The Last Good Girl (4 page)

Our first class meets on September 3, 2014, in Vamvas Auditorium. Please arrive at two
P.M.
in loose and comfortable clothes, and with a willingness to open your hearts and minds to other students.

Okay.

Um.

Hi.

I'm Emily Shapiro. Nice to meet you.

This is . . . weird, talking to my phone. I hope somebody doesn't walk in and think I'm a freak. I guess I could say I'm FaceTiming. Or just explain that this is an assignment. It's just, everyone here is so academic. The place is full of National Merit Scholars and assorted whiz kids. Everyone's elective is, like, macroeconomics. I don't want to be the one intellectual lightweight. Sorry, I don't mean to offend you, Professor Robinson.

Jeez. That was stupid. I should start over or edit that out. Or . . . not? Maybe that's the point. Maybe a vlog is extra honest 'cause there's no going back and erasing. You can see me realizing I'm an idiot in real time.

So, okay, it's September 1, 2014, and this is my first day as a freshman. The leaves are gold, the sky is blue, and I have to admit, I'm pretty psyched. I've lived on this campus my whole life—but I've never really been in it. It feels kind of surreal that this is finally my time.

Okay, so you know my little secret: my dad is the president of the university. I don't tell most people, but you recognized me at the meet and greet. A lot of professors don't; the campus is big enough that I can get lost in the crowd. So, anyway, you know why I won't be doing any imitations of President Shapiro for class, ha ha. Or maybe I will! I'll be the best at it.

So, you might ask: Why Tower U? Why not UCLA or Columbia, some coast, where I didn't have my dad looking over my shoulder? In a word: money. It's free for me to go to school here.

And you know what? It's okay. I've wanted to be a student here for so long, it just feels natural. And my dad won't harass me much. He's too busy politicking, being president.

So it's, like, here we go.

I moved in today, finally have a dorm room of my own. I guess I can just hold up the phone and show you. Here, check it out. It's a three-person suite. This is the study-slash-living room. See that big stone fireplace? It's historic. They say Henry Ford used to whack off into it. Yikes, sorry. But that's what they say.

Anyway . . .

Here's our couch. Three desks. Through here is the bathroom. Tiny, right? I don't know how three of us are gonna fit all our Sephora. Should be interesting.

And here's the bedroom. The top bunk is mine. Not my first choice.

But before we get into that, I should check off the assignment. I'm supposed to tell you three words to describe myself. Okay, so, let's see. I'm . . . smart, cheerful, and creative. My dad says I'm “spunky,” which I think makes me sound like an '80s sitcom character. My mom, if she were still around, would say I'm a good girl. I think she meant that as a compliment.

My greatest strength: my parents had mostly finished raising me before everything fell apart. My greatest weakness: how much I miss my mom.

Sorry. Give me a sec.

Where are the stupid tissues when you need them?

Okay.

Okay.

Better.

Let's talk about normal stuff. The first day of school, the big moment, right? Today's the day.

I got here today before either of my roommates did—I just had a five-minute commute from Dad's house. He drove me over, although his mind was somewhere else, distracted by the phone that's permanently attached to his right hand. The dorm room was empty. I put my bags on the best bed, the single by the window. But Dad looked up from his call long enough to say that wouldn't be fair to the other girls, that we should wait and talk about how to split things up. Then he went back to his very important call, phone pressed to one ear, finger pressed to the other. That finger to his ear really bugged me because I was, like, the only other person in the room.

But, anyway, I didn't take the single bed, because he was right. I should wait for the other girls to come and talk about it with them. I'd never met them before, though we'd e-mailed after we got assigned. I wanted to get off on the right foot. I set my bags down and started unpacking my toiletries into the bathroom.

Whitney Branson came next, towed by both parents and two grandmothers. All the Branson women wore Tory Burch shoes. I wondered if they got a bulk discount. Whitney's from Bloomfield Hills; she has long dark-blond hair and a full set of Louis Vuitton luggage. She walked right past me, over to the single by the window, set her suitcase down on it, and said, “I'll take this bed.”

