“YOU’VE GOT TO BE KIDDING me!” Christine, my best friend and now college roommate, squeals, throwing her purse on the floor of our tiny dorm room. She dances over to the full-length mirror tucked away in the corner of our shoebox-sized living quarters and checks to see how her hair fared after our long night. “I’m gonna love college!”
That’s funny, because I’m thinking the complete opposite.
Just over a month ago, Christine and I relocated to the Windy City to attend our first year at the University of Illinois. I couldn’t wait to rise above and conquer. I had dreams. Goals to take over the world…or at least a small portion of it. Christine, on the other hand, couldn’t wait to become a sister. Both had different plans, both of us just as passionate.
When I thought about attending college in Chicago, I pictured historic building tours, breweries, and prestigious university lectures. Nowhere in my plans was there room for Greek life. Pledging. Sororities. And if it weren’t for my best friend who begged and pleaded that we just try it out, I wouldn’t have been caught dead participating in formal pledge week. A whole week wasted on a concept where mean girls rule the world. I wanted nothing to do with it. I wanted to hang in the parks and capture views of the gigantic fountain. Take a trip to the lake and snapshots of people enjoying the beautiful weather and sand. Instead, I spent it swearing to stay strong while holding my morals tightly in place, vowing not to fall for the long list of what we must become to rise up in the college social ladder.
And in college, it’s exactly where a huge chunk of girls lose their way. Sorority life. A clan of girls who want you to be their sister for nothing more than to capture our souls and turn us into their own personal puppets.
Christine and I pledged. Let me rephrase that. Christine pledged. I may have been forced to participate in the nonsense, but the end result would always be the same: I, Jenson Stone, refuse to be anyone’s puppet. I had zero intention of becoming one of them. A fake form of what guys crave. Nothing was real about them, and not a single ounce of their once upon a time kindness was intact. I like comparing them as the start of a Stepford wife—a mold of a girl they once were. I wonder what parents think of their precious daughters who come home after months of being away with attitudes, much shorter skirts, and a sexual track record that would have their late grandmother rolling deep down in her grave.
College changes people. That’s just a known fact. But a sorority transforms them. Turns once nice girls into mean bitches who want nothing more than to ruin others just to feel ahead. Prettier. Better dressed. It never ends. I know you ask how the hell I know, since clearly, I have no interest, nor want to become one of them. I know it because I’ve spent the last couple weeks observing. Dragged along to each sisterhood get-together: social mixer, pajama party, formal, semi-formal, dance, luncheon, pancake breakfast. Jesus, it didn’t stop. While I was rolling my eyes, not falling for their bullshit spiel, my best friend was asking where she signed her life away.
And now, I stand in my dorm room after yet another party, listening to Christine go on and on about how amazing the life of a sorority sister is going to be. And I can’t disagree more.
“Did you see how awesome that house was? Like, we could live there! That could be us. They all share clothes, Brittany told me. I mean, never-ending closets! And, oh em gee, don’t get me started on all the brand names. Stephanie, the redhead? She was decked out head to toe in Coach.”
I toss my jacket on my bed and head to my closet. The last thing I want to do is spend another second in the outfit Christine forced me to wear. “Yeah, I also saw all the scrunched-up, Botoxed faces eyeing me like the outcast. They were probably horrified to think I was there because I actually wanted in their cult club.” I peel off the black halter top, tossing it into her dirty laundry bin.
“Jensen, come on. They were not. Give them a chance! I think this’ll be good for us. We can make a lot of friends doing this.”
“Friends?” I turn to her, offering her my raised eyebrows. “Christine, those are not our friends. More like blood-sucking vampires who want to use us as their little slaves. Did you hear what some of the girls were talking about? The hazing? No thanks. I’m sorry, but I’m out. I was never even in to begin with.”
Christine lets off a dramatic huff and starts changing for bed. “You know this isn’t high school. Not everyone is how they were back home.” And by that, she means cruel.
I try not to let her comment hurt me. “I know it’s not. But it’s all the same. Girls who just want to control you until, eventually, you turn into a spitting image of them. I don’t need to join a sorority to make friends. Sorry.” And I don’t. I’ve never needed a large group of people to make myself feel whole or wanted. I have my small circle, and I’m okay with that. But Christine wants more. In high school, she was much more popular than I was. She never dealt with bullying and mean girls. I always wondered why she even stayed friends with me. Our families were close, so I chalked it up to that. In a different life, we wouldn’t even be on the same axis when it came to the social circle.
“Look, just stick it out. Come to the mixer tomorrow night, and if you still totally hate it, I’ll get off your back. They said it’s the best party that wraps up Greek week. Brittany said anyone who’s anyone comes. The chances of us both meeting a guy is huge!”
Strike two on her selling me. I have no interest in meeting a guy. No interest in being another notch on a college guy’s bedpost and falling for their bullshit. I came to college to get away from the manipulating and promiscuity.
I throw on my flannel pajama pants, grab my laptop off the old built-in desk, and settle onto the bottom bunk. When we moved into our dorm, the first thing we did was turn our beds into bunks to give us more floor space. Christine said it would give us more room for yoga, like I ever did a yoga pose in my life. I just shook my head and agreed, knowing I would use the space for my photography layouts.
“Either way, just promise you’ll come. We’re each other’s wingman remember? I can’t do this without you.”
I chuckle and open up my laptop. “And when I stick to my guns, what will you do then?”
