“No, she still dances. Or something. You know, I didn’t pay a lot of attention to things that weren’t her dancing.” Marco held up the CD. “You’re welcome to watch it. It’s not that long.”
“Is it skanky?” Trip asked.
“It’s not pole dancing. She’s a ballerina. And there’s a jazz thing at the end.”
“Okay, that’s kind of gay. No offense, guys,” Trip said to Calvin and Grant, and they nodded accordingly. “I mean, it’s lame.”
“What’s wrong with a ballerina?” Grant said. “It’s a wholesome image.”
“When I think ballerinas, I think nutcrackers,” Trip said. “Not cool.” They all squirmed a little once they understood him. “Does she wear a pink froo-froo?”
“Tutu,” Calvin corrected. “How do you not know that?”
“Um, the whole nutcracking thing?”
“Somebody had a traumatic childhood.”
Evan rolled his eyes. “Fine, it’s wholesome and a little lame.”
“Plus, I heard ballerinas ruin their feet. With the shoes,” Trip said. “I don’t want to look at bloody feet.”
“When are we going to look at her feet?”
“Dude, she does the jazz thing. Watch the DVD. Her feet are fine,” Marco said, defending his choice. He had been her champion during the secret nomination process, so it wasn’t a surprise. “She almost single-handedly won the dance competition. Or she came close. I would have voted for her.”
“Yeah, Marco, I think we all know that now. Who won, anyway? Oh right, the Gamma Psis,” Grant said.
“If we’re going to vote for Natalie and the Gamma Psis—and I’m not saying we should, just that we should think about everyone equally because we bothered to nominate them—we have to consider the pity-vote factor,” Calvin said.
“What, because their house burned down?”
“Does it look like pity if we vote for her, or is it respectful not to take it into account? Like, if she wins, will it look as if we voted for her because she lost her house?” Marco asked. He shuddered. “I can’t believe we had to serenade her in the freshman dorms.”
“That was lame.”
“We can’t hold it against her, certainly,” Evan pointed out. “We should take it into account, but it’s not what defines a sweetheart.”
“What does define a sweetheart?” Trip asked. “Because Rebecca’s not real sweet, if you know what I mean. Except maybe to you—”
Before Evan could even say something, Calvin jumped to his defense. “This is not about Evan and Rebecca. We all voted for her nomination. It was a house decision.”
“I’m not saying she shouldn’t have been nominated. She’s not one of the blonde social climbers ZBZ is so famous for,” Trip said. “I’m just saying what we’re all thinking, which is that we shouldn’t keep giving the award to whomever Evan is currently sleeping with.”
“Trip, you’re out of line,” Evan said, trying to keep his voice even. It was true. Evan was involved with Casey the previous year, and when she was nominated he ran a serious campaign for her in the house. “I first suggested her nomination because I believe Rebecca Logan could win on her individual merits.”
“Like what? Access to a private jet?”
“Hey! I want to go to Cancun,” a pledge said in the back. “Is that how this works?”
“Does she even have access to it anymore? Or did her dad have to give it up as part of the settlement so he didn’t go to jail for being a pimp?” Trip asked.
“He wasn’t a pimp,” Evan said, a little snarl in his voice. “And no, pledge, that is not what this is about. Rebecca has other attractive qualities, and her family background is not even on the table as part of the consideration.”
“Or you just don’t want us talking smack about your girlfriend,” Trip said.
Evan sat up but resisted the urge to sock Trip in the face. Oh, but it was tempting. “She has other qualities and I stand by that. She’s beautiful and she’s smart. And ZBZ is not the worst pick we could make.”
“Really? I heard they were in fourth.”
“In some arbitrary ranking system, yes, maybe they are. But they’re not the Tri-Pis.”
“Hey! You can’t hold a whole house in contempt,” Calvin said. “We nominated Stephanie and we have to treat her—and her house—like the other nominees.”
“Plus she hasn’t offered to sleep with us yet.”
“None of the Tri-Pis have. I thought that was their thing.”
