Pretty in Plaid: A Life, a Witch, and a Wardrobe, or the Wonder Years Before the Condescending, Egomaniacal Self-Centered Smart-Ass Phase (19 page)

Partway through the semester, I discover there are Greek organizations here—they even have a chapter of
the best
sorority. I decide to give rush one more shot because I’m doing it for the right reasons; I genuinely want to connect with people.

This time, I really
am
myself during parties. When I meet the members of
the best
house, I don’t care what their specific combination of letters can do for me. I sincerely want
these
girls to be my sisters. I want to wear my shortened prom dress to dances
with them
. I want to line up at a big wooden table, sip Diet Coke, and be bored during rush
with these specific people
.

These are the thoughts racing through my head as I prepare for a rush party in the skeevy Maurices bathroom after my shift. My hair’s a lot longer than it used to be and with careful blow-drying and patient ministrations with a wide-barrel curling iron, I can coax it into bouncy strands with the hint of a flip at the bottom. Tonight’s supposed to be a casual party and jeans are allowed, but I’ve been down that road. I select a forest green turtleneck, jodhpur-cut khakis, and a red and green plaid vest with a black backing. I’m not trying to mimic anyone else’s style; I simply choose an outfit that makes me feel good.

Yet I can’t help but smile when I get to the party and see members wearing jeans.

Rush continues for a few weeks and I have a blast. I love the members and I dig the other girls in my rush group. As I leave the final party, I want to slip everyone my number and say,
Even if we can’t be sisters, can we at least be friends?

Those who are invited to join the sorority are supposed to get the call between 7:00 and 9:00 p.m. I’m so anxious I call in sick to work. I spend the entire night sitting next to the phone. I keep lifting the receiver to make double sure we’ve got a dial tone. Minutes crawl by. I wait and wait and wait. When the phone rings, I shriek and grab it, but it’s just Joanna checking on my status
again
. I practically hang up on her in my haste to clear the line.

It’s nine p.m. and no one’s called.

Oh, well.

I’m probably too old to pledge. Probably didn’t get my grades up high enough, either.

Perhaps I shouldn’t have been honest about my last sorority experience.

Maybe the real me wasn’t good enough. Wasn’t the right fit. Wasn’t what they wanted. Maybe I laughed too hard when that one member accidentally dropped an f-bomb. Maybe I should have ignored it like the two stuffy girls in my rush group.

What a shame. I would have taken sisterhood so seriously. Too seriously because I would have appreciated it so much. I’d have worn those letters with more pride than a hundred Gucci bags, because I’d have known I’d earned them. I’d probably be one of those assholes who, even at age forty, still talked about her sorority because it was such a big deal in her life.

And then the phone rings.

They want me.

I’m in.

I’m one of them.

I
belong
.

Right before pledge induction, it dawns on me that not only did I get into this campus’s branch of Joanna’s sorority—hence her frantic calls on Bid Night—I’m also in Janine’s.

Like it or not, I’m Janine’s sister. She may never know it because we’re on different campuses, but I’m her brown-haired, Indiana-dwelling, middle-class-being, jean-jacket-wearing, retail-working, Congo-bag-carrying sister.

And I will be for the rest of our lives.

That’s
the best
revenge of all.

Absolute Power? Absolutely!

(Gold Lavaliere, Part One)

November 9, 1988

Hey, Lisa!

Someone you know has just turned twenty-one . . . so get your fake ID ready because I’m coming down to celebrate with you next weekend!

I spent the actual big day in South Bend because that’s where Carol works now that she’s graduated. Andy met me up there and we went out on Notre Dame’s campus. I figured it would be fun to go somewhere I hadn’t already been ten jillion times illegally. Then, halfway through the night I remembered I’d been to all their bars during St. Patrick’s Day back in ’85. Whoops!

Anyway, now that I’m twenty-one, I’m legal to wait tables and serve drinks so my schedule will be more flexible. I’m done getting stuck with Saturday closing shifts at the mall because I got a job at an Italian restaurant!

