Read Online Sorority Sisters by Claudia Welch - Free Book Online

version.”
    â€œI’m from Connecticut, the Farmington River Valley, which isn’t the same, but at least it’s a valley. Are we getting points for consistency? I’m all about scoring points. I grew up in Avon, a small town outside of Hartford. And I applied to two schools. ULA was my top choice,” Karen says. “Oops, I forgot to take a swig.” She dutifully takes a small swallow of her rum and Coke, and then she grimaces.
    Diane laughs. “Next time you get vodka. Laurie, would you like to go next? I am the hostess, and therefore it’s my sworn duty to go last and take the smallest portion of everything served. Except for booze, of course.”
    â€œNo, you go ahead,” I say, rubbing my finger around the rim of the glass. I’ve never had rum before; I’m positive I’m not going to care for it.
    â€œOkay. I’m a navy brat, so I’m from everywhere, Camarillo right now. That’s north of LA for you out-of-towners. I applied to three schools. Top pick: ULA, naturally.”
    â€œNot naming names, huh?” Ellen asks. “I guess it doesn’t matter since we’re all here now. Laurie, you’re up.”
    â€œI’m from San Francisco and I applied to ULA and Stanford,” I say.
    â€œTake a swallow,” Ellen says. “That’s part of it.” And so I do, just a small swallow, and it proves me right; I don’t like the taste of rum at all.
    Fifty-five minutes later, Joan and Cindy are asleep on Diane’s bed, Cindy’s face scrubbed clean of makeup and looking all of fourteen years old, and the taste of rum is starting to make its appeal known. It does have a lovely flavor, sweet and strong and slightly tropical.
    â€œBeach, definitely,” Ellen says. “I love the beach. My parents have a place at Malibu, and if I could live there, I would. Ocean, sand, sun, surf, it’s all I need to be happy. That, and a great bikini. Oh, and the body to go in a great bikini.”
    â€œLakes,” I say, leaning my head back against the crushed couch cushions, my eyes half-closed against the overhead kitchen light. “Lakes with pine trees and forests and cool nights. My family spends a few weeks every summer on Mackinac Island.”
    â€œWhere’s that?” Karen asks.
    â€œIn Michigan, in the Upper Peninsula,” I say. “I met Pete there last summer.”
    â€œThe sailing guy,” Diane says, topping off our drinks with more rum. She empties the bottle into Ellen’s glass. “Time to switch to vodka.”
    â€œWho’s the sailing guy?” Ellen asks.
    I shift my weight and check the buttons on my blouse. I didn’t mean to talk about Pete. I shouldn’t talk about Pete. Pete isn’t mine and he can’t be mine. He’s Barbie’s now. He was Barbie’s then.
    I have such a sick feeling in my stomach. I don’t think rum agrees with me. I take another swallow to test the theory.
    Diane looks at me, waiting for my answer. I suppose I should answer. I need to manage this somehow, control what is said and what is known. Of course, that would be far easier to do if I understood anything.
    â€œLaurie, do you know a sailing guy?” Karen asks. Karen is lying on the sofa, her head on my lap. Ellen is lying on the floor, her head on one of Diane’s bed pillows. Diane is in the kitchen, making orange juice and staring at me with compassion in her dark eyes. I never would have predicted that Diane could be compassionate. It’s quite clear to me that I can’t read people at all.
    â€œHe was on Mackinac with his family; his father’s a doctor, a pathologist. I was sitting on a rock near the lake and he just walked”—
into my life
, is how I want to finish the sentence, but he didn’t walk into my life; he walked through it—“by and we started talking.”
    â€œThat’s how it always starts. With talking,” Ellen