Greek: Double Date, page 12
“I’m over Michael,” Calvin said. “Just not…other people.” His eyes went in search of his roommate, Grant, as if he would find him, but Grant wasn’t here. “People I can’t be seen with in public.”
“Sounds complicated.”
“Dating in the house. Bad idea. Even if it seems…really great.”
“In the Omega Chi house?”
“Yeah, you know Grant? And, uh, don’t tell anybody?”
Heath nodded knowingly. “I know how to keep a secret.” He was clearly trying to be helpful. “I heard that’s a problem at coed fraternities. They have to watch out for pledges who are just trying to get in to get with someone in the house.”
Cyprus-Rhodes had no coed fraternities, so Calvin could only guess at the consequences of such a situation. “It would make pledging even more complicated. And it is pretty complicated as it is.” He looked around the room again. “Totally should have gone to the engineering event. I wasn’t invited, but I could have managed.”
“You are smooth. Why are you here?”
“Because I like looking good in a tux.”
Health smiled. “You do look good in a tux.”
“Thank you. And Evan looks good in a tux. I say that because he should, because I almost had to freakin’ dress him to get him here. Little brother responsibilities do not go away after pledge year.”
Heath may not have known the whole story with Evan, but he did know enough to say, “Is he going out with Rebecca?”
“No, I don’t think so. She came up to him right before the formal—like, as we were walking to it. I don’t know what her deal is, but she wanted a date and she got it.”
“Well, if he does start going out with her, you can borrow some of the KT nicknames for her.”
“From her days dating Cappie?”
“Yes.”
“And they are? In case I need them.”
Heath squirmed. “Mixed company. I am representing KT.”
“So it’s your responsibility to do something embarrassing.”
“Well, if you won’t…” And that got Heath to lean in and give a string of euphemisms not meant for mixed company, or for anyone with sensitive ears. Just in case Calvin needed them.
Just in case.
After so much buildup, the ceremony was remarkably short. Ted Griffin came up to the podium and gave a rather snarky speech about academic excellence, and trophies were passed out, allowing everyone to return to eating and chatting with the guests. Most of the engineers winning awards carried their plastic trophies around proudly, as if they hadn’t cost the university $2.99, plus an extra dollar for the engraving, on a special bulk price Rusty negotiated. Dale beamed when he received his, oblivious to what the item actually was, or even that they spelled his name wrong. Casey decided not to point it out when he returned to his seat and instead just congratulated him.
Rusty finally located his lab partner after the speeches. “Do you still have your invite on you? Jordan wants to come.”
“Why?”
He shrugged. “The formal sucks.”
“Oh, right, the All-Greek Formal is tonight.” Not like Feliks would be invited. “Tell her to call me when she gets here.”
“Thanks, Feliks.”
“My good deed for the night,” Feliks said, and disappeared.
Rusty texted Jordan the information and Feliks’s number, and finally took a seat at his table. The pressure of the event was officially wearing off, and the elation of meeting up with Jordan was rising. And he was hungry.
Casey appeared, taking the empty seat next to him. “What’s up with Cappie?”
Biting into his baby carrot with an audible crunch, Rusty looked around, finally locating Cappie at some table of alumni, engrossed in a conversation with an old professor type, whom he didn’t recognize off the top of his head. “Um, he’s talking to people? He’s a social guy?”
“Is he stalking me?”
“If he is, he’s doing a really bad job, what with him not following you around and bothering you every minute or anything.”
“He has no other reason to be here.”
“Maybe he has obscure, Cappie reasons to be here. I don’t know. I don’t have, like, a psychic connection into his head. Also, open bar. And something about avoiding Rebecca.”
“She went to the dance with Evan.”
He finished another mini carrot. “Sucks for both of them.” His feelings toward Evan, who had cheated on Casey with Rebecca, were well-known. At the moment, he really didn’t care about either of them. “Is Rebecca still upset about her mysterious past with Rob?”
