Brimstone (34 page)

“Maggie, females of all ages have been throwing hoity-toity parties and shunning the inferior for centuries. I shouldn’t have to tell
you
that.”

I wasn’t sure if I’d just been insulted or commiserated with. But he was right about one thing: He didn’t have to tell me about the rabidity of the alpha bitch in defending the social hierarchy. I had the bite marks to prove it.

“Okay, what about the perpetuation of an outdated system of stratification and false superiority …?”

Ethan handed the copy across the desk. “If that’s your point, the story isn’t done. You’ve only been to one round of parties.”

I stared at him in dawning horror. “You mean … I have to go
back
?”

“Bring me the story that I don’t know.” He spun his chair to face his computer screen. “That is, if Professor Quinn lets you live when he finds out you made him a janitor.”

I’d been dismissed. Folding the rejected story into thirds, I stuffed it into my satchel and headed out of the office, then down the stairs. Out in the bright September morning, I paused on the Main Street sidewalk, lifted my face to the sunshine, and breathed deeply. The too-warm breeze stirred my short, dark hair across my eyes, hiding their childish watering.

Stupid to be so stung, when Ethan had only told me the truth. The rejection smacked me, deservedly, in the pride. Ace reporter for the high school paper was about as real-world applicable as presidency of the local
Star Trek
club. My first taste of Small Fish and Big Pond went down badly.

The clock in the square struck the hour, and I blinked away self-pity, mentally squaring my shoulders.
Never give up, never surrender
. That was my new motto.

Besides, what else was I going to do? I lived at home and
all my friends had gone away to school, including my best friend, Lisa, who was halfway across the country. The guy I was nuts about hadn’t called me since he spent the entire summer doing an internship in Ireland, and none of my freaky intuition could tell me why not. Because
that
would be useful.

My wicked psychic powers didn’t give me winning lottery numbers or insight into pork futures. No, what I got was the inspired idea to strap on a push-up bra and infiltrate the Delta Delta Gammas.

Let’s face it. The saddest thing about this whole undercover sorority thing was that I really didn’t have to
pretend
to be that much of a loser.

“M
aggie Quinn,” said my grandmother, her Irish accent deepening in familiar exasperation. “Saying that you are just a little bit psychic is like saying you’re just a little bit pregnant.”

“Gran!” I glanced around the coffee shop. The overstuffed couches and scratch-and-dent-sale chairs of Froth and Java were full of Bedivere University students, but hopefully we sat far enough from the midmorning caffeine zombies that her comment had gone unheard. The last thing I needed was word getting around campus that I was psychic. Or pregnant, for that matter.

“You either are, or you aren’t,” she continued, lifting her mug of tea. “The only question is how noticeable it is.”

Gran had called me right after I’d left the
Sentinel
’s offices, before I’d even reached the Jeep; fifteen minutes later she met me in F and J, where she listened to me whine, then told me to get over myself.

Besides being psychic, my grandmother was trim and trendy, and busy with her volunteer activities, which included the altar guild at St. Stephen’s Catholic Church and teaching yoga to senior citizens at the Spiritual Enlightenment Center. (Avalon was small but eclectic, rather like Gran.) It must have been New Age day, because she wore a sage green cotton jacket and pants, her bright red hair all perky.

I slouched across from her, cradling a paper cup of caffeinated goodness between my hands, dressed in my least ragged jeans and a fitted oxford, shirttails out. I’d ironed both my shirt and my hair in an attempt to look more polished. The pale yellow cotton had held its press longer than my sable bob; I could feel the latter reverting to its usual cappuccino froth by the moment.

The wavy brown hair I got from my mother; the rest of me was all Quinn. In addition to the Sight, I’d inherited my grandmother’s green eyes, pixie-shaped face, and pointed chin, as well as a certain broadness in the beam I could live without.

“I thought you’d be happy that I’ve accepted my freakitude.”

She rolled her eyes. “Somehow I’m still sensing a lack of true commitment.”

“I wonder why that could be. Maybe because last time, following my instincts almost got my friends and me killed?”

Pained guilt deepened the soft lines of her face. Gran still hadn’t forgiven herself for not sensing the depth of trouble I’d been in last spring. I wished she’d cut herself some slack. The things under your nose are the hardest to see, in any sense of the word. Plus, I’d gone to some pains to keep the whole truth from her, and I suspected other forces might have been doing the same. No proof, of course. Just a hunch.

