A DEBAUCHED FRAT PARTY
MARY KATE
There’s a dry, needling kind of cold, the kind that starts in your ankles and burrows up through the rest of you until you can’t even tell if you’re shivering, or if your bones are just rattling with anticipation.
I stand in the front yard of Sigma Epsilon Chi at exactly nine-oh-three p.m., my knees locked, my calves covered in goosebumps, my cowboy boots frozen to the crust of dirty, stomped-flat grayish-green lawn.
The house itself looks like it’s been repurposed from Grey Gardens — four stories tall, cracked green siding, roof patched in three colors of shingle, windows fogged with condensation and bass so heavy you can feel it in your retinas.
A constellation of cigarette butts glows and dies along the porch, the kids there shifting from foot to foot, shoving hands deep in pockets and laughing too loud, like the joke is that none of them actually belong.
After all, when he asked to see my outfit, I turned it into a fashion show of sorts.
I paraded down the stairs in my first choice: a little black halter that made my boobs look like they were stuffed into a pair of silk stockings and gift-wrapped for Christmas, paired with a short skirt and cowboy boots.
Kent’s whole body went rigid — and not in the fun way.
His Adam’s apple bobbed. For a minute, he looked like he was going to tear the roof off the house.
“Are you shitting me?” he ground out between clenched teeth.
“No. I mean, yes?” I asked, smiling sweetly. “Why, don’t you like this, Daddy?”
Kent grabbed me by the elbow and marched me upstairs, tearing through my closet like a madman until he found some old sweats.
He threw that on the bed and said that would be my outfit to the party, which I obviously rejected.
We ended up compromising: I still have the short skirt and boots on, but instead of the halter top, I’m clad in a tight white tee that clings to my bust. The whole interlude was deeply satisfying to me, the gleam of desire in Kent’s eyes making me clench my thighs together with need.
But now, the outfit is nothing against the cold wind.
I’m here in the yard, shuffling in a line twenty-deep, waiting for the frat brother in the blue beanie to check my ID against a clipboard of names, as if this is a fucking border crossing and not a bunch of horny college kids desperate to get a buzz on.
I glance around, trying not to look lost, and catch sight of a cluster of girls in sequined mini-dresses, bare legs pinking under the porch light, hair smooth and gleaming.
They’re prettier than I am, or at least better at pretending.
They’re laughing at something on a phone, shrieking, one of them doubled over with her mouth wide open.
The guy behind me mutters, “Jesus, why do they all sound like seagulls,” and I fight the urge to laugh along.
My phone vibrates. New text: “Inside already. Don’t let the jocks eat you.” It’s from Emmeline, obviously.
I shuffle forward, heels digging little divots in the grass.
My skirt does a shit job of keeping me warm.
The wind nips at the backs of my thighs and needles between my toes.
There’s a sharp, chemical tang in the air — the reek of vodka, weed, the weird plastic funk of a six-pack left to freeze and then thaw in someone’s trunk.
Blue Beanie finally looks up, scanning the line like a cop. “Name?”
It takes me a second to realize he means me. I squeeze to the front, fish my student ID out, and flash him my best smile. “Mary Kate Ashton.”
He squints at his clipboard, then at me. “You’re a legacy?”
“No,” I say, “Clay Newell invited me? He said to just come.”
The boy shrugs and waves me through with a flick of his wrist. “Don’t break anything.”
I step into the vestibule of the house, and immediately lose all sense of orientation.
The air is a furnace, sticky with sweat and beer and the citrus blast of industrial air freshener.
People are stacked shoulder to shoulder, the floor glossy with something that’s definitely not just spilled beer.
I let myself be swept along, inhaling the chaos, the wet hair, the cologne, the rattle of laughter and the roar of music that vibrates the walls.
My first thought: No one here is sober. My second thought: This is a genuinely terrible idea.
I drift down the hallway, past a “coat check” that’s just a pile of jackets thrown on a couch, past a living room where six guys in sunglasses are playing beer pong and the table is already bowed in the middle from years of use.
I see two couples making out against opposite walls, hands up shirts and down jeans, and for a second I feel a sharp pang of envy that has nothing to do with sex and everything to do with not wanting to be alone.
“MK!” A voice yelps in my ear, and a hand clamps down on my shoulder. I spin, my boots skidding on the tile, and there’s Emmeline: flushed, glitter in her hair, wearing a neon yellow micro-mini that basically doubles as a belt.
