Frat Girl

by Kiley Roache

After an hour she goes downstairs to make tea, then returns with two cups and an armful of blankets. We wrap ourselves in the warm coziness and sip the green tea that has promised it will counteract the toxins of the night before.

  The almost painted wall and words of so many amazing artists hang above us.

  We probably inhale too much of the paint fumes, but let’s be real, that’s the least dangerous thing you may get exposed to secondhand at Dionysus.

  I hug my mug to my chest and let the liquid warm my hands.

  “So tell me about this boy.”

  I take a sip of my tea. “The one who made me cry?”

  “No. The one who texted me from your phone last night to say that he was taking care of you and that you were going to be fine.”

  Jordan did that?

  I raise my eyebrows.

  She shrugs. “I was worried. He must have seen my texts.”

  I pull out my phone. Sure enough, in response to an assortment of concerned texts from Alex after our fight—including the gem “Still pissed but you’re not dead in a ditch, right?”—Jordan replied that she shouldn’t worry.

  “There’s nothing to tell.” I click my phone off and shove it back in my pocket.

  “I don’t believe that. What boy, what Delta, is that sensitive?”

  “He was just being a good person.”

  “Yeah, but if those fuckbois are being decent human beings, something’s up.” She laughs. “He liiiikes you.”

  I elbow her.

  “Ow, you’re gonna spill my tea!”

  I roll my eyes. “I guess he did go a little bit beyond the call of like, making sure I didn’t die,” I say. I run my thumb along the rim of my mug. “He kind of slept over.”

  “Like in your bed?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh my God, Cassie.” She pops up, spilling tea on the blanket. She looks down at it. “Fuck. Whatever.” She looks back up. “Oh my God, why did you not open with that? Details, details!”

  “There’s nothing to say—nothing happened, dude.”

  She squints her eyes. “So, like, you didn’t screw?”

  “No, Alex, I did not lose my virginity last night.”

  “Right, right.” She shakes her head. “I always forget you haven’t fucked. But you know what I mean. You didn’t even kiss or anything?”

  “No.”

  “Hmm.” She purses her lips. “Did you cuddle?” She raises her eyebrows.

  “No—I mean, yes, but it wasn’t like that.”

  She squeals and jumps again. “Oh my God! That’s so cute. I love it!”

  I sip my tea.

  “And really, in a way that’s kind of like a bigger deal,” she says. “Very sensitive of him to want to sleep with you but only sleep with you. Not at all Delta Tau, but that’s kind of fabulous.”

  “I don’t know. I mean, he definitely hooks up with a lot of girls, and none of them sleep over, so maybe he just doesn’t see me that way. He probably just felt bad for me. Tears are not very sexy, A.”

  She shakes her head. “No. I think he just thinks you’re different from other girls, which, don’t get me wrong, is the sign of some underlying issues with his view of women in general, but it’s also kind of cute.”

  We sip our tea.

  “Also, what does that mean for the project?” she asks.

  “I don’t know. They never said anything about dating the guys, and I never really thought about it. I kind of thought I would just hate them.”

  She laughs. “Honestly they were probably rooting for it secretly. What sells research more than a little sex?”

  I almost choke on my tea. “This will not be funny when I lose my scholarship.”

  “Eh, you won’t lose your scholarship. Have a little fun. You deserve it.”

  We spend most of the day on the floor. Talking about our parents back home and divorce, friends who are trailer hopping and going to rehab, or who don’t have the money for rehab and are sleeping around for drugs or sleeping around for food.

  And then we talk about classes with Nobel laureates and frat parties and football games.

  “Can I write something?” I ask as we stand up to leave.

  “Sure.” She hands me a Sharpie.

  Feminist: a person who believes in the social, political and economic equality of the sexes. “Nice.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Beyoncé?”

  I laugh. “Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. You know her book, We Should All Be Feminists? I lent it to you like a year ago.”

  “Right. Knew that.”

  “Of course.”

  My phone beeps, and I glance down.

  “Shit, this is an email from the Stevenson people. I’ve got to go.” I cap the Sharpie, hand it to her and am out the door and pounding down the stairs by the time the email opens.

  It’s a reply to an email Professor Price sent to me with her notes about the project she cc’d the Fund on. A very professional message where she outlines the research, gives her endorsement and adds her notes and suggestions moving forward.

  My project coordinator responded like this:

  From: mmacey@stevenson.org

  To: cassandradavis@warren.edu

  Subject: Project Notes

  Hey there,

  So I haven’t finished reading it yet but so far it’s good but kind of a little too...science-y. If you know what I mean? Like we want something that really pops: lists, catchy headlines...maybe gifs? I don’t know. This seems good for the first semester, but next time let’s try to make it more fun!

  Thanks!

  Madison Macey

  Region Five Project Coordinator

  Stevenson Fund

  I have to read it twice, and I still can’t believe my eyes. How can academic research be “too scientific”? Excuse me, I mean “science-y.”

  Like seriously, I do all this research and they want clickbait?

  “Um, excuse me.” A girl with glasses and a purple stripe in her hair pushes past me.