I glared at my dad, but he'd put his phone away and was busy meeting Whitney's parents, giving them the full charm offensive. I realized Whitney's family must have money, lots of it. You know what they say: the most dangerous place on campus is anywhere between Barney Shapiro and a donor. He can sniff out trust funds like a French pig can sniff out truffles. Or, as the
Wall Street Journal
put it, he is “a world-class fund-raiser.”

Here, look, you can see Whitney's stuff. She's been here four hours and already there's like twenty thousand dollars' worth of Nordstrom hanging in her closet. She's got the perfect Calvin Klein comforter set; the perfect Urban Outfitters fluffy decorative pillows; the perfect Pottery Barn rug, which is actually cute but which she didn't bother to ask whether I minded if she put down. Oh, and a stash of coke in the one drawer of her desk that locks. She offered me some. It's not my scene, but at least she shares—that's something, right?

Preya Parikh came in next. Dad greeted her parents like old friends. Turns out, Preya's mother is the dean of English at U of M, and Dad's known her forever. So I'm guessing my new roomies were not assigned at random. Dad chose them for me. But that's okay, I guess. At least he cared.

Preya asked which bed I wanted, and we divvied up the bunk bed. Our parents talked and helped us put on the sheets, and then there were hugs and tears and—finally—they were gone.

Okay, I have to admit—I'm trying to be cool, but—I'm excited. I'm in! I've been waiting for this moment my whole life.

When I was really small, my mom used to dress me up in a little Tower University cheerleader outfit, red and white, with red ribbons in my pigtails. They'd take me to football games, and we'd sit in the president's box. Dad would hold me up in the front row of the box, and people in the seats in front of us would look back and say how cute I was. Then at halftime, Mom and Dad would take me down to the field, and the cheerleaders would let me come out with them as they did their routine. Once the
Tower Times
ran a front-page picture of me like that, holding pom-poms as the cheerleaders smiled at me. I got to play on the field during halftime so much I thought it was just a normal thing to do.

Then, one time when I was about nine, I saw some kids in the stands pointing at me and laughing. I realized in that moment—I can't believe I'd never noticed it before—that I was the only person out there who wasn't an official cheerleader. I was, seriously, so embarrassed. The kids weren't laughing in a friendly way. I suddenly noticed all the people in the bleachers looking at me. A sea of strangers, judging. I stopped wearing the cheerleader outfit after that. All I wanted was to dissolve into the crowd.

That's kind of how I feel now. Not that I want to dissolve into a crowd, you know? I want to stand out—but for who I am, not for who my dad is. I don't want to be anybody's mascot.

Does that make sense?

Well, anyway, after our parents left, Preya, and Whitney, and I went to the cafeteria and got some lunch. Whitney is funny and aggressively pretty, like she cares about her looks so much you have to wonder what she's trying to make up for. Preya's pretty too, but in a less showy way. She seems really smart, like scary smart, but not obnoxious about it. We met some of the other kids in our hall. I didn't tell anyone that my dad is the president. They might find out at some point—it might be inevitable—but I'll be a regular student as long as I can.

Then I went to the Theater Department, where you guys were holding an open house. It was nice to meet you, Professor Robinson! Or Ginger, like you said I should call you. I loved the open house. Dad is pushing poli-sci or economics, but I really don't want his life. I want something . . . else. Now is my time to figure out who I am, not just the president's daughter, but as my own person.

So that was today. Now I'm back in my dorm room, and tonight I'll go to my first college party. I'm so excited! I've been seeing kids go to frat parties all my life, but I was never allowed to go.

My dad was a Beta Psi—it was his frat back in the '80s, and he says it changed his life, like it set him on the course to success. But he never let me go there for parties, at least not when I was in high school.

But, hee hee, he can't stop me now! As of today, I'm officially a college freshman, and I can go to any party that any other college freshman can go to.

Preya and Whitney will be back here any minute to get ready, and we'll go together. It's the Beta Psi Welcome Back Party.

So, um, I guess I should say good-bye and start getting ready. Shower, makeup, hair. Whitney said she'll bring a bottle of vodka to preparty.

Now for the big important question of the night: Do I wear the dark jeans or the shirtdress?

