by Rachel Shane
I stumbled back a step at the fierce growl that fled his lips.
He was younger than I expected, mid-thirties maybe, but decidedly scarier in person than he had been on the phone. And he’d been pretty scary on the phone. But his leading words had been tempered by his use of honey and sweetie. Up close, he looked like a bull dog ready to charge, with the same wrinkled face and pissed off expression. He clucked his tongue at me. “This is going to take some work.”
I glanced down at my dark designer jeans, purchased before my dad lost his job. Even my boots were top of the line. “What is?”
He flourished his hand up and down at me. “This whole thing. It’s not working for me.”
My chest tightened. I was going into an industry that demanded beauty. I thought I held my own, even if I was at the bottom of the pack. I glanced away from him fast, my heart beating hard.
“Not sure who styled you, but you’re dressing like you’ve got something to hide.”
“But…it’s only seven degrees outside.”
The guy shrugged as if the wind turning his face bright red was nothing more than his imagination. “You can’t get discovered if you leave nothing to discover.”
I removed the scarf from my neck and a sting of cold air hit my bare skin.
He nodded in satisfaction. “That little hop you did. Lose it. It aged you down about fifteen years.”
Fifteen years would have put me below kindergarten.
He pressed one hand against my lower back and the other on my shoulder and pushed on both in opposite directions. “There you go. Posture. It’s important.”
“And my face?” I cringed, waiting for the worst of it.
“What about your face?”
“You don’t have any suggestions?”
He shrugged. “It’s generic. Non-memorable. But there’s a market for that. Sometimes hosts need to blend in, not stand out.”
I bristled. There it was. The insult.
“You’re late, by the way. You need to work on that too.”
I scoffed. “I got here right at twelve thirty!”
“Right, late.” He spun on his heels and stomped up the steps into the Office of Residence Life. I trailed after him like a little puppy dog, unzipping my coat as I went. He was a jerk, but he was also my ticket to the big time. He waltzed right up to the reception desk, gave his credentials, and within two minutes we were meeting with not only the head of the Office of Residence Life, but also the dean himself.
Holy shit.
This guy got results.
The dean shook my hand with the firmest handshake I’d ever received as I fumbled to hold my jacket. He’d been a former military general and his presence made me want to salute him instead. When we sat down, I straightened my posture and opened my mouth to speak, but Cliff Rogers stole the show.
“We need a dedicated space on campus in order to host the Clever Media Podcast Network.”
I whipped my head toward him, surprised by the name he’d decided without any input from me.
“Someplace secure, because my client Clever Trevor,” he paused so everyone else in the room could digest his name. The woman in charge of Residence Life sat straighter, her blond hair cascading over her shoulders in bouncy waves as if she’d styled it in case Trevor’s agent brought back news of his appearance. Dean Malcolm gave no reaction at all besides a crack of his knuckles. “Needs his privacy,” Cliff continued.
I burst in before he could keep speaking. “We’d like to petition to take over one of the abandoned fraternity houses. We plan to have a network of podcasts running around the clock and need multiple rooms to set them up simultaneously.”
Cliff waved his hand dismissively, as if the other podcasts were meaningless. “And of course we’ll need complete compliance with Throckmorton University to conduct the podcasts here. In exchange, we’ll include Throckmorton branding on all marketing.” He leaned closer, his face lighting up with a sneaky sort of smile. “And we’re prepared to offer an exclusive.” He paused for a beat, drumming up dramatic effect. “Trevor will perform his comeback concert right here in your student union.”
The Residence Life lady scoffed. “But…he can’t sing?”
Cliff winked. “I didn’t say he’d be singing. I said he’d be performing. But not until his star power rises back to the top thanks to the podcast.”
“We can’t pay—” Dean Malcolm started to say.
Cliff held up his hand. “No compensation necessary for this semester’s term. We can renegotiate for the fall.”
