It's Personal (Chapter 32-33)

Valerie pondered Angela's story and considered her possible responses.

Angela, you should ask forgiveness because you went against God's will for your life. With the vast pool of potential consequences Angela could have suffered, from unwanted pregnancy to STDs, she might consider mistaken identity a quasi-blessing.

Angela, I didn't need to know that. Though Valerie had made it her business to bring lonely Christians together, while single she didn't care to linger on what they did once they got married. Angela's account of her first time prompted Valerie to think about what she was missing—what Zack had been all too eager to offer.

Angela, you go, girl. Valerie had always suspected that Collin left something out.

Valerie drew a breath and stared at Angela. "Oh, Angela. That was . . ." She paused and remembered her reporter persona. "That was kind of irrelevant. I'm sorry Collin was such a disappointment. I hope you realize what you did was a mistake. But what does that have to do with the book you dropped?"

"I'm getting there. When Collin called me Jessica, I just let it go. Convinced myself that the experience jarred his ability to remember names—or my ability to hear them. So much better than him being mistaken about which bedroom was Jessica's."

"So . . . did you ever confront him about it?"

"I didn't have to. The next day at the mall Collin went around bragging that he'd deflowered Jessica Miller, Gleason's choicest babe. Then my sister caught wind of it and set him straight." Angela grabbed a handful of crisp leaves and crushed them in her fist. "Man, I would've loved to have seen that."

Scuffing off the leaf crumbs, Angela continued. "But somehow word got around how easily I'd fallen for Collin. Because the next week Todd Greenly sat at my lunch table and told me how awful Collin had been, and how much better he'd treat me . . ."

". . . until he got you into bed, of course."

"Not even." Angela sighed. "The scenic turnout on Lake Queenshire. The one with the streetlight that's always broken. Never heard from him after that."

"I hope you'd learned the difference between sex and love by then."

"Yes. But Collin and Todd were enough. Suddenly I was the Miller consolation prize. Guys didn't want me for a girlfriend . . . just to restore their manhood after being dumped by Jessica or Pamela."

"Your little sister, too?"

"Heartbreaker in training. Some of those middle school boys were kind of cute." Angela blushed. "Most of the guys I held off. But since sister rejects were basically my only chance at anything close to dating, I gave in once or twice—just enough to keep the reputation."

Valerie closed her eyes and shook her head to suppress her outrage. Composed, she asked, "How, again, does all this relate to the biology text in Winfrey Hall?"

"Oh, right. Well, senior year I made a decision . . ."

"Miss Miller. Says in my appointment book you need help choosing a college. Why, that's strange."

Angela looked up in puzzlement at her guidance counselor, a pudgy woman with high poofs in her blond hair. "Why would that be strange, Mrs. Pressuti?"

Mrs. Pressuti pushed her spectacles back up her nose bridge. "Shouldn't you be at USC already? What happened? Did you have to repeat your senior year or something?"

"No, Mrs. Presutti, that was my sister who went to USC. Jessica Miller."

"Oh, my mistake. I get you Miller girls mixed up sometimes. So many awards, clubs, and such . . ." She cast Angela a lipstick-stained grin. "So, college. Getting an early start, are you?"

"Early? It's less than eleven months away."

"Ah, so you did get permission to skip a grade."

"No! That's my other sister, Pamela."

"Oh. So which one are you?"

Angela groaned. Mrs. Pressuti checked her appointment log again.

"Angela Miller. Okay, I'm sorry." Mrs. Pressuti fixed her glasses again and swiveled her chair to her computer. Frantically she retrieved Angela's student records. "You're the Miller girl who . . . who . . ."

"Never did anything." Anything she was proud of, anyway. "You can say it."

"Oh, don't say that about yourself, young lady." Mrs. Pressuti punched the "Page Down" key. "Do you see that poster behind me?"

"'You want it when?'?"

"No, on the other wall."

"'I know I'm special, because God didn't make no junk'?"

"That poster, despite the double negative, is the reason I switched from teaching to counseling. Because I want to help young people find out what God made them for.

". . . not to mention that the School Board wouldn't let me put a poster in my classroom that mentions God."

She leaned close to her computer screen. "There, look at this. There's something special about you. You were second chair oboe in tenth grade."

"There were only four oboists. And I hated it."

"Well, that was just an example. It says here that in eighth grade . . ."

"Mrs. P? Let's not do this, okay? I'm not as talented and outgoing as my sisters. Fact. But do I have to be like them to get into college?"

"Oh, no, of course not." Mrs. Pressuti scrolled back up the screen and opened a college search program in a separate window. "Did you have any particular school in mind?"

"Not really."

"Have you considered maybe going to junior college close to home, until you decide where you really want to go?"

Angela slapped Mrs. Pressuti's desk. "No way. I know at least that I want to get out of here. Not another state, necessarily, but at least a hundred miles from Corner Grove."

