Frat Girl. Kiley Roache

arguments, which always get way too heated, considering they always represent the far left and the farther left.

      For half a second they laugh politely, but then the banter goes on, fading to buzzing in my ears.

      I stare down at the street below, the street I danced down when I got my acceptance letter. I’d met the mailman at the curb for five days straight until finally, finally, that letter I’d been dreaming about arrived.

      I was ecstatic to tell my parents that their daughter was going to attend the most exclusive school in the country. I hadn’t even told them where I’d applied, not wanting to get their hopes up.

      I’d pictured hugs and tears. I’d pictured champagne.

      But I should’ve known.

      Should’ve known the response would be that there was no way they were about to spend that much money so I could get a piece of paper that would hang uselessly in my husband’s house.

      I told them not to worry, about the 100 percent need thing. But when the second letter came and it was time to go to the bank for unsubsidized loans and second mortgages, I should have known they’d say it wasn’t worth the trouble.

      I should’ve known my dad would say, between beers, “Hell, your mom didn’t even go to college, and she seems perfectly content.”

      And that my mother would nod and extol the virtues of 1950s-style housewifedom in the twenty-first century. The satisfaction of a life filled with aprons and diapers and Xanax.

      What my father doesn’t know is enough of the latter or a bottle of white wine will get her talking about how she always wanted to be a veterinarian growing up. “Coulda done it, was top of my high school class, you know,” she’d tell me between hiccups. “What am I now? Is this it?”

      I thought I’d study hard and do well and avoid her mistakes. I wasn’t about to get pregnant and married at eighteen. I hadn’t even stopped working long enough to have a boyfriend.

      But I should’ve known what was coming. I should have known years ago when my father went to alumni meetings to protest women being accepted into his alma mater.

      Hell, I should have known when I was seven, eating ice cream earned with straight As, and my father said, “You are so smart. It’s too bad you’re not a boy.”

      Or all those times he said he wished he had a son to carry on the family business (because apparently you can’t run a Chili’s franchise without a Y chromosome).

      Or to be a legacy in his stupid frat...

      “Oh my God! Ohmygodohmygodohmygod.” I scramble off the roof, back through the window and practically run to the computer, where I start searching, typing, printing.

      I work for fifteen minutes before I even sit down.

      I hear Jay and Alex climb back through the window but don’t look up.

      “What—”

      I hold up a finger, cutting Jay off. “Hold on—I don’t wanna lose my train of thought.”

      When I turn around, Alex has pulled the pages from my printer.

      “What is this? Delta Tau Chi?” Her eyes widen, and her excitement radiates from her as if her pink hair is made of fire. “Oh my God, you are not!”

      Jay just looks confused.

      “Can you really?” she asks.

      “As far as I can tell, there’s no rule anywhere. I think it’s just usually assumed or implied. But they’re on probation for telling sexist jokes, so what are they gonna do, kick me out of Rush when there’s no rule against it?”

      “Can someone please tell me what’s going on?” Jay says.

      “I’m joining a frat,” I say.

      “Not just any frat, but the douchiest frat on campus,” Alex interjects.

      I nod. “I’ll go undercover and write a personal account of real culture inside a frat house. Show how terrible and sexist they actually are, so no one can deny it anymore. End them.”

      “That’s crazy,” Jay says, but he’s smiling.

      “I think it’s simultaneously the best and the stupidest, riskiest idea I’ve ever had.”

      “That’s why I love it.” Alex’s purple-shadowed eyes absolutely sparkle. “How can I help?”

      “Hand me those papers. And get some coffee. We have thirty-six hours.”

       Chapter Two

      Dear Cassandra:

      Congratulations, I am pleased to inform you that you have been selected by the Stevenson Fund to receive the Stevenson Scholarship for Study and Research for this year. This scholarship was established to promote a lifelong practice of simultaneous scholarship and creative endeavors, because we at the Fund reject the premise that your career begins only after graduation or that academic pursuit should ever cease. The award value and other information about your scholarship are provided below.

      We were very impressed by all you have done in your academic career, but even more by your potential for growth and future success. This is not simply a prize for what you have done; rather it is an investment in your future. The Fund provides you with a full-tuition scholarship in exchange for equity in any and all entities you create during your time at Warren University. Tuition will be granted each year upon the submission of a renewal application, and on the condition that you maintain a GPA of 3.0 or higher and keep on schedule with all projects.

      Our goal is to help you make a difference in the world. We believe in your vision and leadership, and aim to grant you as much creative independence as possible, but there are certain criteria you are expected to meet.

      With the help of a project coordinator at the Fund, Madison Macey, you will create a plan for the completion of your projects. But you must meet the deadlines you set for yourself or risk losing funding. The exception would be extensions you request with the help of your PC and that are approved by the Fund board.

      Please fill out the attached forms as soon as possible, at which point the amount of your scholarship for one year will be sent directly to Warren University. It will be placed in your student account on hold status awaiting the completion of the first round of tutorials with your project coordinator and the creation of a preliminary four-year plan. Please send this to your project coordinator (address listed below) in two weeks’ time.

      Congratulations, and best wishes for a productive and successful academic year.

      Sincerely,

      Rupert Jones

      Vice President

      Stevenson Scholarship Fund Board

      I stare for the thousandth time at the letter that had changed my life. The result of an all-nighter, followed by the scariest twenty-minute presentation of my life. Then the waiting and checking the mail, and the waiting and the pacing, and the waiting. And then, one morning I opened the mailbox and the waiting had ended, and it was time for screaming and crying and calling my grandmother and getting absolutely obliterated on cheap champagne with Alex and Jay.

      After reading over the letter for the umpteenth time, I fold it neatly and place it in my empty desk in my new dorm room. I want to hang it on the wall for inspiration like I’d done in my room at home, but I have to be low-key about the scholarship or people will ask what my project is. It’s the same reason there wasn’t a press release from the university, and why I didn’t get to attend the Fund’s banquet in New York City. I have a fake backup project about the experience of female athletes, but I’m not about to bring it up in conversation. Which honestly doesn’t make me much different from the other kids on scholarship in a land where most kids arrive at school in Audis and Teslas, if not