Frat Girl

by Kiley Roache

  As usual, the good booze will be in the actives’ bedrooms, but there’s always a buttload of the cheap stuff for the masses. The level of organization behind the chaos, vice and debauchery amazes me.

  “They take this so seriously,” I say as I arrange plastic shot glasses on the table.

  “Yeah, well, what do you expect? It’s Warren,” Jordan says.

  “I guess I expect them to channel all of this energy into something a little more...important.”

  He shrugs. “I mean, they do that, too, right? Like our Rush chair is teaching my computer science section, and our president has interned for the actual president. It’s just that they’re also perfectionists about this stuff. You know, work hard, play hard, Cass. Excellence in everything, whether it’s school, career, athletics or partying. Plus, partying burns off some of the stress.”

  Or maybe they’re just a bunch of assholes trying desperately to prove they aren’t nerds just because they care about school.

  “Marco, don’t forget to remind all the sorostitutes!” Bass yells as he walks past us into the kitchen.

  This term bothers me in so many ways. They throw it around all the time, directed not only toward random girls but also their girlfriends. It’s an insane word to use. Not only is it offensive to women but specifically to women who are a part of their own system.

  And as much as I hate to admit, it bothers me almost as much that they didn’t go with sororiwhore or whoroities. They were right there.

  “Cassie,” he says as he cuts back through the room. “Make yourself useful—text your lady friends to increase the ratio.”

  Oh God.

  The ratio: the true mark of a good frat party versus a bad one. Not how many people black out, how many drinking games are won, how many mediocre hip-hop songs are played or, God forbid, if anyone has fun.

  Nope, it’s the ratio of how many potential people to sleep with per person trying to fuck. And in this hyperheteronormative environment, that means how many hot girls per guy.

  “Okay.” I roll my eyes but text Alex anyway. Not for them, but for me. So I can have one real friend at this party.

  I look up from my phone to see Jordan’s eyes on me. He looks away, his face turning red.

  Well, maybe two real friends.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Entry 18:

  Much of what scholars would characterize as sexist and misogynistic speech around the house seems to be viewed as “just joking,” not as seriously intended, much less hateful, comments.

  When called out, fraternity men defend their comments to the author and other women who visit the house by pointing out that all friends tease each other, and that true equality means they can make fun of female and male friends alike.

  However, there are notable differences in the exchanges between men and those that include women. In male-to-male exchanges, jokes tend to target the individual, pointing out his unique flaws.

  While male-to-female interactions also may include this type of “teasing,” they frequently also include a broader—no pun intended—focus, where the target of the insult is not just the female to whom the joke is directed but all females.

  The men make jokes about their male friend being stupid because he failed a math test.

  The men make jokes about all women being bad at math because their female friend failed a math test.

  Male friends “need to calm down, bro.”

  Female friends “must be on their period.”

  The insults directed at females are distinct from teasing between male friends. When friends joke back and forth with each other, there is a constant reversal of who is insulted and who is doing the insulting. The balance of power is always changing. When insults are directed at all women, they reassert a long-entrenched imbalance of power.

  The doorbell rings rapidly a bunch of times in a row. I x-out of the Stevenson site quickly and shut my computer. I check my phone, and sure enough there is a text from Alex.

  “I got it!” I yell, racing down the stairs and hopping past the last few, although the dudes lounging around in the common room aren’t exactly racing me, and the guys in the other room, where beer games have already begun, probably can’t hear over the music or want to leave their station.

  “Hey!” Alex says as soon as I open the door. She envelops me in a hug that smells like perfume and hairspray. She’s wearing a red leather minidress and has done her hair like Marilyn Monroe.

  When she steps inside, heads turn and half the guys stand up at attention, as if royalty has entered.

  She walks forward as if she doesn’t even see them, leading the way although it is technically my house. “Oh my God, you would not believe what is going on at Dionysus. This girl cooked dinner the other night and told us it was veggie burgers but it wasn’t, and—”

  She pushes the door to the main room open with a manicured hand.

