Sorority Girls With Guns

by Cat Caruthers

  “As for my parents, they used to tell me all the time that being poor was nothing to be ashamed of, that having money didn't make other people any better than us and I should never feel that way.”

  “Really?” Richard narrows his eyes at me.

  “Absolutely.” I dig my fingers into the arms of my chair. “But they also didn't let me have friends over to the house because they didn't want them to see how bad it looked inside.”

  “You mean it was a mess?”

  “No, you can clean a mess.” I stare at the big, heavy hotel room door. “It's just that when stuff broke, there was never any money to fix it. Like, most of the inside doors didn't have doorknobs, including the one to my room. There was just this splintered hole where the knob was supposed to be. If I wanted to close the door, I had to stuff a rag between the door and the doorjamb to keep it closed.

  “And the carpets-” I wave around the room, at the dark green pile carpet. “-were these old disasters from the seventies, like the ones in our cheap motel room down the road. So, my parents didn't want my friends or their parents to see the inside of our house. And if they happened to drive by and see the outside, with the peeling paint and the hanging gutters, I was supposed to say that we were 'in the process of remodeling'. We were in the process of remodeling for eighteen fucking years!” It occurs to me that I'm yelling, then it occurs to me that I don't care.

  “And then you went to college, probably on a real scholarship, and you got the idea to lie.”

  I shrug. “Everyone reinvents themselves when they go away to college. Geeks try to act like frat boys. The uncool join sororities and frats. The ugly get plastic surgery or go on a diet or get a makeover. Girls who get called dumb blondes dye their hair and get glasses they don't need. Girls who get labeled as 'smart' or 'intellectual' go blonde and act stupid when they're anything but, like Morgan.”

  “I guess you're right.” Richard looks surprised. “I can't think of anyone back at school who's being themselves.”

  “I beg to differ,” I say. “I think we're all finally being ourselves. I think yourself is the person who want to be, not the result of gene expression or your background or the amount of money you actually have.” I wave around the room. “This is who I really am, Richard. My lack of money is simply a challenge I have to overcome in order to be myself.”

  “So you do that by making people assume you can afford stuff you can't?”

  I shake my head. “No. I also buy stuff on Feebay, Richie Rich. You can actually get expensive stuff cheap on there. Maybe some of it belongs to those now-broke millionaires. Maybe it's people like me, buying stuff in bargain bins and selling at a profitable price that's still half as much as Barney's. But I can get real designer clothes at a fraction of what my friends pay.”

  “And you do have a scholarship?”

  I smile. “Like I said, the financial aid office isn't going to discuss that with anyone but you. And yes, I do. And you don't, do you?”

  It's Richard's turn to shake his head. “Nope. But how do you pay for everything else? Even at cheap prices, clothes still cost money, and you have new clothes every week. And you have the latest cell phone, and that tablet you carry around and that car you drive. Unless your parents won the lottery, I'm guessing they can't afford to send you enough money for all that.“

  I sigh. “You already guessed my main source of income – Feebay. I go shopping in bargain basement stores and use my smartphone to look up what stuff goes for, so I can tell if it'll be profitable or not.”

  “You make that much money selling stuff on Feebay? I thought it was hard to earn a huge profit these days, especially if you're one person and not a big company?”

  I shrug. “I make about twelve grand a year. It's not a fortune, but it's enough for my needs. And keep in mind, I get a lot of free merchandise, too.”

  “From where?”

  I grin. “Ever gone dumpster diving behind a sorority or fraternity? You might run into empty beer bottles and used condoms, but sometimes you also hit the motherlode of designer clothes – especially if you go in the spring, right after the graduates move out. Sometimes people are in a hurry and they don't have time to donate stuff, so they just trash it. Last year I sold three genuine Louis Vuitton bags that some dumb sorority shits just threw away because they were last season's or something. That should be a crime,” I mumble as an afterthought.

