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Authors: Micol Ostow

30 Guys in 30 Days (7 page)

BOOK: 30 Guys in 30 Days
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“Oh, I don’t know, Charlie,” I hedged. “Sometimes we have different ideas about
fun.”

“Well, that’s true,” she conceded. But she wasn’t a quitter, that Charlie Norton. “What if,” she said, leaning her forearms against her knees and adopting a solemn expression, “we make a deal?”

“What kind of deal?” I asked, skeptical.

“Well, you’ll register, and well go to some events. And if you hate it, you can drop out. No questions asked.”

I scowled at her. “One party. That’s it.”

She flung her arms around me and squeezed for dear life. I coughed.

But who was I to have such a negative attitude about all of this? I mean, eight hours ago I’d been lamenting my lack of “niche,” my sense of not belonging? And here was someone literally begging me to join in—to join her, and to eventually, hopefully, become a part of something larger. I didn’t really have a good reason to turn her down, short of a very hazy and probably biased idea of what it meant to be Greek.

I was, of course, having doubts. Charlie, meanwhile, was having her very own MTV party to go. She was doing her Beyonce impression down the narrow space between our beds. I had to laugh. Charlie was fun. Hence, rushing with Charlie would probably be fun.

Probably.

I stood and joined her in a grand finale. Then I straightened up and smoothed my skirt out.

“Where are you going?” Charlie asked as I scooped my wallet and keys into my bag.

“I have to pick something up in Cambridge,” I explained. “At the Coop.” The Coop was the Virgin Megastore of college bookstores, located smack in the center of Harvard Square. Anything you couldn’t find at the Woodman bookstore, I was told, was sure to be available there. I was banking on locating some software for my computer science class. We were supposed to bring it to our next tutorial, and the thought of showing up empty-handed gave me goose bumps. The bad kind. Our professor, Hartridge, didn’t seem easygoing at all. “Do you need anything?” I asked.

“Nuh-uh,” she said, winding down from her sudden burst of activity. “Well, maybe some sour peaches from that candy store. Are you taking the shuttle?”

“Yup.”

“It leaves from the campus center,” she pointed out smoothly.

“Yes, Charlie.” I sighed. “I’ll sign up for rush on my way.”

9/8, 11:01 p.m.

from: [email protected]

to: [email protected], [email protected]

re: I’ll admit it…

I had a moment (or two) of hesitation as I signed my name—and my upcoming Friday night—to the rush sheet. I put the pencil down, then picked it up again, suffused with an urge to cross out my name. But I reminded myself that I was doing this strictly as a favor (got that, Charlie?), and that I could stop the instant it became un-fun. Of course, that assumed there would be a time when it was
not
un-fun. Or, rather, that it was fun. My doubts were actually starting to become sort of confusing.

I was mulling over this rather complicated thought process as I walked down the stairs of the campus center to the first floor, where, if my sources were correct, the safety shuttle would arrive momentarily.

“Ow!”

“Oh, god,” I said, stepping back. While descending the last step, I had somehow managed to stomp directly onto an innocent
passerby. “I’m so sorry—I’m such a spaz. I was just—well, I guess my mind was wandering.”

“Hey, no harm done. Though I may send you a bill for the concussion.”

I laughed. “I’m Claudia. Clarkson. And I’m
really
sorry,” I said again.

“I’m Dave,” my victim said. “And it’s fine.”

I reached out to shake his hand, and finally got a look at him. Dave was tallish, and thin without being heroin-chic gaunt, with floppy, light brown hair. He was smiling and had a friendly, open look about him, further underscored by the fact that he was choosing not to press charges over our little hit-and-run.

“So, what were you so incredibly wrapped up in, Claudia Clarkson, that you nearly killed me?”

I flushed. “I’m a little bit embarrassed. My roommate has me rushing with her. You’re not Greek, are you?” I asked suspiciously.

He shook his head. “Nope, not me. But some people think it’s fun. Right, Gabe?”

Come again, friendly Dave?
Gabe?

Sure enough, loping toward us was Gabe, whistling to himself and bouncing a little bit as he walked. It was pretty cute, I had to admit even if I was taken aback.

Apparently so was Gabe. “Wh—,” he began, then stopped when he saw me.