  “And, like, half the house is vegan, so everyone is pissed...” She keeps talking, but I zone out, taking in the room full of guys playing twenty-one cup, which is like beer pong but with three players on each side and continuous action. My eyes linger on Jordan, who’s at one of the tables, raising his arms in celebration as his shot glides around the rim of a cup before sinking.

  “It’s so ridiculous, right?” Alex asks. “Cassie?”

  Jordan turns in our direction, and I wave. He looks nice, in jeans and a blue sweater. Noticeably better dressed than the sea of guys in tanks.

  His eyes light up. “Cassie!” He runs over and sweeps me into a huge hug. “You’re here!” He sets me back on the ground.

  “Yeah,” I yell over the music, smiling. “And I brought my friend Alex.”

  “Oh, hi.” He turns to her. “I’m Jordan, Cassie’s, uh...” He looks at me, a question in his eyes. “Frat brother, I guess.”

  They shake hands, and he looks her in the eyes politely, but his eyes don’t linger like the other boys’.

  He turns to me. “You look great.”

  “Thanks.” I’m wearing my favorite jeans, made to look distressed, faded in just the right places to flatter me.

  “I always fought with my mom, because she would never let me buy the kind with the holes in them.” He laughs. “Saying why would you pay for them already like that.”

  “Uh...” My phone vibrates in my pocket but I ignore it.

  His eyes go wide. “Oh, but no, I think they’re cool!” I smile to ease his nervousness. Alex cackles.

  A Ping-Pong ball bounces past him, but he doesn’t take his eyes off me.

  “Look alive, Louis!” someone behind him yells.

  “Oh, sorry.” He chases after the ball but then walks back over to us and just stands there holding it. “Do you guys need anything, beer or wine, water?”

  “Jordan!” The two guys at his table look pissed.

  “Oh my God,” he says under his breath. He looks around, but most people are engaged in their own games or conversations, except for one guy, who’s just in the corner watching. “Bambi!” Jordan waves him over.

  Bambi looks behind him like there might be someone else here named after the same Disney character before stumbling toward us.

  “You’re in, man.” Jordan holds the Ping-Pong ball out to him.

  Bambi shakes his head vigorously. “I’ve never played before.”

  “It’s not a deadly weapon—just try your best.” Jordan folds the Ping-Pong ball into Bambi’s hand.

  “Okay.” He stands up straighter. “On it.”

  My phone buzzes again. Who could this possibly be?

  “So, right, beer? Wine?” Jordan asks.

  “Are we talking wine in a bottle or wine in a box?” Alex asks.

  I pull out my phone.

  Alex: omg

  Alex: he’s hot

  I roll my eyes and t
ype back.

  Me: Shut up it’s not like that

  “A bottle...” Jordan says. “But just a twelve-dollar bottle.”

  Alex laughs. “Hey, I’m used to Two Buck Chuck so that is glamorous to me.” She pulls out her phone and types quickly.

  Alex: You’ve got to be kidding me.

  Alex: have you seen the way he looks at u

  Alex: Get it gurrrrl

  Me: Stop. Also there’s no way he doesn’t know we r texting each other you dipshit

  “Cassie?” Jordan asks.

  “Huh?” I click the lock button quickly and look up.

  “Wine? It’s in my room.”

  “Oh yeah, sure.”

  We’re halfway up the stairs when someone yells after us. “Dude!” Marco stumbles forward, out of breath, and grabs Jordan’s arm. “Santa Clara DDG just got here. What are you doing?”

  Delta Delta Gamma, or DDG, is a sorority with no house here, but it’s top house there.

  Jordan blinks at him.

  “Jordan! Santa Clara DDG.”

  “Okay, man, one sec.” Jordan gestures over his shoulder. “I just have to—”

  “Dude!” Marco shifts his weight impatiently, like a small child who needs to pee.

