Anyways, I kept the packet and I think you know where this is going. I trained all
summer. It hurt, my body hurt, at times I wanted to quit, the fat melted off.
Blah, blah, blah. As you know all ready, I went back to school looking gorgeous.
You would have no idea I was a legacy, seriously. I bet you'd even try and talk to
me in class and not just because I said something funny. In fact, I didn't have to
say anything funny anymore to get attention. I could just sit around and bat my
eyes like an idiot and that seemed to be enough for people. The guys from my
old dorm, the ones that used to call me their “little sister,” were now feeding me
beer and asking if I wanted to crash at their place. Which is very weak code for
“Wanna hook up?”
I also moved into the sorority house that fall. Its insides bulged with an ironic
tradition. Only ladies lived there. No drinks were to be kept in the house because
ladies don’t drink. If they must, they were to locate the nearest fraternity house
and flirt with boys to get free drinks.
The girls in the sorority approved of my new body, but my methods were met
with mixed opinion. While some thought running that much to lose weight was
unnatural, others thought it wasn’t unnatural enough. Diet pills and vomiting
were the traditional methods of choice. The downstairs bathroom, the only
private restroom in the house, was unofficially where the bulimics did their
business. I laughed in disbelief when my roommate told me that. Later, she
motioned to me as Mandy, a slim beauty with puffy cheeks, slipped out after
dinner. I stepped in and my nose burned from the tinge of ripe vomit.
That first week back, our house was preparing for rush. The first set of rush was
a series of mixer parties. There, we were to chit-chat with the rushees and then
seduce them with a mini-fashion show detailing the possibilities of sorority life:
date parties, barn dances, eternal friendships and boys, lots and lots of boys.
On an evening when the more goal-oriented, future-leader types were inside
decorating the parlor with crepe paper and balloons, my roommate and I sat on
the porch in the summer heat. She let a cigarette dangle at her side and
stretched her neck back in her chair.
“You know,” she said, turning to me, “They want you in the fashion sequence.”
“That thing is retarded,” I said, surprised at my own smile, “So, like what part?”
She exhaled with a low giggle, “I don’t know, a good one. Think you’d let me do
a little something with your hair?”
“What, like a French twist?”
She laughed, “No sweetie, I was thinking you’d make a kick ass blonde.”
I pulled a strand of hair between my fingers and examined it. It looked almost
dirty in my painted hand, “All right.”
That next week, she and I went to a party at AEO's and that's how I found
myself in the turquoise dress. Looking down from the balcony, I saw Josh. He
was leaning in towards some girl. She had her head down and a sweater tied
around her waist. I knew that trick. It was to hide her ass. It doesn't necessarily
mean that her ass is enormous or one that needs to be hidden from children. It
only means that she is ashamed of this part of hers. And ultimately, she doesn't
like herself. A sure sign for the savvy frat guy that he has a pretty good chance
of getting laid.
I went down the stairs, my high heels sticking to the floor as I walked over to
Josh. I let him take me in. I watched him close while he pretended like he didn't
think I looked incredible. His jaw all lax like a damn yokel. Not that I’m terrifically
clear what a yokel is, I saw it on a rerun of the Simpsons, I think. The ass-
sweater girl moved her eyes between us and then looked away.
“Jen, dude, what'd you do?” he asked, eyeing the curve of my waist.
“The whole Jenny-marathon thing. I’m gonna run Chicago. Its this weekend.”
“Shit, you're kidding?” he said, his eyes now at my thighs.
“Yeah, you should see the other Jenny,” I said and sucked in my cheeks, doing
my best anorexic impression.
He laughed and his wet eyes sparkled.
That was all we said to each other that night. He didn't leave with ass-sweater
girl. I watched him walk over to his friends and caught them gawking at me. They
were probably stumbling for a way to turn this into an insult—maybe asking if Fox
was still airing “The Swan”. I watched him in fragments as I drifted in and out of
broken conversations. Josh, downing more drinks. Josh, giving half-hearted high
fives and Josh, precious Josh, loudly challenging his friend to a stair-rolling
contest. I went out the back door and behind me, I heard someone yell,
“One…Two…Three!” followed by tumbling sounds and low, synchronized cheers.
I walked home alone and let myself think about him a little. I thought he might call
me that weekend, maybe to wish me luck at the race or to make plans to go to
the Arboretum. I fantasized that now, in a rush of desire, he'd pull me into the
woods, slip between my legs and not even care who saw him.
