Greek: Best Frenemies (2 page)

“Whoa. Way to throw a milestone at me.”

“Well, we kinda harvested anything worthwhile. Now it's just the junk.” Rusty picked up the plaster and put it down again. The paint was smeared and the edges were melted. “The end of an era, right? And I thought it would end with the funeral, but it turns out the last pieces were still lying around. Now it's up to the pledges to come up with something.”

“Spitter, not every pledge class lives up to the monumental bar set by Vesuvius. Remember the tire swing? That was lame but not the worst thing ever proposed. You know what my pledge class tried to get away with? Personalized coasters. We had the crap hazed out of us.”

“I'm pledge coordinator. I can get them to do something cool. I don't know what it'll be, but…”

“What are their majors?”

“They haven't declared, but none of them are taking math or science classes, unfortunately.”

Last year's pledge class at least had Rusty, who could have done the project himself if he wanted to. In fact, he tried to, before insisting that the others help him and include him in their social group, which had somehow formed without him. In other words, it was too much pressure to put on the pledges. It took a real engineer to create something like Vesuvius, a gigantic mountain of plastic and foam that spurted beer from its geyser, and the only real engineer in Kappa Tau was Rusty.

While Cappie was musing on this particular conundrum, Pickles descended the stairs and let out a cry of absolute anguish, as if he had seen a dead body or something. “Guys! What are you doing?”

Rusty had a piece of foam, painted blue on one side, in his hand. “I think that should be obvious. We have to get rid of the last of it.” It was important not to actually
say
the name Vesuvius in front of Pickles, who for some reason was particularly attached to it.

“We can't do this. I mean, unceremoniously. We have to show proper respect.” Seeing he wasn't winning the guys over, Pickles added, “With booze. You know, an Irish wake.”

Thus, the Kappa Tau house found something far more interesting to do for the evening than merely clear trash away, and that was to dance drunkenly with the last pieces of Vesuvius. Cappie did his customary rounds until he realized he was accidentally doing the hora with a chunk of hard foam up on a chair, and he returned to sit on the steps, where Rusty was collecting actual trash.

“We should do something,” Cappie announced. “For the house.”

“You mean, the two of us?”

“I won't stop anyone else from helping. In fact, they should help. I'm not leaving this place without something cool to carry on my memory for generations to come, and the flat screen does not count, however flat it may be. I will not be remembered for high definition and the pores on newscasters' faces.”

“So you
are
graduating?”

“Your sister gets to bug me with that question, not you,” Cappie replied. “Unless the fancy Gary Wyatt grant winner doesn't have time for us cretins and the dump we call home.”

Baiting Rusty with guilt was so easy. Rusty leaped at the concept, his eyes alight with a demand for approval. “No, I
totally have time. I think I've hit a wall with the self-healing wire anyway. It might help, actually, to get something else going. Creative juices and all that. Count me in.”

Rebecca Logan sat in the quad, enjoying the serenity
of the afternoon on campus. Granted it was quite noisy, with the students racing to class, the trisexual (whatever that meant) alliance fliering the place and that crazy townie handing out pamphlets on his interpretation of the Book of Revelations and
The Da Vinci Code
to anyone who would come within five feet of him and his dirty trench coat, however accidentally. She was fairly sure there was some kind of restraining order on him. Maybe it didn't apply to open spaces.

Anything was better than the house, where the sisters had not yet moved on to the next bright-and-shiny thing. Casey and Ashleigh were keeping them on a steady course of excitement over the sweetheart competition. A few decibels higher and it would be more ear-damaging than her iPod turned all the way up during a Mariah Carey song.

She'd made a detailed list in her mind of all of the more appealing audio options than a ZBZ soundtrack of overexcited sorority girls when Evan Chambers, her current boyfriend,
appeared bearing coffee. The cheap campus Coffee Farm brand, but it was something. Mr. Moneybags was now Mr. Hobo-Bag-On-A-Stick, thanks to giving up his trust fund in a burst of youthful rebellion against his possessive and overprotective parents. Rebecca knew something about bad parenting by way of her own former-senator father and his prostitution-ring scandal that, to be honest, came as no great surprise to her. The biggest shocker for her was that she had to hear it from the media before he told her himself.

Evan handed her a coffee. “Hi. Should I make some kind of comment about how down in the dumps you look?”

“Please never use the phrase ‘in the dumps' in front of me. Again, anyway.” But she did accept the coffee. She didn't have to smile to show her approval. Rebecca didn't smile unless she was trying to scare someone. “Why do you ask? I could be mad about anything. It doesn't mean I want to talk about it.”

“Well, you are spending time in the quad. That kinda qualifies for an insanity hearing. I thought they had a court order on
The Da Vinci Code
guy.”

“I think you can have restraining orders only against specific people, not buildings. Not that I've ever had to file one…yet.” She seemed to hiss
yet.
As if it was destined to be in her future.

“Maybe someone should buy him a copy of
The Lost Symbol
so he can change his material.”

