Rush

by Sara Bennett Wealer

  Cass handed the Christopher girl’s résumé back to Violet and told Allison, “We’d be happy to help. Just tell us what you’d like us to do.”

  She could tell Allison was getting ready for an even sharper remark, but then Delia appeared on the porch.

  “How about just being a little more careful?” Allison said, her expression softening into kind concern. “I’d hate for somebody to get hurt.”

  Cass narrowed her eyes, noticing for what seemed like the twentieth time how the tone seemed to change whenever Delia was around. Looking back, she couldn’t remember Delia participating in many of those late-night scream fests—at least not the ones that got really bad. And as far as she knew, Delia hadn’t been part of the secret one-on-one “meetings” that had beaten down so many girls and pushed one to relinquish her silver star. Not all of the sisters were in on the campaign to humiliate them, which was one reason Cass hadn’t given up on Sigma entirely. Delia could be intimidating, but Cass had never seen her be cruel.

  Once Delia was satisfied with the outside decor, she went back inside, the decorating committee resumed their work, and Cass’s pledge sisters started to scatter. Cass went into the house, curious to find out how things had ended up with the whole Imogen Ash fiasco from Amigos the night before. Was Sigma in for another round of dirty rushing drama? She didn’t see Delia among the girls in the foyer and was about to head into the dining room when she noticed the door to the house mother’s suite open. She could see Delia inside, talking with Sophia Kensington, who sat drinking tea on the couch.

  Cass grabbed a broom and drifted over to the phone desk, pretending to sweep up debris from all the decorating. After a few minutes, Delia came out. Cass swept with extra enthusiasm, trying to look like she hadn’t been eavesdropping, but Delia still managed to catch her eye.

  “Is everything okay?” It was a lame and nakedly curious question, but she figured it would at least show Delia she cared.

  “Everything’s fine,” Delia answered.

  “All that stuff from last night . . . Greek Council is going to let it go?”

  “They called this morning and I explained the situation,” Delia said. “They’re satisfied it was a misunderstanding. Rushees don’t usually show up at the same restaurants as the sisters, so nobody really knew how to handle it.”

  “Do you think the Beta Phi’s reported you?”

  “I’m sure it was them. Tattletaling between rival houses is par for the course with someone like Imogen Ash in the mix. But it’s better to be polite to the rushee in a situation like that and get a slap on the wrist than appear rude and risk getting cut.”

  “Still,” said Cass, “it sucks you had to go through all that. I could tell you were upset.”

  “It’s nice of you to be concerned, but I promise I’m fine.” Delia leaned over the phone desk to speak into the house intercom. “Fifteen minutes until lineup, please. Fifteen minutes.” Then she turned back to Cass with a smile that didn’t really reach her eyes. “Don’t worry about me. Just worry about the tapping and everything else will fall into place.”

  SIXTEEN

  Enough with the theme parties, already!

  Imogen pasted on her “thrilled-to-be-here” smile for what felt like the fiftieth time as a girl in a Pepto-pink prom dress led her into the fifth party of the second day of rush. The theme for this one was “Pi Lambdas Heart the ’80s” and the sisters all had big hair, leg warmers, and armloads of jelly bracelets. They’d greeted the rushees on the front porch with a dance number to “Greeks Just Wanna Have Fun.”

  Then what in the hell are we doing here? Imogen thought. All around her, people were smiling too big, talking too loud, trying too hard. She wished she and Maddy weren’t on different party schedules right now; Maddy would at least have had some aspirin in her purse.

  “Imogen Ash!” The Pi Lamb president, wearing full-on Material Girl garb, pumped her hand as Imogen entered the foyer. “We’re so glad to see you again!”

  Fine. Great. They were glad to see her. But this was way too much enthusiasm for first thing in the morning. Especially since she’d barely had time to recuperate from her mother’s wake-up call.

  “So tell me,” Didi had purred into the phone. “How is rush so far?”

  Imogen had checked her alarm clock: 5:30 a.m. Of course, Maddy was already in the shower with her bed made and her outfit for the day on top of it, perfectly pressed.

