Frat Girl

by Kiley Roache

  After standing up, I head to my wardrobe, looking for a cute sundress to wear. Jordan and I made plans to get lunch in Palo Alto, but I don’t know if the white lacy one or the floral one is more cute-but-not-trying casual.

  My phone buzzes once, indicating it’s turning on. I mean, it’s gotta be floral, right?

  My phone buzzes about fifty more times.

  What the...?

  I walk over and grab the phone. Seven missed calls and a voice mail from an unsaved number in New York, New York.

  Oh my God.

  My hands shaking, I click on the message.

  “Cassie, this is Carl, and I’m so sorry. I’ve been trying to reach you for hours. Steve won’t budge on the story. In fact, they pushed it up a week because there’s a companion piece they want to run it with. By the time I reached him it was already being printed. He couldn’t have stopped it even if he’d wanted to. It comes out tomorrow. I’m so sorry, Cassie. I really wish I could have helped but—”

  The phone falls to the ground, bouncing twice on the carpet.

  My brain is going off in so many different directions, but I have only one coherent thought: I need to find Jordan.

  I fly out of my room. Maybe if I find him before he reads it, if I can explain the situation, if he hears it from me...

  I throw open the door to his room, but all the bunks are empty.

  I rush down the stairs and burst into the common room, and for the first time since I moved in, it’s dead silent.

  Most people get up and leave when they see me; others just shake their heads at the floor.

  “Have any of you seen Jordan?” My voice sounds like I’m crying, even though the tears that sting my eyes haven’t fallen yet.

  Behind me, someone clears his throat.

  I turn around, and there he is, leaning against the back wall, a copy of America Weekly in his hands. He looks like someone just slapped him.

  “You lied...to all of us.”

  “I...” My voice starts out weak and fades to nothing. I doubt that syllable even makes it across the room.

  “There’s nothing to say.” I’ve never seen his eyes like this. They are usually dark in a rich and warm way, now they look like a stormy sky. For the first time I wish he was looking at anyone but me.

  I look around, but everyone else has fled the room.

  “I—I tried to be fair, balanced. I say some good things.”

  “It doesn’t matter what you said. I trusted—we trusted—” In his eyes I see what he can’t say inside the house, where someone may overhear. You lied to me; all of this was a lie. I thought I was in love with you, and it was a lie.

  But it wasn’t a lie. I lied about so many things, big and small. But not the way I felt about him.

  He throws the magazine down at my feet and storms out. And just like that, I’m alone, the sound of the slamming door ringing in my ears.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  I’m in shock that they don’t kick me out on my ass, but in a way it’s even worse. My life quickly reverts back to the way it was for my first days living in the house. But worse. It’s not just that everyone acts like I’m not there; they actively avoid me.

  In September I would sit awkwardly as conversations buzzed around me. Now people get up and leave their meals behind when I sit at a table. Or they talk about me in front of me.

  Jackie refuses to answer my calls. Even Duncan and Bambi retreat from my life. Duncan with a “wtf dude” text, Bambi with a tearful plea. “We were the three musketeers, you and me and Duncan—how could you do this to us?”

  Jordan says nothing.

  On Tuesday morning I get an email from Peter. Since I technically didn’t break any rules in my report—I didn’t describe any secret handshakes or rituals—there aren’t grounds to officially kick me out of the house. But I think it’s best if, for now, you look for somewhere else to stay, or at least avoid common areas.

  I start eating all my meals at Dionysus with the only person on campus whose opinion of me is unchanged. I go to class, where I sit alone while people whisper, and I sleep in my room with the door locked, waiting for a knock that never comes.

  That’s it.

  Actually, sleep has become the highlight of my life.

  To just close my eyes and pretend this hasn’t happened, that Jordan’s arms are wrapped around me, that this house is still home to me and any second one of my friends will stop by, yell at me to rally and throw me a beer.

  But voices rumble past my door on the way to study or party or hang out, passing by like it’s just a blank wall.

  Then I find out how good I had it when my door and I were just ignored.

  Coming home late from studying in the library, I find my “Welcome Pledge Title IX” sign is gone and in its place Bitch, Liar, Feminazi, Traitor, Shrew, you name it, have been spray painted in red across the green door.

  Well, that’s certainly consistent with how my life is going.

  I ignore the insults and head inside to flop onto my bed.

  Eventually I meet with Professor Price. I made this appointment when I was frantically trying to stop the article, and this was “the absolute soonest she could meet,” according to her secretary.

  There’s really no point now. But I guess it’s rude to stand up a Nobel laureate, even when nothing matters anymore.

  “Cassie!” Her smile feels warm, even now. “Come in—it’s good to see you. Would you like some tea?”

  I nod. “Thank you.”

  She hits a button on her phone. “Georgia, would you please bring in a kettle?”

  She reaches down, pulls two ceramic mugs from a drawer and then opens an antique Japanese tea box.