“I don’t think we stayed long enough for it to come out in some drunken confession.”
“Whatever. I mean, stay on your guard, but I think he’s cool, in my limited experience. He was cool enough to escort you to another date, and that made Dale’s night, even if he doesn’t know about it.”
Casey nodded. “He was.”
“Casey, you’re way better at dating and figuring guys out than I am. Why are you even asking me?”
“I don’t know.” She looked sad, or at least a little down. “I can’t figure Cappie out. I never know what he’s thinking. Why he’s hanging around me, but insisting he’s not.”
“So ask him.”
“He never gives me the real reason.”
“Maybe he doesn’t know it,” Rusty suggested. “Sometimes guys have trouble expressing their feelings. Instead they do stupid things like punching other guys or waiting too long and letting a pledge go after the girl they’re totally into and then having it blow up in their face and having their pledge depledge because of something they should have taken care of in the first place. And why is this surprising, anyway? Wasn’t your original problem with Cappie that he was a spaz and took the relationship for granted? You dated Mr. Jerk Chambers because he seemed like he didn’t. Because he was the opposite of Cappie.”
Casey raised her finger at him. “No Evan spite. He doesn’t deserve it—not anymore, anyway. And Evan is not the polar opposite of Cappie, and that was not the reason I went out with him. I loved him.” She frowned. “That’s not what I wanted to get into. But, yes, Cappie. Bad at commitments. No plans.”
“Is it true Evan gave up his trust fund? Because normally I don’t doubt my sources,” he said, meaning Calvin but not naming him, “but that’s crazy talk.”
“I haven’t asked him about it, but that’s the story.”
“So Evan makes commitments and can’t keep them. Cappie doesn’t make them in the first place.” He shrugged. “I don’t know what to say, except that these carrots are amazing. They’re in some awesome sauce.”
Casey picked up an unused spoon and tasted it. “It’s cayenne pepper.”
“Why does that name sound familiar?”
“You’re allergic to it.”
Rusty slowed his chewing. “I thought I was just getting a cold.” A cold that made him light-headed. “Um, could you do me a big favor and get Dale? I think he has an EpiPen.”
“Yeah,” Casey said, dropping her purse in his lap. “I’m gonna get on that.”
Cappie interrupted the older man he was talking to. “This has been really interesting, but I think I recognize that little guy they’re loading into the ambulance. Do you mind if I excuse myself?”
“By all means.”
There was some commotion, but Cappie was a master of getting around crowds, a skill honed from years of living in a small fraternity house that hosted large parties. In no time he was past the rubberneckers and at the ambulance, where an EMT put his hand up. “No other passengers.”
“I’m his brother.”
The EMT resisted for a moment, then let him in. The ambulance was parked, and it didn’t look to be going anywhere. Rusty was on the stretcher, his face red and swollen. On one side was Casey, and on the other, Dale. Casey glared at him. “You are not family.”
“Fortunately for us I’m not a Cartwright, but I am his brother.”
“I’m fine,” Rusty said. “I need to sit up.”
“You’re not fine, you’re in shock and you’ve been shot full of epinephrine,” Casey said. “You need to rest.”
“Do I look bad?”
“Rest. Sleep. Sleeeeeeeeep.”
“You’re not a hypnotist.”
Dale looked up at Cappie. “He’s a little…loopy from the shot. And obsessed with Jordan showing up.”
“Dude, she’s not expecting romance from a guy in an ambulance,” Cappie said. “Are they taking him to the hospital? And also, what happened?”
“They said he should be fine.” But Casey still wore a look of sisterly concern. “And, to answer your second question, bad carrots.”
“I thought they were good,” Dale said.
“That was the problem,” Rusty said, his voice muffled by the swelling in his mouth. “They were awesome.”
