Sorority Sisters (18 page)

“How did your parents meet?” I ask.

“Who, mine?” Ellen says, staring down at the backgammon board. It's a close game. Laurie has a good head for backgammon.

“Yeah,” I say. “Mine met in college. My dad was in school on the GI bill and my mom was a sophomore. On their first date they went to a Yankees game. My mom's a complete baseball nut and my dad thought that was so cool. He proposed during the seventh-inning stretch two months later.”

“I knew baseball was slow, but a two-month-long game?” Diane says.

“Shut up,” I say, smiling. I can still smile. That means something, doesn't it? “You know what I mean.” I sit down on the desk chair next to the window, my back to The Row and all the possibilities that didn't happen there. “She said yes and they eloped to Niagara Falls a week later.”

“Really?” Diane says, shuffling over on her hands and knees to shove the popcorn popper against the wall, the cord still dripping dangerously into the middle of the room. “That's so romantic! Why didn't they wait and have a real wedding?”

“They never said, not really,” I say, “but I got the feeling that they
couldn't
wait.”

“Nope,” Ellen says sharply. “We are not going to talk about—we are not going to
think
about—our parents having sex. That's completely gross.”

“You think they waited? For real?” Diane says.

“Gross!” Ellen shouts, throwing her dice cup down on the gold shag carpet. The cup doesn't even bounce. Shag is like that. I dropped an earring into it once and never saw that earring again.

“I thought everybody waited back then,” Laurie says. “It was the forties.”

“Yeah, like Betty Grable didn't have sex,” Ellen says.

“Rita Hayworth,” I say.

“Doris Day,” Diane says. “Doris Day was not having sex!”

“Not on-screen anyway,” I say, shrugging. If I can keep my sex life secret, and I do, then so can Doris Day. You can't tell by looking, I know that for sure. Can guys tell by looking? I'm not as sure about that. “I think my parents waited. I can't think they didn't wait; that's for sure.”

“No shit,” Ellen says on a bark of laughter, leaning back against the bed, splaying her legs out in front of her.

“Come on,” I say. “Your turn.”

“This is like some sick version of
The Newlywed Game
. I don't want to think about how my parents met.”

“Come on,” I repeat. I need to hear this. I need to hear stories of love, marriage, and a baby carriage. I guess that shows on my face because Ellen sighs and starts talking.

“My parents met while my dad was in dental school,” Ellen says. “In fact, he went to ULA dental school. My mom was working as a receptionist for a dentist who taught at the school. They met over dental stuff—”

“Like the spit sink,” Diane cuts in.

“Very funny,” Ellen says, throwing a piece of popcorn at her. It misses her and bounces off the bed. “They met because my dad was in the office a few times, and he thought she was cute, I guess.” Ellen stops for a minute, looking down at the shag carpeting.

“And?” I prompt.

“And after hanging around for a few months he finally got the nerve to ask her out. They were married six months later.”

“Once he got going, your dad didn't waste any time,” I say.

“He wanted to stop hanging around the spit sink,” Diane says.

Ellen throws another piece of popcorn at Diane. Diane catches it and pops it in her mouth with a grin.

“Your turn, Diane,” I say. “A few more details would be nice.”

“What? Are you writing a thesis?” Ellen asks.

I shrug. “Maybe. You will not be acknowledged in the credits or the footnotes. Your story lacks heart, warmth, and all those details that make the best stories.”

“Only because the participants lack those qualities,” Ellen says, throwing a piece of popcorn at me with a grin. It misses me and lands in the gold shag. It blends in nicely.

“
My
parents met while my dad was stationed in Mississippi,” Diane says. “My poor grandparents were so upset that my mom fell in love with my dad, all that moving all the time. I don't think my mom wanted to fall in love with a naval pilot, but . . .” Diane's voice trails off. This is hitting too close to Doug
I feel no love for you
Anderson territory. That scar is still flaming red even after all this time. Will I still be scarred from my breakup with Greg a year from now? Two years from now?