  “Oh, sorry.” I’d forgotten I was still in the doorway.

  I step forward, eyes still on my phone.

  I mean really, these are human issues. They are nuanced, they don’t tie up in a bow. It’s hard enough to be lying to the boys to run an academic study I’m proud of, but how can I justify a...a hack job?

  I shove my phone back in my bag and take off toward home.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Someone’s zipper clicks against the inside of the dryer. I look up, easily pulled away from the notes in front of me.

  I’m sitting in the laundry room on Sunday night, studying for my only remaining final. I’ve already turned in my papers for my other classes. The first a piece on feminism, intersectionality and media called “The Taylor Swift Effect.” The idea was to examine whether the trendiness and popularity of feminism will create real and lasting activism or just more social media likes and no real change, as well as how having celebrity quasi-spokespeople for feminism affects what people think a feminist looks, acts and thinks like. My rhetoric paper was a blur, fifteen pages written in three days about JFK. With grade inflation, I’ll pull off a C, at least.

  And obviously I turned in the first half of my project.

  So now all that stands between me and the snow, turkeys, plastic yard Santas, cookies, absence of homework and, most likely, family drama of winter break is my sociology exam. It’s worth 30 percent of my grade, but I have a 97 percent as things stand, even with the few weeks I took the quizzes hungover or still drunk from Rush events. So I’m not too worried.

  Actually, that’s not all that stands in my way. I still have to pack all my shit for a monthlong break. Which of course means catching up on three weeks of backed-up laundry.

  A dryer beeps, and I try to r
efocus on reading through my notes. I flip through my flash cards again, interrupted every thirty seconds by that freakin’ beep.

  “Cassie.”

  “What?” I look up. Jordan stands in the doorway, a blue military-style duffel, the classic manly-man-I-don’t-do-laundry way to carry your dirty clothes, slung over his shoulder.

  “I mean, hey.” I sit up straighter. “Sorry, I, uh, I’m just mad at the beeps.” He gives me an odd look but doesn’t say anything. As he sets his bag on the other side of the table, his eyes don’t leave me.

  I look down at my hands and my note cards. It’s the first time I’ve seen him since our night of...nothing, it was nothing.

  “Uh.” I look up. “Thanks, for, um, last night and everything.”

  He looks down at his bag, tugging on the drawstring. “Don’t mention it.” He starts to pull out T-shirts, gray, blue and black, then shoves them into the washer with great purpose.

  I turn back to my notes.

  “You hungover today?”

  What? “Oh, only a little.”

  He smirks. “I’m jealous. I know when I first started drinking, I could black out and pop up the next morning and head to practice. Now I’m like an old man—too much Taaka and I’m bedridden for days.”

  I laugh lightly. “I don’t think old men drink Taaka.”

  “True.”

  Something beeps again and luckily this time it’s the washer my clothes are in. I walk over and start to quickly throw them in a dryer, my mind still running through sociology terms.

  I pause suddenly, staring down at the bright pink lace in my hand.

  Fuck.

  My underwear can’t go in the dryer, otherwise it will fall apart. It needs to be hung up to dry, but now Jordan’s here and...

  I glance around the room. There’s a metal contraption on the other side of the room that’s meant for this, and it’s empty. That’s pretty typical, except for when there’s a career fair or formal, and it gets hidden under a rainbow of button-downs.

  I’ve used it for my delicates before. But I also usually do my laundry at odd hours to avoid this kind of situation.

  But with finals and the project and still showing up to frat events, I hadn’t had the time, and I need these things to dry before I can pack them, so...

  I stand up straight and will myself not to blush as I cross the room and carefully, professionally hang the thong.

  He whistles.

  I turn around and flip him off, although the effect is probably diminished by my bright red cheeks.

  “What?” He holds up his hands innocently.

  “Don’t be a perv.”

  “I can’t appreciate high fashion?”

  I roll my eyes and walk back to the washer. I continue to unload it, praying I have a dress or something that can’t go in the dryer so my panties won’t be alone.

  Unfortunately this load contains only two more lacy panties and three bras.

  “It’s like a Christmas tree of lingerie.” He stands next to me as I hang the last bra, examining the display, head tilted to the side and hand on his chin.

  I playfully hit him. “Focus on your own shit. There’s so much to do before we leave.”

  “Not for me.”

  I scoff. “Oh, I’m Jordan, I have my shit sooo together, blah, blah, blah.”

  He sticks his tongue out at me, and I do the same in response.

  Because Warren students come from so many places, even other countries, we have a weird schedule where we get off from Thanksgiving to January 2, so people don’t have to travel twice. Unfortunately, that also means packing for four and a half weeks before we leave.

  Sliding up to sit on the table, he says, “I’m actually not going home.”

  “What? Why, because of soccer?”

  “Yes and no.” He swings his foot against the leg of the table. “They give us a week off for Thanksgiving and then again for Christmas.”

  “Oh, that’s not too bad. You’d have a day of traveling each time, but that’s worth it for time at home, right?”

