Frat Girl

by Kiley Roache

  “Yeah.” Jackie clears her throat. “I climb.”

  “Cool.” He looks up. “I always wonder how you win those things, like I get how you get to the top or not.” He laughs nervously. “But is it about your form or how fast you go?”

  “It’s really complicated.” She takes a sip of her water.

  I kick her under the table.

  Her eyes go wide, and she coughs, covering her mouth to avoid a spit-take. She sets down her drink. “And you play football, right?” Her tone is kind of bored, but at least she’s talking.

  Duncan finally breathes. “Yeah.”

  “I can’t even imagine doing that.” She shakes her head and raises her eyebrows as she turns to her menu, which features something called “Italian Quesadillas” that may have something to do with cheesy bread.

  “Yeah.” He nods. “I get that. They say when it comes to your head, it’s the equivalent of being hit by a car every twenty or so tackles.” He runs a hand through his hair.

  “Why would you ever do that?” she says incredulously.

  He shrugs. “I get to go to school here.”

  “Oh.” She bites her lip, her face flushing. Her voice quieter, she asks, “So...where are you from?”

  “Whoa, sorry about that.” Annie swoops in. She sets down a large basket of shiny breadsticks. “It’s been crazy tonight. What can I getcha?”

  “Garden salad,” Jackie says.

  “Is that all?” Annie asks.

  “Yep.” She smiles politely as she hands her laminated, picture-filled menu back.

  “Fettuccini Alfredo,” I say.

  “Good choice.” Annie winks at me as she takes my menu.

  “Uh, thanks.”

  All three of us turn to Duncan, who’s still studying the menu. “Can I get a Caesar salad, an order of the sausage ravioli, a fettuccini Alfredo also...and is it possible to get more breadsticks?” He looks up at Annie.

  “Sure thing, sweetie.” She takes his menu and walks away.

  Jackie and I sit in stunned silence, mouths gaping.

  “What?” Duncan says. “I’ve gotta put on fifty pounds this year.”

  “Wow,” I say. “That’s a lot.”

  “Yeah,” he says. “But I’m gonna need it when I go up against the USC line next year.”

  I nod, pretending I know what he means.

  “God, I wish I had to gain weight for my sport.” Jackie leans forward to rip a breadstick in two, leaving the bigger piece in the basket.

  “You’d think that,” Duncan says. “And if it was five or ten pounds, I’d agree. That’s just eating a little more and a little worse. But I have to keep eating long after I’m full. Like, when I go in to watch film with the team, they hand me five peanut butter and jellies, and I’m not allowed to leave until I finish them.”

  “Jesus,” Jackie says.

  We discuss hometowns, families, high schools and pets. Well, mainly they discuss. I just throw in a question here and there to keep things moving. But as time goes on, it’s harder for me to get in a word.

  Jackie is laughing at Duncan’s retelling of the Alan Peeing Incident, when Annie returns with our five orders.

  “Be careful it’s—”

  “Shit!” Duncan says, grabbing the plate before she can finish her warning. He turns bright red. “I mean fuck—I mean...oh God.”

  “—hot.” Annie laughs and sets down the rest of the plates.

  “I am so sorry.” Duncan turns to Jackie, eyes wide.

  “Why?” She furrows her brow.

  “Because...you’re a, um, girl. I shouldn’t swear in front of you.”

  Jackie looks at him like he’s insane. “I don’t fucking care. Say what you want.”

  Duncan stares at her, stunned, as she shrugs and reaches for the other piece of breadstick.

  I enjoy my pasta silently as they discuss the intricacies of the Warren athletic system.

  “I’m gonna run to the bathroom,” I say when Annie comes to collect our empty plates.

  “I’ll go with you,” Jackie says. Duncan stands quickly so she can slide out of the booth.

  Jackie fixes her makeup while I wash my hands.

  “Thanks again for doing this,” I say.

  “Oh.” She clicks her lipstick closed. “No problem.”

