Frat Girl

by Kiley Roache

  “Cassie!” Jordan yells my name as soon as I hit the bottom stair. He runs up to me, bright and loose with life and booze. “I’ve been looking for you. C’mon, I have an idea.”

  He grabs my hand and pulls me down the hall toward the main room. “The DJ just went on a smoke break.” He turns around to look at me, mischief in his eyes. “And all his equipment is unguarded.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “Are you suggesting...?”

  He smiles. “C’mon, before the actives can stop us.”

  In the main room the music is lower now as a premade playlist runs, and the crowd is reacting accordingly. Some people are chatting and leaning against the walls, sipping drinks. No one is dancing.

  “Excuse me, excuse me, talent coming through.” Jordan pushes through the bored students practically at a run, pulling me along, laughing, behind him.

  He hops onto the stage effortlessly and then reaches down to pull me up.

  The DJ has a ton of speakers and lights, and a set of fancy turntables. There is also a Mac with Spotify open that seems to be the real brains of the operation.

  Jordan grabs the studio-style headphones and wraps them around his neck. He turns to me. “Gotta look the part.”

  I nod. “Of course.”

  He turns to the screen for a second, his fingers poised over the keyboard. He glances back at me. “What do I play?”

  “I don’t know. Why didn’t you think of that before?”

  “I only had this much of the plan.”

  I shake my head. “Move.” I push him out of the way with my hips.

  I quickly search some EDM Alex likes, the pop-friendly, dance-y kind. I crank the dial to the right and click on the flashing lights.

  “This is good!” Jordan yells over the bass. “What are you playing next?”

  “I have no idea!”

  I search frantically and settle on a throwback I’m sure everyone will know the words to.

  At the sound of the opening bars, people cheer. It’s such a rush, this kind of power. It’s like I have control over this mass of people, of their mood and how they move.

  I feel like I’m on top of the world.

  The lights flash through the dark and illuminate some of their faces, starry eyes gazing up at us.

  We dance, and they do, too, screaming the words back at us.

  “I’ve never felt like this before!” I yell to Jordan.

  “What?” His voice barely carries over the music.

  “I said—”

  I didn’t know I could feel more alive, but I turn and there he is just inches from me, and we’re sweaty and the light is flashing, and his lips look so soft and his eyes so bright, and I swear I can feel his heart beating in sync with the music and mine.

  When they say something takes your breath away, I thought they meant it figuratively. But there seems to be no air to breathe in the space between us. Strangely, I’m okay with that; in fact, all I want to do is dive deeper into this feeling.

  But the song is heading into the last chorus, and I snap out of my trance and back to the computer.

  Not having time to think, I quickly cue up the cheesy but amazing “I Love College.” Attempting to use an app I barely understand, I speed it up and crank the bass.

  “This is great.” I turn to Jordan. But he’s not smiling back. “What?”

  “Fuck, do you see that?” He slowly removes his headphones, not taking his eyes off something in the crowd.

  I turn. Three actives are at the other end of the room. And they’re pissed.

  Shit. Well, we knew our minutes up here were numbered.

  The dancing people make it hard for them to move through the crowd, but they’re making impressive progress.

  “Run, run, run, run, run.” Jordan guides me forward, his hand on the small of my back sending electric shocks through my body.

  He jumps off the stage and then helps me down, grabbing my waist.

  With both arms he shoves through the crowd, garnering a few nasty looks. I keep my head down and slip through in his wake. Out of breath, we burst into the kitchen.

  The bright lights are unsettling. Through the little window in the door, I see two actives arriving on the stage, along with the disgruntled DJ.

  I laugh, and it turns into a kind of giddy squeal.

  “That was amazing!” he says.

  “I know!” I spin around, and my mind is singing.

  He’s inches from me, and we’re both breathing heavily, almost in sync.

  Our eyes lock, a question flickering between us.

  I don’t blush or giggle or turn away. I bite my lip and stare back, breathing in the heaviness, the heat between us.

  When he leans in, I don’t back away. His lips brush mine, and he kisses me, tentatively at first. And then his lips are crushing mine and his hands are in my hair. And I want to wrap my legs around him, for him to press me against a wall, or pick me up and carry me upstairs so we can sprawl out on his bed.

  But the kitchen door opens, slamming against the wall.

  We burst apart.

  A drunk girl I’ve never seen before stares at us. “Oh, sorry... I was just looking for cups.”

  “You’re fine.” I smile at her.

  Jordan looks at me like a deer in headlights.

  She opens a bunch of cabinets, none of which are where we keep the cups, but I’m too distracted to help her.

  I turn back to Jordan, waiting for him to say something. Anything.

  “I—I gotta—” He turns and runs back into the party.

  “Hey, were you guys the ones on the stage?”

  “Uh-huh.” I nod.

  “That was soooo cool. I love that one song you played.”

  “Um, thank you.”

