Frat Girl

by Kiley Roache

  I roll my eyes as I race up the stairs, but a smile sneaks onto my face. When I reach the top, I yell back downstairs that I’m ready.

  “Okay!” he yells back. “Step forward as I count. Take one step!” he says in a booming, dramatic voice.

  I laugh and do as I’m told.

  “Two! Three! Four!” We step forward together, a floor apart. He stops when he gets to twelve. I take in my surroundings quickly before sprinting downstairs.

  “No dice,” I say, panting as I rejoin them. “Just a bedroom, no bathroom or water fountain.”

  The color drains from Al’s face. “Maybe—maybe a pipe burst.”

  “And what, targeted only the couch you were on and then resealed itself?” I say.

  “Face it, man.” Jordan shakes his head. “The investigation was airtight. You peed.”

  “I did not pee!” Al looks around frantically. Duncan passes by the door. “Hey, dude, come in here,” Al calls. “You’re my roommate. Tell these guys, how many times have I blacked out? I don’t pee myself, right?”

  Duncan leans into the room, his body so large it’s like he is supporting the door frame instead of the other way around. “Uh...yeah, you do. Like every time you drink.”

  “What?” Al goes ghost pale.

  “Oh my God,” I say, backing up. “Oh my God, and I almost touched it.”

  “Yeah, dude.” Duncan sighs. “You didn’t know that? Why do you think I gave you the bottom bunk? I’m almost three hundred pounds. Do you think I like climbing that little ladder?”

  “Wh-what? Why has no one told me this?” Al asks.

  Duncan shrugs. “We thought you knew.”

  “How did you not know?” I ask. “What have you thought before when you’ve woken up soaking wet?”

  “I—I don’t know.” He shakes his head. “You black out and you wake up and things are weird. I thought maybe I’d spilled water on myself, or that they did as some sort of prank...”

  I stare at him. “But the smell?”

  He shrugs. “They pee out the window out of laziness a lot, so our room just kind of always smells like that.”

  I struggle to comprehend that and try to think about what side of the house their room is on to avoid walking near their window as Al continues to grapple with this new knowledge of himself.

  Jordan pats Al on the back. “It’s gonna be all right, man. But, uh, cleaning this room? We’re gonna leave this one up to you.”

  “Good luck.” I smile shyly as I cross the room. I walk up the stairs, hoping I can wander a bit and avoid cleaning until the worst has been dealt with. I nod to the naked calendar as I walk past. This month is Carmen Electra. And then I stop in my tracks.

  The hall is empty, and quieter than it has ever been, but something else is off. All the doors are shut and presumably locked. Except for one.

  Okay, Madison Macey. You want embedded? You want an inside perspective like never before? How about a tour of the president’s bedroom?

  I look around, but no one else seems to be on this floor. I pat my pocket, making sure I have my phone, as I slip inside and slowly close the door behind me.

  The room is just as I remember it from Rush. Much plainer and light-years cleaner than the rest of the house. American flag and ROTC poster. Bed made with military precision. Books stacked neatly on the desk near a desktop computer.

  I walk over to the desk and click the mouse. The computer lights up, but it’s password protected.

  I glance at the door. I could try for the password, but I could spend hours doing that and get nowhere. And I probably have only minutes.

  I open the top drawer. Pens, playing cards, highlighters, phone charger, condoms, Post-its. I close it and try the larger drawers on the side. The first one is full of spiral notebooks and thick volumes with titles like The Spread of Nuclear Weapons and Political Order. I close it and open the next one. Lying flat is a file with “Pledges” written across it in neat handwriting.

  I set it on the desk and flip it open, feeling as if I should be wearing gloves or something. I glance toward the door.

  The hairs on the back of my neck stand up as I flip through. First a copy of the flyers they’d posted around campus. Then photos of each pledge, seemingly from their Facebook pages, along with a few sentences about each.

  Joe Walsh: Asshole, but legacy. Yes.

