She thinks about the mingled shock, guilt, relief, joy, and fury of the crying sorority sister. “Yes,” she says grimly, “I’ve heard of it. I’ll ask you what I wasn’t going to ask the girl crying: What gets the panties on the board?”
Ellie’s scowl deepens. Rebecca braces herself for an answer she knows she’s not going to like. “The board is arranged in rows by rank, which earns the boys different points. Just hooking up normally with someone earns the least points. Girl’s a virgin? More points. In public? More points. Threesomes or groups? More points. Disgusting, but potentially consensual.”
“But?” asks Rebecca, stomach knotting.
“There’s a row for underage girls. Anything above that rank is scumlord and/or illegal. Drugging a girl or getting her drunk. Taking pictures or videos. Having an audience. Rape. Other things.”
Rebecca doesn’t want to ask what she means by other things.
“Then they take a Sharpie and write their name on the panties, plus the girl’s name, phone number, and sometimes even their addresses. A lot of times they staple on a picture of their victim too. At the end of the semester, whoever has the most points gets some kind of prize. They built a pocket door or whatever to hide it whenever people are over, but word got around anyway.” The plastic bottle crinkles as Ellie’s fingers tighten. Not quite a fist, but it would be if the bottle weren’t in the way.
Rebecca watches the water level in the bottle rise with the force of Ellie’s grip. “So Jordan was one of the ones playing the game.”
Ellie snorts. “Jordan started the game when he came back for second year. Guess he figured not being a freshman meant he had enough sway in the house.”
“Did he need sway in the house for that?”
“From the old guard, yeah. For a few years, the chapter here was trying to keep a low profile. Most of the chapters in the state have had serious issues. But the careful ones graduated, and the current ones are stupid assholes. You ever get invited to a party there, don’t go.”
Rebecca nods. She’s not really one for parties anyway, especially not on the Row. She knows that many, maybe even most, of the Greeks are decent enough but also very prone to group influence and pressure. It only takes a few bad apples to make the whole house a toxic and dangerous place for outsiders. Especially in the fraternities. There’s just something about testosterone and patriarchy.
“Why are you asking about Jordan anyway?”
“He’s the corpse at the hooker stop.”
“Really?” Ellie laughs and leans back against the wall, holding the cold bottle to her breastbone. “Wonder what he was doing all the way out there?”
“Well, not to guess the obvious, but . . . hooker stop?”
But Ellie shakes her head. “I doubt it. We’ve got a couple of his frat brothers in Crim. Theory, and according to them, Jordan likes his prostitutes like he likes his cars: flashy, pricey, and in your face.”
“Can’t say I’ve seen his car.”
“You’ve definitely seen his car,” says Ellie. “It’s that tomato piece of boxy shit that’s always double-parked at Gerson Hall.”
Rebecca doesn’t tend to pay much attention to cars, purely for the satisfaction of infuriating several of her car-obsessed cousins. She shrugs and takes another drink, smaller this time, and holds it in her mouth until it’s warm enough to swallow painlessly. “Well, he’s dead now. Any particular reason you were drinking in the middle of the day?”
“Hangover was being a bitch.”
“That’s what water is for,” she says reprovingly.
“Sure. And while I’m waiting for the water to have an effect, I’ll have some hair of the dog.” She scratches her scalp, leaning forward just enough to shake her hair behind her shoulders. “Admittedly, that works better when I don’t fall asleep before I drink the water.”
“Also probably helps if you drink something that doesn’t double as pesticide.”
Ellie glances at the nearly empty bottle on the nightstand and snickers. “Taste sucks, but you can’t beat the price.” She smothers a yawn behind her hand. “If you’re not doing anything tonight, we could get something better.”
“We have a test tomorrow.”
“So?”
“So I’m studying tonight,” Rebecca says firmly. “You’re welcome to join me at the library.”
“I study better with tequila.”
“I’ve seen you on tequila. You don’t do anything better with tequila.”
Ellie just flaps a hand dismissively.
“You enjoy that, then,” says Rebecca. “I’m taking back my clothing and doing some reading before I head to the library. If you change your mind, you’re still welcome to join me later.” She stands and gathers the pile of clothing. One of the socks makes a break for freedom as she stands. When she crouches down to retrieve it, Ellie’s hand wraps around her wrist. She looks up to see her friend leaning forward across the narrow bed. “What?”
“Why do you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Obsess so much about homework and tests and things. Once you finish the class, no one cares.”
“Yes, but first you have to finish the class.” She rests her chin on the edge of the mattress near Ellie’s knee. “How you do in one class affects your ability to get into others. The work you do or do not put in affects your relationships with professors, affects recommendations and references and internships. But more than that . . .” She licks her lips and gathers the words she wants. “I signed up for these classes,” she says eventually. “I agreed that they were necessary steps toward what I want to do, and I paid good money for the opportunity.”
“Please, you’ve got scholarships,” Ellie says. “You’re spending other people’s money.”
“All the more reason to take it seriously. If I’m not going to do the work—if I’m not going to give my best—then that money would have been better put to someone else’s goals. By accepting that money, I pledged to be worthy of it.”
“Ever thought that you’re working harder instead of smarter?”
“If I’m not willing to do it right, I shouldn’t be here.” She rocks forward to nudge Ellie’s knee with her nose. “So why are you here, then?”
“Because my parents didn’t give me a choice.” Ellie laughs. “What else was I going to do?”
“Get a job, go to trade school, get married, go traveling . . .”
“I’d get arrested if I went traveling without a keeper, and for the rest? Pass.”
“So you don’t care at all?”
“Only about the important things, which excludes most of what they prattle on about in class.”
Rebecca blinks, trying to wrap her head around that. School is so expensive and time consuming, and she can understand not wanting or being able to go, but to be here and waste it? Her family cares less about grades than about effort; whatever the result, you do your best. They’d skin her alive if she routinely skipped class or did the bare minimum. Frowning, she pulls her wrist away from Ellie and reaches for her sock. Her pinkie tangles through a shoelace, dragging the shoe out from under the bed.