  “Ugh, I hate frats. There are never cups.” She storms out, and just like that, I’m alone with the pots and pans, stunned.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  From: peterford@warren.edu

  To: dopest-house-on-campus@lists.warren.edu

  Subject: Keep it in your pants

  Hey guys,

  This is just a reminder to all pledges that dating (or any kind of funny business) within the house is forbidden under the bylaws as of this year. It could cost you your bid, and if you’re an active, it could mean compelled disaffiliation.

  I hope you all have a great break.

  See you when we get back.

  Peter Ford

  US Army ROTC Candidate

  President of Delta Tau Chi Fraternity

  B.A. Candidate in the McKinley School of Political Science

  I stand in the domestic terminal of the Indianapolis airport and laugh. I just stare at my phone and laugh out loud like the crazy person I probably am.

  I take a screenshot of the email and send it to Jackie.

  Me: I told u this would be nothing but trouble. One kiss and already an official scolding

  Jackie: YOU KISSED?!

  A mother with a kid in a stroller and a three-year-old boy clinging to her giant winter coat pushes past me, huffing, and I realize I’m blocking the jet bridge from our plane to the rest of the airport.

  “Oh shit, sorry.”

  The mother glares at me, and it occurs to me that my apology may have been negated by the new word I just taught her son.

  Not on a college campus anymore, Cassie. Not on a college campus.

  I grab my carry-on and step to the side, much to the chagrin of a bustling businessman behind me.

  A strand of hair falls in front of my eyes, and I push it back hurriedly. I return to the email and scroll down, looking for the remaining half of the message, the part saying, “Just kidding—we’re pranking Cassie.” The half that doesn’t exist.

  This morning I had spent far too long staring a
t Jordan’s door, bags in my hands and so many words that I couldn’t say on my lips.

  Because what could I say?

  He ran away.

  I could not imagine a worse reaction to a kiss than that. Except for, maybe, I guess the equivalent of a cease-and-desist letter I just received.

  Clicking the lock button on my phone, I shake my head and laugh again, even though none of this is funny at all.

  How had anyone in the house even seen the kiss, let alone assembled an angry mob quickly enough to get an undoubtedly hungover Peter to send a house-wide email?

  Unless, oh my God, unless Jordan had asked for that email.

  I make my way onto the moving sidewalk, reminiscing about the amazing kiss and all that didn’t happen after, such a high and then such a crash.

  At baggage claim I lug my giant suitcase from the conveyor belt and then waddle my way toward the automatic door.

  The cold hits me like a wall as soon as I step outside.

  Oh. My. God.

  The wind burns my face and slices through my many layers. I want to fold my arms over my chest, but I have to deal with all these damn bags. I feel like crying, but I think my tear ducts are frozen.

  I glance around at the people in lightweight jackets and even sweatshirts, smoking or yapping into their phones, their breath visible. They don’t look pleased with the weather, but I’m the only one who seems to have caught instant hypothermia.

  I can’t believe I’ve lived here for eighteen years and after three months in California I’ve apparently gone soft. I shiver my way toward the curb. My teeth actually chatter.

  I weave between the buses and taxis and one very suave limo to where the regular cars are circling.

  Drivers honk and lean out their windows to yell at the neon-vested, earmuffed parking attendants, who whistle and yell back, clouds of white escaping from their mouths with every breath.

  Through the madness I spot my mom in a silver minivan. She triggers the automatic sliding door, and I use my whole body to launch my suitcase into the car. My dad usually helps me with this part.

  “You gotta move, lady—no stopping!” a parking attendant yells.

  Scowling, I turn around to give him a look before I throw the duffel bag and my backpack in, as well.

  I close the door and run for the passenger seat.

  “Whoo, that was crazy,” I say as I climb in.

  I turn to my mother, who’s smiling at me with glassy eyes like I’m one of her beloved Hallmark movies come to life.

  “Hey, Care Bear.”

  “Hey, Mom.”

  We do this weird side hug over the steering wheel, but people start to honk, so it’s short-lived.

  “Where’s Dad?” I ask as we pull away from the curb.

  She bites her lip. I adjust the radio and turn up the heat. Maybe she was too focused on escaping the madness of the airport to hear me.

  Once we’re on the expressway I ask again.

  “Your father is...a little unhappy with you.” She keeps her eyes on the road, dusted with the flurries falling from the sky. The wipers fly back and forth across the windshield. “You know he wasn’t so happy with you going to school in California. Everyone we know who’s moved there has been so brainwashed by those hippie liberals, and now, moving in with a bunch of boys...” She exhales. “He almost wanted to cancel your visit or for you to stay with Aunt Helen.”

  “What—”

  She holds up her hand. “He’s come around. I’ve seen to that. But go easy on him.”

  “This is unbelievable.” Outside, heavier snow swirls to the dirty streets, turning everything gray. I lean against the window and bury myself in my phone.

  I’m scrolling through Twitter when an alert pops up.

  Jordan Louis: iMessage.

  What?

  I click on it.

  J: Hey

  I don’t know what to say, so I opt for saying pretty much nothing, letting him determine where this conversation is going.

  C: Hey

  J: How was your night yesterday?

  How was my night? My crush of the last three months and best frat friend kissed me and ran away. How do you think it was?