“Gabe, this is Claudia Clarkson,” Dave said, introducing us. “She’s my friend who just caused me bodily harm.”

“It was an
accident”
I insisted, giggling, “but actually,—”

“We know each other from the paper,” Gabe finished. He looked a little bit nonplussed.

“Yup, he’s my muse,” I said. Maybe having Gabe’s cute friend around had somehow detracted from the Gabe-related speech impediment that usually set in right about now?

“Some of Gabe’s best friends are Greek,” Dave said affably. “I pass no judgments. But, hey—you work at the paper, so you must know Kyra!”

“The Answer Goddess.” I tried to suppress the sarcastic edge that swelled inside of me.

I mean, correct me if I’m wrong, but I
think
I was just starting to find the flirt zone, was I not? And here they were, to plague me again: the media supercouple of the Woodman campus. They were like Woodman’s own Jennifer and Brad. Or, I mean, Jennifer and Ben. The
other
Jennifer and Ben. Or whatever. Why can’t these Hollywood couples just make it work, anyway?

“So, where are you off to?” Gabe asked.

“I have to run some errands in Cambridge,” I explained.

“Oh, you need to check out that CD shop right next door to the Coop!” Dave said, suddenly animated again.

“No way, man,” Gabe said, intensely. “That place is beat. Totally overpriced.” He looked at me. “There’s one in Porter that’s better. The next time you’re down at the paper I’ll give you the address.”

Dave shoved his friend lightly. “Whatever, Claudia, do yourself a favor. I mean, if you’re going to be at Harvard
anyway,
you might as well check out the place by the Coop. Even though Angsty Musician Man doesn’t condone it at the moment.”

I had to laugh. “Well see if I have time, guys.”

But the scene was starting to feel a little bit stale, and I couldn’t put my finger on why. Maybe it was their respective—freakish—determination that I shop where they shop. It was weirdly competitive, almost.

I needed some fresh air. And, anyway, the shuttle was on its way. Which was what I told them. I thanked them, and then I made my way to the shuttle.

Things I learned about boys in general today:

• They are very serious about where they shop for CDs.

• They can be very open-minded about the Greek system under the right influences (i.e., cute girls).

• They can be gracious in the face of bodily harm.

•It *is* possible to have a normal conversation with one!

Things I learned about Gabe, in particular today:

• He is VERY serious about where he shops for CDs.

• He will go to frat parties only when accompanied by Kyra.

• He is oddly territorial of his friends. Which is a shame, because under different circumstances, I sure wouldn’t mind running into Dave again. But whether or not Gabe’s taken, I don’t want things to be weird between us. And there are definitely at least two thousand male undergrads I still have yet to meet. So why sweat the small stuff?

—XX

9/8, 11:59 p.m.

from: [email protected]

to: [email protected]

re: Dear, sweet—

—naive
Claudia: Is it possible that Gabe was merely jealous? After all, it does sort of sound like you were vibing on his friend. A lot of guys—even guys with girfriends—get bent out of shape about stuff like that.

Or so I hear.

“What do you think?” Charlie asked, twirling so as to give me a more accurate
full-body view of her gorgeosity (which, I will admit, is impressive). In preparation for our rush “cocktails,” Charlie wore a slip dress in a sleek gunmetal gray shade, and strappy shoes that looked dangerously uncomfortable. She had set her hair in hot rollers so that blond waves now tumbled over her otherwise bare shoulders, and her makeup managed to pick up on the subtle shimmer of the dress without making her look like a runaway Christmas tree ornament. I was impressed. She had clearly picked up some skills in the Georgia Peach beauty pageants of the past.

As an act of supreme kindness, she had even extended her expertise to me in a consultory role. I wore a lacy black skirt that just skimmed my knees, and a soft pink cashmere tank top that Charlie assured me complemented my light brown hair and brown eyes. Me, I was just going for as much comfort as I could, right down to the simple ballet flats I wore on my feet. “Very Hepburn,” Charlie had appraised, making a thumbs-up gesture. “Audrey, I mean.”

“Thanks,” I replied, taking a moment to touch up my eye makeup.

“Claudia, I really wanted to tell you again how much it means to me that you’re doing this,” Charlie said.