Dean Malcolm tapped his fingers on the desk. “The school could use the publicity. We’ve had a thirty two percent drop of admissions applications this past fall.”
“But we can’t promise the house,” the Residence Life lady said. “There’s only one that hasn’t been designated for destruction to make room for a new Business school and currently there are several other organizations vying for it. They all have equally good pitches.”
Cliff pursed his lips as if he’d been expecting this. “And what can we do to ensure we get it?”
“I’m afraid we can’t. There are many other factors we need to consider,” the woman said.
“What if we let the students decide?” I suggested, only because I hoped the students would decide to vote for the one with the celebrity involved. “We could do some sort of fundraising battle against the other organizations.”
Cliff shot a finger gun at me. “Great publicity for the school too. We’ll put that in the marketing too.”
It didn’t go unnoticed to me that Cliff kept all mentions of “the marketing” vague, no plan or specifics.
The woman held up her finger. “One second, we need to discuss.”
The two shuffled off, the woman smoothing down her chic suit. Cliff winked at me in their absence and re-adjusted his position in his seat, scooting closer to the edge, as if he needed to leap up at any moment. My stomach swirled with nerves. If Cliff Rogers couldn’t get us the house, nothing would.
A few minutes later, the Dean and the woman returned. “All right,” she said, beaming at the agent as if this was all his idea. “A fundraising battle of the organizations seems like a good idea. We can hold it three weeks from today. We can commit to extensive marketing on our side as well.”
Cliff nodded as if this answer was satisfactory. My stomach dropped. Three weeks was a long way away. Twenty one days stuck in my cramped house.
“Three weeks?” I blurted. “Can’t we hold it next week?”
The woman shook her head. “We need to be fair to the other organizations and give them adequate time to prepare as well. Additionally, we think a few weeks will build up enough momentum to make this event something that works for both parties.”
Cliff stuck out his hand. “I’m in agreement,” he said even though they only fulfilled half his requests. I suspected those were the only requests he actually cared about. Publicity. Not the recording location.
Dean Malcolm grabbed Cliff’s hand to shake.
“Wait!” I rushed forward, inserting my body between the two men and forcing them to drop hands. “What other organizations want the house?”
The woman let out a big sigh as she fumbled around her desk. “A new organization called Rho Sigma Delta. It’s not a sorority, don’t worry,” she said fast, giving us a tight smile. “And Key and Lock petitioned for the house so they can expand operations to more than one location.” She placed a hand on her heart, as if she was proud of their initiative.
Her words sent a cold, crackling sensation down my spine. The two worst possible candidates to be up against. Rho Sigma Delta was my worst enemy’s “sorority” that used to be my sorority. And Key & Lock was the only other organization I was part of.
I couldn’t participate in the battle for both Key and Lock and the podcast network. I was going to have to choose loyalties.
A KNOT WOUND IN my stomach, making me nauseous. I’d always viewed Key and Lock as my key to my future whereas R
ho Sigma—or as we were now known secretly, Omega Upsilon Rho—was my key to happiness. I belonged in both. I needed both. I wanted both. My friends would consider it a betrayal if they knew I’d been part of an elite secret society this whole time, one that caused me to lie to them several times a day. And Key & Lock would consider it a betrayal if I blocked them from getting the house they petitioned for. Keane petitioned for. He was the leader, he made all the decisions.
I was fucked.
And I’d have to fuck over someone I cared about.
I huddled against the bitter wind swirling white snow in the air, my eyes locked on the brick building that housed my next class. The only constant in my life that fit with all sides of me. My mouth watered at the prospect of slinking into my seat and distracting myself for the next hour with note taking. I was so rattled on my trek across the icy sidewalk that my cell phone buzzing made me scream out loud. Several heads turned in my direction and then squinted further at my jacket, scarf, gloves, and hat slung over my arm instead of on. Bitter wind pierced the holes of my knit sweater. Where was that predicted heat wave already?
