Greek: Best Frenemies (3 page)

Calvin Owens entered his room to discover a pile of wrapping paper on his bed, the stuff with flowers and roses. Another prank, this time probably by the pledges who were still uncomfortable with two openly gay brothers in the house. The
fact that they shared a room made it worse. “I hope I have to wrap something soon, because I'm going to save a fortune.”

“There's that,” Grant said, following him in. “Way to look on the bright side. That or the garbage was just full and no one wanted to take it out and start a new bag.”

That was just as likely. Calvin collapsed in his desk chair. “I don't think I can take another week of this.”

“What? It's not like this is Hell Week or anything. Not that these gingerbread cookies are doing much for my figure.” Grant bit into one anyway, taking the ear off a bear-shaped cookie. “Evan's taking it pretty hard.”

“He'll get hell for Rebecca winning, and he'll get hell from Rebecca if she loses. Either way, he's screwed. But he had to nominate her—how would it have looked if he didn't? Who else were we going to nominate?”

“The president? Ashleigh?”

“She may be dating Pete now, but she blew us off last year for the Lambda Sigs. People have long memories for this sort of thing. And there's no other real standouts in the juniors. And they lost all of those sophomores to the IKI house that was formed, and we can't nominate a pledge. That would be weird.”

“She doesn't have to win. It wouldn't hurt the house. Just Evan.” He backtracked. “Not that I want to hurt your Big Brother, but this is the house's decision, not his.”

“He knows.”

“Are you sure? He seems to think it is. He strong-armed everyone into Casey last year and then she dumped him.”

“He didn't strong-arm anyone. She was a good candidate. All of that stuff with the old president being kicked out and the house falling apart and splitting off into IKI came later.”

“Yeah, I guess so. I still don't think we should hand it to Rebecca though. No offense. I know you like her, but that doesn't mean she gets to be sweetheart. Besides, she's not very sweet.”

Calvin had to admit that there was a certain edge to Rebecca's personality. But he also knew that Rebecca could be a lot of fun. And he always knew where he stood with her. There was a heart underneath that ice-queen exterior, even if her blood ran more blue than red. “If you ever see her acting sweet, be afraid. Be very afraid.”

 

In search of his Big Brother, Calvin found Evan Chambers—not his actual biological brother, as he didn't have one—sulking in his room.

“I'm losing control of this house,” Evan announced after Calvin shut the door to his room. He preferred to brood in private. “All because I'm not the wealthy and privileged Evan Chambers anymore. I thought the brothers would look past that.”

“Some of them have. Almost all of them have. And the rest will come in time. Or won't, and you won't have to deal with their punk asses anymore.” When this wasn't getting enough of a reaction from Evan, he added, “You can't expect it to be smooth sailing with Rebecca's nomination. The ZBZs blew us off last year, and their house is a mess compared with where it was when you nominated Casey. The Gamma Psis have the pity vote. It makes them an unusually strong contender.”

Evan knew all this. This was more about the weight his voice no longer carried in their house. “Yeah, and I'm Rebecca's boyfriend. That's running against her. And me, sort
of. But I couldn't
not
fight for her to be nominated, and I can't
not
fight for her now.”

“I think you did the right thing.”

“It doesn't feel like it. It doesn't feel like I'm making anyone happy.”

“I don't think this contest is making anyone happy. Except maybe the people who sell those ready-made cakes.”

Evan nodded. “I could really use your support for Rebecca.”

“Rebecca's cool. Unless she does something stupid, I'm behind her.”

“And Grant?”

“What about him?”

Evan shrugged. “Can you get Grant behind her?”

“I don't think he has a lot invested in this contest, but I
know
he has a lot invested in making his own decisions.” That wasn't going to satisfy Evan, but neither was the truth, not while Evan was so down about his position in the house. “I can try. No promises. He really likes ballerinas.”

“I don't think I could get Rebecca in a pink tutu. She would probably try to kill me if I asked.”

