—You ready? I said, and Brownie followed behind. I didn’t hold the door.
—Thank you for this, she said in the parking lot.
—For what?
—For meeting with me.
—I want a burger, I said, and she followed me in her ugly little Mazda to a restaurant with french fries sole-crushed into the linoleum under the tables and sun that cut her hard in the eyes through the storefront. She had to know that seeking me out was wrong, but if I went any longer without being classy I’d come off mannish, and who knew who she would report this to. So I asked her how the girls were doing.
—Charlotte’s getting a degree in social work in Texas, she said around a chocolate shake, and Missie’s engaged to Mike.
—Who?
—Charlotte. Missie.
I pictured her pledge class, all too pale and almost fat, each one of them, and no blondes, not one, though one of them had a boyfriend that sold so he was good for parties.
—What were their pledge names?
Her face crumpled. It was dissatisfying to hurt her when I hadn’t even been trying.
—You really don’t remember them?
—I’m teasing, I said.
I think we’d called Charlotte Pancake because of her flat face. Missie could have been Twinkle or Chubba, if I was picturing them right. Pancake had been the best at her tasks. No hesitation when we’d put her in the trunk of Twy’s car and driven her with a blindfold. No pause during the puzzle test. Could drink better than the other girls, never cried. Didn’t talk back. Hardly talked at all. Margot was dead by then, but Ruby took her on as a second little to keep the line going. They were a good line, a no-bullshit line. I couldn’t remember what line Brownie had been in.
—Did you graduate? I asked.
—Yes, Brownie said, and she unslouched herself out of the seat, pushing her chin up so the sun couldn’t blind her anymore.
—Cum laude. I did okay.
—You did okay, I agreed. You were a solid sister.
She didn’t smile.
—What makes for a good sister, to you? she asked.
Over at the registers, two girls in yellow uniforms were talking shit about their boss, I could tell by their peaky little faces and chips of words like asshole and sycophant or psycho, I couldn’t tell for sure. Brownie repeated herself.
—How do you define a good sister?
—Is this for an article or something?
—For me, Brownie said.
—A good sister is decent and honor-bound, vibrant and composed, I began.
—I know the poem, she said. You taught me the poem. In your own words.
—I haven’t got a fancy answer, I told her.
The girls at the register were dealing with a woman in a walker now, a woman who was squinting hard at the enormous menu hung above them, asking about the cost of extra fried pickles.
—You should know what a good sister is, I said. If I taught you right, you should know.
—If you taught me right, she repeated.
—Yes.
There were roadblocks, spring-loaded nets, pits covered with leaves all around me. I knew it.
—So the blow job game was supposed to make me more sisterly?
This was what she needed.
—It was a game, I said.
—A game.
—A bonding experience, yeah.
—A bonding experience.
—Don’t repeat what I say. You’re not a dipshit.
—Where’d you get the idea?
It wasn’t that creative. She wanted me to be a mastermind, but the truth is I’d been smoking with Spide and Dubbs from Zeta Sigma and then we’d taken a bus to Northampton, and it was cold and most of the shops were for retired hens except for the sex shop, which had this awesome display of a Christmas tree made out of bras, all the cups stacking each other, and some pasties to make the ornaments. And inside we’d found a discount bin full of dildos, which was hilarious, all these stupid packages of dongs rubbing up against each other like lobsters in a tank, so I’d bought a pile and brought them back to the house for the pledges to practice on. It was Elina who brought the camera. And I didn’t plan on having the brothers there, they just stuck around after dinner. The rules popped up as we went. If you gagged on your dildo you took a shot. If you used your hands weird then Spide or Dubbs would joke around and correct you. The more we drank the funnier it got, and eventually Pancake got fed up when we told her she couldn’t deep throat right so she yanked the dildo off its little suction cup on the table and flung it at the wall, where it cracked the glass of the composite from 1989.
And in that story was another story, I remembered, a story from Spide about their pledge class.
—You girls have it easy, he’d said. He was wedged deep into the couch, knees wide, a sea of suction-cup dildos on the table before him. He looked like he cut his own hair.
—Everyone says they get it worst, I said.
—I’d suck a fake dick instead of going through our rites again, he said.
—Fag, said Dubbs, bored.
—What are they?
Spide had a thin smile, a top lip more defined than most, cut sharp, lines already at the corners, a face I could have hated or kissed, depending on the lighting.
—A real brother wouldn’t say his rites, he said.
Twinkle wiped saliva off her chin and yawned. Her dildo wasn’t funny to her anymore, so she’d started flicking at the head, watching it sway back and forth.
—You, he told her, lips on. Go on now.
She made eye contact with him while she took the whole thing in her mouth.
—Atta girl, he said.
There was a suckling silence.
—Fine, he said. I can show you what we do.
—Why don’t you just tell me? I said, but he was already standing, taking off his sweater, his shirt, turning around. On his back, a spatter of dime-size scars.
None of the girls were sucking anymore.
—The problem with burns, he said, is that when you know they’re coming you can’t help flinching. And if you flinch you get an extra, each time, until you stop.
