Chapter 9
The meeting wasn’t in The House, because The Girls were preparing for bid night.
Sloane recalled vaguely that bid night was a big deal; that she herself had wanted to throw up while waiting to find out what house had picked her.
Not because she had wanted it herself, but because she knew that if she didn’t wind up in her mother’s house, it would mean she’d failed some kind of ultra-critical test. Everyone knew legacies got special treatment.
“That’s actually not true for these girls,” Alex said when Sloane confessed it. They were at Britt’s house—the Britt that Alex said needed to “do Britt” in order to save time and energy for everyone else.
Sloane could see why. Britt had the most singularly toned biceps Sloane had ever seen and looked exactly like a Parisian influencer Sloane followed on VidStar who had four kids and a striking resemblance to young Jane Birkin.
Britt had also served them a platter of fresh bread and artisan cheeses that Alex and Sloane were nibbling on while Britt picked a movie for all the kids—her twins, Alex’s son, and Isla—to watch.
(Isla was deep in concentration over one of the twins’ toys, a puzzle from a subscription service that Britt swore by.
“It’s on the expensive side, I know, but they’re all Montessori and so well made, honestly every other thing they own is a waste of money.
I can give you the ones they’ve outgrown!
I’ve been holding on to them for this exact reason.
Anyway, I’ll send you the link.”) Britt’s entire life was like a VidStar feed that Sloane would gaze at and ultimately fall well short of.
Telling herself the grass wasn’t always greener didn’t help—Britt’s boyishly handsome husband had popped in to offer Alex and Sloane refreshments and chat amicably with Alex about a book they’d both read, and then he’d given his wife a look so openly desirous it made Sloane’s mouth go dry.
Britt even had a similarly anarchistic dog to Sloane’s, but there was no evidence of that, smell-wise, the way Sloane was sure there was at her own house.
“No legacies in The House?” echoed Sloane, biting into a spread of Camembert so rich it tasted like freshly churned butter.
“It’s really uncommon,” Alex said, and reconsidered.
“Well, it’s not uncommon to try. A lot of legacies come through, but they’re so often of a different caliber.
And honestly, The House underwent a pretty major shift about ten years ago, back when we were there.
Most of the legacies we reject belong to alumnae of a very different generation. ”
“You were both members here?” asked Sloane, just as Britt took a seat across from them. (Britt’s husband was now playing with Isla and Alex’s son, Theo, making them laugh while the twins climbed on top of him.)
“Oh yeah. But Alex was two years ahead of me,” said Britt, laughing as Alex tossed a piece of bread at her.
“You just had to remind me of my maturity, hm?”
“Nah, just your age.” Britt kicked the foot of Alex’s chair before turning back to Sloane. “You’ll meet Priscilla, too. She’s just running late. She was in Alex’s pledge class.”
“Oh, you’ll love Skit.” Presumably Alex was referring to Priscilla. “She doesn’t have kids and doesn’t want them, so we all live vicariously through her. Are you aware that she does whatever she wants, whenever she wants to?”
“Sounds fake,” said Sloane, and Alex laughed.
“Priscilla is in publishing,” Britt continued, with an air of not wanting to misuse their collective time. “She’s executive editor for a boutique imprint that does mostly artsy shit. I make her send me advance copies of all the smutty stuff from one of the juicier imprints.”
“I think that’s great,” said Sloane. “I like a little spice myself.”
“I knew you’d be a perfect fit.” Alex’s smile broadened. Today her lips were a beautiful terra-cotta color, her hair falling in soft, honeyed waves that floated across her shoulder when she glanced at the kids playing in the living room. “Theo, take turns, baby!”
Sloane looked over at Isla, who was reaching for Britt’s husband’s face with a laugh.
Sloane realized abruptly that she loved Britt’s husband and would take a bullet for him, no questions asked.
She also realized she didn’t know Britt’s husband’s name until Britt suddenly called, “Finn, would you mind getting the rosé? Sloane looks thirsty.”
