by Kiley Roache
“Yeah, um, okay.” I drop the shirts on the bed. “I’ll go now.”
“Okay, come hang out after if you want.”
I just nod.
As I go to the second floor, a million thoughts race through my head.
Does he know about Jordan?
Oh my God, does he know about the project?
My heart pounds against my chest as I pass the naked calendar. It seems so long since I first saw it at Rush.
Bracing myself, I knock on the door bearing the name plaque, “Mother Fuckin’ President.”
The door swings open, and for the second time in my life I walk into Peter’s room to be interrogated, with what feels like my entire life hanging in the balance.
“Hey, Cassie, we need to talk about something.”
“Okay...”
“You can sit down if you want.”
I take a seat at the desk chair; he sits on the bed.
“So I know you’ve been gone all weekend, which is fine, but, um...” He runs a hand through his hair. “Sorry, I’m trying to figure out where to start. On Saturday the doorbell rang, which was weird, because obviously we all have keys and there were no guests allowed—you’ve heard about the new rules, right?”
I nod.
“So we sent a couple pledges to answer it, and when they do, this blonde girl collapses in their arms. They bring her inside, and Duncan recognizes her as your friend Alex.”
It feels like all the blood drains from my brain. Like my heart is falling out of my body. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
“No, no, she’s fine now.”
I breathe again.
“But she was in bad shape when she showed up here. Alcohol, and maybe something else, so we had no choice but to call an ambulance. They took her to the hospital, where they pumped her stomach, and she’s fine.”
“Thank you. Thank you so much,” I say.
He doesn’t look proud. He’s a hero who saved my best friend, shouldn’t he look...happier about it?
“Cassie, substance use and guests, it looks like we had both. That’s two strikes when we didn’t have any left.”
“Oh my God...”
“The housing board is voting at the end of the week, but with this, it doesn’t look good. We’re probably going to be disbanded.”
I can’t believe how much these words—these words that were my goal at the beginning of the year—make me want to cry.
“I wanted to talk to you first, because some people in the house are gonna blame you. But you need to know that it could’ve been any of us, any of our friends or girlfriends could’ve shown up needing help. But it’s important you lay low. I’m trying to make sure if we go out, it’s all as friends, not turning against each other. I know you would never purposely do anything to hurt the frat.”
He’s trying to protect me, even as his house goes down in part because of me. Especially because of me. If only he knew how wrong he was. That I was doing work that hurt the frat long before I even walked through the doors.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak.
“Hometown sweetheart?” he asks as I stand up to leave.
“What?”
He nods toward me. “The hickey.”
My hand flies to my neck. “Oh, no. I burned myself with my straightening iron.”
He laughs. “Relax, as long as it’s not from someone in my house, I’m happy for you.”
I smile feebly.
As soon as I’m back to my room, I power up my phone.
It lights up like a Christmas tree: texts and voice mails from Alex, drunk and scared and alone, telling me she doesn’t know where to go and is just going to come to the house. Then apologetic texts, letting me know she’s okay and thanking the brothers.
Texts from a few brothers, including Peter, about the situation, and asking why the hell I haven’t answered yet.
And then there are the three emails from Madison Macey, wanting to schedule a call soon.
I’ll deal with her tomorrow. This is still a three-day weekend; I have an excuse.
And I’ve got bigger issues, one friend who was just hospitalized and one hundred who might be about to lose their home.
Chapter Forty-Nine
“But you have to!”
“I don’t have to do anything.” Alex crosses her arms and turns away from me. I came here right away, and after checking in to make sure she was alive I suggested she tell the administration the boys were just taking care of her. I thought she would say of course, even say she’d already called and told them.
Which is why I was so taken aback by her “No way in hell!”
“They’re going to lose their house.”
“And I’m really sorry about that.” She turns back to me. “But you know I can’t tell the school.”
“Why not? They already know you got fucked up and were taken to the hospital.”
“They already know a female undergrad was transported from the house.” She plops down into the beanbag chair. “Only the hospital knows my name, and they won’t release it.”
“Oh.” I chew my lip for a second, considering this. “Okay, so you get into trouble with the school, but c’mon, it can’t be that big a deal.”
“I’m on scholarship, Cassie. I literally go here for free. And that money’s from Warren. I don’t have anyone like Stevenson supporting me. If I get in trouble with the school, I’m fucked.”
“They’re not gonna take away your scholarship, that’s—No, people get drunk all the time.”
She exhales. “So they won’t kick me out on the street. But will they approve my grant for my next show or a semester abroad?”
“Who cares? Dude, it was your fault. The house shouldn’t take the fall for this.”
“Yeah, because it’s this that’s bringing them down, not years of bullshit.”
