by Kiley Roache
But I keep the endgame in mind: one year of investigative journalism in a frat, and I renew my funding. I get to go to college at the best school in the country, and I get three more years of gender-related research funding toward what I really want to do, whether that’s the wage gap in American tech or women’s education in the Middle East.
Setting the winning outfit on my desk, I recheck the pile of syllabi I printed out earlier for my classes tomorrow.
I glance at the clock: nine thirty. Leighton left to meet a friend a few hours ago with no indication of when she’d be back and a clear indication that I was not invited.
Which is fine, it’s not like I particularly want to be friends with her, either. But it would be nice to at least be civil with my roommate.
I walk down the hall to find Jacqueline’s door open but her room empty. She wasn’t joking about the postcards. Half of her back wall is covered in photos of far-off cities. The photos end in a jigsaw shape, with the rest of the wall blank. On the floor I see painter’s tape and a pile of even more glossy postcards.
There’s also a poster of a girl stepping off the curb onto a New York street, empty after the rain. It’s dark save for the city lights, reflected on the wet pavement, blurry like they’re running together. Her back is turned, and all you can see is her wavy hair and her arms raised like she’s dancing or celebrating.
For a second, I can see my life if I were a normal student. I would want to befriend people like Jacqueline, to sit around in her art gallery of a dorm room, talking all night about books and movies we love and places we want to visit. I could introduce her to Alex—they would love each other. We could go for late-night burgers in Alex’s beat-up Saturn and see concerts in the city.
Music erupts from a room down the hall. A gem that combines “bitches,” “money,” “ass” and “pussy” with the sound of...maybe Transformers having sex?
I can’t see the listener, who apparently also doesn’t believe in “open door, open friendship,” but a large sign on the door reveals that he’s number 82, Duncan Morris.
My Hagrid-size frat “brother.” Fabulous.
I return to my room, slamming the door. I turn the lock and grab my phone, dialing Alex’s number furiously.
“Hello!” her voice rings with joy.
“I miss you.”
She laughs. “I miss you, too. How are you? How’s your dorm? How are you liking college? Tell me everything!”
“Eh, it’s okay. I’ve spent most of the day unpacking my room.”
She laughs. “Fair.”
I stare at the window, at the dark outline of a tree.
“How’s your roommate?” she asks.
“Um, she’s okay, too.”
“Just okay?”
“Yeah, I mean she hasn’t been mean to me...but she ‘doesn’t like to be friends with girls.’” I do my best Leighton voice.
“Ew.”
“I know.”
“Fuck that shit.” There is a clattering sound on the other end of the call, followed by laughter. Alex giggles before seeming to remember our conversation. “Um, how’s your room, minus the slightly unhinged person living in it?”
“Fine. Pretty small. The beds are uncomfortable, so I think I’m gonna get one of those topper things.”
“I did that last year,” Alex says. “What’s nice about the house is we can get whatever furniture we want because it’s owned by the alumni and not the school. Also we can paint the walls!” Her voice gets higher and louder. “I think I’ll do one black and then write quotes in silver Sharpie.”
“That’s gonna look awesome.”
“I hope so. Or at least that it turns out better than any of the paintings I did this summer. What a bunch of train wrecks.”
“Oh shut up. That one of Jay’s dog was MoMA material, and you know it.”
We both laugh. I lie back on my uncomfortable bed and close my eyes, and it almost feels like home.
“Can we hang out tonight?” My voice is weak.
“I wish, but there’s a mandatory event at the house. Bonding activities or whatever. I’d invite you to come along, but it’s all rituals and secrecy and stuff.”
“Yeah. I understand.”
Although the members of DTC might not realize it, Warren housing and social life do not live and die by the frats.
While there are fourteen houses with ancient letters on them, there are far more without.
Some are ethnic themed: French House, Black House, Native House, Casa. Others are “learning-living communities” organized by major.
The remaining houses are the lit clubs. Alex lives in one of those.
And let me tell you, they could not have created more Alex-y housing if they tried.
The five lit clubs range in hipster level from Urban Outfitters to basically a commune.
The house members are connected by a “literary fraternity” so they can have official events together. All of them practice free love, “mind-opening” drug use and vegetarianism to different degrees.
Alex lives in what I’m already sure will be my favorite. Most people at Dionysus spend meals and homework time fully clothed, but there’s definitely lots of house-cest to go with the communal stall-less showers and sleeping rooms. Like, there are no bedrooms, just rooms to hang out in and a giant screened-in porch with forty bunks and hammocks.
Not totally my speed, but better than dorm life with Leighton. “Can I just come live with you instead?”
Alex sighs. “I wish. But hey, at least you don’t have to live in the land of freshmen for too long.”
“Yeah, but then what? I move into the land of assholes and creeps?”
“Aw, c’mon, Cass—they’re just people. Not all Greeks are evil, you know.”
“We’ll see about that.”
I hang up the phone and sigh, searching my room like something to do or a new friend might appear.
