Brimstone (35 page)

He was also the adviser for the
Ranger Report
, Bedivere University’s newspaper. I had made an appointment with him during his posted office hours and brought along my sample articles and photographs. A wasted effort since as soon as I told him why I was there, he said, without looking up from his computer: “I don’t take freshmen on the
Report
staff.”

I stood stupidly in front of his desk, the portfolio hanging
from my hand. I didn’t know how he could see anything; the room was dim and cluttered and smelled as though he had his lunch there a little too often. Or maybe that stale smell was the professor himself. He had a Grizzly Adams thing going for him.

“Never?” I asked.

“As close to never as makes no difference.”

Never give up, never surrender
. “Here are some samples of my work.” I opened the binder to an eye-catching photograph of the Avalon High star forward making a spectacular jump shot. “And in addition to working on the AHS paper for three years, I was an intern at the
Sentinel
this summer.”

Dr. Hardcastle glanced at the picture and flipped dismissively through a few pages. “Not bad.”

“I can write captions, do layout, proofread, whatever you need.”

But Professor Hard-ass had gone back to Web surfing. “Come back after you have six hours of prerequisites.”

“I’m already enrolled in six hours of journalism—”

“Then come back after you finish them.”

He wasn’t going to budge. I didn’t need to read minds to see that.

“Okay,” I said, because there was no point in pissing him off. “Thanks for your time.”

I slumped out of his tiny office and leaned against the wall, weighed down, for a moment, by self-pity. It was right next to the journalism lab, where they put together the paper. I could hear the familiar click of multiple keyboards, smell the printer toner and film developer.

Dismissed again. Would the suck never end?

Someone touched my shoulder, and I spun around with a stifled squeak.

“Sorry.” The speaker was a young man with intelligent eyes and a Byronic shock of thick, dark blond hair falling across his forehead. He had a friendly smile, and as my brain transitioned from grouchy, grizzled professor to cute young guy, he took the binder out of my limp hand.

“I overheard your conversation with Hardcastle. By which I mean I shamelessly eavesdropped. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

“The journalistic clap, apparently.” I cracked wise to calm my nerves as he leafed through the pages. “No one wants to touch me this morning.”

He raised one brow. “You tell me that after I’m already holding your portfolio?” Then he smiled and gave it back. “I’m Cole Bauer, editor of the
Report
. Anytime you want to submit something to me, go ahead.”

“Really?” My roller-coaster day took an upswing.

“Sure.”

Belatedly I remembered my manners, and held out my hand. “I’m Maggie Quinn.”

“I know.” He nodded at my name tag, which I’d dutifully put on when I returned to campus. “How’s Rush going?”

I touched the plastic-covered card self-consciously. “Actually, if you’d really like to know …” On impulse, I slipped my hand into my satchel and pulled out the folded article.

Both his brows went up at that. “You don’t waste time, do you?”

My cheeks heated. “Not when I have a feeling about
something. I think I may have written that for you without realizing it. Er, for the
Report
, I mean.”

He nodded. “I know what you mean.” Unfolding the pages, he gave them a cursory glance. “I’ll read it and let you know.”

“Thanks.” I felt a quick shot of relief. I’d offered it; he hadn’t laughed. Now I just had to let things shake out. I took a step backward, making my exit. “I’ll be in touch.”

Waving the pages, he moved to do the same. “Or I will. See you.”

He turned and disappeared into the newspaper lab, and I headed for my next class in that fog of abrupt reversal, when things take a quick turn and you’re not sure you’re responsible for it. I don’t know if it’s the instinct talking, or fate or whatever. But I never know where that left turn is going to take me.

Case in point. For eighteen years I’d planned to go away to school, much to my parents’ frustration. Bedivere University is a small old liberal arts school with stiff admission criteria and an excellent reputation, which attracted students and teachers from all over and kept Avalon from being more small-town backward than it could be. In fact, the whole place—college and town—felt connected with the rest of the world but slightly out of step with it, making the name seem more than coincidence. It’s a great school, I could walk from home if I wanted, and my professor dad got a tuition discount.

That said, the reason I am not, in fact, attending the University of Anywhere-but-Here, despite having been admitted
and financially aided, lay with my parents, who could not behave like respectable, decently middle-aged people.

I knew my mother was pregnant before she did. In the pharmacy one day, with one of those half-aware impulses I get, I had picked up a plus-or-minus test and put it in the cart. Mom was surprised, to say the least. “Something you want to tell me, Maggie?”

“It’s not for me,” I said.

“Do tell.” Her calm was admirable, under the circumstances.

“Really. Unless the Angel of Annunciation dropped by to leave a message while I was out, it’s for you.” As soon as the words left my lips, the feeling went from hunch to certainty. Not even the fall of Mom’s face, the paling of her cheeks, could dim it.

She firmed her mouth and put the test back on the shelf. “Don’t be ridiculous. That’s just not possible.”

I returned the pink and blue box to the cart. “Humor me.”

My only-child status had not been my parents’ choice. Memories of those stressful years of roller-coaster disappointment are fuzzy, and I don’t know when, exactly, they gave up hope. But now I was about to have a sibling, even if Mom didn’t believe me until she’d started the daily puke.

As for my staying at home, I don’t remember making a conscious decision; one morning I woke up knowing that Avalon and Bedivere was the right choice. Gran says that sometimes people like us are led where they need to be, if we just listen to our inner voices.

