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Frat Girl by Kiley Roache (23)

My door is shaking, and there is a banging from somewhere close. I awaken with a jolt, sitting straight up in bed. The room is pitch-black, and my heart is racing.

Oh my God, what are you supposed to do when there’s an earthquake? I never learned this. I’m going to die because I’m Midwestern.

“Let’s go, pledges—wake up!”

So it’s not an earthquake; they’re rolling us out again. Stumbling out of bed, I check my phone: 3:30 a.m.

On a school night. Fabulous.

I throw on a bra and shoes, and head out into the hallway.

Pledges are emerging from their rooms like zombies.

“What’s going on?” I ask the zombie who’s double the size of the rest.

“I have no freaking idea,” Duncan says. “All I know is I have practice in four hours.”

We collect on the lawn in front of the house, waiting for orders. The morning wind bites at my skin, exposed by my thin tank top. Some of the guys are in just boxers; at least I’m better off than they are.

A whistle cuts through the darkness. Sebastian is standing on the doorstep, looking smug.

Behind him Marco is in neon workout gear and a backpack, like he was already planning on getting up at the asscrack of dawn to jog and wanted passing cars to spot him.

“All right, pledges, let’s start running!” Marco takes off down the steps, cuts through the disjointed crowd of pledges and onto the road.

“You heard the man!” Sebastian says. “Go!” He whistles again.

We run in a pack, athletes near the front, Bambi and I near the back. My flip-flops slap against my feet and cut between my toes, so not meant for this.

Sebastian continues to blow the whistle with every step we take, and my head begins to pound.

I wonder if we’re going to make the rounds to the sororities again. The thought of more Taaka in my stomach, let alone my eye, is revolting.

But we turn away from the sororities.

Oh, so main quad. Hopefully we won’t have to vandalize anything too priceless.

But we pass the turn toward the quad and continue to run straight.

“Where are we going?” I ask Duncan, but even as I say it I realize the answer.

We file onto the lawn of Sigma Alpha, shivering, as Marco walks to the front of the group.

“All right pledges.” He swings his backpack around to the front. I’m not sure what I’ll do if they ask me to drink. I have class in a few hours and really need to stay sober, but I’m worried if I say no they’ll reprimand me—meaning more shots. He reaches into the bag and pulls out some sort of flag. He unfurls it and holds it up so we can all read what it says. “Alpha Sigma Sigma” is written in huge letters, with the first letter of each word in extrabig type. “The first one to climb that pole and replace their stupid flag with this gets out of housecleaning for a week.”

I look up at the flagpole that reaches as high as the second-story windows.

Well, fuck.

The varsity athletes step up immediately, of course. They fight for a while about who gets to go first. Marco finally settles it based on pledge points.

And one by one, they take the flag and walk up confidently, each guy easily pulling his body up halfway using his overly muscled arms before he loses his grip and slides back down.

And then I remember what Jackie said. You think it’d be all about upper-body strength, like the big bodybuilder types would be the best. But petite girls are actually the most suited, because of their low center of gravity. You’ve got to have the right balance of flexibility and core strength, and traditional athletes don’t always have that.

What would she think if she knew when she said it that she’d be helping me pledge a frat?

I stand up. “I’d like to try.”

Everyone turns to look at me.

Marco shakes his head, but Sebastian looks amused.

“Well, then, get up here, Title IX.”

“Excuse me, excuse me, excuse me,” I whisper as I make my way through the crowd of boys, who are all sitting down now and refuse to move for me.

Marco hands me the flag while the crowd chatters and laughs. I look down at my shoes and pause for a second before sliding them off.

“A ho’s natural habitat!” one of them yells, but it’s impossible to know who in the dark. Scattered laughter follows. A stripper joke, charming.

I look back at them, these blurry faces of my so-called brothers, and feel so alone. My heart races, and the metallic taste of adrenaline is on my lips.

Now that I’ve taken this risk I cannot afford to fail.

I turn back to the pole, take a deep breath and close my eyes for a second. I visualize myself reaching the top to roars of congratulations from an adoring crowd that does not exist.

“Any day now, Nine.”

I open my eyes and step forward. I unfurl the flag, using it to tether myself to the pole, making sure the knot is supertight. I reach up, grab the pole and start to pull my weight higher. I grunt with every movement, remembering my tennis instructor when I was little telling me this would add extra force to my swing. It is not a ladylike sound. I place my feet against the cool metal, feeling my bare soles grip, then reach one arm up, followed by the other. I reposition my feet accordingly, then repeat the process again and again.

Finally I glance down. I’m about halfway. I take a deep breath and, remembering Jackie telling me once to engage my core, focus on one small movement at a time, maintain three points of contact.

My arms ache, but it feels good, like my muscles are working.

Now I’m three-quarters of the way there, and there’s chatter on the ground again. Even from here I can tell the tone has shifted, but I don’t let that go to my head. I remember their lack of belief, let it burn in my chest and push me forward.

I reach the top and rip Sigma Alpha’s flag from its string with one hand, releasing it so it flutters to the dusty ground.

Now for the hard part.

I wrap my legs around the pole and engage my thighs. With my right hand I hold on literally for my life. With my left, I untie the flag that’s tethering me to the pole. Luckily there’s a carabiner at the end of the flag, so I’m able to attach it in one swift movement.

Then I grab the pole and slide down like a firefighter, which burns my thighs. The guys are clapping and screaming (some nice things and some obscenities) before I reach the bottom.

Setting both feet on the ground, I smile like it was no big deal. But inside I am so glad I did not die.

I step back from the pole and curtsy, hands holding an invisible skirt. I look up to greet my fans. Duncan is whooping and hollering, giving me a standing ovation. The others are still sitting, but I meet Jordan’s eyes and he claps harder, then stands up slowly.

Marco runs up and hugs me, picking me up off the ground and spinning me around. “No one’s ever actually done it!”

I laugh till I can’t breathe, and he sets me down.

“Pledges, say hello to your new motherfucking top pledge!” Marcos says. “You’re dismissed. See you bright and early tomorrow for houseclean.”

“There’s irony for you—the girl doesn’t have to clean the house,” a gruff voice says.

I turn around, but only see Duncan throwing me an apologetic thumbs-up. Whoever spoke has disappeared into the crowd.

So much for our moment of bonding. I was the weak pledge and they hated me, now I’m a threat, so it’s time to hate me again.

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