She and Peyton examine my hair up close, playing with the loose curls resting on my shoulders. It makes me feel a little bit like a prize pony.
“Liv fixed it for me,” I say, trying to get their attention on the one who wants it.
Peyton takes the bait and she and Liv start discussing curlenhancers and styling wands. Lara, however, won’t leave me alone. She babbles on and on about O-Chi—how they have the best parties, and how the brothers are the hottest guys from the wealthiest families. It’s a struggle not to laugh at her romanticizing. Like most college guys, the brothers of O-Chi burp and stink and act like overgrown children. And my dear Zander, their fearless leader, can sometimes be the most juvenile of them all. O-Chi is his Neverland, his brothers the Lost Boys, and Sweethearts Mia and Jenna, their Wendys. In fact, Zander’s so determined never to leave the ‘island,’ he’s going to need an extra year to finish his degree.
Which is why, when Lara starts talking about being a bridesmaid in a wedding last summer, I have to restrain my shock. The bride was a KPT and the groom an O-Chi.
In disbelief, I ask for clarification, “They got married right after they graduated?”
“Yeah, I know. Isn’t it great? The wedding was so beautiful. It was at this huge, old mansion in Savannah and…”
As I jam a cracker into my mouth and nod at all the right pauses in her monologue, a sense of panic sets in. Is that standard practice, getting married so young? In two years, could I be planning my wedding? I shudder. No. I’m an amateur. Zander is my first serious boyfriend. And I have stuff I want to do before I settle down. Whatever that stuff may be.
After I finally escape Lara, I circulate, hoping for a more engaging level of conversation. Unfortunately, there’s none to be had. Although they’re kind and pleasant, most of the sisters only want to know what it’s like to be Alexander O’Leary’s girlfriend. It’s as if we’re in high school and I’m going out with the star quarterback. No one asks me what my major is or what I like to do for fun. We don’t talk about books or classes or summer jobs. No one even wants to know my hometown.
It’s discouraging. I’m looking for sisterhood. A community. Other college girls who are like me. Sure, I have a hot boyfriend, but there’s so much more to me than that.
Isn’t there?
I can think of one person who might think so, and the thought of him sends a flutter through my belly. I haven’t mentioned Leo to Liv because I don’t know how to explain the conversation he and I had. She’d say he’s a stalker, but I don’t think he is. Yeah, talking to him was unsettling, but that’s because he knew what I was thinking and feeling. No one knows that.
Most of the time, not even me.
As the crowd thins, I search for Liv, eventually finding her in the kitchen, smiling and holding court with three elegant KPTs. After a rough start, she’s owning this open house. Maybe I could’ve stayed in and worked on my sociology paper after all. She doesn’t seem to have needed me.
But once we’re outside and far enough away from the house, she gushes at me, “You have no idea. Every single sister I talked to was like, ‘You’re Betts Peterson’s roommate? That’s so awesome. Do you know any of the O-Chi brothers?’” She hugs me as we walk. “You’re my ticket in. I knew you would be. Thank you, thank you, thank you for coming tonight.”
Caitlyn’s commentary is much more straightforward. “The food sucked, but the sisters were nice.”
I nod. In general I agree, the sisters were nice. Although I can’t help but wonder what’s lurking under all the perfume and poise. I’ll withhold judgment for now, for Liv’s sake, since she’s found a group she wants to be part of. Hopefully, in the coming weeks, after a few more open houses, I’ll find a sorority that gets me as excited as she is about KPT.
A library study carrel isn’t exactly the coziest place to be on a chilly October night, but working in my dorm room isn’t an option. Liv has been rambling non-stop about last night’s open house, and even though I dropped subtle hints that I needed to concentrate on mysociology paper, she couldn’t seem to contain herself. So here I sit, with numb fingers and frozen feet. I’m pretty sure all the library’s electricity goes to the computers, because its HVAC is almost nonexistent. But its Gothic Revival architecture is sublime.
To help me focus, I’ve got Lo-Fi coming through my ear buds, but there’s nothing to stop me from gazing out the nearby, three-paned window to watch students pass under the orange pools of light made by the street lamps. Eventually, I rally all my brain cells and knock out a good half hour of steady writing. The end is in sight. I may not finish before the library closes, but I don’t think I’ll have to pull an all-nighter to get this paper done.
Hoping some movement might help warm up my toes, I rise, stretch, and take a little walk among the stacks, one eye on my laptop asleep in the carrel. I zig-zag up and down the aisles of history books: twentieth century, Gilded Age, Civil War. At the end of the New World aisle, I stop dead. There’s an obstacle up ahead. An oblivious guy rudely blocking my path.
No, wait. Not just any guy?—
Leo.
He’s sitting on the floor with his back against one of the shelves, a mountain of books at his hip and his long legs stretched out in front of him. His hair shields his eyes as he reads, and his feet, crossed at the ankle and clad in Doc Martens, twitch back and forth to a silent beat.
I hold my breath, tempted to turn around and escape before he notices me. He’s not a distraction I need right now. Or ever. It’s those eyes of his. They seem to see straight into me. And I can’t decide if I like that.
Okay, stop being a wimp.
Out of my mouth comes a squeaky, “Hi.”
He startles and looks up, and his entire demeanor changes from intense concentration to surprised delight. “Betts. Hi.” He lays his book on his lap, open and face down.
I take a step or two closer. “So you’re a library mouse too, huh?”
“One of my favorite places to be.”
Like all good library mice we’re keeping our voices low, even though this late there aren’t many people close by.
He asks, “What are you working on?”