“Pledge, you are out of line,” Evan said. These things did tend to get a little heavy, and it was only a day into it. He could only imagine what was coming. Last year, Casey was beloved by the Omega Chis. Casey had been the clear choice, and not just because she was dating Evan. She was friends with the house, she was attractive and sweet without being fake about it and she was the obvious next president for the then-unstoppable ZBZ house. She was, by all appearances, a non-demanding sorority girlfriend—the perfect girl to win sweetheart because she was a sweetheart. Rebecca was another matter, and ZBZ was in a whole new place in the rankings this year.
“The woman we make sweetheart is someone of virtue,” Evan said. “So any nominee who offers to sleep with you for your vote is automatically disqualified—you might want to remind them of that before they try. Or after, I don’t care, as long as you report it. And just so all the pledges know, the Tri-Pis are aware of this rule and we haven’t received an offer that I’m aware of during my entire time in the house, from them or any other sorority. Despite their reputation, they want to win this contest as much as anyone. So look forward to store cakes that have been messed up a little to look home-baked and cards that mention football, not offers of sex.”
The pledges groaned, largely to Evan’s amusement. Maybe he was being dramatic and this wouldn’t be so bad after all, provided that Rebecca won.
Calvin Owens entered his room to discover a pile of wrapping paper on his bed, the stuff with flowers and roses. Another prank, this time probably by the pledges who were still uncomfortable with two openly gay brothers in the house. The fact that they shared a room made it worse. “I hope I have to wrap something soon, because I’m going to save a fortune.”
“There’s that,” Grant said, following him in. “Way to look on the bright side. That or the garbage was just full and no one wanted to take it out and start a new bag.”
That was just as likely. Calvin collapsed in his desk chair. “I don’t think I can take another week of this.”
“What? It’s not like this is Hell Week or anything. Not that these gingerbread cookies are doing much for my figure.” Grant bit into one anyway, taking the ear off a bear-shaped cookie. “Evan’s taking it pretty hard.”
“He’ll get hell for Rebecca winning, and he’ll get hell from Rebecca if she loses. Either way, he’s screwed. But he had to nominate her—how would it have looked if he didn’t? Who else were we going to nominate?”
“The president? Ashleigh?”
“She may be dating Pete now, but she blew us off last year for the Lambda Sigs. People have long memories for this sort of thing. And there’s no other real standouts in the juniors. And they lost all of those sophomores to the IKI house that was formed, and we can’t nominate a pledge. That would be weird.”
“She doesn’t have to win. It wouldn’t hurt the house. Just Evan.” He backtracked. “Not that I want to hurt your Big Brother, but this is the house’s decision, not his.”
“He knows.”
“Are you sure? He seems to think it is. He strong-armed everyone into Casey last year and then she dumped him.”
“He didn’t strong-arm anyone. She was a good candidate. All of that stuff with the old president being kicked out and the house falling apart and splitting off into IKI came later.”
“Yeah, I guess so. I still don’t think we should hand it to Rebecca though. No offense. I know you like her, but that doesn’t mean she gets to be sweetheart. Besides, she’s not very sweet.”
Calvin had to admit that there was a certain edge to Rebecca’s personality. But he also knew that Rebecca could be a lot of fun. And he always knew where he stood with her. There was a heart underneath that ice-queen exterior, even if her blood ran more blue than red. “If you ever see her acting sweet, be afraid. Be very afraid.”
In search of his Big Brother, Calvin found Evan Chambers—not his actual biological brother, as he didn’t have one—sulking in his room.
“I’m losing control of this house,” Evan announced after Calvin shut the door to his room. He preferred to brood in private. “All because I’m not the wealthy and privileged Evan Chambers anymore. I thought the brothers would look past that.”
“Some of them have. Almost all of them have. And the rest will come in time. Or won’t, and you won’t have to deal with their punk asses anymore.” When this wasn’t getting enough of a reaction from Evan, he added, “You can’t expect it to be smooth sailing with Rebecca’s nomination. The ZBZs blew us off last year, and their house is a mess compared with where it was when you nominated Casey. The Gamma Psis have the pity vote. It makes them an unusually strong contender.”
