Sorority Sisters (11 page)

“Me, too,” he whispers, sliding out of me.

He goes to the bathroom and gets a washcloth and hands it to me; I wipe the wetness from my crotch, trying to look pretty and sexy while I do it, and then he says, “I've got to study. That exam is going to be a bear and I still need to analyze three poems I haven't read yet.”

In a minute or two, we're back in the living room, Greg at the kitchen table, dark head bent over his books, a contented air about him. The light in the living room and kitchen is so bright, so painfully bright. I put my arms around Greg from behind, hugging him, kissing his neck as he sits at his studies.

“I've got to study, Karen. Can you keep yourself busy for a while? Then I'll walk you back to the house,” he says.

“Sure. Take your time,” I say.

I look around and pick up some newspapers that were on the floor, straighten them into an orderly square, no ragged edges, and put them on the coffee table. I plump the cushions on the couch and close the drapes. I go into the kitchen and wash a frying pan, three plates with melted cheese stuck on them, five glasses, a butter knife, and three forks. I put the dishes away, humming a little tune that has no true melody, just something I'm making up as I go.

“Karen, could you keep it down? I'm trying to study.”

“Sorry.”

I straighten the dish towel on the oven handle and scrub the sink. I make sure the Joy bottle is perfectly straight and lined up with the faucets. I walk into the bathroom and go, fixing the toilet paper so that it unwinds the right way, then wiping down the sink and countertop so that they're spotless and dry. I fold and straighten the towels.

Greg is still at his books, seemingly oblivious to my presence. That's okay. He's got to study.

I wander into the bedroom and make his bed so that no one can tell what we did. Even me. And then I wander back out to the living room, things looking much better, much tidier and more organized and as pretty as things can look in a college apartment shared by two guys. There's not a single picture hanging on the walls, but there is that Farrah Fawcett poster, the one of her in the red bathing suit. I don't look anything like Farrah Fawcett, nothing at all. She's so beautiful.

“I need to get going,” I say to Greg.

“Can you wait awhile? I'm having trouble understanding this one poem.”

“Which poem is it?”

“‘In Distrust of Merits,' by Marianne Moore.”

“I know that poem,” I say. “‘Hate-hardened heart, O heart of iron / iron is iron till it is rust. / There never was a war that was / not inward . . .'”

I've remembered those lines; I don't want to think why. Also, the last line:
Beauty is everlasting / and dust is for a time.

“That's it. It's nuts.”

“What don't you understand?” I say. “Maybe I can help.”

And so I do. An hour later, Greg, feeling less nervous about his final in American Literature, walks me home. We hold hands and he tells me about a summer camping trip with his parents at Yosemite when he was eleven and of a prank he played on his high school girlfriend that wound up in the yearbook. I listen and laugh at the right moments. At the steps of the Beta Pi house, Greg kisses me good night and then I wave good-bye.

I let my eyes wander over to the front of the EE Tau house twice during Greg's monologue. Okay, maybe three times, but overall, I think I did pretty well.

Actually, I think I deserve an Academy Award.

Ellen

–
Spring 1977
–

“I thought this class was supposed to be a Mick,” I say.

Mick
is short for Mickey Mouse, shorthand for an easy way to get course credits in required fields. It's a ULA thing.

“That's the word,” Karen says.

“I needed one more class to max out my biological sciences,” Diane says. “Hello, Human Sexuality.”

“Have you read any of the book?” Karen says. “It's five hundred pages.”

“And cost forty bucks, used,” Diane says.

“You're the one who talked us into taking it,” I say, looking at Diane down the row. We're sitting in the dark of Bowman, the room nearly full, the professor talking, everyone sitting quietly, taking notes. Everyone but us. We're sitting side by side, whispering.

“Hey, I heard it was a Mick, too!” Diane says. “No one said the first midterm was twenty-six pages long.”

“Selective memory,” I say.

“They said it was a Mick,” Karen says. “
Everybody
says it.”

“
Everybody
is a liar,” I say. The first test was brutal. Does it really matter that I know how many sperm are in a single ejaculation when it takes only one to do the job?

“At least today we're seeing a movie,” Karen says, balancing her purse on top of her books, on top of her lap, snuggling down in her seat. Karen loves movies like nobody else I know. She's seen them all, not just the famous ones.

“Yeah,” I say, already wondering what kind of movie they're going to show us in Human Sexuality. It can't be X-rated. It has to be illegal to show a bunch of minors an X-rated movie. Still, the midterm was twenty-six pages long. All bets are off in this class.

The professor says from the stage, “And so our perception of male and female sexuality is formed and controlled by cultural norms that become fossilized over time. Today we're going to see two films on masturbation—”

“What?!” I say.

“Oh, God, no,” Diane moans.

“—and I want you to notice the differences in the artistic quality of the films and how those differences, subtle or not, influence your reaction and therefore define your perception. I'll leave it at that for now, but be ready to discuss this once these two short films are finished.”