He didn't call that weekend. I came back from the marathon late Sunday night to
a sleeping sorority. I left the next morning before the other girls could get to
me—they were gonna ask if he called and I didn’t have a good answer. I sat on
the stairs in front of the library and sipped coffee, wondering what gave. The
campus was empty except for me and a homeless guy who was curled up next to
the stairs. I let the coffee warm my hands and let the wind crawl up my pant
legs. I drifted into class and found my explanation. His printed face was staring
at me from a newspaper on the floor. I stared back and felt a burn wash through
me. I grabbed the newspaper with my free hand and watched the paper tremble
at its edges. It read: Fraternity Rushee Dies on Initiation Night.
Josh. Stupid fucking Josh. They used his high school fucking photo and had
blown it up to a frame-able size. He had his classic debonair grin slapped on. I
used to do an impression of that grin. Then he’d shove me. I’d shove him back.
He was smaller than me and he’d pretend to fall. It was like a dance we had.
Now, I had to go sharing that look of his with the whole damn campus. I
wouldn’t dare picture his hands on me right then, I wouldn’t picture him laughing
with me at that photo, and yet here I was, doing just that. I gripped the
newspaper and like a little kid, I knit my brow tight and tried to bolt out of class.
I was doing this goofy galloping thing with my sore legs and holding my chest like
it was gonna start bleeding everywhere.
I got back home, to the sorority house, if you can call that a home. I crumpled up
in my new gorgeous body. Not a goddamn ounce of anything to hold on to. One
of the older girls found me. She must have heard me crying from the bathroom
next to my room.
She slid in next to me on the lower bunk and put her hand on my side.
“I heard,” she said. I wasn't even sure which one she was, Kelly or Kristen,
maybe. It didn't matter, it barely mattered which one I was. I let her stroke my
hair for a while, until I started to feel like a damn Barbie doll. I had been slipping
into this amorphous sea since the moment my mom had grabbed my fat roll.
I had been heading for being just another laughing-at-jokes-I-don't-even-get girl
and it was time to grab hold of something. And it was not going to be Kelly-
Kristen. “I gotta get out of here,” I said, pushing my stained face off the pillow
and pushing this beautiful woman off of my bed. She was probably gawking at me
like I was a damn zombie risen from the dead, but it didn't matter, I was all ready
out of the room.
summer. It hurt, my body hurt, at times I wanted to quit, the fat melted off.
Blah, blah, blah. As you know all ready, I went back to school looking gorgeous.
You would have no idea I was a legacy, seriously. I bet you'd even try and talk to
me in class and not just because I said something funny. In fact, I didn't have to
say anything funny anymore to get attention. I could just sit around and bat my
eyes like an idiot and that seemed to be enough for people. The guys from my
old dorm, the ones that used to call me their “little sister,” were now feeding me
beer and asking if I wanted to crash at their place. Which is very weak code for
“Wanna hook up?”
I also moved into the sorority house that fall. Its insides bulged with an ironic
tradition. Only ladies lived there. No drinks were to be kept in the house because
ladies don’t drink. If they must, they were to locate the nearest fraternity house
and flirt with boys to get free drinks.
The girls in the sorority approved of my new body, but my methods were met
with mixed opinion. While some thought running that much to lose weight was
unnatural, others thought it wasn’t unnatural enough. Diet pills and vomiting
were the traditional methods of choice. The downstairs bathroom, the only
private restroom in the house, was unofficially where the bulimics did their
business. I laughed in disbelief when my roommate told me that. Later, she
motioned to me as Mandy, a slim beauty with puffy cheeks, slipped out after
dinner. I stepped in and my nose burned from the tinge of ripe vomit.
That first week back, our house was preparing for rush. The first set of rush was
a series of mixer parties. There, we were to chit-chat with the rushees and then
seduce them with a mini-fashion show detailing the possibilities of sorority life:
date parties, barn dances, eternal friendships and boys, lots and lots of boys.
On an evening when the more goal-oriented, future-leader types were inside
decorating the parlor with crepe paper and balloons, my roommate and I sat on
the porch in the summer heat. She let a cigarette dangle at her side and
stretched her neck back in her chair.
“You know,” she said, turning to me, “They want you in the fashion sequence.”
“That thing is retarded,” I said, surprised at my own smile, “So, like what part?”
She exhaled with a low giggle, “I don’t know, a good one. Think you’d let me do
a little something with your hair?”
“What, like a French twist?”
She laughed, “No sweetie, I was thinking you’d make a kick ass blonde.”