  Duncan Morris: Football, automatic yes.

  Ben Worthington: Awkward, but his dad gives hella money to the alumni association. Yes.

  Chris Lewis: Pretty boy. No.

  I take a picture on my phone and flip the page to see myself at prom smiling. I remember Jay snapping that picture as I laughed and blew him a kiss.

  Cassie Davis: Opportunity. Yes (Pending).

  Opportunity? For what? PR? Or...ew...like sex? And pending, what does that mean? Was that pending a vote during Rush? Am I still pending?

  I flip through the rest of the pages, looking for more. But there are no more notes about me.

  The last page is an Excel printout. Pledge names on the x-axis, active names on the y.

  It seems to be the system they use to create the pledge list. Who’s rewarded by invites to exclusive parties, who’s punished with shots.

  Most people get pretty similar results across the board. Those who go out often or play sports get high marks from everyone. Duncan has sevens and eights. And Alan Morris (so it is Alan) gets sixes and sevens. Although once this peeing thing breaks, he’ll probably drop.

  Others are less luckily. Ben “Bambi” Worthington gets twos and threes.

  I find my name and trace a line across the page. One, seven, three, eight, three, four, six, two. I seem to be the only pledge where there’s no agreement.

  Even more interesting are my votes from the executive section. Marco Torres: eight. Sebastian Elliot: one. Peter Ford: zero.

  What the hell? He must really not want me here. There isn’t another zero in the goddamn chart.

  I snap a picture, close the file and put it back where I found it, then slide the drawer closed quickly.

  The next and largest drawer is full of similar files, but upright. The other one must belong here, but Peter must have taken it out recently.

  I flip through them quickly. Budget, Alumni, Nationals, Housing, Rush. About what I’d expect. Initiation Material, Emergency Contacts. Then...

  My fingers freeze over the last file, whose tab is bent, so I almost didn’t see it.

  Cassie Davis.

  Why in God’s name is there an entire file devoted to me?

  “Ahem.”

  My head snaps up, and I see Peter, hand still on the doorknob, staring at me.

  I pull my hand back like I’ve touched fire and stand up straight.

  “What on earth are you doing?” he asks.

  “I, uh...” I glance around. “Aren’t we supposed to clean in here, as well?” I look for anything out of order, but find only a single pen on the desk. I place it in a mug carefully before looking back up at him. I tell myself to smile.

  “No, it’s just the common spaces.” He steps forward, studying me.

  I step back, my hand brushing the wall.

  “Didn’t you listen to my speech this morning?” He steps between me and the desk, clicking the drawer closed with his heel.

  I laugh nervously. “I did, but you know me...” I make a stupid face and bonk myself on the head. “Dumb freshman.”

  He shakes his head. “Sometimes I wonder why we let you idiots live here.”

  Yeah, you even gave me a zero.

  “Get back to work, pledge. I don’t think the first-floor bathrooms have been cleaned yet.”

  Ugh. First-floor bathrooms are the ones open to the public during parties, which undoubtedly means vomit.

  “On it.” I smile as I walk past him.
<
br />   The door slams as soon as both my feet are in the hallway. The lock clicks into place immediately.

  So much for finding out what was in that file.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “No, no, no. Cultural relativism is the opposite of ethnocentrism.”

  “What?” Jordan turns his head and stares me down. “Are you kidding me?”

  We’re lying on his floor, sociology books and notes spread around us, trying to study for the midterm over the sounds of Nicki Minaj floating up the stairs and through the half-open door.

  I giggle. “No.”

  “So it’s not true that...” He picks up his notebook. “And I quote from the lecture—‘cultural relativism is judging one society by another’s standards’?”

  “Not according to the book.” I hold up the giant volume.

  “What the...?” He looks at me like this bit of information has shaken his entire worldview.

  “Yeah, I know. I’m thinking there was supposed to be a ‘not’ on that slide.”