"Hmm. Has Jessica had good things to say about USC?"

"Sure, why?"

"Well, your grades and test scores are certainly within the acceptable level for that school. And with a sibling there and both parents as alumni, you could get in very easily."

"I know. USC is one school I definitely do not have in mind."

"Interesting. What kind of financial aid are you counting on?"

"Dad says he'll pay if I go to USC. So I'm assuming I can talk him into a similar school."

"Any particular majors you're seeking?"

"I don't suppose you can graduate undecided, can you?"

"Sounds like liberal arts to me."

Mrs. Pressuti clicked the keys to enter Angela's criteria. "So we want a mid-tier private or public liberal-arts college in California, but at least 100 miles from home. Not USC."

"Or any college my little sister might go to."

"I plan your future, Angela. I don't predict it."

"One more thing, Mrs. P." Angela squirmed in her seat in Mrs. Pressuti's office, wondering how she should ask her next question. "Is that program linked into our student records?"

"No, why?"

"I was curious if there were any Gleason High graduates going to any of these colleges you're about to select."

"Oh, I see." Mrs. Pressuti studied her screen. "Well, there probably won't be too many colleges in this list. I'll tell you what. When students graduate, we keep track of their college choices in our alumni records. I could correlate this list with our records for the last four years."

"Okay."

"And if any school on your list has a former Gleason Gopher in attendance, I'll flag it. How would that be?"

"Great. I'll know where not to apply."

Eyebrows arching, Mrs. Pressuti cocked her head toward Angela. "Sorry?"

"Yes, that's right. I want to go someplace where nobody knows me."

"You want a fresh start, huh?"

"You could say that."

"Tired of always being compared to your sisters?"

"Sure." Yes, she was tired of being compared to Jessica and Pamela. But certainly not in the way Mrs. Pressuti thought.

After a seemingly interminable wait, Mrs. Pressuti's computer beeped and hummed. Angela wondered if it was digging up records of all the guys she'd slept with.

"It'll take me a while to get the complete list," Mrs. Pressuti said, "so you might want to come back tomorrow. But I have the first match . . . Brooks University in Daleville."

In a crowd of anxious Brooks fresh-women, Angela stood on the expansive front porch of the mansion that served as the Omega Alpha sorority house. Expectant clamor passed among the women as they awaited the start of sorority rush week.

A slender blonde read Angela's nametag. "Angela Miller? I'm Tammy Blint. What brings you to Brooks?"

"Excuse me?"

"Are you here for the business school? I was really impressed with their international media relations program."

"Really? I didn't know they had one."

"Then why did you choose this college?"

"Oh. My guidance counselor picked it for me."

One of the double doors cracked open, and the crowd fell silent. A strawberry blond lady in a formal evening gown emerged.

"Hi, I'm Sonja Cruz, director of the pledge committee for Omega Alpha. But hey, don't let that scare you. Truth is, we're, like, just as nervous as all you potential 'Omegals.' After all, you're our future. So let's all just relax, have a good time, and get to know each other."

Sonja opened the other door, and the fresh-women scuttled inside, Angela among them. It wasn't too intimidating. The house was only about three times the size of her Daddy's home in Corner Grove.

Tammy tapped Angela. "You came here because your guidance counselor told you to?"

"Not just that," Angela said. "She gave me other choices. This was the only school on her list without a tri-Zeta chapter."

Sonja ushered the rushees to a haphazard receiving line of nametagged Omegals, each with a firm handshake and a blinding smile. Angela wondered whether there was more bleach on their teeth or on their hair.

"So, what's with Zeta Zeta Zeta?" Tammy said.

"My big sister's sorority. Nothing wrong with them, but I know they'd pick me—just because of her."

"So, you want your own sorority.'

"Right."

"Cool. So what are you majoring in?"

Sonja interrupted the conversation again. "Once everyone's been through the line, feel free to mingle and talk to anyone you want. This is, like, your chance to size us up."

Tammy nudged Angela. "Remember that girl Becky, near the front? Her dad is my dad's accountant. She'll flog me if I don't go talk to her."

Angela smiled. "I wouldn't want that."

"Want me to introduce you?"

"No, I've got people to see too."

"Then I'll see you around, Angela."

"You, too."

As Tammy departed, Angela thanked God—or whoever was up there—for Sonja's interruption. Tammy had just dissected Angela's motives for attending Brooks. Plus, she was about to discover that Angela was undecided.

She probably thinks I'm shallow. And I think she'd be right.

All those women in the receiving line with Sonja looked so beautiful and proud. Each probably had a cheerleader uniform and a sash emblazoned with "Miss Your-town's-name-here" in her closet. How could she possibly impress them?

Angela shuffled to the punch bowl, hoping it was spiked.

