Frat Girl. Kiley Roache

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.”