Lindsey Emory Book Tour – Mean Sisters

Ten years ago, I had pledged this very chapter of Delta Beta. I was eighteen and fresh from my small hometown in the Florida panhandle. Growing up, I had dreamed of going north for college, where campuses were covered in ivy and girls wore flannel and LL Bean boots for necessity’s sake.
I got as far as North Carolina, which was just fine with me. During January of my senior year of high school, I had visited a college in Connecticut. That visit made me rethink the whole ‘northern school’ thing.

Here at Sutton College, I had all the ivy and woods and LL Bean that a Florida girl could dream of, plus a winter that was frosty but not arctic-y. I traced the walls of the hall with my fingertips, in the dim light of emergency bulbs set every few feet into the ceiling. Every step brought back a memory: of college, of friends, of my final days of childhood.

Childhood really lasts through college, doesn’t it? Sure it’s in its waning days, but the world still seems as bright as a new penny: hopeful and huge. My four years in this sorority were the last incubation period, my final cozy womb until I burst out, ready to take on the world. And if I had partially stayed in that Delta Beta cocoon by becoming a semi-permanent Sisterhood Mentor, well, who would blame me? It was fun. And happy. Except when people died at Chapter meeting. That part was kind of a bummer.

I headed downstairs to the kitchen to get a drink of water. I used the back stairs where every square inch of wall was covered with Delta Beta history. I didn’t think anything had changed in fifty years, much less ten. I pushed open the door to the kitchen and there was movement in the dark.

With a jump and a squeal, I slapped at the wall and turned on the lights. A young college-aged man in khaki shorts and an untucked polo shirt was just as startled as me when I screamed. He held his hands up. ‘I’m sorry! I’m just finishing up!’

I put a hand to my chest, where I found my racing heart drumming a tattoo. ‘Who are you and what do you think you’re doing?’

Men were only allowed in the public areas of the first floor of the sorority house between the hours of eight am and eight pm. And they were strictly forbidden in the chapter room. It was inviolable Delta Beta law.

‘I’m the house brother,’ he said nervously. ‘Hunter Curtis.’

Well, that explained it. A house brother was a young man, generally a fraternity member, who was hired to do light housework and/or heavy lifting around a sorority house. It was usually someone who many of the sorority members considered a friend or even a little brother and there were strict rules about his conduct in the house. Hunter looked trustworthy enough, with friendly brown eyes, sun-streaked brown hair and worn-in Sperrys.

‘What are you doing here? It’s after midnight,’ I asked again, this time with the crazy turned down.

‘With the police here, I couldn’t finish sweeping up after dinner. So I came back to make sure it was all ready for the morning.’

I relaxed a little bit. ‘I appreciate your hard work, but you really shouldn’t be here this late.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. He seemed like a nice young man, just doing his job.

‘We’ll let it go this time.’

‘Ok, Miss…?’

Where were my manners? ‘Margot Blythe,’ I said, reaching out to shake his head. ‘I’m the temporary Chapter Advisor.’

Hunter’s expression altered when he heard that. Like I said, respect changed people.

I locked up after Hunter left via the kitchen door and padded through the halls with my cup of water until I found what I was looking for: four framed pictures, hung chronologically. The chapter composite pictures, compiled each school year, featured portraits of each sister, memorialising their youth and beauty for all time. The pictures were alphabetical and thanks to my last name, I was near the top for my sophomore, junior and senior years. I went back to my freshman year. Here, I was closer to the middle, as pledges were placed after the active members.

Written in calligraphy, my name was under a portrait of a girl I barely recognised. Fresh from having my braces removed the summer before college, I sure liked to show off all those straight, pearly teeth. My natural brown hair was thick and virgin, free of dyes. One of only two brunette pledges that year, I knew what it was like to be a minority.

As the composites went on, my hair lightened as more and more highlights were magically added by the sun. My hair was almost all brown again now. Traveling as much as I did, I didn’t have time for all the upkeep that a good head of highlights required. The freshman in the picture had hated her full cheeks. Now, at the ripe old age of twenty-seven, I appreciated what a little baby fat could do to a face.

Self-consciously, I brushed thick bangs off my face. Six months ago, I had been talked into bangs with a picture of Zooey Deschanel distracting me. Zooey Deschanel was a better woman than I. It took me three weeks before I decided to grow them out. Now they just looked like an awkward brown flap at a strange length. They were just long enough to flip behind my ears, where they would stay for about three seconds before slipping out again.

I placed my hand on the faces of my sisters, too, wishing them well, wherever they were. I reached my big sister’s portrait, beautiful and self-assured as always. It would be fun to get to hang with Amanda while I was in Sutton again.