole uncoupling process is a complete mystery to me. I recall when Teddy dumped girls in the past, they were always finding reasons to drop by the house or phone, sometimes for months afterward, so I figure no breaks are ever completely clean or immediately accepted.
Still, it’s been almost six weeks.
That’s a little stalkerlike, right?
Can this guy not take a hint?
Kitty told me she and Sean were over as soon as she started seeing Teddy. At the time, I thought that was a shame because he was really nice. He seemed kind and thoughtful, always asking after me and remembering random facts, like the soccer position I played in high school. He was one of those guys who’d smile often, and laugh easy, really listening to what others had to say. But Kitty said Sean was pressuring her to take their relationship further, so maybe the good guy act was just that—an act.
He must be obsessed with her to be sniffing around here again.
Or, wait, what if this is a different Sean and Kitty was actually cheating on Teddy with a third guy?
“Are you Beta Theta Pi Sean?”
“Jack, it’s me. ’S’up with the confusion? You got more than one Sean calling or something?” he asks in an amused tone. “A plethora of Seans. No, a gaggle of Seans. Perhaps a herd? A pride?”
I reply, “No, I just assumed this was a new Sean since Kitty broke up with the old one after she started dating my brother at Thanksgiving. Dude, I don’t want to tell you how to conduct yourself, but it’s a new semester. Maybe it’s time to move on.”
If he’s still trying to win her back after pressuring her so much she broke it off, I’m going to protect her, even if she no longer has my back.
There’s a long pause on the other end of the line.
“Jack, please do me a favor and tell her I’m gonna call her back later.”
“Okay, I’ll leave her a message.”
See? I’m still helping, even if she won’t talk to me.
As I’m due to get ready for tonight anyway, I’m happy to have ended the call. I figured I may as well go through the last round of rush if there’s a chance I could fit in somewhere. But this time I plan to be there on my own terms, in my own clothes, discussing my own interests. At the Theta house, I spent twenty minutes listening to a debate over whether the sorority sisters were Team Kelly Kapowski or Team Lisa Turtle—I didn’t even know who those people were. Still don’t, so I wasn’t unhappy not to be asked back.
My only nod to Kitty tonight will be donning panty hose, not because I want so badly to conform, but because I’m wearing my cotton graduation dress (a gift from Sars’s mom) and it’s flipping cold outside.
No.
Not flipping. Fucking. It’s fucking cold outside.
As we aren’t so lucky as to have a full bath, I grab my soap caddy and take my stuff down the hall to the shower after I lay out my outfit, complete with plastic egg canister.
When I finish, Kitty’s back in the room.
“Hi?” I say tentatively.
No response. Naturally, she’s still not speaking to me. But she’s not here for long. Her Caboodles case is already gone, so I assume she’s been getting ready in Sars’s room and forgot something.
Since I’m a decent person, I won’t interfere with their friendship, especially as Kitty seems to be coaxing Sars out of her shell socially. I don’t have to like it, though.
I try to dry my hair as Kitty had previously shown me, but can’t quite manage working the brush in conjunction with the stream of air. I keep blasting myself in the ear. How can I land a Cessna, yet working a vent brush entirely eludes me?
In the end, I scrape everything back into a ponytail, with a few jagged layers escaping here and there. With the chunks flat around my ears, I resemble George Washington. Hopefully sorority girls dig historical figures.
Because of the hair snafu, I’m running way behind. So, when I realize I have the wrong-sized panty hose—wasn’t I supposed to buy Queen?—I’m forced to wear the pair I have.
I struggle to squeeze into them, visions of fourth grade careening through my mind. Even the bed wetters and paste eaters were laughing at me that day. I’m still mortified. Desperately pushing the imagery out of my head, I try the trick of dampening my hands and coaxing the fabric up my legs, which is the only reason the crotch isn’t hanging to my knees. As is, we’re at half-mast on my thighs and now I have to walk like I’m part of a chain gang, taking tiny, mincing steps.
So here goes nothing.
