The Best of Enemies (18 page)

In the end, I scrape everything back into a ponytail, with a few jagged layers escaping here and there.
With the chunks flat around my ears, I resemble George Washington.
Hopefully sorority girls dig historical figures.

Because of the hair snafu, I’m running way behind.
So, when I realize I have the wrong-sized panty hose—wasn’t I supposed to buy Queen?—I’m forced to wear the pair I have.

I struggle to squeeze into them, visions of fourth grade careening through my mind.
Even the bed wetters and paste eaters were laughing at me that day.
I’m still mortified.
Desperately pushing the imagery out of my head, I try the trick of dampening my hands and coaxing the fabric up my legs, which is the only reason the crotch isn’t hanging to my knees.
As is, we’re at half-mast on my thighs and now I have to walk like I’m part of a chain gang, taking tiny, mincing steps.

So here goes nothing.

•   •   •

I thought I could rally, play through the pain at these rush events, but the stupid hose have thrown me due to poor circulation.
The blood’s no longer getting to my brain, which is why I forget all about proper party protocol, such as “sit like a lady” and “don’t eat.”
But the Kappas are serving Peanut Butter Wonder Bars!
And if I cross my legs, there’s an excellent chance I’ll faint.

Such is my level of distraction, I don’t remember to ask any of the sisters about themselves, nor do I seek out common interests.
I did okay in rush before because I basically went through the journalist’s way of writing a story.
Everyone thought I was engaging because of my
who, what, when, where,
and
why
questions, but this time, I’m too rattled to remember.
I’m palmed off from girl to girl, rather quickly.
I’m blowing it.
I discern this from the tight smiles that don’t reach their eyes, but I don’t know how to right my trajectory.
I’m sinking fast.

I can’t seem to stop myself from complaining about Kitty, either, sharing thoughts such as, “She thought no one wanted to play Sun City because it was a shitty venue!”
and “Every time I mention Nelson Mandela, she brings up the
Thriller
album!”

Tonight is not my finest moment.

Still, I hope there’s one sorority girl who’ll fight for me, who’ll see past what’s awkward and unpolished.
Who’ll understand that I have talent and drive and that I’ll be a great friend and a fine sister.
That I’ll work tirelessly for their philanthropies.
At the very least, that I’ll win their intramural softball and soccer games for them.

Funny, but I always assumed Kitty would be that girl.

I receive no bids.

As I stand here in the hallway of the administration building where all the rushees have gathered for results, I’m envious watching everyone else open their envelopes, scream, and hug the girls all around them.
I never felt so different until this very moment.
What’s wrong with
me
?
What don’t I have that those girls want?

I wish I wasn’t so disappointed.
Simon says the whole Greek system is silly and trite and archaic, but I figured that was just his defense mechanism.
I suspected he secretly wanted to be a part of it all, too, just like I do.

Or maybe I did a terrible job during rush because subconsciously I wanted to reject them before they could reject me, like girls have been doing my whole life?

If so, then why does my heart feel so heavy?

I trudge home to my dorm, passing the well-lit sororities where members yelp with joy as new pledges drop by for more hugs and their first letter sweatshirts.

I’m on the futon in my room, all alone, so angry with myself for having failed.
My gaze lingers on various portions of the room and each area makes me feel melancholy for the bond Kitty and I briefly shared.
There’s the chair where
my friend
performed my first makeover.
And how about the sink where
my pal
and I accidentally spit toothpaste on each other when we were brushing our teeth after we drank all that pear schnapps she bought with her sister’s ID?
My companion
and I laughed so hard we collapsed on the floor together.
Or how about after midterms when me and
my good buddy
stayed up all night watching Meg Ryan movies and then, sometime around four in the morning, punch-drunk and full of chocolate-covered pretzels, re-created Tom Cruise’s “Old Time Rock and Roll” dance?

While I’m looking around, I spot some garbage sticking out from behind Kitty’s desk.
And she calls me messy
, I think, bending over to retrieve the cardboard cup that goes around the L’eggs egg.
That’s when I notice the size—extra small.
Extra small?
Odd, because neither one of us wears extra small.

I don’t dwell on my find, as I’m busy wallowing in self-pity.

Welcome to Sucktown.
Population, Me.

•   •   •

Later this week, when Sars comes back from her first official sorority event, cheeks pink with excitement and the glow of belonging, I learn the full story.

Kitty had returned Sean’s call in Sars’s room after bringing all her gear down there.
Sars told me that Sean had no idea his girlfriend wasn’t actually still his girlfriend.
According to Beelzebub, I mean
Kelly
, I guess she always advised Kitty to firmly establish herself with her next beau before officially ending it with the current flame, so that’s what Kitty had done.
With finals and the holidays, she was able to string him along without their hanging out together.
Since Kitty’s relationship hadn’t panned out with Teddy, she’d planned to fall back into step with Sean.
But I blew it for her.

Perhaps someone should have
talked to me
and
told me the plan.
I’d have been on board.