“Not exactly sweetheart material. Murder, that is.”

“Yeah, I was just thinking that. She'll have to do it without the tutu.”

Cappie had a serious texting problem. Or rather,
other people had a texting problem and his phone number. By chance, they happened to be brother and sister. Casey Cartwright sent him messages constantly, overapologizing for forgetting about their date and asking his “guy” opinion on various sweetheart-related campaign activities. Meanwhile, Rusty Cartwright was onto his latest obsession, building a neo-Vesuvius for the house with Cappie's input, which was apparently required every time the younger Cartwright had a stray idea. If Cappie shut off his phone for class, Casey would likely approve, though she might be surprised that he was actually at class. Rusty, on the other hand, would probably go into one of his paranoid, need-for-approval panics and begin an all-out campaign to win back Cappie's favor, which was never lost. In other words, it wasn't worth the hassle.

“Phones off,” said the teaching assistant as he passed him and dropped the red ink–stained paper on Cappie's desk. Cappie dropped the ever-vibrating phone in his backpack and flipped
through the essay to the last page, where a bold D+ was written in the same red ink that was scattered throughout. He cursed under his breath. A D+ was an insult more than anything, as Cyprus-Rhodes considered anything below C-as failing, so the D was a worthless letter, in limbo between a passing C and a failing F, which was how it would look on his transcript.

It was just a discussion section, so he had only the TA to speak to as people shuffled out. “Hey, Alex.” He was fairly sure that was his name. Cappie couldn't bring himself to call anyone who didn't look more than five years older than himself
Sir.
“Can I talk to you about my essay?”

Alex barely looked up from his folder. “Yeah?”

Cappie held up the page showing the grade in protest.

“I told people in section that Isocrates was a risky venture. Stick to Socrates or Plato. And don't try to put anybody in their historical context unless you've at least read Thucydides's
History of the Peloponnesian War.
”

“I have.”

“Then you should have quoted it.” But Alex softened at Cappie's persistence. “Look, even if you know the answers and I know the answers and the professor knows the answers, you still have to show your work. Besides, padding a thesis with unnecessary quotes and having as long a bibliography as possible is what college papers are all about. I can't pass you on speculation, even if it's good speculation. You should know that by now, Mr. Cappie.” He looked at Cappie's bag. “Your phone is going off.”

“I know. Look, this is supposed to be my final semester. And I need to keep Kappa Tau's GPA level to a certain low…
er, high standard.” Meaning, he needed this credit, badly. “There has to be some kind of extra credit.”

“I can't officially give out extra credit. Speak to Professor Izmaylov, but don't get your hopes up.”

Though he'd seen him in class twice a week, Cappie hadn't said two words to the professor since they talked at the engineering awards ceremony last semester, when the professor was in a chatty mood and interested in passing on stories of the youthful rebellion of current deans and alumni who now insisted on being so serious. Like most professors in a large lecture class, especially one so popular because it was given at night, he delegated student interaction to his TA.

“I happen to know he's in his office,” Alex offered him and left with his overflowing binder. He was gone before Cappie realized he didn't know where the philosophy department was or if the professor's office was there. He eventually located a university directory and discovered that the professors shared digs with the little-known Department of Slavic Languages. A short jog later, he was rapping on the worn, wooden door of Professor Aristotle Izmaylov's office.

“Professor! I know you're in!” Cappie intentionally knocked the theme song to
Jeopardy
as he waited.

The door eventually opened to the wizened old professor, gray beard and all. “Alex gave me away again, didn't he?”

“Sorry, yes. Can we talk?”

“Well, my stories are already interrupted. That's what old people call TV shows. Stories.” He moved away from the door, allowing Cappie to enter the office, which might have been large if it wasn't stuffed to the brim with books. Three towers of them were holding up a table missing all but one leg. The professor shut off the tiny TV on his desk.