Evan knew all this. This was more about the weight his voice no longer carried in their house. “Yeah, and I’m Rebecca’s boyfriend. That’s running against her. And me, sort of. But I couldn’t not fight for her to be nominated, and I can’t not fight for her now.”
“I think you did the right thing.”
“It doesn’t feel like it. It doesn’t feel like I’m making anyone happy.”
“I don’t think this contest is making anyone happy. Except maybe the people who sell those ready-made cakes.”
Evan nodded. “I could really use your support for Rebecca.”
“Rebecca’s cool. Unless she does something stupid, I’m behind her.”
“And Grant?”
“What about him?”
Evan shrugged. “Can you get Grant behind her?”
“I don’t think he has a lot invested in this contest, but I know he has a lot invested in making his own decisions.” That wasn’t going to satisfy Evan, but neither was the truth, not while Evan was so down about his position in the house. “I can try. No promises. He really likes ballerinas.”
“I don’t think I could get Rebecca in a pink tutu. She would probably try to kill me if I asked.”
“Not exactly sweetheart material. Murder, that is.”
“Yeah, I was just thinking that. She’ll have to do it without the tutu.”
chapter four
Cappie had a serious texting problem. Or rather, other people had a texting problem and his phone number. By chance, they happened to be brother and sister. Casey Cartwright sent him messages constantly, overapologizing for forgetting about their date and asking his “guy” opinion on various sweetheart-related campaign activities. Meanwhile, Rusty Cartwright was onto his latest obsession, building a neo-Vesuvius for the house with Cappie’s input, which was apparently required every time the younger Cartwright had a stray idea. If Cappie shut off his phone for class, Casey would likely approve, though she might be surprised that he was actually at class. Rusty, on the other hand, would probably go into one of his paranoid, need-for-approval panics and begin an all-out campaign to win back Cappie’s favor, which was never lost. In other words, it wasn’t worth the hassle.
“Phones off,” said the teaching assistant as he passed him and dropped the red ink–stained paper on Cappie’s desk. Cappie dropped the ever-vibrating phone in his backpack and flipped through the essay to the last page, where a bold D+ was written in the same red ink that was scattered throughout. He cursed under his breath. A D+ was an insult more than anything, as Cyprus-Rhodes considered anything below C-as failing, so the D was a worthless letter, in limbo between a passing C and a failing F, which was how it would look on his transcript.
It was just a discussion section, so he had only the TA to speak to as people shuffled out. “Hey, Alex.” He was fairly sure that was his name. Cappie couldn’t bring himself to call anyone who didn’t look more than five years older than himself Sir. “Can I talk to you about my essay?”
Alex barely looked up from his folder. “Yeah?”
Cappie held up the page showing the grade in protest.
“I told people in section that Isocrates was a risky venture. Stick to Socrates or Plato. And don’t try to put anybody in their historical context unless you’ve at least read Thucydides’s History of the Peloponnesian War.”
“I have.”
“Then you should have quoted it.” But Alex softened at Cappie’s persistence. “Look, even if you know the answers and I know the answers and the professor knows the answers, you still have to show your work. Besides, padding a thesis with unnecessary quotes and having as long a bibliography as possible is what college papers are all about. I can’t pass you on speculation, even if it’s good speculation. You should know that by now, Mr. Cappie.” He looked at Cappie’s bag. “Your phone is going off.”
“I know. Look, this is supposed to be my final semester. And I need to keep Kappa Tau’s GPA level to a certain low…er, high standard.” Meaning, he needed this credit, badly. “There has to be some kind of extra credit.”
“I can’t officially give out extra credit. Speak to Professor Izmaylov, but don’t get your hopes up.”
Though he’d seen him in class twice a week, Cappie hadn’t said two words to the professor since they talked at the engineering awards ceremony last semester, when the professor was in a chatty mood and interested in passing on stories of the youthful rebellion of current deans and alumni who now insisted on being so serious. Like most professors in a large lecture class, especially one so popular because it was given at night, he delegated student interaction to his TA.