“But they’re beginning to learn, Alex.” I run my hands through my hair. “Most of them are really smart and thoughtful—they just didn’t know before. And now, if we take away their house, they’ll associate feminism with this moment when they were kicked out of their home for helping you. And you probably will be able to get funding for Paris still even if—”
“Nice, Cassie. You of all people telling me to risk my funding for them.”
I step back, feeling like her words actually hit me.
“It doesn’t matter what the hell I do,” she says, “seeing as you’re about to publish a takedown piece on them.”
“It’s not a takedown piece.” I walk toward the window before spinning on my heel; the room is really too small for pacing. “It’s—it’s a story of progress, of how cultures can change, how knowing someone different from you—living with someone different from you—can help you become open-minded.”
“That’s a rose-colored way to look at it.” She pushes herself off the beanbag chair.
“But you see my point. There’s forward momentum, and that has to count for something.”
She squats down in front of a small dresser she’s painted baby blue. “I’m supposed to be quitting,” she mumbles, yanking open a drawer, then pulling out a pack of Marlboro Reds and a white lighter.
“Bad luck, you know, the solid white lighter.”
“I know.” She flicks her thumb, and a flame shoots up. “But the way I think about it, the smoke’s more likely to kill me.” She taps the pack on the windowsill, pulls one out and lights up.
After the first drag, she turns back to me. The sun shines through her hair and illuminates the wall behind her, the silvery words shining. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine. You’re kind of right. The story, no matter what, it’s not gonna be good for them. I just... I feel trapped.”
She flicks ash out the window. “Shit, dude.”
“What if...�
� I breathe in. “I think...”
She raises her eyebrows, her eyes telling me to hurry up and spit it out.
“The thing is, so many people want the story, I have some control, right? So what if we turn this into a story like the admittedly cheesy one I just told about growth?” I’m talking quickly now, excited. The more I hear myself say it, this idea that’s been bouncing around in my head, the more it sounds like reality. “But seriously, like them or not, I can’t think of anything that would send them in a worse direction than just kicking them out, and we’ve seen—I’ve documented—that there’s a better way. And I can talk to Dr. Price, because there’s no way she’ll let my entries run without a single peer review or any analysis of the last part of the data.”
“Will the Stevenson people be down for that?” Her voice is higher.
“Do they have a choice? It’s the truth.”
“I guess so.” She puts out her cigarette.
“Yes, this is good,” I say. “I have a plan. It’ll be fine.” I don’t even convince myself.
“Fine.” She exhales the last of the smoke. “I’ll think about going to the Dean of Alcohol and Whatever to tell the story. Not because I give a fuck about those frat boys, but because they helped me, and I have enough honor to take the fall for my own stupidity.”
“Thank you!” She stumbles back when I hug her, then wraps her arms around me, too.
When I step back, she looks at me seriously. “But, dude, you better make sure it counts for something.”
Chapter Fifty
I’m running through sociology terms in my head and scanning email on my phone when I almost run into someone.
“Oh, sorry.” I look up to see a junior who’s on the soccer team with Jordan.
“It’s chill.” He steps around me. “Hey, wait, actually, Cassie?”
I turn around. “What’s up?”
“There’s someone in the living room waiting for you, says she’s your aunt.”
I have one aunt who lives in Indiana and collects china dolls. She’s never even been on a plane, let alone hopped over to California to say hi.
“Okay, thanks. I’ll go, uh, say hi.”
As I step into the living room, I’m immediately greeted by the opposite of Aunt Helen, Madison Macey, wearing a Chanel suit and a ridiculous hat. She’s sitting on the edge of a couch, as if certain she’ll catch a disease from it, and as far away as she could be from the other occupants of the room, two seniors and Duncan playing FIFA.
“Cassie!”
“Aunt Mandy.” I smile through gritted teeth. “What are you doing here?” It’s all I can do not to spice up that sentence with a few expletives.
“Didn’t your mother tell you? I wanted to visit you.” She stands. “Come on—we’re having a girls’ day.”
I glance toward the door. “I have class in ten minutes,” I lie.
“I’m sure you can skip it. I haven’t seen you in so long.”
“Yeah, it’s almost like it’s the first time I’ve met you, Aunt Mandy.”
She laughs and grabs me by my arm, her grip waaaay harder than it looks, and leads me toward the door.
“Great to meet you,” she calls behind us.
The boys grunt something indistinguishable.
She’s quiet until we arrive at a Starbucks off campus.
“I’ve been trying to reach you for two days.”
I open my mouth to speak, but she holds up her hand so she can order a Venti nonfat vanilla something or other.
She turns to me, perfect eyebrows raised, while they swipe her platinum card for the three-dollar charge.
“My phone broke,” I say.
“You’re in the middle of the biggest negotiation of your little life.” She stops as the barista hands her the cup. She rolls her eyes and spins it around to show me the word Melanie in large print. “Unbelievable.”