  “Yeah, if you can afford it.”

  I look up. Even by Warren standards, the Greek community is a bit of a rich kids’ club. The 1 percent of the .001 percent. Most of the kids in DTC live on Park Avenue or in Beverly Hills mansions, not...

  “Where are you from again?”

  “West Virginia.”

  I nod. “Yeah, that’s far.”

  “Yep.”

  I lean against the washer and bite my lip. I think of the way financial aid is referred to around the house, the way people spend fortunes on speakers they’ll spill beer on and sports cars they’ll crash. I guess I’m not the only one who doesn’t quite fit in here.

  “So what are you gonna do?”

  “Huh?”

  “During break?”

  “Haven’t thought about it too much. Probably sleep. I’ve been missing that a lot lately.”

  I nod.

  “Play soccer, work out, read. I like to read when I have free time. Last summer I did The Iliad and—”

  “The Iliad?”

  He nods.

  “Oh, c’mon,” I scoff. “People don’t read that shit for fun. No use in trying to impress me.”

  He shrugs. “I’m serious. I like challenging books. I mean, I like thrillers, too, but when I have a lot of free time, I could get down to some Ayn Rand.”

  “Really?”

  He raises his eyebrows. “I’m surprised something that simple would impress a girl like you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re brilliant, and what? You’re impressed the jock can read.”

  Brilliant? “No, that’s not what I—”

  “I mean, if you really want to be impressed...” He hops down from the table. “I know a lot of big words. Ethnocentrism, heteronormativity.” He walks toward me. “Ethnomethodology—those are from our class.” He leans against the dryer. “See? Impressive. For an athlete, at least.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “I know what you meant, Cassie.” A smirk spreads across his face, and he leans forward. “Antidisestablishmentarianism. Have you ever even heard a word that big?”

  “Oh, shut up. You are such a dork!” I swat his arm.

  He grabs my hand, holding on to my wrist. “You’re seriously going to have to stop hitting me or I’ll report you to Sebastian.”

  “You wouldn’t dare.” I make my best tough-guy face.

  “Try me.”

  He continues to hold on and stares at me for a second too long.

  “Cassie...” His voice is serious.

  “What?”

  “I need you to move. You’re standing in front of my clothes.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Monday morning I start off with two cups of coffee while I flip through my note cards. As soon as I finish, I check the clock on my phone.

  I still have time for one more cup before I have to leave for my exam.

  I laugh as I pour another cup, black, and think wistfully of the days when my mom would shake her head in disdain when I ordered a small with extra cream and sugar at Dunkin’ Donuts.

  It’s going to be quite a shock heading home.

  Returning from the kitchen, I set my mug back down alongside my notes as four boys I know vaguely walk into the room, arguing about something.

  So much for studying. I pile up my note cards. It’s fine; I’m more than prepared for this thing already.

  “So you just didn’t sleep with her?” The boys sit down at the other end of the table.

  “Yeah, dude, I don’t want that getting on me, all that blood and shit.”

  “I guess but—”

  “Plus there’s an egg, right? What if it came out, like, while we were having s
ex?”

  I sip my coffee and turn to face them directly. This is better than anything that’s been on TV recently.

  “Dude, she’s not like...a chicken.”

  “Yeah, but I mean, that’s pretty much what she’s doing, right? Laying an egg? Did you ever think about that?”

  I almost choke on my coffee. I cannot emphasize enough that these are adult men, who attend one of the best universities in the United States of America, and they think human women lay eggs.

  His friends seem to consider this for a moment.

  “I never thought about it that way,” one of them says.

  “Periods are so weird,” another one adds.

  “I’ve just always wondered how they can pee, what with the tampons up in there and whatnot.”

  “Dude, you are so stupid—it’s a different place from where the pee comes out.”

  Okay, this has gone on long enough.

  “Hey, um, excuse me.” I raise my hand slightly. “I’m sorry to interrupt. I’m Cassie—I’m a pledge here.”

  They nod.

  “Title IX,” one of them says. It doesn’t even seem like he’s trying to insult me, just that his only frame of reference is my pledge name.

  “Yeah, right, whatever. So, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop or anything, but I, uh, think I may be able to shed some light on the...debate you’re having.”

  “Really?”

  No effing duh. I am a postpubescent woman, and believe it or not, I know more about this than you.

  I rub my eyes. God, where do I start? “So it’s like...when a woman has her period...no, let’s start with basic anatomy. Have you guys ever seen a diagram of—”

  My phone goes off. A calendar alert: LEAVE FOR FINAL NOW. DO IT. IF YOU ARE STILL ASLEEP, I AM TIME TRAVELING TO PUNCH YOU IN THE FACE.

  I like to get creative with my event names.

  “Shit, you know what? I’ll explain later. I have to go to a final. Will you all be around later today?”

  They nod.

  “Okay, meet me in the lounge at, like, three. I’ll teach you everything you need to know. But just don’t...share these thoughts with anyone until I get back.”

  I grab my bag and rush out.

  Oh my God, they are Warren students. How do they know so little?