Frat Girl

by Kiley Roache

  I smile against his lips. “Not in the house.”

  “Okay, I respect that.” He kisses me again. “This is okay, though?”

  I laugh. “This is okay.”

  The bathroom door swings open.

  I jump up, and he holds me like a bride being carried over the threshold. Frozen, we listen to someone pee.

  When the door closes again, he sets me down, both of us laughing.

  “Yeah,” he says. “Definitely not here.”

  Chapter Forty-Four

  I’m sitting at breakfast a week or so before our little trip when my phone buzzes with a text from Jordan.

  J: Do you have a fancy dress?

  I smile.

  C: yes

  J: cool. Bring it to SF

  J: and heels

  J: unless you don’t roll that way

  J: then your fanciest sneakers

  C: lol I like heels

  J: good shit

  J: I’m gonna wine and dine you so hard

  C: haha

  C: you don’t have to do that

  J: I want to. Can’t wait

  And then he sends me a kissy face emoji, a little heart coming from the smiley face’s lips.

  And this is how I know I’ve got it bad: I do not find that little cartoon kiss cheesy or stupid or lame.

  In fact, it warms my cold, sarcastic heart. Which is concerning, to say the least.

  I’m smiling at my phone like an idiot when Peter sits down across from me.

  “Going home to visit your parents this weekend?”

  “Yep.” I push the cereal around my bowl.

  “You’re gonna miss a lot of big parties.”

  “Yeah, that’s why I emailed you that I couldn’t help with anything.”

  “We can cover it. I’m just saying you’ll miss out on the fun.”

  “Hey, it can’t be as fun as spring snow in the Midwest and my parents fighting.”

  He looks down at his coffee. Then back at me. “Louis is going away, too.”

  “Really?” I sound like I’m more interested in the Lucky Charms I’m sorting through. Marshmallows first, of course.

  “Yeah. Funny.”

  “It’s a three day weekend. A lot of people go home.” I smile up at him like I don’t know what game he’s playing.

  He brings his mug to his lips, keeping his eyes on me. Waiting for me to break.

  “Peter!” One of the juniors, Johnny Someone, runs into the room. “Have you seen the Daily this morning?”

  My heart sinks. But no, I’m being crazy. It’s still weeks if not months until my exposé will run, and even then it won’t be in the student newspaper.

  “No.” He sets down his coffee. “Why?”

  “It’s not good.” He shakes his head and sets his laptop on the table. “They have our emails.”

  Peter goes pale. “Exactly which emails?”

  “Honestly, I’ve gotta think all of them, because this bitch seems to have handpicked the ones that make us look the worst.”

  He turns the screen around for Peter to see.

  “Fuck!” Peter slams his hand on the table, exhales and runs his other hand through his hair. “I need to call Dean Robinson.” He flies out of the kitchen and takes off down the hall.

  Johnny follows close behind him.

  I look around, but the room is empty save for Bambi, who’s sleeping, his head on the table next to a heaping plate of just bacon and English muffins.

  I turn the screen around. The article is still pulled up.

  Accusations of misogyny have returned to Warren University’s Delta Tau Chi house as a colorful email chain has been leaked online.

  Crude descriptions of female students, invitations for underage drinking and illegal drug use, and other instances of debauchery are interspersed with correspondence about homework and internships, all sent with Warren email addresses. This has come as “quite the embarrassment” to the university, according to sources close to the administration.

  The chapter has been a source of controversy ever since a party last spring in honor of International Women’s Day that sparked outrage for decorations suggesting that women belong only in domestic and inferior roles. After a university investigation, the fraternity was placed on probation.

  DTC seemed to be making an effort to change their culture early this year with the acceptance of the first female member to be initiated into a fraternity on the Warren campus or, reportedly, on any college campus.

  But to some, even this move was seen as a sign of the problem, a stunt meant to put a Band-Aid over a multitude of past transgressions. It has been a divisive issue among women’s groups on campus, some of which called the student in question, Cassandra Davis, “brave,” while an anonymous gender studies major told us she was “simply a puppet of the patriarchy sent to tell us frat boys are a-okay.”

  Davis’s email address is notably missing from the conversations leaked this week, although it should be noted that the emails in question are from the last five years and only a small sample is from this year, when she could have been included in the conversation.

  The national office of Delta Tau Chi has no comment on the matter.

  In a statement, Warren University called the reported behavior “inexcusable” and vowed “to look into the matter.”

  Below this was a link to thousands of pages of emails. I scan through them, my heart racing.

  Many of them refer to parties, calling upon the brothers to invite “sororisluts” but warning “no fat chicks.” Others announce their plans to “hate fuck that bitch” and then to extract themselves from the situation: “told her I wasn’t looking for a relationship...well, at least not with a shrew.” They praise each other for how “totally dope” their parties were, and specify how many “drunken blow jobs” they deserved for their efforts. There’s a suggestion to use money raised at a philanthropy event to buy a stripper pole, which was voted down (but just barely).

  It’s everything I’ve documented in my journal entries and so much more.

