Frat Girl

He looks away.

Jordan hasn’t spoken to me since that day in Sociology. He always comes in late and sits as far away from me as possible. I’m not quite sure what I did. I mean, I get we’re competitors now, but that doesn’t seem like a reason to treat me like a pariah. We could both end up here, and then what?

So maybe he isn’t mad. Maybe he isn’t anything.

That’s not only more likely; it almost seems worse, that he isn’t mad but just doesn’t care at all.

Which is fine, I guess. It gives me the chance to stay focused, to play my role perfectly.

I lose him as we pile on the bus, me sitting near the Pi Betas but still with the DTC guys.

“This is so much better than our house retreats,” a bottle blonde with a blue Pi Beta tank stretched across her white-bikini-clad, fake-tanned breasts tells her friend.

“I think we just went to get our nails done my year,” her brunette friend answers.

“Ugh, you are so lucky.” She flips her hair. “We sat in the house basement, where we had to recite some weird poem, and then we passed around a candle and told first-kiss stories.”

“Oh my God, I remember that!” a girl behind me yells. I turn instinctively. She has bright red hair and porcelain doll features.

A sorority with a white girl with brown hair, a white girl with red hair and a white girl with blond hair? Now that’s what I call diversity.

“Good thing we do ours after Rush,” the blonde says. “Otherwise I would have been, like, fuck this shit.”

The brunette nods in agreement.

The blonde turns toward me, leaning across her friend. “I’m sure yours will be a lot better.”

“I’ll make sure of that,” the redhead says. She pops up from her seat behind me and leans on the back of mine. “I’m Pledge Mom!”

Suddenly I’m surrounded by Greek letters and hair bows. The smell of tanning lotion and cheap beer is making me nauseous.

I open my mouth to explain, but the words elude me.

“Hey, I’m so sorry, cuz this is so rude of me, but what’s your name?” Blondie asks.

“Cassandra Davis. Cassie.” The words stumble out. I should explain I’m not pledging, but how do I?

“Cool! I’m Kelley, I’m the new president.” She splays a French-manicured hand over her heart. “My apologies, I’m still getting to know all our little babies.”

“Oh, I’m not a—”

“Oh! Are you the girl who transferred from the Cal Alpha chapter?” The redhead practically bounces up and down with every word. “I didn’t mean to call you a frosh.”

“My brother goes to Berkeley, too!” the brunette adds.

“No, I go here.”

Kelley nudges her friend. “Katie, don’t be rude.” She leans over her to me again. “Welcome! She just meant, like, you used to go there.”

“No, I’m a freshman, I’m just—”

Something changes in her eyes. The pageant sparkle drops out of them. “Wait, you are a Pi Beta pledge, right?”

“Uh, no.”

They look at each other, their heads turning exactly in sync, like they share one brain.

The blonde purses her lips and turns her head to the side. “Not to, you know—but, um, who invited you?”

“The guys,” I say. Not a lie. I was actually invited quite formally, with a letter slipped under my door.

The one behind me sits so quickly the cheap bus seat makes a weird swooshing sound.

The others shrink away from me, back into their own side of the aisle.

“Classic DTC—Warren girls aren’t hot enough for them,” the brunette tells Kelley.

Like I can’t hear them.

“Always on to the new blood.” Kelley cuts her eyes at me. “It happens every year with Rush. The upperclassmen always warn you, but the sophomores never listen. The events become all about the hot new girls, and the actives end up standing there like, hello, we’re still here. At least it used to be our littles, though. Now they’re just shipping in girls to fuck.”

Ew, ew, ew.

I want to defend myself but don’t even know where to begin. That I’m not trying to sleep with them. That I’m not even trying to be friends with them. That I’m just trying to exposed the fucked-up-ness of a system that has these girls saying stuff like that.

We used to be the whores of this frat, and now what are we? Just the madams?

So much for sisterhood.

They’re part of an organization that’s supposed to lift up women, not pit them against each other, and for what? To get the attention of some spoiled undergrad drunk off his ass and threatening to fight everything that moves, knowing Daddy can cover the legal fees?

