Read Online Hell Week by Rosemary Clement-Moore - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Rosemary Clement-Moore
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think they're going to invite me?" I asked, resisting the pull of my crusader instincts.
"Only Sigmas know Sigma criteria." She turned her careful attention to tucking a tomato slice back into her burger. "But I've got a feeling."
I understood about feelings. My thoughts turned to Tri- cia, who was a little silly but not at all atypical of the girls going through Rush, hanging not just four years of hopes on the outcome of this week, but certain that their foreseeable futures hinged on what letters they pinned on their lapels. Bad enough that the Greeks considered themselves better than the rest of us. Normal, likable people seemed to think so, too. It seemed to me there was a pertinent, immediate need to puncture these pretensions.
"Okay," I said, decisively. "If they give me a bid, I'll pledge."
"I knew it." She grinned and wiped the mustard off her fingers. "We're going to be pledge sisters!"
She stuck out her hand and I clasped it, my guard com- pletely down. Sight and taste and touch exploded like pa- parazzi flashbulbs in my brain: Holly in a private-school blazer and scratchy plaid skirt; on the soccer field, with no one in the stands to watch her; arguing with an elegant auburn-haired woman; then sneaking drinks in her room, amber in the glass, smooth and smoky on her tongue, the one oasis of color and warmth in her cold marble house.
It lasted the space of one caught breath. This time, my stomach stayed down; only my heart leapt, beat against my breastbone as I tried to get my bearings. Back in the dorm room, dizzy and befuddled.
Holly stared at me strangely. My hand still rested in hers. "Are you all right?"
"Yeah." I had to try again, with more confidence. "Yeah. I'm fine."
Only I wasn't. I was slipping a psychic gear, and no book could help this dummy now. 8
Gran took the teapot out of its cozy, poured a cup, and pushed the sugar bowl across the table to me. "Now, drink that and tell me again. Slowly this time."
The tea was almost the color of coffee. I like it strong and sweet when I'm in a panic. The first sip burned the roof of my mouth, but the pain was psychologically grounding.
"I don't know what else to say." The china cup barely rat- tled as I set it in the saucer. "I've never had vision things like that before. Not all flashy and . . . visiony." There were cook- ies, too, but even the rich chocolate smell wasn't enough to tempt my stomach out of its knot. "Maybe I've got a tumor." Gran gave a dismissive snort and stirred her tea, the spoon clinking against china. "You don't have a tumor."
"All I know is that when this started happening to Cordelia on that show Angel, she went into a coma and died."
"Honestly, Maggie. Do you get all your psychic instruc- tion from TV and movies?"
"No. I have a book, too."
She set her cup on the table. We were in the breakfast nook of her kitchen, as bright and cheery a place as I knew. Gran's house was all about tea and cookies and comfort. Though not always comfort in the way I envisioned. She had a limited tolerance for self-pity.
Folding her hands in her lap, she asked in a pointedly prim tone, "You consider a Dummies book the exhaustive source?"
I picked up my cup, but it was still too hot to drink. "It isn't like they have classes at the Y, Gran. You said I have to work it out my own way, and I'm trying."
"That's true." She softened, reached to cover my hand with hers. I tensed, waiting for the psychic shock treatment.
I did feel something. Love, which smelled just like Gran's face cream, the one she'd used when I was a kid; se- curity, which tasted like Earl Grey tea.
My eyes sought hers. "Did you do that on purpose?"
"What do you think I did?" she asked, withdrawing her hand, her expression that of a patient teacher.
"Kept your baggage, I guess, from hitting me in the head."
She rose from her chair. "Come to the study."
I followed her through the living room into the second bedroom, which had been in use as a study
"Only Sigmas know Sigma criteria." She turned her careful attention to tucking a tomato slice back into her burger. "But I've got a feeling."
I understood about feelings. My thoughts turned to Tri- cia, who was a little silly but not at all atypical of the girls going through Rush, hanging not just four years of hopes on the outcome of this week, but certain that their foreseeable futures hinged on what letters they pinned on their lapels. Bad enough that the Greeks considered themselves better than the rest of us. Normal, likable people seemed to think so, too. It seemed to me there was a pertinent, immediate need to puncture these pretensions.
"Okay," I said, decisively. "If they give me a bid, I'll pledge."
"I knew it." She grinned and wiped the mustard off her fingers. "We're going to be pledge sisters!"
She stuck out her hand and I clasped it, my guard com- pletely down. Sight and taste and touch exploded like pa- parazzi flashbulbs in my brain: Holly in a private-school blazer and scratchy plaid skirt; on the soccer field, with no one in the stands to watch her; arguing with an elegant auburn-haired woman; then sneaking drinks in her room, amber in the glass, smooth and smoky on her tongue, the one oasis of color and warmth in her cold marble house.
It lasted the space of one caught breath. This time, my stomach stayed down; only my heart leapt, beat against my breastbone as I tried to get my bearings. Back in the dorm room, dizzy and befuddled.
Holly stared at me strangely. My hand still rested in hers. "Are you all right?"
"Yeah." I had to try again, with more confidence. "Yeah. I'm fine."
Only I wasn't. I was slipping a psychic gear, and no book could help this dummy now. 8
Gran took the teapot out of its cozy, poured a cup, and pushed the sugar bowl across the table to me. "Now, drink that and tell me again. Slowly this time."
The tea was almost the color of coffee. I like it strong and sweet when I'm in a panic. The first sip burned the roof of my mouth, but the pain was psychologically grounding.
"I don't know what else to say." The china cup barely rat- tled as I set it in the saucer. "I've never had vision things like that before. Not all flashy and . . . visiony." There were cook- ies, too, but even the rich chocolate smell wasn't enough to tempt my stomach out of its knot. "Maybe I've got a tumor." Gran gave a dismissive snort and stirred her tea, the spoon clinking against china. "You don't have a tumor."
"All I know is that when this started happening to Cordelia on that show Angel, she went into a coma and died."
"Honestly, Maggie. Do you get all your psychic instruc- tion from TV and movies?"
"No. I have a book, too."
She set her cup on the table. We were in the breakfast nook of her kitchen, as bright and cheery a place as I knew. Gran's house was all about tea and cookies and comfort. Though not always comfort in the way I envisioned. She had a limited tolerance for self-pity.
Folding her hands in her lap, she asked in a pointedly prim tone, "You consider a Dummies book the exhaustive source?"
I picked up my cup, but it was still too hot to drink. "It isn't like they have classes at the Y, Gran. You said I have to work it out my own way, and I'm trying."
"That's true." She softened, reached to cover my hand with hers. I tensed, waiting for the psychic shock treatment.
I did feel something. Love, which smelled just like Gran's face cream, the one she'd used when I was a kid; se- curity, which tasted like Earl Grey tea.
My eyes sought hers. "Did you do that on purpose?"
"What do you think I did?" she asked, withdrawing her hand, her expression that of a patient teacher.
"Kept your baggage, I guess, from hitting me in the head."
She rose from her chair. "Come to the study."
I followed her through the living room into the second bedroom, which had been in use as a study
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