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 clattering sound on the other end of the call, followed by laughter. Alex giggles before seeming to remember our conversation. “Um, how’s your room, minus the slightly unhinged person living in it?”
“Fine. Pretty small. The beds are uncomfortable, so I think I’m gonna get one of those topper things.”
“I did that last year,” Alex says. “What’s nice about the house is we can get whatever furniture we want because it’s owned by the alumni and not the school. Also we can paint the walls!” Her voice gets higher and louder. “I think I’ll do one black and then write quotes in silver Sharpie.”
“That’s gonna look awesome.”
“I hope so. Or at least that it turns out better than any of the paintings I did this summer. What a bunch of train wrecks.”
“Oh shut up. That one of Jay’s dog was MoMA material, and you know it.”
We both laugh. I lie back on my uncomfortable bed and close my eyes, and it almost feels like home.
“Can we hang out tonight?” My voice is weak.
“I wish, but there’s a mandatory event at the house. Bonding activities or whatever. I’d invite you to come along, but it’s all rituals and secrecy and stuff.”
“Yeah. I understand.”
Although the members of DTC might not realize it, Warren housing and social life do not live and die by the frats.
While there are fourteen houses with ancient letters on them, there are far more without.
Some are ethnic themed: French House, Black House, Native House, Casa. Others are “learning-living communities” organized by major.
The remaining houses are the lit clubs. Alex lives in one of those.
And let me tell you, they could not have created more Alex-y housing if they tried.
The five lit clubs range in hipster level from Urban Outfitters to basically a commune.
The house members are connected by a “literary fraternity” so they can have official events together. All of them practice free love, “mind-opening” drug use and vegetarianism to different degrees.
Alex lives in what I’m already sure will be my favorite. Most people at Dionysus spend meals and homework time fully clothed, but there’s definitely lots of house-cest to go with the communal stall-less showers and sleeping rooms. Like, there are no bedrooms, just rooms to hang out in and a giant screened-in porch with forty bunks and hammocks.
Not totally my speed, but better than dorm life with Leighton. “Can I just come live with you instead?”
Alex sighs. “I wish. But hey, at least you don’t have to live in the land of freshmen for too long.”
“Yeah, but then what? I move into the land of assholes and creeps?”
“Aw, c’mon, Cass—they’re just people. Not all Greeks are evil, you know.”
“We’ll see about that.”
I hang up the phone and sigh, searching my room like something to do or a new friend might appear.
On my first night of college, I go to bed at ten o’clock.
* * *
All throughout my first day of classes I can barely focus. As soon as the last one ends I run back to my dorm to start getting ready.
I shower and put on a lot of makeup, but nothing too bright or dramatic. I want the boys thinking I’m not wearing any, that I’m supercool and not at all vain. Idiots.
I put on a short, tight but simple dress made of T-shirt material, the type of dress a guy would pick out for a girl. I don’t want to wear anything that looks girlie or frilly, but I need to look hot. The fun, sexy party girl who you forget is a girl except for when you think about fucking her.
After slipping on red-and-white high-tops, I plug in my straightener. A ponytail would be too tomboyish. And curling my hair would look like I tried too hard. (Boys don’t understand that all heat tools take the same level of effort.)
While I can’t seem too much like a girlie-girl, I also don’t want to seem like one of the boys, because then I’ll lose out during Rush to real boys. To these misogynist dickwits, I will never be a better man than a man. So I need to use my assets. I need to be like one of the guys, but with boobs.
It’s disgusting.
I check the campus map three times before I leave. I can’t show up with it—looking like a stupid freshman will be an automatic loss of Rush points or whatever it is.
“Hey, Cassie, where are you headed?” My RA, Becky, pounces as soon as I make it to the lobby.
“Out.” I push through the old, heavy doors.
Well, I’ve been on campus about a day now so it seems about time to cement my social group for four years. I make my way toward The Row, winding between palm trees and sandstone buildings. There are a few other people out and about, but mostly campus is pretty empty.
A large fountain that looks like a demented tree sits empty, turned off because of the drought. Am I supposed to pass that?
I try to remember the tour I took when I arrived on campus.
Okay, yes, I definitely passed the math building before, although all the academic buildings do kind of look the same.
I glance around.
Shit, I definitely did not pass this weird modern art statue before. I would have thought it looked like a giant bug and laughed for sure. I would never have forgotten that.
There’s no way I’m not going to be late now. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Why’d I have to go to the biggest freaking campus in North America?
I pull out my phone. Please, please, pleeeeeasse. Oh, cool, it’s at 20 perc—
And it died. Awesome. I live in Silicon Valley, but that won’t stop my iPhone from jumping from twenty to zero whenever it feels like it. I fight the urge to throw the $600 piece of hardware at the weird ant statue.
“Are you all right?”
I turn around.
The beautiful