“First all-campus tonight, bitches. If you don’t get this all set up in time, you will know a new kind of hell.” Sebastian weaves through the room, refusing to help while he yells at everyone to work faster.
There have been plenty of mixers and smaller parties, but now it’s time for the first real Animal House–esque, old-fashioned Frat Party of the Year. An all-campus party, meaning that in theory anyone who goes to school here could be invited. But, as always, there will be a list, and it will be an all-Greek-members or ridiculously-attractive-people-who’ve-become-friends-with-Greek-members party.
“Are you finally gonna come to this one?” Jordan asks me as we lug the sixth keg inside.
I shrug, which basically consists of me moving my head to the side, because I’m still struggling to carry the keg and walk backward.
“Why do you never go to any events?”
“I do. I was there a few nights ago.”
“Not the mandatory pledging ones. I mean parties and stuff.”
“I go.” My voice is higher than usual, giving me away.
“So why do I never see you?”
Maybe because I’m in a corner observing, pretending to text while really taking notes on the number of drinks consumed, number of women hit on, number of songs that glorify violence against women.
I exhale. “I guess I’m just hesitant to go to parties where everyone hates me.”
“Not everyone hates you.”
“Have you seen Yik Yak?” I glance behind me as we move through the door, which is propped open with a full handle of Taaka. “Because I’m a bitch trying to take down Greek Life, a girl hater trying to take down sororities, an asshole apologist who hates women, a lesbian trying to convert straight sorority girls and a slut trying to sleep with the whole house. And none of those things plays well at parties.”
We set down the keg. “I don’t know. I think the last one would play pretty well with the guys at any party.”
I elbow him and take off to unload the rest of the car.
“Hey, that actually hurt!” he yells after me. He holds his arm as he catches up to me. “I don’t hate you, and I’ll be there.” He smiles that smile I can’t help but see when I listen to sappy love songs.
“I’ll consider it.” I look down, biting my lip.
“Let’s go, pledges!” Marco is sitting on the roof of the back porch, yelling through a megaphone and watching as pledges string lights, build a DJ booth and unload industrial quantities of alcohol.
Jordan and I grab cases of Taaka and Southern Comfort from a junior’s car and set up plastic shot glasses in the main room.
As usual, the good booze will be in the actives’ bedrooms, but there’s always a buttload of the cheap stuff for the masses. The level of organization behind the chaos, vice and debauchery amazes me.
“They take this so seriously,” I say as I arrange plastic shot glasses on the table.
“Yeah, well, what do you expect? It’s Warren,” Jordan says.
“I guess I expect them to channel all of this energy into something a little more...important.”
He shrugs. “I mean, they do that, too, right? Like our Rush chair is teaching my computer science section, and our president has interned for the actual president. It’s just that they’re also perfectionists about this stuff. You know, work hard, play hard, Cass. Excellence in everything, whether it’s school, career, athletics or partying. Plus, partying burns off some of the stress.”
Or maybe they’re just a bunch of assholes trying desperately to prove they aren’t nerds just because they care about school.
“Marco, don’t forget to remind all the sorostitutes!” Bass yells as he walks past us into the kitchen.
This term bothers me in so many ways. They throw it around all the time, directed not only toward random girls but also their girlfriends. It’s an insane word to use. Not only is it offensive to women but specifically to women who are a part of their own system.
And as much as I hate to admit, it bothers me almost as much that they didn’t go with sororiwhore or whoroities. They were right there.
“Cassie,” he says as he cuts back through the room. “Make yourself useful—text your lady friends to increase the ratio.”
Oh God.
The ratio: the true mark of a good frat party versus a bad one. Not how many people black out, how many drinking games are won, how many mediocre hip-hop songs are played or, God forbid, if anyone has fun.
Nope, it’s the ratio of how many potential people to sleep with per person trying to fuck. And in this hyperheteronormative environment, that means how many hot girls per guy.
“Okay.” I roll my eyes but text Alex anyway. Not for them, but for me. So I can have one real friend at this party.
I look up from my phone to see Jordan’s eyes on me. He looks away, his face turning red.
Well, maybe two real friends.