“That she does,” Finn blithely agreed, rising instantly to his feet. Isla reached for him, so he scooped her up one-handed, carrying her with him over to the fridge.
“I’ve never seen Isla take to someone so fast,” Sloane commented to Britt in awe. “I mean, she loved Alex, but with men she’s not usually so comfortable.”
“Oh, Finn is great with children,” Britt said, a slightly goofy look of adoration passing briefly over her no-nonsense features. “I didn’t want any. He wanted ten. Naturally, the universe bent in his favor.”
“Figures,” said Alex, nudging Sloane. “Anyway, let’s get the business portion over with, shall we? We just need to go over the bid list.”
“What am I contributing?” asked Sloane, good-naturedly bewildered.
“Mostly a vibe,” said Alex, handing her the list. “We offer fewer bids than International prefers us to extend, but The Girls are selective. We encourage it.”
“International?”
“Two chapters in Canada,” said Britt.
“Every house has a national or international form of governance,” Alex explained. “Someone to rule over us and collect our dues.”
“We have a somewhat strained relationship.” Britt and Alex exchanged an eye roll. “International’s job is to maximize profit by maximizing the number of members who pay dues. Not altogether productive for any goal that isn’t financial.”
“Sounds very bureaucratic,” said Sloane, who was likewise on the hook for whatever her department decided whether she agreed with it or not, and yet couldn’t get anyone to attend to her broken air-conditioning. She couldn’t fault Britt or Alex for their obvious resentment.
Before either of the two women could say anything further, the front door opened, and with the bluster of a woman in a perfectly tailored black pantsuit arrived their wineglasses, courtesy of Finn (and Isla, who was putting her pudgy hand over Finn’s mouth for loud, toddler-hilarious raspberries).
“Hi, hi, sorry I’m late.” The woman who must have been Priscilla came over to kiss Alex’s cheek, then Britt’s, before falling into the vacant seat beside Sloane. “You must be the famous Dr. Hartley!”
“I wouldn’t say famous,” said Sloane.
“Well, live aspirationally, I always say. I noticed your last book did pretty well, considering the academic press. Obviously no bestseller, but still. Why haven’t you written another?”
“Skit!” Alex gave Priscilla a disciplinary glance, which she ignored.
“No, she’s right.” Sloane laughed. “The dean of my department would probably like to ask me the same thing. And to that all I can say is something-something childbirth.”
“Well, yeah, but I’m sure you’ve got something on the brain. Alex, honestly, I’m just making conversation—”
“Well, I do, kind of,” Sloane admitted. “But I don’t see the University going for it.”
“Really?” Priscilla frowned at her. “Well, you never know. Are you on a tenure track?”
“She’s hopeless,” Alex said to Britt, who shrugged, taking a long pull from her wine before sitting up straighter to admonish one of her daughters.
“Eloise, be gentle with your sister, please!”
“Just an adjunct,” Sloane answered Priscilla, who despite being in publishing seemed to know extensive amounts about academia. “I’d like a tenure track, but I think for now my husband’s good graces are buying me time.”
“Well, we’ll see what we can do about that.” Alex’s hand settled warmly on Sloane’s forearm then. “The University has a tendency to listen when I point out an asset.”
“Meaning she’s personally threatened every last motherfucker on that board,” said Britt.
“It’s why we love her,” Priscilla confirmed, toasting Sloane with the fresh glass Finn had brought her.
Isla had tumbled slightly on the floor beside a set of beautifully hygge-painted blocks. Before Sloane could do anything, though, Alex’s son Theo was at Isla’s side, helping her to stand up. It was an incredibly sweet moment, almost surreally so. Sloane was temporarily rapt.
“If you’re done interrogating Sloane about her personal life, we just need to go over the bid list,” Alex said to Priscilla, who glanced at Sloane before reaching for the printed list.
“Have you looked at it already?”
“Oh, I mean—” Sloane shrugged. “Is it really my place to weigh in?”
