Frat Girl. Kiley Roache

wanted to be like that. That’s why I left. I needed to look for more than what the kids talked about at home—who was dating who and where the next my-parents-are-out-of-town party would be—I just knew if I stayed much longer, I’d suffocate. But I wasn’t sure if I’d ever be smart enough to have anything real to say.

      We make it to the top again, and I take a deep breath.

      “You’re right—this is pretty amazing.”

      “Again?” she asks when we reach the ground. She smiles, and it lights up her whole face.

      “I have to go soon,” I say. “I have dinner with a family friend at eight,” I lie.

      She nods and picks up her water bottle, the official one all the athletes are given, a status symbol. She raises it to her lips for a second, then scrunches her nose. “Empty.”

      We leave the climbing area and head to the general gym.

      “Ugh,” she says as the glass door closes behind us.

      “What?”

      “I forgot the athletic gyms are closed today because of training limits. Which means all the meatheads are at the Muggle gym.”

      I look around the room, and sure enough, the whole place is littered with giant men lifting weights. Not exactly your typical Warren student.

      We push past all the scrawny freshmen loitering at the edge of the room and wait in line at the watercooler.

      Jackie is reaching for the faucet when a brick wall of a guy steps in front of her.

      “Hey, dude, there is a line!”

      He doesn’t turn around.

      She reaches up to tap him on his shoulder. He swats behind him, like Jackie’s hand is a fly, before looking over his shoulder. I recognize Duncan, the football player from down the hall. “What?” He takes out one earbud.

      “There’s a line.”

      He laughs and continues to fill his bottle. “I’m in the middle of varsity conditioning. I think I need it a little more than you and whatever elliptical crap you’re doing.”

      My jaw drops. I turn back to Jackie.

      “For your information, I’m an athlete, too,” she says, then stands taller and shows him her water bottle.

      “Okay.” He laughs. He screws the cap back on his bottle and then pulls out his phone, taking his time to select a new song while he continues to block our way to the water, his chest in a sweat-stained shirt like a wall.

      Finally he steps away, shoving his phone back toward his pocket but missing and slipping it into a fold in the fabric instead. It clatters to the floor, ripped from his headphones, and slides across the linoleum to my feet.

      Duncan turns around, panicking.

      “Don’t worry—the screen didn’t crack.” I step forward to hand it to him. I glance at the screen for only a second, but long enough to see that the song he had chosen was by One Direction.

      “Nice taste in music.” I press the phone into his hand.

      He turns white as a ghost. “You can’t—Oh my God.” He grabs my arm and pulls me farther away from the watercooler. “You can’t tell anyone.” His voice is earnest.

      “What? That you were super-rude to us? You didn’t seem bothered by that a minute ago.”

      “About, you know, that playlist. My sister bought the songs, and, I don’t know, I just kind of like them, but my teammates can’t know, okay? So don’t say anything.”

      He seems genuinely freaked, so I resist the urge to laugh.

      “Yes, sure, calm down. I’m not gonna tell anyone. I really don’t care.”

      “Okay, thank you.” His shoulders drop half an inch as he relaxes.

      “Whatever.” I walk back to Jackie.

      God, masculinity is fragile.

       Chapter Eight

      Rush continues to pass without a hitch. When the first weekend and the first round of cuts comes out, I’m one of the few who receives an invitation to the Delta Tau Chi Rush Retreat. Luckily, the email invitation also mentions that the members of Pi Beta will be joining us, so hopefully I will be able to continue inconspicuously, or, at least, less conspicuously than if I was the only girl.

      When I was at Catholic school, “retreat” meant three days at a sleepaway camp, holding hands, praying, lighting candles and sharing secrets.

      I have a feeling that’s not what we’ll be doing.

      It’s six thirty in the morning and cool, because the sun hasn’t burned off the haze when we line up to get on the buses. They’re big yellow ones, rented from the local elementary school.

      Four actives are loading countless cases of beer through the handicap entrance in the back.

      I spot Jordan as I’m climbing on board, and I instinctively smile and raise my hand to wave.

      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,