Total pages in book: 167
Estimated words: 164557 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 823(@200wpm)___ 658(@250wpm)___ 549(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 164557 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 823(@200wpm)___ 658(@250wpm)___ 549(@300wpm)
I’m supposed to make my parents proud and serve as a role model for my freshman sisters. And I’m pretty sure banging a hot football player in a deserted parking lot isn’t role-model material.
I guess when it comes down to it, though, I hate disappointing people. The mere notion almost makes me break out in hives. So really, if I’m to avoid the crushing sensation of seeing deep disappointment in my family’s and friends’ eyes, then keeping my less-than-respectable extracurriculars under wraps is critical.
I make the quick drive back to Briar, slowing the car when I turn onto the broad streets that make up Greek Row. Most of the houses here only offer permitted street parking, but Delta Pi sits on the end of the street and has its own parking area for our members’ cars.
The Delta Pi house is also undeniably the most impressive of Greek Row. It’s a stately three-story mansion with white columns framing the entrance and ivy climbing up one side of the brick exterior. The ivy isn’t green anymore, no longer the vibrant full bloom of spring and summer, but the browned strands refuse to relinquish their grip on the brick exterior, stubbornly clinging to the walls.
I grab my laptop bag from the passenger seat, then hurry up the wide steps toward double doors adorned with gleaming brass knockers. The knockers are deceptive—to get inside, you need to enter a passcode into the far more modern keypad affixed to the frame. Above the front doors, our Greek letters are proudly displayed in gold.
Everything about Delta Pi exudes an air of elegance and exclusivity. We are not a party sorority. We’re the sorority of senators’ wives and First Ladies. Sometime in the last few decades, it was decided we could be politicians and careerwomen ourselves, but don’t go too hard on the feminism, girls. We’re still expected to submit to the patriarchy. Agatha literally said those exact words to our pledges back in September.
Ugh. I can practically hear her condescending voice. It makes me want to turn around and run back to my car.
But I draw a breath and accept my fate, entering the code to unlock the front door. The moment I step inside, I hear the loud chatter of female voices drifting out of the dining room.
I can’t deny that living in a house full of girls cramps my style. There is zero privacy. Nil. Which means zero shot of bringing my hookups home. In fact, men aren’t even allowed upstairs. The patriarchy doesn’t condone sleepovers. Can’t have all these future wives banging horny frat boys and hipster art majors. We don’t throw parties either, except those of the dinner variety, which our house hosts twice a year. I’m talking fine china, full catering, and cocktail attire.
At our last dinner, Faith committed a severe infraction by sneaking her date upstairs. They fooled around until one of Agatha’s minions narced on her, and Faith had to attend a meeting with the executive board to determine her punishment for such a heinous act.
As vice president of finance, I was part of the grueling deliberations. I voted against logging a warning in Faith’s file but was outvoted by the others. I sit on an exec board that thirsts for blood.
My ballet flats snap against the hardwood floor in the foyer as I race past the sweeping staircase that spirals up to the second floor. A crystal chandelier hangs from the ceiling, casting a silvery glow over the space. The interior of the house is as pristine as its exterior. Agatha runs a tight ship, so our chore schedule is nonnegotiable.
The dining room features a long mahogany table that can seat up to thirty members for formal dinners and weekly meetings. More chandeliers hang overhead, and across the room are two sets of french doors that open out onto a large back porch with wicker furniture. Everything about this place screams East Coast wealth.
When I enter, everyone is already seated around the table. Our chapter has about a hundred members, but only thirty live in the house, and there are never more than fifty who attend any given meeting.
Everyone’s gazes shift toward me. Agatha, our illustrious president, raises an impeccably plucked eyebrow.
“Look who decided to grace us with her presence.” Her voice drips with faux sweetness.
“I’m so sorry,” I tell her. “I had this on my calendar for tomorrow.”
I paste on my most apologetic smile as I rush toward my usual seat next to our VP, Sherise, a gorgeous Black girl with dark, studious eyes and lips that curl in disapproval at my tardiness. The members of our exec board take these posts very seriously.
The girls who don’t have chairs, mostly pledges and underclassmen, stand against the walls during these meetings like they’re toddlers on a time-out.
The moment my butt hits the chair, I bend over to pull my laptop out of my bag. I can feel Agatha’s gaze boring into me the entire time.