On my first night of college, I go to bed at ten o’clock.
* * *
All throughout my first day of classes I can barely focus. As soon as the last one ends I run back to my dorm to start getting ready.
I shower and put on a lot of makeup, but nothing too bright or dramatic. I want the boys thinking I’m not wearing any, that I’m supercool and not at all vain. Idiots.
I put on a short, tight but simple dress made of T-shirt material, the type of dress a guy would pick out for a girl. I don’t want to wear anything that looks girlie or frilly, but I need to look hot. The fun, sexy party girl who you forget is a girl except for when you think about fucking her.
After slipping on red-and-white high-tops, I plug in my straightener. A ponytail would be too tomboyish. And curling my hair would look like I tried too hard. (Boys don’t understand that all heat tools take the same level of effort.)
While I can’t seem too much like a girlie-girl, I also don’t want to seem like one of the boys, because then I’ll lose out during Rush to real boys. To these misogynist dickwits, I will never be a better man than a man. So I need to use my assets. I need to be like one of the guys, but with boobs.
It’s disgusting.
I check the campus map three times before I leave. I can’t show up with it—looking like a stupid freshman will be an automatic loss of Rush points or whatever it is.
“Hey, Cassie, where are you headed?” My RA, Becky, pounces as soon as I make it to the lobby.
“Out.” I push through the old, heavy doors.
Well, I’ve been on campus about a day now so it seems about time to cement my social group for four years. I make my way toward The Row, winding between palm trees and sandstone buildings. There are a few other people out and about, but mostly campus is pretty empty.
A large fountain that looks like a demented tree sits empty, turned off because of the drought. Am I suppos
ed to pass that?
I try to remember the tour I took when I arrived on campus.
Okay, yes, I definitely passed the math building before, although all the academic buildings do kind of look the same.
I glance around.
Shit, I definitely did not pass this weird modern art statue before. I would have thought it looked like a giant bug and laughed for sure. I would never have forgotten that.
There’s no way I’m not going to be late now. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Why’d I have to go to the biggest freaking campus in North America?
I pull out my phone. Please, please, pleeeeeasse. Oh, cool, it’s at 20 perc—
And it died. Awesome. I live in Silicon Valley, but that won’t stop my iPhone from jumping from twenty to zero whenever it feels like it. I fight the urge to throw the $600 piece of hardware at the weird ant statue.
“Are you all right?”
I turn around.
The beautiful boy in pastel shorts and a white polo button-down looks at me with concern in his eyes. Wow, those eyes. Deep brown in a way that held mysteries, but lined with the most beautiful, long eyelashes. I’ve often heard people say that since girls wear mascara, good eyelashes are wasted on a boy. I respectfully disagree.
They were eyes that made me want to trust him, even though we’d never met. I was transfixed by him.
I cleared my throat. “Yeah. I’m just late, lost and my phone died.”
“Where are you going?”
“Rush.”
“Oh, me, too! I didn’t know sorority Rush was happening now, too.”
It’s not. Actually, it happened before school even began. “Um...”
“Well, I’m not sure where The Row is, either, but my phone’s at fifty percent, so you can come with me.”
He smiles, and I melt.
I know I should stay focused, but I really do need help...
“That’d be great. Thank you.”
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. Ooohhh, he has nice arms, too.
Shit, he’s looking at me. Act normal, Cassie.
I make myself smile and probably look like a serial killer.
He looks from his phone to the path in front of us and then back again. “Okay, I think that it’s...this way.”
“That’s not very encouraging.” I laugh. “But I guess it’s better than what I have.”
He smiles. “That’s fair.”
“Lead the way.”
We walk in silence for a minute, just the sound of our footsteps. I try to think of something interesting to say.
“So what classes are you taking?” he asks.
“Rhetoric, Intro to Gender Studies and Sociology 101.”
“Oh, I’m in that one, too!” His eyes light up.
“Really?”
“Yeah. I was really excited about the description, but today was kind of boring.”
“Oh my God, I know. But hopefully it will get better.”
“I have faith.” He checks his phone again, and we take a right.
My red-and-white high-tops kick up dust from the dry California ground. By the main buildings, the lawns are still well watered and manicured. But back where the students live it’s all cracked ground and sparse dry grass.
“I feel like I’m gonna look so sweaty and gross,” I say. “And I hate that I have to care, because of how superficial these things are.”
He turns his attention from his phone to me. “I think you look really great.”
I laugh. “I wasn’t going for that. I’m just trying to have an objective conversation.”
He tilts his head to the side. “What do you mean?”
“Like, I’m a confident person. I’m not fishing for compliments or needing you to say that. I have eyes and a mirror. I understand the difference between good hair days and bad ones. Me being made-up and my makeup melting off.”
“I didn’t think you weren’t confident. I think you objectively look good.”
“Well...” I glance away briefly. “Thank you.”
“Even if your makeup is melting off a little bit.” He reaches out and brushes a stray eyelash off my cheek. “But now you get to make a wish.”