  “So you made enough to pay for food with coupons and clothes from Feebay and maybe your rent. But there's no way you can afford a Mercedes on twelve-grand a year.”

  “You know who owns the Mercedes dealership in Fenton?” I ask.

  “Where the fuck is Fenton?”

  “It's a little town about an hour out from campus. And the answer is, Will Wharton.”

  “Who's he?”

  “The father of Hal Wharton. You know, the guy who tried to sue the student health center for not writing him an excuse note when he was too hungover to go to class?”

  Richard rolls his eyes. “Yeah, he gives whole new meaning to entitled assholes. He makes you and Matt and Charlie and Tiffany and Morgan all look like a bunch of amateurs.”

  “Well, his father lets him pick out a new car from the dealership every year. Usually he brings back the old one, but at the end of freshman year he told his dad he'd auctioned the car off for charity.”

  “And he gave it to you?” Richard raises one eyebrow in m”y direction. “Why would he do that?”

  “Stop looking at me like that!” I snap.

  “Like what?”

  “Like Cliff's mother used to look at me,” I say to my Mystic-tanned lap

  “You dated your cousin?”

  “I think we both know he wasn't my cousin.”

  “But that was a true story.”

  I change the subject. “You think Will could pass all his classes without help?”

  “You help him cheat?”

  “Nah, it's too hard to cheat during an actual test.” I drum my fingers on the pink granite tabletop. “I just write his papers and complete his projects, which allows him to earn B's in most of his classes even though he gets C's and D's on the actual tests.”

  “And that allows him to keep Daddy's Mercedes and the monthly checks?”

  “That's right,” I say.

  “Well, you just have it all figured out.” Richard stares at me as if he's looking over a stranger for the first time. “Okay, I know you're a top-of-the-class liar. Now, how are you going to help me out of this mess?”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  “Is Richard Walters your real name?” I ask. I'm pretty sure I already know the answer, and I'm not going to like it.

  “Yeah.” He looks at me like it would never have occurred to him to change it, probably because it would never have occurred to him to change it.

  I sigh. “At least it's a common-sounding name.” I snag my phone and run a web search. As I scroll through the many Richard Walters, I feel better. “Well, you've managed to get the privacy settings on your social media accounts right, which most people don't, and you're nowhere near the top of a Google search. You're not even on page two. I mean you, not the other Richard Walters.”

  “Who are they?”

  “An actor I never heard of, probably does Indie films. A five-star chef, whatever that is. A whole bunch of lawyers.”

  “So nobody will find out who I am?”

  I roll my eyes. “It depends how hard they want to search. Is your mom's last name Walters?”

  He shakes his head. “No, it's my dad's last name. My mom uses her maiden name for her business. You've probably heard of Lila Lawson, head of Lila's Lingerie?”

  “Got it.” I complete another web search and peruse a few articles about Lila while Richard rolls his empty coffee cup between his fingers.

  “Well, this is encouraging,” I say, skimming an article in Vogue. “These fluff pieces frequently mention Lila has a son in college, but none of them mentions your last name, and only a few me
ntion your first.”

  “So what are the odds of anyone connecting me to my mom?”

  I shrug. “Well, any reporter who really wants to look into you is going to assume you have rich 'rents. So they'll be looking for rich people named Walters, but a really good reporter won't stop there. They'll run searches for 'Richard', 'Richard Walters' and 'son of' to find articles about rich sons named Richard. Fortunately there will be plenty.” I twist at a hanging cuticle that would have been pushed back if I hadn't stopped pretending to be rich almost a month ago. “But when they don't find you, they'll get creative. They'll add 'Walters' to the boolean search I just outlined.” I pick up my phone and run the search. “Well, at least they won't find a photo.”

  “So they can't prove it's me?”

  “Not necessarily.” I sigh. “Most reporters have an account for searching public records. They could pull your driver's license photo, match it up with the one you had in California when you lived with your parents. Then they look at the birthdate, match it up with the birthdate of Lila Lawson's only son-”

  “And I'm screwed,” Richard grumbles at the table. “Can you think of a good lie to explain all that?”

