Hell Week

  The other Rho Gamma didn’t follow right away. She was more subtle all around. Her brown hair had expert highlights, like strands of gold woven through chocolate-colored satin, and if she had on any makeup, I could see no sign of it on her flawless skin. With a secret little smile, she sized me up. “That’s funny. I didn’t see any Ford Pintos parked outside.”

  I cleared my throat. “Well…”

  “Also odd—I had Professor Quinn for history last year.”

  Gran looked from her to me and back again. “Maggie, just what were you telling them?”

  “Um.”

  Jenna intervened with a friendly grin. “Nothing too bad.” She offered her hand. “I’m Jenna Nichols. You must be Maggie’s tea leaf–reading grandmother.” Her amused glance slanted my way. “Or was that a lie, too?”

  “An embellishment, really.” I avoided Gran’s glare; she disapproved of lying. “I thought you Rho Gammas weren’t supposed to talk to the sororities about the rushees.”

  “We’re not. But rumors get around.” She grinned and lifted her cardboard tray of drinks. “I’ve got to go. You’re all right with your schedule? No conflicts with classes?”

  “No, I’m good.” The parties would all be in the evening, and I had no night sections. “Thank you for asking.”

  “That’s what I’m here for.” She smiled at Gran. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Quinn. See you later, Maggie.” Then she made her retreat to the September sunshine.

  I heaved my satchel over my shoulder, stuffed the printed e-mail into the front pocket, and, grabbing my half-full cup, I turned back to Gran. “I gotta run. I’m meeting the school newspaper adviser to ask about joining the staff.”

  Her annoyance evaporated quickly. There are advantages to being the only granddaughter. “Take care of yourself, Maggie. Tell your mother I hope she’s feeling better.”

  “I will, Gran.” I leaned forward and kissed her soft cheek. “See you later. Thanks for the coffee.”

  I turned to go, but Gran’s lilting voice stuttered my step. “Oh, and tell Justin I say hello.”

  Slowly, I pivoted to face her, and I could feel my cheeks beginning to heat. “Justin?”

  “Yes. He’s back from Ireland, isn’t he?”

  My brain slogged through a morass of mixed emotions that had churned throughout the summer—hope and affection tamped down by a growing weight of worry, and thickened into a soup of romantic uncertainty. “I suppose he must be, since classes started last Thursday.”

  “Well, don’t worry, dear. You’ll see him soon. And then you’ll get everything straightened out.”

  Vision, hunch, or wishful thinking? I wove through the tables and shouldered open the door. Matchmaking grandmothers were one thing; matchmaking psychic grandmothers were a whole other level of irksome, even when you loved one as much as I did mine.

  Part two of Maggie Quinn, You’re Not Special featured Dr. Hardcastle, possibly the most boring journalism professor ever. I’m not saying that Media and Communication is the most fascinating thing to begin with, but it takes a new level of tedious to make me struggle to stay awake in a journalism class.

  He was also the adviser for the Ranger Report, Bedivere University’s newspaper. I had made an appointment with him during his posted office hours and brought along my sample articles and photographs. A wasted effort since as soon as I told him why I was there, he said, without looking up from his computer: “I don’t take freshmen on the Report staff.”

  I stood stupidly in front of his desk, the portfolio hanging from my hand. I didn’t know how he could see anything; the room was dim and cluttered and smelled as though he had his lunch there a little too often. Or maybe that stale smell was the professor himself. He had a Grizzly Adams thing going for him.

  “Never?” I asked.

  “As close to never as makes no difference.”

  Never give up, never surrender. “Here are some samples of my work.” I opened the binder to an eye-catching photograph of the Avalon High star forward making a spectacular jump shot. “And in addition to working on the AHS paper for three years, I was an intern at the Sentinel this summer.”

  Dr. Hardcastle glanced at the picture and flipped dismissively through a few pages. “Not bad.”

  “I can write captions, do layout, proofread, whatever you need.”

  But Professor Hard-ass had gone back to Web surfing. “Come back after you have six hours of prerequisites.”