I turn silently to face the front of the bus.

The doors finally close, and people start to pass the beer around. Some DTCs fiddle with the radio for a bit, struggling to get anything but static.

Music erupts from the speaker just as the overloaded bus lurches forward.

I chug beers and take shots of Fireball like a pro at eight in the morning as we head down the 101.

Someone yells something about shotgunning, and I stand up.

Someone else hands me a can of Natty.

“Does anyone have a key?” the guy in front of me asks. He has coifed hair and is wearing expensive brand names, even though we’re all dressed for the beach.

“Here, like this,” I say. I hold up my can and use my canine tooth to make a hole, just like Alex showed me once.

His eyes go wide like quarters. “Did anyone else see that?” he asks, turning around to address the crowd.

“Do it again!” he says, handing me his beer. I laugh, a feminine, sly laugh, not at all like my naturally loud, brash one.

I do it again, this time with an audience. After I bite it, I make the whole bigger with my thumb carefully so not to cut it, and then lick the beer off.

“Yes, that’s my Cassie! Killin’ it!” Marco yells from the front of the bus.

I blow him a kiss.

“All right, let’s do this,” I say, handing the boy his beer back.

I don’t need to look at the girls to know they’re seething. I catch myself smiling. God, their game is messed up, but it’s pretty damn thrilling to beat them at it.

The alcohol starts to go down easier, and soon we’re all standing and dancing, and the world is a swirling, beautiful, bright place. God, day drunk is the best.

The music cuts off in the middle of a song. Some people sit down; others just stand there, drunk and confused.

A skinny black guy in a Warren baseball cap stands at the front of the bus, a radio-style microphone in his hand.

“Aaaaattennnnntion, passengers. So, we’re currently experiencing some technical difficulties, by which I mean Carter tripped over the aux cord when he went to throw up in the trash can that he—” our unofficial cruise director looks down “—seems to have missed anyway. All right, cool. We’re working on getting the radio back, but in the meantime, this is DJ Chase coming at you. Here’s ‘Trap Queen.’”

And then he not only sings every single word, but also mimics all the little electronic sounds.

Everyone kind of looks at one another, and then there’s a silent agreement to roll with it.

We stand and dance again, and I can’t stop laughing at Chase imitating Fetty Wap’s voice, and how ridiculous and fun this shit show of a bus is.

They get the music back on after Chase’s fifteen minutes, and everyone claps as he stands on his seat and bows. The bus driver starts to yell at him in Spanish, and he sits down sheepishly.

The shotgunning guy turns around. “What’s your name again?”

“Cassie,” I say, over the music.

“Sebastian.” He shakes my hand.

“So how are you liking Pi Beta?”

I open my mouth to answer, but before I can, a shrieking sound rips through the bus. I turn around to see a member of Delta Tau Chi standing on his seat and urinating outside the window.

What he doesn’t seem to realize in his apparent bliss is that the pee is coming back in the window a few rows back and spraying on a couple of traumatized Pi Betas in a rainbow of ruined designer bikinis. They scramble out of their seats, squealing.

“OMG, Vivian, that’s your boyfriend! Do something!”

A petite blonde pushes through the aisle.

“The motherfucker’s interned for NASA. I can’t believe he doesn’t understand that his pee will catch the wind.”

The music cuts out, and Chase is back on the loudspeaker. “Attention, Mr. Harris, please sit down and refrain from urinating further until the bus has come to a complete stop.”

We finally arrive at the beach, and there actually is a lot of peeing in the bushes by the guys and, God bless, a few girls who squat in the parking lot.

The guys unload the kegs, and when someone says we forgot cups, I get a fabulous idea.

That’s how I end up doing a kegstand in a bikini as thirty people cheer me on and count (fifteen seconds, not bad for my first try) until I shake my head and am helped back to the ground, half laughing, half coughing.

I’m playing this role better than I ever thought I could.

And then something weird happens.

I realize I’m having real, genuine fun.