  “I didn’t exactly want to set a DTC up on a real date.” I laugh. “Couldn’t do that to a girl with a clear conscience.”

  She stares at me for a second, lipstick in one hand, purse in the other. After a second she turns away, shaking her head as she mumbles, “Jesus, Cassie, they’re just people.”

  “What?”

  “I mean, I don’t love frats.” She struggles with the zipper to her clutch. “But that doesn’t mean everyone in them sucks. Like, Duncan’s really sweet.” She slides the strap of her bag over her shoulder and looks up at me. “Believe it or not, I actually kind of like him.”

  “What?” The automatic faucet shuts off, but I stand frozen, my hands dripping into the sink.

  “Yeah.” She walks past me toward the door. “You know what, you can still leave if you want, but call off the ex-boyfriend fakeout or whatever. I think I want to finish my date.”

  I’m left standing in the empty bathroom as the door swings closed.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  My door is shaking, and there is a banging from somewhere close. I awaken with a jolt, sitting straight up in bed. The room is pitch-black, and my heart is racing.

  Oh my God, what are you supposed to do when there’s an earthquake? I never learned this. I’m going to die because I’m Midwestern.

  “Let’s go, pledges—wake up!”

  So it’s not an earthquake; they’re rolling us out again. Stumbling out of bed, I check my phone: 3:30 a.m.

  On a school night. Fabulous.

  I throw on a bra and shoes, and head out into the hallway.

  Pledges are emerging from their rooms like zombies.

  “What’s going on?” I ask the zombie who’s double the size of the rest.

  “I have no freaking idea,” Duncan says. “All I know is I have practice in four hours.”

  We collect on the lawn in front of the house, waiting for orders. The morning wind bites at my skin, exposed by my thin tank top. Some of the guys are in just boxers; at least I’m better off than they are.

  A whistle cuts through the darkness. Sebastian is standing on the doorstep, looking smug.

  Behind him Marco is in neon workout gear and a backpack, like he was already planning on getting up at the asscrack of dawn to jog and wanted passing cars to spot him.

  “All right, pledges, let’s start running!” Marco takes off down the steps, cuts through the disjointed crowd of pledges and onto the road.

  “You heard the man!” Sebastian says. “Go!” He whistles again.

  We run in a pack, athletes near the front, Bambi and I near the back. My flip-flops slap against my feet and cut between my toes, so not meant for this.

  Sebastian continues to blow the whistle with every step we take, and my head begins to pound.

  I wonder if we’re going to make the rounds to the sororities again. The thought of more Taaka in my stomach, let alone my eye, is revolting.

  But we turn away from the sororities.

  Oh, so main quad. Hopefully we won’t have to vandalize anything too priceless.

  But we pass the turn toward the quad and continue to run straight.

  “Where are we going?” I ask Duncan, but even as I say it I realize the answer.

  We file onto the lawn of Sigma Alpha, shivering, as Marco walks to the front of the group.

  “All right pledges.” He swings his backpack around to the front. I’m not sure what I’ll do if they ask me to drink. I have class in a few hours and really need t
o stay sober, but I’m worried if I say no they’ll reprimand me—meaning more shots. He reaches into the bag and pulls out some sort of flag. He unfurls it and holds it up so we can all read what it says. “Alpha Sigma Sigma” is written in huge letters, with the first letter of each word in extrabig type. “The first one to climb that pole and replace their stupid flag with this gets out of housecleaning for a week.”

  I look up at the flagpole that reaches as high as the second-story windows.

  Well, fuck.

  The varsity athletes step up immediately, of course. They fight for a while about who gets to go first. Marco finally settles it based on pledge points.

  And one by one, they take the flag and walk up confidently, each guy easily pulling his body up halfway using his overly muscled arms before he loses his grip and slides back down.

