The Greeks were aghast, the rushees were titillated, and the Rho Gammas were on the warpath. This was so much better than buried with the obituaries (no pun intended) in the “real” paper. “Who do you think it is?” My ears perked up while I stood at the Starbucks kiosk in the student union, watching like a vulture as the barista steamed the milk for my latte. Somehow I’d made it through my eight o’clock class on only one cup of coffee, but now I needed a high-octane infusion ASAP. A second girl answered the first. “I think it’s that skinny girl from Sutter Hall. You know, the one with the Lisa Loeb glasses. She looks like that snobby intellectual type.” “She can’t look like the type. That would defeat the purpose of being incognito.” “Is that what you’re wearing?” Since I’d been shamelessly eavesdropping, it took a moment to realize the question was directed at me. Turning, I saw Hillary with her hands on her hips, the RG on her chest standing out like a blazon.
