by Rose, L. A.
That’s what I get for re-reading all the Harry Potter books this summer. I sit up, blinking the sleep from my eyes. Across the room, Iris is being hustled from her twin bed by a similar figure. My Dementor shakes my arm again, and I finally wake up enough for excitement to shoot through my veins like a drug.
This is it. Initiation.
I leap out of bed, my feet thudding on the wooden floor. Dementor girl hisses at me again: “You want to wake everyone up or what?”
We’re led out of our room, Iris remembering just in time to snatch the key from her bedside table. In a few hours, I bet Campus Security will be faced by a legion of girls in their pajamas, all of whom mysteriously locked themselves out of their room tonight. I giggle and Dementor shushes me.
The hooded girls take us down the stairs and outside the building. I have half a second to bask in the moonlit California night air before a cloth bag is yanked over my head. Beside me, Iris grumbles as she faces a similar fate.
“Shouldn’t you have put the bags on from the beginning?” I quip as we’re led barefoot over a dew-wet lawn, me tripping every few feet.
“A pledge broke her arm one year going down the stairs,” says Iris’s Dementor, and mine, whose only apparent goal in life is to shush people, shushes her.
We’re bundled into a car and belted in. Somewhere, there’s probably an ex-pledge in a neck brace who shot through a window when an older sister rear-ended someone. Still blind, I jostle Iris, only to have her bark, “Fuck!” when I accidentally elbow her in the nose.
The drive’s not long—five minutes, maybe. They must be taking us to one of the student-rented houses that ring the main campus. I can’t stop myself from bouncing in place. The fact that we’re being kidnapped like this means we’ve fulfilled our pledgeship requirements—to the most exclusive sorority at UCSD—and we’re being accepted into the fold.
Goodbye, Amish girl with the weird last name. Hello, Fiona Arlett, Phi Delta Chi sister living it up in California.
There’s the click of the door opening, and then I’m pulled back out onto the wet grass. I’m marched prisoner-style up a set of front steps. Iris’s guard helpfully tells her when to lift her feet, but mine doesn’t, so I limp inside the house with ten stubbed toes.
When the bags are finally pulled off, we’re in a large candlelit room with about fifteen girls arranged in mats on the floor. I wave to Mags MacLeod, an shy asthmatic girl from my Intro to Computer Science class, but all she offers in return is a wide-eyed, solemn stare. Nobody is talking and the cult vibe is palpable. Maybe my joke about sacrificing baby goats wasn’t so far off.
Iris and I take the last two mats available. I glance around. Nightshirts, tank tops, and one poor girl got caught in her bra and panties. Iris, naturally, is wearing some high-necked black lacy thing straight out of a Victorian museum. I’m wearing a huge white heart-covered T-shirt that says ‘It’s Not That Time of the Month, I Just Hate You’ but I rock it.
Our two captors move to the center of the room and remove their hoods. I recognize them at once. Both seniors. There’s Ellie, a girl with the world’s softest-looking pin-straight hair that falls past her butt. The one who gave me my stubbed toes is Sigrid, the redhead who interviewed me for my first pledgeship meeting and whose personality fits her name perfectly.
I wait for something to happen, but nothing does until one last girl walks through the door and takes her place between Sigrid and Ellie.
Brooklyn Windsor, sorority president.
They say she can drink eight shots and still recite the alphabet backwards. They say she has the entire UCSD soccer team on speed-dial for whenever she wants some. They say that a boy once threatened her with a knife at a party and she broke three of his ribs and two of his fingers within twenty seconds. They say that she eats cereal bowls full of diamonds for breakfast and has a manservant named Claude who used to be a famous model but swore his life to her when he saw her walking down the street one day.
They don’t really say that last thing, but it’s what I’ve always assumed.
Her gaze sweeps over each of us in turn, lingering on Iris’s sexy vamp nightie, pausing on my T-shirt. Do I detect a slight quirk of her lips? I will never take this nightshirt off.
“Do you all know why you’re here?” Her voice rings out like a bell tolling the start of a war.
