Day! We totally don’t dirty rush but all the hottest girls join ours and you’re really pretty.”
Scarlett was well versed in sororities. She had seen Animal House about twenty-nine times on cable. She had also heard the “hazing” horror stories, in which new sorority sisters—“pledges”—were allegedly subjected to humiliating and sometimes dangerous rituals.
Cammy was going on and on about something called the “Greek Gala.”
“I don’t think sororities are my thing, Cammy,” Scarlett interrupted her. “Didn’t I read about you guys in the papers? Don’t you make pledges stand in a cold room buck-naked, while you circle their cellulite with Magic Markers?”
Cammy gasped. Her mouth dropped open. “That is so not true!” she exclaimed. “Those are just horriblelies spread by jealous people who want to destroy us and everything we stand for!”
“If you say so. Thanks for inviting me, though! See you around campus!”
Scarlett suppressed a laugh as she hoisted her backpack on her shoulders and took off in the opposite direction. “Bitch!” she heard Cammy muttering after her. Whatever.
Scarlett turned left and headed toward what she thought might be the center of campus. As she walked, she passed racks of art posters for sale (Picasso’s The Lovers , Van Gogh’s Starry Night , and all the rest of the usual museum clichés to warm up those depressing little dorm rooms); a bronze statue of a Trojan warrior, nicknamed “Tommy Trojan,” that reminded her of the mascot for the condom ads (maybe she would fit in here); maroon and gold U.S.C. banners; handpainted signs inviting her to join the Dancing Club, the SoCalVoCals, the Turkish Students’ Association, or the Student Senate. She also passed people who were presumably her new classmates. A frightening number of them looked just like Cammy. What was the appeal, anyway? Why did they all want to be the same cookie-cutter, dyed-blond, plump-lipped, big-boobed, spray-tanned Barbie doll? Wasn’t variety supposed to be the spice of life? To be fair, not everyone looked like that. Still, the Cammy clones were definitely not hard to spot.
Scarlett wondered once again if she had made the right choice in coming to U.S.C. Would she really fit in here?
On the other hand, would she really fit in anywhere?
10
TO BE UNCOMFORTABLE
Jane glanced around the waiting room and wondered how much longer it would be. It was so quiet, she could hear the ticking of the clock on the otherwise bare, white wall as it hit 6:45. She wondered what kinds of things they would ask her. And how long would the interview take? Also, if they were trying to make a savvy show about L.A., why would they be interested in someone like her? She knew nothing about L.A.
She was a little troubled by the fact that the waiting room was so— ordinary. Shouldn’t a TV producer’s waiting room be chic? With lots of glass and chrome and expensive art? Like Fiona Chen’s office but louder. She leaned over to Scarlett, who was sitting next to her on one of the uncomfortable beige chairs. “His assistant said six thirty, right?” she whispered.
“Relax. When did you start caring about punctuality?You’re like half an hour late for everything,” Scarlett reminded her.
“I’m really nervous. I’m a little scared to go in there,” Jane admitted.
“Hey. You’re the one who talked me into coming here. You were the one who was all excited about meeting with that guy,” Scarlett said.
That guy. Jane reached into her pocket and fingered the business card he had given them at Les Deux. “Trevor Lord, producer, PopTV,” it read. She and Scarlett had Googled his name right when they got home that night. He hadn’t been lying. He was the Trevor Lord, TV producer, the creator of hit reality shows The Beach and American Adventure. He was kind of a big deal. Jane had read about how some of his recent shows had flopped. Was this new show going to be his comeback?
Scarlett had insisted
Scarlett was well versed in sororities. She had seen Animal House about twenty-nine times on cable. She had also heard the “hazing” horror stories, in which new sorority sisters—“pledges”—were allegedly subjected to humiliating and sometimes dangerous rituals.
Cammy was going on and on about something called the “Greek Gala.”
“I don’t think sororities are my thing, Cammy,” Scarlett interrupted her. “Didn’t I read about you guys in the papers? Don’t you make pledges stand in a cold room buck-naked, while you circle their cellulite with Magic Markers?”
Cammy gasped. Her mouth dropped open. “That is so not true!” she exclaimed. “Those are just horriblelies spread by jealous people who want to destroy us and everything we stand for!”
“If you say so. Thanks for inviting me, though! See you around campus!”
Scarlett suppressed a laugh as she hoisted her backpack on her shoulders and took off in the opposite direction. “Bitch!” she heard Cammy muttering after her. Whatever.
Scarlett turned left and headed toward what she thought might be the center of campus. As she walked, she passed racks of art posters for sale (Picasso’s The Lovers , Van Gogh’s Starry Night , and all the rest of the usual museum clichés to warm up those depressing little dorm rooms); a bronze statue of a Trojan warrior, nicknamed “Tommy Trojan,” that reminded her of the mascot for the condom ads (maybe she would fit in here); maroon and gold U.S.C. banners; handpainted signs inviting her to join the Dancing Club, the SoCalVoCals, the Turkish Students’ Association, or the Student Senate. She also passed people who were presumably her new classmates. A frightening number of them looked just like Cammy. What was the appeal, anyway? Why did they all want to be the same cookie-cutter, dyed-blond, plump-lipped, big-boobed, spray-tanned Barbie doll? Wasn’t variety supposed to be the spice of life? To be fair, not everyone looked like that. Still, the Cammy clones were definitely not hard to spot.
Scarlett wondered once again if she had made the right choice in coming to U.S.C. Would she really fit in here?
On the other hand, would she really fit in anywhere?
10
TO BE UNCOMFORTABLE
Jane glanced around the waiting room and wondered how much longer it would be. It was so quiet, she could hear the ticking of the clock on the otherwise bare, white wall as it hit 6:45. She wondered what kinds of things they would ask her. And how long would the interview take? Also, if they were trying to make a savvy show about L.A., why would they be interested in someone like her? She knew nothing about L.A.
She was a little troubled by the fact that the waiting room was so— ordinary. Shouldn’t a TV producer’s waiting room be chic? With lots of glass and chrome and expensive art? Like Fiona Chen’s office but louder. She leaned over to Scarlett, who was sitting next to her on one of the uncomfortable beige chairs. “His assistant said six thirty, right?” she whispered.
“Relax. When did you start caring about punctuality?You’re like half an hour late for everything,” Scarlett reminded her.
“I’m really nervous. I’m a little scared to go in there,” Jane admitted.
“Hey. You’re the one who talked me into coming here. You were the one who was all excited about meeting with that guy,” Scarlett said.
That guy. Jane reached into her pocket and fingered the business card he had given them at Les Deux. “Trevor Lord, producer, PopTV,” it read. She and Scarlett had Googled his name right when they got home that night. He hadn’t been lying. He was the Trevor Lord, TV producer, the creator of hit reality shows The Beach and American Adventure. He was kind of a big deal. Jane had read about how some of his recent shows had flopped. Was this new show going to be his comeback?
Scarlett had insisted
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