Chapter Nine

Rush Retreat leaves me hungover as shit for my first interview session.

I sit with my head in my hands in a room with cold metal walls and industrial lighting, and try to focus on not dying.

The room—“your home for the next year,” as Professor Price referred to it in her email—is empty save for a stark metal desk and a big window on the opposite wall, a one-way look into the room on the other side, where study participants will see only a mirror.

I drag a small recycling bin from the corner of the room to the desk, just in case. I’m really hoping I don’t throw up in this Nobel Prize winner’s trash can, though. Even if my hangover was acquired in the name of our project.

There is no part of the project proposal that specified Fireball shots, you idiot.

I can’t believe I actually thought that was fun yesterday. We laughed and laughed, but nothing was clever; nothing was actually funny. We weren’t friends. We were just people getting fucked up near each other.

The digital clock on the wall reads 10:02 a.m. We’re already almost an hour behind, and there’s probably still twenty minutes until we begin.

Outside, volunteers from Price’s class are having the subjects sign forms, taking down their information and lining them up in the order they’ll enter.

They’re being paid twenty dollars an hour, plus a free catered lunch.

Price stops by briefly to ask if I need anything before leaving to catch a plane and save the world.

I alternate sipping coffee, to try to bring myself out of the fog, and water, to try to hydrate and flush some of the toxins out of my body.

Exhaling, I open my MacBook.

So far, when I log in to my project portal there are only my journal entries and my notes on the books and studies about frats Professor Price has been having me read. Technically, that’s all the Stevenson people wanted, but Price demanded funding for the interviews, because sneaking into one frat and having only their stories is not science, she said—it’s reality TV.

I like it because we can see what they actually do versus what they say in the interviews. It’s only a piece, but an important piece to develop a real picture of what these communities are like.

The idea is when the findings go public, people can read through my journal entries, with Price’s scientific findings and commentary interspersed or in a sidebar. Keep the human element up front, Madison says. But then use the facts to show this isn’t just me ranting, Price always qualifies.

I glance at the clock blinking on the edge of my screen. I may as well work on the Kardashian element while I wait for the science.

In her most recent email, Madison told me my updates so far were “totally fab!” but asked if I could write an introductory entry.

Introduction:

I, Cassandra Davis, an eighteen-year-old girl, a freshman at Warren University and self-declared ardent feminist, am about to join a frat.

I’m doing so with funding from the Stevenson Foundation in order to study the culture of fraternities, which have long been a bastion of the university system, but have also become a center of controversy in regard to diversity in sex, race, sexuality and socioeconomic status. My study will focus on sexism and the treatment of women by these groups.

The fraternity I have chosen is Delta Tau Chi, the oldest frat in existence at Warren. The chapter is currently under probation for creating a “hostile environment for women.” This is based on complaints last year about a party with a misogynistic theme.

But DTC has long been the center of the social scene on campus, and the incident has not altered that.

My intent is to get proof that this wasn’t an isolated incident but rather evidence of a toxic culture. To find and expose the truth.

In order to ensure that the members of the fraternity do not discover my intent, no one knows about my experiment. Not my parents, no one in the frat, no one in any vicinity of Greek Life and no one in the administration. The only people besides myself who are aware of my project are my Stevenson project coordinator, Madison Macey, who lives on the other side of the country, and the renowned woman’s studies expert Eva Price, who is organizing interviews with students in and out of Greek Life.

That is, until you read this, and then the world will know, every friendship I’ve made here will end, and I’ll become the most hated woman on campus.

I highlight and delete the last sentence. I don’t get to care about the social life or reputation of “Cassie Davis, party girl who joined a frat and is aggressively fun.” She’s just a character, and the real me is just an observer, a scientist, an actor, a spy. My college experience gets to be nothing more than one giant social experiment. But considering the boys who thought an important get-to-know-you question was “Ass or tits?” and the girls clawing at each other for those idiots’ attention, it seems like a small price to pay to end the madness.

A message pops up on my computer.

[e-mail]: Ready when you are.