“Arts and crafts?” I joke, and the tension is broken by a few titters. Brooklyn gives me a long, stern stare, but Sigrid looks at me like I’m a piece of dog shit she just picked off the bottom of her shoe without realizing what it was. I gaze boldly back and her eyes narrow.
“You are here,” Brooklyn says deliberately, “because you have been handpicked as the most promising girls on campus. The most intelligent.” Her gaze skims Mags. “The most daring.” She glances at me. “The most beautiful.” She turns to Iris. A faint pink blush stirs in my roommate’s porcelain cheeks. Wow.
“But most importantly, you are here because you have demonstrated a commitment. A commitment to learning about our founders, our principals, and what makes us a sisterhood. You are here because you’re worthy of being here. Don’t let that change.”
She gives us another Brooklyn Stare, which I’m starting to suspect has the ability to turn murderous convicts into puppy breeders. I think I’m in love. And somewhat less terrified. If Sigrid ran the initiation, I’d assume we’d be drinking each other’s pee at a minimum, but Brooke seems somewhat more refined.
“Repeat after me,” she says. “I accept my new responsibility to positively represent myself and the sisterhood at all times.”
Everyone echoes the line. I make sure my voice is the loudest.
“I accept my new responsibility to keep my grades at their highest while also taking full advantage of my life as a Phi Delta Chi girl.”
Iris elbows me at the word grades and I snicker. Mine aren’t the best, but I’ll keep them up for this.
“I accept my new responsibility to be loyal to my sisters above all others.”
“Blah, blah, blah,” I mumble under my breath, trying to decide whether Sigrid’s sultry red hair is real or from a box.
“And I accept the consequences if I fail my sisters, for failing my sisters is also failing myself,” finishes Brooklyn, a dark tone to her words. Her gaze hardens and I wonder if she was a boot camp instructor in a past life. Or a current life.
Everyone chants after her, and when the last few voices fall into silence, Sigrid and Ellie move along the circle of girls, handing each a little wax candle with a paper drip guard and then lighting it.
“Your candles symbolize the torch that has been passed to you by us, your most senior sisters,” Brooklyn says. “It is now your responsibility to keep the flame of our sisterhood alive.”
The thin trail of smoke tickles my nose, and I sneeze. My candle goes out. Everyone stares at me, and Sigrid moves in to relight it, holding the lighter low to the wick for so long that hot wax bubbles over the side of the paper guard and onto my thumb. “Ow!”
“Sorry,” she says with an ice princess smile.
“Oh no, I love hot wax searing my flesh, it’s my favorite.”
“Pledge!” Suddenly Brooklyn is standing over me, her toned arms folded in disapproval. “First rule. Don’t disrespect your older sisters. Sigrid has put countless hours into our organization and will be overseeing many of your new membership activities.”
Sigrid smirks, and I take a page from Iris’s book and roll my eyes. Of course Sigrid is Brooklyn’s second-in-command. What’s a noble queen without a scheming advisor to mess things up?
“Brooklyn?” comes a timid voice. It’s Mags, carefully holding her candle away from her to keep it from catching in her wildly curly hair. “Are you going to tell us about the competition?”
Competition? I sit up straighter. If there’s one thing I love, it’s a contest. I nearly punched a kid in the face in first grade over a spelling bee. He was a total cheater, though. What first grader knows how to spell
‘obsequious’?
Brooklyn sighs heavily and sweeps her hair out of her face. Sigrid takes over, shoving forward importantly. “I got this, Brook. Get out of here. You have practice first thing in the morning.”
“Sigrid will be your main resource. She’s graciously offered to lead things with you new girls,” Brooklyn tells us as I die a little inside. “I’ll be heading out now, but I fully expect to see all of you at our first event this Friday.”
I perk up. What event? But apparently it’s up to Sigrid to explain it to us, because all Brooklyn offers us is a small smile before leaving the candlelit room.
The moment Brooklyn disappears, Sigrid undergoes a transformation. Her seashell-pink fingernails lengthen to predator claws. Black races along her satiny red hair until she’s got a witch’s mane. Her teeth sharpen and crawl over her bottom lip until they extend an inch from her chin. She grins a horror movie grin, leaps on the nearest pledge, and tears her head off.