  And then I remember what Jackie said. You think it’d be all about upper-body strength, like the big bodybuilder types would be the best. But petite girls are actually the most suited, because of their low center of gravity. You’ve got to have the right balance of flexibility and core strength, and traditional athletes don’t always have that.

  What would she think if she knew when she said it that she’d be helping me pledge a frat?

  I stand up. “I’d like to try.”

  Everyone turns to look at me.

  Marco shakes his head, but Sebastian looks amused.

  “Well, then, get up here, Title IX.”

  “Excuse me, excuse me, excuse me,” I whisper as I make my way through the crowd of boys, who are all sitting down now and refuse to move for me.

  Marco hands me the flag while the crowd chatters and laughs. I look down at my shoes and pause for a second before sliding them off.

  “A ho’s natural habitat!” one of them yells, but it’s impossible to know who in the dark. Scattered laughter follows. A stripper joke, charming.

  I look back at them, these blurry faces of my so-called brothers, and feel so alone. My heart races, and the metallic taste of adrenaline is on my lips.

  Now that I’ve taken this risk I cannot afford to fail.

  I turn back to the pole, take a deep breath and close my eyes for a second. I visualize myself reaching the top to roars of congratulations from an adoring crowd that does not exist.

  “Any day now, Nine.”

  I open my eyes and step forward. I unfurl the flag, using it to tether myself to the pole, making sure the knot is supertight. I reach up, grab the pole and start to pull my weight higher. I grunt with every movement, remembering my tennis instructor when I was little telling me this would add extra force to my swing. It is not a ladylike sound. I place my feet against the cool metal, feeling my bare soles grip, then reach one arm up, followed by the other. I reposition my feet accordingly, then repeat the process again and again.

  Finally I glance down. I’m about halfway. I take a deep breath and, remembering Jackie telling me once to engage my core, focus on one small movement at a time, maintain three points of contact.

  My arms ache, but it feels good, like my muscles are working.

  Now I’m three-quarters of the way there, and there’s chatter on the ground again. Even from here I can tell the tone has shifted, but I don’t let that go to my head. I remember their lack of belief, let it burn in my chest and push me forward.

  I reach the top and rip Sigma Alpha’s flag from its string with one hand, releasing it so it flutters to the dusty ground.

  Now for the hard part.

  I wrap my legs around the pole and engage my thighs. With my right hand I hold on literally for my life. With my left, I untie the flag that’s tethering me to the pole. Luckily there’s a carabiner at the end of the flag, so I’m able to attach it in one swift movement.

  Then I grab the pole and slide down like a firefighter, which burns my thighs. The guys are clapping and screaming (some nice things and some obscenities) before I reach the bottom.

  Setting both feet on the ground, I smile like it was no big deal. But inside I am so glad I did not die.

  I step back from the pole and curtsy, hands holding an invisible skirt. I look up to greet my fans. Duncan is whooping and hollering, giving me a standing ovation. The others are still sitting, but I meet Jordan’s eyes and he claps harder, then stands up slowly.

  Marco runs up and hugs me, picking me up off the ground and spinning me around. “No one’s ever actually done it!”

  I laugh till I can’t breathe, and he sets me down.

  “Pledges, say hello to your new motherfucking top pledge!” Marcos says. “You’re dismissed. See you bright and early tomorrow for houseclean.”

  “There’s irony for you—the girl doesn’t have to clean the house,” a gruff voice says.

  I turn around, but only see Duncan throwing me an apologetic thumbs-up. Whoever spoke has disappeared into the crowd.

  So much for our moment of bonding. I was the weak pledge and they hated me, now I’m a threat, so it’s time to hate me again.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  My foot crunches a piece of paper as I’m leaving to go study in the library that night. I lean down and pick up a small yellow Post-it note; someone must have slipped it under my door.

  It takes two tries for me to read the words scrawled in black ink.

  “But the greatest among you shall be your servant. Whoever exalts himself shall be humbled; and whoever humbles himself shall be exalted.”