The bad news is they have servers sing when it’s someone’s birthday. I’m probably going to be responsible for making an entire generation of kids afraid of spaghetti.

Later!

Jen

That Little Italian Joint, Inc.

Jennifer,

It has come to my attention that every time other servers gather to sing the birthday song, you hide in the walk-in freezer. Not only does this behavior lessen our guests’ experience, but it puts a strain on the other waiters and waitresses who have to scramble to find additional singers.

I don’t care if the song “Happy Birthday” “makes you itchy.” This is your last formal warning to cease this behavior. Dodge your duties again and you will be fired.

Douglas Handler, Shift Manager

January 30, 1989

To All My Pledge Sisters,

Thank you so much for electing me to lead this impressive group. I promise to be the best pledge president in the history of our chapter. I’ll take my role as leader very, very seriously and will work hard to help us all advance socially, academically, and morally on our path to initiation. I look forward to upholding the fine tradition of wine and silver blue with all of you.

Pi Love and Mine,

Jen Lancaster, Pledge Class President

“You can’t do it,” Molly declares.

“Check the bylaws,” I counter.

“I
did
check the bylaws. It’s not technically forbidden, but . . .”

“Then what’s the problem?”

I’m currently locked in the little glass office off the Greek suite in our sorority’s wing. I’m also locked in combat with Molly, the member assigned to “educate” us pledges.
¹¹¹
I freaking adore everyone in my pledge class and I love all the sisters . . . except for Molly. I like her, but I can’t seem to pry the enormous stick out of her ass. Or dislodge her sense of moral superiority.

“The problem is”—she pauses to gather her thoughts—“the problem is it’s a
problem
. Some of the sisters don’t like it.”

“Who?” I ask.

“I’d rather not say.”
So by “sisters” you mean “you.” Everyone I’ve run it past thinks it’s the best idea ever.

I was right in the middle of a chef salad and a lovely chat with my favorite pledge sister Audra when Molly barged in, demanding she speak with me. I couldn’t say no, and now Molly’s been lecturing me for fifteen minutes and my patience is running on empty. Audra can see how aggravated I am so she begins to make obscene gestures
¹¹²
behind Molly’s back. I have to stifle a laugh and pretend like I’m taking Molly seriously. She
is
the more senior member and I’m supposed to defer to her, even though she’s wrong.

“It’s not going to be an orgy, it’s
a toga party
,” I tell her. Molly screws her face up in confusion. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Molly, how can you be in a sorority and not know one of the most famous
Animal House
quotes ever?”

She purses her lips. “You’re trying to change the subject.” Actually, I’m completely
on
subject. The first time I saw
Animal House
, I felt something bordering on awe. Greek life seemed like so much goddamned fun that I couldn’t imagine not being a part of it when I got to college. My standing here in front of Molly is a direct result of having fallen in love with Otter, Bluto, Eric Stratton, and the rest of the barely fictional Delta house ten years earlier.

I take a deep breath and count to five so I don’t get all shouty. “No, I’m trying to inject some levity into the situation. Here’s the deal. You
told
our pledge class we had to plan a walkout.
¹¹³
I know we normally do walkout to a sister house on another campus. Everyone I’ve talked to said they’ve had a lousy time the last few years. The walkout in Michigan blew goats, as did the trip to Ohio. I proposed something a little different, we voted on it, and there you go. Plan revised. Majority rules.”

When I found out our proposed sorority walkout date was the same weekend as Purdue’s Grand Prix,
¹¹⁴
I panicked. Attendance has been a personal tradition since I was a senior in high school and I hated the idea of not being there this year. Yet I worked so hard and waited so long to be a part of a sorority I liked that I didn’t want to miss out on being with them, either.

So I got creative.