I pulled a strand of hair between my fingers and examined it. It looked almost
dirty in my painted hand, “All right.”
That next week, she and I went to a party at AEO's and that's how I found
myself in the turquoise dress. Looking down from the balcony, I saw Josh. He
was leaning in towards some girl. She had her head down and a sweater tied
around her waist. I knew that trick. It was to hide her ass. It doesn't necessarily
mean that her ass is enormous or one that needs to be hidden from children. It
only means that she is ashamed of this part of hers. And ultimately, she doesn't
like herself. A sure sign for the savvy frat guy that he has a pretty good chance
of getting laid.
I went down the stairs, my high heels sticking to the floor as I walked over to
Josh. I let him take me in. I watched him close while he pretended like he didn't
think I looked incredible. His jaw all lax like a damn yokel. Not that I’m terrifically
clear what a yokel is, I saw it on a rerun of the Simpsons, I think. The ass-
sweater girl moved her eyes between us and then looked away.
“Jen, dude, what'd you do?” he asked, eyeing the curve of my waist.
“The whole Jenny-marathon thing. I’m gonna run Chicago. Its this weekend.”
“Shit, you're kidding?” he said, his eyes now at my thighs.
“Yeah, you should see the other Jenny,” I said and sucked in my cheeks, doing
my best anorexic impression.
He laughed and his wet eyes sparkled.
That was all we said to each other that night. He didn't leave with ass-sweater
girl. I watched him walk over to his friends and caught them gawking at me. They
were probably stumbling for a way to turn this into an insult—maybe asking if Fox
was still airing “The Swan”. I watched him in fragments as I drifted in and out of
broken conversations. Josh, downing more drinks. Josh, giving half-hearted high
fives and Josh, precious Josh, loudly challenging his friend to a stair-rolling
contest. I went out the back door and behind me, I heard someone yell,
“One…Two…Three!” followed by tumbling sounds and low, synchronized cheers.
I walked home alone and let myself think about him a little. I thought he might call
me that weekend, maybe to wish me luck at the race or to make plans to go to
the Arboretum. I fantasized that now, in a rush of desire, he'd pull me into the
woods, slip between my legs and not even care who saw him.
He didn't call that weekend. I came back from the marathon late Sunday night to
a sleeping sorority. I left the next morning before the other girls could get to
me—they were gonna ask if he called and I didn’t have a good answer. I sat on
the stairs in front of the library and sipped coffee, wondering what gave. The
campus was empty except for me and a homeless guy who was curled up next to
the stairs. I let the coffee warm my hands and let the wind crawl up my pant
legs. I drifted into class and found my explanation. His printed face was staring
at me from a newspaper on the floor. I stared back and felt a burn wash through
me. I grabbed the newspaper with my free hand and watched the paper tremble
at its edges. It read: Fraternity Rushee Dies on Initiation Night.
Josh. Stupid fucking Josh. They used his high school fucking photo and had
blown it up to a frame-able size. He had his classic debonair grin slapped on. I
used to do an impression of that grin. Then he’d shove me. I’d shove him back.
He was smaller than me and he’d pretend to fall. It was like a dance we had.
Now, I had to go sharing that look of his with the whole damn campus. I
wouldn’t dare picture his hands on me right then, I wouldn’t picture him laughing
with me at that photo, and yet here I was, doing just that. I gripped the
newspaper and like a little kid, I knit my brow tight and tried to bolt out of class.
I was doing this goofy galloping thing with my sore legs and holding my chest like
it was gonna start bleeding everywhere.
I got back home, to the sorority house, if you can call that a home. I crumpled up
in my new gorgeous body. Not a goddamn ounce of anything to hold on to. One
of the older girls found me. She must have heard me crying from the bathroom
next to my room.
She slid in next to me on the lower bunk and put her hand on my side.
“I heard,” she said. I wasn't even sure which one she was, Kelly or Kristen,
maybe. It didn't matter, it barely mattered which one I was. I let her stroke my
hair for a while, until I started to feel like a damn Barbie doll. I had been slipping
into this amorphous sea since the moment my mom had grabbed my fat roll.
I had been heading for being just another laughing-at-jokes-I-don't-even-get girl
and it was time to grab hold of something. And it was not going to be Kelly-
Kristen. “I gotta get out of here,” I said, pushing my stained face off the pillow
and pushing this beautiful woman off of my bed. She was probably gawking at me
like I was a damn zombie risen from the dead, but it didn't matter, I was all ready
out of the room.
A Doll for You by Emily Watters
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page two