Am I scarred from Guy or Craig or Billy or Jack? Have any of the guys I've loved and lost left their scars on me? Maybe, but the scars are so tiny and so old that they're just a part of me now, just nearly invisible lines that are part of who I am. That's not bad, is it? I can live with that. I
will
live with that. I'll live with it and move on, just like I always do.

“But we all know how pushy your dad is,” Ellen says to Diane, filling in the gap and coming to the rescue. “The one time I met him he kept pushing and pushing me to take a drink. I finally gave in. Just to be polite.”

“Yeah. Big sacrifice,” I say. “You poor thing. How did you ever bear up under the strain?”

“I'm plucky,” Ellen says.

“Is that how you pronounce it?” I say, grinning. I feel better, much better. I'll meet someone. I will. Everyone meets someone eventually. Hearts don't stay forever broken. I know that. Dreams do come true. I believe that. I have to believe that.

I think Tinker Bell said that first, or maybe it was Cinderella. Life according to Disney.

“How did your parents meet, Laurie?” Diane says, popping open a Coke. “Your turn.”

Laurie keeps her gaze down at the backgammon board, her cigarette sending up a trail of smoke from the ashtray near her right knee. “The usual way.”

“Way to fill in the details,” I say. “You flunked freshman English, right? Had to take it—what?—five times?”

“I don't know. They never told me,” she says softly, moving her pieces on the board.

“What?” I say, stunned, embarrassed, and ashamed of myself for teasing her.

“What do you mean, they never told you?” Ellen says. “How could they not tell you?”

Laurie shrugs, her eyes on the backgammon board. “It just never came up.”

“You never asked?” Ellen says.

“They never offered,” Laurie says. “You just don't ask my parents something that . . . personal. You met them. You know what they're like.”

We're all staring at Laurie, feeling horrible, feeling horrified, but still staring. Everything shifts, the picture I've had of Laurie changing right in front of me. I always thought she was so coolly sophisticated. Now I see that she's just so alone.

“I know that the upstairs maid met her husband at a bowling alley. They've been married for over twenty years. They're still bowling, too, on a husband-and-wife league. That's devotion,” Laurie says, her eyes still on the backgammon board.

I'm just staring at her, not sure what to say. I look around the room and Diane and Ellen have the same response as I do: dumb, shocked silence.

“Devotion to bowling or each other?” Ellen finally says, her voice rich with sarcasm. Her normal voice. A normal thing for her to say.

“Both?” Laurie says, laughing a little. There are tears in her eyes. She won't look at us. She's staring at that backgammon board like it's a Ouija board, able to unlock secrets for her, like the secret of how her parents met and married.

“Jesus, Laurie,” Diane whispers, staring at her. Diane is starting to cry. Ellen makes a noise and Diane looks at her. Ellen shakes her head and frowns. Diane lifts her head back and her tears evaporate.

Laurie wouldn't want us to cry for her. Laurie wouldn't want to feel that exposed. I get that. I really do.

Laurie ignores Diane, ignores us all. She picks up her cigarette and takes a drag, closing her eyes and lifting her face to the ceiling. “I really loved the upstairs maid, Meg. She'd play Monopoly with me sometimes. She'd tell me such funny stories about her husband and her kids. She has two kids, both boys. The oldest is probably in high school by now. I really missed her at first when I went away to school. She quit and I lost touch with her.”

The silence rises unbroken, a wall of velvety, dark silence that shrouds pain and unimaginable isolation. This time even Ellen can't find the words to break it down, to enter the place where Laurie lives, to carry her out on the back of our laughter and our love.

“Your roll, Olson,” Laurie says, flicking the ash off her cigarette.

The sound of the dice banging against the cup is Ellen's answer. It's the loneliest sound I've ever heard.

Winter 1978
–

It's raining and my last final before semester break is over. It was for my Middle English Literature class, which should have qualified as a foreign language since it wasn't actually English, but does anyone care about that in administration? They do not. So, here I am, walking from the philosophy building back to The Row as fast as I can, my jeans soaked to my skin, my hands like icicles, my hair plastered to my head underneath my yellow slicker hood, when this blue Mustang pulls up next to me as I reach The Row. I keep walking, but I look.