  After a while I have to stop, nauseous from it all. I get up and head to my room to lie down, thinking that maybe boys who are nice to me but not to women generally aren’t actually nice boys.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  “Cassie, do you want to share an Uber to the airport?” Jordan asks way too loudly.

  “I’d love to.” Even though I’m a much more experienced liar than he is, especially after the last year, my voice sounds a little overdone, as well.

  No one even looks up from their lunch as we walk out the back door a little while later.

  He helps me with my suitcase, and we slide into the car.

  I reach over to pull down my seat belt, and when I turn back I’m met by Jordan’s eyes.

  I click the belt quickly and kiss him lightly on the lips.

  “I can’t believe we’re doing this,” he says.

  “Me neither.”

  He slips his arm around my waist and pulls me closer.

  “Both buckle,” the driver says with a thick accent.

  “Okay, okay.” Jordan clicks himself into the middle seat, and in seconds his hands are back on me. Looking at me with a mischievous grin, he leans in and kisses me, his hands on my waist.

  I weave my fingers through his hair. I undo my seat belt, and he pulls me half onto his lap. We kiss with no holds barred, giving in to every amazing instinct now that we don’t have to keep our guard up in case Sebastian is lurking around the corner, just wanting and having and getting high off each other.

  The driver clears his throat. “Unsafe for her to sit like that. Need to face forward.”

  My face crimson, I, uh, dismount, sit straight up in my seat and buckle myself back in, trying to avoid eye contact with the rearvie
w mirror.

  Jordan just laughs and laughs and laughs.

  I swat his arm.

  “Ow,” he says, but the cheesy grin stays pasted on his face.

  I watch out the window as we cruise down the highway. The mountains—maybe only hills, but mountains in my Midwestern-girl mind—rise on one side and the bay stretches out on the other. The water sparkles, a slightly different but equally vibrant blue from the sky, while white sailboats dot the horizon like crescent moons.

  With great effort, I try to focus on the beauty of the view and not on the boy beside me. I reach out and take his hand despite myself.

  “Oh my God,” he suddenly says.

  “What?” I turn to see him reading something on his phone.

  “Shit. I guess we won’t be missing such great parties after all.”

  “Why?”

  “Email from Peter. The school’s stepped up the probation rules. No guests in the house. No drinking in the common areas.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah.”

  And this is before my full report comes out.

  I shake the thought out of my head and turn back to the window. This is my weekend off. I will not worry about frat stuff for the next seventy-two hours. I’ve earned at least that much time to just be with this boy.

  We make our way down Embarcadero, passing piers numbered in ascending order, until finally we pull up to our hotel, an art deco building that towers into the sky.

  A guy in a red uniform with a matching hat blows a whistle and waves our driver forward.

  He pulls up to the entrance, stopping under a glittering awning stretching over stylish businesspeople and casually clad families as they hurry in and out of the building.

  The bellhop pulls open my door.

  “Thanks!” I say to the driver as we slide out of the car.

  “Humph,” he replies.

  Bags in hand, we step inside the hotel and, it seems, into the past. The hotel is from the 1920s and is evocative of the era, but not in a cheesy, pinstripes-and-fringed-dresses kind of way, but in a way that makes me want to slip on a sleek dress and sip a dry martini while a jazz singer croons in the background.

  The lobby has a grand, sweeping dark wood staircase on each side, and a glittering mosaic on the ceiling high above.

  Among the clusters of dark furniture, bouquets bigger than I am sit on tables.

  “Wow,” Jordan says.

  “I know,” I say.

  We cross the lobby and join the winding line to check in. Jordan slips his hand around my waist. I stretch up onto my tiptoes and kiss him on the cheek.

  As soon as I’m back on my two feet, he kisses the top of my head, and I giggle. I know we are those people, but we never get to be like this, and, honestly, I just can’t bring myself to give a damn.

  “Next!”

  He whispers something naughty in my ear, and I smile at him mischievously, even as my cheeks turn bright red.

  He leans down and kisses me again, this time on the lips.

  “Next!”

  The guy behind us clears his throat. I look up.

  “Shoot, that’s us.”

  I hurry forward, dragging my bag behind me. “Sorry!”

  The lady at the counter is not amused. “Name?”

  “Davis.”

  She types into the computer for a minute and then, without looking up from the screen, reaches out a wrinkled but perfectly manicured hand.

  I hand her my card, and she scans it swiftly.

  Since the hotel hosts mainly business clients, it wasn’t too expensive for the weekend.

  “There’s a two-hundred-dollar charge if there is any damage in the room.” She hands back my card. “And we take noise complaints very seriously.” She eyes Jordan, and I realize he’s wearing his bid day T-shirt, which features a red, white and blue Solo cup and the phrase “Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Frattiness.”

  I nod to tell her I’m taking her warnings seriously. Then, picking up the room keys and a map of San Francisco, I say a quiet thank-you and walk away.

  We cross the lobby to the old-fashioned elevators lining the far wall.

  “This is so cool.” Jordan pushes the up button.

