For Cassandra Davis, the F-word is fraternity—specifically Delta Tau Chi, a house on probation and on the verge of being banned from campus. Accused of offensive, sexist behavior, they have one year to clean up their act. For them, the F-word is feminist—the type of girl who hates them to the core and is determined to make them lose their home.

With one shot at a scholarship to attend the university of her dreams, Cassie pitches a research project—to pledge Delta Tau Chi and provide proof of the misogynistic behavior for which they are on probation. After all, they’re frat boys. She knows exactly what to expect once she gets there. Exposing them should be a piece of cake.

But the boys of Delta Tau Chi have their own agenda, and fellow pledge Jordan Louis is certainly more than the tank-top-wearing “bro” she expected to find. With her heart and her future tangled in a web of her own making, Cassie is forced to realize that the F-word might not be as simple as she thought after all.

KILEY ROACHE is a college student who spends her time reading, writing and justifying the purchase of cold-brew coffee. On campus, she can be found either studying justice and international relations in the library or asking strangers in Main Quad if she can pet their dog. She has worked as a reporter for the Chicago Tribune’s teen publication and the San Francisco Chronicle, and blogged for Huffington Post Teen. Originally from Chicago, she currently lives in Stanford, California, in a house with sixty of her closest friends.

Frat Girl is her first novel, and she’s hard at work on her second for Harlequin TEEN. Visit Kiley online at

www.kileyroache.com

and follow her on Instagram,

@kileyroache

, and on Twitter,

@kileyroache

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018

Kiley Roache asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © March 2018 ISBN: 9781474056694

Praise for Frat Girl

“A sweet, subversive deconstruction of frats and feminism, Kiley Roache’s debut will have readers sighing and snorting at Cassie’s adventure into fraternity life and finding her own truth.”

—Christa Desir, award-winning author of Bleed Like Me and Other Broken Things

“Refreshingly honest and intelligently written, Frat Girl is filled with relevant topics and written by an author to watch!”

—Julie Cross, NYT and USA TODAY bestselling author

To the friends I’ve made in college:

You’re feminists.

You’re frat boys.

But most important, you’re family.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Title Page

Praise

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Acknowledgments

About the Publisher

Chapter One

The Stevenson Scholarship was magic. It had the power to make a $60,000 annual bill disappear. It was the difference between a community college and the school of my dreams. Between spending the next four years in giant lecture halls with the same kids who partied their way through high school ignoring me while I studied alone and they skipped class for beer bongs and wet T-shirt contests, and joining the most elite group of young men and women in the world. Between spending the next chapter of my life still in the Midwest—land of marrying at twenty-two and popping out 2.5 kids—where half the people would assume I was going to college only to get my “MRS degree,” and flying away to California to study feminist and gender studies at one of the most progressive places on earth.

But I needed a project. The scholarship was funded by tech billionaire Greg Stevenson. You know, the one who created an empire by night and studied by day when he was in college just ten years ago.

My online application was picked from among thousands, and the interview rounds went better than I could have dreamed. I was one of two finalists left and would be pitching my project to the board, including Stevenson himself, in a few days.

I wasn’t terrible at public speaking, so I wasn’t too stressed about presenting my idea.

The problem would be not having one.

“I’m so fucked,” I say, sitting at my desk and scrolling through Facebook, like I might find inspiration there.

I turn to my best friend, who is sitting, her ass halfway out my open second-story window, chain-smoking Marlboros.

“What’s the other person doing, again?” she asks.

The official emails didn’t tell me who my competition was, let alone what they were doing, but I searched Twitter for the name of the scholarship, and, lo and behold, my competition is the type to Tweet his every movement, from trying out a gluten-free diet for fun to humble bragging about how #blessed he was to be a Stevenson Award finalist.

Two hours of stalking instead of working on my project later, and I knew he was a CS major from San Francisco who’d already created two moderately successful social media apps. I also knew waaaay too much about his cat, Ashby.

“It’s got to be another app, right?” I say.

“Well, I’m assuming it’s not poetry,” Alex says, swinging her combat-booted foot, casting a shadow on my baby-pink walls.

I pull out my phone and turn my whole body toward her, sitting cross-legged on my desk chair.

“He Tweeted yesterday at 11:06 a.m. ‘working on a new project’ and then two hours later ‘coding by the pool. Could I be more #SiliconValley #California!?!’”

Since the fund is run by Stevenson’s charity, not his company, they supposedly invested in all sorts of projects, but there was a clear favor toward the technical, money-generating kind.

“So he’s the same idiot that school is made up of.” Alex takes a long drag and blows smoke out the window, toward the quiet suburban street below. “You’re something different. Sell that.”

“Yeah, I’ll just tell them I want to do something different. I don’t know what, but different.”

“Welcome to being a humanities major.” She shrugs.

Alex and I have been best friends since the Model UN conference I attended freshman year, when I was waiting for another young Republican in a suit to give the opening remarks and instead she bounded onstage: pink-haired, tattooed and brilliant.

She’s a year older than me and the only person from our town to go to an elite school before me. In fact, she’s at the school I’m so desperately trying to find a way to attend: Warren University.

Before college she went to the giant public school with metal detectors at the entrances—the same school my parents paid the archdiocese an obscene tuition to keep me safe from—where she got straight As in all APs and tried every drug ever invented. “God, imagine how smart she’d be if her brain was fully functioning,” our friend Jay once said.

Dirt-poor and knowing equally about ’shrooms and Sophocles, she didn’t exactly scream typical Warren University student. But she was everything they want to be. They dress like her at Coachella, but she’s been going to the thrift store since fifth grade, when her dad was laid off, not since vintage came back.