It’s from the research assistant who’ll be inside the room, asking the questions. She knows only about the interview portion of the experiment and thinks that’s it.

She’ll read from a script Professor Price and I developed, but depending on how the conversation turns, I can message her follow-up questions or deviations.

To her, my name is just “Observer 2.” (Price gets to be Observer 1, of course. When she’s here.)

I slip on the large black studio-style headphones and type back.

[e-mail]: Good to go.

The first interviewee is a quiet Hispanic girl. She sits directly across from Stephanie but keeps looking nervously at the mirror.

I smile instinctively, wanting to make her feel more at home. But, of course, she can’t see me.

It turns out she’s a freshman and, having skipped sorority Rush, has had no personal experience with Greek Life.

“My mom warned me against going to the frats, though. She read an article.”

Her interview takes all of ten minutes.

Not the most valuable interview, but general opinion is important to get, too.

Great job! I message Stephanie. One down!

Hundreds to go, but at least not all of them today.

Person after person sits in the chair across from Stephanie. There was a lit club guy with sleeve tattoos who didn’t understand why this study was occurring in the first place. “Do you realize how many more important issues there are? You guys should be talking about fracking, not this bullshit!”

With that, he got up and left. I wonder if he’ll still help himself to the free lunch.

Then there was a junior, a member of a frat—not DTC—who wanted to talk at length about brotherhood and philanthropy, but was unable to remember if there were any racial minorities in his frat during his three years at school.

There was a young woman who, without hesitation, said that she loved to go to the frats on weekends for parties, but never alone. At which point I had to stop myself from yelling through the glass how royally messed up it is that she has to be on guard at a place where she’s supposedly relaxing and having fun.

After a while everyone starts to blur together. I watch people rotate in and out of the chair until I’m dizzy. Watching the window starts to feel more like I’m watching TV, but really boring TV, like C-Span or something.

I watch for hours and hours, and my headset starts to hurt. The same barrage of questions starts to echo in my head.

Do you understand that this study is being done on a voluntary basis?

Are you or have you ever been part of a Greek letter organization?

Have you ever been to an event hosted by such an organization?

What are your perceptions of Greek organizations?

Do you believe them to be communities that are hostile toward women? Can you tell me about an experience where you found this perception to be true?

Can you think of one where the opposite happened?

How often do you feel the generalization holds true?

Have you ever been sexually assaulted? If so, by a member of a Greek organization? By a nonmember?

I’m drawn out of my trance when someone I recognize settles into the chair. She’s one of Alex’s lit club friends. A child of some of the original San Francisco flower children (a flower grandchild, if you will); her name is Lavender.

I wouldn’t say that we’re close friends, but we definitely know each other.

A chill goes down my spine. It’s different when you’re watching someone you know without them knowing you’re there. With strangers, there’s a sort of mutual anonymity, but the next time I see her at Dionysus, she’ll have no idea that I know whatever thoughts, whatever secrets, she’s about to reveal. The mirror is starting to feel like a weird idea.

When Stephanie reads the opening statement, about how this study is regarding the culture surrounding Greek Life, a huge smile spreads across Lavender’s face.

She folds her arms across her chest. “Well, I can tell you now you won’t need to conduct these interviews for long.”

Why’s that? I type.

Stephanie repeats my words.

“It’s clear isn’t it? I mean, it’s been clear for years. Probably since these goddamn things started. They’re terrible. Sexist, racist, literally anything that ends in -ist, they’re probably that. Honestly, I think they should get rid of the whole thing.”

Stephanie looks to the mirror. Then back at Lavender. “So, um, I’m assuming you’ve never been a part of a Greek organization?”

She’s trying to go back to the script.

Lavender just looks at her like she’s insane.

“I—I mean, have you ever experienced any of those things that you just mentioned, at a Greek organization?” Stephanie asks.

“Are you kidding me? I’d never set foot in one of those places.”

“So you don’t know anyone involved with Greek Life?”

“God no, and I’m better for it.”

