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I look at the time. “Uh, yes. I do need to go. I have a ton to do.” Royer squeezes my ass and kisses me once again before walking me to the front door.

“Good luck tonight,” he says. “Send me a video.”

I pause at the word and search his handsome face. His expression is clear—innocent. God, I really am paranoid. Fucking Miller.

“I will. See you later.”

One more day, I tell myself once I’m on the sidewalk, walking back toward the dorms. One more day and this will all be over with, and everything I’ve worked and sacrificed for will fall into place.

Bid Night at Wittmore isn’t just the day we find out what sorority we’ve been accepted into, it’s an event. It happens on The Green, a wide swath of manicured grass, under the watchful eye of the clock tower and nestled between the historic oaks on the old campus. The recruits arrive and are given an envelope with their bid. Then, as they say, the recruits “run home” making the trek across campus in dresses and heels with the entire pledge class to their new sorority house.

The whole thing is magical.

I should be humming with excitement. Instead, I can’t stop staring at my mouth in the mirror over my dresser, wondering if people can tell Miller’s cock had been in there a few hours before. If I look different. If I tasted different when Royer kissed me.

Steam wafts into my line of vision, along with the tinge of burning hair.

“Shit,” I mutter, untangling the curling iron from my hair. The ends sizzle and I drop the iron on my desk. “Fuck.”

“What’s wrong?”

I glance at my roommate’s reflection in the mirror. She’s been stretched out on her bed for hours, scrolling through ChattySnap. Janelle and I were matched up randomly. My mother begged me not to room with someone I already knew. She said it would be better for me to make new friends, push outside my boundaries. I agreed, but only because I knew I’d spend most of my time at the GE house once I was accepted. Unfortunately, that was before I met Janelle and saw her black hair, dyed with purple streaks. Living with my biggest enemy would be better than a weirdo-freak.

So far, I’ve learned that Janelle is mostly interested in flannel, ripped jeans (and not in a sexy way) and has an extensive collection of pop culture figurines lining the shelf over her bed. I’m not sure, but at least half look like they’re from anime shows.

Shudder.

“Just this curling iron,” I say dismissively, tucking and re-tucking my hair behind my ear. It’s a nervous habit, one I’ve tried to stop. “It runs too hot.”

“Oh no, you mean your hair may not look like every other girl at the party?”

Janelle is not rushing. She’s not justnotrushing. She’s anti-sorority, a GDI (God Damn Independent) and uses every opportunity she can find to make snide comments about the system.

“It’s not a party.” I coax my curl into something acceptable and start putting on my jewelry. “It’s Bid Night. And my hair doesn’t look like every other girl’s.”

I spent the summer perfecting my hair. Along with dying it to match Andrea’s, I studied the way she coaxed the curls to hang in perfect spirals over my shoulders. Not only did I achieve her look; I surpassed it. Now people wantmyhair.

Janelle glances up from her phone. “Why are you so nervous? It’s not like you don’t already know what’s going to happen. Aren’t you a legacy or something?”

“Third generation.” I slip the earrings my grandmother gave me through my lobes. “It’s still exciting. I want to look my best.”

Janelle rolls her eyes and focuses back on her phone. “I’m glad you’re confident. I ran into some girl in the bathroom earlier bawling her eyes out. She got cut or something. You’d think her life was over.”

“Oh really? That sucks.” I grab my heels out of the closet. “Apparently it happens. Like the preferences don’t match up right, or the recruit suicided or something.”

Suicide.

That’s what I did.

I chose one sorority, GE, and that’s it. It’s not recommended because it looks ‘snobbish’ or something, but I know what I want, and I know they want me. I’m legacy. I’m a perfect fit. I didn’t want to lead on any other group. The issue comes when the sorority you picked doesn’t pick you back—that’s probably what happened to the girl in the bathroom.

“If you ask me, the whole thing sounds like a mass suicide of group-think.”

Laying my hands flat on my skirt, I smooth it out, removing any and all imaginary wrinkles. “Well, no one asked you.”

She sticks out her pierced tongue and goes back to her phone while I wedge my feet into my shoes. Janelle has made her views on sorority culture clear.“It’s nothing more than a group of women with no real identity of their own living up to patriarchal standards. They indoctrinate you into paying for friends and connections…”

At least I have friends, I think, adjusting the strap of my shoe. She hasn’t done anything since we moved in but sit on her bed and watch movies on her laptop. A knock taps on our door. Janelle and I share a look, but she shrugs. “It’s probably someone wanting to walk over to The Green together,” I say, walking over to the door.