“Yes, Professor.” Cappie passed the paper across the desk, and Izmaylov, who probably hadn't read it before, glanced through it. Cappie had been hoping when Professor Izmaylov returned to teaching that semester after a long period in the private sector, he might have sympathy for Cappie after meeting him at the alumni gathering and engineering awards dinner. Izmaylov had been a philosophy professor at CRU for many years and had some amusing stories about his former students, including certain deans who liked to admonish Cappie, and they hit it off. Now he was back to teaching, and it seemed the old man was as tough at grading as he was kind—or at least his TA was.

“Show your work, Mr. Cappie,” he repeated with uncanny accuracy. “Where are the quotations? You don't know Isocrates just because you say you do. You have to be tenured before you can do that.” He handed the paper back to Cappie. “Considering the grade, which I can't entirely disagree with, I assume you're here for some kind of extra credit? Not very fair to the other students, is it?”

“I'm graduating this semester,” Cappie said. “Or trying to.”

“I wouldn't know much about leaving college, seeing as I'm still here,” the professor said. “Entering the real world is both intimidating and admirable. I'd ask what your plans are postgraduation, but that question tends to scare off my students and has been proved to be irredeemably rude.”

“I'm really just trying to focus on this semester,” said Cappie, and he was hardly lying about that. His phone started buzzing again, and in the quiet of the office it was quite noticeable. “Sorry.” He finally scooped his phone out of the bag
and turned it off. “Sometimes I think everyone I know is obsessed.”

“With you?”

“I have to admit, I
am
worthy of obsession, but it gets old once in a while.”

“The illusion of authority is a dangerous thing to have,” the professor said with a smile. “It makes all kinds of demands on your time, which you seem, at least for the moment, more interested in devoting to the study of philosophy. That is, until you can get your grade up to a passing level and earn your credits.”

“I have a little more invested in this class than that,” Cappie said defensively. “I did sign up for it even if I don't have enough credits for a philosophy major.”

Professor Izmaylov sat up straighter. “You know there's a little-known addendum to the university requirements that says you can make your own major?”

“Really?”

“It's not so arbitrary, or more people would abuse it. You have to submit the major idea before a council, and it has to be approved. And you need a sponsor. I see from the excitement on your face that you should be warned that most have been turned down, but they were not without their dramatic flourishes. A few years ago, a liberal arts student tried to major in fun. His proposal was impressive, a work of art unto itself. It was turned down and he took four philosophy courses the final semester to graduate with a major fulfilled, but I admired him for the case. No, you have to propose a major in something far more pretentious. Hopefully with a lot of hyphens.” He pointed to the paper in Cappie's hands. “Getting back to the matter at hand, your paper shows considerable promise,
but you got ahead of yourself. If you were an average student with a failing grade, I would say hire a tutor for the final and hope for the best. But tackling Isocrates is not something for the average student with a failing grade. If you want your extra credit, you will have to produce something of the considerable philosophical brilliance you've shown hints of previously,” he said. “Keep me amused with your insight, and I might help you do it.”

“Really?”

“Well, my shows seem to be going into a dreadfully long hiatus season, so why not?”

 

Cappie returned to the KT house for the night. The house itself was quiet for a Tuesday, with a few brothers playing beer pong “to keep their skills up” but not much else. Even the pool table was empty, at least of players—Gonzo was sleeping on it. He was faceup, so his drool wouldn't harm the table. That piece of furniture was getting increasingly hard to resuscitate after each semester, but they definitely couldn't afford a new one. After the new flat screen, they could barely afford beer.

“Hey, Cappie!” Rusty caught him on the stairs up to the bedrooms. “Your phone was off.”

“Yeah, for like ten minutes. I would get fewer messages if the house was on fire, which, despite us having more fire hazards than the former Gamma Psi house, is still severely unlikely.” But there was no reason to go hard on Rusty, who was just being his enthusiastic self. Cappie couldn't imagine a whole house of Rustys, but it was definitely good to have one around. “What have you got?”

“I polled the brothers I could find, but I had to rule out most of their suggestions. Like the Olympic swimming pool.”