Staring up at me from the Mustang with a big, friendly smile is Doug Anderson.

He's just as handsome as ever. His eyes are as blue, his hair is as golden, and his features are as Ken-doll perfect as they were when Diane was going out with him.

“Hey, Karen,” he says. “How are you doing?”

“Hi, Doug. Fine,” I say.

I'm not sure what to do. Keep walking and try to talk to him? Stand in the rain and talk to him? Keep walking and not talk to him?

“Are you on your way to the house?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I say. “I just took my last final.”

“That's great!” he says, smiling like he won a cash prize. “Hey, you look miserable. Let me give you a ride.”

I stop walking again to stare at him. Every instinct that I've picked up from years of being . . . well, picked up . . . is shouting that something very weird is going on here and that I should not be seen talking to this guy. Believe me when I tell you that I don't ever remember having that instinct before. I'm pretty sure this is its maiden run. Doug Anderson is the enemy. All the Beta Pis hate him, those who haven't gone Omega, because we love Diane and he didn't.

But he's the most gorgeous guy I've ever seen. And he's paying attention to me.

“No, it's okay,” I say. “I'm almost there.”

I'm about a block away, but that really is
almost there
considering how far I've already walked. Can I admit at this point that I'm sort of wishing that Greg will somehow see me talking to Doug? I'm petty that way.

“Really,” he says. “Hop in. I can't bear to see you looking so miserable.”

“Thanks, but it's okay,” I say, smiling at him. He smiles back. My heart skips a beat. It really does.

“You're sure?” he says, his car still keeping pace with me, his smile tender and encouraging. Tender and encouraging? How does he even know who I am?

He looks at me like he thinks I'm pretty, and desirable, and irresistible. I'm soaked. I'm sure I have mascara stains under my eyes. I'm not pretty in the best of circumstances, and this is probably the worst of circumstances. Why is he acting like he's trying to pick me up?

“I'm sure,” I say, my heart thudding under my yellow slicker. “See you around.”

“You, too,” he says, slowly accelerating.

I keep a pleasant expression on my face and a little spring in my step as he drives off, just in case he's still watching me in his rearview mirror.

Spring 1978
–

“Karen!” a female voice shouts up the stairs. “Karen Mitchell!”

I get up from my typewriter, leaving my paper about Keats to cool, which is not a good thing since I was on a roll and it's due tomorrow at nine, and walk down the hall to the top of the stairs. I look down and see Missy staring up at me, looking ominous.

“Yeah?”

“There's someone here to see you,” she says, coming up a step.

“Okay. Who?” I say, coming down a step.

“A guy,” she says.

Naturally, I think it's Greg, coming to beg me to come back to him. My heart does a little leap, and then it flops around in a very lackluster way. Do I really want Greg back? No, not really. It's just I've never gone so long without a boyfriend before. In fact, I can't even get a date. That date with Diane's ROTC guy never happened. Both Laurie and I sort of chickened out and kept making excuses about how the timing wasn't right and how she had a big accounting exam and I had a paper on symbols in Victorian poetry. You know, the normal dodge to avoid a date. It's not that I don't want to meet another guy—I do—but I've never been set up before in my life. I never needed help finding a guy. What's wrong with me now?

I know exactly what's wrong with me now. I'm reeking of desperation. My mom told me that guys can sniff desperation from a hundred miles out. I'm oozing desperation so naturally there's not a guy in sight. I'm graduating in a few months, leaving the land of abundant, available guys, and I don't have a boyfriend, never mind a fiancé.

Every day I wake up and have one, blinding, overwhelming thought: crawl in a hole and die.

That's attractive, isn't it?

“Yeah?” I say. “Who is it?”

Missy comes up another step, and then another. When she's only two steps down from me, she whispers, “Doug Anderson.”

My stomach drops and flips, and there's nothing halfhearted about it. Missy looks at me in a combination of curiosity and accusation. We all hate Doug. No exceptions, no exemptions, and no excuses.

“Oh,” I say.