Sorry if I seem ridiculous. It's just that . . . I feel like I'm standing on the brink of something big. Something real. The world is full of possibilities. Who knows, maybe I'll fall in love tonight.

F
rom under the Ping-Pong table, Wyatt watched the two older women walk out of the frat house. He groaned with relief. He recognized the blonde; his parents had a picture of her and Cooper on their fridge. She'd just started dating his brother. What was her name? Ella? Etta? Anna. Wyatt hoped she hadn't recognized him. He didn't want his big brother to hear about this. He flexed his arms, which were exhausted from holding up the tabletop, and shifted his knees, which throbbed painfully against the hard, sludgy floor.

Wyatt knew he was lucky to be in this position. Beta Psi was his way off the farm, his road to the American dream. He'd seen Cooper's road—through the army and Afghanistan—and knew its cost was too high. Wyatt planned to keep both his legs.

But the path through Beta Psi had its own price—and it wasn't cheap. Wyatt had learned that early and often in the pledging process. But he was almost to the end of that. In just five days, Hell Week would be over, and—if he played things right—he'd be in. Into a life of privilege and power. Wealth and respect. It all flowed from the brotherhood and his place in it.

There were thirty-eight pledges, and only twenty spots. Wyatt wanted one more than he'd ever wanted anything in his life.

Dylan Highsmith strode over to the Ping-Pong table, his face twisted with fury. He grabbed the tabletop and threw it off them. The rectangle of painted plywood flew up and away from Wyatt's head. Some kids screamed and ran to escape its trajectory. It landed with a thud against a wall. Suddenly, Wyatt's arms were free. The relief didn't last long.

“Get up, whaleshit,” said Dylan.

Wyatt's legs were cramped from squatting under the table. He stumbled as he stood. The other three pledges were the same. They met one another's eyes nervously.

“Down to the Crypt,” Dylan said. “Now!”

Wyatt's stomach clenched. But he and the other pledges shuffled toward the basement door. Dylan was their pledge master. The rest of the kids at the party watched them with amusement. “In formation,” Dylan growled. They quickly fell into a straight line; at this point, they were great at lining up. Most hazing seemed to start with baby-faced boys getting themselves into a straight line, like overgrown kindergartners.

Dylan went first; the pledges counted to ten and shuffled down the steps and through a hallway to the Crypt door. The first pledge knocked three times short, two times long, and three times short. The metal door swung open with a groan. The room was lit only by candles, which threw a dim, disconcerting glow after the neon and black of the party upstairs. The highlighter marks barely showed up on their skin in the candlelight. It was quiet down here, with just the ghost sounds of the party upstairs. The walls of the old house were thick. The door shut with a metallic thud.

“On your knees,” Dylan said.

The four pledges in underwear lined up kneeling. Wyatt's knees protested at being pressed to the floor again. Ahead of them was a mahogany coffin, elevated on a marble pedestal. The coffin was covered in a Beta Psi banner and three pillar candles. Behind the coffin was a wall of large stones, the foundation of the house.

The three other walls were regular drywall, painted black and hung with pieces of history from the fraternity: a framed bar tab signed by President Taft, who'd been a member; a Lucite box holding a gold medal from the 1920 Olympics, when another member had won the decathlon before becoming secretary of state; a mast from a yacht owned by the CEO of one of the largest retail companies in the world. These were the brothers who'd come before, symbols of the life he would lead if he made it.

Wyatt grew up on a farm in a rural corner of Holly Grove. He hated it. The backbreaking work. His lungs full of hay and dust. The kids at school mocking him because his clothes had manure stains. He was getting off the farm. He'd get a job in a hedge fund. An ergonomic chair, Zagat-rated restaurants, clean fingernails.

In contrast to the priceless mementos on the walls, the floor of the Crypt was plain concrete, sloping toward a large drain in the middle. During certain rituals, the drain was key.

Dylan and Peter stood before them, pulling on black robes. Wyatt closed his eyes and tried to prepare himself. When Dylan wore the white plastic crown, he was a cool, kind of mean, but pretty funny guy. When he put on the black cloak, another side of him came out. Dylan raised the hood, so his face was barely visible. Peter did the same. They looked like twin emperors from the dark side.