Chapter 2
TWO
UNEXPECTED ALLY
“This is messed up.”
I peer around the door and see a woman I recognize from campus heckling Addison Fitzpatrick, Zach’s bunny du jour. Wynter, I think her name is. Wynter Kinnock.
She’s older than most of the people here, mostly because she’s on her second undergrad degree, and you can tell because nobody else dares to stand up to Addy.
God, I hate sycophants.
“This is how we do things in this chapter,” Addison sneers. “If you don’t like it, you don’t have to be a Pi—”
“This is bullying.”
“Natural selection, actually.”
“Are you kidding me? You read a high-school biology textbook once, picked up that phrase, and—”
“Look, Lone Bone. This is how we do things,” Addison repeats, the taunt in her voice coming across loud and clear.
“Firstly, you don’t have the right to use that name.
Only my friends in the marching band can use it.
Secondly, it’s wrong! Those girls are human beings.
You can’t treat them like that.” Wynter’s eyes narrow.
“I’ll definitely be contacting national HQ because no matter what you say, this is not the Pi Beta Epsilon way! ”
Before Addison can have the last word, Wynter storms off, cell in hand as if she’s about to take immediate action.
Regret fills me at her retreat though.
With her gone, that means this mess will begin and, oh boy, it’s bad.
Last time I rushed, I didn’t make it to this stage. Now, I’m stuck in a room that, per Wynter’s horror, is for the rejects.
My throat bobs as I stare down at myself.
Earlier, I looked in the mirror and was happy with my appearance.
Now, I know I deluded myself. I—
“I’m nervous,” a girl blurts out then sticks her hand in front of me. “I’m Mary. Mary Gillespie.”
“Nice to meet you, Mary. I’m Denny. Well, Denver. Parilla.”
The four other girls in this sardine-can closet intro themselves, and in each of our expressions, there’s sorrow.
Sorrow this whole Greek bullshit created.
I guess deep down, we’ve all figured this isn’t the regular route tonight should take. Wishful thinking is such a bitch.
“I wish I were a legacy,” Mary bleats. “I need the sorority on my resumé.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean, why? Because it looks good.” She straightens her shoulders. “I have to get in. My mom said that the networking links alone are invaluable.”
My nose wrinkles as I think about my mom. I love her. God knows I do. It’s why I’m here in the first place! But… “They’re not that great. My mom’s less of a homemaker and more of a doll that hung off my dad’s arm.”
One of the other girls, Letitia Monroe, gasps. “That’s so mean!”
“Hardly,” I grouse. “It’s the truth. We had nannies and housekeeping staff. It’s not like she was a stay-at-home mom.”
“That’s the perk of the Pies! I bet she met your dad through Greek life, right?” Mary prompts.
I shrug. “I guess.”
“There you have it.” Determination has her jutting out her chin. “I want that for me.”
“I don’t think we’re high up on their list of pledges,” I say dryly, leaning back against the wall.
When the straps cut into my chest and shoulders, I tut, stop leaning, and start fiddling with them.
Everything about this dress feels wrong. It’s too long yet too short, too tight and too revealing. It’s everything I hate and it’s still not enough.
I’m still not enough.
Refusing to think about how I kinda liked the dress earlier, I suck in a breath, resenting both my parents for putting me through this. Resenting myself for being weak and letting Mom talk me into it.
“You don’t know that,” Mary argues. “There’s always a chance we’ll get in.”
“Sure I do. You heard that girl out there. We’re the rejects.”
“Speak for yourself.” Letitia peers down her nose at me. “Why are you even here if you don’t want to take part?”
I glower at her. “There’s taking part and there’s being humiliated for it!”
“You would say that. If your mom was a Pi, then you’re a legacy. You’re a shoo-in. It’s so unfair!”
“Hardly. They refused me last year.”
The gasp that earns me is insane. They look at me like I just pissed in their cornflakes.
“They refused a legacy?!” Mary groans.
I hitch a shoulder, trying and failing to feel like less of a loser than I already am.
My cheeks gust out.
I’m not a loser. I’m not a loser. I’m not a loser.