I tend to think inner voices are only good for getting a person locked in a padded room or burned at the stake. And
I’ll tell you right now, I am no saint, because I’m not sure I would have listened to my mental Jiminy Cricket if Justin weren’t returning in the fall.

Justin, who still hadn’t called me, even though I knew he’d been back in town for a week.

I
arrived at the Epsilon Zeta house breathless and windblown, my cheeks hot with exertion. I’d had to rush—no pun intended—home to change after class. I’d brushed my hair and powdered my nose, too, though the effort was wasted by the time I drove the Jeep to Greek Row, found a parking spot, and hightailed it to where my group had assembled, cool and composed despite the warm September afternoon.

“Sorry I’m late!” I gave an exaggerated roll of my eyes. “But you would not believe my professor, wanting us all to stay until the end of his lecture. Can you imagine?”

The buxom brunette beside me shook her head. “I
know! We have all semester to go to class, but Rush only lasts one week, and affects our Entire Lives!”

Sadly, she spoke without irony. Up on the steps Jenna rapped on the door, telling the Epsilon Zetas that the next round was assembled, and beside her, Hillary looked at me with no small disapproval. I reached up and smoothed my hair with my hands, an involuntary reaction.

Such was the power of the Rho Gamma stare. In addition to shepherding our group from house to house, they ran herd on the rushees throughout the day, enforcing the rules. Besides the mandatory wearing of name tags, we weren’t allowed to talk to “actives”—that is, sorority members—outside of the parties.

My name tag was dutifully pinned to the bodice of my sundress, where it scratched the pale skin of my bare arm, and the only sorority girls I’d talked to today had been Jenna and Hillary, which was, obviously, allowed. But I was pretty sure writing pithy articles skewering Rush traditions was against the Rho Gamma rules.

Two houses later, my brain and my butt were both numb.

Every round had a theme, and tonight was the philanthropy round. Every sorority chooses, at the national level, a pet cause or organization, and each chapter is required to do an annual fund-raiser to justify the other fifty weeks of purely self-indulgent social activities. And for the past eternity, the rushees had been required to hear about it, mostly through video montages and PowerPoint presentations.

The propaganda also showed the house’s personality.
The Theta Nus had managed to work their GPA ranking into their presentation. The Epsilon Zetas had lots of guys in their pictures, always with arms thrown around the girls. I’m not saying the Epsilon Zetas were a sure thing, in any sense of the phrase, but … well, when your house is called the EZs maybe it’s just inevitable.

Dusk was sitting heavy and humid in the sky as Jenna and Hillary escorted us to the next house on our agenda, the Zeta Theta Pis. The curvy brunette from before—Miss Entire Life—drew up alongside me. “I like your outfit,” she said as we walked. “It’s kind of sixties retro.”

It was. Gran never got rid of anything. Yellow and red, with splashes of orange, the frock had useless little spaghetti straps and a full, pleated skirt. I wore ballet flats and a Band-Aid on my ankle where I’d cut myself shaving. “I raided my grandmother’s closet for something to wear.”

“Grandmother’s Closet?” she echoed. “I’ve never heard of that store.”

“It’s, uh, very exclusive.” There was another girl, a redhead, stuck with us behind the rushee bottleneck on the sidewalk. I caught Red stifling a smile, but the brunette was oblivious.

“Anyway. Great dress. I’m Tricia, by the way.”

“Thanks. I’m Maggie.”

We reached the Zeta house slightly ahead of schedule, earning a restorative break. Lip gloss tubes and compacts appeared for synchronized primping. Only Red-haired Girl and I abstained, and lounged against the stair rail to wait.

She reminded me of an Irish setter, in a good way. Her dark red hair fell, slightly feathered, to her shoulders, and
she had a rangy, athletic grace. She looked as if she would be more at home on a ball field than a sorority house.

“What houses are you interested in, Maggie?” Tricia asked. She had whipped out a little battery-operated fan and was using it to blow her long brown hair from her flushed face.

I mimicked Hillary’s ultraserious tone. “How can I possibly decide when I’ve yet to hear all the philanthropies?”

Irish Setter Girl smirked. Tricia looked suspiciously between us. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing. Except that ‘Recruitment’ ”—I made little quotes in the air—“is like comparing the gas mileage of a Mustang and a Corvette. You say you’re being practical, but all you really care about is which one looks best for picking up guys.”

Hillary strode past us; along with her black T-shirt with its green
RG
, she wore pressed khaki shorts and sneakers that had never seen a workout. She glanced at me on her way up the steps. “I see you managed to find your name tag.” Then she stopped, her blond ponytail swinging as she stared with narrowing eyes at my chest. “
What
did you do to it?”

I glanced down at the tag, which now said:
Maggie Quinn. English major. Lives at home
. “I thought this was more efficient.”

Tsks and titters from the rushees. Irish Setter Girl snorted, in a laughing-with-me kind of way.

“Prospective New Members,” said the scandalized Rho Gamma, “are
not
supposed to alter their name badges!”

“Oh. I didn’t know.”

Jenna climbed the porch steps past us. “Don’t worry about it, Maggie. We’ll get you a new one tomorrow.”

Hillary bit back her opinion on that, and followed her up. “We’ll see if they’re ready for you.”

As soon as Hillary and Jenna turned to the door, the red-haired girl hissed at me. “Hey. Have you still got the pen?”