The Best of Enemies (16 page)

I’m so stoked about our space because we could have ended up like Jackie’s weird little friend Sars—she and her roomie basically live in a closet behind the elevator on the second floor.
I don’t know why, but their room smells exactly like spray cheese.
Super-disturbing.

“Of course the parties are fun, honey,” my mom replied.
“You’ll—”

My sister started speaking over our mom.
“Rush parties are bullshit.”

“Language, Kelly!”
Mum admonished.

Kelly paid her no attention.
“Please.
The ‘
parties’?
” she said, making air quotes with her long, elegant fingers.
“Yeah, parties in name only.
I’m talking no fun, no boys, no booze.”
She stopped herself.
“Not that you’d drink until you’re legal, I mean.”
Then she winked at me.
According to the ID she gave me, I’m
totally
legal.

Mum pressed her lips together and shook her head.
We discovered long ago that when Kelly begins her conversational-bulldozer thing, it’s best just to step out of her way.
She said, “These stupid rush events are more like when we have high tea with Great-Aunt Eleanor.
Stiff, awkward, hot, overly formal, and you have to smile until your face cracks off.
But we do it because when the old broad finally kicks it, we’ll be rolling in dough.
The payoff’s what’s important, so you’ve gotta put your game face on.”

“Kelly!
We see Aunt Eleanor because we love her!”
Mum cried.

Kelly completely ignored our mother.
“I’m not wrong.
Also, and this is key, everyone’s perfectly groomed . . .
or at least the girls who hope to have a social life over the next four years are.”

“Freaking out now, thanks,” I said, suddenly anxious.
“I assumed I was just going to talk about fun stuff with a bunch of cool girls.”

Mum stopped folding a sweater to place her hand on my shoulder.
“Sweetie, rush is more like a job interview.”

“Then I’m hosed!”
I exclaimed.
I’d never actually interviewed before—my only jobs thus far had been helping in my dad’s office and working as a counselor at the tennis camp I attended for eight consecutive summers.
Somewhere around my sixth year, everyone just assumed I’d eventually join the staff once I was old enough and it never occurred to me to say no, despite the fact that I’m not a fan of kids.
At all.
In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if I ended up one of those child-free career women who’s far too busy and important to even consider marriage until she’s really, really old.
(At least thirty.) I’d take an engagement ring earlier, though.
Big fan of jewelry.

Mum smoothed my hair over my shoulders in an attempt to calm me.
“Kitty-cat, these parties are where you demonstrate how you’d fit within the group.
You’re not having conversations to make friends so much as you are trying to make a positive impression.
No one wants to live with someone they don’t like.
Be chipper and bright—pretend you’re talking to Regis and Kathie Lee.”

“P.S.,” Kelly added, “rush is not therapy; no one wants to hear your probs.”

“Be chatty, not catty?”
I asked.

Mum smiled.
“That’s a nice way to look at it.
Because everyone’ll have a different point of view, avoid bringing up anything controversial, such as politics or religion.
Talk less about Nelson Mandela and more about . . .
Michael Jackson.”

“Who’s Nelson Mandela?”

“That’s the spirit!”
Mum said, chucking me on the shoulder.

(I actually wasn’t kidding, but I guessed not knowing important stuff was why I headed to college in the first place.)

I replied, “You’re saying I should be myself, only a better version of it?
Won’t that be hard to keep up after a while?”

“Get through rush.
Pledging is entirely different.
Everything’s more casual and you’ll gravitate toward girls who share your interests.
But during recruitment, members have their guards up.
Rush is hard on them, too.
It’s not actually fun for them to cut rushees,” Mum explained.

“Disagree.
It’s
plenty
fun,” Kelly countered, with a wicked chuckle.
“Someone wrongs you?
Boom.
Cut.
Done, bitch.”
Noticing that we were both frowning at her, she added, “What?”

Mum blinked hard and then cleared her throat.
“The members are as anxious to find new sisters as you are to pledge.
If every day were rush, no one would join.
Sorority rush is a necessary evil—imagine a dozen of the worst parties you’ll ever attend, followed by four years of tradition and fun and female bonding.
You’ll form the friendships that’ll last the rest of your life, so it’ll be worth it.
All of my best girlfriends were once my Tri Tau sisters.
We wouldn’t all be friends now if we didn’t endure the nonsense in the beginning.”

On learning that some of the sisters could be as cutthroat as Kelly, I was suddenly scared.
Did I even
want
to be a part of something that sounded so exclusionary and conformist?

Mum unpacked my trunk as we talked, pulling out the kind of dresses and heels I didn’t know I needed for rush parties.
She even made me bring the navy suit I wore to my great-grandpa’s funeral for Bid Night.
She removed the tissue paper she’d packed between each layer of clothes in my trunk, placing it all neatly in the little garbage can by my desk.
When we’d assembled my stuff at home, Mum had said the right outfit was a must.
I finally understood why.

“Plus, you don’t have to be, like,
beautiful
to pledge,” Kelly said, flipping her trademark long blond French braid over her shoulder.
Sometimes when she flings her braid, it smacks people in the face, which brings her great joy.
(Is best to stay on Kelly’s good side.
Trust me here.) “But you have to try.
Make an effort with your appearance.
If the sisters see you can’t even bother to iron or put on lipstick, then that tells them something about the kind of lazy active you’d be.
If you don’t get a bid, you may as well transfer to University of Illinois, because you’ll have zero social life here.
Fact.”