That all doesn’t actually happen, but it’s the closest I can come to describing the way Sigrid’s expression changes. She curls her lip and looks at us all like we just peed on her grandmother’s grave. “Let’s get one thing straight, girls. You are beneath me. You are beneath all your older sisters, none of whom are being paid to babysit tonight, and that’s why I volunteered to be the one to explain to your newly-minted asses how things work around here. But first, you’re going to thank me for my time.”
Shock settles over the room. Beside Sigrid, Ellie smiles at the ceiling. She’ll be no help. A chorus of mumbled thank-yous rises from everyone except me. Sigrid notices. She notices and stalks forward in her heels—who the hell wears heels to a secret meeting at midnight—and leans in so close to my face that her hair brushes the tops of my crossed knees. I don’t flinch. I open my mouth, about to tell her exactly how unimpressed I am with her authority-gone-overboard routine, but then a hand closes over mine and squeezes tightly.
I glance up. It’s Mags, who’s scooted over and wedged herself between Iris and I. She clutches tighter and there’s a big neon warning in her eyes. In front of me, Sigrid is smirking, and it’s going against my every instinct not to take her down a peg, but Mags is cutting off circulation to my fingers and there’s got to be a reason for that.
“I missed your thank you.” Sigrid’s breath is overwhelmingly minty and her voice is threateningly sweet. Neither are my favorite flavors.
“Danke.”
“Dunk what?” she growls.
“It means thank you in German.” I smile while attempting to extract my fingers from Mag’s death grip.
“Does it look like we’re in fucking Germany?” she hisses.
“Well, the Gestapo seems to be out in full force.”
A collective gasp shakes the heady silence. I couldn’t help it. I glance sheepishly at Iris, but she’s staring at the wall like she’s never met me before in her life. Loyal roommates are the best kind.
“Congratulations for being the first pledge of the year to get on my bad side.” Sigrid tucks a strand of hair behind my ear in a way that would be motherly if it didn’t speak volumes about how she’s planning to murder me later. “Trust me, it’s not a place you want to remain. I’d do my best to get off it as soon as possible.”
If she thinks I’m going to lick her feet, she needs to be educated on how Fiona Arlett functions. I open my mouth to do just that, but she’s already standing and turning around, and Mags’s returned pressure on my hand tells me it’s better to pick my battles.
“Let me make an appointment to have your mouth sewn shut,” Iris whispers. Her dad is a famous plastic surgeon, and she often threatens me with various body modifications. Sadly, never the kind that involves bigger boobs.
“Maybe I should explain about the competition, Siggy,” says Ellie in a high stage whisper.
I stifle a snort. Siggy?
“Of course, Els.” Sigrid crosses her arms and devotes her full attention to glaring at me. I pretend it’s beach sunshine and bask in it. Though my tan is already perfect.
“Okay, girls!” Ellie claps her hands together like a camp counselor on crack. “It’s time to tell you about the James Games.”
Not James Reid again. I’m developing a personal distaste for the guy, and I’ve never even met him. I turn to roll my eyes at Iris, but she’s rapt. So is every other girl in the room.
“We try to keep a secret, but you’ve likely heard the stories,” Ellie chirrups. “What I’m sure you know is that James Reid attend this school and does not date anyone—except members of this sorority.”
So the guy refuses all girls except ones from the hottest sorority on campus? That explains why it’s so popular. I make a mental note to fart in his general direction when I finally do run across him.
“To avoid underhandedness, and to preserve our sisterhood, we have set up a contest to make sure everyone has a fair shot at James. The Games involve proving to each girl here, and to yourself, who is the most worthy of him. At the end of the semester, the points will be tallied—the seniors will be handling the judging and the tallying in private meetings—and the girl with the highest score gets a date with James.”
I resist the urge to projectile vomit into the ceiling, but it’s a close call. I expect Iris to lose the same battle—if I think this is stupid, then her brain must be combusting—but she’s listening intently. Weird.
“But what if James doesn’t like the girl who wins the Games?” someone asks breathlessly.
“He has an agreement with Brooklyn,” says Ellie cheerily while Sigrid continues attempting to melt a hole through my skull with her eyes. “The winner gets one date—a full night, with the activities up to the winner. It’s an opportunity that only Phi Delta Chi girls get.”