I fumbled inside my jacket, rearranging the pile in my arms, and swiped the phone to accept the call without looking at who it was. “Hello?” I said as I rotated the phone to my arm, dropping the jacket onto the ground in the process. I cursed under my breath and picked it up, my breath coming out in a wheeze.
“Hey.” the voice on the other end said in the phone.
My feet went dead at Robby’s deadpan tone, no teasing in his opening. Oh God, I could not handle any more bad news today. And talking to my brother was never good. He only called me when he needed something, usually in the form of me covering for him. “Are you okay? Is dad okay?” I squeezed my eyes shut. Someone bumped into me on the sidewalk, cursing at me.
“No.” His voice was a whisper, heavy with emotion. “He hasn’t gotten out of bed in days, feels responsible for my situation.” Robby’s voice cracked.
“Wh—what situation?” I ducked under the awning of a building, shoving a finger in my ear. My breath waited in my lungs.
“I heard back from all the other colleges.” He sucked in a deep breath. “They were rejections.”
“But—you’re grades are—”
“Good enough for Throckmorton. But not good enough for my reach schools. I only ever wanted to go to Throckmorton so I didn’t apply to safeties. Doesn’t matter though. We can’t afford anything.”
His words were a gut twisting wound. “But—” I said over the emotion piling up in my throat.
“But I’ll have to take a few years off. Get a job to pay for college.” He swallowed. “And Erin—your financial aid for next year was denied as well.”
Cold panic sluiced up my spine. Shit. My brother couldn’t go to college and I wouldn’t be able to finish.
I wouldn’t have a chance to find out about why Key & Lock needed a second house until the next meeting in a few days, but I didn’t have to look very far to figure out what kind of shenanigans Layla Davies was up to with her trickery for securing old Rho Sig. A few hours later, I waltzed into the Student Union with Holly to grab a coffee before my next class and came face to face with a flier blowing in the wind, taped to the big glass doors. Big words squeezed onto the page: Students Helping Students Club Kick-off Rally. My stomach dropped before my eyes even landed on the next line: organized by President, Layla Davies.
“Oh Jeez.” Holly wrinkled her nose at the Comic Sans font.
The whole thing screamed of fake desperation. Layla didn’t give a shit about helping others. She hadn’t even attended the philanthropy events we put on at Rho Sigma when she was president. Or well, she attended the parts that involved bars, booze, and boys, but not the part that involved actually doing good for others.
Like when we volunteered at a soup kitchen one weekend and she failed to make an appearance. Or when we walked a 5k to raise money for Multiple Sclerosis and she feigned a sprained ankle. Even though she’d skipped out on both, our good deeds made it to the front page of The Daily Snowflake and we even earned an Excellence Award from the Dean, which Layla was happy to accept on behalf of Rho Sigma as a whole.
“Oh my God! We have to go to this, it’ll be epically hilarious.” Holly plucked the flier off the wall. “And oooh! It’s in twenty minutes.”
I bit my lip. I had my Speech and Linguistics class at the same time as this weird mid-afternoon pep rally Layla was planning on conducting. I’d been to the Student Union yesterday and there was no advertisement. My guess was someone from the Greek Org told her about the live vote we’d planned yesterday and this was her last minute attempt to get people on her side fast, before I could steal them.
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I said, committing to it before I could back out. Before I could talk myself into what was important. Saving my fake sorority under the guise of a podcast that may help my future career. Or going to a class that may also help my future career.
Holly and I snagged a table to sip our coffees and wait. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.” She twirled her coffee on the table, avoiding my eyes. Her pony tail swung behind her head with each movement of her shoulder.
My stomach instantly filled with dread. When someone avoided your eyes, it was never good. “Uh oh.”
She glanced up at me with wide eyes. “You don’t even know what I want to ask!”
I clutched my coffee to my chest like a shield. “I think I do. You already hit up Corey. Bianca. Harrison. Fallon.”