I felt a tinge of guilt. “Charlie, I told you, I’m just giving it a try. I promised I would go to this event tonight and keep an open mind—I certainly don’t think there’s anything wrong with rushing, or pledging, or whatever.
But,
I really do want to get more involved at the paper, and if I don’t want to stick with the rushing, you have to be cool about that.”

“Of course!” she insisted, giving me an enthusiastic but mindful-of-our-swanky-clothing squeeze. “I promise you I will. No worries, no hard feelings.”

She sounded sincere, I had to admit. But I was worried, nonetheless. It was the look in her eyes.

Two hours and twenty minutes later, which was two hours into “cocktails,” and the look in Charlie’s eyes had intensified to one of utter awe. I had to admit that the Tri-Delts were classy. Or, at least, their sorority house was. Again, it was a Colonial style house built of red brick, but it was nearly
twice the size of the Sigma-Nu house and vastly cleaner, which just goes to show about the fairer sex. Cocktails and mingling were being held in the sitting room, which, as near as I could tell, was a fancy word for a living room, just off of the enormous dining area. Charlie sat on a chaise in the far cor-ner, sipping a Cosmopolitan and telling an elaborate anecdote that somehow involved quite a bit of enthusiastic, tinkling laughter and the tossing of her hair back over her shoulder. This party was the flagship event of the rush period, intended to kick off the week as a “getting to know you” among all of the sisters of the various houses and all of the potential rushees. But, somehow, Charlie had practically become the primary attraction of the evening. I felt an odd and perhaps misplaced sense of pride. I also felt a sense of relief. If I decided that I didn’t want to do this, the girl would clearly be okay without me.

“Do you need another drink?” I looked up to find a very petite, very perky girl with short blond hair holding a silver serving tray laden with flutes of champagne. Another sister. I shook my head and tilted
my own Cosmopolitan at her by way of demonstration.

“Oh, great,” she squeaked. She set her tray down and plopped onto the overstuffed chintz chair next to me. “We were worried that no one was drinking the Cosmos.” She pointed at her name tag. “I’m Meredith. I’m Chi-Omega.”

“Hi, I’m Claudia,” I said, exposing my clavicle so that she could see my own tag.

“Are you excited about rushing?” Meredith asked. She must have been able to read my guilty expression, because she quickly lowered her voice, “It’s okay. That’s the whole point of coming to these things. To see if it feels right. Please. Some of my best friends are my sisters, but my closest friend at Woodman was my freshman year roommate!”

I smiled. “It’s actually my roommate who wants to pledge.” I cast my gaze across the room to where Charlie was leading her loyal followers in an impromptu Macarena.

Meredith glanced over to the small pop video in progress. “She should have no trouble at all,” she offered. “But what about you? What do you like to do?”

I took a sip of my Cosmo, then set it back down again. “I like to write,” I offered. “I did two reviews for the
Chronicle.
I’m a little bit high on my byline.”

Meredith smiled. “I’m sure,” she agreed. “I love the
Chronicle.
Everyone on campus reads it. If you write for that regularly, you’ll be a minor celebrity.”

I liked the sound of that. “I can live with that,” I told her.

“Oh! You should write a column!” she continued. “My friends and I loooove to read the columns. Our favorite is … what’s it called?”

I had a sinking feeling. “Um, ‘Ask the Answer Goddess’?”

“Yeah! We love that one! The Answer Goddess rules! What’s her name?”

“Kyra Hamilton,” I said tightly, trying not to scream. Was it impossible to go twenty-four hours without hearing
someone
extol her virtues? She was out of town this weekend, I knew, so I had thought the rush event would be safe. But it turned out that no place on campus was safe. Dammit.

“Yeah, exactly!” Meredith said triumphantly, as though I had just read her the
secret formula for turning lead into gold. She sighed wistfully.

So did I.

9/10, 1:14 a.m.

from: [email protected]

to: [email protected]

re: first things first

That is to say, I don’t think I’m going to rush. Although all of the young women I met tonight (well, technically last night, but since I still haven’t gone to bed yet …) were friendly, outgoing, and actually surprisingly un-Stepfordian, I have a feeling that comp sci, the paper, and any other form of life I choose to have this semester will actually take up enough time that I don’t need to do this. Something tells me Charlie will rush hard enough for the both of us. Elles, she was
totally
the belle of the ball last night.

BOOK: 30 Guys in 30 Days
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