“I don't want to encourage him. So, what's up with you?”

“With me? Same old, same old. Classes.”

“You go to those?”

“Unlike Kappa Tau, we do take academics seriously. If I didn't go to class, they might kick me out of Omega Chi.
As if they need another reason. And then there's the secret, demeaning and off-campus part-time job I have to take the bus to because my car was repossessed.”

“Are you asking for a ride?”

“Did I add demeaning? Because I was sure I did. No. No, no, no. Definitely not.” Evan smiled in that oh-so-cute-puppy-dog way of his, his blond hair boyishly askew from the breeze. He sat down next to her on the bench. “At least at the current job, I can't be fired for not smiling.”

“You've been fired for not smiling?”

“Those themed restaurants are pretty serious about it, it turns out. And also? The tipping is not what it should be for someone who has to wear suspenders.” He smiled when she smiled, however accidentally. “So, I do have to ask about the long face.”

“I know. Apparently I'm supposed to look happy all the time, at least between now and the competition. Thanks for nominating me, by the way.”

“Was that a thank-you or a complaint? Because I couldn't tell.”

Rebecca softened her tone. “I appreciate it. Everyone expected me to be nominated, so I don't know what would have happened if I wasn't. It's probably good for the safety and well-being of whomever was in second that I did get the nomination.”

“Nobody was second.”

She took that as the compliment it was meant to be but didn't comment on it. “Well, would it shatter your fragile ego if I admit I'm not sure if I want to be sweetheart?”

“My manly ego can take it. Why?”

“It all seems so unnecessary,” Rebecca said. “And needlessly
formal, just because I need the prize to run for president or something—which I have yet to say I want to do. You know what they asked me to bake?
Muffins.
”

“We like muffins.”

“You better like them heart-shaped, because that's how Abby's making them. Oops, was I supposed to give that away? That I'm not actually baking or sending you guys gifts? I think Casey is forging my signature on the cards. Does that disqualify me?”

Evan grinned. “Do you want it to?”

She retreated. “No. I couldn't deal with the backlash. It's hard enough dealing with the front-lash.”

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, it's not a big deal. I mean, it may be a big deal to your sisters, but it won't be the day after you win—or, in some alternate universe, don't win. The ceremony's a week away, and it sounds like the rest of the house is taking care of all of your duties for you, so all you have to do is write a speech—which, again, it sounds like they will do for you. You show up in a great dress, look beautiful and have guys shower you with praise. Then you go home and bask in the glory. What could be bad?”

“You haven't been to the house. I mean, since yesterday.”

“And from the sound of it, if I go over there I'll be pelted with heart-shaped gingerbread cookies and walk out with a basket of things you would buy at the Body Shop. I'll send a pledge to do that. I hate gingerbread but I have recently gained a new appreciation for free stuff.” He finished his coffee. “What I'm saying is, you've ridden out far worse than a competition in your honor. I think you have what it takes.”

“To be sweetheart.”

“And to survive the nomination, it sounds like. So chill.”
He rose and kissed her on the cheek. “You're Rebecca Logan. You can handle it.”

When he said it, he sounded sure. Rebecca wasn't certain she agreed.

 

Not to his surprise, Evan Chambers returned to the Omega Chi house to find the living room strewn with gifts—mostly baked goods—from the five nominees for sweetheart, or at least their respective houses. The girly offerings clashed with the male aesthetic of the living room—the oversized furniture, the emphasis on the television decorated with sports trophies and the masculine rug. Contrary to some of the other fraternities, the Omega Chis kept their house in tip-top shape, mostly due to the presence of pledges who could be ordered to do anything with a toothbrush, if need be, and the guy who kept the place up during the summer, paid by their dues.

The house actives gathered in the living room while the pledges cleared away the gifts, leaving a temporary pile of red and pink wrapping paper near the garbage. Evan, still president despite his diminished status since the house found out he lost his trust fund, called the meeting to order. “Okay. The sweetheart ceremony is in six days and all of the nominees have been informed. I'll open the floor for a discussion of candidates.”

Grant, Calvin's roommate, spoke first. “Natalie from Gamma Psi has a really shrill voice.” Her acceptance of the nomination had almost caused some ruptured eardrums. “I know it's shallow, but I just wanted to put that out there.”

“Okay, let's not entirely devote this meeting to trash-talking the candidates, but we might as well get it out there,” Evan said. He knew how these things went. This was his fourth
competition and the second one he'd been president for. “And yeah, the screaming was a little intense.”

“I like Shelly,” Marco offered, discussing the Beta Theta Tau candidate. “She sent us a DVD of her dance recital.”

“From high school?” Calvin, Grant's boyfriend and Evan's reliable Little Brother, chimed in.

“No, she still dances. Or something. You know, I didn't pay a lot of attention to things that weren't her dancing.” Marco held up the CD. “You're welcome to watch it. It's not that long.”

“Is it skanky?” Trip asked.