• • •
I thought I could rally, play through the pain at these rush events, but the stupid hose have thrown me due to poor circulation. The blood’s no longer getting to my brain, which is why I forget all about proper party protocol, such as “sit like a lady” and “don’t eat.” But the Kappas are serving Peanut Butter Wonder Bars! And if I cross my legs, there’s an excellent chance I’ll faint.
Such is my level of distraction, I don’t remember to ask any of the sisters about themselves, nor do I seek out common interests. I did okay in rush before because I basically went through the journalist’s way of writing a story. Everyone thought I was engaging because of my who, what, when, where, and why questions, but this time, I’m too rattled to remember. I’m palmed off from girl to girl, rather quickly. I’m blowing it. I discern this from the tight smiles that don’t reach their eyes, but I don’t know how to right my trajectory. I’m sinking fast.
I can’t seem to stop myself from complaining about Kitty, either, sharing thoughts such as, “She thought no one wanted to play Sun City because it was a shitty venue!” and “Every time I mention Nelson Mandela, she brings up the Thriller album!”
Tonight is not my finest moment.
Still, I hope there’s one sorority girl who’ll fight for me, who’ll see past what’s awkward and unpolished. Who’ll understand that I have talent and drive and that I’ll be a great friend and a fine sister. That I’ll work tirelessly for their philanthropies. At the very least, that I’ll win their intramural softball and soccer games for them.
Funny, but I always assumed Kitty would be that girl.
I receive no bids.
As I stand here in the hallway of the administration building where all the rushees have gathered for results, I’m envious watching everyone else open their envelopes, scream, and hug the girls all around them. I never felt so different until this very moment. What’s wrong with me? What don’t I have that those girls want?
I wish I wasn’t so disappointed. Simon says the whole Greek system is silly and trite and archaic, but I figured that was just his defense mechanism. I suspected he secretly wanted to be a part of it all, too, just like I do.
Or maybe I did a terrible job during rush because subconsciously I wanted to reject them before they could reject me, like girls have been doing my whole life?
If so, then why does my heart feel so heavy?
I trudge home to my dorm, passing the well-lit sororities where members yelp with joy as new pledges drop by for more hugs and their first letter sweatshirts.
I’m on the futon in my room, all alone, so angry with myself for having failed. My gaze lingers on various portions of the room and each area makes me feel melancholy for the bond Kitty and I briefly shared. There’s the chair where my friend performed my first makeover. And how about the sink
where my pal and I accidentally spit toothpaste on each other when we were brushing our teeth after we drank all that pear schnapps she bought with her sister’s ID? My companion and I laughed so hard we collapsed on the floor together. Or how about after midterms when me and my good buddy stayed up all night watching Meg Ryan movies and then, sometime around four in the morning, punch-drunk and full of chocolate-covered pretzels, re-created Tom Cruise’s “Old Time Rock and Roll” dance?
While I’m looking around, I spot some garbage sticking out from behind Kitty’s desk. And she calls me messy, I think, bending over to retrieve the cardboard cup that goes around the L’eggs egg. That’s when I notice the size—extra small. Extra small? Odd, because neither one of us wears extra small.
I don’t dwell on my find, as I’m busy wallowing in self-pity.
Welcome to Sucktown. Population, Me.
• • •
Later this week, when Sars comes back from her first official sorority event, cheeks pink with excitement and the glow of belonging, I learn the full story.
Kitty had returned Sean’s call in Sars’s room after bringing all her gear down there. Sars told me that Sean had no idea his girlfriend wasn’t actually still his girlfriend. According to Beelzebub, I mean Kelly, I guess she always advised Kitty to firmly establish herself with her next beau before officially ending it with the current flame, so that’s what Kitty had done. With finals and the holidays, she was able to string him along without their hanging out together. Since Kitty’s relationship hadn’t panned out with Teddy, she’d planned to fall back into step with Sean. But I blew it for her.
Perhaps someone should have talked to me and told me the plan. I’d have been on board.
Looks like that’s when Kitty snapped, going from never having been dumped to twice in one week. Sars said Kitty rushed out, but then returned so quickly that Sars assumed she’d simply hit the bathroom. But apparently she used that time to swap out my proper-fitting queen-size nylons for the tiny pair belonging to pint-sized Lisa Wu who lives across the hall.
The Best of Enemies Page 12