  I sigh. “The best bet would be to discourage all the reporters from investing their time in such an expensive search. Just because they can track you and your past down, doesn't mean they're necessarily going to go to the trouble. If you don't make it seem interesting, they probably won't bother.”

  “How do I seem uninteresting?”

  “Well, droning on about the plight of the poor and how greedy and materialistic rich people are is a great start. Unfortunately, it won't fit with your current cover.”

  “I'm serious, Shade,” Richard says, glaring at me. But I see one corner of his mouth twitching. “My interest in protecting your secret is going to get a lot smaller if my secret comes out.”

  “Fine.” I cross my arms over my chest, squishing my DD's and watch his attention drift like an ADD kid who forgot his meds. “This will probably go against your instincts as a liar, but you shouldn't try to discourage anyone from digging into your past. Don't say it's not interesting or that you don't want to talk about it. Talk about it at length, in a vague but honest way. Your parents worked hard to give you the opportunities you have today, and you're grateful to be able to help with this event. Then start talking about the event.”

  “What if that doesn't work?”

  “I have a last-ditch plan that I'll outline later. In fact, I'm going to write you a script and you're going to practice and memorize it and I am confident that it will work.” I drum my fingers on the granite again. How the fuck do they get a rock so smooth and shiny, anyway? “But right now we're going to talk about our best shot, which is preventing you from needing that speech.

  “Be casual and pretend I'm not hiding anything.”

  “Yes. And talk a lot. Reporters know that people who basically suffer from verbal diarrhea are almost never hiding anything, because they can't. Unless it's an act, and it's a hard one to pull off. So the more you blather about nothing, the less interesting they're going to find you.

  “Then there's the next step to our plan: Make some of your friends more interesting.”

  “You mean throw my friends under the bus?”

  “No, not at all.” I wave my hand dismissively. “Those of us who are pretending-” I put heavy emphasis on that word. “-to be poor are less at risk here, because none of us actually claimed to be poor, we simply acted like we were and allowed people to make assumptions. That says more about society than it does about us. After all, our pitch is that helping the environment helps people save money, which it does. That obviously affects poor people more than rich people, but no one minds having more money. Anyway, the point is that we all have to live this way to prove that being environmentally friendly is easy and cheap.”

  “That covers Tiffany, Morgan, Matt and Charlie. What about you?” Richard's brows pull together in what looks like genuine concern, but who knows when you're talking to a guy who has millions and lives like a broke college student? “What if Harry wants to know how we all lived before this started?”

  I shrug. “I lived how I lived and will continue to live when I get back to college. Again, we're talking about people making assumptions, not me waving around a tax return. Besides, I plan to give Harry and the rest of the press a lot of interesting leads to follow, none of which will cause them to go poking around in my financial background.”

  “What if someone brings up your parents?”

  “What about it? You think I've never planned for that? Never thought about what I'd do if they showed up for an unanticipated visit in their Oldsmobile wearing clothes from Penney's?” I smile at the look of surprise on Richard's face. “A skilled liar and master manipulator like myself always works out every possible problem she can imagine happening, no matter how unlikely. I have planned for that event, and I think I can pull it off.” I relax and let the smile fall into a comfortable scowl. “But it won't work if you tell everyone the explicit truth. So don't even think about it, or I will make sure you spend the rest of your college years dealing with every gold-digging, rich-wannabe on campus. Understand?”

  “Yeah.” Richard's blue eyes look like a sky about to turn cloudy, and I'm not sure why. You'd think he'd be happy that I just solved all his problems. “I understand, Shade. I understand you perfectly.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Showing up to a fancy gala in a rented Buick is embarrassing to say the least, so I have opted to walk. Five blocks, in cheap heels from Payless. Richard has volunteered to go as my date, and to walk with me, even though he could have rented a limo. This is for functional reasons, not because we're romantically involved. I've told him repeatedly that it won't work between us, and since our last conversation I'm hoping he finally understands why.

