Frat Girl

by Kiley Roache

  I shake my head and stare at my empty windowsill. “The sex...”

  “Is fantastic! I mean, I couldn’t be exclusive with Joey even if we lived in the same place, because you just know he wouldn’t stick around when the party stopped. But when I’m with him...” She moans in mock ecstasy.

  I laugh. “When will you be back? I miss you.”

  “Not sure. I’ll probably take the bus back in two days or so.”

  “Cool. Let’s hang out then.”

  “For sure! Listen, Cass, I’m at the hotel and I have to get in an elevator, but I’ll talk to you soon.”

  “Oh, all—”

  The phone clicks off before I can finish. I wish I’d had time to tell her about...well, about the texts I’ve been sending back and forth with a boy. Doesn’t seem like much when you compare it with sex with a rock star, though.

  I return to my cave of television, thinking vaguely that I may shower later.

  This is how my break goes. Which is honestly fine. I prefer the stillness to whatever may happen when this balancing act with my family gives way.

  My dad has continued to ignore me, which is kind of hilarious, because you know at some point I’ll have the salt and he’ll want it but his principles won’t even allow him to say, “Please pass the salt” without, in his mind, basically endorsing my wanton lifestyle.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  “Hey, I think I’m gonna go out with Alex later.” I look up from my phone and the “I’m back bitchezzzz” text I’d received earlier in the morning.

  My mother sets down her iron and purses her lips. She’s never been a huge fan of Alex, for some fair reasons (drinking and smoking in our house, and saying “Oh my God I’m so sorry. I should’ve offered—did you want one?” when she was caught) but also for some unfair ones. Mom would never say it in so many words, but I could tell by the way her voice lingered on the vowels when she said Paradise Springs, the trailer park Alex grew up in, that she felt her middle-class daughter should not be fraternizing with the lower middle class.

  “Where will you be going?”

  I lean against the kitchen doorway.

  Honestly, we’ll probably be going to the college bars, or, if our luck runs out, the slightly creepier ones where they won’t card us and middle-aged men will send us drinks.

  “Not sure yet. We’ll probably just meet at Alex’s house and figure it out from there.”

  “Her ‘house’?” She purses her lips again.

  “Yep.” I blink at her, like I’m oblivious. Daring her to explain.

  “I’m not sure about this.” She holds up one of my father’s dress shirts, examining her work.

  I really hadn’t meant it as a question as much as an “FYI, this is where I’ll be, so if you’re alarmed by my suddenly empty bed, don’t call the cops,” but clearly Mom still thinks I’m her little girl.

  “Okay...”

  “I’ll have to see what your father thinks.”

  I snort before I can stop myself. He’s not even speaking to me, but yeah, let’s get his opinion on the matter.

  “What was that?”

  I stand up straight. “Nothing.”

  “Why don’t you invite her for dinner here instead?”

  Yeah, great idea, Mom. Why don’t we invite someone into our tense, silent meals? That’s just what this toxic household needs: a guest.

  But her eyes are sad, and it occurs to me that this situation may be even harder on her than it is on me. “Sure.”

  So I invite her to dinner.

  My mom makes meat loaf and green beans. Alex wears leather pants.

  We all pack into the cramped kitchen, walking around one another as we choose chairs, the shuffling sound of our feet against the linoleum loud when the rest of the room is silent.

  My father still ignores me, but at least he’d thrown out a nice, “Hello, Alexandra,” when he opened the door.

  So he can speak.

  My mom stares at the pink stripe running through Alex’s hair and straightens the apron she wears over her dress.

  She asks us about school, and Alex talks about her work with different charities on campus while my mom nods.

  Then Mom turns to me. “So, Care Bear, is there a boy?”

  My father makes an unintelligible sound.

  “No, Mom.”

  “Humph.” Her lips, done in a sensible light pink shade, tighten.

  I chew my green beans and pray for this to end.

  “I don’t know how I feel about this fraternity stuff, Cassie,” she says. “Who wants to date a girl who’s been so...passed around?”

  “Mom.” So we’re really doing this. Now. I don’t know whether to be glad or horrified that Alex is here.

  Her voice gets high. “I’m just saying—”

  “You’re being ridiculous!”

  “She’s being ridiculous?” My father scoffs. “I’ll tell you what’s ridiculous. My daughter is living with a bunch of boys like a cheap hooker.”

  Alex’s eyes go as wide as saucers.

  My mother takes my hand and looks at me pleadingly. “Come back, Cass. The school here will still let you in, and the Andersons’ son goes there. He was on the football team, you know, very handsome.”

  I laugh, but it’s not funny. “Mom, you know I can’t do that.”

  “Cassie, please, just—”

  “No.” My voice sounds harsher than I meant it to. But it kind of feels good, too. Strong. I pull my hand away. “You want me to move into a shoe box down the road with a husband and pop out kids. It’s like that’s all that will make you proud. I’m out there in California doing amazing things. I work for a Nobel Prize winner. Mom, do you realize how amazing that is? Why can’t you be proud of that?”

  She just blinks at me with her Mary Kay made-up eyes.