“So you better be grateful for it,” Sigrid butts in.
“What do you have to do to win the Games?” asks Mags with a nervous glance at Sigrid.
Sigrid snorts. “I wouldn’t worry too much about it. First-years never win.”
“We’ll email you the details,” says Ellie. “There will be different challenges. The first one is this weekend—a kickoff party here at the Phi Delta Chi house. The requirements are to dress as modestly as you can while still being party-appropriate. It’s a tricky balance to strike, and a girl needs to master it to be worthy of going on a date with James. I recommend black tights.”
All around me, girls whip out their phones and write memos to themselves. Even Iris taps away discreetly on her silver iPhone. I’ll make a point of wearing my shortest skirt to that party. Impressing James Reid is right underneath ‘becoming Sigrid’s personal assistant’ on my list of priorities.
“The only thing you really need to know is this.” Sigrid steps forward and transforms into a werewolf again. “If anyone touches James before the end of the Games, I will personally make their life hell for the rest of their time at this university.”
I want to laugh, but everyone else seems to be taking her threat seriously. The hush speaks to that.
“That’s it for tonight, girls!” Ellie claps again. I’m starting to worry that the clapping is a thing with her. “Congrats on becoming members of Phi Delta Chi. We’ll be happy to give you all rides back to your dorm buildings.
“Let them walk,” says Sigrid bluntly. “It’s barely ten minutes.”
In the end, five girls go with Ellie and only one girl, a blonde with a kiss-ass smile plastered to her face, goes with Sigrid. The rest of us walk. As it turns out, the freshman building is a straight shot past the main road beside Phi Delta Chi and across campus. The moonlight sprinkles us with light. Everyone else is whispering excitedly about James Reid, and I can’t stand it, so I fall back with Iris.
“Can you believe this?” I say, psyched to finally bond via mutual disdainfulness. “I joined Phi Delta Chi to get in on all the good parties, not have a battle of the vaginas over some guy.”
“Mmm,” says Iris.
I eye her. “That’s all you have to say? Mmm
?”
“Uh, yeah. It’s stupid as hell. That’s for sure,” she mumbles. Is it just the moonlight, or is she blushing?
“I think I’m going to dress extra slutty for the party this weekend, just to show I don’t give a fuck. You should do it with me.”
“Well, I, uh…”
I stare at her. “You’re not actually going to try and win the Games. You hate this kind of thing. Wait—tell me this isn’t why you joined Phi Delta Chi in the first place.”
She flares up. “Of course not. I have my own personal reasons for joining and they’re none of your big-eyed, bushy-tailed business.”
That’s the Iris I know.
“But I don’t see any harm in doing my best in the mean time,” she says, mumbling again.
Ice-cold Iris is participating in a boy contest. Soon the skies will fall and people will start caring about Lady Gaga again.
A shadow approaches us. It’s Mags, abandoning the rest of the group to trail behind. I’ve only talked to her a few times and she seemed sweet enough, but apparently her favorite activity is to crush people’s fingers when they’re trying to harmlessly sass upperclassmen. “Hey,” I say cautiously. “You got in too, then.”
“I did. I was so excited when they pulled me out of bed. Well, I cried because they scared me, but after that I was excited.”
Mags always speaks at the lowest volume setting. You have to strain to hear her. She’s always in pastels, and there’s usually at least one bow on her person. If Iris is Victorian gothic, Mags is Japanese Lolita fashion. She definitely won’t have any trouble with the dressing modestly thing.
“I’m sorry I grabbed you back there,” she says in her anxious cricket voice. “It’s just…I’ve heard things about Sigrid.”
“Heard what? That she’s actually a vampire bitch alien from outer space? Knew it.” I press my hand to my heart. Nothing gets past me. I’m basically Sherlock Holmes.
But Mags’s expression doesn’t lighten. “She hazes hard, Fiona. I heard that last year, a girl got sent to the hospital and nearly died because Sigrid and her cronies made her drink a gallon of spiked punch. Her dad is the school president, so she does whatever she wants. And she usually wants to make people miserable.”