Chapter 2

Wednesday, of course, meant lunch with my older sister.

A sorority has a Big Sister-Little Sister relationship. When you first join there's an older girl who mentors you, gives you someone to talk to, and generally helps with the transition to college life. Believe me, you need it. Even though Krystal belonged to the sorority, tradition prevented her from being my Big Sister, hence the distinction. In a way that was a plus; I had two people I could go to with problems.

I'd been at college long enough that I had a Little Sister. I think Krys had something to do with it, Mary Alice was sweet, charming, a "butter don't melt in my mouth" example of pure Southern Womanhood. She was also a horny little sexpot from Texarkana who loved a good roll on a mattress as much as I did. We hit it off right away. I introduced her to the swinging scene, The LSU Social Club, and we even double-dated, which certainly sat well with the inner clique of the sorority, and especially the House Mother. Two girls can watch out for each other and make sure the other doesn't get into trouble. Of course two girls can also kneel in front of a couch holding hands while their boyfriends put it to them from behind, but they didn't have to know that.

But Krys was my older sister, not my Big Sister. She didn't participate in the local sex scene, but she knew about it. And she did pleasure herself, something that was a lot more common among female college students than I think anyone was willing to admit.

"How was the party?" she asked as I sat down.

"The same as always."

She pointedly closed the law book she was reading and took a sip of her iced coffee. "Anything I should know about?"

I shook my head. "No, it was the usual."

She sighed. "There are days I wish I could get into that sort of thing."

"You'll find Mr. Right, and you'll be happy."

She took another sip. "Perhaps. I think about that, you know. Oh, not as much as you, but I do."

"I probably think too much. That's a bad habit of mine."

"How's Eric? Talk to him lately?"

"Sunday night. He's up to his ears in some automotive project. I think they're building an experimental car of some kind."

Krys nodded. "Let's just hope some bureaucrat doesn't kill it, which they'll do if it's too successful."

"Everyone knows it's a college test car," I said. "Nothing ever comes of that sort of thing. It's nice to be able to put down on a job application, but that's about it. How are you coming with preparing for your Great Crusade?"

"I'd never make it in one of the other states. English Common Law and the US traditions are almost too complex. Napoleon gave them a chance to do it over and get it right. Makes me appreciate the Little Corporal."

"You know, of course, that they didn't call him that until Hitler came along."

She nodded. "Another one of those trivia things. I get to do Moot Court this weekend."

"Any topic that's interesting?"

"Gun control."

"Let me guess..."

"To me gun control means hitting what you aim at. But one of the faculty members says "guns kill people—remove the guns and you'll save lives".

"Has he looked at crime statistics? They kill each other with knives if they don't have guns. Great Britain has strict gun control laws, and the barbarians practically overran the place a few years ago."

She pointed at me, and then at herself. "Preacher, choir. I agree with you. I'm not going to take that tack though. I'm going to suggest we need a lot more complicated way to kill each other than guns. So far spiked clubs look pretty good as an argument."

I laughed. "You're not serious!"

"Quite serious. We're supposed to push for unusual arguments, and this should be a good one. Last week we were arguing rape, and one of the men suggested every rapist be given a gender change operation and put in the General Population in a men's prison."

"Bit harsh."

"There were feminists who liked it."

"Of course they would. You know, I never thought you'd go into Law."

Krys shrugged. "The blonde bimbo bit wasn't working, so I wanted to try something else, something that stretched me."

"Just don't use harsh make-up."

"Trust me, Amber, I'm probably more aware of make-up and fabric than any other woman in Law School. Why if you could see the way some of them dress... !"

"Bad?"

"Let's just say I know slobs who have better fashion sense. Remember how we used to have those arguments about who or what a slut was? Well, these girls dress in tight tops and incredibly short skirts. If they bend over even the slightest, you can see their everything. And a couple of them really need to start wearing a bra. But of course you can't tell them that, they'll get militant on you and start screaming in your face."

"Maybe they'll become Public Defenders and represent hookers in court. They dress that way to make them feel solidarity with their clients."

It was her turn to laugh. "I'll have to think about that, but maybe you're right. Of course they dress that way, but they don't have the moral courage to carry out what they're advertising."

"Remember that time in high school when I tried something short and tight?"

"I tried it, too. That was when I thought I couldn't attract boys with my boobs, so maybe I needed to show more legs. You don't have that problem."

That was a roll of the genetic dice, and we both knew it. Krystal had a small bosom, I didn't. She had pretty good legs, mine were, arguably, a touch better. The legs were a matter of opinion, and while we competed, we didn't let that get in the way of being sisters and friends. There was a place in the world for tall, skinny, small-bosomed string-beans, just as there was a place for curvaceous redheads.

A girl walked past with a skirt that barely covered her butt. I looked at Krystal, and she nodded ever so slightly. I busied myself with my hot coffee while the two of them talked about something.

"Definitely needs a bra," I said. "Unless she likes the rounded back look."

"Her tits will be staring at her feet before she's thirty," Krystal replied. "There was a bra fitter in town last week, and our professor of courtroom procedure pointedly suggested several of the women attend."

"Let me guess, she got a hostile reaction."

Krys nodded. "They don't seem to understand that a man will react to their body and clothes before he hears their arguments. They'd better cross their legs while in court, or judges and juries will know what brand they're wearing."

"I've tried to keep that in mind," I said. "Of course it doesn't hurt that boys hit on me from Day One. They assume someone who looks like me is willing to hop into the sack with them."

"Well, you are. But most guys would be mortified about a party."

"So I've learned." There were people around. I turned my head back and forth. "I'll tell you more some other time."

She understood at once. There were things we didn't discuss unless we were absolutely sure of our privacy, and my social life was one of them.

"Anyway," she said, "did you see the announcement in the paper this morning..." She deftly turned the talk to something "safe" for outsiders to hear, Baton Rouge social gossip. I'd hated getting involved in that sort of thing, but after only a month at the sorority I knew it was in my own best interest to do so. This was where the contacts I would need later in life were. I had to get to know them, and get them to know me. Men had the 'Good Old Boys' network, but we women had our equivalent, though we didn't have even an informal name for it. Let's just say that Southern Women had social networks that were iron-clad and tight. They also transcended such things as your social station, race, or anything else. Being a woman cut through all of that.

Lunch ended as it always did, and we went our separate ways. Krystal still amazed me. She'd been such a brainless drone in high school. But something had happened that first year of college. Now she was engaged, sharp, and all of those other things Mom tried to instill in us. In many ways I was proud of my sister. I'd wondered if she returned the feeling.

A few weeks before I'd had a chance to learn that. I was in the sorority house doing something to help the house—we all had other duties involved in running the house, and mine was ordering supplies for the kitchen—and I happened to overhear her.

"She strikes me as the most self-centered girl in her year." I recognized the voice: Jasmine Babineaux, a girl from bayou country, and one of the real influential inner circle that ran the sorority.

"She's centered," Krys said, "but not like Sunny. She doesn't think of herself as that beautiful."

"With her looks?"

"Being a true redhead is a pain. All through high school she battled the sun. She burns instead of tans. I thought you knew that. That's why she doesn't hang out on the patio, sunning herself."

"That would explain the long sleeves and high neckline."

"She's changed since high school, but college does that to everyone."

"What was she like? Still as self-centered?"

"No, that's not her. She might strike you as that way, but she's never had any doubts about who she is. We get girls in here who need their self-esteem propped up."

"I don't get that from Amber."

"Well, she knows she attracts boys, but I'll let you in on a secret: most of them turn her off. They only look at her one way, and, well, you can fill in the rest."