Frat Girl. Kiley Roache

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       Chapter Three

      Like a typical freshman girl, I’m spending my first night of college trying on outfit after outfit, making countless trips to the hallway to look in the full-length mirror.

      But unlike a typical freshman girl, I am not obsessing over my outfit for the first day of class. I picked that—a white boho blouse and olive shorts—in about 2.5 seconds.

      I am probably the first girl in history to spend her first night of college obsessing over what to wear to fraternity Rush. Not exactly the trails I thought I’d be blazing when I was seven with a poster of Sally Ride on my wall or when I was fifteen and carrying one of Gloria Steinem’s books everywhere I went.

      But I keep the endgame in mind: one year of investigative journalism in a frat, and I renew my funding. I get to go to college at the best school in the country, and I get three more years of gender-related research funding toward what I really want to do, whether that’s the wage gap in American tech or women’s education in the Middle East.

      Setting the winning outfit on my desk, I recheck the pile of syllabi I printed out earlier for my classes tomorrow.

      I glance at the clock: nine thirty. Leighton left to meet a friend a few hours ago with no indication of when she’d be back and a clear indication that I was not invited.

      Which is fine, it’s not like I particularly want to be friends with her, either. But it would be nice to at least be civil with my roommate.

      I walk down the hall to find Jacqueline’s door open but her room empty. She wasn’t joking about the postcards. Half of her back wall is covered in photos of far-off cities. The photos end in a jigsaw shape, with the rest of the wall blank. On the floor I see painter’s tape and a pile of even more glossy postcards.

      There’s also a poster of a girl stepping off the curb onto a New York street, empty after the rain. It’s dark save for the city lights, reflected on the wet pavement, blurry like they’re running together. Her back is turned, and all you can see is her wavy hair and her arms raised like she’s dancing or celebrating.

      For a second, I can see my life if I were a normal student. I would want to befriend people like Jacqueline, to sit around in her art gallery of a dorm room, talking all night about books and movies we love and places we want to visit. I could introduce her to Alex—they would love each other. We could go for late-night burgers in Alex’s beat-up Saturn and see concerts in the city.

      Music erupts from a room down the hall. A gem that combines “bitches,” “money,” “ass” and “pussy” with the sound of...maybe Transformers having sex?

      I can’t see the listener, who apparently also doesn’t believe in “open door, open friendship,” but a large sign on the door reveals that he’s number 82, Duncan Morris.

      My Hagrid-size frat “brother.” Fabulous.

      I return to my room, slamming the door. I turn the lock and grab my phone, dialing Alex’s number furiously.

      “Hello!” her voice rings with joy.

      “I miss you.”

      She laughs. “I miss you, too. How are you? How’s your dorm? How are you liking college? Tell me everything!”

      “Eh, it’s okay. I’ve spent most of the day unpacking my room.”

      She laughs. “Fair.”

      I stare at the window, at the dark outline of a tree.

      “How’s your roommate?” she asks.

      “Um, she’s okay, too.”

      “Just okay?”

      “Yeah, I mean she hasn’t been mean to me...but she ‘doesn’t like to be friends with girls.’” I do my best Leighton voice.

      “Ew.”

      “I know.”

      “Fuck that shit.” There is a СКАЧАТЬ