Chapter 3 Elias #2
In the kitchen, I accept a cup of something handed to me by a very sweet woman.
I take a sip and almost spit it back out.
Is this supposed to be beer? I keep hold of it anyway—just so no one tries to hand me another—and scope the party for someone interesting to talk to.
Everywhere I look, polished guys with straight, white teeth are flirting clumsily with extremely well-dressed women.
Some of the women are wearing prim dresses and have their hair straightened within an inch of its life.
One woman is dressed in a pair of stylishly loose-fitting silk trousers.
One’s wearing Prada reading glasses. One thing they all have in common is how well put together they are and how happy they appear to be here, drinking this piss and listening to this godawful music.
Then I spot someone leaning against a wall, looking just as annoyed as I feel. She’s drinking angrily from her red cup and glaring at anyone who comes near. Her hair is more Kate Bush than Victoria’s Secret, her outfit straight out of an Alanis Morrisette music video.
I make a beeline for her, enjoying the scowl she sends my way as I lean beside her on the wall.
I hold my cup up to her. “You like this piss?” I ask.
I feel her eyes on my cheek. Her glare burning a hole.
“What do you expect?” she asks finally. “It’s non-alcoholic.”
Non-alcoholic beer? What’s the point?
“Why are you drinking non-alcoholic beer if it tastes so terrible?”
She shrugs. “I’m hoping the placebo effect will kick in. If I’ve gotta be here, then I’d rather do it as close to shit-faced as I can.”
I turn to face her, admiring the freckles dotted along the top of her nose and her piercing green eyes.
“Before you try to hit on me, I’ve got a boyfriend. He’s a hockey player, and he’ll kick your ass if you try anything.”
From the expression on her face, she does not enjoy the grin splitting mine.
“Noted.”
She’s still squinting suspiciously at me.
“I’m gay, by the way. So don’t worry. You just seemed like the most interesting person at this party.”
I note the slightest of smiles at that, though she hides it admirably.
“Good.” She goes to take another swig of her watery—non-alcoholic—beer and realizes her cup is empty.
“Here, have mine.”
She glares. “First thing my momma told me was to never take a drink from a frat boy at a party.”
I shrug. “Good job I’m not a frat boy.”
“Where you from?” she asks as she takes the cup and puts her nose right in it to give it a sniff.
“Germany. And I don’t think Rohypnol has a scent.”
With a raised eyebrow, she dumps the contents of my drink into a poor, unsuspecting rubber plant.
Good, she’s saved me a job. “How about you?”
“Huh?”
“Where are you from?”
“Oh. Guess.” She grins.
“The south.”
The eye roll is so dramatic, I wonder if it hurts. The cup has been deposited on a nearby table and a slow clap follows. People turn to look, but my new friend doesn’t seem to care.
“Are you from Texas?” I ask.
She huffs. “South Texas,” she says. “But you ain’t getting points for that. Everyone thinks of Texas when they think of the south.”
“Do they?”
“Yes.”
“What about Mississippi and Alabama? Actually, I think one of my teammates is from Texas …”
“A jock, huh? Glad I dumped that beer now.”
“What do you have against jocks? I thought your boyfriend plays hockey?”
“He does.” Her face lights up. “But he’s already been through the screening process. He’s just a big, cuddly bear with a heart of gold.”
Listening to her talk about her boyfriend makes that sensation arise in my chest—the one I feel whenever someone gushes about my brother’s talent and success and the fact he’s marrying a supermodel next summer.
“I’m Joelle, by the way.” She holds her hand out for me to shake, exposing chipped, blood red nail polish and big rings with colorful stones.
“Elias.”
She repeats the name like it’s the first time she’s ever heard it.
“So, you got your eye on any frat boys?” she asks.
“They’re not really my type.”
“Oh? What is your type?”
I shrug. “I don’t really know. I just know it’s not frat boys.”
I ask Joelle about her courses and discover that she’s taking Introduction to Psychology like me. She has a nice, melodic voice and a good sense of humor. To my surprise, I realize I’m not having a terrible time.
Across the room, Ben is talking to a few other guys from the tennis team.
He’s holding a cup of this piss that passes for beer here but he’s not drinking—which isn’t strange, considering how it tastes.
But what is strange is how he keeps looking over at Nate and his boyfriend with this sad, kicked puppy dog expression on his face.
Something clicks, and I can’t stop myself from saying “oh” out loud.
“What?” Joelle asks.
“Nothing.” Ben has a crush on Nate.