That sealed it—I was rushing whether or not I wanted to.

I figured I’d be more comfortable at the parties if I had someone courageous with me, so I sought out the bravest person I know.
With Jackie rushing, too, I’ve regained my initial enthusiasm.

I feel Jackie would benefit from hanging out with more girls and I’m fired up for rush to go well for her.
My ulterior motive is she meet other people so she can lose that Sars person like a bad habit.
Sometimes I suspect that Sars wants to make a suit out of Jackie’s skin, all
Silence of the Lambs
.

What a flipping geek Sars is!
Her book smarts are inversely proportional to her social IQ.
No exaggeration.
Earlier this fall, I brought both of them to a party at Sean’s frat.
Never again.
Sars spent the whole night giggling and leering at the Beta brothers instead of actually
talking
to them, like she was at a fourth grade cotillion or something.
Awkward.
(Mind you, that’s
after
Sars let me fix her unibrow!) She comes from a totally nice, normal family, so I don’t know what her damage is.

The frat brothers thought Jackie was a ton of fun that night, but after she crushed them so soundly in table hockey, they all assumed she was,
ahem
, Playing for the Pink Team.
From then on, I had her start calling herself Jackie because it’s way less butch.

Also, the
arm wrestling
?
No.

I’m lucky to have learned the ropes from Kelly, even though sometimes she terrifies me.
I’d be royally screwed if the only female role model I had was
Sars
.
Granted, I’m still a virgin (by choice, thank you very much) but even I know that talking about differential equations in a frat house is a total boner killer.

I know all about Jackie’s brothers (believe me, I’ve asked) but I wonder what the story is with her mom?
That’s the one area where she’s ultraprivate, so I have no idea how she may have died.
She’s said a few things about how when she was little, her mom was a great cook and the house was always really immaculate, but that’s about it.
She must miss that so much—I know I would.
I figure she’ll eventually open up and when she does, I’ll be there for her.
Because that’s what best friends do.

Without having any chicks in her life, save for Nerdzilla, Jackie never learned the basics, like how to put on perfume (spritz away from the body and walk into the mist) or that it’s just as important to shave your toes, too, lest you look like a hobbit in flip-flops.
In fact, Jackie was cutting her own hair when we met.
No lie.
She’d literally gather her locks in a ponytail and hack off the bottom.
I was horrified when I saw this.
I said,
“Why not perform your own lobotomy while you’re at it?”

When we were home over October break last week, I brought Jackie to my salon in North Shore and my stylist Stefan gave her a proper trim.
Even though she seemed anxious for the first time since we’ve met, she allowed us free rein.

When Stefan turned her around in her swivel chair to reveal her fab, piece-y bob, she said, “It’s uneven!”

Stefan rolled his eyes.
“No, girl—this is
choppy
.
Your old cut was
chopped
.
Did you cut it yourself?”

“I did,” she admitted.

He ran his fingers through her long layers.
“Miss Kitty, you slap those scissors outta her paws if she ever tries that again.
Don’t
make
me come down to that fancy college.”

Jackie agreed to maintain the look, although today’s the first day she’s actually blown it dry, and that’s only because I forced a vent brush and a hair dryer into her hands, coaching her through the entire process.
(She said it was harder than the first time she landed a plane on instruments.) I had to promise her we’d go hiking in Hawthorn Woods later as a compromise.

Worth it.

“Are you ready to rock rush?”
I ask, giving her a final once-over.

“Sure!”
she replies, executing the slow twirl I taught her.
Fabulous!
But then I notice something.

“Hold up, are you not wearing the panty hose I laid out?”
I ask.
I glance at the futon and see the package exactly where I left it.

“Because it’s warm out, I won’t need ’em,” she says.

I snort.
“Um, yeah you do.
I don’t care if it’s a nice day, you
will
wear hose.
Nonnegotiable.
At Ol’ Miss, girls rush in hundred-degree temps and ninety percent humidity.
Yet you won’t see a single one of them without their nylons.”
I toss her the egg-shaped container.

Jackie catches the package like she plays third base professionally and then sets it down on her desk.
The mood in the room completely changes for some reason.
She toys with the hem of her dress and becomes very quiet.
Then she hangs her head to the point I can’t look her in the eye, with all her heavy hair around her face.

“Hey, are you okay?”
I ask, bending over to see her face.
“Is all this too much?
We can take off the mascara.”

She says nothing in reply.

Shoot, what’s happening here?
I press on.
“Or we can put your hair back in a ponytail if you’re uncomfortable.
Do . . .
do you not want to go through rush?
I thought you were on board.
I’m so sorry if I badgered you, if this isn’t what you want.”

Seriously, it’s important not to be peer pressured into something you’re not ready to do, at least according to the Tori Spelling movie we just watched.
I note how tense Jackie is and I want to do anything I can to make her feel better, so I try smoothing her hair just like my mom does for me when I’m anxious.
That seems to help.