Hungover but still, miraculously, ahead of schedule, she reached the top of the hill, thighs burning as she strained at the pedals. The streets were empty, for the most part, but in the near distance she saw the red flashing lights of a police car approaching. As it got closer, she realized that pedaling away from the sound, which was now echoing off of the imposing brick buildings of the campus, was no use. She hopped off of the bike and covered her ears as her shoulders crept up the sides of her neck. The wail of the siren pierced through to the center of her headache, which had been impressive even before that little cops-and-robbers interlude.
What’s with the fuss? she thought, certain that nothing could be happening in that town at that hour that was worthy of such a production, and that it had been way too long since she’d seen anyone in a hurry of any kind. She remembered Tom talking about the police, that they had discovered something grisly a day or two ago, but she hadn’t heard much since. Betsy made a point of avoiding any police officers that came in for free coffee after her fake I.D. arrest, and what Caroline referred to as the “ecstasy episode.” During their sophomore year, Betsy and Caroline tried MDMA at a fraternity party, giggling wildly as they swallowed the tiny capsules with a swig of warm beer. About forty-five minutes later, Betsy started having chest pains and her pulse was racing. She was convinced she was dying of a heart attack. Caroline, whose pupils were wide with wonder, tried to take her outside for a walk to try to calm her down, but Betsy panicked. Eventually, Caroline grew tired of her friend’s anxiety and was drawn back inside by the thumping music, leaving Betsy alone in the grass. When the pains refused to fade, Betsy found the nearest pay phone and called 911. Minutes later, an ambulance, a police car, and a fire engine were parked on Fraternity Row, red lights blaring. Betsy was alone, lying on the gurney, watching the scene around her flash in frames as the drugs kicked in for a second wave. What seemed like every male on the entire campus poured out of the frat houses that lined the street to see what was happening. As the onlookers gawked, the medics took her vitals and determined that Betsy was, no surprise, not in cardiac arrest. She was having a panic attack. They took her to the hospital anyway to check her blood levels for alcohol poisoning. She got a stern lecture from the emergency room physician about the dangers of illegal drugs, how she had no idea what she was taking—it could have been cyanide for all Betsy knew—and how she was taking precious time away from people who really needed a doctor’s care.
Even though the police let her off with a warning, word quickly spread to everyone in the house, and when she was finally brave enough to show her face in the dining room, there was a wave of snickers and whispers that followed her to the salad bar. When she finished her lunch, she checked her mail cubby and found the small strip of paper requesting her presence at Standards. Standards was the secretive meeting held every Sunday night in a small, somber library off of the foyer. The purpose of the gathering was for the house alumni advisor, the house president, and the “chaplain” (the biggest prude they could find who was willing to discuss the amoral conduct of her friends) to reprimand members for their disreputable behavior—to their faces for a change. Betsy was lectured in Standards about unbecoming conduct and the dangers of alcohol abuse (she never admitted to the drugs, despite their leading questions), which struck Betsy as confusing and hypocritical, since alcohol and underage drinking was assumed, and, the way she saw it, practically expected, at every Greek party on campus. She was advised to be more careful and let off with a warning.
The following year, Standards was a regular Sunday night appointment for Betsy, which made her realize that things may not be working out for her there. The final straw, or her epiphany, as Betsy called it, came during a single week when she’d been accused of three offenses: smoking weed on the sun porch (True.), dropping “roaches” between the wooden slats of the porch deck (False. She liked to get high but she was not an arsonist.), and smoking (cigarettes) at a sorority function (True.).
The behavior in question occurred during the annual hayride, which was essentially an excuse to get drunk outside, in the woods, in front of an enormous bonfire. She’d shown up promptly at 7:00 ready to face the music. The vague unrest that had been percolating inside Betsy for months was coming into sharper focus.
“Were the people huddled around that twenty-foot stack of flaming timber offended when I smoked a single cigarette?” Betsy asked the group.
“It’s just that, Betsy, you know how it goes,” said Holly, their president, the very same Holly who’d been busted for a DUI (at 4:21 p.m. on a Friday, according to the police report) during her first month on campus just three short years earlier. Her gaze was trained on the tiny silver cross on Betsy’s necklace so she could avoid eye contact. “It just looks bad.”
The sorority bylaws, which were likely written in the 1950s, specified that sisters were only allowed to smoke indoors while seated. Betsy knew it was a stupid habit and bad for her, but she was being chastised for being tacky, not endangering her health.