Frat Girl

by Kiley Roache

  Suddenly a familiar face swims in front of me.

  “Cassie?”

  “Duncan.” I smile faintly. I blink, and suddenly Jackie is peeking out from behind him, looking concerned, as well. “And whoa, Jackie.”

  “Shit, Cass,” Duncan says. I smile and wipe away my tears, hiccuping as my breathing starts to return to normal.

  He exhales. “Um, shit. Okay, here.” He picks me up and throws me over his shoulder, sack-of-potatoes-style, as I used to call it when I was little.

  “Here,” I hear Jackie say softly. She pulls down my skirt, so my butt isn’t exposed to the world. I hadn’t even realized it was bunched up.

  Duncan starts to walk.

  Whee, I’m upside down. I giggle.

  He sets me down inside an upstairs bathroom. Pointing to the toilet, he says, “Cassie, the toilet is right there.” Like, duh. Then he makes me a little pillow out of somebody’s towel.

  I’m not a dog, I think. The thought makes me giggle again.

  Jackie sits down beside me, combing my hair back and making little soothing sounds.

  Duncan grabs me by the shoulders. “Stay here, okay?” He looks into my eyes, very serious.

  I shrug.

  He turns to Jackie, asking if she’ll be okay for a few minutes, and is gone as soon as she answers. She starts talking to me, but my head is spinning too much to understand. I just stare at the tile instead of looking at her, trying to get my eyes to focus.

  Why did they bring me to a bathroom?

  Right after I think this, my stomach turns and I throw up. I’m only halfway successful in getting it in the toilet.

  Oh.

  That’s why.

  The weird thing about being drunk is throwing up seems so much less gross than when you’re sober. Like, “whoopsy daisy, that just happened—I guess that’s fine.” I should get drunk the next time I get the stomach flu just to take the edge off.

  The door opens, and Duncan comes back into the room, along with Marco.

  “I threw up,” I say by way of introduction.

  Marco laughs. “I can see that.”

  “Jackie, this is our social chair, Marco.”

  “Marco’s an ass guy,” I add.

  “What?” Duncan asks.

  Behind me, Jackie laughs.

  “You remember that—” I say to Marco, then hiccup, and my hand flies to my mouth. “Sorry. You remember, though, that’s how we met.” I say the last part in a singsong way, like we’re a couple and not frat brothers.

  He rolls his eyes. “Of course I remember.”

  “Hey, Marco?”

  “What, Cassie?”

  “Have you ever done body shots?” I ask like he asked me that first day we met. I throw my head back, cackling.

  He shakes his head. “Will I ever live that down?”

  “Nope!” Then I turn back to the toilet, thinking I’m going to throw up again.

  I’m right.

  I hear Marco dispensing orders.

  For Duncan and Jackie to fetch water and food, for me to take deep breaths.

  Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out.

  “How ya doing, Cass?” Jackie says when the door opens again.

  I turn to see her and Duncan hand the food and water to Marco.

  “You guys are sooooo cute,” I say, with way too much emotion in my voice. “I love you both, and you should go have a fun time together, not be here.” I hiccup yet again. “I’m good. I’ve got Marco.”

  Marco laughs and turns to say something to them, too quiet for me to hear. They give me pitying smiles and sad waves as they slip out of the bathroom.

  Between sips of water and bites of saltines, I repeat a chorus of “I’m such an idiot,” “he’s such a fuckboi” and “Alex is going to hate me.”

  After a while I start to feel better. Like a wrung-out towel, but at least not sick.

  I lie down on the dirty floor. The cool tile feels nice.

  Marco lies down, too. “You know what you gotta do, Cass.”

  “Huh?”

  “Gotta focus on your guys.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If you’re always focused on sex and partying, you devalue yourself.”

  “That’s—”

  “Hey, I’m not saying don’t get drunk or get laid. But that Sigma Alpha, he’s a tool. You should be out there having the time of your life with this Alex dude or with us, not giving a shit about people like him. If you go out and spend the whole night looking to get shit-faced or for someone to get freaky with, you’re gonna be bummed and you won’t be fun to hang out with. I mean, I did it in high school, and it sucked.”

  “Huh?”

  “You party to have fun with your friends. They’re the most important thing. Which means if they need you to stay sober to drive them to their flight later, or go to a lame wine tasting the girl they like is throwing instead of a party or—” he pats me on the head “—help them because they’re getting sick in the other room, you gotta put them first. If you ditch your friends for a party, what’s the point?”

  “Mmm,” I say.

  He sits up. “Drink some more water.”

  I sit up and do as he said.

  “You’re not alone in messing that part up. I mean, the freshmen guys, they don’t get it yet, either. They join frats so girls will get with them, but, like, what a pussy move. I don’t need to be in a frat to get with girls. Frats are for the brotherhood. But don’t worry—we’ll whip them into shape.”

  I kill the rest of the water. “Some people think they’re assholes because they’re in a frat.”

  “Maybe Sigma Alpha, but not here.”

  “But, Marco?”

  “What?”

  “There are some assholes here, too.”