We sit down, and she starts back in as if she’d never stopped. “So let’s talk strategy.”
“Huh?”
“We want to control exactly how this story breaks. Picture this...” She waves her hand. “The day the article runs, you hold a press conference on the lawn of the frat, with all the major news stations in attendance.” She raises her eyebrows and takes a sip of her coffee.
“I don’t know if that’s a good... Madison, that’s where I live. What am I supposed to do, just walk back inside afterward?”
“It’s where you lived for the experiment. Cassie, it’s over.”
“Yeah, but maybe we could wait until the end of the school year. That way I can finish my first year in the house with my pledge class, move out for the summer and then deal with all this.”
She tilts her head to the side, and her mouth forms a little o, like something has just occurred to her. “What do you care about ending the year with your pledge class? Don’t tell me you’ve been Stockholmed?”
“No.” I exhale. “I haven’t lost my focus or anything, but I mean, this was always an undercover project that involved real people. A press conference in front of the house...it’s not like someone was murdered there.”
“But—”
“No.” I look up at her. “This is supposed to be a nuanced project. There are real issues there, but there are also real teenagers, some of whom haven’t done anything wrong and don’t need to have their home plastered over every television in America.”
“We’re talking about your project being plastered over every television in America.”
I tap my fingers on the table nervously. “What if we turn the project into some sort of program to educate fraternities about gender issues? You’ve read the entries. Most of these guys are just ignorant—they’re not evil.”
“Cassie, you know as well as I do, that sort of thing does not make money or create press for Stevenson. In fact, that would cost this project funds that you don’t have. We’ve already invested so much in you. Now you need to produce what you promised us, what you proposed.”
I run my hands through my hair and exhale. “Okay, what if you only go with print, and change the name of the frat. You already have to change the names of the people involved. After all, they didn’t consent to the study.”
“Cassie, you are the only girl in the world in a fraternity. People will know which one it is.”
“Oh.”
She sips her coffee.
I sigh. “I thought there was going to be a peer-reviewed academic paper.”
She reaches out to take my hand in hers. “There will be, and there will be a brawl among the university presses over who gets to publish it, but only if we create enough buzz with the journal entries.”
“But the entries alone are misleading. I don’t want them to run without—”
“That’s not the kind of call you get to make.” She drops my hand and crosses her arms over her chest.
“What if I don’t send them to you?”
She just stares at me like I’m an idiot.
“Oh...” It seems like the roof of the coffee shop is crashing down on me. “The online portals.” For security reasons I wrote all my journal entries in a secure site. A secure sight created by the Stevenson organization.
She nods. “We already have them, and so does America Weekly.”
“And there’s nothing I can do?”
She purses her lips. “I came here as a courtesy, because we’d like you to get on board. We don’t need your permission.”
“What if—what if I give up my scholarship?”
I can’t believe the words, even as they come out of my mouth.
“It doesn’t matter.” She stands up. “This is what you signed up for. Read your own contract. You’ve spent a quarter of our money already, and we solely own all your work. We’re moving forward, with or without you.”
Without saying an
other word, I get up and head for the street. I barely notice the small bell ringing as I stumble out the door. I start walking, not really sure where I’m going. The sun is setting when I get to the main quad, turning the sandstone walkways a warm orange color.
A few tourists are lingering, left over from the groups that come in herds every day. A mother turns away from her camera to yell to her child in a language I don’t understand, but the tone tells me she’s saying it’s time to go home.
The little boy slouches and pouts but waddles over. Her stern face softens as he approaches, and she places a hand on his head as they walk away.
A few students, backpacks on, make their way along the far side of the quad. They’re talking, but I can’t make out their words from this distance.
Rays of sunlight shoot between the columns that surround the quad and I squint my tired eyes. Sighing, I slide off my backpack and sink to the ground. I lie down, using my bag as a pillow, too tired and too worn down to care that people may stare, that I may end up in tourists’ pictures or garner weird looks from someone who thinks they might recognize me from somewhere; maybe a class, maybe the news.
I reach into the pocket of my jeans, pull out my phone and dial. As the number rings, I listen to the sound of my breathing, trying to steady it.
“Cassie?” The surprise in her voice, despite caller ID, breaks the last remaining pieces of my heart. I guess that’s what happens when you don’t call your mother for an entire semester.
“Yeah,” I say. “It’s me.” I hope she can hear the smile I somehow manage.
“How are you, sweetie?” There’s noise in the background, the sounds of pots and pans, and a television, probably the soap operas she DVRs. At home dinnertime is already over, and she’s probably watching TV while doing the dishes, while my father lounges with a beer in the den. My heart aches just picturing that stupid, tiny house in Indiana.
“I’m good,” I lie.
The ensuing pause is long, and I picture words floating over the expanse of an already darkening country.
“You sound sick,” she says. “Do you feel like you have a fever?”