“What about a smaller aboveground pool?”

“We don't have the zoning for it and the upkeep is insane. We can't even keep the sink clean.”

“On the other hand, an algae-covered pledge would make an excellent swamp monster.”

“Before he died of infection.”

“Before that, obviously. So, what if we upgraded the hot tub?”

“We have to justify building alterations with CRU's Residential Life Office, and we're still on probation over Officer Huck's cart.”

“Okay.” Cappie sat down on the steps. “What else is impossible? Eliminate the impossible and you have only the possible.”

“I didn't know you liked Sherlock Holmes.”

“
House,
Spitter. I'd think that show would be right up your alley. So what else?”

“Someone wanted to tunnel under CRU and have it end in a sorority shower. Got a few votes for that one before I took it off the list.”

“Which sorority?”

“Tri-Pi.”

Cappie rolled his eyes. “Huge surprise.”

“Beaver wanted to build a wind tunnel until I told him it doesn't make you fly. Anthony Hopkins wanted to build a female robot.”

“Yeah, we all saw
Weird Science.
Is it worth it?”

“As long as all you want her to do is shuffle a couple of feet
and repeat back preset phrases. And she'll look more like a giant Lego set than a woman.”

“Pass. I always lost the small pieces in those sets. The really important ones.”

“And…a tire swing.”

“People seem to really want this tire swing. Maybe we should just do that anyway. Not as a main thing. Just for the sake of it. It can't be that hard to get a tire and some rope.”

“It has to be a big tire, like a truck tire. Those can be expensive. You'd have to go to a dump and hope for the best. Anyway, there's no guarantee that Beaver wouldn't break it as he did the swing-a-ling.”

“So, wading through algae or wading through trash. Anything realistic?”

“I'm working on it. It depends on what kinda parts I can requisition. There are a couple of different…dozen…websites involved. And there are some budgetary limitations.” He looked up at Cappie. “But it'll be cool. I promise.”

Cappie felt a little guilty dumping this on Rusty, as it was initially Cappie's idea and his legacy. Rusty had plenty of time to help his pledges make their mark as KTs. “Sounds good. Do you need me for anything else tonight? Because I'm already late.”

“To what?”

“Do not question the master.” Sometimes dating his fraternity brother's sister could be awkward, but it was always worth it.

 

Fortunately for Cappie and his finances, Casey was a cheap date, especially on a weekday. They settled for sitting on
the KT roof, where an inflatable raft was perched to make stargazing a bit more comfortable.

“Sorry about before,” Casey said. “I got a little crazy with the questions. You're not the only guy I could have asked about guy stuff.”

“Yeah, and I'm probably the last person who should be asked to get in the head of an Omega. Except if it's using their pledge paddle and just aiming for the head.” Casey nudged him hard. “Excuse me for not being over the worst thing to happen to Kappa Tau. Possibly ever.”

“I know. But even if you don't like them, I still have to impress them.”

“You mean
Rebecca
still has to impress them,” Cappie corrected. “This vote's probably already locked up. So what? You barely get along with Rebecca.”

“We've been doing well…recently. This semester. Some of last semester. We don't hate each other.”

“That's good. Not hating each other. It's a start.”

“I'm doing this whole thing for her. It's not like
I'm
running for sweetheart. I wasn't nominated. Besides, been there, done that. No repeats of Frannie for me.” She put her arm across his chest. “And besides, what do I care what Omega Chi thinks of me?”

“Thirty text messages says you care a lot.”

“Hey! Way to be unsupportive in my time of crisis!”

“Sorry, sorry,” he raced to say. “Go on.”

“I care about it for Rebecca and the house. Which, let's be honest, really needs the boost.”

“So KT nominating ZBZ for awesomest house ever isn't going to help? Because I can make it an executive order. Settle this right now.”

She smiled. “I'm not sure whether using the word
awesomest
would make it better or worse. And I do appreciate the offer, but on behalf of the house, I'm going to have to pass.”