The lights go out. The professor gets off the stage and sits in the front row. Karen hunches down in her seat, looking like she wants to crawl under the seat in front of her. Diane has her hands over her mouth. I'm too shocked to move. There are more than a hundred people in this room and I'm being forced to watch somebody masturbate.

I can't believe I just thought that.

The film starts. A nice-looking girl with a trim figure and long dark hair walks into a bedroom. She's in her underwear. It's a nice room. It's clean, her bed's made, there's a cute little lamp on her desk, and the lamp is on. She lights a candle and the flame looks kind of cozy. She puts a record on the stereo in her room, all her movements calm and deliberate, like she knows what she's going to do next and she's cool with that. Soft music begins to play, not hard rock, but something upbeat. She takes off her bra and lets it fall to the floor. She lies back on her bed and starts touching her breasts, rubbing her hands over them, playing with her nipples.

Some guy four rows down and off to the side makes a chortling noise. The professor turns around and looks at the students in his class. We all sit perfectly still, eyes front, like students are supposed to do.

The girl slides her panties off. One hand stays on a nipple and the other winds its way down to her crotch. The camera stays steady, not moving, and the shot is from the side so we don't actually see the goods, just her hand going like crazy between her legs. Then her legs twitch, her breath gets short, she dips her head forward, and she makes a
here I come
noise.

The audience is silent, watching her.

The shot fades out, the music still playing, until that dies out, too.

The next film starts right away; I barely have a chance to look over at Diane and Karen. Karen is wide-eyed and so low in her seat that I don't know how she can see over the chair in front of her. Diane has her hands over her eyes and she's shaking her head.

All I know is that I feel assaulted and shocked. I don't have anything in my head but pure horror.

In the next film, there's no music and the lighting is really dim, almost murky. There's a sloppy-looking guy with messed-up hair and dirty jeans in a pigsty of a room. His bed is unmade and the sheets are gross. There is crap all over the floor: record albums, an overflowing ashtray, piles of clothes. He looks at a
Playboy
centerfold, drops his pants, grabs his dick, and jerks off as fast as he can. The whole thing takes less than five minutes, and I'm talking about the film. The guy jerking off, maybe three minutes. The minute he's finished catching the goo—oh, excuse me, three hundred million sperm—in a dirty rag he picks up off the floor, he wipes himself, yanks his jeans on, and that's the end of it.

I've never seen a guy naked before, never seen a dick, and this is my first look. Fucking fantastic.

The lights come up in the auditorium.

The professor walks up to the stage and looks at us expectantly.

There's not a sound in the room. Even the guys aren't chuckling. In fact, the guys in the room look embarrassed. Damn straight.

“So, what are your thoughts? How would you describe your reactions to these two very different portrayals of masturbation?”

“I think I'm going to puke,” Diane whispers, her head buried in her lap.

“I think I'm going to tell Ed just what his twelve thousand a year is paying for,” I say.

“I think I'm going to try to forget I ever saw this,” Karen says.

“Like that's going to happen,” Diane says, and then she gets up and leaves the auditorium.

Karen looks at Diane's retreating back, then at me; then we do what we have to do. We get up and follow Diane out of the auditorium and into the chilly spring sunshine. Our bikes are all parked next to each other, crammed in with the others, foot pedals tangled. Diane has her head down and is twirling her lock dial like a safe cracker.

“Okay,” I say. “I'm up for ditching class today.”

“Where to?” Karen says, yanking her bike free of a rogue pedal. The offending bike falls down. “Time to make our escape. Pronto. Before I get yelled at for the dead bike in the road.”

“Serves 'em right for crowding you,” I say. “Diane?”

Diane has unchained her bike and lifts her head to look at me. She looks green around the gills.

“Come on, Diane,” Karen says, rolling her bike out of the pack to the street. “Let's blow this pop stand.”

“Don't say
blow
,” I say.

Diane snorts a laugh and then shakes her head. “You have no shame.”

“At least I don't masturbate on camera,” I say.

“Your standards are impressive,” Karen says.

“Haven't I always said so?” I say.

“That was just vile,” Diane says, getting on her bike, her books dumped in the basket in the front. “My dad would kill someone if he knew they showed us that.”

“Really? Let's tell him. I'd like to see that professor bite the dust,” I say.

Karen laughs. “Come on. If we're going to ditch, let's do something fun.”

“Let's hit the Dust,” Diane says. The Stardust Apartments is where Missy lives; she calls it the Dust, so we call it the Dust. Why not? It's dusty. “But let's get some food on the way.”

“We just had lunch an hour ago,” Karen says.

“What is your problem, Mitchell?” I say. “It's never too soon to have . . . ?” I look at Diane.

“Boston cream pie,” Diane says, a light in her eyes.

“That'll settle your stomach,” Karen says.

“Damn skippy, it will,” Diane says. “Let's roll.”

We climb on our bikes and head down University Avenue, dodging bikes until we're in the stream of students heading off campus and merging in with them.

“What if Missy's in class?” Karen says.

“She leaves the door unlocked, for casual strangers, like us,” I say.

“Safety first,” Karen says.

“Yeah, we're talking about Missy,” I say.