  “I’m already enrolled in six hours of journalism—”

  “Then come back after you finish them.”

  He wasn’t going to budge. I didn’t need to read minds to see that.

  “Okay,” I said, because there was no point in pissing him off. “Thanks for your time.”

  I slumped out of his tiny office and leaned against the wall, weighed down, for a moment, by self-pity. It was right next to the journalism lab, where they put together the paper. I could hear the familiar click of multiple keyboards, smell the printer toner and film developer.

  Dismissed again. Would the suck never end?

  Someone touched my shoulder, and I spun around with a stifled squeak.

  “Sorry.” The speaker was a young man with intelligent eyes and a Byronic shock of thick, dark blond hair falling across his forehead. He had a friendly smile, and as my brain transitioned from grouchy, grizzled professor to cute young guy, he took the binder out of my limp hand.

  “I overheard your conversation with Hardcastle. By which I mean I shamelessly eavesdropped. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  “The journalistic clap, apparently.” I cracked wise to calm my nerves as he leafed through the pages. “No one wants to touch me this morning.”

  He raised one brow. “You tell me that after I’m already holding your portfolio?” Then he smiled and gave it back. “I’m Cole Bauer, editor of the Report. Anytime you want to submit something to me, go ahead.”

  “Really?” My roller-coaster day took an upswing.

  “Sure.”

  Belatedly I remembered my manners, and held out my hand. “I’m Maggie Quinn.”

  “I know.” He nodded at my name tag, which I’d dutifully put on when I returned to campus. “How’s Rush going?”

  I touched the plastic-covered card self-consciously. “Actually, if you’d really like to know…” On impulse, I slipped my hand into my satchel and pulled out the folded article.

  Both his brows went up at that. “You don’t waste time, do you?”

  My cheeks heated. “Not when I have a feeling about something. I think I may have written that for you without realizing it. Er, for the Report, I mean.”

  He nodded. “I know what you mean.” Unfolding the pages, he gave them a cursory glance. “I’ll read it and let you know.”

  “Thanks.” I felt a quick shot of relief. I’d offered it; he hadn’t laughed. Now I just had to let things shake out. I took a step backward, making my exit. “I’ll be in touch.”

  Waving the pages, he moved to do the same. “Or I will. See you.”

  He turned and disappeared into the newspaper lab, and I headed for my next class in that fog of abrupt reversal, when things take a quick turn and you’re not sure you’re responsible for it. I don’t know if it’s the instinct talking, or fate or whatever. But I never know where that left turn is going to take me.

  Case in point. For eighteen years I’d planned to go away to school, much to my parents’ frustration. Bedivere University is a small old liberal arts school with stiff admission criteria and an excellent reputation, which attracted students and teachers from all over and kept Avalon from being more small-town backward than it could be. In fact, the whole place—college and town—felt connected with the rest of the world but slightly out of step with it, making the name seem more than coincidence. It’s a great school, I could walk from home if I wanted, and my professor dad got a tuition discount.

  That said, the reason I am not, in fact, attending the University of Anywhere-but-Here, despite having
been admitted and financially aided, lay with my parents, who could not behave like respectable, decently middle-aged people.

  I knew my mother was pregnant before she did. In the pharmacy one day, with one of those half-aware impulses I get, I had picked up a plus-or-minus test and put it in the cart. Mom was surprised, to say the least. “Something you want to tell me, Maggie?”

  “It’s not for me,” I said.

  “Do tell.” Her calm was admirable, under the circumstances.

  “Really. Unless the Angel of Annunciation dropped by to leave a message while I was out, it’s for you.” As soon as the words left my lips, the feeling went from hunch to certainty. Not even the fall of Mom’s face, the paling of her cheeks, could dim it.

  She firmed her mouth and put the test back on the shelf. “Don’t be ridiculous. That’s just not possible.”

  I returned the pink and blue box to the cart. “Humor me.”

  My only-child status had not been my parents’ choice. Memories of those stressful years of roller-coaster disappointment are fuzzy, and I don’t know when, exactly, they gave up hope. But now I was about to have a sibling, even if Mom didn’t believe me until she’d started the daily puke.