—But what’s the point? asked Brownie.
—Shut up, Brownie. Maybe I had said it, maybe Spide did, or a pledge. I don’t remember.
He was looking at her now, bare-chested. His stomach was soft, and his chest hair was sparse and straight.
—Duty comes with sacrifice, he said quietly.
It sounded noble and trite and fake even then, but some of the pledges looked impressed.
—Now, he said. Who’s ready to practice on me?
—Fuck off, Spide, I said.
He was grinning. He made a slow show of unzipping his fly.
—I said fuck off.
—I’m trying, he said.
He was looking at Brownie again. She had virgin’s eyes, wide and unblinking. Her arms were crossed and she sat back, far. She looked at him, at me, at him.
—He’s just joking, I told the girls. It’s just a game. You all can go.
—Thank you, Pledge Mistress, they said.
And they were gone. I saw Dubbs slouch out through the back patio. I did not look behind me to see if Spide followed him.
One time, at work, on the end of a long, floundering night, I’d pricked my ring finger on the Euthasol meant for the tabby in Room Two and my hand went numb. The fingers were still pink. I could move my wrist. And about four minutes after we’d dosed the tabby and Dr. Blasser had pronounced her dead, my hand resurrected itself, warm and tingling. It had been, to me, an event. And it reminded me of how few events I had in new adulthood, how, in college, everything had been important. So many days since I’d graduated, and now if someone had asked me what I’d done with my day, I wouldn’t have a new answer. Often I’d be on the phone, and I’d have this feeling like I had news, but I never did. The mailman put the wrong bill in my box. My health insurance plan was changing. A cat had chewed off its own leg in a
trap and we’d amputated the necrotic bone. That was what I had now. Cat legs and deductibles.
• • •
And now in the restaurant Brownie was crying, God, the ugliness of her crying.
—Get it together, I hissed. The girls at the register were staring.
—I thought you were so relevant! she wailed.
—Who says that? I said. I mean, really, who says that sort of thing out loud? Christ, Brownie.
I’d never noticed before, but her neck, her neck was horrifically long. Wide eyes, large teeth. Three years later, and my duty had returned. I wanted to leave her and couldn’t. Her humiliation was my job.
—I’ll go if you don’t pull yourself together, I said.
She wiped her nose with a rough paper napkin.
—The problem is, I can’t tell if you’re dense or evil, she said.
—Does it help if I can’t either? I said, smiling.
But she wouldn’t let go.
—I don’t know if you let him on purpose or not, she said.
—Who are we talking about?
—Spide, she said.
—What about Spide? I said.
And now we sat in a dare, because we both knew. We both knew that after the game, after I’d shooed the girls, after I’d gone to my room, I’d gone back to get my cigarettes from the den.
He had his hands around the back of Brownie’s neck, fingers laced, and he was pulling her into him. His face, that top lip snatched between his own teeth, eyes half-open even when I opened the door. He saw me and didn’t care.
—Brownie, I said, and when she stopped bobbing and turned I could see snot, tears, saliva, her entire countenance in an ooze.
—Brownie, I said again.
Spide was flagging and aggravated.
—Get out, he said.
That lip. That lip.
—I didn’t authorize this, I said. My voice was higher than I wanted.
Brownie was weeping now, full sobs that stuttered her whole body. She pulled her knees into her chest. Lawsuits, I thought. Fucking litigation and suspensions and depositions. Jesus Christ, Brownie.
—Come on now, Spide coaxed her. Come back, we’re almost done, you’re doing good.
—She’s not into it.
—She’s still here, isn’t she?
We both stared at her. She was pitiful.
—Goddamn it, Spide said. God fucking damnit. I knew you bitches were pussies.
—Get out, I said.
He was still half-flaccid. Incredible. I couldn’t stop staring.
—I’m not done here, he said. And he reached to the floor and grabbed Brownie by the ponytail, pulling her up.
—Are you a quitter? he asked.
I couldn’t look at her face anymore.
—I said, are you a quitter?
She didn’t answer.
—The brothers won’t like this, he said.
At the time my reasons felt valid. Zeta Sigma was the brotherhood we’d always wanted to match with. Spide smoked me up when I needed him. But mostly it was damage control, my job was damage control. It was stupid and dramatic and pointless, but it was my pointless code, my code, and no one could take it from me.
—Go, Brownie, I said, and I knelt.
It was fast and easy. Toward the end, he grabbed my head and pushed so I didn’t have a choice but to swallow. But maybe that was for the best, because I didn’t want to wash my face or get caught in the hall with a stain.
We didn’t talk when he was done. Instead, I took my cigarettes and stepped onto the patio. He followed.
—What’s the deal with her? he asked.
—With Brownie?
—Yeah.
—I don’t know, I said. She’s a pussy, I guess.
Spide pulled a jay out of his pack of cigarettes and lit it. He passed it to me. I pulled.
I could still taste him. I ran my tongue over my teeth and gums, trying to swallow him away.
—Your pledges need work, he said.
I knew before I even lit my next cigarette what I would do.