#

Angela slid her tray to the end of the cafeteria counter, to the dessert selection. Before her she saw an array of plates with square slices of yellow sponge cake with chocolate frosting. As she took one, the uniformed, hairnetted lady behind the counter smiled.

"Take more than one if you want, Honey. We're not going to run out tonight."

"Thank you." Angela reached for a second piece.

She stared around the serving area, seeing only a few other people with trays. With their short dinner hours (5PM to 7PM), Brooks' dining halls were usually mobbed with snaking queues of limited-budget students eager to claim their fill of already-paid-for food.

"Slow tonight, isn't it?"

"Normal for Tuesday," the lady said. "This is the night when all the fraternities and sororities have their meetings. They take a couple of hours, so they serve dinner too."

"So the only people who eat here Tuesday nights are people who aren't in the Greek system."

"That's right. Enjoy the cake, Honey."

"I'll try." She took a third piece and sat at a table.

#

While perusing her calendar of Brooks special events, Angela had wondered why none were ever scheduled on Tuesday nights. She'd also marked her exams in her planner and noticed Wednesday morning was always clear of them. Now it made sense.

The Greeks controlled the campus. Non-Greeks were welcome to get an education; but socially, they did not exist.

They could have mentioned that in Brooks' brochure. Somewhere amid that stuff about the "picturesque, sylvan campus," "low student-faculty ratio," and "relaxed atmosphere conducive to study and research."

This is high school all over again.

Angela looked at her three squares of cake.

At least there's more dessert for me on Tuesdays.

She picked up a fork, then poised it in midair.

What kind of consolation is that? Did she seriously believe these lumps of flour, sugar, and flavoring substituted for a social life?

"Excuse me, Miss."

Angela looked up to see an Asian student in blue-rimmed glasses standing across the table from her.

"I do not mean to bother you, but the kitchen has closed, and I forgot to get a dessert. Were you planning to eat all of that cake?"

Angela let go of her fork, and it clanked to the table.

"No. I'm not."

She abruptly pushed back from the table, seized her book bag, and stood. "All yours." She headed for the exit.

"Thank you. My name is Dwight."

#

Wanting to take advantage of the excess desserts on Tuesday nights but determined not to add "fat" to her unflattering list of adjectives, Angela soon decided to start exercising.

She first tried the campus health center but found it intimidating. Most of its patrons seemed to be attending Brooks on supermodeling scholarships. So she found a more private calorie-burning option: climbing the stairwells of Winfrey Hall.

She could exercise at any hour because she lived there. And she wouldn't be embarrassed because she would appear to be going to her room. Except when she reached the top floor only to grab the elevator.

At some point while ascending from the basement, she looked up to see how the stair railings looked like a narrow, elongated corkscrew. At the top of the stairs, she found a 1964 penny, corroded green with age in spots. Curious, she held the penny over the railing and released it.

Before starting her next ascent from the basement, she looked at the base of the stairwell and found a penny. Lincoln's punk-rocker hairdo indicated it was the same penny. It had plummeted through the gaps between the railings to the bottom landing.

She found this so intriguing, she had to try it again. And again. Quickly she tired of the penny and started dropping other things. Over the fall semester she became a virtuoso of staircase dropping. Coins were the easiest, followed by streamlined pencils and rulers. Erasers were tougher, purloined silverware from the cafeteria harder still. But by January she'd graduated to the real challenge—books.

Wearing thin the magnetic strip on her student ID, she borrowed from the library myriad books of increasing size. With each she sought just the right release angle to minimize the spin so the volume plunged inexorably down, avoiding all railings en route.

#

Angela emerged from the elevator into an orchestra of washers and dryers humming and clacking into the night. Not visiting the basement of Winfrey Hall for the joy of laundry, she strolled down a short hallway to the western stairwell. There, wedged spine-down between the wall and the bottom steps, she found the textbook.

This latest book, Modern Biology, had been frustrating her because it was only slightly narrower than the clearance between the railings. But it had just fallen from the fourth floor. Now she marched upstairs for the ultimate conquest—all five floors.

Soon I'll have to move to a taller dorm.

Reaching the top, she carefully positioned the book, parallel to the railing.

When she dropped that first penny down the stairs, she'd reasoned it was too tiny to cause any damage. The sense of harmlessness had persisted even as her projectiles grew larger. She was no sadist, she was just diminishing the monotony of exercise.

Now as she released MB, only a dim recess of her subconscious considered that she could hurt someone. And it actually derived a sickening pleasure supposing that the unlucky sap to get clobbered by this tome might be one of those bow-headed snobs who'd voted against one Angela Miller joining her sorority!

Following the book's descent, she shrieked as it met an ugly collision with the second-floor railing.

A stern voice behind her said, "Did you just drop that book down the stairs?"

She knew the voice. Angela turned, wearing the pained grin of a boy with cookie jars impaled on his hands, and faced Grace Hardy, Winfrey's dreaded Resident Advisor.