“It's not pole dancing. She's a ballerina. And there's a jazz thing at the end.”

“Okay, that's kind of gay. No offense, guys,” Trip said to Calvin and Grant, and they nodded accordingly. “I mean, it's lame.”

“What's wrong with a ballerina?” Grant said. “It's a wholesome image.”

“When I think ballerinas, I think nutcrackers,” Trip said. “Not cool.” They all squirmed a little once they understood him. “Does she wear a pink froo-froo?”

“Tutu,” Calvin corrected. “How do you not know that?”

“Um, the whole nutcracking thing?”

“Somebody had a traumatic childhood.”

Evan rolled his eyes. “Fine, it's wholesome and a little lame.”

“Plus, I heard ballerinas ruin their feet. With the shoes,” Trip said. “I don't want to look at bloody feet.”

“When are we going to look at her feet?”

“Dude, she does the jazz thing. Watch the DVD. Her feet are fine,” Marco said, defending his choice. He had been her
champion during the secret nomination process, so it wasn't a surprise. “She almost single-handedly won the dance competition. Or she came close. I would have voted for her.”

“Yeah, Marco, I think we all know that now. Who won, anyway? Oh right, the Gamma Psis,” Grant said.

“If we're going to vote for Natalie and the Gamma Psis—and I'm not saying we should, just that we should think about everyone equally because we bothered to nominate them—we have to consider the pity-vote factor,” Calvin said.

“What, because their house burned down?”

“Does it look like pity if we vote for her, or is it respectful not to take it into account? Like, if she wins, will it look as if we voted for her because she lost her house?” Marco asked. He shuddered. “I can't believe we had to serenade her in the freshman dorms.”

“That was lame.”

“We can't hold it against her, certainly,” Evan pointed out. “We should take it into account, but it's not what defines a sweetheart.”

“What does define a sweetheart?” Trip asked. “Because Rebecca's not real sweet, if you know what I mean. Except maybe to you—”

Before Evan could even say something, Calvin jumped to his defense. “This is not about Evan and Rebecca. We all voted for her nomination. It was a house decision.”

“I'm not saying she shouldn't have been nominated. She's not one of the blonde social climbers ZBZ is so famous for,” Trip said. “I'm just saying what we're all thinking, which is that we shouldn't keep giving the award to whomever Evan is currently sleeping with.”

“Trip, you're out of line,” Evan said, trying to keep his voice
even. It
was
true. Evan was involved with Casey the previous year, and when she was nominated he ran a serious campaign for her in the house. “I first suggested her nomination because I believe Rebecca Logan could win on her individual merits.”

“Like what? Access to a private jet?”

“Hey! I want to go to Cancun,” a pledge said in the back. “Is that how this works?”

“Does she even have access to it anymore? Or did her dad have to give it up as part of the settlement so he didn't go to jail for being a pimp?” Trip asked.

“He wasn't a pimp,” Evan said, a little snarl in his voice. “And no, pledge, that is not what this is about. Rebecca has other attractive qualities, and her family background is not even on the table as part of the consideration.”

“Or you just don't want us talking smack about your girlfriend,” Trip said.

Evan sat up but resisted the urge to sock Trip in the face. Oh, but it was tempting. “She has other qualities and I stand by that. She's beautiful and she's smart. And ZBZ is not the worst pick we could make.”

“Really? I heard they were in fourth.”

“In some arbitrary ranking system, yes, maybe they are. But they're not the Tri-Pis.”

“Hey! You can't hold a whole house in contempt,” Calvin said. “We nominated Stephanie and we have to treat her—and her house—like the other nominees.”

“Plus she hasn't offered to sleep with us yet.”

“None of the Tri-Pis have. I thought that was their thing.”

“Pledge, you are out of line,” Evan said. These things did
tend to get a little heavy, and it was only a day into it. He could only imagine what was coming. Last year, Casey was beloved by the Omega Chis. Casey had been the clear choice, and not just because she was dating Evan. She was friends with the house, she was attractive and sweet without being fake about it and she was the obvious next president for the then-unstoppable ZBZ house. She was, by all appearances, a non-demanding sorority girlfriend—the perfect girl to win sweetheart because she
was
a sweetheart. Rebecca was another matter, and ZBZ was in a whole new place in the rankings this year.

“The woman we make sweetheart is someone of virtue,” Evan said. “So any nominee who offers to sleep with you for your vote is automatically disqualified—you might want to remind them of that before they try. Or after, I don't care, as long as you report it. And just so all the pledges know, the Tri-Pis are aware of this rule and we haven't received an offer that
I'm
aware of during my entire time in the house, from them or any other sorority. Despite their reputation, they want to win this contest as much as anyone. So look forward to store cakes that have been messed up a little to look home-baked and cards that mention football, not offers of sex.”

The pledges groaned, largely to Evan's amusement. Maybe he was being dramatic and this wouldn't be so bad after all, provided that Rebecca won.