  As for my staying at home, I don’t remember making a conscious decision; one morning I woke up knowing that Avalon and Bedivere was the right choice. Gran says that sometimes people like us are led where they need to be, if we just listen to our inner voices.

  I tend to think inner voices are only good for getting a person locked in a padded room or burned at the stake. And I’ll tell you right now, I am no saint, because I’m not sure I would have listened to my mental Jiminy Cricket if Justin weren’t returning in the fall.

  Justin, who still hadn’t called me, even though I knew he’d been back in town for a week.

  3

  I arrived at the Epsilon Zeta house breathless and windblown, my cheeks hot with exertion. I’d had to rush—no pun intended—home to change after class. I’d brushed my hair and powdered my nose, too, though the effort was wasted by the time I drove the Jeep to Greek Row, found a parking spot, and hightailed it to where my group had assembled, cool and composed despite the warm September afternoon.

  “Sorry I’m late!” I gave an exaggerated roll of my eyes. “But you would not believe my professor, wanting us all to stay until the end of his lecture. Can you imagine?”

  The buxom brunette beside me shook her head. “I know! We have all semester to go to class, but Rush only lasts one week, and affects our Entire Lives!”

  Sadly, she spoke without irony. Up on the steps Jenna rapped on the door, telling the Epsilon Zetas that the next round was assembled, and beside her, Hillary looked at me with no small disapproval. I reached up and smoothed my hair with my hands, an involuntary reaction.

  Such was the power of the Rho Gamma stare. In addition to shepherding our group from house to house, they ran herd on the rushees throughout the day, enforcing the rules. Besides the mandatory wearing of name tags, we weren’t allowed to talk to “actives”—that is, sorority members—outside of the parties.

  My name tag was dutifully pinned to the bodice of my sundress, where it scratched the pale skin of my bare arm, and the only sorority girls I’d talked to today had been Jenna and Hillary, which was, obviously, allowed. But I was pretty sure writing pithy articles skewering Rush traditions was against the Rho Gamma rules.

  Two houses later, my brain and my butt were both numb.

  Every round had a theme, and tonight was the philanthropy round. Every sorority chooses, at the national level, a pet cause or organization, and each chapter is required to do an annual fund-raiser to justify the other fifty weeks of purely self-indulgent social activities. And for the past eternity, the rushees had been required to hear about it, mostly through video montages and PowerPoint presentations.

  The propaganda also showed the house’s personality. The Theta Nus had managed to work their GPA ranking into their presentation. The Epsilon Zetas had lots of guys in their pictures, always with arms thrown around the girls. I’m not saying the Epsilon Zetas were a sure thing, in any sense of the phrase, but…well, when your house is called the EZs maybe it’s just inevitable.

  Dusk was sitting heavy and humid in the sky as Jenna and Hillary escorted us to the next house on our agenda, the Zeta Theta Pis. The curvy brunette from before—Miss Entire Life—drew up alongside me. “I like your outfit,” she said as we walked. “It’s kind of sixties retro.”

  It was. Gran never got rid of anything. Yellow and red, with splashes of orange, the frock had useless little spaghetti straps and a full, pleated skirt. I wore ballet flats and a Band-Aid on my ankle where I’d cut myself shaving. “I raided my grandmother’s closet for something to wear.”

  “Grandmother’s Closet?” she echoed. “I’ve never heard of that store.”

  “It’s, uh, very exclusive.” There was another girl, a redhead, stuck with us behind the rushee bottleneck on the sidewalk. I caught Red stifling a smile, but the brunette was oblivious.

  “Anyway. Great dress. I’m Tricia, by the way.”

  “Thanks. I’m Maggie.”

  We reached the Zeta house slightly ahead of schedule, earning a restorative break. Lip gloss tubes and compacts appeared for synchronized primping. Only Red-haired Girl and I abstained, and lounged against the stair rail to wait.

  She reminded me of an Irish setter, in a good way. Her dark red hair fell, slightly feathered, to her shoulders, and she had a rangy, athletic grace. She looked as if she would be more at home on a ball field than a sorority house.