  “They loved me, apparently,” Imogen said. “I got invited back to every house.”

  “Of course you did. But remember: Sigma Theta Kappa is the only one that counts.”

  “Got it, Mom, God!” Imogen shoved her head under her pillow, keeping the phone on the outside to muffle her mother’s voice.

  “I hope you aren’t behaving like a bored prima donna,” Didi scolded.

  Maddy came in with a towel around her head and started applying self-tanner to her legs. Imogen peeked out from under the pillow and was relieved when Maddy gave a little wave with her lotion-y fingers. She’d been worried the Amigos thing would make things weird between them, but it seemed like a good night’s sleep had pretty much put things back to normal.

  Imogen smiled back, then rolled onto her side and lowered her voice. “I’m not an actress,” she told Didi. “I can’t pretend I’m not bored. And I definitely am. Bored.”

  She heard her mother speaking to somebody else—faraway sounding, like Didi had put her hand over the mouthpiece. There was a tiny click, then her dad came on the line.

  “Sweetie? What’s the problem here?”

  There was laughter in his voice, like the whole thing was just one amusing show. He viewed everything like that, which was how she always knew he’d stick up for her if Didi got too out of control.

  “Dad,” she said. “Mom thinks I’m not sufficiently thrilled about going to fifty-odd parties in a row today.”

  “How bad can it be?” He chuckled. “Just have some lemonade and make small talk. You’re used to that sort of thing.”

  Maddy turned on her blow-dryer and Imogen let herself speak at a more normal volume. “That’s exactly my point! You know how much I hate crap like this.” She wanted to be back in Greece, playing chess with him on the patio of their villa, or somewhere in the city with Tippy, or sitting in the coffee shop at the edge of campus, maybe talking journalism with Ben Sherman, her new editor. She’d looked him up and was beyond impressed. He’d won some truly prestigious awards for his reporting, which included an investigation of professors’ salaries that had led to a change in state law. He’d been interviewed by NPR. He’d even been invited to DC for a summer stint with the Washington Post. All this, on top of the fact that he was seriously hot in that geeky way for which Imogen had a weak spot, made Ben Sherman someone she definitely wanted to know better.

  But first, she’d have to convince her parents to get off her back.

  “Remember, sweetie,” said her father. “Just give Sigma a chance.”

  There it was again, the reassuring tone that said he was on her side. Even so, she’d decided not to tell either of them about the newspaper orientation that afternoon. She’d given Ben’s note to Alex, the recruitment counselor, the night before, and Alex had told her on the bus that morning that she’d been excused from all of the parties after lunch. The last thing Imogen needed was her mother freaking out about her choosing the Beacon over rush.

  As the morning wore on, she’d managed to survive a Santa’s workshop party (in August?!) The Wizard of Oz (“Follow the Yellow Greek Road”—ugh!), and a Japanese pop culture theme.

  Okay, that last one was actually pretty awesome. It was at Kappa Alpha Beta, which didn’t surprise her since they’d been so cool the day before. She’d spent her time there drinking blue soda with little bubble balls in it, watching anime cartoons on huge video screens, and playing a hilarious game show spoof that involved a marshmallow-eating contest, a brutal obstacle course and insane costumes. Tess, the sister she’d met the day before, had w
inked and waved from across the room and Imogen had waved back, surprised to realize she was actually having fun.

  Note to self, she’d thought. Be careful—You could end up liking this.

  When party number five ended, the sisters came around to take everybody’s box lunches, just like they had the day before. But Imogen held on to hers.

  “Can I take it with me?” she asked. She wasn’t about to face Ben with a grumbling stomach.

  “Um . . .” The sister looked shocked. “I guess so.”

  “Great,” said Imogen. “Thanks.”

  She carried her box onto the front lawn of the sorority and took a bite out of the turkey wrap inside while the other rushees gathered for the farewell song. As they headed for their buses, she heard a voice calling her name.

  “Hey!” Rachel ran up with Maddy behind her, both of them looking tired and slap happy.