“Well…I’ll cry or beg until you change your mind. Or maybe a boy will. Or a man? We’re in college now. We no longer deal with boys.”
I roll my eyes so hard, it’s gonna take a dozen boys to move our steel bunk bed to help find my eyeballs that just fell behind it. “Just because we’re in college doesn’t mean there aren’t boys here. Hello, they came to college too. Zack Bronsen? He’s here. Along with half the soccer team. Did the douche squad that pranked you and left you and stole your gym clothes automatically turn into men once they hit college?”
The answer is no. They probably turn into bigger douches, with bigger intentions to fuck over girls. They just have a bigger campus to do it on.
“Ugh, you’re right. And fuck Zack Bronsen. I hope he gets herpes and his dick falls off.”
“Who’s to say it hasn’t already?” That boy had his junk in most of the females in our graduating class. I can’t imagine he didn’t pick up something along the way. Actually, I can’t imagine how many things he picked up along the way. I heard the whispers in the halls and read the writing on the bathroom stalls. Zack may have been one of the hottest boys in high school, but that didn’t make him or his dick invincible.
Christine responds with a loud laugh. She grabs her phone and climbs up the makeshift ladder my dad built to get to the top bunk. The bed jiggles, always giving me a quick jolt. It was made with love, as my dad put it, not stability. He also said it’s not meant to hold more than one person on top or bottom, hinting no boys could sleep in ’em. It’s a shame a little wobble didn’t plan on stopping Christine and her college must-do bucket list.
We fall silent for several minutes. I check my email and respond to a message from my parents asking how things are going so far. We’ve only been at school a month, so honestly, there isn’t much to report. Besides getting to know the campus, Christine and I spent our time before classes began sightseeing. We had our parents drive us up a week early so we could take some time getting to know our new surroundings for the next four years. Chicago was a big, scary place compared to our small town in Oklahoma. That’s why Christine and I made a pact our first day of high school. It was our mission to get out of the O-K. And that required kicking ass at school. Our first choice was New York. They had a great art school and business program, but one of us didn’t get accepted. To this day, I swore I also got denied just to save her feelings, but our second choice was Chicago, and thankfully, we both were accepted.
Christine was gunning for a degree in communications while I was on a scholarship for business. Our families may have been friends for eons, but it didn’t mean we came from the same parts of town. Unlike Christine’s, my parents couldn’t afford a four-year school. If I wanted to leave, I knew I had to make it happen on my own.
“Casey Meyers just posted a picture of her doing a keg stand. Real classy, Racy Casey,” Christine jokes, using Casey’s well-deserved nickname. “Oh man. That kinda looks like fun. How come our school doesn’t advertise these sorts of things?”
“Because we’re attending one of the top ten elite schools in the state. I doubt they want to be known for holding raging keggers.”
I finish off my email to my parents and scroll through social media, which has been a complete shit show since graduation. When you grow up in a small town, going nuts once you leave is no surprise. Everyone from the band geeks to the jocks are posting about their big, bad breakout from small town USA and how awesome their new life is. Steven Morrison, head of our high school football team, posts, “koolest place on earth.” Idiot. It’s a shame he isn’t spending his time in college learning English.
Kids from our graduating class were all around the country, letting their hair down and enjoying their freedom. Curfew is a thing of the past. School is optional, and most of my female classmates no longer need to hide their hickeys and bite marks. Yeah, it’s true. I come from a town where there’s nothing to do but drink and screw. Sounds like a country song, right? But it’s the truth. Our parents did it. Our parents’ parents did it. And the ones before that. It just is what it is in the O-K.
So, I bet you’re wondering when I start bragging about my bold, sultry nights with the football linebacker or the rugby star. Well, I don’t. My experience with sex goes as far as a one-night stand with Jared Matthews, and it lasted about a whole thirty-seven seconds. It hurt, and it was quite embarrassing. More for him—not me. He was drunk, and I didn’t want to be a virgin anymore. I allowed him to kiss me, or shall I say slobber on me, which was closer to the truth of what he was doing. When it finally came down to the sex part of it, it stunk. Both literally and figuratively. He farted the entire time. Once he was done, he told me keg beer gave him horrible gas.
I decided no feeling or sensational explosion I read about in romance books was worth attempting that again. I also heard the following weekend Jared took Mandy Holloway in the back room at a party and vomited while eating her out. Yes, build that mental picture. If it’s not coming, I’ll help you out. He barfed all over her snatch.
Gross.
Either way, I escaped high school without any great stories to tell. But on a good note, I was disease free, along with gossip free. Well…not completely. Rumors of me being a lesbian started. But they didn’t compare to the rumors that poor Mandy had the clap for the second time her senior year and most likely gave it to half the tennis team. I’d take the L-word over the clap any day.
Closing Facebook, I slide my laptop under the bed, crawl under my covers, and lay my head on my pillow that still smells like home.
“Hey, Jensen?” Christine calls my name, sounding almost asleep.
“Yeah?”
“Promise me you’ll just come with me tomorrow night? So I don’t have to do it alone. I’ve never done anything without you.”
Her words guilt me and annoy me all the same. She’s done so much in her short life, I envy her spirit. She has bypassed me in so many ways, and the fact that she still acts like we’re equals astonishes me. It also makes me feel guilty.
“I’ll go with you, Chris.” The words taste bitter, but I fall asleep convincing myself our friendship is stronger than sorority sisterhood.