I place my head between my hands. Can’t do much with that level of proof, but thanks, Lav.

“Are we done here?”

Yes, please.

When the interviews are finally over, I drag myself back to the dorm and do homework until Leighton bursts through the door at 8:00 p.m. and declares she’s going to sleep.

That’s her pattern: stay awake for days at a time partying, or stay in bed for a week, going to sleep at seven or eight and then spending most of the day watching Netflix.

Her sleep schedule flips back and forth between rock star and retiree. I have no idea how she plans to pass her classes.

I start gathering my stuff to go work in the lounge downstairs.

“How was your weekend?” Leighton asks.

I look up, trying to mask my surprise. “Um, it was pretty fun,” I say. “I had a good time Saturday, but maybe too good of a time, considering how I felt today.”

She nods knowingly and wraps herself in her white Ralph Lauren duvet, so only her thin face peeks out.

I sometimes feel like she’s a small child, but with expensive things. Like something broke when she was shipped off to boarding school at the age of nine. The work has transitioned from multiplication to linear algebra, and the fun has transitioned from toys to drugs and boys, but I’m not sure if she’s much different.

While so many of us are homesick and getting used to living on our own, calling our parents crying when we have a cold or get a bad grade, Leighton has a Post-it taped to her desk that says, “Call parents! At least every two weeks!”

“I’m jealous,” she says to the ceiling. “I can’t wait for the frats to be done with their dumb recruitment so we can have real parties. Now it’s all about flirting with the little boys instead of us.” She scoffs.

“Did you rush a sorority?”

“Yeah.” It’s like I can hear the duh in her voice. “Kappa Alpha Delta.” She adds this like it should mean something to me.

“But you moved in at the same time as me?”

“I stayed at my house in the city during Rush.”

“Oh.” But I thought you didn’t like girls?

I expect the conversation to end here, this being the longest Leighton and I have ever talked.

“Why do you ask?”

“I don’t know...that doesn’t really seem like your thing.”

“The baking cookies and shit?”

“Yeah.”

“Doesn’t matter. Not going Greek? That’s like social suicide. I had to be Delta, like, it’s top house, hello, and if I didn’t get in, oh my God, I’d be transferring.” She rolls over on her side, facing me. “Luckily it all worked out.”

She smiles and cuddles up to her pillow. The happy look falls from her face like she’s flipped a switch. “That is, it will all have worked out once the fun can actually start.”

I nod.

She closes her eyes, and I think she might be asleep. And then her eyes flicker back open.

“I mean... I’m sure you’ll be fine, though.” It’s like she just processed that she insulted me. “Maybe you can do deferred Rush? Actually, I can ask my recruitment chair about you, if you want,” she says.

“Thanks, Leighton, that’s very sweet.” I don’t quite know what to say. But I can tell this is a very big favor in her messed-up view of the world.

She’s supporting an exclusive social system and the ranking of cliques...but at least she’s offering to help me into her own toxic clique.

I shake my head.

I throw the notebook in my hand back on my desk and decide to go to bed now and work more tomorrow.

Because there is no way I could write a coherent thought about Greek Life right now even if there was a gun to my head.

Chapter Ten

The coffee tastes thin and watery, like the kind you get on an airplane, and the headphones press into my ears.

It’s just another typical day in the lab, and with my computer on the desk and the one-way glass in front of me, I’m flipping through old notes and only half paying attention to the current interviewee, a girl named Lily with a pixie cut and light blue dress.

“Do you understand this study is being done on a voluntary basis?”

“Yes.”

“That it will be recorded, and that portions of your interview may be published, although your name will be changed?”

“Yes.”

I chew on the end of my pen and look through the window, thinking her headband is cute. It’s really more of a scarf she’s tied around her head.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-one.”

“Are you currently part of a Greek organization?”

“No.”

“Have you ever been a part of a Greek organization?”

“Yes.”

I shuffle through my papers, trying to find the transcript of an interview we did a week ago with a football player and Sig Nu where he kept referring to women as “biddies.”

“How long ago did you leave?”