  He sits up. “So you’re telling me that because of a typo I have memorized the exact opposite of this key concept of sociology?”

  I glance up, considering this. “Yes.”

  “Ugh.” Jordan scrubs his face. “What a joke.”

  “It’s okay. At least you found out before the midterm.” I give a cheesy smile and a thumbs-up. “What’s next?”

  “Um...” He flips through his papers.

  A ringing breaks the brief silence. I reach for my phone instinctively, but it’s not lit up.

  “Hello.” Jordan pops up, and suddenly I’m looking at his ankles. “No.” He begins to pace. “Now is fine. I—I’ve been trying to call you for a while.”

  A few boys rumble down the hall, yelling something about celebrating their math midterm being over.

  Jordan’s attention snaps to the open door. “Yeah.” He clears his throat as he crosses the room and shoves the door shut. “Yeah, I understand that, Mom.” He turns around to pace the other way.

  I gather the papers around me to give him space to walk.

  “But how do you think it makes me feel, or Sara, or, God, Dad?”

  I look up at him, but he doesn’t look at me. Should I leave? He’s between me and the door again but not making eye contact.

  I stand and step forward.

  “Hold on a sec.” He turns to me, covering the receiver. “No, stay. Sorry, I’ll just be a second. You don’t have to leave.”

  I collapse back onto the floor.

  “You know what, Mom, I have midterms, and I really can’t talk about it right now.” He hangs up the phone.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “Yeah, it’s just a lot of bullshit.” His eyes are fixed on his notebook. “My parents split up last year, when halfway through my mom’s pregancy with my, I guess, half-brother, my dad found out it wasn’t his. She’s with this other dude now and all mad we don’t like her fiancé, like we don’t all remember how they got together.” I can tell he’s trying to be matter-of-fact, but his words are laced with tension.

  “Oh my God, I’m so sorry.”

  “Yeah, whatever, it’s just drama. Every family has it.”

  I think of my parents. Barely talking when it’s not “Get this from the grocery store,” “I need these cleaned” or “Have you seen Cassie’s report card yet?” Or, more often, fighting. Burned dinners and messy rooms turning into red-faced screams and tears. Cries of “I’m not your servant” and “I didn’t sign up for this when I took those vows!” Drunken recounting of dreams that died on the vine. Hatred and resentment of a choice made in a time of white tulle and tears of joy. I think of my father sleeping in the den. Of my mother crying herself to sleep.

  I clear my throat. “But I mean...if you want to talk about it, I’m here to listen.”

  “Thanks.” He smiles briefly.

  We’re both silent for a while.

  “Honestly, it doesn’t make any sense,” he says. “Cultural relativism should be when you judge things relative to other cultures, for God’s sake. That’s what it sounds like, any—”

  His phone starts to ring again, but he slides his notebook to cover it.

  Chapter Twenty

  Shoes squeak, ropes swish and harnesses click as athletes with biceps and Nike shorts, and granola types with blond dreadlocks glide up and down the climbing wall.

  I sit on bench near the equipment room, where I’ve been for thirty of the forty-five minutes since I got here. I twice made it halfway up the course I’ve been stuck on for weeks before quitting.

  I watch Jackie go the last few feet to the top, making climbing look elegant, like a dance.

  Her black ponytail shines as she rappels down the wall. As soon as her feet rest on the matt, she unclips. This is very unlike her. Every week I’ve watched her, she follows the same routine. She likes to do each course three times in a row before moving on, but she’s done this one only twice.

  She turns and moves quickly, almost aggressively. And it’s not until it’s too late that I realize she’s charging toward me.

  “Enough.” She folds her arms, smearing chalk on her elbows.

  “What?” I ask.

  “What do you mean, ‘what?’ What the hell are you doing here?” Her voice is loud, and a few heads turn. “Here, c’mon.” She grabs my arm, fingers digging in, and pulls me into the equipment room.

