Tiffany stepped aside, and Darlene Morris took her place, leaning into my face. Darlene was in my Organic Chemistry class, one of only three females, and, after me, she received the best scores on assignments. In terms of Routledge’s historical color-struck standards, Darlene made the cut: like Tiffany, she looked white, but she was very heavy and well over six feet, and she had chronic acne, which made the pale skin of her face red and bumpy. She’d had to write to the Beta nationals to force the Routledge chapter to take her; the Nationals had decided there was no justification for turning down someone with a perfect grade point average. We’d heard that during underground pledging, the Betas had burned her bottom with live cigarettes, urging her to drop, but she hadn’t. Now she had standing as the hardest Beta on campus: her line name was “The Grim Reaper.”
“You’re so pathetic,” Darlene whispered. “I feel sorry for you, you know that? Really, really sorry.”
I moved back from her pointing finger, but the unseen Beta dug her nails into my arm, as Darlene asked, could I recite the names of the sixteen Lilies of Beta Alpha Beta Sorority Incorporated in alphabetical order?
I could not.
And did I know the founding and guiding principles of Beta Alpha Beta Sorority Incorporated?
I did not.
Who were some of the most renowned members of Beta Alpha Beta Sorority Incorporated?
I didn’t know.
Then Tiffany and Darlene changed places again.
“Ailey, aren’t you Lydia Garfield’s little sister?” Tiffany asked. “Lydia pledged here, didn’t she? I believe it was the fall ’86 ‘Eight Is Enough’ line. We’re updating our chapter directory, and no one can find her. Can you help us find her?”
She began to giggle, and Darlene and the other Betas joined her. I hadn’t told anyone about my sister, not even my roommates. They didn’t know I’d only come to Routledge because Lydia had gone here. That I only wanted to pledge Beta for Lydia, who’d joined the sorority in her sophomore year. I wanted the right to wear the orange-and-white jacket that she’d left behind in our house. It had her line name on back: “#7: Too Black, Too Strong.” I’d kept her downfall to myself, but someone must have found out, and while my mother asked our parish priest to say special prayers for my sister, the Betas were mocking her. Laughing at my family troubles, planning my downfall, and all because Abdul had sat at my table in the refectory and argued with me in class.
The weight of my home training threatened to crush me. I imagined Dean Walters calling Mama to say that I had wrapped my hands around the ponytail of one of Routledge’s most distinguished students, in order to imprison her, to keep her from running away, while I punched the shit out of her with my other hand, because Tiffany had implied, if not actually uttered, an insult against my drug-addicted sister—though now, Tiffany and Darlene were whispering in my ear, calling me a whore. Telling me they didn’t take dirty girls like me into Beta. They had to keep their chapter clean.
When my tears began, I closed my eyes and beckoned a song: “This Christmas,” by Donny Hathaway, Lydia’s favorite holiday tune. I imagined the cheerful horn section at odds with the near sadness in Donny’s voice. Mama played it every Christmas, just like she still made Lydia’s favorite dessert from scratch, banana pudding with a custard base.
By some signal, the Beta mayhem ended. They walked away from me to the front of the dining room and formed a hand-holding chain. Moments later, an older alumna Beta walked to the lectern. She apologized for being late; there had been traffic on her drive from Atlanta. She informed us that guests should take their seats; the Beta Alpha Beta rush was about to begin. After another hour of games like “Name That Beta,” and “Are You Ready for Beta?” the rush was over. I trotted ahead of Roz across campus. In the room, I ignored her obviously corny jokes.
*
I wonder how differently things would have unfolded if I’d had enough time to cool my temper before the intramural game the next night. Maybe I still could have joined Beta in the fall. In time, the cigarette burns on my bottom would have faded, with the help of cocoa butter and vitamin E oil.
But as Uncle Root liked to say, the women in our family were hot-tempered going back generations. Folks needed to get out of the way of his women when their blood was riding. He would laugh when he said this. To the old man, our anger wasn’t a bad thing, and I let mine take control. I didn’t care what happened after.
*
In the gym, Abdul was easy to spot. He sat at the far end of a top bleacher by himself. I climbed the steps toward him, pausing to keep from bumping into too many people. As I listened to the squeaking of sneakers, I didn’t feel graceless about my inability to make conversation. Abdul and I sat together quietly, though sometimes he would clap for his team.