I figured if walking out to a house full of snotty girls wasn’t fun, then why do it? Since Purdue runs three to one in its ratio of fraternities to sororities, I knew there’d be a bunch of places that didn’t “pair” with a campus sorority for the weekend. I figured a number of them would be happy to have us come down for the night. We could go, party with cute boys,
¹¹⁵
and the next day I could introduce my favorite pledge sisters to my friends on campus.

A handful of calls to various fraternity social directors later, I had three houses dying for us to come.
¹¹⁶
I made sure they set aside a wing of bunks in their cold-air dorms and cleaned up a private bathroom where we could shower. The whole weekend will be precisely as innocent as we want. Problem solved!

Molly argues, “You scare some of the girls because you’re a little older than them.”

“Bullshit. Half of them are my age.” A lot of my pledge sisters went to other schools first and found themselves in situations similar to mine. Heck, that’s why I connected with them in the first place.

Molly chews this over for a second. “Then maybe they didn’t want to say no to you.”
One
sister sees you aggressively badgering a couple of random students into buying your fund-raising Kit Kat bars, and all of a sudden
you’re
the monster. Listen, the profit I made off those candy bars was going to pay for important things—like gas money to get to parties on another campus. The real monsters are the ones who didn’t want to support this fine, fine organization by paying three bucks for a quality chocolate bar. (Technically everyone else was selling them for a dollar but I kind of ate a bunch of mine and I had to do
something
to make up the difference, right?)

I watch as Audra starts stealing the olives out of my salad, so I scratch my ear with my middle finger in her direction. She sees me and pretends to use my fork as toilet paper. Then she hands it to Laurie—also in our pledge class—who begins to lick it. They’re obviously shaking in their boots at the thought of me.

“Molly, we’re going nowhere.”

“Great! Glad to hear you’ve come around to my way of thinking.”

“No. I mean this
conversation
is going nowhere. Come on, the whole pledge class voted yes. And if everyone said yes because they were too afraid to cast a secret ballot in front of my antique ass, then it’s your job to boost their confidence.”

“But . . . but . . .”

The idea of losing this argument pains me but Molly’s not going to get off my case if we don’t compromise. “Mol, how about this? Why don’t we do another vote? You can give a little speech beforehand urging everyone to vote their conscience.”

Molly hesitates. “I guess that would be fair.”

“Great. If you’ll excuse me, I have to beat the lettuce out of Audra.”

We vote again and it’s unanimous. We’re totally going.

All I hear from everyone the second we get back until initiation at the end of semester is, “Best walkout ever!”

I suspected as much.

Molly can suck it.

Personally, I find it almost impossible to have anything but fun around fraternity guys. There’s a scene in
Animal House
when Dean Wormer is complaining about what a blight the Delta house is on campus. He goes on about how the brothers are responsible for dumping a truckload of fizzies into the pool at the swim meet and how they had the med school cadavers delivered to the alumni dinner and how every Halloween the trees fill with underpants and every spring the toilets explode, and I guarantee you there are pledge classes out there hanging on every wonderfully suggestive word.

I love fraternity guys. I love visiting their houses and seeing how they’ve taken pickaxes and tunneled into the turret of the building, making a supersecret party room. I love the care they take in displaying the more colorful varieties of empty liquor bottles on their windowsills. I love how they teach the house mascot, an unkempt Saint Bernard, to drink out of the water fountain. I love that no matter how tall or short or fat or thin a guy is, all of them can share the same pair of chinos and a white Ralph Lauren button-down. I love being upstairs ten minutes before the party starts and smelling the combination of steam from the showers and too much Polo cologne and the slightest tang of a now dry spilled beer coming from the hallway carpet. I love being behind them in line at the grocery store, watching them buy boxes of Count Chocula and cases of Guinness with absolutely no shame.

I have no doubt in ten years I’ll be shouting when one of these kids leaves an empty bottle on my lawn and I’ll seethe with rage if one of them ever chops down and steals the magnificent fir tree in my someday front yard. I’ll call the police if they’re too loud and I’ll go to zoning meetings to see what can be done about keeping them from parking on my street.