“Oh good, they took the sophomore,” said Britt, who glanced over the list before rising to her feet to refresh the cheese selection. “I like her,” she called from her walk to the fridge. “She’s a good fit.”
“She means Nina Kaur,” explained Alex. “We don’t normally take sophomores, but she has a lot of promise.
Her freshman year was a bit mixed—” To this, she and Priscilla exchanged a look with mirrored shrugs.
“—but her high school GPA was through the roof, and she’s clearly ambitious.
And dedicated. She’s the kind of person who can really benefit from The House. ”
Sloane made a noncommittal noise in lieu of determining whether the girls’ grades actually mattered (hadn’t that always been a mere formality, academics in Greek life?) and scanned the bid list in front of her, realizing that was her main, and perhaps her only, job.
“Dalil Serrano is in one of my lectures,” Sloane realized aloud, with no small amount of surprise.
She hadn’t expected to recognize any names.
In her experience, sorority girls were mostly comm majors.
“I don’t know anything about her yet, but I’ve spoken with her briefly. ”
“Mm, yes, Dalil.” Alex exchanged another knowing glance with Priscilla. “We’ll have to keep an eye on her.”
“Why?” She’d seemed perfectly pleasant to Sloane.
Alex took a bite of cheese, so Priscilla took the first stab at answering. “She certainly won everybody over during rush, but she’s…”
Priscilla looked at Alex, who shrugged as if to indicate it was silly, and yet. “She’s what we in the business call a quitter,” she said, one hand over her mouth.
“What?” Sloane couldn’t help a laugh.
“Oh, you know,” Priscilla said, waving a hand.
“Did Girl Scouts for years but never completed her final project. Won a district essay competition but never wrote anything else. Champion debater for a year, then nothing. Played varsity soccer for two years and then stopped. She hasn’t declared a major,” Priscilla went on, ticking off Dalil’s faults on her fingers, “has exceptional grades but transferred high schools twice, worked completely different jobs every summer of high school—”
“We just want to make sure she goes through with it,” Alex concluded to Sloane. “We put a lot of time and effort into our new members and we expect a lot out of them, too. The House isn’t for someone who can’t be invested.”
“A quitter,” Sloane repeated quietly to herself, this time as if to turn it over and inspect it more closely. To make sure she didn’t see herself reflected in any of its crevices, trapped somewhere unintentionally in its glare.
“Anyone else?” asked Alex, and Sloane looked again at the list.
“I don’t think so—”
Britt was on her way back from the fridge when she paused, a strange look coming over her face. She doubled back and crouched down to coo warmly at Isla, her voice and expression transforming to something that even Sloane, a relative stranger, could tell was her Mommy Voice.
“Hi, sweetie,” said Britt to Isla. “Did someone do a poo?”
“Poo!” exclaimed Theo.
“Oh, I’ll get it,” said Sloane, looking up with a sudden flush as if she’d been the one to poop her dress.
“Nah, I’ve got it. I haven’t gotten to hold one this fresh in ages.” Britt took a dramatic sniff of Isla’s neck, making her giggle before scooping her up and sweeping Sloane’s diaper bag from the floor in one smooth motion. “You keep working.”
Working? This was working? This was the most relaxed Sloane had felt in almost two years. Maybe longer.
“What do you think?” asked Alex quietly, a tiny smile on her face.
Priscilla had gone to get the cheese from the kitchen counter where Britt had left it.
Britt’s husband Finn was chasing his girls while playing catch with Alex’s son Theo.
Alex’s bare feet were resting leisurely on Sloane’s chair, her scarlet toenails tucked under Sloane’s thigh.
Isla’s diaper was changed, her butt had even been slicked with the French diaper cream Sloane always used but Max never did, and now Isla was lurching her drunken sailor sprint across the living room to the twins with her hand in Britt’s, and Sloane wasn’t being crushed under the weight of existential dread.
“So what do we do for The Girls, exactly?” asked Sloane, leaning back so Priscilla could set the cheese board on the table again.
Alex’s smile broadened as she dug a knife into the Camembert. “I’m so glad you asked.”