  C: Not bad

  And then after a second, because I worry this will end the conversation and I’m weak, so, so weak...

  C: Hbu?

  The little response bubble pops up and sets butterflies off in my stomach.

  J: Okay

  Well, maybe it would’ve been more than okay if you’d hung around the kitchen a little longer...

  J: Are you home now?

  C: Yeah

  The response bubble pops up, then fades away. It’s ridiculous how dependent I feel on this little image on a screen.

  After thirty seconds or so, I lock my phone and slip it back into my pocket, then listen to a static-filled rendition of the top forty for the rest of the way home.

  When we open the door to the cramped house, my father is sitting on the couch watching TV. He turns to look at me, then goes back to the game. No, wait, the game hasn’t started yet. It’s just talking heads predicting who might win.

  Lovely.

  “Hello, Father.” I smile through the poison in my mouth and carry my stuff to my room, kicking the duffel bag down the hall so I won’t have to make two trips.

  I flop down on my bed and stare at my ceiling fan, at the old posters fading on my walls.

  Day one of thirty.

  My phone buzzes, and I pop up.

  Jordan: The house is really quiet w/ out everyone else

  I start to type but his bubble is still there, and he beats me.

  J: How long till you’re back again?

  I smile down at my phone.

  C: Like a month :/

  J: Fuck

  J: That’s a long time

  C: lol ik

  His bubble disappears and reappears a few times. He’s deciding what to say.

  J: How do you think you did on soc?

  C: idk I feel good about it. hbu?

  J: Same

  I’m not sure how to reply, and his bubble is nowhere to be found. Is this the end of the conversation or...? I watch my screen fade to black.

  After a minute, a text lights it up.

  J: Too bad we won’t have a class together this semester

  C: Yeah

  There’s a pause. I wonder if I should say something more. Is it rude to give a one-word answer? Is it overeager to text him two times in a row?

  J: Cassie, I have a very important question for you

  I bite my lip and carefully type back, my heartbeat picking up.

  C: what?

  J: what should I watch on Netflix?

  C: lol

  C: idk

  J: seriously I am so bored. We are at Snoozecon 10

  C: wow, that is serious. I don’t know. Lost is supposed to be good?

  J: Lost it is

  J: Do you want to watch with me?

  So we start watching TV together and live texting our reactions. It’s quite the challenge, actually, because I want to be able to understand the jokes and references he makes and respond with something just as witty, but I often find myself daydreaming about the boy instead of watching the screen.

  * * *

  By my third day home my mom seems to have had enough of my hermit lifestyle.

  “Hey, sweetie, what’s your plan for today?” she asks at breakfast.

  Well, I mean it’s kind of breakfast. I’m eating Lucky Charms, but the clock above the stove reads one. Jordan and I made it through the end of season two at 3:00 a.m.

  “I don’t know, probably just hang out,” I say through a mouthful of cereal.

  She stares at me, wringing the dish towel in her hands. Sh
e knows I mean I plan to hole up in my room all day, laughing at the computer screen.

  But really, it’s cold outside and what else is there to do? Alex isn’t in Indy yet. I’m thousands of miles from my friends and everything I like to do. And honestly, I think after such an intense semester of working and playing hard, the only thing left I want to do—the only sane thing, really—is to rest hard. Reach new levels of Netflixing. Ascend to the highest evolution of couch potato.

  After all, I’ve always been an overachiever.

  “Maybe it’d be good to get out of the house today. See if one of your friends wants to do something.”

  But that would require real pants. I look down at my trusty sweats that say “Warren” in large letters across the ass, which is ironic, because they’re so baggy my butt is indistinguishable in them.

  “Maybe.” I smile up at her.

  Placing my bowl in the sink, I consider how sad it is that my mom is suggesting, although gently, that I get a life.

  I text Jay.

  C: Hey! Do you wanna hang out today?

  J: Sorry chick-a-d. Still in Florida to hang with the grandparents for the next two weeks.

  C: fun! Let’s hang when you get back

  J: I have plans w/ people from school some of the days

  J: but sure!

  I send back a thumbs-up emoji before dialing Alex.

  “Hey, girl!” she yells over the sound of wind rushing by and traffic blaring. I have to hold the phone a little away from my ear.

  “Hey, how’s Chicago?”

  Alex booked her flight home via O’Hare when her long-distance, nonexclusive, I’m-not-sure-what from high school called to announce he’d be playing a few nights at the House of Blues.

  Before you wonder how a kid from her high school is playing such a cool venue, don’t. She met him when he pulled her out of the crowd and invited her backstage at his Indy show a few years ago.

  As happens to normal people.

  “Oh my God, it’s fabulous! The shows have been great, and then afterward they buy tables all over the city. And the sex, oh my God, Cassie, the sex. I—” She breaks off, and I hear her yell at some passerby. “Well, excuse you, it’s not my fault you have your kid on the Mag Mile. I’m nineteen years old. I’m allowed to talk about dick if I want.” Back to me with barely a pause to breathe. “Ugh, I hate people! Sorry, Cassie, what was I saying?”