My whole body feels like a live wire. Our eyes lock and I’m scared to look away, for the moment to end, but also I’m scared if I don’t I will make it weird and—
“Continue on Galvez Street.” Siri, the third wheel I’d forgotten about, ruins the moment.
We both look away, and I try not to giggle as we proceed forward. The silence turns from sexually tense to awkward.
He clears his throat.
I look at him.
There’s a pause.
He doesn’t look up from the path when he says, “Um...do you wanna exchange numbers? So we can talk about sociology and stuff?”
My heart picks up. “Yeah, sociology and stuff.”
He hands me his phone, and I type in my number, checking it three times. I go to text myself his name and...
“I just realized, I don’t know your name.”
A movie-star smile spreads across his face. “Jordan Louis.”
“Cassandra Davis,” I say.
He reaches out to shake my hand. “Very nice to meet you, Ms. Davis.”
We hold hands and eye contact for a second longer than we probably should.
I can feel myself blushing and look down quickly to hide it. “Um, here you go,” I say, handing back his phone.
“Thanks.” He examines his screen for a second. “Hey, it seems like we’re pretty close...well, I mean to where I need to be. Hopefully I’m leading you in the right direction.”
“Where are you rushing?” I ask.
“DTC.”
“Yep, that’s right near where I need to go.”
But my heart sinks as I say it. Because even though I have no right to be emotionally invested in this person I just met, he’s tall and has pretty eyes and a heart-melting smile, and he was my knight in shining armor, and now odds are I’ll have to spend the next year lying to him. Which sucks. I should tell him—no, not about the project, just that I’m rushing DTC, too, that we’re now competitors, and even if we both got in, anything between us would be incredibly complicated. But part of me just wants a little bit longer where he’s just a cute boy and I’m just a girl he’s flirting with. So I fake a smile.
We arrive at the house, the letters looming over us.
So this is DTC. It’s a lot bigger than the other frats I’ve seen on campus. There are huge white columns, like this may house some sort of system of government and not sixty boys who probably, as a collective, couldn’t do a load of laundry. There’s also a big balcony across the third floor from which a brilliant Warren student is trying to lower a cooler on a rope to his brothers below.
Guys in matching bro tanks and a rainbow of pastel shorts are scattered around the yard. Some are seated at a folding table that, if I had to guess, is usually used for beer pong, with a poster sloppily duct-taped to it with the words Sign in here! written in black Sharpie. Others are just standing around out front drinking canned beer from Warren koozies and yelling weird inside jokes and chants at one another. A bunch are staring at me.
I turn away from the house.
He looks at me. “Do you know where your sorority is from here? Or I can look it up?”
“I got it, thanks again.” I step backward and almost trip over my own feet.
“I can walk you there.”
“No...you go ahead in. I know how to get where I’m going from here.”
“Are you sure?” He seems genuinely worried about leaving me.
“Yeah, definitely.”
He looks at the house and then back at me. “Okay. It was good to meet you. I really hope to see you again. Good luck.”
“You, too.”
He turns and walks toward the sign-in table. He’s almost there when he turns back and yells, “Text me, Cassie.” He winks at me before he turns away.
I smile despite myself. It takes quite a guy to pull off winking like that.
I raise my hand to wave and smile. Don’t worry, Jordan, I think. You’ll definitely be seeing more of me.
Chapter Four
I watch him as he signs in, laughing and smiling and chitchatting with the actives. Man-flirting, as I like to call it. Even from a distance, I can tell they like him. Of course they do; he’s the type of person who’s magnetic, who kills the first impression, makes it seem like he cares about you, even when all you’ve done is say hello.
He disappears into the house, and I shake my head, like I can physically scatter the thoughts of him.
Focus, Cassie, focus.
I walk down the block and decide to loiter for a bit so I don’t walk in right after him. Taking out my dead phone, I pretend to type.
Okay, if I wait any longer people will start to notice.
With a deep breath, I walk forward, beer-goggled eyes tracking me.
“Hi,” I say as I approach the sign-in table.
An athletic-looking boy with blond hair and a cutoff shirt highlighting amazing arms looks up, unfazed. “Tri Delts don’t have to sign in. Go ahead.”
“I’m actually here to rush.”
He looks at the other guy, a lanky white dude with a backward baseball cap, and back to me.
“DTC,” I clarify.
“Uh...okay.” The blond guy looks back to his friend, who shrugs. “Sign in here, I guess.”
They whisper as I quickly jot down my name and cell and check the legacy box. My handwriting is neat, but not too girlie. I don’t dot my i’s with a heart or anything like that.
I smile sweetly as I set down the pen and make a break for the front door before they can figure out how to stop me.
Inside is pretty similar to outside. Guys trying to impress one another while drinking beer that undoubtedly tastes like water at best and piss at worst.
I am the only female.
This could easily be extremely awkward, but I can’t afford to let that happen. I smile and walk forward, giving off an air of confidence I don’t really feel.