  She turns on me as soon as the door clicks shut. “I’ve seen you here, like, four times. You barely ever climb. You just lurk.”

  “I—” That’s because I’m really here trying to work up the nerve to talk to you. I look down, embarrassed. “I’m scared to fall.”

  She shifts her weight, her arms folded again. “That’s bullshit. This is classic you. Don’t half do something. If you’re going to do it, do it. But don’t, don’t, make everything gray and muddled.”

  I don’t think she is talking about climbing, either. Our eyes lock for a second, and her resolve softens just enough that I think this may be my chance.

  “I’m sorry. Okay? I should’ve told you, about—about this whole thing. I just didn’t know how to do it right...so I just didn’t. And then it was too late because you knew and I didn’t know how to fix it.” I tell the truth as closely as I can.

  She scoffs. “You know what your problem is?” she says. “You have no discipline. Don’t want to do the difficult thing. Like you have perfect form, great potential, but you barely practice. When you’re here, you just lurk around, make me feel guilty, distract me...”

  “Jackie.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t come here to climb.”

  She exhales loudly, sending chalk and dust from the old equipment into the air.

  I continue. “I keep coming here trying to figure out how to tell you that I’m sorry. To ask you to be my friend again.”

  She unfolds her arms. “Can I be your friend again and still think some of your actions are stupid?”

  I nod. “For God’s sake, I think my actions are stupid a lot of the time.”

  She half smiles. “Well, I’m not about to be friends with a quitter, so you better get back up there. It’s the green one, by the way. On the far left. You skip it every time. The trick to that course is half steps, horizontal movement. Things can’t go straight up all the time.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “First all-campus tonight, bitches. If you don’t get this all set up in time, you will know a new kind of hell.” Sebastian weaves through the room, refusing to help while he yells at everyone to work faster.

  There have been plenty of mixers and smaller parties, but now it’s time for the first real Animal House–esque, old-fashioned Frat Party of the Year. An all-campus party, meaning that in theory anyone who goes to school here could
be invited. But, as always, there will be a list, and it will be an all-Greek-members or ridiculously-attractive-people-who’ve-become-friends-with-Greek-members party.

  “Are you finally gonna come to this one?” Jordan asks me as we lug the sixth keg inside.

  I shrug, which basically consists of me moving my head to the side, because I’m still struggling to carry the keg and walk backward.

  “Why do you never go to any events?”

  “I do. I was there a few nights ago.”

  “Not the mandatory pledging ones. I mean parties and stuff.”

  “I go.” My voice is higher than usual, giving me away.

  “So why do I never see you?”

  Maybe because I’m in a corner observing, pretending to text while really taking notes on the number of drinks consumed, number of women hit on, number of songs that glorify violence against women.

  I exhale. “I guess I’m just hesitant to go to parties where everyone hates me.”

  “Not everyone hates you.”

  “Have you seen Yik Yak?” I glance behind me as we move through the door, which is propped open with a full handle of Taaka. “Because I’m a bitch trying to take down Greek Life, a girl hater trying to take down sororities, an asshole apologist who hates women, a lesbian trying to convert straight sorority girls and a slut trying to sleep with the whole house. And none of those things plays well at parties.”

  We set down the keg. “I don’t know. I think the last one would play pretty well with the guys at any party.”

  I elbow him and take off to unload the rest of the car.

  “Hey, that actually hurt!” he yells after me. He holds his arm as he catches up to me. “I don’t hate you, and I’ll be there.” He smiles that smile I can’t help but see when I listen to sappy love songs.

  “I’ll consider it.” I look down, biting my lip.

  “Let’s go, pledges!” Marco is sitting on the roof of the back porch, yelling through a megaphone and watching as pledges string lights, build a DJ booth and unload industrial quantities of alcohol.

  Jordan and I grab cases of Taaka and Southern Comfort from a junior’s car and set up plastic shot glasses in the main room.