But that was the thing about my … whatever you wanted to call it. Most of the time, it didn’t
feel
any different from simple—if eerily strong and accurate—intuition. I kept hoping for an instruction manual, but the best I’d been able to do was a copy of
ESP for Dummies
that I found on the bargain table at Barnes & Noble.

I hunched over my coffee cup, breath running out in a sigh. Just the smell of Froth and Java usually made me feel better, and I was trying hard to follow through on my resolution to drop the drama. “I just wish I didn’t feel so stupid. When I had that dream about the Greek letters, I thought there would be a story there.” That was how my psychicness had first shown up, in the nighttime, when logic couldn’t override the subconscious. “I thought, just once, my intuition was picking up on something useful.”

Gran clicked her tongue and cast her gaze heavenward. “What did you think you would discover in one night? Don’t they arrange these things to get more in-depth as the week goes on?”

“Yes.” Nice of my gran to join the Maggie-is-an-idiot refrain. “It’s a good thing I didn’t burn all my bridges.”

“See.” She smiled over her paper cup. “Your intuition did tell you something useful. So where will you go?”

I fished in my satchel for the e-mail I’d printed that morning. Mom had been appalled. Apparently, when she went through Rush—my own mother; I’m so ashamed—their invitations to the next round of parties were delivered to their dorm rooms. On silver platters, for all I knew.

During the past Friday’s orientation—excruciating in length and level of enthusiasm—I learned about “recs” and “bids” and “legacies.” All the talk of leadership and sisterhood was, considering we’d all shelled out registration fees, sort of like trying to sell us a car after we’d already made a down payment.

Rush—Recruitment, I should say—worked by double elimination. In the first round, which took two days, you went to all ten houses for the short torture sessions I’d described in my article. Then six tonight, four tomorrow, and two the last night. At each round, the sorority could choose to invite you back—or not, in which case you were “cut”—while simultaneously you had to narrow your choices. Theoretically, I could have had to choose six out of ten houses to visit for tonight’s second round. Needless to say, I faced no such quandary.

“Maggie Quinn?”

The speaker had a rounded, evening-news sort of voice. I turned, looked up, and up again. A tall, thin blonde stood beside our table, the light from the window behind her. I answered warily, “Yes?”

Her hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail, which bobbed as she looked me up and down. “
Where
is your name tag?”

“Uh …” I recognized her now, and the other young woman with her, carrying a tray of drinks. Both were Recruitment guides, or Rho Gammas, as the Panhellenic Council—the organizational body of sororities on campus—called them. Which said something about the pretentiousness involved, if “Panhellenic Council” wasn’t your first clue.

There were fifteen Rho Gammas, representing all the different houses, and though it was supposed to be a secret, some of them were easily identifiable. The blonde was Hillary, and I had her pegged for a Delta Zeta—aggressive perfectionists. Their party had been orchestrated to the millisecond with robotic efficiency. The girl with the drinks was Jenna, who wasn’t so easily pigeonholed.

“Potential New Members are supposed to wear their name tags at all times,” said Hillary, with a gravitas that implied I’d left the space station without my helmet. I’d also noticed that the tendency to speak in capital letters seemed to be a Greek trait.

“Sorry. I’m having coffee with my grandmother, and she already knows my name.”

Her instructions were brisk and sober. “The selection process goes on twenty-four-seven, Maggie. The houses will be watching to see how the Potential New Members comport themselves on campus, in class, in the cafeteria, and even off campus.”

“Like Big Sister?”

“Exactly!” she chirruped, pleased I’d seen her point. I thought I heard Jenna snort back a laugh, but I couldn’t be
sure. I know I heard Gran chuckle. “Is that your schedule for the next round?” Hillary asked.

“Yes, ma’am.”

She took it from my hand, her eyes flicking over the e-mail. “Only four invites, I see. At least you don’t have to make any choices tonight.”

“Yes. Considerate of so many houses to cut me.”

She scanned the list. “Epsilon Zeta. Yes, that figures. Theta Nu. Zeta Theta Pi and …” Her brows made an eloquent arch of surprise. “And Sigma Alpha Xi. How … interesting.”

She said “interesting” like she meant “unfathomable.”

“Maybe they’re filling a dork quota.”

“Of course not,” Hillary demurred, in a tone that said,
That explains it
. “You must have impressed them with your wit and charm.” Behind me Gran chortled again as Rho Gamma Blonda handed me back the schedule. “Put on your name badge as soon as possible. And you know the dress for tonight?”

“Black tie?”

“A simple sundress will be fine.” She turned toward the door, beckoning the other young woman after her. “Come on, Jenna, before the mochas get cold.”

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.