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I amble down the rubber-lined, hardwood stairs, moving from the top story of our four-columned antebellum house to the large parlor on the first story. I know it’s weird, but I’ve found that when I’m late, moving fast makes me feel more stressed out. So I pretend I’m right on time and focus on the motion of my feet.
When I reach the bottom of the stairs, I hear Milasy’s drawl from around the corner and confirm that the meeting has already started. I move through the foyer, through the small, square doorway, built at a time when no one gave a damn about an open floor plan, and get a straight-line view of Milasy and Steph, sitting on one of the antique sofas in the parlor. Their backs are pencil-straight, their ankles crossed. I stand behind the crowd of perfume-sprayed, lotion-slathered Tri Gams and try to paste an interested—or at least neutral—expression on my face. Milasy talks about our grades. Steph remind us (as she does every week) that ladies drink alcohol from plastic Solo cups instead of beer bottles or cans. Cassie tells us to prepare to vote on our Thanksgiving and Christmas charity events next week, and then she stands on her tiptoes and looks around the room for me.
Her brown eyes meet mine, and we share a conspiratory smile. Cassie is Type-B, and more like me than Steph and Milasy. She’s the officer most likely to be late at any given time.
I square my shoulders and project my voice, and tell the room full of Tri Gams that they only have another week to pay first semester dues. After that, I sink back into myself and allow my mind to wander. Which it does, right back to my current read: a novella called The Private Club, by one of my favorite romance authors, J.S. Cooper. Mmmmm.
I remain in la-la land until my good friend Lora elbows me. I jump and apparently gasp, too, because a few girls in front of us turn around to see what’s up. When everyone has settled down again and I’ve had a few seconds to get over my embarrassing outburst, Lora leans over and whispers, “What’s in your bag, lady? Cake?” She wiggles her brows and grins.
She knows what’s in the bag, but her comment reminds me: We’ve got a cakewalk right after this in the student center. Shit!
How am I supposed to hand out my bud at an organized event—one where I’ll need to oversee the three girls who’ll be handling the cash boxes?
That’s really annoying. I can’t believe I forgot. I rub my head. I didn’t even bring a freakin’ cake.
After the meeting winds down—all the low-fat snacks have been eaten, all the lemonade lite sipped—I chat with Milasy, Steph, and Cassie. Nothing interesting. Just the usual business stuff that sometimes makes me wonder why I even joined a sorority. I’m reminded almost instantly, when I walk with some of my pot posse across campus, toward the William Harrison Memorial Student Center.
On the long trek there, as we migrate across brick walkways and under giant, moss-strewn oaks, I manage to drop three Mason jars into three oversized purses, and receive three cash payments. In the chaos of everybody trying to fit through the glass doors on the front of the student center, a two-story brick eyesore from the seventies, I dole out two more jars and get two more wads of cash.
I’m trying to strategize how to get the rest of my illicit goods where they need to go when I step into the carpeted common room and stop in my tracks.
There are guys here. Like... a lot of guys.
I glance at Lora, and she arches her brows. “You don’t remember we’re doing this with Sig Alpha?”
I chew my lower lip. “No, I did.”
She elbows me. “Pants on fire. I can tell you’re surprised. Don’t worry, though. Harrison said Brennan was skipping.”
I let a slow breath out and nod.
Harrison is Lora’s boyfriend,
and until the end of June, Brennan was mine. Both guys are Sig Alphas, but Harrison is the president. Meaning he’ll definitely be here.
I’m glad Brennan won’t. Our breakup... sucked. So yeah.
I give Lora a paste-on smile. “That’s good.”
“The best,” she says, bumping my shoulder.
Despite this first-floor common area being the most logical place to hold a cakewalk, we’re not cakewalking here because Milasy couldn’t book it. I can’t remember why, but the cakewalk is in a large study hall on the second floor. I’m pretty sure it’s near some bathrooms, plus a lot of little conference rooms, which works out perfectly for me.
We ascend the stairs slowly, as Lora and a few of the other junior girls chat about the effectiveness of the Diva Cup. The yucky conversation ends when we reach the top of the stairs, walk between two giant ferns on either side of the staircase, and behold the sprawling study area.
It’s got industrial mauve carpet and is normally cluttered with couches, recliners, and tables. Tonight, the furniture is pushed up against the gray cinderblock walls. A chunk of the floor is partitioned into masking-tape squares for the cakewalk. All around the squares are fold-out tables bearing cakes and refreshments.
I make a beeline for the younger girls who’ll be working the cash boxes, and give them specific instructions for how I want them to keep track of everything.
Then I walk around the bustling room, smiling and chatting like the biggest thing on my mind is how much money this dumb cakewalk makes. I’m also looking for Brennan, who indeed seems to have skipped tonight’s event. Thank the Lord.
After a few minutes, I slip into the bathroom with two clients. I emerge with fresh lipstick, then chat with Steph about her disastrous calculus exam while the guys set up the sound system. I don’t really remember what a cakewalk entails: some sort of hop-scotch kind of thing and numbered slips of paper, plus a boom box. A quick look at the tables around the cakewalk floor reveals two dozen or more cakes, and I guess people think this is a cool pastime, because girls and guys from other sororities and frats start spilling into the room.
I catch the gazes of my clients and begin subtly steering them into the bathroom or the conference rooms. Milasy is playing announcer, so she definitely doesn’t notice. I don’t think anyone else does, either. Sometimes I feel stares from the guys, but that’s normal, I tell myself. I’m wearing jeans that make my ass look awesome, and I’m newly single too.
I take care of Jordan, Elizabeth, Julie, Forrest, Kelsey, Chloe, Ricci, Sarah, Molly, other Molly, Joanna, Anna Maria, Solena, Christy, and Neda, all in various conference rooms, before Lora and I go into the ladies’ room—not because the conference rooms are a bad place to do this, but because both she and I need to pee.
“You making bank, girl?” she asks from the other side of a stall wall.