  By the time she puts a tea bag in each mug, there is a knock at the door. A young girl comes in and fills the cups with steaming water. The purple-red color of the tea starts to disperse through the water like smoke.

  The girl leaves, but not before giving me a smile, her eyes full of pity. Or maybe that’s just in my head.

  I pick up my mug for a second, letting it warm me, before I take the first sip. “This is delicious.”

  She nods. “It’s my favorite. I like to save it for special occasions.”

  “I don’t exactly feel like celebrating.” I twiddle the tag of the tea bag between my fingers.

  “I mean, important moments, good or bad. Times when you need to be centered.”

  I take another sip.

  “How are you doing?”

  “I’ve been better.” I set down my cup.

  She closes her eyes and nods. “This is not how I wanted things to go for you.”

  I look down at my cup. “It’s not how I wanted them to go, either. And, honestly, the way people have reacted...sometimes I’m not sure I should’ve done this at all.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I’ve lost almost everyone who matters to me.”

  We’re both silent for a moment.

  She exhales. “You know, I didn’t start as a gender activist.”

  “Really?” I’m not sure what this has to do with my situation, but I’m happy for the distraction.

  “Yes. I was finishing my PhD when Rodney King happened. I had just published my first big paper, and it was on police brutality. Suddenly I was on every TV station, the young black author and professor with the Ivy League education. I was the perfect counterimage to put up on-screen next to footage of the riots.

  “Of course, that was the first time I lost the support of people fighting the same fight as I was, when I became the Brooklyn girl fighting from the ivory tower instead of protesting on the streets like someone who was really invested in the cause.

  “But I wrote about racism for a long time, and I still write about it almost every day. And then in 2006 Coretta Scott King died, and I wrote an art
icle about straight men in the struggle not always acknowledging those who also fought alongside them against oppression. Not acknowledging the different ways racism and misogyny affect black women and LGBTQA people of color. I argued for intersectionality, for a united cause against these forms of oppression that were so clearly connected. I wasn’t saying don’t talk about Dr. King—I was saying also talk about Coretta Scott, also talk about Marsha P. Johnson.

  “But many of the people I had worked with for years and years heard my words as attacking black men for the way they treated black women. Said I was dividing the movement, causing distraction.

  “Some people came back around, realized that I was still going to be there for Oscar Grant, for Ferguson, even if I was also there for the wage gap and female education and transgender housing discrimination.

  “But there are still friends I’ve lost.” She takes a sip of her tea. “My father still doesn’t support a lot of what I do. He doesn’t buy my books. To hit the New York Times bestseller list, to know strangers have probably mentioned my books in front of him, not knowing I was his daughter, and knowing my father, the one who marched on Washington and taught me how to fight in the first place, will pretend he doesn’t know who I am...that’s still pretty hard, even now.

  “So the way I look at it, you’ve got two problems. One is that you lied. And, honey, we all knew that was wrong when we began. Those boys welcomed you into their home and offered you friendship, but you and I both know you were approaching them under false pretenses. And we knew the sin was worth the good we’d be doing, but you can’t expect them to see that from their perspective, especially when they’re just finding out now. Hell, it’s sometimes hard for me to see that, and I was one of the adults who told you to do it.

  “So that’s the first thing these boys are mad about, that you lied to them. And it’s okay that they’re mad.

  “The second is what you had to say. And you can never apologize for that—do you hear me? There are men in that house who, from what you’ve told me and from the research we’ve done, we both know are misogynistic.

  “And lie or not, no matter how objective you were in what you wrote, they will hate you, for questioning their way of life, for saying that some of their behavior is causing so much hurt that it should stop. And more important, you are a woman who thinks, and that threatens them more than everything else. They won’t admit it, but I think that’s the secret fear that motivates them. They’re worried that if there’s an equal playing field, they’ll lose.

  “Those are the ones whose hate tells you that you’re doing your job right. It still hurts, but you can’t let it stop you.

  “The good news is the ones who are just mad that you lied will come around. They’ll forgive the means because of the end. The ones who never come back aren’t worth it.”

  I look down at my tea. “I hope you’re right.”

  “I hope I’m right, too.” She smiles. “Worst-case scenario, you’ve got me and all these friends.” She reaches into her desk drawer and pulls out a thick stack of papers, all different colors, folded all different ways.

  “Some are letters, others are emails we printed out.” She flips through them. “Your generation doesn’t seem to be much of a fan of real letters. Young feminists and quite a few women who just realized they were feminists. A surprising amount of sorority girls.” She pulls one out of the stack. “This one’s my favorite. I highlighted a part you might like.”

  The paper she hands me is pink and smells good. The letter is written in swirly handwriting.

  “This is like my life. I mean, I’m not in a frat, but this is what it’s like to be a girl in college. It’s not always easy to know the feminist thing to do, but I guess I’m not the only one that has a hard time. I’ll keep trying. Thank you, Cassie.”

  For the first time in a long time, I smile.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  That night I walk upstairs and stare at my closed door, pressing my key a little too hard into my palm. When I open my hand there’s a small indent in my skin.

