Hell Week by Rosemary Clement-Moore
Jenna’s boyfriend also dumped her, but not before making her an STD statistic. She told me about it over coffee at Froth and Java after everyone had gotten back from winter break. Those that were coming back, anyway.
“At least it could be cured by antibiotics,” she said. “It could have been much worse.”
“I’m glad it wasn’t.” What can I say? G and E aren’t always absolute. I hope I never see them that way.
She cupped her mug between her hands. “We—the SAXis—knew we were lucky, and special. And I followed the rules. Heck, I only had two hookups until I met David, who was a Gamma Phi Ep. I figured, who was getting hurt?”
“Do I need to answer that?” Just because I don’t judge doesn’t mean I let people delude themselves.
“No.” She shook her head. “Poor Devon. Have you heard from her? Do they think her hearing will come back?”
“No. It’s permanent nerve damage from the meningitis.”
The doctors had thought it weird that her illness had been delayed so long after the incubation period. But they’d dismissed it as a coincidence or a fluke, which is what rational people did when confronted with the irrational.
“Poor Devon.” Jenna repeated it softly, guiltily. “She was so out of her league. Over her head before she knew what was going on.”
Maybe that was why she was only deaf and not dead like Cole. Though I doubt she saw that as a good thing right now.
The alums, having had more use of the Sigma power, were taking harder hits. One movie-star trip to rehab made barely a blip on the national radar, but I checked it off my list, along with a couple of CEO firings and insider trading scandals.
The wintertime bustle of Froth and Java continued, heedless of life changing events. Jenna and I said we’d get together for lunch, and we might, but I wasn’t really expecting her to call. It takes a lot of history together before the investment in a friendship outweighs seeing in the other person the constant reminders of your bad decisions.
Lisa and I, for instance, would never have the same relationship that we did before. But now I had hope that different didn’t mean worse. We had to stay friends. Who else could I call and say, “I think my calculus teacher might be an agent of the devil.” (Not really. But his idea of homework was pretty infernal.)
After Jenna left, I sat back, looking through the window at Congressman Abbott’s office across the downtown street. Victoria was in a wheelchair, with only partial use of one hand. Speculation said Abbott would finish the last year of his term and return to private law practice, ostensibly to take care of her, though possibly because his campaign contributions didn’t bear scrutiny. Funny how the universe can set itself right when otherworldly forces aren’t skewing the balance.
Juliana now lived in an expensive sanatorium, which is what they call a funny farm when its residents are rich and high-toned. Since Juliana had been declared non compos mentis, Holly now had control of all the Baker-Russell-Hattendorf-Hughes financial resources, which meant that not only was Juliana in a padded cell, Holly held the checkbook that kept her at the Riverview Sanatorium instead of the Illinois State Hospital.
The door to the shop opened and Justin came in, bundled against the January chill. He sat down and unwrapped; I slid my mocha across the table to him. “Mmm,” he said appreciatively, warming his hands on the paper cup. “Toasty.”
“How’d your meeting go?”
“Well, my thesis subject was approved. Apparently your dad told the committee I wasn’t crazy.”
“That was nice of him.”
“It was.” He grinned at me, and I grinned back. We had to stick together, those of us who saw past disbelief.
“How’s Lisa?” he asked, following my train of thought with his usual accuracy. “Settled back in at Georgetown?”
“Yep.” I retrieved my drink.
“Are you guys really planning a road trip for spring break?”
“Probably. Worried?”
“Not about you two. God help any evil thing in your way.” He rose and grabbed my coat from the back of my chair, holding it out for me. “Ready?”
“Yep.” I slipped my arms in and reached for the mocha. The pain reminded me to switch the cup to my left hand before I dropped it. Mostly I had trouble grasping things. The physical therapist said I might always have weakness in that hand. I guess there goes my promising career as a concert violinist.
Justin put his arm around me as we stepped out into the blustery day. “Excited?” he asked.
“I can’t wait for you to meet her. She’s not much to look at, but boy can she wail.”