She hugs me like we’re war buddies reunited. “You made it! I was convinced you’d bail.”
I let her squeeze me, grateful for the anchor. “Sorry I’m late,” I shout over the din.
She rolls her eyes, pulling me closer to the wall. “It’s fine. Besides, you know how it is. I had to change three times so I was practically late myself.” She runs her hands down my sides, then leans in to stage-whisper: “You look hot, by the way. Like, genuinely, super-spicy hot mama.”
“Liar,” I say, but I can’t keep the smile off my face. “You look good too.”
She giggles.
“I’m going for the banana look. This mini-dress can be peeled right off hardy har har!”
I giggle because Emmeline’s corny jokes are always the best.
But my friend means business. She grabs my wrist, hauling me into the current. “Come on. You need a drink. This is the only way to survive a Sigma party. Plus, I want to show you something.”
The kitchen is more crowded than the hall.
Every surface is coated in a film of what I pray is just spilled beer.
The sink is full of Solo cups and someone’s abandoned wig.
There’s a keg in the corner, half-draped by a wet cloth, which makes me want to vomit.
Emmeline hands me a red cup, already full, and I take a cautious sip: jungle juice, sickly sweet, fizzing with a cheap seltzer that makes my tongue numb. I cough.
“Don’t sip, chug,” she orders.
I pretend to drink, letting the syrupy stuff sluice over my teeth, then set the cup on the counter.
She tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear and says, “So. You know the Sigma guys have a reputation, right?”
I arch an eyebrow. “For what, sexual harassment?”
Emmeline snickers. “No, for being party gods. Like, no one else on campus even comes close. My older sister said they once rented a llama and had it in their living room all night.”
This seems possible, judging by the state of the floor.
I lean against the counter, arms folded. “You said you wanted to show me something.”
She lowers her voice, conspiratorial. “It’s downstairs, but you can’t freak out, okay?”
I’m about to protest, but she’s already pulling me through the tangle of bodies, her fingers locked around my wrist. We snake down a staircase that smells like sweat and cheap weed, the bass shaking the banister.
The basement is only slightly less packed: fewer people, but the air is thick with hookah smoke and the strobe of a DJ light that spins the hallway into an aquarium of blue and pink.
Emmeline pauses at a door, presses her finger to her lips, and nudges it open.
Inside, it’s like a different world: the lights are low, the music softer, and the room is full of guys — and a few girls — circled up on couches and beanbags.
In the center is a glass coffee table, and on it is an honest-to-god mountain of pills and tiny baggies, arranged in color-coded stripes like someone’s high school chemistry project.
The air is perfumed with vanilla vape clouds and the sweet, sour bite of energy drink.
She nudges me. “Check it out. You ever seen this much at once?”
I’m not na?ve, but I’ve never seen a full street pharmacy laid out so brazenly. There’s Adderall, Molly, weed gummies, Xanax, some tiny pink tabs I can’t even identify. One of the Sigma guys, a tall redhead with hands like dinner plates, is organizing the pills with a deck of playing cards.
“Is this even legal?” I whisper.
Emmeline shrugs. “It’s only illegal if you get caught.”
She snags a gummy, pops it in her mouth, then offers one to me. “Loosen up,” she says. “You’re too tense.”
I shake my head, but the impulse to fit in is a living thing, thrumming in my chest. I take the gummy, hold it up to the light — it’s shaped like a tiny dick, because of course it is — and put it on my tongue. The taste is pure sugar, nothing else.
Emmeline squeezes my shoulder. “See, that’s not so bad.”
I start to laugh, but the sound is drowned out by a fresh eruption of cheers from the hallway. Apparently someone just did a keg stand in the bathtub.
We drift back to the landing, and Emmeline leans in, lips at my ear. “Besides, you know what Sigma Epsilon Chi spells, right?”
I shake my head, dizzy from the sugar rush and the noise.
She cups her hand around my ear. “S-E-X,” she mouths, and then giggles. “It’s “sex” in Greek letters. Isn’t that clever?”
I try to laugh, but there’s a pang in my stomach, a chill that has nothing to do with the weather outside.
The word S-E-X hangs in the air, heavy and electric.
I imagine Kent’s face if he could see me now: standing in a stranger’s house, skirt bunched around my waist, eyes watering from vape clouds, surrounded by guys who look like they could pick me up with one hand.
I tell myself it’s fine, that I’m safe, but the hairs on the back of my neck are prickling.