  “You know, I may not be able to give you that dream of coming home and living down the street with a bunch of kids, but keep this up and one of these days I won’t come home at all. Wouldn’t you rather love me on the other side of the country, where I’m doing what I love, than miserable and trapped here, or—or gone from your lives and never coming back?”

  Tears sting my eyes. Her face is blank, and I can’t tell if she’s in shock or just doesn’t care. I stand up abruptly, my chair practically tipping over. “You know what? Don’t even worry about deciding. This will be my last break coming back here.”

  “Yeah?” My father’s face grows red. “Well, why don’t you start now?”

  “What?”

  He slams down his Budweiser. “Get out of my house!”

  I throw my napkin on the table “Gladly.”

  “Cassie!” my mom calls after me.

  I grab my purse off the counter. “I’ll stay at Alex’s tonight and call you in the morning, Mom.”

  I burst out into the cold and immediately hear someone behind me. I turn around to see Alex, the storm door ricocheting off the frame behind her, pounding down the stairs.

  “What the hell was that?”

  “I know, right? Sometimes I hate them so—”

  “Not them. You.”

  “What?”

  “You can’t tell your parents you won’t ever visit them again.”

  What? “Are you kidding me? Did you hear what they said?”

  “Yeah, and I get it. But this place also made you who you are.”

  “Yeah, this is the place that fucked me up. God, don’t tell me growing up here didn’t fuck you up, too.” Alex had it much worse than me, and we both know it.

  She runs a hand through her short hair, which is flying up almost vertically in the wind.

  “Yeah, but I’d prefer to be fucked up and here than not here at all. And my parents, even when they suck, they gave me that. Can’t you see that?”

 
I flinch. “See what? Fine, we’re better people because we dealt with all this shit and managed to make it out, but why the hell would that make me want to come back? I just, I’m done with this okay. My life at school is what I want.”

  She looks back at the house and then at me. “There’s a difference between wanting something better and thinking you’re too good for the people who can’t have it.”

  I cross my arms protectively over my chest. “Maybe I want better people, too.”

  “Jesus, Cassie. Who the hell are you? Can’t have non–Ivy League friends now? Who are these people you think are so evolved? Those frat boys? You know they aren’t any better than your dad, right?”

  “That’s—”

  “Don’t want to be left in the trailer while your husband works in the factory, Cass? So now you can find a man who’ll leave you in the penthouse while he clocks in on Wall Street. Congrats. A great improvement you’ve made.”

  I just gape.

  She swears as she rustles through her purse and struggles to pull out a cigarette. She lights it with shaking hands.

  “I don’t know what to say.” My words have lost their edge.

  She doesn’t turn, just stares out at the road, at the snow falling like ashes down on the street I grew up on. The one I biked down, pretending if I pedaled fast enough I might fly away like E.T., the one we stared down on from the roof, hoping for bigger and better places someday.

  “I have no idea what I want, okay?” My voice breaks. I clear my throat. “I just know I’m not going to find it here.”

  I watch her as she smokes in the light from the moon and the streetlamps, shivering in the Midwest wind. She smokes the cigarette down to the end and then flicks it to the concrete, squashing the last embers with her worn-out combat boot.

  “Ready?” she asks.

  “Yeah.” What choice do I have?

  The walk to Paradise Springs is far, but not too far. She calls out when we come through the door. Her father is nowhere to be found, driving his truck down south again. Her mother is fast asleep in the bedroom.

  I tiptoe inside.

  “Don’t worry about it. She’s so drugged out, you won’t wake her.”

  Alex clicks on the little TV, and we huddle together on the small couch, under three blankets because the heater is shit.

  We talk about everything but what’s important and watch stupid TV. When she turns the light out, I cry against her shoulder, but she doesn’t ask why, just strokes my hair.

  And for a minute I miss school. I miss that stupid frat house, where even though I’m lying and playing a part at least most people like the pretend me and no one kicks me out.

  When I ring the bell the next morning, my mom unlocks the door. Which is good, I guess.

  It’s probably better that I just came home instead of calling, since I think it is harder this way for them to tell me to stay gone. Instead I’m grounded for the rest of break, which isn’t much of a change.

  My dad yells again, and my mom cries, and I nod silently before making my way to my room and Netflix.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Jordan hasn’t texted me back in twelve hours. Twelve hours. All day. Literally half a rotation of the earth.

  I know I sound crazy, so just let me back up. What started as casual conversation and live texting Lost carried over from one day to the next and then the next. More things came up in conversation, more twists about what was happening on the island were revealed, and then it just became an expected part of my morning, to grab my phone off the charger and see a text from him, saying good morning or continuing the conversation from the night before.

  I found myself staying up late, willing myself to keep my eyes open to see what might materialize from his little type bubble.

  And then I’d be smiling at my phone like an idiot and rolling around my bed giggling at nothing but words on a screen.

  We would narrate our days and talk about our likes and dislikes. (We have a common love for Corona with lime, especially in the shower, as well as upbeat EDM music with sneakily deep lyrics. We both find baseball boring and horror movies to be like paying for torture. But he hates chocolate ice cream, finding it “too rich”—which is insane.) We never talked about what we were or what our correspondence meant. It was just a really good conversation that kept pouring over into the next day.