“He’s allergic to one of the ingredients. Cayenne pepper. Only he didn’t know they were spiced with it, so—”
“So that is totally something the pledges will have to memorize about you, Spitter. Obscure allergies. Very difficult.” He put a hand on his arm, but Rusty didn’t seem too observant of his surroundings. “Excellent work. Except for the whole actually eating stuff you’re allergic to. That I can’t recommend.” He looked across at Dale, who was of course still holding his trophy as though it was an Oscar or possibly glued to his hand. “Maybe he’s allergic to tacky trophies for track.”
“Hey! It’s supposed to be a dreamer. Reaching for the sky. The dean said it in his speech.”
“Track trophies were all they had,” Rusty said, and coughed into his oxygen mask, “that didn’t have some kind of sports paraphernalia. It was that or call a soccer ball a bucky ball.” He giggled, which turned into another cough. “Bucky.”
Cappie backed him up. “It is fun to say.”
The EMT stepped in. “Does anyone know someone who can take Mr. Cartwright home?”
“He’s not being admitted?”
“He needs a little more oxygen and then a lot of rest.”
“I’ll take him,” Dale said.
“No!” Rusty really did try to stand up this time, and four sets of hands held him down. “I have a girlfriend. Gimme another shot of adrenaline. Then I’ll, like, fly to her. Or leap. Like in the Hulk. The first movie. The bad one.”
“Epinephrine is not for recreational use,” Cappie said. “I may know some…people who’ve tried it.”
“I’ll take him,” Dale repeated.
Casey reached into her pocketbook and produced some cash. “For a cab.” She looked at her brother. “Are you going to be okay?”
“I have to see Jordan…Trans-Jordan. Egypt. Either one.”
“Yeah, you definitely need to rest. Dale?”
“I’m on it.”
At the EMT’s insistence, Casey and Cappie left the ambulance, where Rusty would continue to rest until the swelling was down enough that he could be released—albeit into Dale’s care, or the university’s medical offices.
“The situation is being handled,” Dean Bowman was calling, urging partygoers to return to the hall. “The student will be fine. Please return to the building.”
At which point, Cappie broke out laughing, and Dean Bowman glared at him. “What?”
“I’m gonna save it,” Cappie said, “and you have Rusty Cartwright to thank for that because my overwhelming concern for him is overriding my incredible desire to share some of the alumni’s stories with you. For verification purposes.” He didn’t wait for Bowman’s reply and went inside, Casey following him out of curiosity.
Cappie returned to his seat at the mostly empty table, where a professorial man with little hair on his head and a gray beard was making a fort of his mashed potatoes. “Casey Cartwright, meet Aristotle Izmaylov.”
She didn’t recognize the name, but she shook the hand of this apparently eminent man. “Hello, Professor.”
“Oh, I’m not a professor anymore. Just a wealthy donor,” he said, squinting through his thick glasses. “Hence the invitations I keep getting. And I wasn’t even in engineering. I taught philosophy. To Dean Bowman and Ted Griffin, for better or worse. Your friend Cappie here is very interested in university history. Specifically the more embarrassing aspects. Not that I blame him. The rest of it is rather boring.” He smiled at her. “So you’re an engineer?”
“Political science.”
“I was going to say there are not enough women in engineering, but now that really isn’t my business, is it? There are plenty of women’s studies professors to get angry about that. Political science is an excellent major. Not that far from philosophy, not too taxing. Enjoy your youth.”
“Well, I am a senior,” she said, a bit nervously.
“So cramming in the last excitement and planning for the future at the same time? A bit of a dichotomy, but nothing you can’t manage, I imagine. I’m sure they’ve flooded this event with successful people to encourage you. Or perhaps it would be to their advantage to do the opposite, and charge you for a fifth year. Something Dean Bowman almost had to take.”
“This is a great story,” Cappie assured her.
“Not a particularly long one. The university briefly experimented with a system where students could invent their own majors—with a certain amount of planning and then presentation of the idea to a board, of course. This was before they had gender studies, so a number of people were trying that, as I recall. Your Dean Bowman tried for and made a comprehensive case for majoring in fun.”
“Fun?” Casey parroted in disbelief.