  “What houses are you interested in, Maggie?” Tricia asked. She had whipped out a little battery-operated fan and was using it to blow her long brown hair from her flushed face.

  I mimicked Hillary’s ultraserious tone. “How can I possibly decide when I’ve yet to hear all the philanthropies?”

  Irish Setter Girl smirked. Tricia looked suspiciously between us. “What’s so funny?”

  “Nothing. Except that ‘Recruitment’”—I made little quotes in the air—“is like comparing the gas mileage of a Mustang and a Corvette. You say you’re being practical, but all you really care about is which one looks best for picking up guys.”

  Hillary strode past us; along with her black T-shirt with its green RG, she wore pressed khaki shorts and sneakers that had never seen a workout. She glanced at me on her way up the steps. “I see you managed to find your name tag.” Then she stopped, her blond ponytail swinging as she stared with narrowing eyes at my chest. “What did you do to it?”

  I glanced down at the tag, which now said: Maggie Quinn. English major. Lives at home. “I thought this was more efficient.”

  Tsks and titters from the rushees. Irish Setter Girl snorted, in a laughing-with-me kind of way.

  “Prospective New Members,” said the scandalized Rho Gamma, “are not supposed to alter their name badges!”

  “Oh. I didn’t know.”

  Jenna climbed the porch steps past us. “Don’t worry about it, Maggie. We’ll get you a new one tomorrow.”

  Hillary bit back her opinion on that, and followed her up. “We’ll see if they’re ready for you.”

  As soon as Hillary and Jenna turned to the door, the red-haired girl hissed at me. “Hey. Have you still got the pen?”

  “Sure.” I reached into my little handbag and fished it out. She pulled the paper from her plastic holder. Under her name—Holly Russell—she wrote “ Legacy” while I peered shamelessly over her shoulder.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Efficient.” She grinned at me and folded the card back into its sleeve.

  “Why efficient?” I asked. I knew from the interminable orientation that a legacy was someone whose close relative was a member of a certain sorority.

  “Spares everyone the trouble of making nice when it’s a done deal.”

  A legacy wasn’t supposed to be an automatic in, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t. “I guess that ex
plains why Zeta Theta Pi asked me back.”

  “You’re a Zeta leg?” She handed me the pen. “Write it down. It’ll impress the other houses. Everyone loves the Zetas.”

  “Really?” I glanced at the double front doors, emblazoned with . I’d been there yesterday, of course, but those parties had been short and the houses pretty much blurred together. “Why?”

  “Because they’re cool, why else?”

  I tried to picture my mother in a cool sorority and failed utterly. My mother is an accountant. “What about the Sigma Alpha Xis?” I pointed to Holly’s name badge. “Did you write that to impress people?”

  She sighed. “No. I wrote it so they won’t feel they have to bother being nice to me. No SAXi leg goes anywhere but SAXi.”

  “What are they, like the mafia?”

  She barked an Irish setter laugh. “No. Not exactly.”

  The Zeta doors opened before I could ask her anything else, and we flowed in, carried by the inexorable tide of Sisterhood with a capital S.

  Our merry band left the Zeta house as the sun dropped low in the west.

  “Didn’t I say?” Holly shortened her strides and we hung at the back of the pack along with Tricia, making our way toward the SAXi house near the center of the block.

  “You did.” The Zeta Theta Pis exemplified cool: effortless, amiable, seemingly unconcerned with status or social hierarchy. That unforced confidence reminded me of my friend Lisa. She’d gotten tagged with the nickname D&D Lisa during the role-playing phase of her youth, but by the time she graduated summa cum laude, it had become more of a title. Uniquely beautiful (once she emerged from her Goth cocoon), smart, and sarcastic, she wasn’t part of any group at Avalon High, but she had an impressive network of minions and a small fiefdom of friends.

  She’d be pissed to think she had anything in common with a sorority. Maybe I just missed her because there was so much on Greek Row worthy of mockery, and I had no one to share it with. I hated that she was so far away, and hated even more that we’d argued before she left.