  “You mean Bass?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, yeah. He’s kind of a dick.”

  “No one tells him that.”

  He shrugs.

  “You should,” I say.

  “Hey, right now I’m not taking orders from someone who’s just puked up her guts, okay? We can discuss this tomorrow.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  “Cassie?” The bathroom door swings open, and Jordan is standing there looking really, genuinely concerned. “I, uh, heard you were sick.”

  Oh my God. This is literally the last scenario I want him to see me in. I look down at my wrinkled clothes and think about how clownlike my makeup must seem. At least I didn’t get any of the vomit on myself.

  At least I didn’t get any of the vomit on myself? How have things come to this?

  “I’m fine,” I say, but my voice betrays me.

  “She just drank a little too much.” Marco looks from me to Jordan and back. He pulls out his phone. “Well, look at that, Bambi is freaking out about door duty again. I got to go. J, you got this?”

  He doesn’t wait for an answer, practically sprinting out.

  Jordan takes a seat beside me, leaning against the wall.

  “You should go back to the party,” I say.

  He shakes his head. “I want to stay here with you.”

  “I don’t need you.”

  “I know. I just want to stay.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “No, seriously, I mean, look at this. We’ve got water, and what is this?” He picks up the box of saltines. Examining it, he raises his eyebrows. “Whole grain, that’s pretty badass.”

  I laugh.

  “I mean, why would I leave when the real party is in here?”

  I smile weakly.

  He slips his arm around me. My heart picks up, but it’s meant as just a friendly, brotherly gesture. Right?

  “I fucked up.” My voice catches, and the tears spill over.r />
  He pulls me into him and I’m enveloped in his arms. My cheek pressed against his chest, my tears soaking his shirt. He smells good, intoxicatingly so.

  “What happened?” His voice is softer than I’ve ever heard it. The overly positive student government politician, golden boy, cruise director bravado is gone. He’s just real.

  I shake my head. “I can’t explain it. I just don’t know who I am anymore.”

  He makes a kind of humming noise in the affirmative and pushes my hair away from my face.

  After a minute he says, “I think being away from home, at first it feels like camp or vacation. Everything at school is so new and exciting, and everything at home seems so dated and toxic, and meant for someone younger than you. And then you realize you’re changing faster than you can process, and that you’ll sleep in a dorm room more nights of the year than you’ll be in your own bed. And it feels like this is a dream, or maybe that was, and nothing seems real. But then you think everyone does this, so why am I being such a pussy? I know I’m lucky to be at college, but sometimes, especially when I’m drunk, if something reminds me of home, I can kind of spiral. It’s terrifying.”

  He pauses. I sniffle. The bathroom is quiet, just the sound of a leaky faucet and the low hum of the music, which must be deafening downstairs.

  I don’t know what to say, and then he starts talking again.

  “I’ll hear some song that my mom likes, or smell the perfume she’s been wearing since I was, like, a baby...it’s like I can almost feel how it was back then, you know, when I was just playing outside and worrying about how many days were left in summer or when the ice-cream truck would come around again or if my dad would be home early enough to play catch... And it feels like I might throw up, because that whole part of my life is gone, and I just want to go home and sit on my couch and watch American Idol with my parents again.”

  He pauses. I look up. He bites his lip.

  “But my dad lives across town now, and in the basement before that, when they only spoke to divide up chores or fight. And I love them, you know. But it was suffocating living there. Like, it’s not just that I’ve grown up and left. What I thought home was...that’s gone, too, and how do you know what’s a toxic place you need to leave and what’s just people being people?”

  He clears his throat. “And I miss it so much, but what hurts more than missing it is when I catch myself being glad I’m gone. But then I think, in four years I leave here, and what if I’m glad to say goodbye then, too, and what if I have no one?”

  We’re both silent again. It’s just us breathing and the sound of the bass from downstairs.

  “Was that supposed to cheer me up?”

  I look up at him, and for a second, he smiles, really smiles.

  “No.” His laugh sounds kind of forced. “I just...get it. I don’t know what to tell you, except maybe, even though I don’t really know the details of what’s going on with you, I kind of get it.” He pulls on a string hanging off the frayed towel that had been my pillow. “Plus, I always feel weird talking about this stuff, and I’m fairly sure you won’t remember this conversation tomorrow.”

  “Hey!” I feign offense.

  He shrugs, a smile playing across his lips.

  I lean my head on his shoulder and feel a shaky kind of better. Good right now, but like at any moment laughter may turn back to crying.

  “C’mon, let’s get you into bed.” He takes my hand and leads me to my room. Before I climb into bed, I take off my earrings but leave on my dress. So much for my nightly skin-care routine or, for God’s sake, brushing my teeth. I’ll assess the damage tomorrow.

  Jordan tucks me in, wrapping the big comforter around me. He takes his task seriously, his brow furrowing. I giggle, the salty taste of tears in my mouth.

  I extract one hand to wipe my face. “Thanks.”

  “No problem, Cass.” He pushes back a strand of my hair, wet with tears.

  He turns to go, shutting off my light. The outline of him is reaching for the door when I blurt out, “Wait!”