She bit her lip. “So okay I guess you do know what I was going to ask.” She splayed her hands on the table as if showing me all her cards, but if I agreed to her question, I’d be the one exposed. “Please.”
I shook my head. “People will recognize my voice.” Talking about sex anonymously on her podcast was one thing. But I was practically a celebrity on campus and Holly’s podcast was getting the highest downloads outside mine.
“I can disguise it. Mackenzie showed me an audio filter. Pretty please.” She pressed her hands together in a prayer position. “I need a new episode for tonight. We can record it right before you do your thing with Trevor.”
I flinched at the mention of his name, those six letters triggering a knee jerk reaction that sent my heart racing in excitement. I still had four hours before Trevor showed up. Four hours I’d need to kill with some sort of distraction or else my nerves would skyrocket and I might stupidly spend several of those hours freaking out over what to wear. Class was supposed to help keep my mind at bay, but I’d already blown it off. Might as well use the rest of the time to discuss other things I’d blown. Or, well, people. “Fine. But I hate you.”
She grinned. “Don’t hate me yet! You haven’t even heard my questions!”
About two minutes before the SHS Rally started, the cafeteria began emptying out. People around us shoved their pizza slices into their mouths nearly whole, chewing fast while dumping their trays. Girls on the coffee line tapped their feet with annoyed expressions before glancing at their watches and abandoning the line all together. Holly and I exchanged glances.
We both leaped from our seats. I chugged the rest of my now-warm coffee and dumped the cup in the trash on my way out of the room. We followed the trail of rats into the main lobby where hundreds of students packed the spacious entryway, standing shoulder to shoulder, closer to each other than most mosh pits at concerts. The girls in front of us joined hands and squeezed, turning to each other with toothy smiles of excitement. I gasped at the sight and Holly squeezed my forearm in terror.
A hush quieted down the jabbering crowd like a tidal wave sweeping across our standing bodies. Suddenly all heads looked forward, all mouths clamped shut, and excited energy buzzed as the crowd awaited their rock star. And just like Trevor might have done in one of his concerts, Layla strutted out. She clutched a microphone in one hand and a speaker as if she was prepared for an impromptu karaoke session. When she boomed into the microphone, it
screeched. Everyone cringed, though I donned a wicked smile. She adjusted some knobs, and then climbed onto a table in the center, standing tall enough to tower over everyone. She wore a skirt too, earning a few hoots and hollers from the guys in the front row. Her dark black bob looked razor sharp at the edges, as if every part of her needed to be hard as ice.
“Welcome to the Students Helping Students rally,” she yelled. Hundreds of claps and cheers resonated in response. “I know what you’re all waiting for, but you’re going to have to wait a little longer because today I want to tell you about all the exciting things the SHS Club has planned in the next few weeks.” She paused, her microphone hovering at her mouth. “If we can secure the remaining house, that is.”
Whispers flew at that insinuation. I swallowed hard as I saw heads volley into nods.
“First up, we’re going to give back. In the form of a giant bar crawl.”
Because that was what students needed? Alcohol poisoning? Cheers rang out along with a few elated jumps up and down.
Layla went on to give the insignificant details about the bar crawl, which was really just a tour of each campus bar on Thursday night with student volunteers holding court inside to talk to attendees about their problems. A student run help line was great, but in public? No one would want to confess when they might be overheard. Especially not inside a bar.
“And next, we’re going to do something really special. We’re going to host a skit night at Quigley’s. It’ll be themed, and we’ll separate you into groups based on hou—” She clamped her mouth shut, grinning. “Based on random factors,” she continued instead, but a few people besides me caught the snag. And grinned.
My ears caught a snatch of conversation from the girls in front of me. “But how will we know what house we’re in?”
“She hasn’t gotten to the part about Rush yet,” the second girl said.
My frown descended into a grimace.
Holly tilted her head at them. “Do they think the Greek system is still a thing?”