  “I know!”

  The elevator dings.

  He kisses me all the way up, both of us unable to keep our hands off each other as we walk down the hall, until I have to push him away so I can focus on opening the door to the room.

  “What do you want to do?” I ask, sitting down on the crisp white-covered bed.

  He checks his watch. “Well...we have dinner in, like, an hour.”

  “Oh!” I jump up. “I need to get ready.”

  “Already?”

  “Yeah. I have to do makeup and hair and—just trust me.”

  He laughs and shakes his head. “Okay. I’ll shower, then.”

  He leans down and kisses me before he leaves the room.

  It makes me so happy I want to jump up and down and squeal with joy that we can do something as simple as kiss before leaving a room and there’s no one here to tell us we can’t.

  I slip on a sparkling silver dress, dark and glittery, with thin straps and fabric that clings to my body. I step into strappy black heels and do my makeup dramatically, with winged eyeliner and nude lipstick.

  I stare at myself in the gilded framed mirror. It’s a grown-up look, and I feel a bit like a child playing dress-up.

  Jordan and I are the same age, but I feel so young around him. So naive and inexperienced.

  And even though he knows this is my first time, does he realize how little I know what I am doing? What if I’m shockingly bad?

  I straighten my hair while Jordan showers. My mind wanders to him standing under the hot water, naked and shimmering wet.

  Ow. I flinch. A red mark appears on my neck where I burned myself with the straightening iron. Great, I already have a hickey.

  “Wow.”

  I spin around.

  “You look amazing.” Jordan’s eyes sparkle.

  As for him, he’s wearing a charcoal suit over a perfect white shirt, with a thin black tie that’s hanging a little crooked.

  I walk over and straighten it, my hands lingering on his chest. “You don’t look half-bad yourself.”

  * * *

  We take a cab to the swanky steak house to save my poor feet.

  An impossibly beautiful hostess in a sleek black dress greets us as we step into the restaurant. There’s a sort of Old Hollywood glamour about the place, everything mahogany and leather, low lighting and dark wines.

  The diners all wear cocktail dresses and suit coats, and clink champagne flutes over conversations about stocks and yachts and fancy lives, or at least I imagine that’s what they’re talking about. Some of the women may be in their early twenties, but for sure none of the men are under thirty.

  “We’re the youngest people here,” I whisper as we follow the Maxim model to our table.

  “I know.” He takes my hand.

  We’re those annoying college kids who go to fancy restaurants. We’d scream new money if it wasn’t for neither of us having any money at all.

  The hostess leads us to a table in the back, tucked halfway around a corner. It’s very intimate, very romantic.

  She pulls a chair away from the table for me, and I sit down, the butter-soft leather luxurious against my bare legs.

  Jordan sits to the right of me, and his hand brushes along my thigh under the tablecloth, which is so clean and bright it practically glows.

  I glance at him, hoping he can see the effect it has on me, just being this close to him.

  “Enjoy.” The hostess sets down the menus and struts away, stilettos clicking.

  I open the heavy leather menu.

  Filet mign
on...70.

  And that’s not even the most expensive choice. Oh, and if you want a side with your meat, then it will be fifteen more. Thirteen-fifty for a salad, even more if all you want is an iceberg wedge.

  Not to mention the drinks, which are on a separate menu.

  “God, they just rip people off.” I look up at Jordan. “Let’s try to get the most food for the least cost, beat them at their own game.”

  I’m smiling, way too dazzled by my own idea, but Jordan has gone pale. His hand is gone from my leg, both of them now gripping his menu.

  “Cassie, you really don’t have to—”

  “Huh?”

  “I feel bad.”

  “Why? We’re both broke college students.” I laugh and reach for his hand. “I’m really just excited to be here with you—alone, you looking hot in a suit. I’d be happy going to McDonald’s.”

  He smiles. “You’re a pretty cool girl—you know that, Cassie Davis?”

  “Ahem.” We tear our eyes away from each other to see our waiter, a skinny middle-aged man in a suit.

  “Welcome. I’m Jeffery, and I’ll be your server tonight.”

  He lists the specials and then asks, “What kind of water would you like?”

  I look to Jordan. “Are there types of water?” I whisper.

  “I can hear you.” The waiter glances to a table a few feet away, where men in suits are drinking scotch and talking seriously. He exhales before turning back to us and quickly saying, “We have a variety of bottled waters, both still and sparkling. But I’m assuming you prefer tap.”

  I nod.

  “All right.” He calls over a busboy, who pours us water from a fancy vase and sets down a basket filled with ten different types of bread.

  “We have an extensive wine list.” Jeffrey hands us yet another menu. “Our director of wine is also here tonight and available to answer any questions about pairings you may have.”

  “Thank you, I think we need a second to look at this.” Jordan picks up the wine list.

  “Damn, that thing is like twenty pages.”

  “I know.” He flips through it. “Is it unacceptable to ask the director of wine what the cheapest one on the list is?”

  I fake a snooty accent. “Do you have anything in the boxed variety?”