We ride for a while, comfortable in the throng of bikes and students, making our way to The Row. The crowd thins slowly the farther we get from campus until it's just the three of us riding side by side down The Row.

I cast a glance at Karen; she's looking at Diane. I look at Diane.

“Will you guys stop staring at me?” Diane says. “What are you expecting? My head to turn around on my neck like that girl in
The Exorcist
?”

“I was kind of expecting the green vomit,” I say.

Diane chuckles and Karen says, “Are you okay?”

“Jim-dandy.”

Karen and I look at each other again.

“Let's park at the house and then walk to the Dust,” Karen says.

“Jim-dandy,” I say.

Diane shakes her head, her black hair blowing back behind her shoulders. “Find your own catchphrase.”

“Eat shit and die,” I say.

“Sorry. I think Missy already grabbed that one,” Karen says.

It's as we're in front of the Zeta house, just a few down from ours, when Laurie comes out of the house and starts unlocking her bike.

“Hey! McCormick!” I yell. “Ditch class with us! We're going to hang at Missy's and eat Boston cream pie.”

We're in front of Beta Pi by the time I get it all out, and Laurie is looking typically Laurie, slightly interested and ready to blow us off. She's been ready to blow us off for months now. I can't figure out what's wrong with her or what we did.

“Who's got the pie?” Laurie asks.

“You. Once you buy it and truck it over to the Dust,” I say.

“Slick, I have to admit,” Laurie says.

“I'll go with you,” Karen says. “I don't want to be with Ryan, anyway. She's going to pull an
Exorcist
any minute now.”

“That sounds pretty,” Laurie says, “but why?”

“A simple case of masturbation overload,” I say.

“I've heard that can happen,” Laurie says, staring at Diane.

“Olson, shut the hell up,” Diane says. “I need pie. I need it now. McCormick, are you going to be in my rescue party or what?”

We're all staring at Laurie, so she finally says, “Okay. Boston cream pie it is. I'll just skip Spanish. It's not like I have to pass it or anything.”

“Adios, chica,” I say. “
Donde esta la
Boston cream pie?”

“Dejeme en paz!”
Laurie says.

“Well, that sounded rude,” I say.

“Diane, throw up. Break the tension,” Karen says. “Come on, Laurie, let's go. Save a Coke for me.”

“Got it,” I say. “Let's go, Ryan. We can't have you puking on the Beta Pi lawn. It's a Standards offense for sure.”

Less than one hour later, Karen and Laurie are in the Dust, Diane is laughing, Missy is swearing, and I'm cutting the pie into very healthy chunks.

“Okay, so I want the full scoop on Greg,” I say to Karen. “Are you guys getting married?”

“Yes,” she says. “We plan to, once we graduate.”

“He's cute,” I say. “Kind of quiet, but cute.”

“It's called discretion,” Laurie says, taking a plate of pie. “Some people have it.”

“And some people don't,” Diane says. “And them that's got it, spread it around. Or maybe if they have discretion, they don't spread it around. Line judge! We need a ruling over here.”

“Whatever the ruling, spreading it around sounds sleazy,” Karen says, waving off the pie, sipping her Coke out of the can. She probably doesn't trust Missy's glasses, and I can't say I blame her.

“Eye of the beholder,” I say. “So, Greg actually asked you?”

Karen looks down at her soda and rubs her finger around the hole. “Yeah. Of course.”

“What about you, McCormick? You've been with Pete for how long now? Is it serious?” I ask.

Laurie shrugs and looks down at the carpet. The Dust put in new carpet over the summer. It still looks like shit.

“What are you doing, taking a survey?” Diane asks me.

“Yeah. You got a problem with that?”

“Since you asked, yeah. I do. Unless you want to share what's going on with you and Mike. When are you going to fish or cut bait with that guy?” Diane says.

“I'm not following,” I say. But I am. Kind of. Mike Dunn is a jerk. I know he's a jerk, but he's a fascinating jerk who every now and then seems so sexy that I can barely breathe. We're not exactly dating. It's more like he's Jaws and I'm the girl swimming in the dark. Everybody knows what happened to her.

“Are you dating him or what?” Diane says.

“Or what,” I say. “He's cute, but what's the rush? I'm busy anyway.”

I am busy. I'm the president of Beta Pi this year. It was my idea to run, and then it was my idea to convince Karen to run for pledge trainer and Laurie to run for Panhellenic delegate and Diane to run for Rush chair. Diane refused to run; she's too busy being the editor of the
Seahorse
, the Navy ROTC yearbook. Karen and Laurie fell in with it. It only took me ten minutes to get to Karen. Laurie was a harder sell. But when isn't she?

“We're all busy,” Diane says, “but when has that ever been an excuse for giving up guys?”

“I'm not giving up guys,” I say. “I'm just taking it slow.”

“Same here,” Laurie says.

“Not me,” Karen says. “I say damn the torpedoes and full speed ahead.”

“It's been said before,” Missy says.

“Yeah, and I think the guy who first said it died,” Laurie says.