Read Online Hell Week by Rosemary Clement-Moore - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Rosemary Clement-Moore
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treating this like a real emergency--which was the other danger of continuing my undercover work. Perspective could be a slippery thing. How easy would it be to lose it? F F F
"I don't understand!" Tricia sobbed as she sat between us on Holly's bed in Sutter Hall. Her hands were full of soggy Kleenex, and her eyes puffy and red. "I did everything right. I studied the house and I got my hair done and I bought new clothes and the right kind of purse."
"You did great," said Holly, rubbing her back in a sooth- ing rhythm. I looked at Tricia's handbag, wondering what was so special. She'd dumped it onto the floor, along with her books, by the room's built-in double desk. "They're idiots. You're beautiful and sweet."
"Much too sweet for the Delta Delta Gammas," I told her.
"I should have dyed my hair." Miserably, she fingered one of her glossy brown curls. "That's what the consultant said, if I wanted to go DDG."
I had to speak up, because even undercover, there was only so long I could keep repressing my opinion. "If you ask me, you should be thanking your lucky stars that you aren't stuck for the next four years with a bunch of skinny clones, making yourself sick and miserable to be someone you're not."
"But what am I going to do?" She lifted her tissue-filled hands helplessly. "How will I get to know people? How will I get anywhere in life? When I called my mom, she said now I'll never find a husband!"
"Oh, for God's sake." My sympathy went a lot farther than my patience. Holly swiftly intervened before I could say something really unfortunate.
"Here." She went to her bureau drawer and brought back an airline-sized bottle of vodka, handing it to Tricia. "Drink this. Then you can lie down for a few minutes, and pull your- self together in time for the parties tonight. Those aren't the only Greeks in the sea."
Tricia made a brave face and unscrewed the cap. "You're right," she said, throwing back her shoulders and then throwing back the liquor, downing all three ounces in two deep swallows.
"Wow," I said.
She gave a coughing wheeze, a relaxed smile on her face. "I feel much better now."
Luckily, we were standing there to catch her when she slid off the bed and into careless oblivion.
F F F
Holly and I managed to get Tricia back to her own dorm room; the major obstacle, once we got her upright, was to keep her from calling out "Screw the Delta Delta Gammas" to everyone we passed, especially after that one frat boy called back, "Been there, done that."
We put her to bed, made sure she was still breathing-- snoring, actually--then grabbed a couple of hamburgers from the cafeteria before heading back to Holly's room in Sutter Hall.
I sat cross-legged on the extra bed, the Styrofoam to-go box in my lap. I'd assumed Holly had a roommate, but it turned out she was just schizophrenic. The decorating scheme was half Posh Spice, half David Beckham--designer sheets on the bed, soccer trophies on the shelf, all wrapped in a subtle scent of Prada perfume mixed with eau de athletic shoe.
"I don't get it," I said around a french fry. "My mom was in a sorority, but she never made me feel like I had to join one to be a success."
"Was her mom Greek?"
"No, they were German." Holly rolled her eyes at the fee- ble joke. "But really. Come on. It's such a clich�, the carbon- copy girls and the MRS degree."
"Where do you think clich�s come from?" She flipped her hair over her shoulder and took a bite of burger. For a lanky girl, she could pack away the cals. "You're going to pledge with me, right?"
"What?"
"SAXi." She swallowed her mouthful and looked at me levelly. "You're not going to make me go in alone, are you?"
There was nothing helpless about Holly--competent, confident, down to earth. But something about the way she said that . . . She munched on her burger as if we were dis- cussing a trip to the mall, but something underneath that thrummed with the tension of checked emotion.
"What makes you
"I don't understand!" Tricia sobbed as she sat between us on Holly's bed in Sutter Hall. Her hands were full of soggy Kleenex, and her eyes puffy and red. "I did everything right. I studied the house and I got my hair done and I bought new clothes and the right kind of purse."
"You did great," said Holly, rubbing her back in a sooth- ing rhythm. I looked at Tricia's handbag, wondering what was so special. She'd dumped it onto the floor, along with her books, by the room's built-in double desk. "They're idiots. You're beautiful and sweet."
"Much too sweet for the Delta Delta Gammas," I told her.
"I should have dyed my hair." Miserably, she fingered one of her glossy brown curls. "That's what the consultant said, if I wanted to go DDG."
I had to speak up, because even undercover, there was only so long I could keep repressing my opinion. "If you ask me, you should be thanking your lucky stars that you aren't stuck for the next four years with a bunch of skinny clones, making yourself sick and miserable to be someone you're not."
"But what am I going to do?" She lifted her tissue-filled hands helplessly. "How will I get to know people? How will I get anywhere in life? When I called my mom, she said now I'll never find a husband!"
"Oh, for God's sake." My sympathy went a lot farther than my patience. Holly swiftly intervened before I could say something really unfortunate.
"Here." She went to her bureau drawer and brought back an airline-sized bottle of vodka, handing it to Tricia. "Drink this. Then you can lie down for a few minutes, and pull your- self together in time for the parties tonight. Those aren't the only Greeks in the sea."
Tricia made a brave face and unscrewed the cap. "You're right," she said, throwing back her shoulders and then throwing back the liquor, downing all three ounces in two deep swallows.
"Wow," I said.
She gave a coughing wheeze, a relaxed smile on her face. "I feel much better now."
Luckily, we were standing there to catch her when she slid off the bed and into careless oblivion.
F F F
Holly and I managed to get Tricia back to her own dorm room; the major obstacle, once we got her upright, was to keep her from calling out "Screw the Delta Delta Gammas" to everyone we passed, especially after that one frat boy called back, "Been there, done that."
We put her to bed, made sure she was still breathing-- snoring, actually--then grabbed a couple of hamburgers from the cafeteria before heading back to Holly's room in Sutter Hall.
I sat cross-legged on the extra bed, the Styrofoam to-go box in my lap. I'd assumed Holly had a roommate, but it turned out she was just schizophrenic. The decorating scheme was half Posh Spice, half David Beckham--designer sheets on the bed, soccer trophies on the shelf, all wrapped in a subtle scent of Prada perfume mixed with eau de athletic shoe.
"I don't get it," I said around a french fry. "My mom was in a sorority, but she never made me feel like I had to join one to be a success."
"Was her mom Greek?"
"No, they were German." Holly rolled her eyes at the fee- ble joke. "But really. Come on. It's such a clich�, the carbon- copy girls and the MRS degree."
"Where do you think clich�s come from?" She flipped her hair over her shoulder and took a bite of burger. For a lanky girl, she could pack away the cals. "You're going to pledge with me, right?"
"What?"
"SAXi." She swallowed her mouthful and looked at me levelly. "You're not going to make me go in alone, are you?"
There was nothing helpless about Holly--competent, confident, down to earth. But something about the way she said that . . . She munched on her burger as if we were dis- cussing a trip to the mall, but something underneath that thrummed with the tension of checked emotion.
"What makes you
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