My heart sinks. Ben may be my competition, but I wouldn’t wish unrequited love on anyone.
Joelle’s still looking at me so I change the subject.
“What are you doing here, anyway?”
“What do you mean?”
I look her up and down in her Doc Martens and baggy jeans while she gives me a challenging stare.
I was always taught that honesty is the best policy, so I just say what I’m thinking. “You don’t look like you’re in a sorority.”
“Fuck you,” she says without venom. “My cousin Annabeth is the Zeta Tau big wig. I’m only here to get my momma off my back about being more ‘social’ or whatever.”
“Ah.”
“Happy now?”
“Very,” I deadpan.
Nate’s been keeping an eye on me during my interaction with Joelle, his face getting redder by the second.
He leans in to say something to his boyfriend before weaving his way through the crowd.
If he’s angry with me because he thinks I’m flirting with Joelle, then Nate has a very loose definition of flirting.
“Elias, can I talk to you please?” He’s talking like he’s gritting his teeth.
“Is he in trouble?” Joelle asks.
I like her.
“Of course not.” Nate puts on a big smile. I’m sure most women would go weak-kneed at the sight of it. It’s quite disarming. It doesn’t work on Joelle.
“He’s not trying to hit on me,” she says. “I have a boyfriend who could snap him like a twig. And I’m pretty sure there was no Rohypnol in that drink he gave me.”
I step on her toe to shut her up. Not too hard. Call it a reflex from having a little sister who is always trying to get me into trouble.
“Oh, here’s my man now. See you later, Elias.”
Joelle scoots around Nate and meets a giant in the middle for the room. He scoops her up and kisses her.
“See,” I tell Nate, nodding at them. “I wasn’t hitting on her.”
Nate opens his mouth to say something.
I could have more fun with him, but it seems cruel at this point. Plus, he looks like he’s trying so hard to be authoritative. “Anyway.” I shrug. “I’m gay. So, you don’t have to worry.”
His mouth stays open for a second before he speaks. “Oh, well … that’s cool—”
“I know that. Aren’t you gay?”
“Bi … but, right, yeah, we’re inclusive—on the team, but also in the fraternity.”
“I don’t want to join your fraternity.”
His cheeks get red again. “I wasn’t asking you to. It’s actually quite a long and difficult process, you have to rush, then we have to decide if you’re a good fit and extend a bid….”
I could have stopped him a while ago, but this time I was enjoying myself too much, watching him get worked up.
“Nate, I was joking. I know it’s a special club you have to be invited into. And I’m sure lots of people are honored to join.”
His voice is quiet when he speaks again. “It is.”
“Why don’t you get back to your boyfriend? You don’t have to keep an eye on me.”
I can see he doesn’t like being told what to do by a newcomer. He’s probably trying to figure out a way to leave without making it seem like he’s following my suggestion. I decide to be charitable and help him out.
“Do you know where the bathrooms are?”
His shoulders sag with relief. “Sure. They’re just down the hallway.”
I take my time looking at all the pictures on the walls of previous sorority groups. Class of ‘88 has especially interesting hairstyles. They look like my mother in that one picture where she’s dressed up like a Van Halen groupie. My heart clenches and I move on.
There’s a long line for the bathroom, so I keep walking until I reach an open door. I was listening to Nate when he warned us to stay out of any rooms we haven’t been invited into, but this door is wide open, and it’s clearly not someone’s bedroom or anything.
There are walls and walls of books, all lined up neatly on floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.
Most of them are leatherbound. The shelves are a solid mahogany wood.
Wow. This is what I envisioned when people talked about the Ivy League—opulence.
Stuffy displays of wealth filtered through an academic aesthetic.
I walk along the rows, studying the titles, some of which are in Latin—I think.
I’m running my finger along the spine of an English title when the shuffle of feet on carpet alerts me to someone coming in behind me.
I turn around to find Ben slouching into the room with a drink in his hand. His face heats up the second he sees me.
“Oh,” he says.
For some reason, his whole bumbling, shy thing makes me smile. He’s like a very young, very American Hugh Grant, from those movies Mama and Carina used to watch together. “Hello,” I greet him cheerfully.
“You’re not supposed to be in here.”
“Neither are you.”
He studies me a moment, sizing me up. And in that look, I see behind Ben’s bumbling exterior.
He’s got the potential to be calculating, and to be very good at it—if he wanted to be.
I’ve yet to figure out whether he has a callous bone in his body.
One that would allow him to use the intelligence he obviously has to screw me over.