  At the moment, Richard and I are sitting in the lobby of his hotel and discussing strategy. He is mumbling in my direction the speech I made him memorize in case the worst happens, and I'm reminding him of our various strategies for preventing that situation while looking over my shoulder every few seconds. That's how I see Morgan running toward us.

  “Put that on ice,” I hiss at Richard as I whirl around to face Morgan. “Did you decide to walk with us after all?” I ask, knowing that she hasn't. She's going in the limo that Matt and Charlie managed to snag at a discount by holding a charity car wash in the limo rental firm's parking lot. (Taking a cue from me, they pitched it as “free publicity”.)

  “No,” she says, sitting down in one of the delicately striped, overstuffed chairs without being asked. “I need to talk to you.”

  “Okay.” I gesture for her to hurry up with it.

  She squirms in her chair and looks at Richard, who's wearing the most expensive rental tuxedo in the whole fucking city. I have to admit he looks like he just stepped out of a James Bond movie. I suggested a souped-up pistol as an accessory, but he just rolled his eyes.

  “You want me to leave?” he asks Morgan, watching her squirm.

  “It's...sort of personal,” she says, pulling her head and right shoulder together in that half-shrug, half-please-give-me-an-easy-way-out gesture some people use when they aren't smart enough to manipulate at my level.

  Richard stands up. “I'll be right outside the door when you're ready,” he says.

  “You know, you guys are welcome to ride in the limo with us,” Morgan says as he walks off, nearly tripping in his $500 shoes that are so shiny they look like Tiffany's face when she runs out of blotting paper. He's apparently still getting used to shoes that are more than a hundredth of an inch thick in the sole. “We got it without breaking any of the rules.”

  “I know,” I say. “But Richard and I want to walk to make a statement for the press, since it's his party and I'll be doing most of the talking with the press.”

  Morgan nods, but I can see the wheels turning behind her hundred-dollar lash extensions that she bought of Feebay fo
r $20. “So...is that the only reason you're going together?”

  “Me and Richard?” A few wheels click into place in my head, too. “Yes, we're going as friends with a mutual interest in this thing. You're not...jealous, are you? You weren't lying about just being friends with him, were you?”

  Morgan's three layers of makeup relax with relief. “Oh, no. We really are just friends and study partners. And if you wanted to get over your issues with Richard and go out with him, I'd be really happy for you.”

  “Well, I can assure you that isn't going to happen...not that he wouldn't like it.” I watch her face for signs that she's lying, but she really looks more hopeful than anything else. Why would she hope I'm dating Richard?

  “I've noticed the way he looks at you,” Morgan says with a conspiratorial smile. “Are you sure you don't feel the same way?”

  I roll a shoulder. “He's cute, and he has an interesting personality...but we'd never work together. We just want very different things out of life. He hates money, and I love it.”

  Now Morgan looks disappointed. “Well, I'm sure you'll find someone else.”

  “I'm sure I will too.” I get the distinct impression Morgan wants to tell me something she doesn't think I'll like. “What's going on here? Why the sudden concern with my love life?”

  She sighs. “I just...don't want you to be mad about what might happen at the gala tonight.”

  I feel a tiny stab of panic but keep my face calm. Hollywood may not have recognized my talents yet, but I really am one hell of an actress. “What do you mean? What are you planning to do?”

  “I'm going with Hoolio, all right?”She spits it out in about two seconds flat.

  “Hoolio?” It takes my brain another couple seconds to remember the guy. “Oh, the jerk who dumped me to join Tiffany's love line last week? That doofus?”

  Morgan leans back in her chair, apparently satisfied that I'm not upset. “He's not a bad guy. He admits he made a mistake at the party, but he says he thought you were playing him and he got ticked off.”