The other girls back away from me.
Like I’m contagious.
Like the rejection is catching.
Like I am a loser.
I swallow, stung by their cruelty when we’re in the same boat.
“God, it’d be so cool to live here,” Mary remarks. “Did you know they nicknamed it Arcadia?”
“Mom says that—”
Letitia steps in before I can finish the sentence. “That’s so neat. I wonder if they share or if they get their own rooms?”
Wounded, I back off. My shoulders round, hunching of their own volition as I make myself smaller.
But that’s never been me.
I’m too big for everything. The clothes my mom wishes I could wear. This sorority. Hell, the world. A world where the lion’s share always goes to the skinny, pretty girls who—
“Mary Gillespie, Denver Parilla—”
A disembodied voice lists our names.
The others grow still, practically quivering in anticipation of the next word to fall from the random sister’s lips.
Letitia sniffles when hers isn’t called.
None of the others even register that, but I do. “I’m sorry—”
“Don’t. Just… don’t,” she grates out as the girls who shot the breeze with her seconds earlier veer around her person like she’s a hazardous infection.
I have no idea how Letitia failed to reach the next phase when the Pies literally just stuck us in a closet, but the Hunger Games have obviously begun.
Biting my lip, I traipse after the others.
The fleeting desire to be back home, to be with Zach, to veg on the couch with him, to talk shit about tonight’s game on PSN, to snuggle into his side so I can steal his popcorn, fills me.
I’m never too big for Zach or Pecan.
Ever.
My chin trembles.
Just thinking of my best buds is like a light at the end of the tunnel and a dose of reality I desperately need.
That’s my place. Not here.
I can do this.
I just need to put one foot in front of the other.
Each one will bring me closer to them. To that scene I just envisaged.
To home.
You can get through this. Just take it as it comes. Whatever they dole out, you can handle, and once it’s over, you can go back to Zach and Peeks, I think to myself as we cross a hallway lined with pictures of the old guard.
Go back to Zach and Peeks.
I repeat the mantra in my head as I pass a nineteen-year-old version of my mom. Mom, who probably still fits into the dress she wore for that event.
We enter what has to be a meeting room—there are spindly gold seats that look like they’d buckle under my weight and an altar at the back with a pedestal in front of it.
We trundle down an aisle that parts the way, letting the sisters take their measure of us as if we’re cattle at a market.
Are we worthy of the Pies?
That’s the silent question I know they have to answer.
I fall short. It’s made abundantly clear.
I hear the giggles, see the sneers, watch the bitches that make up this sorority diss my dress…
And it’s fine.
I’ll be back home with Zach and Peeks soon.
Addison, the queen of this viper’s nest, orders, “Line up in front of the pedestal, PNMs*.”
She strolls out from behind us, so pristinely perfect in a dress so tight it’s practically bodycon, and it’s nauseating to think Zach bangs her. Hell, he’s probably banged half the sorority this summer!
My mind stutters over the thought so, for my own sanity, I shift my focus onto something else.
A glance around the room once we take our positions has me hiding my distaste for the weird Renaissance-esque mural on the back wall where three nymphs dance in a pool. It’s like Temu Michelangelo. Talk about gaudy.
A soft, clicking sound catches my attention from the tedious speech Addison’s making, and I find Wynter, frowning, standing to the side, her phone aimed at the rushees.
Her expression isn’t mean. If anything, her scowl speaks of her discomfort.
I think back to what she said. How she’d email HQ. Is she taking pictures as proof?
Proof of what, though?
I catch her eye by mistake and hers narrow. Not vindictively, but ferociously.
For someone I’ve never even spoken to, that look comes as a shock.
But she doesn’t drop eye contact. Ever. Not throughout Addison’s ridiculous speech. Not throughout the misery of the early stages of pledging.
I don’t know why I’m the one she looks at. All I know is that, by simply standing there, she props me upright.
Makes me feel less alone on one of the most humiliating nights of my life.
Because in a room full of people, I’ve never felt more isolated.
Or less worthy of existing.
* Potential New Member