“I happen to know he’s in his office,” Alex offered him and left with his overflowing binder. He was gone before Cappie realized he didn’t know where the philosophy department was or if the professor’s office was there. He eventually located a university directory and discovered that the professors shared digs with the little-known Department of Slavic Languages. A short jog later, he was rapping on the worn, wooden door of Professor Aristotle Izmaylov’s office.
“Professor! I know you’re in!” Cappie intentionally knocked the theme song to Jeopardy as he waited.
The door eventually opened to the wizened old professor, gray beard and all. “Alex gave me away again, didn’t he?”
“Sorry, yes. Can we talk?”
“Well, my stories are already interrupted. That’s what old people call TV shows. Stories.” He moved away from the door, allowing Cappie to enter the office, which might have been large if it wasn’t stuffed to the brim with books. Three towers of them were holding up a table missing all but one leg. The professor shut off the tiny TV on his desk.
“Yes, Professor.” Cappie passed the paper across the desk, and Izmaylov, who probably hadn’t read it before, glanced through it. Cappie had been hoping when Professor Izmaylov returned to teaching that semester after a long period in the private sector, he might have sympathy for Cappie after meeting him at the alumni gathering and engineering awards dinner. Izmaylov had been a philosophy professor at CRU for many years and had some amusing stories about his former students, including certain deans who liked to admonish Cappie, and they hit it off. Now he was back to teaching, and it seemed the old man was as tough at grading as he was kind—or at least his TA was.
“Show your work, Mr. Cappie,” he repeated with uncanny accuracy. “Where are the quotations? You don’t know Isocrates just because you say you do. You have to be tenured before you can do that.” He handed the paper back to Cappie. “Considering the grade, which I can’t entirely disagree with, I assume you’re here for some kind of extra credit? Not very fair to the other students, is it?”
“I’m graduating this semester,” Cappie said. “Or trying to.”
“I wouldn’t know much about leaving college, seeing as I’m still her
e,” the professor said. “Entering the real world is both intimidating and admirable. I’d ask what your plans are postgraduation, but that question tends to scare off my students and has been proved to be irredeemably rude.”
“I’m really just trying to focus on this semester,” said Cappie, and he was hardly lying about that. His phone started buzzing again, and in the quiet of the office it was quite noticeable. “Sorry.” He finally scooped his phone out of the bag and turned it off. “Sometimes I think everyone I know is obsessed.”
“With you?”
“I have to admit, I am worthy of obsession, but it gets old once in a while.”
“The illusion of authority is a dangerous thing to have,” the professor said with a smile. “It makes all kinds of demands on your time, which you seem, at least for the moment, more interested in devoting to the study of philosophy. That is, until you can get your grade up to a passing level and earn your credits.”
“I have a little more invested in this class than that,” Cappie said defensively. “I did sign up for it even if I don’t have enough credits for a philosophy major.”
Professor Izmaylov sat up straighter. “You know there’s a little-known addendum to the university requirements that says you can make your own major?”
“Really?”
“It’s not so arbitrary, or more people would abuse it. You have to submit the major idea before a council, and it has to be approved. And you need a sponsor. I see from the excitement on your face that you should be warned that most have been turned down, but they were not without their dramatic flourishes. A few years ago, a liberal arts student tried to major in fun. His proposal was impressive, a work of art unto itself. It was turned down and he took four philosophy courses the final semester to graduate with a major fulfilled, but I admired him for the case. No, you have to propose a major in something far more pretentious. Hopefully with a lot of hyphens.” He pointed to the paper in Cappie’s hands. “Getting back to the matter at hand, your paper shows considerable promise, but you got ahead of yourself. If you were an average student with a failing grade, I would say hire a tutor for the final and hope for the best. But tackling Isocrates is not something for the average student with a failing grade. If you want your extra credit, you will have to produce something of the considerable philosophical brilliance you’ve shown hints of previously,” he said. “Keep me amused with your insight, and I might help you do it.”
Greek: Best Frenemies Page 3