  “Hmm?”

  “Can you—um, can you not leave?”

  “Sure.” I can’t see his face in the dark, but he exhales loudly as the outline of his body moves toward me. I know I’m a burden, but I don’t care. I just need someone right now, even if that means I have to show weakness. I am weak right now. Hiding it is the least of my concerns.

  I scooch over, and he climbs into the bed, lying on top of the blankets.

  Wow. Tall boys take up so much more space than you think. I don’t know if it’s acceptable to touch him, but it’s hard to avoid, so I end up with my back pressed up against the wall.

  It feels so good to have him here, though. To feel his energy, the heat radiating off him and through the blankets to me. Or at least the energy I imagine I can feel.

  He clears his throat. “Um, Cassie?”

  “Yeah?” I glance at him. He’s looking at the ceiling. I turn quickly back to staring at it, too.

  “Do you mind if I get under the covers?”

  “Oh, yeah, that’s fine. Of course.”

  He hops off the bed, pulls back the covers and pauses, the comforter still in his hand.

  “Um is it okay—if you say no that’s fine—is it okay, if, I, uh, take off my pants?”

  What?

  “Um, sure, yeah.”

  “I mean, I won’t if you don’t want me to, I don’t want you to be uncomfortable, but these jeans are kind of—”

  “No, no, it’s fine.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  He slips off his shirt—he hadn’t mentioned that, and oh my—and then goes to unbutton his jeans. I avert my eyes. That’s the polite thing to do, right?

  I feel him shift closer, and I can’t help it, I turn my head and take in his body, barely lit by the moonlight from the window.

  My eyes run over his perfect abs that melt into these little triangle things above his hips that almost seem to be pointing downward...

  God, I hope it’s too dark for him to see my face, because my cheeks must be crimson.

  He slides into the bed, and his arm brushes mine, his skin warm. I inch over tentatively and rest my head on his shoulder. He slips his arm around me, and my eyes flutter closed.

  A little bubble of warmth forms in my chest and spreads through me, thawing my body when I didn’t even know I was cold.

  Everything seems kind of heavy, and I slip into darkness...

  * * *

  My eyelids flutter open, and for a second I’m not sure where I am. I’m just overwhelmed by the light from the window that was left open.

  I blink and process the strong arms around me.

  I—I’m spooning with...someone. What the hell did I do last—

  I whip my head around. Oh my God, I’m spooning with Jordan.

  The events of the night before start to come back in flashes, and I exhale, relieved. Nothing happened.

  Still, I am very aware of his arms around me and my loose dress, which I can tell slid up as I slept to reveal my barely there lacy thong, and with that plus his boxers, I’m hyperaware of how much our skin is touching.

  And for a second, I’m almost...disappointed that nothing happened.

  I sit up, my head ringing with the motion. No, that’s crazy. If that were to happen, I wouldn’t want it to be under those sorts of circumstances. I mean, not that it would happen. Oh my God, Cassie, he’s in your frat.

  Shaking my head, I carefully crawl across him to extract myself, trying not to wake him up. He groans and cuddles the blanket bunched up in my place but doesn’t open his eyes.

  I go shower, and when I return the bed is empty.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  “I’m really, really sorry.”

  Alex chews on the cap of a silver Sharpie and stares
back at me. We’re upstairs in Dionysus, and she’s wearing a simple, flowy white dress that juxtaposes perfectly with her grungy hair, tattoos and smeared black eyeliner.

  Hungover Sunday Morning Chic.

  I’m in yoga pants, a sports bra and a tank, even though there’s no way I could work out right now if my life depended on it.

  “I want to say, ‘It’s okay,’ but it’s not.”

  “I know.”

  She continues to examine me.

  “I’m still sorry,” I say.

  She exhales. “God, Cassie, do you have any idea what you’re doing?” The question is half sympathetic, half angry.

  I shake my head. “No.” My voice catches. I clear my throat.

  She bites her lip. “Well, are you gonna help me paint this wall or not?”

  Not exactly profound forgiveness, but it’s not nothing. I know I’ll have to keep apologizing and proving myself to rebuild our friendship. But nothing has been irrevocably broken. As much as she hates me, she still loves me. And that’s the important part right now.

  And I will get better. Not just at being a friend, but as a person. Because I’m mad at me, too.

  “Should I do black paint or Sharpie the quotes?” I ask.

  Half the far wall is painted black, ending in a half-done jigsaw. The room is not hers, of course, as Dionysus has a communal sleeping porch, but they voted to let her have this wall for her artwork.

  She laughs. “You definitely don’t get to do the quotes. Get back on my good side and we’ll talk.”

  I pick up a roller and the black paint, and work carefully.

  She kneels on the already done side with her pen and writes her favorite quotes, some in flowing calligraphy, others printed, and some in this tortured-looking scrawl.

  It is a far, far better thing that I do now, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known.

  Let me live, love and say it well in good sentences.

  Did you hear about the rose that grew from concrete?

  Only Alex would put Dickens, Plath and Tupac next to each other.

  She continues to create art; I continue to create stripes of darkness.