  And it just hasn’t stopped.

  Until now. He hasn’t texted me all day. All day. I’ve checked my phone, like, five million times. Easily.

  I read our old texts to see where I royally messed up, but I seem perfectly charming. And look at that, at most an hour or two between replies.

  God, I am going so crazy.

  But really, in his last text to me he said, “Let’s Skype tomorrow.”

  Skype. That’s, like, real. People do that with their moms and best friends and boyfriends. You don’t Skype the kind of people who you don’t text back. What kind of Jekyll and Hyde shit is this?

  Ugh. I flop onto my bed. My phone dings. Just an email, though. My Warren account, so I’m probably being reminded about some sort of deadline. I open it, barely able to muster interest.

  From: Jordanlouis@warren.edu

  To: cassandradavis@warren.edu

  Subject: Critical Thirst

  Heyyyyyyy

  So yeah. my phone broke. But I’d still like to Skype later if you want to. Let me know.

  Jordan “please think this is cute not desperate” Louis

  I read it three times, smiling to myself before I type my reply.

  To: jordanlouis@warren.edu

  From: cassandradavis@warrren.edu

  Subject: Re: Critical Thirst

  To Whom It May Concern:

  As this is an email, I thought I would be formal:

  Sounds good. Gotta run some errands and shower but could @ 10 my time.

  Sincerely,

  Cassie

  PS: I like your middle name

  From: jordanlouis@warren.edu

  To: cassandradavis@warren.edu

  Subject: Re: Critical Thirst

  Ms. Davis,

  Do take your time. I look forward to speaking with you.

  Yours very truly,

  Jordan Louis

  I practically run to the shower, letting the warm water soothe my nervousness as I wash away far too many days of Netflix in pj’s and not touching a bar of soap. I shave for the first time in a week, even though my legs will not likely be visible.

  Standing in my towel, I examine my reflection in the mirror, which is quickly clouding with steam.

  I wonder if I look different from when I left here. I definitely dress differently: older, more daring. But I still look like me, right?

  I wipe the mirror with my towel. It’s hard to notice change when you see your reflection every day. I wonder how I would feel if I could have a side-by-side image of me now and the night I left. Would all my inner changes show on the outside?

  Shaking the thought from my head, I check the time. Okay. Focus, Cassie, focus. Twenty minutes until your Skype...not date but, whatever. Twenty minutes until your Skype Whatever.

  I bite my lip. One day I’m gonna look back and be ashamed of myself, but I’m putting on makeup. I’m putting on makeup to sit in my room and talk to a boy online. After all, I’m only human.

  “Hey!”

  The call finally connects, and he appears on the screen, his beautiful brown eyes sparkling.

  “God, it’s so good to see your face,” he says.

  I smile and glance down at the keyboard. “You, too.”

  “And look, it’s the house.” He picks up his laptop and spins around. “It misses you.”

  “Aw, that’s swee—oh my God, your room is so messy.”

  Mountains of clothes cover the floo
r, along with empty water bottles, plastic handles and red cups. And beer cans, so many beer cans.

  “What? Oh, yeah.” He shrugs, setting his computer back down. “I’m not very neat.”

  “Jordan, I can’t see, like, your floor.”

  “Its maaaddness!” He shakes the camera.

  I laugh.

  “How do you even know what’s clean and what’s dirty?”

  “Smell test, dude.” I can hear the duh in his voice.

  “What’s the smell test?” Part of me already knows, but I need to make sure it’s as bad as I think it is. I immediately regret asking.

  He picks up a shirt and sniffs it. He raises his eyebrows. “Clean.” He throws it back on the floor and grabs a gray T-shirt. “Basically clean.” He sniffs another and shakes his head. “Not clean, not clean.”

  Boys are so gross. “I can’t believe I live among you freaks.”

  He laughs. “No wonder they gave you your own room.”

  We talk for hours, and I pray my parents don’t overhear. Although, I guess I’m only talking to a friend, so what is there to be worried about?

  I yawn, but I turn away to try to hide it.

  “I should go to sleep soon. I have to be at practice early,” he says. “We’ve been talking for—shit, three hours. Is that right?”

  I check my phone and laugh. “Oh my God, yeah.”

  “Damn. And with the time change, it’s so late there. I’m sorry.”

  “I’m fine.” But I yawn again, giving myself away. “I’m kind of a night owl.” Which is true, I’m not staying up just to talk to him. Although I probably would.

  “God, I used to love staying up late. But I can’t with soccer, you know?” He picks up the computer and starts to walk.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I have to brush my teeth, but I thought you could come along.”

  “Okay.” I laugh. “I feel like R2-D2 or something.”

  “What?” He furrows his eyebrows.

  “Oh no, c’mon, Louis. Do not let me down like this. You have seen Star Wars, right?”

  “Um...” He glances away from the camera.

  “You have to be one of three people on this earth who haven’t seen Star Wars. How is that possible?”