Looks like that’s when Kitty snapped, going from never having been dumped to twice in one week.
Sars said Kitty rushed out, but then returned so quickly that Sars assumed she’d simply hit the bathroom.
But apparently she used that time to swap out my proper-fitting queen-size nylons for the tiny pair belonging to pint-sized Lisa Wu who lives across the hall.

Kitty’s the one who sentenced me to hobbling around for the entire night of rush, which led to my demise.

Even though I was the injured party, I still wanted to talk to Kitty because I never intended to screw anything up for her.
I wasn’t being malicious, but maybe after my harsh words in the mall, she didn’t believe me.
When I told her she reinforced every dumb blonde stereotype, she reacted as though I’d slapped her.
Later, I tried to apologize but she just looked right through me, like I didn’t exist.

Seriously, I would rather take a punch.
At least then the hurt would come with an expiration date.

I’ve been hiding out in the Student Union lately because my room is too tense with Kitty coming in and out.
Sars said I could hang in her room because her roommate isn’t coming back this semester.
(Supposedly, it’s mono, but what kind of mono takes six more months to cure?
The kind that requires diapers, I suspect.) Sars and Kitty both pledged Tri Tau, so it doesn’t make sense for her to take sides.
Am I a terrible person for wishing she would anyway?

I’m sitting down here in the oak-paneled Rathskeller with a coffee and a tin of Djarum clove cigarettes.
I’m surrounded by girls proudly displaying shiny new badges shaped like arrows and kites.
I blow smoke in their direction when they get too loud.

I’m lost in thought when someone yanks my ponytail.
I turn around to find John-John.
He lives on the other side of campus and the computer science classes are far from liberal arts, so we rarely run into each other.
Which is fine.
However, I must be in a state because I’m actually glad to see him.

(When I tell Bobby about our encounter later, he says, “John-John, the last refuge of a scoundrel.”)

“Whazzup, spaz?”
He folds himself into the café chair across from me.
Without an invitation, he grabs my paper cup of coffee and takes a deep swig.
“Blech.
Not enough sugar, too much cream.”

“I’m sorry.”
Great, now I’ve even gotten coffee wrong.

He leans over the table to poke me.
“Sorry?
Sorry?
Who shit in your cornflakes, kid?
’S’matter with you?
Why so emo?”

I sink into my seat.
“I don’t even know where to start, John.
Maybe I’m down because in wanting everything, I’ve inadvertently wound up with nothing.”

He smirks and pats his intricately gelled coif.
“Um, okay,
Sylvia Plath
.
Make sure you get the oven real hot before you stick your head in.”

“Will do.”

“Shall I fetch you a bell jar, milady?”

“I’m good, thanks.”

“You’re no fun.
Why aren’t you fun?
Have the pseudo-intellectual j-school drama queens done a number on you?
Shall we discuss Important Things?
Wait, what the fuck are these, Jack?”
He picks up the red tin and opens it to find the cigarettes.
“Whoa, are you
smoking
?
No way!
Ooh, I’m gonna tell Dad!”

I look him squarely in the eye.
“Do that.”

He cocks his head and peers at me like an entomologist examining a never-before-seen species of beetle.
“Why aren’t you fighting back?
You’re like a pod person all of a sudden.
And where’s your pledge pin?”

In sotto voce, I share my shame.
“I didn’t get in.”

“But I just saw Sars upstairs wearing her pin.
Wait, hold on—you mean the human calculator scored a bid and you didn’t?
The
hell
?
Thought you were Tri Tau all the way.
Do they not want to win the soccer intramurals?”

He was home during Christmas break, too, so he already heard Teddy’s side of the story—that he wasn’t into Kitty, and broke it off.
I brief him on everything that’s gone on since then.

“Duuuuuude,” he says, drawing out the word.
“Your roommate is a
thundercunt
.
No joke.
What kind of person takes a painful childhood incident and then uses it against you?
That’s fucked-up.
Who does that?”

I glance up at him.
“Aside from you?
You’ve been doing just that for years.”

He shrugs.
“I’m allowed to; I’m family.”

John assumes a more aggressive posture as he begins to formulate a plan.
He looks as though he’s Patton about to deliver that famous speech to the Third Army.
“Are you gonna take it from this bitch?
No.
Nuh-uh.
Jordans don’t go down that way.
Jordans don’t quit.
Remember when Teddy played an entire quarter against New Trier
after
he broke his collarbone?
Why’d he do it?
Because Jordans don’t lose.
You need revenge.
You require justice.
Remember how it went down with my roommate Paul?
I have experience with this.
She took something from you, so now you’re gonna take something from her.
Time to buzz a tower.”

I’m more of a turn-the-other cheek kind of person, but where has that gotten me?
To an uncomfortable living situation and shared custody of my best friend.
Perhaps John’s words have merit.
He can’t always be wrong, if for no reason other than the law of averages.

“. . .
kill or be killed, that’s the way of the jungle.”

I glance over both of my shoulders.
“Not going to kill her.
I want to be real clear about that.”

“
Metaphorically
kill her.
You’ve got to strike first or she’s going to beat you with a sock full of shit while you’re asleep.”

“Metaphorically again?”

“Yeah, you hope.
So kick her where she hurts.”