“No worries about her lungs, then.”
“Nope. She’ll probably outtalk me someday.”
“I doubt that,” he said as we reached his car, then kissed away my indignation.
Brigid Joanna Quinn had been born on January second at four-fifteen in the afternoon, a few weeks early, but healthy and…Okay, not beautiful. But I understand they all come out looking that way.
As for me, I was pretty sure the effects of the Sigma Alpha Xis had dissipated. My dreams had returned to what passes for normal. I hadn’t had any more ambush visions, but sometimes when I touched things weighted with memory or emotion, it seeped in. So I guess that’s really me, and not a special Sigma gift.
The grimoire had burned; at least, I woke up in the hospital with the recollection of it dropping into the pool of lamp oil, and flames rushing up to consume it. Hopefully a real memory and not a product of blood-loss delirium or wishful thinking. But it felt finished, and I had to trust my instincts until there was evidence to the contrary.
Holly was the only ex-pledge not coming back to school in the spring. She’d called me after the new year to say she was going into training to try out for the U.S. Women’s Soccer League, now that she had the resources to follow her own dream and no mother standing in her way. I would be following her dream, too, for a while, to make sure she wasn’t extraordinarily lucky in her quest. The work of a psychic supergirl is never done.
But for the moment, I had nothing better to do than stand in the freezing wind, wrapped in my boyfriend’s arms, warming up from the inside out. Sometimes, you are just in the right place at the right time, and nothing in the universe is entirely random.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Sometimes I wonder if I talk to myself because I’m a writer, or if I’m a writer because I talk to myself. Here are a few of the people who keep me from being any crazier than I already am.
My agent, Lucienne Diver, and my editor, Krista Marino. How great is it that I get to work with people I genuinely like and admire? I’m also extremely lucky to have the support of so many people at Delacorte Press. You guys rock.
My BFF Cheryl A. Smyth, who knows the voices in my head almost as well as I do.
My wonderful, talented friends Candace Havens and Shannon Canard, who know I’m a dork and still let me hang out with them.
The DFW Writer’s Workshop and the North Texas Romance Writers of America, two fantastic organizations. And a sundry bunch, for various encouragement, kindness, and inspiration: A. Lee Martinez, Michelle Nordahl, Delilah Peeler, Carole Millard, Ashlea Robertson, Haley M. Schmidt, Father Sherwood, Amy Frost, and the Camp Crucis Girls Cabin Circle.
My husband, Tim, and my family—especially Mom and Pete. As they say in High School Musical: We’re all in this together.
ROSEMARY CLEMENT-MOORE loves history, Jane Austen, vintage embroidery, Dance Dance Revolution, BBC America, and the Sci-Fi Channel. She can tap dance, make balloon animals, sail a boat, and rappel from a cliff. In college she was in honors choir, ROTC drill team, and a sorority she prefers not to name, even though, as far as she knows, they were not in league with the devil.
Rosemary lives in Texas with her husband and her dogs. She loves to hear from readers, who can visit her Web site at www.readrosemary.com.
ALSO BY ROSEMARY CLEMENT-MOORE
Prom Dates from Hell
Published by Delacort
New York
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2008 by Rosemary Clement-Moore
All rights reserved.
Delacorte Press and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Clement-Moore, Rosemary.
Hell Week / Rosemary Clement-Moore.—1st ed.
p. cm.
Summary: While working undercover on a series of stories for her campus newspaper, college freshman Maggie reluctantly endures mixers, rites, and peculiar rules, but soon learns that members of the sorority to which she has pledged have strange powers and a terrible secret.
[1. Greek letter societies—Fiction. 2. Universities and colleges—Fiction 3. Journalism—Fiction. 4. Demonology—Fiction. 5. Horror stories.] I. Title.
PZ7.C59117Hel 2008
[Fic]—dc22 2007007438
eISBN: 978-0-375-89119-9
v3.0
Rosemary Clement-Moore, Hell Week
(Series: # )