  I would like to rise to the top, too, and I’m sure you want to stay there. Meet me under the guise of dusk (5:00 a.m.) in the courtyard to train to be the best.

  —Bambi

  I roll my eyes. Dusk is sunset, not sunrise, you idiot.

  I shove the note in my pocket as I pull my door closed, turning the key in the lock. I really have no interest in “training” with him, but he seems like a nice kid. And this could be good material.

  Hours later the library lights are bright, keyboards click and pages turn, although it’s been dark for hours.

  My phone vibrates audibly against the wooden desk. I glance around the room, embarrassed.

  A girl with thick glasses looks up at me from her biology book before turning to lie sideways across her leather armchair, as if facing away from me will save her from my noise pollution.

  I duck my head behind my MacBook.

  The largest hall in the library is always the loudest, the arched ceilings sending even the smallest sound bouncing around the cavernous space. And the creaky, antique furniture makes it such an obstacle course of noise that I often find myself more stressed out by shushing strangers than about keeping up my GPA.

  I brave it anyway for the arching windows looking out over the palm-tree-lined quad and the shelves of old books with cracked spines and thick pages that smell earthy and natural. Not that I’d sniff them, what with all the judgmental grad students around.

  My phone buzzes again, and three people clear their throats. I grab it before they start their own version of the Salem witch trials.

  “Connor (2),” the alert says. I slide my thumb to unlock the phone.

  C: hey

  C: what u up 2?

  Studying, I type back. I’m about to set my phone back down on the table when it vibrates in my hand.

  C: aw

  C: no fun

  C: come hang

  I glance at the time. Twelve thirty. I shake my head, trying to banish the part of me that wants to say yes. I’m basically done with this assignment, and it isn’t even due until three tomorrow, and he hasn’t texted me all week...but no.

  Me: sorry! I have to be up early

  C: lame

  His typing text bubble pops up and then disappears. My heart sinks with it. Stupid Bambi. This frat boot camp he’s dreamed up had better be good.

  * * *

  The next morning
I cover my yawn as I stumble down the stairs and out to the courtyard. Bambi’s already there, setting up a folding table. “Why so early?” I ask him.

  He looks up at me. “Do you want people to know we are doing this?”

  I tilt my head and consider this. “All right. But five o’clock?”

  “Have you ever seen this house empty at another hour? Just late enough that people aren’t still partying, but an hour before the athletes go to practice.”

  “Did you, like, track this or something?”

  I’m being sarcastic, but he nods vigorously. “Of course.” He pulls a stack of red cups out of his backpack.

  “Do you...get up this early every day?”

  He shrugs. “Not every day. Sometimes I sleep through my alarm. But I like time to just be myself, you know, and not have to worry about an upperclassman lobbing a beer can at me.”

  “This is where you live, Bambi. That time should be always.” But even as I say the words, I know I’m being hypocritical.

  “It’s fine. Sure, if I was in a dorm I could play ‘World of Warcraft’ or watch anime during the day instead of at the crack of dawn. But DTC is my best shot at getting into the Warren Finance Club, considering I’m only in Econ I right now. And I need to get in if I ever want to work on Wall Street like my dad.”

  I try to picture Bambi hopping out of a cab in a thousand-dollar suit, yakking into a phone about stock prices and bull markets.

  “That’s not a bad plan.” I smile weakly.

  “Yeah, but it won’t work if I end up bitch pledge.” He finishes arranging the cups into a pyramid. “Okay, let’s start, then.”

  I stand at attention, suddenly more willing to go along with his game.

  “I was thinking water pong,” he says as he pours an inch or so of Dasani into each cup. “Since it’s so early.”

  “Really? It’s five o’clock somewhere. Hell, it’s technically five o’clock here.”

  “Ha-ha.” He makes a face at me. “You’re so funny.”

  “I really am.” I smile and toss a Ping-Pong ball at the cups. It bounces off the rim of one and onto the courtyard floor.