  “Um...” Jordan turns to us. “You guys wanna just grab it from my room? It’s on my desk.” He looks at me with hopeful eyes. “Catch up with you later?”

  I nod.

  He disappears down the stairs, following Marco, who’s rambling about how hot the girls from Santa Clara are.

  “Nice to meet you!” Alex yells when he’s clearly out of earshot. We stomp our way up the rest of the stairs. “Boys suck,” she says. “Oh my God, Santa Clara DDG, Cassie, they are so hot! I don’t know anything about them but the Greek letters plastered across their tits, but I heard their name and I came immediately!”

  She disappears into Jordan’s room and reemerges with a bottle of pink Moscato. I laugh. “Don’t say that stuff too loudly here.”

  She rolls her eyes as she takes a long swig of the wine. “I don’t care.” She wipes her mouth. “I’m just here to see you and get drunk on their booze.”

  We make our way downstairs. The boys and a collection of what I can only assume are pageant queens are playing games of Rage Cage, a game where you have to bounce a Ping-Pong ball into a cup before the person behind you does the same and stacks their cup on yours, forcing you to drink so you can add a new cup to the game.

  The girl next to Jordan is having the darndest time sinking her ball, and she keeps touching his arm and asking for help. He seems more than happy to show her proper technique.

  Everyone is smiling, laughing and having a grand ol’ time. But I can’t help but notice that the conversations consist only of “Go! go! go!” “It’s your turn!” “Yes!” “No!” and, of course, “Drink!”

  Drink, drink, drink, drink, drink.

  The games wind down as the crowd grows. People stumble in, everyone barely dressed and already drunk. Someone turns the music up and the lights down, and soon everyone is dancing, on tables, moving wildly and recklessly between partners, a kind of raw animal energy filling the room.

  “But I want to daaance,” Alex says as I lead her out of the room. She swings the empty wine bottle in her hand.

  Having had only a few sips, I’m less inclined to make a fool of myself in public.

  We sit down on the fringes of the party, on a couch in a well-lit hallway that leads to the first-floor bathrooms.

  I half listen to Alex tell the same vegan burger story for the third time, before going in-depth on the controversy surrounding the lighting plans for her first student art show in San Francisco.

  “You’ll come see it right?” she asks. “Even if the lights are so bad you can’t see any of my paintings?”

  “Of course.”

  “It is during finals week, so I understand if you can’t—”

  “Dude, I wouldn’t miss it.”

  She smiles and rests her head on my shoulder.

  I watch people stumble in and out of the main room, sweaty and shiny, girls with shoes in their hands, makeup smeared and eyes bright.

  I watch Duncan Morris watch a girl, say something to another guy, then down the rest of his beer before walking toward her.

  He says something, and she looks up and smiles. They speak in each other’s ears to be heard over the music, and after a few words, she kisses him. A few more sentences are exchanged before he leads her up the stairs.

  Romantic.

  “Cassie, I’m tired.” Alex stretches out on the couch, resting her head in my lap.

  I pet her hair. “Dude, you probably don’t want to sleep here...” I think of the Pee Incident and shudder.

  She sits up slowly, yawning. “I should go home.”

  “I’ll go with you.” I think of all the times I’ve been warned to not walk alone at night, especially on campus, especially when drunk.

  “You can’t go with me.” She moves her hand in a sloppy gesture. “Because then you would have to walk back here alone.” She taps my nose at the word you.

  I can’t help but giggle. “You’re pretty great, Alex.”

  “Wha’ can I say.” She shrugs, and for a second I think she may fall over. She pulls out her purse. “Lemme call Dionysus, get them to walk me back.”

  Ten minutes later I take her to the door, squeezing past Sebastian as he works security, which seems to be mostly him judging how much cleavage girls’ outfits show off. He’s holding a clipboard, but I doubt there’s much on there.

  “Excuse me.” I push through the crowd. “I’m trying to get out—let me through.”