  Maddy glanced at the lunch in Imogen’s hands. “So you’re really going to do it? You’re leaving?”

  “Yup.” Imogen polished off the turkey wrap and started on some pineapple from a little fruit cup. “I’ve got to be at the J-School by one.”

  “Last chance to change your mind,” said Rachel.

  “Nah.” Imogen looked sideways at Maddy, expecting her roommate to get snippy like she had the day before.

  But Maddy just shrugged. “Have fun at your meeting,” she said cheerfully, then got on her bus. Rachel followed and Imogen watched as they waded down the center aisle, into an empty seat. Maddy pushed down their window and stuck her head out.

  “Have a good time!” she called as the bus pulled away.

  “Don’t miss me too much!” Imogen shouted back. She waited until the bus turned a corner, then she started toward campus.

  When she got to the Beacon office it was filled with people. They sat on the desks and lounged in decrepit swivel chairs wearing flip-flops, unwashed ponytails, and cutoffs. Everybody looked up when she walked in, and Imogen wished she’d had time to go home and change. She was the only person in a dress.

  After circling the room twice, she found a seat next to a serious-looking girl with long dark hair.

  “Hi, I’m Imogen,” she said.

  “Hi, and welcome,” the girl replied. “I’m Kathryn.” Imogen was about to ask how long she’d worked for the Beacon when the office door swung open.

  There he was.

  She shook her hair forward, trying to hide the lust that she was positive had plastered itself across her face. Ben had on a pair of wicked cute glasses, an Onion T-shirt, faded jeans and . . . Imogen checked his feet—Chucks.

  Damn, girl. You’ve got it bad.

  She wondered if he even remembered her name.

  “Hey, Imogen,” he said as he made his way past. “Glad you made it.”

  Ben stepped over legs and in between bodies until he reached the head of the room. People quieted down when he stood on a chair.

  “Hey, everybody,” he began. “Welcome to the Baldwin Beacon. I’m glad to see so many of you returning, and I’m really happy to see so many new faces. For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Ben Sherman, the executive editor. I also want you to meet Trina Mills, my managing editor; Adam Hilliard, sports editor; Yusef Shah, news editor; and Kathryn Pease, features.”

  One by one people stood, including the girl Imogen had just met.

  “For those of you who are new, let me tell you how we operate. We’re daily in print except for weekends, and we update online twenty-four/seven. If that sounds like a lot, well, it is. I’m not going to lie about the time commitment, people. If you work on the Beacon, then it needs to be your top priority. We need you here basically anytime you’re not in class or doing homework. It’s hard work, but I promise it’s rewarding. Our alums get some of the best jobs in the industry. We’ve even had one—Ms. Dorothy Graham—go on to win the Pulitzer.” He looked out at the crowd with seriousness. “Journalism is a calling—comforting the afflicted, afflicting the comfortable, and all that. Every semester we have people drop out, and that’s okay. This isn’t for everybody.”

  Imogen sat forward. Ben was so passionate that she couldn’t help getting caught up. Most important, the newspaper looked like fun. But if she joined a sorority, would she have time for it? Maddy had told her about all of the activities that pledges were expected to participate in: mandatory study halls, chapter meetings, philanthropy events—how in the world was she supposed to do all of that, keep up her grades, and do the Beacon?

  The meeting went on, with the staff talking about the different sections they were in charge of and the faculty adviser lecturing about ethics and journalistic integrity. Then Ben passed around a stack of clipboards, asking each person to sign up for the beat that interested them most. Imogen put down campus news first. For a second choice, she put down features. She sort of liked Kathryn, the features editor, even though they’d just met. “So,” Ben said as he went back to his spot on the chair. “We work hard, but we play hard, too. In fact, there’s a ‘function’ as we like to call them Friday night at Yusef and Adam’s place. We’ll e-mail directions, and may I strongly suggest you make an effort to attend? Believe me, you do not want to miss Yusef’s Beyoncé imitation.”

  Imogen laughed with the rest of the group. Now this was the kind of party she’d had in mind when she pictured herself at college. Plus, it would allow her to hang out with Ben all night long.