  I look back to the door, and the word Bitch screams at me. The dripping red paint looks like the sign on a cheap haunted house.

  Enough is enough.

  Shaking my head, I shove the key in the lock and push open the door. I barely throw down my bag before I’m out the door again, heart pounding as I run down the stairs. For the first time all week, I’m full of energy.

  After trying three half-empty closets, including one stocked solely with red cups and a mop, I find what I’m looking for.

  I run back up the stairs, the bucket—rag and soap inside—banging into my hip at every step. I fill the bucket up in the bathroom sink, add the soap and start scrubbing.

  The B in Bitch smears until it’s just a big red blob. Fabulous.

  A voice echoes up the stairs. “Are you really saying you want her to stay?”

  “Are you really saying we should kick a brother out?”

  I close my eyes and try to imagine who’s speaking, to identify the voices, but I can’t.

  A nasty kind of laughter echoes up the staircase. “She’s not exactly a brother.”

  I hear the sound of footsteps, and then Peter and Sebastian round the landing.

  Well, that answers my question.

  I mean, kind of. I still don’t know who said what.

  Bass avoids eye contact as he slips into his room. Peter looks at me like he’s a small child who got caught doing something he shouldn’t.

  Yeah, that’s right. I heard you guys talking shit, I want to say.

  But I just turn back to my quickly failing project, trying to make sense of what I heard.

  Peter was the one who told me to move out soon if I can. But Bass has never liked me.

  And what about the whole brother thing?

  Peter is always the one who corrects brother to sister, who uses gendered pronouns, even in big speeches, so he had to be the voice against me, right?

  So...is Bass defending me? What has the world come to?

  I shake off these thoughts and stare at my progress, or rather, lack thereof. The door is beginning to look like some sort of modern art project. A tie-dye design in red and green.

  Like Christmas.

  Except for on Christmas you usually don’t see the smeary but still totally legible remnants of curse words on the decorations.

  There’s a noise behind me.

  I turn around, and Peter’s standing there with a rag and spray bottle in his hand.

  He clears his throat. “You, uh, gotta use this stuff.”

  He offers me the bottle.

  Goof Off Graffiti Remover: Removes the Tough Stuff!

  There’s a company that specializes in this? But I guess if you need it, you really need it...

  “Oh. Thank you.”

  I expect him to set down the bottle and run, but he sprays the door and begins to scrub.

  “Well, don’t just stare at me,” he says. “Here.” He stretches out his arm and sprays the words closer to me. “Work on your side.”

  We scrub in silence, him on his side, me on mine. Every so often he sprays a new spot for me and then goes back to scrubbing away at his.

  When the door is basically done, he says, “This doesn’t mean anything, I just care about the house.”

  I watch him as he walks away.

  Still, I think, it’s an improvement.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  I’m on my way back from a shitty test I had to get up at eight for, opening my door and wanting nothing but to lie in bed and watch Friends all day, when the door across from me opens.

  Bass lunges forward and laughs in a way that sends chills down my spine.

  “Why is it that every time I leave my room, you are here?” He reeks of booze, even though it’s only noon.

 
Something in his eyes makes me feel uneasy, so I step to the side, thinking of my waiting bed.

  I just need to keep my head down and avoid whatever confrontation Sebastian is gunning for.

  “Bitch,” he spits. “Why are you still here?” He steps in front of me. “You were never supposed to be here, but your feminazi friends put us in an impossible situation.”

  I stare down at his shoes, way too expensive for a college student. Italian leather, maybe.

  Hopefully if I just let him finish his rant, I can say a quick, “Yeah, you’re right” before slipping into my room and locking the door.

  “This was the only fucking place we had left for men. Free from all that PC, affirmative action, give me some of what you earned for free bullshit. First the blacks wanted in, and then the fags and now you stupid bitches. Gonna ruin the whole damn thing.”

  I look up, fire in my eyes now. I don’t want to get past him anymore. Now I’m ready to fight.

  “Fuck you, Bass.” It’s all I can manage. A million more-intelligent comments fire off in my head, but in the emotion of the moment, the big F you is all I can muster.

  “Should’ve known this was all part of some liberal-agenda bullshit.” His eyes are glassy and mean.

  I bite my lip. Don’t argue with the delusional; keep yourself safe.

  I step around him; this time his reaction is slow, like he’s moving through syrup, or maybe Jack Daniel’s.

  “Hey, bitch! I’m talkin’ to you.” He grabs my arm, his fingers digging in.

  I try to pull it back, but he yanks harder, spinning me so I face him, then stumble backward.

  “Look at me when I fucking talk, you bitch.”

  I lunge forward and step on his foot, like they taught us in self-defense class, and his grip loosens enough for me to pull my arm away.

  Stepping toward my open door, I exhale. I’m okay. I reach for my key, my hands shaking. Repeating: It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s ok–”

  Hands seize my shoulders and push me from behind. The wall flies toward my face.