We’ve been at this all week, spitballing stupid ideas fueled by coffee (me), cigarettes (Alex) and rosé (her all day, me once I give up).

“What’s up, nerds?” Jay leans against the door.

“I’m watching my future slip away from me,” I say, putting my head in my hands.

“Ugh, drama much?” He flops down on my bed. “Just be like me. Go to IU and have blonde girls with Delta Delta Gamma tank tops stretched over their double Ds try to claim you as their very own gay best friend while you fuck their closeted football-player boyfriends behind their backs.”

I wish I could. Well, at least the attending-IU part. I had messed up pretty royally when it came to applying for schools. My mom hadn’t gone to college, and my dad “didn’t have the time to waste” on helping me, so it was just me and a guidance counselor with three hundred other students to help.

So when I went to college night and the Warren representative stood up in his gold-and-blue suit and said they meet 100 percent of financial need, I believed him. I applied early, and when I got my acceptance, I saw no reason to try anywhere else.

But then the financial aid letter came. And the people who sat in a boardroom in California saw meeting my need in a different way than me and my mother did, bent over bills in our cramped kitchen. They included the restaurant franchise in their assessment of what my parents “owned,” but it wasn’t like they were about to sell it to meet my tuition.

By that point, it was too late to apply anywhere else.

But I don’t want to talk about all that right now. I turn to Jay and roll my eyes. “My gender and orientation prevent this plan, but thanks for your input.”

“Yeah, I think that’s just you, Jaybird,” Alex chimes in from the window.

He rolls his eyes. “It’s overrated anyway.” He props himself up on his elbows, swinging his feet up and down alternately. “Is angst-y time over? Because I’d like to enjoy one of our last nights together before we all grow up and our souls die, Wendy Darling.”

“He’s right—not thinking is when I think my best. C’mon, bring the wine.” Alex steps up on the windowsill and pulls herself onto the roof. We grab the bottle and follow.

Lying on the roof of my parents’ compact house, we stare at the stars and city lights. We listen to trains go by and point out planes coming into the airport a neighborhood over. We pass around Two Buck Chuck Rosé and sip from the bottle. And I try to think about anything except for getting out of here on one of those planes. About the pitch in three days that will decide my fate.

I take a sip. “Seriously, though, the school’s in goddamn Tech Town, USA. What gender and sexuality studies project will make them happier than a million-dollar app idea?”

“A million-dollar app that just allows people another way to socialize?” Alex takes the bottle from me, takes a long pull and continues. “I mean, I like socializing, but, please, like the best and brightest people in the world don’t have better things to do?”

Jay snaps his fingers in agreement.

Alex pauses just long enough to nod at him. “I mean, I’d prefer world-class minds to be endeavoring to understand who we are and why we are here and what this place—” she waves her hands, sweeping into her sentence the suburb around us and stars above us, and almost spilling the pink wine “—means, not creating apps that make it easier for eighth graders to send each other tittie pics.”

I take the wine back and think about this as I sip the hypersweet concoction.

“You could start some sort of nonprofit for girls in tech,” Jay says.

“I looked it up—there are already like five student groups there that do that. Plus I know almost nothing about coding.”

“You could learn.”

“Yeah, but if they’re gonna give someone this much grant money, they kind of want you to be able to produce something for them pretty quickly. Not like, I’ll get back to you when I learn how to code.”

“Truuuuue.” Jay nods solemnly.

We lie silently for a while.

“Maybe Warren is too much of an old boys’ club to want a major gender project,” Alex says.

“Maybe that’s why they need it,” Jay retorts.

“They’re trying to get better,” I say. “They suspended that frat.” While I’d procrastinated, I’d read article after article about the controversy surrounding Delta Tau Chi.

“Put them on probation,” Alex corrects. “And it’s just a PR move. There’s so much money in that frat, they’re not really changing anything.”

“What’d they get in trouble for?” Jay asks.

“They’re sexist, homophobic pigs.” Alex lights up a cigarette.

“No, I mean—”

“Creating a hostile environment for women.” She takes a drag before continuing. “There’s some rule with housing and Title IX. They had signs all over the house with sexist jokes on them.”

“Signs?” he asks.

“Yeah, they threw a party for International Women’s Day. Had signs over the kitchen about it being a woman’s true place, signs in the bathroom about period pain being punishment for being so bitchy, and don’t even get me started on the ones near the bedrooms.”

“That’s repulsive.” I’d never heard the details; the articles I’d read said only that they’d been misogynistic. But Alex had been there. Well, there as in Warren. I doubt she’d attend some godforsaken frat party.

Jay runs his hands through his jet-black hair, considering this. “I mean, not to defend the douche bags, but it’s not technically supposed to be an environment for women, right?”

“That’s not an excuse.” Alex sits up.

“I’m not saying I would make the joke. I think they’re assholes for saying it. But how can you get in trouble for creating an environment that’s unwelcoming to women when your charter is to be a boys’ club? I mean, no one would really know if a frat was a toxic living and learning community for a woman unless one tried living there.”

“Maybe I will,” I say.

I was just trying to make a joke before this conversation devolved into one of their ridiculous arguments, which always get way too heated, considering they always represent the far left and the farther left.

For half a second they laugh politely, but then the banter goes on, fading to buzzing in my ears.

I stare down at the street below, the street I danced down when I got my acceptance letter. I’d met the mailman at the curb for five days straight until finally, finally, that letter I’d been dreaming about arrived.

I was ecstatic to tell my parents that their daughter was going to attend the most exclusive school in the country. I hadn’t even told them where I’d applied, not wanting to get their hopes up.

I’d pictured hugs and tears. I’d pictured champagne.

But I should’ve known.

Should’ve known the response would be that there was no

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