  But something he’d said the day before stuck in her mind. It bugged her so much that when the meeting ended, she went up to him.

  “Didn’t you say yesterday that you were in a fraternity?”

  Ben looked up with those incredible green eyes and nodded. “Omega Tau Epsilon. You didn’t hear it from me, but . . . I’m the president.”

  “What about all that about the Beacon needing all of our spare time? If it takes such a huge time commitment, how do you manage to do that and the Greek thing—not to mention being president on top of it all?”

  Ben laughed. “No sleep. Extreme hyperscheduling. Undiagnosed and unmedicated OCD. I wouldn’t recommend it.” He took the remaining clipboards from the last two people in the room and signaled her to wait. “Let me just close up here and I’ll walk you out.”

  Imogen waited while he stashed the clipboards in his office, then shut off some lights. She followed him as he stepped into the hall.

  “Don’t you want to lock the door?” she asked.

  “Kathryn’ll be back in a few. There’s usually somebody here all the time, and I know she’s on deadline.”

  Imogen sneaked a peek as they walked through the hallway. The dim lights brought out weary shadows under his eyes.

  Ben glanced over and caught her peeking. She blushed and looked away. He turned before reaching the front door of the building and led her down a short flight of stairs.

  “Welcome to the Beacon Bistro,” he said, gesturing toward a row of vending machines stocked with chips, candy, soda, and gum. “We order pizza nightly, of course, but this is where we get most of our other meals.”

  “How nutritious,” Imogen said.

  “One in ten male journalists will have a stroke by age fifty. That’s a real statistic.”

  He took a handful of change out of his pocket and got himself a Dr Pepper. “What do you want?” he asked.

  “Um . . . same I guess.”

  “Good choice.” He handed her his soda, then bought a second one to keep. She rolled the bottle in her hands as they went back upstairs.

  “So which rush party are you missing right now?” Ben asked.

  She checked her watch. “It’s a quarter to four. They’re probably just leaving I Felta Thigh. Next stop, Tappa Kegga Day.”

  “Very funny.” He took a gulp of soda, then said, “So I check out all of my prospective colleagues, and I have to say, you’ve got quite an impressive profile.”

  Imogen didn’t know whether to feel flattered or freaked out that he’d cared enough to look her up. She’d done the same with him, of cours
e, and Dot had always told her there was no excuse for not doing one’s homework. On the other hand, it sort of defeated her efforts at starting out fresh. One of the reasons she’d liked Maddy so much was that Maddy didn’t seem to care who or where she’d been before coming to Baldwin.

  Ben opened the building’s front door and they went outside. “Are you sure you’re not slumming it down here with the ink-stained wretches?” he said. “Your family probably owns half the media outlets in the country, or they know somebody who does. Why not just glide into a fashion blog or something? Somebody like you probably doesn’t even need J-School.”

  Somebody like me. Imogen’s skin prickled. “A fashion blog is exactly the kind of thing that would make me slit my wrists.” She shut up for a second, until she was sure she could go on with a more even tone of voice. “It’s not like I’m ashamed of my family. It’s just I’d rather be known for what I do than who I am, you know?”

  “Yeah, but I’d say you’ve done some pretty amazing things already. The science, the horses . . .”

  “But being a reporter is what I’m really interested in. The rest of that stuff was a hobby or something I did because my mom and dad wanted me to.”

  “That’s cool,” said Ben. “No really, I respect that.” The sidewalks on campus were nearly deserted. She kept expecting him to say good-bye and fork off to wherever it was he had to go next, but he kept strolling along. “What dorm are you in?” he asked.

  “McNally.”

  “I’ll walk you back there.” He took off his jacket and tied it around his waist. “So about Friday night. Are you allowed to go to non-rush parties, or is that against the rules?”

  Imogen shrugged. “You’re the one who knows how the Greek system works. You tell me. Would they freak if I went to a newspaper thing? Could I get another note?”

  “Well . . . Technically, you could say the party was school related. I honestly don’t know how Greek Council feels about evening events, but I’d like to see you there.”