—Come here, I whispered, rolling my eyes up, my lips parted, the fuck-me face, I knew. Let’s go again.
And when he leaned in to kiss me I pressed the butt of the cigarette, hard, deep, in between his eyebrows. He didn’t see it coming. No flinch.
I don’t even remember how the punch felt, just that he landed it square, and I ran into the house laughing.
Spide’s blister would heal and look like the scar left by a bad zit. Later that year, I’d get hammered and screw him twice. The last time, I waited for him to come and then I bit his shoulder until he bled. But that night I was done with him.
I found Brownie in her room. She had showered. I brought her lousy bourbon.
—Drink, it’ll warm you up, I told her.
—What do we do? she asked.
—Drink, I said.
She obeyed. Three swallows.
—Who do we call?
—Who do we call? I said. You shitting me?
—I mean, the police, or the dean?
—There’s no one to call, I said.
—But I was—
—You were what? I asked.
—I was—
—You can’t even say it, I said. You can’t even say it because honestly, can you tell me it was a crime? You put your lips where you didn’t want. Is that a crime?
—But he—
—I don’t give a shit what he did, I said. He’s a dumbass. You’re not a dumbass. You picked that situation. I told you all to leave. What did you want from him, a rose? Stop crying.
She obeyed, again. She was good. Not as good as Pancake, but she was good.
Her feet were white. I went to her dresser and dug out some socks.
—Put these on.
—What did he do to you? she asked.
—He didn’t do anything to me.
She was so pathetic I could have vomited. I hated this job, this stupid mothering job. I was never going to have children. Gobs of sympathy that I couldn’t fake. And snot. And rehashing. All of it a colossal waste.
—You get to pick how you want to see this, I said.
She didn’t look at me, her head bent over her feet, rolling the socks on one at a time.
—This can be one stupid shitty night, or it can be a pussy crime, I said. Your pick. If you think you’re totally blameless, if you’re some sort of Snow White character, if you think you didn’t want this, then go ahead and call the cops. See what happens.
—Has this happened to a sister before? she asked.
—You mean, has a sister called the cops?
She nodded.
—Brownie, if they called the cops they’re not our sisters anymore.
• • •
And now in this shitty fast-food place, on a lunch break from the dead, I was talking to the same bleary face.
—I should have filed a report, she said.
—Forget that. His word against yours. A mess.
—Not against him, against you, she said.
—To who? Nationals? The Panhellenic Council?
—You were my leader, she said. It was your duty to guide me. To keep me safe.
—Can I make a suggestion, Brownie? Don’t make yourself a victim just because you’re bored.
She opened her mouth.
—Don’t, I said. Don’t carry on like you’ve got some great psychic angst that you lug around at all hours. Your trauma is just something you use to fill your time. And you have a lot of time, don’t you? You’re in some wasteland of a job and you need something to tell the guy you met on Tinder on your fourth date and you pick the horror of sorority life. But that house gave us purpose. And when you’re alone on a Friday night, crying about something that happened for five minutes three years ago, I want you to remember that. I want you to find something else to do with your useless hours, instead of scheming to harass your pledge mistress on her lunch break.
She was stunned. The bit
ches at the register were staring. This was a great opportunity. She could lash back at me now, she could call me a hypocrite and a cunt and a wild failure. If she’d done that then I could have had a new best friend, a nihilistic pal. But only stories work that way.
• • •
On the drive back to work I called Lisa, no answer, and didn’t leave a voice mail. I wanted her to verify that none of these younger bitches mattered, none of it mattered. I’d done my job. I’d herded them into initiation, listened to their forgettable complaints, made them stronger, taught them respect. Of course they’d resent me. No one gives the drill sergeant credit.
At reception, a customer asked the date and I couldn’t remember.
And Ricki asked, for the third time that day, who was my favorite Kardashian?
23
Say Yes
-RUBY-
June 2014
The dress was satin, knee length, with the color listed as “biscotti.” Lisa sent me a link to pretend to get my approval before she told me I had to buy it. Subject line: Say Yes?
I replied,
ur the only person id wear this shit for.
Yayyyyy, she replied, sans exclamation points.
I checked the sizing. (It went up to twenty-two.)
That Saturday we met in her hometown at a dress shop with posters all over the walls of brides walking through meadows. Many of them smiled down at their feet, like there was a secret hiding for them in the grass. One lone black bride was pictured in the corner, petting a horse while her black husband smiled down at her from his saddle.
Lisa’s little sister Anna sat on a pleather sofa and mashed at colorful little circles on her phone screen.
—Hey, Anna, I said. The little cretin wiped her nose with the back of her hand and went back to tapping.
—Anna, say hi to Ruby, Lisa demanded.
Anna let her hair fall over her face. She bent her knees and scooted her butt to the end of the couch. The salesgirls, all wearing pencil skirts and blazers, looked pointedly at her sneakers on the pleather but didn’t say anything.
—Wanna see my dress? Lisa asked.
—You already bought it?
—Last week, she said. I couldn’t wait. Don’t be mad.
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