“Yes. Fun. Had a rather long dissertation on it. He must have expected us to buy it, because he got halfway into senior year before bothering to present it to the board, where it was promptly rejected, despite my dissenting vote. So he had to cobble together another major by taking four philosophy courses in his final semester, which, in addition to the ones he’d already taken, allowed him to graduate on time. This was before fifth years were so trendy. If I were a betting man, I might have lost a good deal of money on betting on his success in the workplace. He’s carved quite a niche for himself as an authority figure. And as he spent his days in my class with a beer-soaked brain, he might not remember me well enough to realize how amusing I find it.”
“What do you do now?” Casey didn’t know if it was appropriate to ask if he was retired.
“This and that,” he said rather evasively. “I read. I write angry response articles to what I read. I make fake IDs.” Without batting an eye he said, “Technology is really quite incredible. The definition of self can entirely be redefined through a concentrated effort on Photoshop.”
“Please don’t encourage anyone present,” Casey said.
He shrugged. “Far be it from me to stand between man and his true nature. Which, at age eighteen to twenty, is to heavily consume alcohol. It’s never been any different and it never will be. Banning it just makes it more enticing, and I hate to see the promising young men and women of tomorrow in jail.”
“You were in a fraternity, weren’t you?”
“I predate the fraternity as you know it by some years, young Cappie. And in response to a good friend’s query, I would say only, drink up and be healthy, but all things in moderation.” He reached into his jacket and removed two cards, and they thanked him, and not until they were halfway across the floor did Casey bother to look at her card.
“He’s an advisor to the Speaker of the House?”
“Is that who that name is beneath his?” Cappie feigned ignorance. “I knew you’d want to meet him. People surprise you.”
“Sometimes they do,” Casey said, smiling just briefly before leaving him to check on her brother.
chapter eleven
Rusty felt as if he was floating—not quite out of his body, but certainly slightly removed from it.
“You sure you want to wait? Because we can go. I’m done. I have my…runner.” Dale held up his trophy. “And the cards of some awesome guys. Maybe I’ll see them next year. Do they invite the same people each year?”
“I don’t know.” And he couldn’t really concentrate on anything except staying upright on the bench outside the entrance to the hall.
“Is that a guestlist-related ‘I don’t know’ or a we-shouldn’t-go-home ‘I don’t know’? Because you are still woozy there.”
“Totally.” But he didn’t answer either question. It seemed like too much effort. He could imagine being home and he could imagine being back at the party, and either one worked, because it didn’t require him to move. He could wait here, forever, for Jordan, and she would find him a thousand years from now, molded into the seat, his body as fossilized as the wooden beams of the bench he sat on. Fossilized trees were pretty and awesome to touch. He remembered a trip to Colorado, where, in a museum, he’d gotten to touch a trunk that had turned to stone. He must have been seven or eight, Casey ten or eleven, and she had pigtails and complained the whole way that he was hogging the Game Boy.
“I’m not hogging it.” Looking up—itself almost an Olympic struggle—he saw Jordan’s questioning face. “The Game Boy.”
“He’s not drunk,” Dale said. “He’s had a lot of epinephrine.”
“I can be a tree,” Rusty said. “I will be a tree. I just have to sit here long enough. Then, tree. I will totally be one. They’ll put me in a museum of rock trees.”
Jordan sat down next to him and took his hand, her skin incredibly soft. Maybe he thought that because he was turning into a fossil, and fossils were hard. “You need to go home,” she said.
“You’re beautiful.” She was in a formal gown, with her hair up in some stylish bun with all the right pins, and she even had a smidgen of makeup on, even though he thought she looked fine without it. She just sparkled more. Normally she sparkled when she was smiling, but now she sparkled more, even when she didn’t smile. “You sparkle.”
“It’s glitter.” She tugged on his arm, as useless as that gesture would be. He was fairly sure his arm weighed a thousand tons, precisely, at this exact moment. “You need to go home.”