  Eventually I’m able to hand Alex off to a girl with a nose ring and a guy with silver hair.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  The girl shrugs. “No problem, she’d do it for me. Here.” She holds her phone out to me. “Give me your number, and I’ll text you when we get back.”

  I wave as they walk away, Alex launching yet again into the Vegan Scandal Story, this time to an even less receptive audience.

  “Dude, we were there,” the guy says.

  I laugh.

  “Cassie!”

  Huh? I look over my shoulder to see Leighton, in heels and a sparkling dress that looks like solid silver molded to fit her body, arguing with Sebastian.

  I walk over. “What’s going—”

  She attacks me from the side, almost tackling me. It’s not until she kisses me on the cheek that I realize she’s hugging me.

  “Told you Cassie was my roommate, asshole.”

  “Uh, yeah,” I mutter.

  “She’s with you?” Sebastian asks.

  “Yeah, sure,” I say.

  He hands her a wristband and we go straight inside, garnering a groan from the line behind us.

  “Oh my God, that was awful,” Leighton says, her smile dropping as soon as we are past him. “I went to cut the line, and he was being sooo rude to me. He wouldn’t believe I was in KAD—can you believe that? And of course none of my sisters were answering their phones.”

  “Yeah, Sebastian can be kind of a prick.” We move through the house, into the crowded main room, where The Weeknd is blasting and the lights are flashing.

  “Do you want something to drin—” I turn around, but Leighton is walking quickly the other way through the crowd. A whoosh of blond hair and clicking heels.

  Classic.

  I push through the rest of the dancing crowd and out the back door. The cool air coming off the lake is a welcome change from the sweating, steamy party.

  A boy I’ve never seen before, with great hair and a striped shirt, stands at the other end of the porch, rummaging through his pockets.

  The door clicks shut behind me, and he looks up. “Hey.”

  I no
d in response, walking forward to sit on the railing.

  He steps forward carefully. “You smoke?” He pulls a cigarette out of a squished pack and holds it out to me.

  “Nope.” I press my lips together.

  “Uh, me, either.” He shoves the pack back into his pocket. “I don’t even know why I have these.”

  I crack a smile.

  He winks and sits beside me.

  “Connor,” he says, holding out his hand.

  “Cassie.”

  He raises his eyebrows and nods, as if I’ve told him something interesting. “So tell me, Cassie...if you don’t smoke, what are you doing out here? Hiding from someone?”

  “No,” I answer too quickly. “I mean, it was just a bit much in there. So loud.”

  “Yeah.” He fidgets, like he’s holding an invisible cigarette. “DTC can be a bit much. I’m not a big fan of their parties.”

  “Thank you, I’m so sick of fra—”

  “Our parties are so much better. Classier,” he continues, not seeming to even notice I tried to speak. “Have you made it out to Sigma Alpha yet?”

  “Nope.” I look back toward the house. The windows are so steamed up you can see only flashing lights and shadows. “I tend to, uh, get enough frat here.”

  “Is your boyfriend in DTC?”

  I furrow my brow. “No.”

  “So, no boyfriend, then, or just not here?”

  I turn back to him and smile politely. “No boyfriend.”

  He nods approvingly, and it’s not until that moment I realize he’s been flirting with me. I thought we were just having a conversation, the first half-normal conversation I’ve had with anyone I’ve met at one of these parties, but of course he has an agenda.

  “So are you in a sorority?” He slides a bit closer to me.

  I lean back, but there’s a pillar behind me. I could stand up, but I don’t want to insult him, and it’s not like I don’t mind being close to him. He’s not bad-looking, after all. It’s just a bit... I glance toward the house but still can’t see anything inside except the blurry shapes of dancing figures. Disorienting.

  “Uh, no, I’m not.”

  He frowns. “That’s too bad. You should’ve rushed. You’re pretty cute.” He pokes me on the arm playfully. “You could’ve been a Delta.” He smiles.